For anyone who hasn't read The Alchemist, I suggest you go and read it now. I'll wait.
***
Back? Good.
I'm not a religious person at all, but I am a rather firm believer in that which we cannot see. I believe in energy — that the more good and love we put out in to the world, the more it goes around and comes back to us, that people are intrinsically good and that when you put your wishes out to the universe, the universe conspires with you. No, I haven't had too much coffee, I've simply been practicing a bit more patience, and trying to be more content and aware of all that goes on around me.
Let's back up a bit.
I recently hit my one year mark at my current job. I expected a raise. Not a big one, mind you, just a raise. I had all these plans and goals of what I would do for the magazine and all the extra work I'd put in and all the travel I'd do. Then, I didn't get the raise. The boss says all is well, but no, no more money for you. My first reaction was to get pissy. Then I stood back and thought about what kind of message this might be.
For starters, I now know just how tough and time consuming this job is from December through March. As balance, I now know just how NOT tough it is May through June (there's a shoulder season on either side that's so-so; I do know there are 12 months. Duh). I also know that I've been craving more time with Chou Chou Magoo who is soon no longer two. And I have a doula client due now, one next month and another in July. Doula work fulfills me in ways a desk job never could, and spending time with Chou is priceless.
The connection? I think that if I'd been given a raise, I'd feel more obligated to spend every spare moment of every day working, thinking about work, considering work. Instead, I feel like I can draw a line ME time vs. WORK time. I can feel good about this line — I can be proud of my work achievements and my work ethic, but I can take my evenings, weekends and early afternoons and savour them, guilt-free, with my daughter and any other hobbies or interests I choose to pursue. I can cultivate friendships, spend time working on my own health and offering my support for labouring women. My job, as it is, allows that.
And so we come around to International Women's Day and our conspiring universe. I have a doula client due next week, but I feel that baby is going to arrive any day (as in, today, in fact), and I was worried that my deadline this week would derail those plans. Yesterday, I had two things on my plate that I HAD to deal with, and one this morning, that, had she called, would have meant I either couldn't attend her birth, or would have had to attend only part. I asked the universe to just give me 'til Tuesday at lunch. Pretty please? And here we are, no baby and work "musts" getting crossed off the list.
What does this have to do with Women's Day? Not much really, except that I think my most valuable contribution to this day is to be there, fully and present with an open mind and heart, at a woman's most powerful and vulnerable point in her life — giving birth — and I'm just too happy to know the universe agrees.
Showing posts with label emo barf. Show all posts
Showing posts with label emo barf. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The week that was
It's been a big week, but mostly for everyone else.
Ms. Smithers became a Mama to baby Z.
Our neighbours announced they're moving...on Monday (they decided Wednesday)
Chou ended up sick for the third time in her life. And it's horrible.
I gained .2 lb in three weeks (but have only myself to blame)
Jen P signed up for races and eluded bears.
But back to the neighbours moving thing. I've been the "friend to move away" suddenly twice. Being on the receiving end really, really sucks, but even more so now that Chou is of an age to actually miss her friends. When we left Ottawa, I was heartbroken but Chou didn't really notice (she was a year old at the time). This time, Chou's best friend, who she talks about and asks about daily, is moving away. Chou's face lights up at the mention of her BFF. The two of them play so well together, and they're the only family I've met here that I can visit while Chou plays.
And that's the part that bothers me. After nearly two years here, I have made some friends — but most are stay at home mums that get together during the week days, making it nearly impossible for me to participate. One other mum did start running with me, but her son is a full 2 years younger than Chou, and so when we get together the kids can't play (yet). Meredith and her family were the only family with kids that we'd become friends enough to just drop in and share dinner with at the drop of a hat.
The night she told me she was leaving, I realized just how few real friends I've made out here. My heart aches for Chou, as I know it's going to take a very long time for her to wrap her mind around Amaris being gone. I was so looking forward to Chou having a real friend at her birthday (the first time that would have happened). But I'm sad for me too. There are some lovely people in this town, don't get me wrong, and a couple really neat mums and babes that I'd love to spend more time with, but it's just not happening.
For the first time in perhaps forever, I'm really struggling to fit in and be me. It's not fun and is weighing on me more than I'd care to admit most days. Let's blame the epic failure of round two of WW on that? Sure, why not.
To the good, I'm officially 4 for 4 for interviews/hiring of doula clients. This latest client is due mid-March (not the best timing), but after meeting this woman, I so wanted to attend her birth, and thankfully she feels the same. The doula-ing aspect of living here has been nothing but positive. That's something.
Ms. Smithers became a Mama to baby Z.
Our neighbours announced they're moving...on Monday (they decided Wednesday)
Chou ended up sick for the third time in her life. And it's horrible.
I gained .2 lb in three weeks (but have only myself to blame)
Jen P signed up for races and eluded bears.
But back to the neighbours moving thing. I've been the "friend to move away" suddenly twice. Being on the receiving end really, really sucks, but even more so now that Chou is of an age to actually miss her friends. When we left Ottawa, I was heartbroken but Chou didn't really notice (she was a year old at the time). This time, Chou's best friend, who she talks about and asks about daily, is moving away. Chou's face lights up at the mention of her BFF. The two of them play so well together, and they're the only family I've met here that I can visit while Chou plays.
And that's the part that bothers me. After nearly two years here, I have made some friends — but most are stay at home mums that get together during the week days, making it nearly impossible for me to participate. One other mum did start running with me, but her son is a full 2 years younger than Chou, and so when we get together the kids can't play (yet). Meredith and her family were the only family with kids that we'd become friends enough to just drop in and share dinner with at the drop of a hat.
The night she told me she was leaving, I realized just how few real friends I've made out here. My heart aches for Chou, as I know it's going to take a very long time for her to wrap her mind around Amaris being gone. I was so looking forward to Chou having a real friend at her birthday (the first time that would have happened). But I'm sad for me too. There are some lovely people in this town, don't get me wrong, and a couple really neat mums and babes that I'd love to spend more time with, but it's just not happening.
For the first time in perhaps forever, I'm really struggling to fit in and be me. It's not fun and is weighing on me more than I'd care to admit most days. Let's blame the epic failure of round two of WW on that? Sure, why not.
To the good, I'm officially 4 for 4 for interviews/hiring of doula clients. This latest client is due mid-March (not the best timing), but after meeting this woman, I so wanted to attend her birth, and thankfully she feels the same. The doula-ing aspect of living here has been nothing but positive. That's something.
Friday, January 7, 2011
On the seventh day, there was no rest
In many ways, I'm an overachiever. I work hard. I like doing things well. I like being good at something, whatever it is. If I'm dismal at it at the first go (i.e. playing pool or ping pong), I just find reasons not to ever do it. Lucky for me, I'm moderately successful at things right off the hop. In that way, I have a lot of fun (and call playing pool stupid. Because it is.)
There's one area I've always, always, always been an underachiever — health and fitness. I don't know what it is, but I've never really pushed myself; I've convinced myself that I always need a rest day, that 20 mins is enough, that walking around counts as exercise. I'm sure there are those worse off than me, but I tend to over estimate output and under estimate input, so to speak.
On day two of the new WW program, I'm realizing just how much those little things — cream in the coffee, tidying up the last of Chou's cheese or hummus or yogurt, a hunk of good chocolate — add up to many extra pounds. I'll be the first to say that I will always eat cheese, chocolate and yogurt. You should; it's good for you. But when moderation came to town, I looked the other way and made fun of people playing pool. I don't know how exactly to put this into words (which is funny, seeing as that's my profession), but I've never, ever put my heart and soul and overachiever attitude into my health and fitness.
I've improved some, yes. Four and a half years ago I started running. And, more or less, I've continued to. Somewhere along the way I lost 50 plus pounds (it can stay lost. I don't miss it). I eat better than I used to. I'm a better cook, too. But whenever it comes to a new fitness or health goal or regime, I tend to take the easy way out. I sign up for races and don't do them (some legitimately, others because of laziness, pure and simple). But, and this is where today's title comes from, even when I train, I don't train hard. I take full on rest days between 30 min workouts. Because for whatever reason I think I should? Um, right.
Today is day seven of Janathon. I have done yoga seven days in a row (a first for me), I have done either a 30 minute run/walk or Shred on alternating days. I have walked into town (always as fast as I can), and while on day three my muscles were sore, by day seven, now, I know that if I really wanted to I could go out and do a 30 minute run, even after Shred and yoga. 90 minutes of activity on one day does not in any way shape or form require me to rest the next day (well, except for a kick arse run, but we're not there yet, are we?)
If I learn nothing else from Janathon, it's this — activity is still rest, depending on what it is, and that each day I must move more and more, and then a bit more.
Janathon totals: Yoga 7/7, Run 3/7, Shred 3/7
There's one area I've always, always, always been an underachiever — health and fitness. I don't know what it is, but I've never really pushed myself; I've convinced myself that I always need a rest day, that 20 mins is enough, that walking around counts as exercise. I'm sure there are those worse off than me, but I tend to over estimate output and under estimate input, so to speak.
On day two of the new WW program, I'm realizing just how much those little things — cream in the coffee, tidying up the last of Chou's cheese or hummus or yogurt, a hunk of good chocolate — add up to many extra pounds. I'll be the first to say that I will always eat cheese, chocolate and yogurt. You should; it's good for you. But when moderation came to town, I looked the other way and made fun of people playing pool. I don't know how exactly to put this into words (which is funny, seeing as that's my profession), but I've never, ever put my heart and soul and overachiever attitude into my health and fitness.
I've improved some, yes. Four and a half years ago I started running. And, more or less, I've continued to. Somewhere along the way I lost 50 plus pounds (it can stay lost. I don't miss it). I eat better than I used to. I'm a better cook, too. But whenever it comes to a new fitness or health goal or regime, I tend to take the easy way out. I sign up for races and don't do them (some legitimately, others because of laziness, pure and simple). But, and this is where today's title comes from, even when I train, I don't train hard. I take full on rest days between 30 min workouts. Because for whatever reason I think I should? Um, right.
Today is day seven of Janathon. I have done yoga seven days in a row (a first for me), I have done either a 30 minute run/walk or Shred on alternating days. I have walked into town (always as fast as I can), and while on day three my muscles were sore, by day seven, now, I know that if I really wanted to I could go out and do a 30 minute run, even after Shred and yoga. 90 minutes of activity on one day does not in any way shape or form require me to rest the next day (well, except for a kick arse run, but we're not there yet, are we?)
If I learn nothing else from Janathon, it's this — activity is still rest, depending on what it is, and that each day I must move more and more, and then a bit more.
Janathon totals: Yoga 7/7, Run 3/7, Shred 3/7
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
I have adoring fans, apparently
I got a super awesome message on my FB page. I'm paraphrasing, but it went something like this:
"Ms. Wumpus, you are my world and I love you and I miss you and your brilliant blog writing. Please write more. Love, your biggest fan."
So I'm paraphrasing A LOT, but Smithers of See Teacher Run does have a point — I haven't blogged in two months. TWO months.
What? How did that happen.
Let me tell you.
In the last two months, I've been eating (a lot), sleeping, working (sort of), heading out on location for work, drinking (a lot), attending a birth (forceps delivery - some very scary moments but I think I'm finally confident in my abilities as a doula), eating some more and drinking some more.
Also, I tried working out exactly four times in these last two months. My last attempt was a run. I was actually enjoying the first three minutes until I realized that horrid wheezy sound was coming from me and I needed a walk break. The too-tight running bra might have been my first clue, but whatever. Nonetheless, I soldiered on, running and walking. Until minute 17 when whatever the hell happened to my hip in late August, happened again, only much much worse. I hobbled home and tried not to cry. Then I ate some more.
I'm not going to wallow in self pity (I'm wallowing in emotional eating just fine thank you), but here's what I've learned in the last two months: I can't work at home anymore and I think my family is allergic to Saskatchewan.
WTF, you say? Well, yes, it's true. As much as a great big huge part of me (not my ass, but that would have been funny, you clever reader) is madly in love with this Prairie Province and could see myself setting up a tidy little goat/sheep farm and toiling the rest of my days without a hill in sight, it's not going to work. Not for my family, not for my long-term mental health and not for my fitness. I need people around me. I need friends who want to work out with me and have silly weight loss contests (but in person...all I've done for the weight loss contest with Jen is GAIN 10 lb, and I'm not making that up). I need MY people. And I haven't found many here. Not enough, anyway.
What do we do about that? Well, nothing yet. It could be many moons before anything really changes, but I think, in the long-ish term, we have to pack up and move...somewhere.
And I have to stop eating incessantly. Can someone sew my mouth shut? Thanks.
Oh, and merry Christmas and happy new year and all that jazz.
I need more coffee. With booze in it.
"Ms. Wumpus, you are my world and I love you and I miss you and your brilliant blog writing. Please write more. Love, your biggest fan."
So I'm paraphrasing A LOT, but Smithers of See Teacher Run does have a point — I haven't blogged in two months. TWO months.
What? How did that happen.
Let me tell you.
In the last two months, I've been eating (a lot), sleeping, working (sort of), heading out on location for work, drinking (a lot), attending a birth (forceps delivery - some very scary moments but I think I'm finally confident in my abilities as a doula), eating some more and drinking some more.
Also, I tried working out exactly four times in these last two months. My last attempt was a run. I was actually enjoying the first three minutes until I realized that horrid wheezy sound was coming from me and I needed a walk break. The too-tight running bra might have been my first clue, but whatever. Nonetheless, I soldiered on, running and walking. Until minute 17 when whatever the hell happened to my hip in late August, happened again, only much much worse. I hobbled home and tried not to cry. Then I ate some more.
I'm not going to wallow in self pity (I'm wallowing in emotional eating just fine thank you), but here's what I've learned in the last two months: I can't work at home anymore and I think my family is allergic to Saskatchewan.
WTF, you say? Well, yes, it's true. As much as a great big huge part of me (not my ass, but that would have been funny, you clever reader) is madly in love with this Prairie Province and could see myself setting up a tidy little goat/sheep farm and toiling the rest of my days without a hill in sight, it's not going to work. Not for my family, not for my long-term mental health and not for my fitness. I need people around me. I need friends who want to work out with me and have silly weight loss contests (but in person...all I've done for the weight loss contest with Jen is GAIN 10 lb, and I'm not making that up). I need MY people. And I haven't found many here. Not enough, anyway.
What do we do about that? Well, nothing yet. It could be many moons before anything really changes, but I think, in the long-ish term, we have to pack up and move...somewhere.
And I have to stop eating incessantly. Can someone sew my mouth shut? Thanks.
Oh, and merry Christmas and happy new year and all that jazz.
I need more coffee. With booze in it.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
If I start singing Miley Cyrus's "The Climb" just shoot me
Slowly, slowly I have been mulling around this blog post in my head. How much do I say? What do I share or not? I'm not a courageous blogger and I'm certainly not a very timely one. There has been turmoil, angst, worry, fear, anger, confusion, pain, stress and more going on in my house and in my life and, at times, I thought about sharing some of that here. It just didn't seem appropriate.
And now, now that things are 95% sorted out (who am I kidding? I'm making it up as I go. We all are. OH YES WE ARE), I think it's time to return, to put fingers to keyboard and get back to life (ohhh, that's the song I should be singing).
In short, I've been on a bit of a journey, and not a terribly fun one, but ultimately, I'm on the other side, I think, and have spent the last few days getting back to me, back to health and wellness and back into the swing of things.
First up, of course, is a new race. But no, not a foot race, because I tend to sign up then not do them. Instead, my good buddy and now world-famous blogger, Jen P and I are having a (totally safe and smart) weight loss race.
So far, my scale's battery is dying and therefore I can lose anywhere from three to six pounds in seconds (advantage me) but Jen is breastfeeding and running, and although she thinks that's not a good thing, I know it is (advantage her).
I planned to join WW again tonight, but a freak snow/ice storm that ripped through yesterday has made the streets lethal to walk on. In fairness, I started food journaling a few days ago and have done something active every single day (even running! and yoga!). I've managed to stay within my points each day - no small feat - and god help me but I think I'm actually enjoying salad again. The race is on!
Just in time for Halloween?!
Shit.
And now, now that things are 95% sorted out (who am I kidding? I'm making it up as I go. We all are. OH YES WE ARE), I think it's time to return, to put fingers to keyboard and get back to life (ohhh, that's the song I should be singing).
In short, I've been on a bit of a journey, and not a terribly fun one, but ultimately, I'm on the other side, I think, and have spent the last few days getting back to me, back to health and wellness and back into the swing of things.
First up, of course, is a new race. But no, not a foot race, because I tend to sign up then not do them. Instead, my good buddy and now world-famous blogger, Jen P and I are having a (totally safe and smart) weight loss race.
So far, my scale's battery is dying and therefore I can lose anywhere from three to six pounds in seconds (advantage me) but Jen is breastfeeding and running, and although she thinks that's not a good thing, I know it is (advantage her).
I planned to join WW again tonight, but a freak snow/ice storm that ripped through yesterday has made the streets lethal to walk on. In fairness, I started food journaling a few days ago and have done something active every single day (even running! and yoga!). I've managed to stay within my points each day - no small feat - and god help me but I think I'm actually enjoying salad again. The race is on!
Just in time for Halloween?!
Shit.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Individual
(yes, I'm still here)
I read something yesterday. Something about setting your own goals and measuring your own success and not comparing yourself to friends or trying to achieve their goals, but to set and achieve your own.
It really struck home, especially after so much of what I've been doing for the past, oh, six months (or more?) has just not been working in so many ways. Maybe part of it is because I've been muddling along, not really asking what I want but more going with what others are doing, and floating along on their ideas. What happened to me? I have no clue. She's around somewhere.
It's high time to find out what I want, what I'm capable of and what is my own measure of success - in all things.
More later.
I read something yesterday. Something about setting your own goals and measuring your own success and not comparing yourself to friends or trying to achieve their goals, but to set and achieve your own.
It really struck home, especially after so much of what I've been doing for the past, oh, six months (or more?) has just not been working in so many ways. Maybe part of it is because I've been muddling along, not really asking what I want but more going with what others are doing, and floating along on their ideas. What happened to me? I have no clue. She's around somewhere.
It's high time to find out what I want, what I'm capable of and what is my own measure of success - in all things.
More later.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Redemption
My first "official" doula experience wasn't a great one. I didn't really go into it at the time, but I left that birth feeling useless, sad and truly questioning whether I had helped them at all by being there.
It's no wonder — the poor woman had every intervention except forceps and a c-section and there were several times during the birth where I ignored my gut instinct and allowed the situation to unravel unimpeded by me. Sure, there are always things we'd change in hindsight and who knows if anything I would have done would have changed anything, but ultimately I didn't think I helped. At all.
It was nice then, a few weeks back when I posted some article (on FB) about doula's attending births that my doula client commented that she believed she would have ended up with a c-section had I not been there.
That's something isn't it? Yes, well.
Then last month I attended the polar opposite birth. I went with my instincts, did what I thought I should and rarely questioned what I should do. The birth wasn't just totally different — my experience was, too. I walked away light as a feather, feeling fulfilled and useful and inspired.
I spoke with my midwife about this just last week. She was a doula first as well and had an even worse first doula experience, one where she cried for days after (same sort of story only it was a forceps delivery). Still, she went on to become a midwife. She was also honest in saying that, even now, there are times when women end up with c-sections or forceps that she feels she failed in some way and wished she could go back and do things differently.
This week I got an email from my January doula client. She wanted to know if I had any births lined up for April...because if I didn't she wanted to ask if I'd be there to help them welcome baby number two, who, very surprisingly, was on the way.
After my initial surprise and laugh, I couldn't help but feel somewhat vindicated, that I had helped enough, I guess, that she wanted me there again. But more than that, I feel like this time, this time I can follow my instincts and well and truly be there for them. I know I can't control how a birth happens, but I feel so much more confident now in at least being as helpful as I can when it does.
(Also, it bodes well, I think, that in just over a year into my two-year certification journey that I have a repeat client. Don't you?)
It's no wonder — the poor woman had every intervention except forceps and a c-section and there were several times during the birth where I ignored my gut instinct and allowed the situation to unravel unimpeded by me. Sure, there are always things we'd change in hindsight and who knows if anything I would have done would have changed anything, but ultimately I didn't think I helped. At all.
It was nice then, a few weeks back when I posted some article (on FB) about doula's attending births that my doula client commented that she believed she would have ended up with a c-section had I not been there.
That's something isn't it? Yes, well.
Then last month I attended the polar opposite birth. I went with my instincts, did what I thought I should and rarely questioned what I should do. The birth wasn't just totally different — my experience was, too. I walked away light as a feather, feeling fulfilled and useful and inspired.
I spoke with my midwife about this just last week. She was a doula first as well and had an even worse first doula experience, one where she cried for days after (same sort of story only it was a forceps delivery). Still, she went on to become a midwife. She was also honest in saying that, even now, there are times when women end up with c-sections or forceps that she feels she failed in some way and wished she could go back and do things differently.
This week I got an email from my January doula client. She wanted to know if I had any births lined up for April...because if I didn't she wanted to ask if I'd be there to help them welcome baby number two, who, very surprisingly, was on the way.
After my initial surprise and laugh, I couldn't help but feel somewhat vindicated, that I had helped enough, I guess, that she wanted me there again. But more than that, I feel like this time, this time I can follow my instincts and well and truly be there for them. I know I can't control how a birth happens, but I feel so much more confident now in at least being as helpful as I can when it does.
(Also, it bodes well, I think, that in just over a year into my two-year certification journey that I have a repeat client. Don't you?)
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Fog
Disclaimer: If you're looking for cute toddler pictures or equally uplifting fodder, look elsewhere. As today's title will attest, we're not in that kind of mood. Also, the language in this blog is not suitable for children. Reader discretion is advised.
Today I am in The Fog. Yes, it deserves caps, because it is a proper name. This Fog, The Fog, rolls in now and again. It has for many years, and for many years it didn't have a name. It used to happen often, now it visits me rarely, perhaps once a year, hardly more. The Fog is not a depression, though I've been there. It's simply a day of adjustment wherein my body, soul and mind need to reconnect to the present and let go of past hurt, confusion and yells of "It's not fucking fair."
The Fog follows A Dream (I'm starting to feel like Winnie the Pooh with these nonsense caps, I'll stop.) The dream is always different - the situation is different, the players are a motley cast and sometimes the same, but not always. What makes it The Dream that brings The Fog is the underlying feelings, tone and impression.
The Dream is about my mother, though she's never made an appearance. The dream is about losing her. It's about that headspace. That time. Of being there. Of being 16 and having my world blow the fuck up in my face and being absolutely, stunningly powerless to do a damn thing about it. The dream drips with regret, sorrow and, yes, self pity and a great big ole stench of "Why me?".
But not just why me in the sense of losing mum. Oh no. As if the teenage years aren't bad enough, life decides to throw THAT in my formative years. So there were other things happening too. Things that most of those around me could never in a million years have understood. They still don't, and very few actually tried. I don't blame them. In fact, I'm jealous of them in so many ways for having NOT dealt with it. I'm babbling. Where was I? Right.
The Dream is rank with regret not necessarily in regards to my mother, but to me, to my adolescent self. How I wish I could go back and smack her across the face, and then sit, pour her a cheap wine and let her spill it. All of it. All the shit she did and didn't do, the things she said, was accused of, the hurt, the betrayal, the loneliness.
The Dream itself is harmless. In it, at some point, I always end up telling all sorts of people I do and don't know how I feel (or felt, rather) and they understand, and they hear me, and they let me heal and they forgive me. But do I forgive them? I never know.
And yes, in the dream, mum is still alive, because it is THEN, not now.
And when I wake, I'm hit with the reality that she's gone again. All over again.
And the fog rolls in.
No amount of coffee pushes it away. I just have to wait. For real life, this life, to catch up again and carry me forward.
And so I wait.
Today I am in The Fog. Yes, it deserves caps, because it is a proper name. This Fog, The Fog, rolls in now and again. It has for many years, and for many years it didn't have a name. It used to happen often, now it visits me rarely, perhaps once a year, hardly more. The Fog is not a depression, though I've been there. It's simply a day of adjustment wherein my body, soul and mind need to reconnect to the present and let go of past hurt, confusion and yells of "It's not fucking fair."
The Fog follows A Dream (I'm starting to feel like Winnie the Pooh with these nonsense caps, I'll stop.) The dream is always different - the situation is different, the players are a motley cast and sometimes the same, but not always. What makes it The Dream that brings The Fog is the underlying feelings, tone and impression.
The Dream is about my mother, though she's never made an appearance. The dream is about losing her. It's about that headspace. That time. Of being there. Of being 16 and having my world blow the fuck up in my face and being absolutely, stunningly powerless to do a damn thing about it. The dream drips with regret, sorrow and, yes, self pity and a great big ole stench of "Why me?".
But not just why me in the sense of losing mum. Oh no. As if the teenage years aren't bad enough, life decides to throw THAT in my formative years. So there were other things happening too. Things that most of those around me could never in a million years have understood. They still don't, and very few actually tried. I don't blame them. In fact, I'm jealous of them in so many ways for having NOT dealt with it. I'm babbling. Where was I? Right.
The Dream is rank with regret not necessarily in regards to my mother, but to me, to my adolescent self. How I wish I could go back and smack her across the face, and then sit, pour her a cheap wine and let her spill it. All of it. All the shit she did and didn't do, the things she said, was accused of, the hurt, the betrayal, the loneliness.
The Dream itself is harmless. In it, at some point, I always end up telling all sorts of people I do and don't know how I feel (or felt, rather) and they understand, and they hear me, and they let me heal and they forgive me. But do I forgive them? I never know.
And yes, in the dream, mum is still alive, because it is THEN, not now.
And when I wake, I'm hit with the reality that she's gone again. All over again.
And the fog rolls in.
No amount of coffee pushes it away. I just have to wait. For real life, this life, to catch up again and carry me forward.
And so I wait.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Happy runaversary to me!
It's a week early, but my gift from myself to myself came in the mail yesterday. I heart you MEC and online shopping!
Presenting my very first running tank:
Hi, collarbone! It's so nice to see you. You were gone for years.
Next week marks three years - three! - of this lazy, desk-bound woman running. Three years ago it took me nearly an hour to shuffle/hobble through three miles. Saturday I knocked out 7.3 in 1 hour, 15 minutes and 33 seconds and it felt GOOD. Oh how far I've come!
Speaking of, those new shorts and top? They're a MEDIUM. A medium. In running shorts and a tank. That my friends, is more than a little unbelievable to me. While I'll have to still wear a bra for long runs, the built in in this tank is suprisingly snug and will work for 5 k, hills or track workouts on its own. Wow. When I started running I tipped the scales somewhere in the 180s. Today, the scale is in its happy place in the mid-140s. I wear a medium in most things, down from L and XL. I can fit most 8s and some 6s when once you had to put a one in front of both those numbers to squeeze me in.
But so much more has changed than the numbers. My head space is better because of running. My body is stronger, as is my focus and resolve. I feel more capable, better equipped to handle stress. I know I can do things, because it's just one foot in front of the other and all the negative self talk will only bring you down and defeat you. Sure, that sounds like bullshit but get out and tell yourself you CAN run and you will (I still fight this talk every single run). Finishing a half marathon isn't what I'm most proud of - it's doing the training that leads up to it and then finishing. It is a culmination of balancing schedules, finding energy and motivation and sticking with something. And it feels so good.
Sure, I have miles to go - figuratively and literally. My next race is a ways off and I've got a whole lotta endurance I need to build up to make Oct 3rd fun and not just hard. I'd like to shave off 10 more pounds and build more strength and flexibility. I'd also like to relay more of my running lessons into my everyday life: setting goals, achieving them, setting more, all with a positive attitude.
It's just one foot in front of the other, people. Say it with me now!
***
All Caddywumpus comment generator: What personal accomplishment are you most proud of? What goal do you have for the next six months? September is just around the corner and to me, September is the New Year, not January. Let's make some resolutions (and no, I am not high...except on - wait for it - life)!
Presenting my very first running tank:
Hi, collarbone! It's so nice to see you. You were gone for years.
Next week marks three years - three! - of this lazy, desk-bound woman running. Three years ago it took me nearly an hour to shuffle/hobble through three miles. Saturday I knocked out 7.3 in 1 hour, 15 minutes and 33 seconds and it felt GOOD. Oh how far I've come!
Speaking of, those new shorts and top? They're a MEDIUM. A medium. In running shorts and a tank. That my friends, is more than a little unbelievable to me. While I'll have to still wear a bra for long runs, the built in in this tank is suprisingly snug and will work for 5 k, hills or track workouts on its own. Wow. When I started running I tipped the scales somewhere in the 180s. Today, the scale is in its happy place in the mid-140s. I wear a medium in most things, down from L and XL. I can fit most 8s and some 6s when once you had to put a one in front of both those numbers to squeeze me in.
But so much more has changed than the numbers. My head space is better because of running. My body is stronger, as is my focus and resolve. I feel more capable, better equipped to handle stress. I know I can do things, because it's just one foot in front of the other and all the negative self talk will only bring you down and defeat you. Sure, that sounds like bullshit but get out and tell yourself you CAN run and you will (I still fight this talk every single run). Finishing a half marathon isn't what I'm most proud of - it's doing the training that leads up to it and then finishing. It is a culmination of balancing schedules, finding energy and motivation and sticking with something. And it feels so good.
Sure, I have miles to go - figuratively and literally. My next race is a ways off and I've got a whole lotta endurance I need to build up to make Oct 3rd fun and not just hard. I'd like to shave off 10 more pounds and build more strength and flexibility. I'd also like to relay more of my running lessons into my everyday life: setting goals, achieving them, setting more, all with a positive attitude.
It's just one foot in front of the other, people. Say it with me now!
***
All Caddywumpus comment generator: What personal accomplishment are you most proud of? What goal do you have for the next six months? September is just around the corner and to me, September is the New Year, not January. Let's make some resolutions (and no, I am not high...except on - wait for it - life)!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Perfection
I'm now 30. While I joke that it's my 2nd annual 29th birthday and bemoan the wrinkles and the demise of my 20s, in reality, I'm very happy to be 30.
I look in the mirror and I'm ok with what I see. I look around at my little family and the life we're building and I'm happy. I think of my family and friends who I wish were here, and there are many of them and they are all wonderful people. I am blessed, I am happy and I like me a whole lot more than I did at 20. This is all good.
And the best part? Last night Chou slept through the night for the first time....from 7:30 pm to 5 am, straight through. She nursed, then went back to bed for two hours. Even better, the husband and I woke up at 6:30, with no alarm, and he brought me gifts of Gucci smelly stuff and a new makeup bag. He's arranged for a babysitter tonight so we can go out for our first dinner alone(!) since Chou was born. Oh, AND I get to watch the Kentucky Derby before we go.
Life doesn't get any better than this.
Happy birthday to me. Welcome here, dirty thirties. Let's party.
I look in the mirror and I'm ok with what I see. I look around at my little family and the life we're building and I'm happy. I think of my family and friends who I wish were here, and there are many of them and they are all wonderful people. I am blessed, I am happy and I like me a whole lot more than I did at 20. This is all good.
And the best part? Last night Chou slept through the night for the first time....from 7:30 pm to 5 am, straight through. She nursed, then went back to bed for two hours. Even better, the husband and I woke up at 6:30, with no alarm, and he brought me gifts of Gucci smelly stuff and a new makeup bag. He's arranged for a babysitter tonight so we can go out for our first dinner alone(!) since Chou was born. Oh, AND I get to watch the Kentucky Derby before we go.
Life doesn't get any better than this.
Happy birthday to me. Welcome here, dirty thirties. Let's party.
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