Apparently it is ill-advised to turn your back on your three year old and an innocent piece of string cheese for any length of time. I'll warn you, the following story contains woeful tales of vomit and dairy, a combination most revolting.
Scene: Zoey in the dining room, swinging her legs from her chair. Me in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher.
Me: Zoey. You've barely eaten anything today. If you want to go to the park, you have to choose: yogurt, or string cheese.
Zoey: I don't like yogurt!
Me: Okay, string cheese.
Zoey: I don't like string cheese!
Me: Whatever. You liked it yesterday. (Unwrapping the, thankfully, last piece of string cheese in the fridge.)
I turn my back for, I swear, 20 seconds, and suddenly hear a sound most unpleasant--like a large hairball suddenly lodged in the vacuum cleaner, followed by the sound of, OH MY GOD CHILD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?
Zoey has effectively shoved the entire piece of string cheese in her mouth at once, causing herself to choke and subsequently projectile vomit all over everything. EVERYTHING, PEOPLE.
What we have left is a child, her hair, a chair, part of a table, a wall, a considerable patch of carpet, the dishwasher rack, AND HER MOTHER'S CUPPED HANDS covered in vomit. And I, ever the kind and sympathetic mother, say to her:
YOU ARE LUCKY I AM HOLDING YOUR VOMIT IN MY HANDS BECAUSE IF I WEREN'T I WOULD USE THEM TO WRING YOUR NECK.
Which causes her, of course, to burst in to tears because she is scared from her near-death experience at the hands of a fucking piece of cheese, and her mother's focus on the vomit cupped in her hands, not the trauma inflicted by this incident. As she continues to cry while I wash out my hands, she manages to gasp "I'm not sick! I still want to go to the park!".
A bath, two wardrobe changes, a load of laundry, and a LOT of rags and Mrs. Meyer's cleaner later, we were on our way to the park.
Her rationale for doing what she did? "I wanted to hurry up. So we could go to the park."
Which made me want to beat my (bleach-cleaned) fists against my own forehead.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
It was the highlight of the week, really
It was a big event on Tuesday. It was Zoey's first field trip ever...and even she can't remember where she went, because it doesn't matter. What matters is that they went somewhere ON. THE. BUS.
Tuesday morning, field trip day, she bounced out of bed far earlier than necessary, and every question or excited statment about her upcoming day centered around the bus ride.
MOM. Where will I sit on the bus? Will I wear a seat belt?
MOM. What if the bus driver drives too fast and I fall out of my seat?
MOM. I'm riding on a bus today! A bus!
MOM. Will I ride past your work when I get on the bus? Will you wave to me?
MOM. Ms. Mandi will be on the bus too, right?
MOM. Will there be snacks on the bus?
I tried to remind her, while helping her get dressed and brush her teeth, that she was actually going somewhere on the bus. Somewhere fun, a place to play...I think it was one of the local parks. I talked to her about staying at the park with her teachers, and never wandering off where the teacher couldn't see her. She processed exactly zero percent of this information. It was all about the bus ride, really. Jeez, Mom.
The excited chatter while I got her ready for bed Tuesday night was much the same.
MOM. I sat by Jared on the bus today. He made some red-light choices. But mine were all green-light! (Cryptic preschool lingo. I am beginning to ascertain that Jared might be a bit of a behavioral challenge in the Owl classroom.)
MOM. If you stand up on the bus, the bus driver pulls over RIGHT NOW!
MOM. We had THREE teachers on the bus with us! Ms. Mandi and two Ms. Amandas! (Confusing.) Ms. Danielle couldn't go on the bus, she had to go to the doctor. She missed the bus ride!
MOM. We had a snack at the park. Ms. Mandi brought bagels. Malachi doesn't like bagels, but he wouldn't tell me why.
That's right. Bagels and Malachi's pickiness toward carbohydrates were to be the only comments given on the actual field trip itself. Because really, it was ALL. ABOUT. THE. BUS.
I'm thinking Ms. Mandi might be the smart type who loads the kids up on the bus in the middle of February, when all 13 of her rambunctious, stir-crazy charges are making her crazy, and drives them around town for awhile. Steer that baby through the drive-thru at Starbucks and I might even volunteer to chaperone.
Tuesday morning, field trip day, she bounced out of bed far earlier than necessary, and every question or excited statment about her upcoming day centered around the bus ride.
MOM. Where will I sit on the bus? Will I wear a seat belt?
MOM. What if the bus driver drives too fast and I fall out of my seat?
MOM. I'm riding on a bus today! A bus!
MOM. Will I ride past your work when I get on the bus? Will you wave to me?
MOM. Ms. Mandi will be on the bus too, right?
MOM. Will there be snacks on the bus?
I tried to remind her, while helping her get dressed and brush her teeth, that she was actually going somewhere on the bus. Somewhere fun, a place to play...I think it was one of the local parks. I talked to her about staying at the park with her teachers, and never wandering off where the teacher couldn't see her. She processed exactly zero percent of this information. It was all about the bus ride, really. Jeez, Mom.
The excited chatter while I got her ready for bed Tuesday night was much the same.
MOM. I sat by Jared on the bus today. He made some red-light choices. But mine were all green-light! (Cryptic preschool lingo. I am beginning to ascertain that Jared might be a bit of a behavioral challenge in the Owl classroom.)
MOM. If you stand up on the bus, the bus driver pulls over RIGHT NOW!
MOM. We had THREE teachers on the bus with us! Ms. Mandi and two Ms. Amandas! (Confusing.) Ms. Danielle couldn't go on the bus, she had to go to the doctor. She missed the bus ride!
MOM. We had a snack at the park. Ms. Mandi brought bagels. Malachi doesn't like bagels, but he wouldn't tell me why.
That's right. Bagels and Malachi's pickiness toward carbohydrates were to be the only comments given on the actual field trip itself. Because really, it was ALL. ABOUT. THE. BUS.
I'm thinking Ms. Mandi might be the smart type who loads the kids up on the bus in the middle of February, when all 13 of her rambunctious, stir-crazy charges are making her crazy, and drives them around town for awhile. Steer that baby through the drive-thru at Starbucks and I might even volunteer to chaperone.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Apparently, music makes the difference
I jogged two miles today and do not even feel like I might die in the near future.
The iPod made me do it, really. I was cruising around the track at the Y and before I knew it, I was three songs in on my 'Summer 2008' playlist. And ridiculously proud of myself.
I can so run a 5K. I am just that cool.
The iPod made me do it, really. I was cruising around the track at the Y and before I knew it, I was three songs in on my 'Summer 2008' playlist. And ridiculously proud of myself.
I can so run a 5K. I am just that cool.
Early Birthday
The year has arrived when we'll start celebrating Zoey's birthday in the summer, as opposed to on her actual birthday, December 8. I have several reasons for choosing a July party instead of a dead-of-winter bash. Listen up and take note, all you parents of December babies:
1. Remember the party I planned last year in December, the one that was cancelled due to the birthday girl's sudden battle with tonsilitis? Yeah. After three years of careful observation, I've noted that mid-summer is the only healthy season we get around here--knock on wood, we haven't gone through an entire box of Kleenex yet this month. It's the first month we've pulled this off since...last July, if I remember correctly.
2. Here's my main motivation for summer-time parties: this is the year Zoey has been invited to several birthday parties of her preschool/daycare classmates. And they were so fun! Her favorite by far was Maddie's party, celebrated at The Little Gym back in April. Immediately upon getting in the car with her treat bag, she asked to celebrate her own birthday at The Little Gym. I'll admit, it sounded enticing...three energetic high school kids running the little ones across the trampoline, the balance beams, playing noisy games set to the annoying tunes of Small Child Soundtracks...they even organized the cake-eating and present-opening. Maddie's parents basically sat back and watched their daughter have a blast at her party. So I made a couple phone calls. And found out it would cost me $220 to sit back and watch my own child enjoy her birthday party. Maybe...not.
But Zoey was insistent that she have a gymnastics (pronounced, for whatever reason, 'bee-nastics') birthday party. Lucky for me, the YMCA offers a similar bee-nastics party venue for far less than The Little Gym, due in part to the fact that we're members at the Y and get a discount. So we signed up for Saturday, July 24.
3. Finally, the idea of breaking up some of the December action appeals to me. Cramming a birthday party in to a month already packed with Christmas festivities is challenging. Of course we'll do something special for Zoey on her actual birthday--go out to dinner, bake a cake. But I won't have to worry about organizing 12 preschoolers for a fun-filled birthday event because I've already checked it off my to-do list. In July!
So. Zoey is way excited for her summer time bee-nastics party. I am feeling only somewhat daunted by the prospect of creating a Cinderella cake. And, come December, I can hunker down with my runny-nosed, feverish child without fear of having to cancel her birthday party. Again. It's a win-win for everyone.
1. Remember the party I planned last year in December, the one that was cancelled due to the birthday girl's sudden battle with tonsilitis? Yeah. After three years of careful observation, I've noted that mid-summer is the only healthy season we get around here--knock on wood, we haven't gone through an entire box of Kleenex yet this month. It's the first month we've pulled this off since...last July, if I remember correctly.
2. Here's my main motivation for summer-time parties: this is the year Zoey has been invited to several birthday parties of her preschool/daycare classmates. And they were so fun! Her favorite by far was Maddie's party, celebrated at The Little Gym back in April. Immediately upon getting in the car with her treat bag, she asked to celebrate her own birthday at The Little Gym. I'll admit, it sounded enticing...three energetic high school kids running the little ones across the trampoline, the balance beams, playing noisy games set to the annoying tunes of Small Child Soundtracks...they even organized the cake-eating and present-opening. Maddie's parents basically sat back and watched their daughter have a blast at her party. So I made a couple phone calls. And found out it would cost me $220 to sit back and watch my own child enjoy her birthday party. Maybe...not.
But Zoey was insistent that she have a gymnastics (pronounced, for whatever reason, 'bee-nastics') birthday party. Lucky for me, the YMCA offers a similar bee-nastics party venue for far less than The Little Gym, due in part to the fact that we're members at the Y and get a discount. So we signed up for Saturday, July 24.
3. Finally, the idea of breaking up some of the December action appeals to me. Cramming a birthday party in to a month already packed with Christmas festivities is challenging. Of course we'll do something special for Zoey on her actual birthday--go out to dinner, bake a cake. But I won't have to worry about organizing 12 preschoolers for a fun-filled birthday event because I've already checked it off my to-do list. In July!
So. Zoey is way excited for her summer time bee-nastics party. I am feeling only somewhat daunted by the prospect of creating a Cinderella cake. And, come December, I can hunker down with my runny-nosed, feverish child without fear of having to cancel her birthday party. Again. It's a win-win for everyone.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Because this blog is kind of like her baby book
Dear Zoey,
It is an incredibly sweet experience to be the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. On the days when you aren't sheer demon, that is. What was it that struck me this weekend about your sudden growth, some kind of newfound maturity? Maybe it was the fact that, once strapped in to less-bulky version of a life jacket, you discovered your ability to "swim" on your own. Hours have been logged in the pool this week, me, trying to keep my hair dry, watching you, engaged in a wildly spastic form of a doggy paddle, shouting MOMMY I AM DOING THIS ON MY OWN! and CATCH ME MOM I'M JUMPING IN! Any trace of fear or clinginess *poof* GONE. You are so incredibly proud of yourself and your newly acquired skill. I am impressed with the fact that you are growing at such a rate to be completely out of the toddler clothing section at Target and fast-blazing your way through the selection of swim wear offered in the young girls section. Please, try not be taller than me before you enter kindergarten.
Or maybe it's your new way of speaking in a manner that is so serious. Everything you have to say to me this week, it's all prefaced with a loud, solemn MOM. As if my undivided attention is required for everything from a request for more fishy crackers to your conveyed annoyance over the fact that Aaliyah was chosen as the light monitor again today and you've never been the light monitor, not once. Last week, on our way home from work and daycare, you informed me that butterflies have the ability to suck lemonade from a glass with those eyebrows on the top of their heads that aren't really eyebrows, and did I know what those eyebrows were called? Antennae? Yes. Antennae exist to get those butterflies their yummy lemonade, and don't bother arguing, because you saw it on a Maisy video and we all know Maisy would never tell a lie. All of this, the random tidbits of information you seem to pull from...where?...delivered with the Serious Voice and those studious brown eyes that dare anyone to argue. You are growing up, forming your own opinions, getting your information from people other than me. It has taken me days to convince you that Xavier at daycare is dead wrong when he tells you every airplane overhead is transporting 'bad guys'. You regard my argument soberly, processing in that little mind who is telling the truth. Finally, after hours of debate on the subject, you decide Mommy probably wouldn't lie to you. And you slip your hand in mine and give me what you think is a reassuring little squeeze, a copycat squeeze you learned from me, the squeeze I give you when you are not feeling so brave or outgoing at all. And you smile. Your smile makes me melt.
Perhaps nothing has marked your transition from toddler to big girl quite as much as your new fascination with Disney princesses. I have always looked on the 'princess mentality' with something like disdain, rolling my eyes (secretly) at parents who refer to their daughters as their little princesses, catering to their every whim. The parents who buy every Disney princess toy on the market and send the subconcious message to their little girls that the world exists merely to serve their needs. You are not royalty. You will not be treated as royalty around here. You had, up until very recently, very little princess gear, save the odd dress-up number and those blasted purple plastic heels you have adored since before you could walk. But, the thing is, you discovered a love for these frilly, silly girls who are all fainting over their Prince Charmings completely on your own. And what I find amazing (and tolerable) about watching your fascination unfold is the way you are totally nonplussed by the silly messages being sent through the movies. Your report on Cinderella (your favorite princess by far) included only details on the 'mean cat' and those 'really, REALLY mean girls who are kind of ugly and ripped Cinderella's dress!'. I find this reassuring.
So, Disney princesses. You study them. You bring me a sheet of stickers and we point to them one by one, you memorizing their names and their correlating movies. We check out the videos from the library that tell their (okay, silly, but kind of cute) stories. You refuse to be impressed by the fact that I can sing nearly every word to every Disney soundtrack produced in the 1980s or 90s. You insist that waving your magic wand and yelling some version of Bippidibopidiboo will somehow transform Henry from cat to carriage. We sent out Cinderella invites for your birthday party, scheduled for later this month when you are less likely to be stricken by some viral illness that renders you feverish and somewhat lethargic. You have proclaimed Jafar from Aladdin to be the worst bad guy by far, and you cover your eyes and squeal any time Lucifer, that badass ugly cat from Cinderella, appears on screen. Your friend Allison passed down a Disney princess kitchen set to you and I thought you would die of happiness and pleasure right at my feet.
Zoey, you are growing and changing every week, in ways that constantly amaze me. I adore the phase you are in, this stage where you are so obviously soaking in information from everyone around you, and yet...you still look to your Mommy for most of the things you need to know. The days where you collect rocks for me and proudly add them to my glass jar on the dining room table are fleeting. You won't always stop random people at the park to tell them how much you love Target and Starbucks. Someday you will stop squeezing my hand in public. By all means, lose interest in the princesses. But never doubt that I love you, and enjoy like crazy watching you develop in to such a fun little girl.
It is an incredibly sweet experience to be the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. On the days when you aren't sheer demon, that is. What was it that struck me this weekend about your sudden growth, some kind of newfound maturity? Maybe it was the fact that, once strapped in to less-bulky version of a life jacket, you discovered your ability to "swim" on your own. Hours have been logged in the pool this week, me, trying to keep my hair dry, watching you, engaged in a wildly spastic form of a doggy paddle, shouting MOMMY I AM DOING THIS ON MY OWN! and CATCH ME MOM I'M JUMPING IN! Any trace of fear or clinginess *poof* GONE. You are so incredibly proud of yourself and your newly acquired skill. I am impressed with the fact that you are growing at such a rate to be completely out of the toddler clothing section at Target and fast-blazing your way through the selection of swim wear offered in the young girls section. Please, try not be taller than me before you enter kindergarten.
Or maybe it's your new way of speaking in a manner that is so serious. Everything you have to say to me this week, it's all prefaced with a loud, solemn MOM. As if my undivided attention is required for everything from a request for more fishy crackers to your conveyed annoyance over the fact that Aaliyah was chosen as the light monitor again today and you've never been the light monitor, not once. Last week, on our way home from work and daycare, you informed me that butterflies have the ability to suck lemonade from a glass with those eyebrows on the top of their heads that aren't really eyebrows, and did I know what those eyebrows were called? Antennae? Yes. Antennae exist to get those butterflies their yummy lemonade, and don't bother arguing, because you saw it on a Maisy video and we all know Maisy would never tell a lie. All of this, the random tidbits of information you seem to pull from...where?...delivered with the Serious Voice and those studious brown eyes that dare anyone to argue. You are growing up, forming your own opinions, getting your information from people other than me. It has taken me days to convince you that Xavier at daycare is dead wrong when he tells you every airplane overhead is transporting 'bad guys'. You regard my argument soberly, processing in that little mind who is telling the truth. Finally, after hours of debate on the subject, you decide Mommy probably wouldn't lie to you. And you slip your hand in mine and give me what you think is a reassuring little squeeze, a copycat squeeze you learned from me, the squeeze I give you when you are not feeling so brave or outgoing at all. And you smile. Your smile makes me melt.
Perhaps nothing has marked your transition from toddler to big girl quite as much as your new fascination with Disney princesses. I have always looked on the 'princess mentality' with something like disdain, rolling my eyes (secretly) at parents who refer to their daughters as their little princesses, catering to their every whim. The parents who buy every Disney princess toy on the market and send the subconcious message to their little girls that the world exists merely to serve their needs. You are not royalty. You will not be treated as royalty around here. You had, up until very recently, very little princess gear, save the odd dress-up number and those blasted purple plastic heels you have adored since before you could walk. But, the thing is, you discovered a love for these frilly, silly girls who are all fainting over their Prince Charmings completely on your own. And what I find amazing (and tolerable) about watching your fascination unfold is the way you are totally nonplussed by the silly messages being sent through the movies. Your report on Cinderella (your favorite princess by far) included only details on the 'mean cat' and those 'really, REALLY mean girls who are kind of ugly and ripped Cinderella's dress!'. I find this reassuring.
So, Disney princesses. You study them. You bring me a sheet of stickers and we point to them one by one, you memorizing their names and their correlating movies. We check out the videos from the library that tell their (okay, silly, but kind of cute) stories. You refuse to be impressed by the fact that I can sing nearly every word to every Disney soundtrack produced in the 1980s or 90s. You insist that waving your magic wand and yelling some version of Bippidibopidiboo will somehow transform Henry from cat to carriage. We sent out Cinderella invites for your birthday party, scheduled for later this month when you are less likely to be stricken by some viral illness that renders you feverish and somewhat lethargic. You have proclaimed Jafar from Aladdin to be the worst bad guy by far, and you cover your eyes and squeal any time Lucifer, that badass ugly cat from Cinderella, appears on screen. Your friend Allison passed down a Disney princess kitchen set to you and I thought you would die of happiness and pleasure right at my feet.
Zoey, you are growing and changing every week, in ways that constantly amaze me. I adore the phase you are in, this stage where you are so obviously soaking in information from everyone around you, and yet...you still look to your Mommy for most of the things you need to know. The days where you collect rocks for me and proudly add them to my glass jar on the dining room table are fleeting. You won't always stop random people at the park to tell them how much you love Target and Starbucks. Someday you will stop squeezing my hand in public. By all means, lose interest in the princesses. But never doubt that I love you, and enjoy like crazy watching you develop in to such a fun little girl.
Friday, July 9, 2010
But it was a loooong half mile
I jogged exactly half a mile at the Y today before having to stop to walk.
But I did manage to successfully run what felt like 12 miles down the river path near our place Tuesday evening after discovering, something like 12 miles in to our stroll, that the mosquitoes were out for blood and there was no use fighting them off any longer. They were even going after Zoey's Dora doll.
After my meager half mile today, I am beginning to think the river path run was probably something more like two tenths of a mile.
I sense that cultivating my inner running diva could take quite some time.
Hmmmm.
But I did manage to successfully run what felt like 12 miles down the river path near our place Tuesday evening after discovering, something like 12 miles in to our stroll, that the mosquitoes were out for blood and there was no use fighting them off any longer. They were even going after Zoey's Dora doll.
After my meager half mile today, I am beginning to think the river path run was probably something more like two tenths of a mile.
I sense that cultivating my inner running diva could take quite some time.
Hmmmm.
Monday, July 5, 2010
A-running I will go
I've picked up this pesky habit lately.
I decided, several months ago when my life got picked up and dumped on it's ass, that I needed a new hobby. Something I could focus on to ease some inner pain, and prevent me from possibly killing people. After an extensive list of pros and cons, I was down to two choices: heavy drinking or heavy exercising.
I'll tell you, the pull of red wine was strong, but in the end the splitting headaches that came after two glasses of the stuff were enough to pull me to the gym side of my list. Also, I am quite fond of my liver and it's function within my body, so it was settled. I needed to work out. A LOT. Suddenly, going to the Y became my religion. Safe on the elliptical machine, book in hand, the world faded in to the background. Lifting weights made me feel the strength of my body and also assured me I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted when I went home with little or no consequences. But still...I needed something a little different.
So I started signing up for community races. It was innocent at first: a 5K sponsored by my sister's pharmacy in Bellingham, benefiting the Alzheimers Society. Another 5K here in Tacoma sponsored by my company, benefiting colon cancer research. The races were fun, walked with friends, Zoey along for the ride in her stroller, and my t-shirt collection was beginning to grow. But the people at the front of the line, the runners, fascinated me. Having never been a runner myself, and growing up with my mother, Our Lady of Perpetual Speed Walking, I've always settled happily for a good, brisk walk as a perfect way to exercise. But I'll be honest...signing up for the races was starting to pull me over to the dark side. All those people at the front of the line, setting their stopwatches and dressed for speed, the adrenaline rush the entire crowd could feel as they began to spill across the starting line...I was intrigued.
Fast forward to yesterday, the 4th of July, and Puyallup's City Blast 10K run/walk. This was the event I signed up for, dragging a friend from work along with me, with the idea in my head that I would at least run a portion of the race. Just to see if I could do it. 'A portion' being a relative term, I could always run three steps and stop if I felt like I was dying from an asthma attack. I had no set goal in my mind, only to feel the rush I've heard so many runners speak of in the past. My plan was to ease in to it...get a good couple miles of speed walking under my belt before busting in to a jog...but as we crossed the start line, Paul looked at me, said 'well, let's GO!', and we were off and running.
Maybe it was the music, or the rush of the crowd around us, but there was definitely a pull of excitement that came with running. We could pass people! Me, the girl who has never run a race in her life, and Paul, the self-proclaimed chubby ex-triathalon runner!
I might have made it a half mile before having to stop and walk for awhile. No matter. We picked up in a jog again soon enough, and I was even able to maintain a conversation while jogging. Not bad. The course was challenging and I felt like I was getting some good exercise. I may have only jogged a mile, total, but still...six miles of jogging/walking, complete with some pretty steep hills, felt like great exercise. I was extremely proud of myself for having run even 'a portion' of the race.
Which brings me to today. The day my quads are screaming at me and I feel as though someone may have accidentally kicked me in the left side of my butt. Clearly, I did not train properly for the running part of my race yesterday. I will have to start running some more while working out at the Y...because now Paul has set a new goal for us, which is to sign up for a 5K and run the entire course. I can't wait. Now that I know I won't have to run with an inhaler in my hand, the first thing I did after we got home last night was look up local races online, scouting for a 5K in the not-so-distant future.
Ready. Set. GO.
I decided, several months ago when my life got picked up and dumped on it's ass, that I needed a new hobby. Something I could focus on to ease some inner pain, and prevent me from possibly killing people. After an extensive list of pros and cons, I was down to two choices: heavy drinking or heavy exercising.
I'll tell you, the pull of red wine was strong, but in the end the splitting headaches that came after two glasses of the stuff were enough to pull me to the gym side of my list. Also, I am quite fond of my liver and it's function within my body, so it was settled. I needed to work out. A LOT. Suddenly, going to the Y became my religion. Safe on the elliptical machine, book in hand, the world faded in to the background. Lifting weights made me feel the strength of my body and also assured me I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted when I went home with little or no consequences. But still...I needed something a little different.
So I started signing up for community races. It was innocent at first: a 5K sponsored by my sister's pharmacy in Bellingham, benefiting the Alzheimers Society. Another 5K here in Tacoma sponsored by my company, benefiting colon cancer research. The races were fun, walked with friends, Zoey along for the ride in her stroller, and my t-shirt collection was beginning to grow. But the people at the front of the line, the runners, fascinated me. Having never been a runner myself, and growing up with my mother, Our Lady of Perpetual Speed Walking, I've always settled happily for a good, brisk walk as a perfect way to exercise. But I'll be honest...signing up for the races was starting to pull me over to the dark side. All those people at the front of the line, setting their stopwatches and dressed for speed, the adrenaline rush the entire crowd could feel as they began to spill across the starting line...I was intrigued.
Fast forward to yesterday, the 4th of July, and Puyallup's City Blast 10K run/walk. This was the event I signed up for, dragging a friend from work along with me, with the idea in my head that I would at least run a portion of the race. Just to see if I could do it. 'A portion' being a relative term, I could always run three steps and stop if I felt like I was dying from an asthma attack. I had no set goal in my mind, only to feel the rush I've heard so many runners speak of in the past. My plan was to ease in to it...get a good couple miles of speed walking under my belt before busting in to a jog...but as we crossed the start line, Paul looked at me, said 'well, let's GO!', and we were off and running.
Maybe it was the music, or the rush of the crowd around us, but there was definitely a pull of excitement that came with running. We could pass people! Me, the girl who has never run a race in her life, and Paul, the self-proclaimed chubby ex-triathalon runner!
I might have made it a half mile before having to stop and walk for awhile. No matter. We picked up in a jog again soon enough, and I was even able to maintain a conversation while jogging. Not bad. The course was challenging and I felt like I was getting some good exercise. I may have only jogged a mile, total, but still...six miles of jogging/walking, complete with some pretty steep hills, felt like great exercise. I was extremely proud of myself for having run even 'a portion' of the race.
Which brings me to today. The day my quads are screaming at me and I feel as though someone may have accidentally kicked me in the left side of my butt. Clearly, I did not train properly for the running part of my race yesterday. I will have to start running some more while working out at the Y...because now Paul has set a new goal for us, which is to sign up for a 5K and run the entire course. I can't wait. Now that I know I won't have to run with an inhaler in my hand, the first thing I did after we got home last night was look up local races online, scouting for a 5K in the not-so-distant future.
Ready. Set. GO.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)