God Bless Us Every One

Its been a helluva year gentle readers. A helluva year. We've all had experiences we'll remember forever, we've all had a few regrets, a few triumphs and some outright flops. And we're all still here. That, in and of itself, is the greatest blessing - to still be around to read, to write, to gloat and to bitch about whatever this year has brought us. And, by some miracle - call it Internet, technology, divine providence, shared interest or sheer coincidence - we are together in a sense - together even though we're spread out across the planet, together cheering each other on through our triumphs and consoling each other through our flops and our regrets. That, most definitely, is another huge blessing.

If this year has brought you sorrow, I hope the next one finds you joyous. If this year has been a joyful one, I hope the next will bring even more of the same. I wish for all of us that we learn the things we need to learn, celebrate the things we need to celebrate, and mourn the things we need to mourn. I wish that we can find the strength to change the things that we must and the good sense to let those things that need to be left alone to their own devices. Most of all, I wish for all of us that we see the coming year as a blessed journey waiting to unfold and greet it with open arms, no matter what it may have in store for us.

God Bless Us Every One.

Calling All Heroes

This year, I've learned some valuable lessons, not the least of which has been learning to become my own hero. In the process, I believe I have stumble upon my "mission" - to somehow empower others or, even better, to help them to empower themselves.

So, here's my idea: my story is ok, maybe some may find it inspirational. I've conquered, or have started to conquer, some significant demons. But its not enough. I want to share other stories - other women and men who have learned to become their own hero. My hope is that, by sharing these, we can light the way for others who are seeking, that, by telling about the paths that led us to where we are, we can somehow illuminate the path for somebody else. Every path is different though many lead to the same place - and they all start with that first step. So, I'd like to write (or compile) a book - a collection of stories about ordinary people who learned that, when it really comes down to it, the only one who can fight your monsters is you - and that you are exceptionally capable of doing so, you just have to realize it.

If you have a story to share - about yourself or someone else - please drop me an email. And, if you have any ideas about how to make this happen, how to get as many possible stories to sort through, how to put it all together, send me an email as well.

This could be a crazy nuts idea - or an idea that's already been done. It could lead nowhere. But I need to give it a shot. It seems like another first step in another amazing path that will lead me somewhere else I need to go.

Thanks to all of you who have been with me on this journey - and to any of you stumbling across this crazy person's blog just now. Its been an awesome ride and I'm ready for more. Bring it.

Learning Compassion

I've always considered myself a compassionate person - except when it comes to how I treat myself. Training for a triathlon certainly taught me to respect myself and my body and what I'm capable of. It taught me to push myself when I thought I'd had enough and that my limits don't always end where I thought they did. These are good things. But it didn't really teach me to treat myself compassionately.

Pregnancy has given me a crash course in self-compassion. Its really a do or drop situation - you set compassionate limits on what you demand of yourself or you drop. You compassionately allow your body another hour or two of sleep or you drop. You compassionately allow yourself to slow down a little, quit watching the clock, quit counting miles or yards, even take an unplanned day off now and again - or, you guessed it, you drop. This stage of my journey is also teaching me to be flexible and creative when it comes to finding ways to get some activity in. After months of trying to force myself to adhere to my old 4:30 wake up call on swim days, occasionally succeeding, more often failing, I've finally accepted that my body needs what it needs and sleep is high on the list. Higher than a killer workout, apparently. However, I still feel better when I work out - its just no longer doable for it to be an either or situation - either sleep or exercise. I need both. So, I did some investigation and discovered that the YMCA that's just three minutes from my office has lap times every day during lunch and every day after work. The monthly membership fee is only about $10 more a month than swimming with my now-beloved masters group twice a week. And for that, I can swim as much as I want, lift weights, even get a run in on the treadmill when its icy outside or I just needed to sleep in that day. I'd say that's a win.

Today was my first lunch time swim and it went, well . . . swimmingly. The water is hot (85) but it keeps me from trying to hammer myself into the blue line at the bottom of the pool. There are only three lanes, but they're wide enough for three people - and I only had to share my lane with one person. I'm going to miss my masters buddies - but they'll be there when I come out on the other side of this adventure. I'm really looking forward to sleeping all the way to 6:30 on swim days without feeling guilty.

Another thing tris taught me - where there's a will, there's a way.

Human with a Belly

So, now that the second trimester is in full swing (16 weeks and counting!), I'm starting to feel less like a semi-invalid pregnant person and more like a . . . well, a person. Just a person with a very big belly - a belly that seems to get bigger on a nightly basis. Its unbelievable. I know I grow big babies - things were the same when Boy Genius was cooking up in this fertile furnace of mine - so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but its still a shocker when I look down and expect to see a view of the ground or my feet, unimpeded, and there's this "hill" in the way. Its beyond a bump now but less than a beach ball - I can still see the ground and my feet but I'm counting the days that this will still be possible.

Anyway, beyond the belly issue, I feel pretty darn good. My appetite and my energy have returned - my appetite more than my energy but I expect that I won't have my "pre-preggo" level of energy until months after this little one has made his/her entrance into the world. And, this morning, after a week of no back pain, I ran. Ahhhh. How wonderful it is to run. No matter the pace - and thank you for calling me on that nasty "slow" label, I need to follow my own advice and retire that word - running feels good. Breathing hard, sweating, moving - that feels fabulous and I can't seem to duplicate it walking. Walking is nice. Its medatative, gentle and invigorating. But I can't seem to really work up a serious, base layer soaking sweat with walking - especially in the cooler weather. And I just don't breathe as hard - and, call me crazy but breathing hard feels good! I'm not talking gasping or struggling for air but that lung enlisting, I must be alive, oxygen blasting kind of breathing. I love that. It makes me feel . . . human. There's that word again.

Of course, my back is a little "twingy" today. But, for now, I'm blaming it on Sunday's drywall ripping fest. No, Hubby and I didn't get into a fight. We're remodeling the baby's room - or what used to be a "playroom" (read pile of every toy imaginable obstructing any view of floor or wall) and will be the baby's room. It needs a major rehaul. Ugly shelves, gone. Nasty "wood" paneling, gone. What somebody may have once mistaken for carpet, gone. Drywall, gone. The demolition part was fun. Now somebody has to put it back together. I may be out of the country for that one.

Waylaid

I've been unable to work out for a full week - a fast which I was finally able to break with a walk this morning. My belly has nearly instantly popped from the "Is she or isn't she" stage to full blown "When are you due?" - and I think my back has suffered from this rapid change in mass. It was so bad, I couldn't sit, walk, stand or lie down last week. Or, I could, but all of them hurt. A lot. So running was right out. And swimming seemed agony. So, I tried to rest as best I could and hoped for a recovery. So far so good.

Being laid up is hard stuff for an active person - rather you are training for an Ironman, your first Olympic, or a natural childbirth, its no fun sitting around and waiting to get better. It makes the common problem of "lack of motivation" seem ridiculously obsolete. You would do anything to get out the door and you can't understand why anyone would have a hard time getting themselves off the couch - despite the fact that you have suffered that exact ailment more than once. The good thing about the ordeal is it does seem to banish the "motivation blahs" for a time. I'm sure they'll come back with my desire to get more sleep but, for now, I'm thankful to be up and out again. Next week, I'll start running again, knock on wood.

Sometimes you've gotta go . . .

where you can kick a little booty.

Yesterday morning, as often occurs, my alarm rang far to early. I rolled over and declared myself unfit for rising - as, also, often occurs of late. Consequently, I missed my swim - again, something that has often occurred. This time, however, I decided to do something about it so, after dinner, Hubby and I headed for my old chlorine haunt, the rec center pool.

Almost exactly a year ago, we headed to this same pool to see what I could do in the water. Though I could swim fine, I'd never done it for exercise and certainly never tried to swim freestyle - or any style for that matter. The only stroke I knew how to do was breast stroke. That day, I got in the pool, knocked out 25 yards and clung to the wall, gasping for air. So much for my runner's lungs. As you now know, however, I kept at it, kept plugging until I could swim 50 then 100 then 500 then 1000 until I could comfortably swim a mile or more without stopping.

What a difference a year makes. Back then, I felt so out of place, watching in awe as swimmers in other lanes went lap after lap with no stopping. Old people, young people, men, women and kids - they could all kick my butt. Last night, things were different.

I walked in, fancy schmancy swim bag in tow and found an empty lane. The swimmers on either side stopped and looked at my bulging confident form with wide eyes. Even the life guards gave me a second glance. I was pregnant and I knew what I was doing. I was toting toys, for goodness sake - fins, pull buoy, goggles and Big Shark cap. They were in the presence of a pregalete.

So, I got into the lukewarm water and stretched myself out for a swim. I lapped the lady next to me until she finally got out. Then, I lapped the dude that replaced her. It was a good feeling - especially in my current, slowed down state. When I swim with the Masters Group, I am routinely served a big rich piece of humble pie. And that's a good thing usually, only occasionally causes nausea, doesn't seem to be affecting my slow weight gain - but sometimes, sometimes, a person, especially a pregnant person, needs a little boost of ego, a little encouragement, a little affirmation that, hey, you ain't doin' so bad, sistah.

I'm a slow swimmer and a slow runner, always have been. I'm even slower now. But its nice every once in awhile to see how I compare with the "average" person (or at least the average person actually making an effort to exercise which, really, isn't very average at all) rather than with the super crazy, kick ass athletes. Humble pie is good for you in moderation, but you can't really live off it.

Crunchy Mama

Its funny, motherhood, especially early motherhood (including pregnancy) seems to pull me back to my crunchy granola roots. My parents were far from being hippies but my mom strove for natural childbirth with all her pregnancies and breastfed all of us at a time when bottle feeding was "what people did" and both my folks ran a ski shop in Durango, Colorado, routinely employing long haired ski bums for whom bathing was optional. I had several tie dyed shirts. So, I suppose I come by it honestly. I didn't come into my own as a "Granola", however, until college in a small mountain town in North Carolina. There, theatre people were pretty much one with the hippy types and the attitude and way of life resonated with me. My best friend and I referred to ourselves as hippies with jobs.

Still, in mainstream society - particularly working in a law office - its easy to drift away from the scent of patchouli and the belief that Mother Earth truly has all we need. When I was pregnant with Boy Genius, I was immersed in peace, love, and the joys of natural motherhood. I was determined to follow in my mother's footsteps with a natural birth (I went for the meds after 18 hours of going it alone) and a breastfed baby (my son has never tasted formula and enjoyed mother's milk until he was two). Once he was born, I attended La Leche League meetings monthly, jokingly referred to myself as the Nazi of Breastfeeding (JOKINGLY - I really have no negative judgments on women who choose to bottle feed. If they want to malnourish their babies, that's their business ;) KIDDING!), and fed myself and my family a diet of whole foods. We even did cloth diapers after B.G. got a terrible diaper rash. Oh, and he spent most of his first year in my arms or in a sling. I was a crunchy mama. When Boy Genius headed to daycare at three and I headed back to work, I started to drift away from my hippie sensibilities. When I found a full time job two years ago and stopped doing theatre, I thought the transformation was complete. I still prefer the woods to a spa, but I thought I was over the tie dye years.

Then, the now legendary little pink plus sign. And, suddenly, I find myself longing for the smell of patchouli. I'm taking a Dancing for Birth class - and found myself envious last night when the other preggo in the class told me she was having a Home Birth. Not to be outdone, I'm speaking to my doula about the possibility of a water birth - in the hospital, I'm too much of a worry wort to be able to birth at home. So, here I am again - crunchy. I've pretty much determined to go cloth all the way this time - better for baby butts and the environment. And, of course, unless somebody cuts off my breasts, I'm nursing. Absolutely crunchy. Funny what motherhood does to a perfectly well adjusted professional. I guess its time to start shopping for tie dye - so you think they have tie dye trisuits?