On Compensating

5:20 a.m.

My alarm sounded from underneath the worn and thin pillow on the bed, and I groped for my phone. It took two, maybe three tries for my brain to connect with the nerve endings in my hand so that I could turn it off.

Turn it off before anyone woke up. Mark, Miles, Si ... especially Si.

I padded downstairs and went through my normal pre-run routine. I made coffee, went to the bathroom, made something to eat. I poured coffee and plated my food, eating and drinking as I scrolled on my phone. I got dressed. I went to the bathroom again. I put on my shoes.

And on this day, a recent Saturday, I filled up the bladder to my Nathan vest, tossing in three fruit punch Nuun tabs and two Nuun Plus tabs. I downloaded the new Another Mother Runner podcast and slipped an extra tank in my pack.

I looked at the clock. 10 minutes. I'd leave then, so that I could begin the first part of my long run. This leg, the first of three, would be solo before meeting up with friends for another 5 and then running a 4-mile race to hit 16 for the day.

Just as I weighed the merits of another cup of coffee versus another bathroom stop, I heard the babbling of a small but mighty Si upstairs. I put the cup down, opened the freezer and grabbed a waffle for the toaster.

I went from wondering what to do with 10 minutes to moving about furiously. Buttering and cutting the pastry, destemming grapes, pouring milk. Climbing up the stairs, showering a cute face with kisses, changing a dirty diaper. I peeked in on Mark and told him he had 5 minutes – and to enjoy them.

The 5 minutes he laid in bed I spent trying to make up for the fact that I'd be gone for the better part of 3 hours so that I could run 16 miles.

And the next day, Sunday, I spent the better part of the afternoon trying to do the same. I tried to change all the dirty diapers. Do an extra load of laundry. Make bacon. Be extra dutiful. I went shopping with the boys while Mark went to the movies.

But as I stood in Gymboree, watching Miles try on Halloween shirts (he wanted one that glows in the dark) and listening to Si scream from the stroller, I put my hands in my head. I took four deep breaths – just like Daniel Tiger instructs – and wondered what I was doing.

I could have stayed home. I could have picked up the house. I could have sat the kids in front of the TV instead of making a trip to Barnes & Noble to get the boys each a book and later to Starbucks for cake pops.

I could have done anything but what I was doing – compensating.

While I am fervent in my belief that moms should not feel guilty for working out or going to run, myself included, marathon training is a whole different beast. I do feel guilty that I'm leaving for three, four hours a day on a weekend and then spending another hour cleaning up, shoveling food and trying to feel normal.

I have feelings, as my friends say, about my training taking priority for not just one weekend but for 16 of them. That my kids wake up and I am not home. That when they ask where I am that the answer is always, "Momma is running."

So I treat my boys – all three of them. I take them to lunch, buy them fun things, make the dinners they like. I try to make sure that I talk to them about anything but running.

I try to compensate.

Goodnight.

For the first time in two years, my body is my own. 

Since July 2014, I have either been pregnant or breast feeding and though I have been able to make use of my body, it always belonged to Silas. He needed it to grow and develop and ensuring those things was my priority.

A photo posted by Kimberly (@healthystrides) on Aug 8, 2015 at 6:07am PDT

But on Monday night, I nursed Si for the last time.

I have mentally been ready to be finished breast feeding for quite some time as I had hoped to have him fully weaned by a year. However, his apathy toward bottles and sippy cups made it a challenge, and I didn't want to quit when I was not certain that he would be willing and able to get his nutrients elsewhere. 

The discovery of a Nuby cup with a 360 straw was a game changer, and Si has become more and more proficient in drinking from it. About six weeks ago, I was able to drop down to just nursing at night, middle of the night and morning and a month ago, I dropped the morning session.

Since then, I have noticed my supply drop but wasn't worried. I knew my body could possibly maintain it for months. And, anyway, I was going to be done at 15 months. I just needed to be.

It had been OK for that month, and I even started to cherish those moments with Si in the Ikea Poang chair when he was quiet and calm. I knew they were numbered and the ease of getting him to sleep would soon be replaced with a possible battle. 

However, the nurse-rock-bed routine that had been so dependable crashed to a halt on Monday. I put Si down and he screamed. I mean SCREAMED. I could tell, physically, that I had no more to give him or with which to comfort him. It was a shock. It took me a moment to figure out what to do – which was grab his cup and cuddle with him in the chair as he gulped and gulped the cow's milk. Clearly, our nursing session had not given him what he needed. When he was done, he pushed it away and snuggled in. I held him for a short time before laying him down, where he rolled over and went fast asleep.

Even still, I wasn't so sure that would be the end of breastfeeding. I thought I'd give it to the weekend, when the boys are going to Camp Nana overnight.It would give me, us, time to prepare for the end. But as we read had bath and read books on Tuesday, I couldn't bear the thought of another night of struggle.

So without fanfare or an official goodbye, I decided that we were officially done. I cuddled him as I gave him his cup and prayed that he would be OK. Because even though I was mentally and now physically finished, I didn't know that Si would be. I didn't want to take something away from him. 

He nuzzled his head into the crook of my arm, his left arm around my back, and sipped from his Nuby. When he was finished, he pushed it away and relaxed his body into a cradle position. His eyes fluttered closed and fell into slumber. I laid him down in his crib, where he slept until the next morning.

One

On Sunday, Master Silas Jasper turned 1 year old.

There was a party, a cake and dozens of friends and family.  We talked, we laughed and we celebrated a boy who has been such a force in our lives the past year.

"Force" – what a way to describe Si. Perfect, really. He is a force. Temperamental and stubborn, demanding and cautious.

Of course, I think, when I look back to those days 55 or so weeks ago. He was butt down, legs out and had no interest in moving from that position – no matter what I tried.

As he did then, Si does things his way and in his own time. It’s been a challenge, I have to admit. In fact, I had a whole post written out, discussing the frustration I often feel being a mom to Si and the struggle as I learn to balance our new bigger family. The rough, sleepless nights; the stress that comes with breastfeeding; the worry about how he measured up.

How I measured up as a mother. After all, some of my worst moments have happened since Si was born.

But as I spent the weekend celebrating with family and friends, it all seemed so self-serving. And isn't a part of motherhood, at least a sliver, to be selfless?

To be truthful.

Try as I might to spin the woe as me tale, I can’t ignore the good things – and good there is. I have a healthy (mostly) boy. He has two hands and two feet, 10 fingers and 10 toes. He has two gorgeous brown eyes, four teeth and one smile that is 110 percent contagious. He might be small (size 3 diapers and maybe 17ish pounds) but a big personality. 

A photo posted by Kimberly (@healthystrides) on Mar 30, 2016 at 12:33pm PDT

Silas is not independent, though I was lax in efforts to encourage such a characteristic. He likes to be held, to be close. To me, preferably, but he has a deep affinity for my father-in-law and he adores his big brother. It is my position that he only learned to crawl and later pull himself up because it was the best way to create more opportunities for holding.

He does not walk and is only now learning to cruise. And despite insistent remarks from family that he should be talking as well, he is not there either. Well, to clarify: He says “uh-oh” and possibly “hi” but I have yet to have the heart-melting moment of hearing him murmur “mama.”

I’m not sure I need to. Not yet, not when he nuzzles into my chest and breathes softly during his 1 a.m. feeding. Not when he still looks so much like a baby as I hold him in my arms.

But I’m not naïve to the situation. I know that he should do things. I want him to do things and so we’ve began the process to have him evaluated for possible delays. In less than a week, I will hold my breath as two therapists play with him to see whether he qualifies for services.

Sometimes the worry that accompanies such a meeting is hard to wrap up neatly and package with a tidy bow to tuck away when I talk to people. However, it wasn’t difficult on Sunday when we had his party. My family and friends (most of them, anyhow) didn’t see a dot on a development chart. They saw a boy who approached life with caution as he dipped his fingers delicately into the cake. They saw a child who stared up at his great grandmother, a glint of mischief in his eye, as he tried to make a toy of her walker.

They saw a boy who loved his mother and a mother who loved him.

Splitting the Negative

It was the "Train Like A Mother" Finish It plan that first introduced me to the negative split. I was following the schedule as I trained for the Columbus Marathon in 2012. Depending on the prescribed workout, the goal was to run particular sections of the run faster than the previous sections.  One day, it might be a 6-mile run split into three 2-mile sections and the next, it might be a 5-mile run split up into two 2-mile sections and a 1-mile fast finish.

The workouts were challenging, a mix of patience, strategy, speed and resolve. When you nailed it, the satisfaction was immeasurable.

As such, it's a run that I regularly incorporate into my training – whether I'm following a particular plan or not. My BRF Tami and I recently finished a 5-miler with an 8:3X split because I knew the negative split was possible.

On Thursday, I headed out to do the same – this time instructed by the five-week Striding through the Holidays plan from the Another Mother Runner challenge. But I lacked the enthusiasm I usually do for tackling negative splits.

• Si is teething and fussy. Set him down and he screams.
• Si is teething and is pooping accordingly. That morning, projectile shit shooting onto my leg.
• Miles is testing his limits when it comes to limits on TV and sugary treats. The mornings most often end in tears but he was particularly fiery and still had watery eyes when I dropped him off at school.

Physically and mentally, I was spent. However, I had already completed the easy run for the week and knew I would feel renewed with a good, hard effort.

So I set off.

The goal for the first miles is to run slow and then slow it down some more. While you want the overall effort to be strong, you need to have room to get faster. For me, this usually means around a 10-minute mile. But my watch. It was displaying paces between 10:20 and 12:45. Fine, I guess but surprising. I didn't feel great and I hadn't found my space mentally. The slower time was doing me no favors either.

I had to remind myself to relax, take it easy and smooth out my stride – just as I had that morning when Miles tried to make me a deal: a hug for an extra 10 minutes of TV.

Beep, beep, beep. 9:48.

"Alright, I got this," I thought. I stood a little taller, felt a bit firmer in my foundation. I don't have to give in – to deals, to negative thoughts.

The wind blew at my face, and I gave myself the tiniest bit of snaps for running the front half of my run into the headwind. Even though it was a bit brisk and the leaves were all but gone, it was a beautiful fall day.

Beep, beep, beep. 9:18.

Yikes, I thought. I let that one get away. A controlled 9:30 would have been better. A lower tone in my voice would have been better used in response to the "You're mean" declaration when Rolos were denied. But I had changed my tone, changed my gait. Things had gotten further than anticipated.

I took a deep breath, and reminded myself that I was competent and had the skills to handle it. I was in control.

9:11.

Much better. I had controlled my pace, my reaction. I didn't get excited. I didn't make it worse. I just did it. I had cleaned up the mess – on the run, on the floor of Si's room. I had wiped Miles' tears. We had said our goodbyes on happier terms.

I made a quick turn on the narrow trail and dodged small branches and walnuts that littered the ground beneath my feet. I dropped my shoulders, pulled in my belly. Pulled at my sagging capris. In. Out. In. Out.

8:42

I blew up. It wasn't a flame that I had quickly doused. It wasn't a slip of the tongue. I had lost my control. It stung. Sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I just can't keep it together.

As I headed underneath the bridge and toward the section of path that winds between the river and well-to-do homes, I had a decision to make. I could throw in the towel and just be satisfied with what I had done or I could put my head down and work.

Work. Running, parenting, it's always work. Just when you think you have a handle on it, it surprises you. It makes you think. It forces you to make a choice, for better or worse.

I chose to be better.

8:28.

There's a freedom laced with fear when you lose all control. You don't have to be anything but in the moment.

I was scared that morning. My frustration with the boys had reached a crescendo, the toll of the week wearing me thin. I think I would have thrown them into the car had I not maintained a shred of sanity.

But I didn't think about that in the last mile. I couldn't. All I could focus on was a quick turnover and breaking through. An 8:28 is fast for me. Fast. Beating that, nailing the negative split, would mean sacrificing that sanity I had saved.

And just like the week had caught up with me that morning, the effort and fatigue of the previous 5 miles had caught up with me. At 5.5 miles, with just 800 meters to go, I paused my Soleus and halted to a screech. I took five deep breaths and kept going. I needed to be strong, I could be strong, to the finish.

8:01.

My fastest mile since this time last year. I had come out on top. Despite having trouble staying control, despite being sprayed with poop, despite the name calling of a 4-year-old, I had done OK.

No. Wait. I had done great. 

Make More Time for You {Meijer Giveaway}

Call me Mili Vinilli but I blame it on the rain. Well, partly I blame the baby but mostly the rain.

This summer, when Fort Wayne experience record rainfall that caused severe flooding, our typical family activities were washed out. There were no bike rides to the park to play; the equipment submerged under dirty, mucky water. Trips to the zoo were out of the question; a baby is not going to stand the Ergo with rain falling on his head and animals are not interested in romaing exhibits. Even just taking a walk, without a weather shield for the BOB, was far from attractive.

And so we ran. Errands. A lot of them.

On any given Saturday, we would start our day with a workout. I would meet the girls, rain or shine, for a run and the boys would head to the Y. We would reconvene at home, where I would scoop up the little ones and head to the grocery. We would shop, getting food for the week and lunch that day, and head home. We would eat a quick, easy lunch and then head out again. Destinations included the hardware store, the big box store and, on a really riotous day, the book store. By the time we were finished, it was 3 p.m. and almost time to get ready for the hustle for the dinner.

It was OK the first few weeks, even months, but the grind of it began to wear on me. We were always going somewhere and never doing something. There was never time. Time to spend together as a family and time to have a moment for ourselves. We have to make a change, I told Mark.

My dear husband, God love him, wasn't so enthusiastic. He actually enjoyed the hustle and bustle of it all, frequently asking: What are we doing? Where we are going. I'd shrug my shoulders and sigh as I offered suggestions.

Until one day when I said Meijer. Meijer is a one-stop shop, allowing moms to get everything they need and save on the one thing they can't buy: time.

Now the routine is a bit different. Sure, we start out with exercise. I still run with the girls, and he still heads to the Y with the boys. Instead of a trip to a stand-alone grocery and then to other stores to fill in our needs, I head to Meijer. Not only can I procure the ingredients for the week's dinners (tonight --> grilled cheese with sausage vegetable soup) but our other household needs. A battery for me key fob, plastic storage totes for the clothes a friend so generously gave to Miles/us, diapers for pooping machine Si, laundry soap to remove the evidence of our pooping machine's pooplosions'. The whole trip takes an hour – the same as a regular grocery store, only I don't have to make two or three other stops. It leaves me, and the family, a lot more time to do things.

Like bake mini apple pies for Papa. Go to breakfast with my friends post-run. Grab coffee on the way home.

Of course, shopping at Meijer doesn't make everything run smoothly – especially with a new(ish) baby and Miles in school. Here are some other ways we save time at our house:

• School clothes are washed and ironed on Sunday, and each day's outfit is bundled together. Having everything in one place, ready to go, makes life a million times easier in the morning.

• I have two gym bags (an Apera and a Lug, both of which I love) and I pack them both for the first part of the week. I teach four times a week so I can't take care of it all at one time but every little bit helps.

• I make PB&J for Miles' lunch in bulk and store them in the freezer. All I have to do is grab one when he's opted for cold lunch.

• Speaking of bulk, I also make burritos for Mark's breakfast. A half-hour to 45 minutes of cooking nets a month's worth of burritos. Considering I spend 10 to 15 minutes making breakfast on any given morning, I'm saving myself tons of time.

• Most importantly, I pick my battles. I gave Miles homemade baby food, made my own yogurt, had a sourdough starter. But life is crazier now, and I don't have time for everything. I choose what things will most improve our quality of life and let go of the things hat are extra. Knowing what I can handle is the most important thing.

You can make more time for yourself and win a prize from Meijer and Procter & Gamble.

• $25 Meijer gift card
• Tide to Go Stain Stick
• Tide PODS
• Pantene 2-in-1 Shampoo/Conditioner
• Bounty with Dawn · Pampers Wipes

Enter to win using the widget below.

You can also share a “Make More Time for Mom” moment by submitting photos via Instagram using the hashtag #MMT4M. Everyone who participates has the opportunity to win a $250 Meijer gift card weekly.

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Disclosure: I received my own prize pack from Meijer in exchange for this post but was not otherwise compensated.

Running, Racing and Breastfeeding {Part 2}

This fall, I navigated a curious and sometimes tricky path of trying to run, race and feed Silas. While I have been successful on many levels, I've also faced my fair share of challenges. As such, I thought I would share my personal experiences for anyone who might find it helpful.

This post, Part 2, will address how I handled breastfeeding, pumping and racing. Part 1 focused on my general observations about breastfeeding and running.

I participated in three distance events in September and October – the Fort4Fitness Double Play (10K at 7:30 a.m., 4-mile at 10:30 a.m.), Muncie Mini-Marathon and the Bourbon Chase. Each presented its own fun set of logistics to keep Si fed. 

Note: As I don't have a lot of confidence in my supply and Si was still eating fairly frequently, I might have worried more than I should have. 

Fort4Fitness. This race, being in Fort Wayne and close to home, was probably the easiest. Si was still sleeping decently at this point, and I nursed him around 4 a.m. I woke up around 5:45 a.m., got ready and pumped as much as I could before leaving at 6:30. I left the bottle in the fridge for Mark in the event that Si would actually accept it.

Alas, he didn't.

Mark met me at Parkview Field, the finish and staging area for the race, after I finished the 10K. I fed Si twice between races – immediately after reuniting and right before the 4-mile. He was sleeping when I finished the 4-mile so we booked it out of there to get breakfast at a local restaurant, where I fed him again.

Muncie-Mini Marathon. I was stupid. So, so stupid. We traveled to Muncie the night before the race, and I made sure to pack my pump, pump parts and bottles. The one thing I didn't pack was a backup stash of milk.

Actually, that's not where my mistake lied. It was that I never called the hotel to learn whether mini fridges were available in the rooms so that I could bring extra expressed milk in the event of an emergency. You know, like a race delay because of inclement weather ...

As such, race morning proved a bit stressful for me. I nursed Si per usual when we woke up and then I pumped immediately. I went to pick up my packet at the race start right when it opened and then returned to the hotel. I pumped again. I drank water, ate, and alternated between keeping Si on the boob and pumping. I wanted to have him and the bottle as full as possible before I left. Unfortunately, I only eked out about 4 ounces.

I was doing lots of math when I arrived at the start. If I run the half in 2:10 and Si sleeps for 45 minutes, he'll eat at 4 ounces at this time and be ready for long division by noon. If I ran the half in 2:15 and Si slept for 90 minutes, Mark would eat two donuts with 57 sprinkles at a cost of $1.67.

When the race got delayed a half hour because of torrential rain and lightning, I was worried. Not just about what the conditions on the course would be like but what the condition of the boys would be like when I got finished. I offered to run the 10K but Mark insisted they would be fine.

And they were.

Si had his bottle and had a nap. He was happy albeit ready for his next feeding.

The Bourbon Chase. The race might have taken 31 hours but I was away from home, from Si, for 72 hours. Figuring that Si was eating every three to four hours, that's 24 bottles I needed to produce while I was gone. Eight or 10 of those would be pumped in the back of a van.

Sounds like fun, right?

Let me assure you, it wasn't. But I had a plan. Pump every two to three hours during the day and get all the rest I could.

Here's how it went:

Even though Si does not sleep through the night, I made the decision to not set an alarm to pump. My sister-in-law who travels for work said she never got up in the middle of the night and to take advantage of a night's sleep. Given the circumstances of the race, I deemed it prudent. I got to sleep the first and third nights, the second night was in the van.

The mornings after a good rest, I woke up like Dolly Parton's ginger cousin. I pumped immediately for 20 minutes and then again, if possible, an hour and a half later for 15 minutes.

Our van had a power adapter in the back row, and it allowed me to pump discretely whenever I wanted. I tried to hook up every two to three hours and never more than 3.5. If I went longer than two or so, I tried to pump for 17 to 20 minutes. Even if I didn't express a lot, I wanted the stimulation.

Gah! Did I really just write that?

And so how did I store it?

The milk I pumped before the race was kept in the fridge at my captain's house. Easy peasy. On the road, milk was stored in Lansinoh bags in 5-ounce increments and stored in a small cooler in the van. The cooler had ice packs and ice so that the milk was always cool. After Van 1 runners finished their first legs, we checked into a hotel and I was able to keep my milk in the mini fridge. I had access to the room after my second leg, as well, so I was able to keep it stored there for a good eight hours. After that, it went back on ice then to a fridge again then back on ice.

It wasn't the best situation but it worked. The milk stayed at a relatively consistent temperature and, for the most part, I wasn't toting around 100 ounces (or whatever I pumped) from distillery to distillery.

Because that would be weird.

Any questions?

Running, Racing and Breastfeeding {Part 1}

Sitting in the back of the van, I began to nod off to the familiar hum of the Spectra.

Brr rrm. Brr rrp. Brr rrm. Brr rrp.

It had to be the sixth time that day that I had hooked myself up to the all-too-familiar flanges and plastic tubing. It was growing tedious but I tried to find some peace. This time would not be the last. Far from it, actually.

I was away for three days and three nights to participate in the Bourbon Chase. It was 72 hours of much needed time to be me. Just me. Not the wife, not the mother. It was me, the runner. It was me, the friend.

But as much as I wanted to separate myself, there was one part of my life in Fort Wayne that I could not leave behind.

Breastfeeding.

This fall, I navigated a curious and sometimes tricky path of trying to run, race and feed Silas. While I have been successful on many levels, I've also faced my fair share of challenges. As such, I thought I would share my personal experiences for anyone who might find it helpful.

This post, Part 1, will focus on my general observations about breastfeeding and running. Part 2 will address how I handled breastfeeding, pumping and racing.

Running <<>> Part 1

My face was red, my shirt was soaked with sweat. I had just finished a particularly grueling workout – 6.5 miles of a hill repeat and 400 combo – at the cemetery, and I was riding the endorphin high.

Until I went to the lactation room at work.

I needed to clean up and pump before starting my day. I did my thing with the Action Wipes and then hooked myself up. I'd typically express anywhere from 4 to 6 ounces total during the first pump of the day but a couple weeks prior, Si had been taking antibiotics for impetigo. His appetite had dropped, and I pumped more than usual. As such, I didn't know what to expect – 6 ounces, maybe 7. I'd love to get 8.

But what I got was 2. TWO ounces total.

I panicked and shot out a frantic message to my breast friend. She talked me down, told me to drink, drink, drink my water; stick to my regiment of fenugreek and blessed thistle; and maybe ease up on the running, at least for a little bit.

I could drink the water. I could stand the smell of maple syrup from the fenugreek. However, the thought of dropping back on running was not what I wanted to hear but I couldn't deny that it might be what I needed. Many women can run and maintain supply but I was starting think I wasn't one of them.

My supply rebounded that day after the message, and I got enough to feel OK. However, my impetigo days, where I expressed 19 ounces in one day, were over. I went from pumping 15 ounces, to 12 ounces and then to 10. The correlation seemed to be my venture into midweek runs of 6 miles and long runs in the double digits.

Can we say frustrating? I didn't want to have to pick between nursing Silas and running.

I didn't have a great go of it with Miles, and I was proud that things were better with Si. He is a boob man for sure, and he prefers to drink from the tap over a bottle, even going as far as to hold off until I am around. I love that I can offer him that nutrition and, maybe more importantly, comfort.

However, I couldn't help but feel a bit selfish. You give up a lot when you have a baby. Your body, sleep, sanity. Heck, at times, your marriage. Some days the only thing holding together the pieces of me were the laces of my Sauconys and the steps I ran that day. I needed to run just as much as Si needed to nurse. Maybe more.

But for all the tug and pull, I'm thankful it didn't come down to a him or me decision. I got determined and worked to improve my supply, even if it was just an ounce or two a day. I pumped after Si went down for the night and just before he got up in the morning. I added a nursing session at daycare and pumped immediately after. I chugged water. And I set my sights on 6 months. Six months and he'd have solids. We would be fine if we could make it to then. I could keep up.

And I did.

Keeping up, though, is a bit deceiving. I am able to do it not just from improving my supply and adding solids but Si's schedule. He usually drinks one, maybe two, bottles at daycare – each 5 ounces or so. Other babies tend to take more but they are also babies who sleep during the night. Si? Well, he wakes frequently during the night, sometimes, three to four times. Basically, he's drinking what he should during the day at night and getting a little something to whet his palate during the day.

Fun, right?

On the weekends, when I'm strictly nursing, I don't take note of my supply. It's just not easy to quantify the way it is with pumping. Also, I don't track how often he nurses on the weekends. I just don't feel compelled to do that at this point. And, call me lazy, but if Si's fussy and it's been at least 90 minutes since he's nursed, I just throw him on the boob. Sometimes he eats, sometimes he doesn't.

I am certain that he probably nurses more frequently than other babies his age. On Saturdays, when I run long, it is more pronounced. In part, because he sometimes fusses with the bottle. It's also because I don't "fill up" well on the run. I often feel floppy for a few hours and have to force the water down and make sure I get enough calories to give my body what it needs for milk production.

But it's worth it. He gets what he needs, and I get what I need.

10 Truths About Having A Baby

Si is almost six months old. It may or may not be surprising to you since it's rare that I dedicate an entire post to him or motherhood. It's not intentional, at least not 100 percent. Mostly, it's not all that interesting.

However, as we are smack dab in the middle of infancy and toddlerhood not to far off, I wanted to take this time to reflect on life with a baby. I want to share things that I had forgot about (or blocked out) or things that seemed new this time.

• If you put a baby in a cute outfit, it nearly guarantees that he will blow out. Case in point: Si wore a onesie with tie on it and a Superman hoodie with cape. He was just like Clark Kent, and I couldn't have been more smug about it. While drinking his first bottle at daycare, he paused, looked up at the helper and smiled. Then he let one rip ... and it ripped right up his back. He came home in an oversized T-shirt because he had crapped through all of his extra clothes the week before.

• Zip up jammies are the jam. Snap up outfits suck. First off, my husband can't seem to snap the pajamas correctly and Si comes down from his bath with his diaper hanging out. I then have to try to snap the buttons as I nurse. Seems easy ... until you do it. I'm just not that coordinated. Second, have you tried to snap pajamas in the middle of the night when your kid wants to eat – not get his diaper changed. Kicks to the nose ensue until you give up and let him sleep naked.

• Somewhere around 4 months, your baby will stop sleeping. Even if he had previously been a unicorn baby, the glory days of 10 hours of sleep and waking up with monster boobs will be over. Your baby will be up all.the.time. Not just that, he will be up for hours at a time. He'll nurse, fall asleep and then as you put him down, his eyes will pop open and his lips will curl into a smile. Repeat for two hours.

• Your late-night/early-morning ragers will be just that. Even the most even-tempered woman (which I am not) will likely wake up her husband so that she can yell at him for sleeping. He'll grunt, roll over and continue sleeping. You will spend the next two hours plotting ways to get back him the next day.

• When the 4-month sleep regression is over, your baby will get ready for a mental leap and thus still not sleep. Basically, newborn development is out to keep mothers from sleeping and make them so crazy that their husbands lose all desire. Family planning at its best.

• If the irrational and erratic behavior don't prevent pregnancy, your broken vagina will. C-section or vaginal delivery – it doesn't matter. Your business will be out of order for some time.

• Bibs are a formality. Just feed your baby naked. Wait. The baby is naked. You wear clothes. Hopefully.

• Some babies are cute, some are not. You will think your baby is cute ... until you look back at pictures and realize that he was kind of awkward looking. It's OK. He's still adorable. For today, at least.

• Small babies do not equal small farts, burps or other audible bodily functions. You might try to blame your husband and that's cool but, this one time, it might not be his fault.

• Babies are born naked. Just leave them that way.

Note: I love my boys and my husband. I do. Really.

Don't Do This At Home

If there was ever a day I dreaded going into a running store, it was Saturday.

I had Silas' 53,203-pound car seat slung over my right arm (12-pound Silas was in it) and a box with a pair of Asics GT-3000 in my left hand. I was taking two items in but I would only be leaving with one. And since Silas was sleeping, I figured I would take him and return the shoes.

Ah. The shoes. I had purchased them the week before when Mark and I were shopping with the boys. We had spent plenty of money that day and I figured, "Hey! Why not spend more?" Also, the achy, old lady knees wanted new shoes.

The store was busy that day but I managed to snag an experienced store employee, who re-evaluated my gait and gave me some suggestions.

I pronate. Not a lot but enough. I could keep wearing Brooks Ravennas but if I were a new runner, he might suggest something with more stability.

I had been thinking more stability and decided that a post-partum return is much like being a new runner. I tried on the Saucony Guide, Brooks Ravenna and the Asics. I ran up and down the track in the store, trying to get a feel for the shoes all the while trying to corral my oldest son as Mark bounced the youngest.

Finally, I decided that I've never been particularly picky about shoes and the Asics were good enough.

Except they weren't. Two runs in, and I wasn't in love. I don't know why. And, for the price of running shoes, you should love them. So, on Saturday, I returned them.

"I'll come back when I don't have kids with me," I sullenly told the senior floor sales manager.

Thus the gist of this post: Five things a mother runner should never do.

1. Shoe shop with kids in tow. If they are able to walk, they will want to run on the treadmill, try on shoes, try on "boots" (aka leg mannequins modeling compression socks), taste the "snacks" (nutrition products) and play with balls (myofascial release tools). If they can't walk, they will want to snack ... on you. You will be distracted, frustrated and make poor decisions.

2. Skimp on the stroller snacks. For the fearless leaders of the stroller brigade, bring no less than one food item per mile. It can be as simple as a Dum-Dum per mile or a cache of healthier options like baby carrots, fruit and raisins. Think I'm joking? Miles can put down a package of fruit snacks, granola bar and string cheese before our first water stop. Listening to him yell, "I'm hungry," for 3 miles is like my version of a slow death.

3. Put Nuun, Gu, etc., within reach. I can't count how many times Miles has flooded the bathroom sink in an effort to make his own Nuun. Chocolate Gu tastes like frosting. Chomps are fruit snacks. And, to him, they are all his. Except one package of Chomps is nearly equal in cost to a box of fruit snacks. His favorite song right now might be "Worth It" but I say no.

4. Use the only foam roller in the presence of children. They will sit on you, push you off, tell you that you are doing it wrong. Grab a second one on the cheap at TJ Maxx or wait until they go to bed. You'll be crying enough for the both of you when you finally get to your IT band.

5. Discuss things like bloody nipples, relieving yourself in the woods or other bodily functions in front of them. They will remember it. THEY REMEMBER. Of course, they can't tell you what you just said or what they had for lunch but they can recall bloody nipples. And then, they will ask your running partner about bloody nipples every time they see him.

Weekly Training Update {7/13-7/19}

Mark and I strive for equality in our marriage. I meal plan/shop/cook and he cleans after dinner. He does the laundry, and I put it away. He offers 3,000 foot rubs while I'm training, and I begrudgingly half-ass one while watching "Grey's Anatomy" on Netflix.

It's not everyone's idea for the division of duties but, for us, it works.

And our MO is no different when it comes to childcare, trying to be as accommodating and fair as possible. I run at 7 a.m. Saturday, he's off to the Y at 9. I let him sleep in, I get an hour for a pedicure. He has a guy's night, I bank brownie points for overnight relays.*

So when he had a guy's night among an already packed weekend, I was a bit frustrated. "What about me? What about my time?" I thought ... and then whined ... out loud. I had a brief moment that could only be labeled as "Kim playing the martyr" before I came to my senses.

I told Mark that I needed an hour to exercise Saturday afternoon. Like the good man he is, he offered to take the boys shopping so I could have uninterrupted time.

The day was the first one that resembled summer in nearly two months, with the mercury passing 90 for the first time since September. It would have been nice to do my long run then but it wouldn't be fun or safe. But I wanted to coat myself in NAAWK and feel the sun on my face, the breeze on my skin.

A photo posted by Kimberly (@healthystrides) on Jul 18, 2015 at 2:25pm PDT

And what better way to do that than by bike?

My road bike, Peaches, is still on the trainer where I abandoned it in February. {Tip: Road bike + pregnant belly = no good.} I'm a good for nothing cyclist and would need Mark to take it off and put on the tire to ride it. It's a favor I'll call in soon but I didn't want to push my luck on Saturday. But, a ride is a ride and I had one in the form of my Trek hybrid.

I pumped up the tires, adjusted a brake line and wiped down the frame. It was beautiful. And I was ready.

For me, riding bike is not so much about exercise, hitting a certain mph or watts (assuming I know WTF watts are). It's about being outside and feeling myself move. It's about seeing my usual trail from a new perspective. It's about being free and feeling young again.

Ha. Young. Good thing you can't see all of my white hairs.

I rode about 7 miles on a nearly empty trail, going this way and that. It was the most fun I had had in some time. Except for the part where I encountered a huge flock of geese. Geese scare me. Actually, all birds scare me. I biked like hell then and prayed that one of the mamas did not hiss or charge at me.

I returned to an empty house but I felt full. I had a smile on my face, sweat on my brow and fresh rain on my hair. The latter was thanks to a brief summer storm.

When the boys came charging in 45 minutes later, I was ready and happy to be Mom again.

The week, in training:

Monday, July 13
RUN | 4 miles {with the stroller}
Time: 40:02 Pace: 10:00

Tuesday, July 14
X-TRAIN | Boot camp {taught}
Time: 50 minutes

Wednesday, July 15
RUN | 4.0 miles
Time: 38:48 Pace: 9:42

X-TRAIN | Piloxing {taught}
Time: 45 minutes

Thursday, July 16
REST

Friday, July 17
RUN | 4.1 miles, progression
Time: 38:43 Pace: 9:27

Saturday, July 18
CYCLE | 7 miles

X-TRAIN | Pi-Yo Defined

Time: 30 minutes

Sunday, July 19
RUN | 5.1 miles
Time: 49:37 Pace: 9:43

*Note: Please do not mistake this arrangement for pawning off our kids and avoiding responsibilities. Mark and I believe that in order to be a good, happy parent that it is paramount to retain our own identities – not just be "Mommy" or "Daddy" all the time.

A Day In The Life {June}

There are two kinds of babies in my opinion: Unicorn babies, who sleep for long stretches and nurse like a dream; and the other babies.

I make "other" babies. Sometimes, I like to call them spirited.

While I could lament the frustrations of "other" babies, I will not. I love my boys and, sometimes, I even like them. Rather, my pet peeve is that when you try to find out if your baby is normal (he's not ... because there is no normal), you are only presented with schedules and Day in the Life posts of unicorn babies.

So, for fun, I thought I'd share our day. Of course, the day I decide to do this, Silas tries to show he has unicorn potential.

◊ ◊ ◊

1:15 a.m.: I awaken to the grunts and moans of a gassy Silas. I turn to look at the clock and nearly cry with joy that it is 1:15. Why? It means he slept for 5 hours and I got a solid 3.5. It's a drastic change from earlier in the week when he woke up at 10:30 p.m., stayed up till midnight and was up again at 2. I grab my phone and head to his room to feed him. I could pretend that I use this one-on-one time to feel bonded to my baby but really, I check Facebook and read blogs. Otherwise, I'd fall asleep.

1:40 a.m.: Silas has finished eating and has fallen asleep. After waiting 5 minutes or so, I decide that it might be safe to put him down. I can never be sure as babies are ninjas and can go from sound asleep to "haha, I was just resting my eyes" in 2.1 miliseconds.

1:45 a.m.: Amidst the sighs and moans of a probably not sleeping Si, I hear the scamper of little feet. I look over the edge of the bed and see Miles. "I had a bad dream," he says. This is toddler code for "move over, woman. I want to sleep with you." I try to be a good mom and ask about his bad dream. He says it was monsters. I give him the option of getting in his sleeping bag on the floor of our room or I will lie with him in his bed. He picks the latter.

1:50 a.m.: Silas' farts are audible from my four-inch sliver in Miles' bed. Mark is holding and burping him but I fear I am needed. I get up, and Miles heads to his sleeping bag.

2:15 a.m.: Steal the covers back from Mark and check to make sure my alarm is set. 5:05 a.m. seems good for a run, Silas permitting.

5:02 a.m.: Silas wakes up. Not bad, kid. Not bad. We begin the game of nursing, sleeping, crib, sighing, whining, nursing, sleeping. I make it 2.5 rounds when I realize that he really is looking for comfort. I try the pacifier, a total crapshoot, and he takes it. He's down and I'm out.

5:55 a.m.: I begin my run with the goal of hitting 4 miles, a post-baby PDR. I start off strong but peter out as I hit 3 miles. Endurance takes time. Though I try to stay within a half-mile radius of the house as Mark will text me when Silas is up, I explore the flooding at my favorite park. It is insane.

6:35 a.m.: I get the the text – Silas is stirring.

6:38 a.m.: Arrive at the front door. The key jams – we need to WD-40 the lock. Miles spends 2 minutes unlocking and locking the door. It's a fun game.

6:50 a.m.: Feed Silas. Drink coffee. A huge shout-out to my husband who makes me coffee every morning and delivers it to wherever I might be camped.

7:10 a.m.: I deposit Silas into his swing and begin the work of making breakfast. As my workout is done for the day, I go for something more substantial: Egg-bacon sandwich with hashbrowns. Silas smiles and coos as I cook, occasionally laughing at his brother who works to entertain him. I keep a close eye as toddler love can be a bit rough. Like, sometimes chokeholds are mistaken for hugs.

7:30 a.m.: Eat. Drink more coffee.

7:45 a.m.: Head up to shower, shave legs and brush teeth.

8:05 a.m.: I grab Silas from Mark and try to squeeze in as many cuddles and as much breastmilk as I can before going to work. We interrupt our time occasionally to open fruit snacks for big brother and toss my lunch and snacks in a bag (Ball jar salad, peach, baby carrots, lactation cookie and popcorn). But mostly we cuddle and watch GMA.

9:10 a.m.: Leave the house and head to daycare. It's Silas' first day, and the knot in my stomach twists as we drive. He's spending most of the summer with Mark but will switch off with big bro once or twice a week. I hope he will fall asleep on the way so I won't have to look in his bright eyes when I leave.

9:15 a.m.: Get to daycare. Si is awake. The knot twists deeper.

9:35 a.m.: After some instructions to people who probably know more about babies than I do and working for some smiles, I head to work. I decide that today is a Starbucks day.

9:50 a.m.: Arrive at the office with a decaf Java Chip Light Frappuccino, ready to take on the day. When I get in, I learn that my co-worker had decided today was a donut day. I can't resist. It's a cherry cake one for me.

It's a running joke in the office that I use a Laughing Cow lunch cooler to tote around my milk.

10 a.m.: The grind begins. I work, eat, snack and pump. The goal is to pump at least three times but maybe four. I have an off-site meeting at the end of the day so it's just three sessions in the lactation room – 10:30, 1:30 and 4:15.

4:40 p.m.: Head to the meeting and listen to episode 2 of the "Undisclosed" podcast. A co-worker, who was equally obsessed with "Serial" as I had been, suggested it to me. It has no relationship with "Serial" or "This American Life" but it could be considered a companion. The show looks into many of the legal issues of the Adnan Syed case and fleshes them out. I don't love it but it's a good listen.

6:01 p.m.: A Flash Flooding Warning interrupts my podcast and commute from the meeting. It's not a surprise as strong winds made it hard to control my car on the highway and the rain was coming down in sheets.

6:15 p.m.: Arrive at my in-laws' for dinner. It's ziti and meatballs ... again. Silas is happily sitting in his car seat and Miles refuses to say hi. I'm blaming his fruit punch-stained mouth and his awareness that I would clean that face before kissing it.

7:10 p.m.: Home sweet home. Or, circus sweet circus. The bedtime hustle begins with Mark bathing Miles and me nursing Silas. We swap kids so that I can read to Miles and get a boobie break. However, I'm not super into reading this night because Miles picked some terrible books – a verbose tale about a dog at a lighthouse (I'm going to cut whoever gave this to us), a non-fiction book about sharks (that I've read 437 times) and Marvel Avengers 5-Minute stories. I secure my mother of the year nomination by skipping paragraphs and flipping two pages at a time.

7:40 p.m.: After reading, Mark usually takes Miles upstairs to read a section from his Action Bible but Miles requests me. I almost cried – since Si was born, he's grown closer to Mark and I don't get enough time with him. We head upstairs to cuddle in his bed when he discovers part of his big toenail had ripped.

7:43 p.m.: I trim the toenail amid kicking and crying.

7:45 p.m.: The crying continues with such fervor that Mark appears and asks what happened. Miles accuses me of cutting off his toe. I have to contain my laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation. Before getting yelled at for smiling, we switch kids and I take Si downstairs.

8:15 p.m.: Mark and I watch "Orange Is The New Black" with Si sleeping on my chest. I let him nurse to sleep (I know, I know) and wait till his ninja reflexes are subdued before putting him down.

9:15 p.m.: Give in and go to bed. After all, who knows what the night will bring.

Other Day in the Life posts:

June 16, 2012
November 21, 2012
January 25, 2014
October 30, 2014

Tales of a Mother Runner: Mommy Guilt

"This feels scary."

Walking down a sterile hallway, I clutched Miles' hand. Uncertainty was filling my belling, a thumping echoing in my head. We passed racquetball courts with tiny windows filtering the fluorescent light. There were empty chairs pressed against walls and a stainless drinking fountain mounted on the white tile wall.

At the end of the hall, which seemed to narrow as we came to its end, there was a door.

"Nursery."

My hand reached out slowly and tentatively turned the knob.

The door opened into an expansive room. There were fun centers and shelves lined with toys. Blocks spilled out from baskets and a small child rocks on a horse. Two women looked up, smiling. Assuring Miles.

Assuring me.

As I dropped off Miles at the childcare enter of a Cincinnati YMCA branch, the mommy guilt pangs were real, deep. I felt guilty that I was taking him to a place unknown, with faces unfamiliar, just so I could run. I did it so I cold get in my (arbitrary number of) miles for the week. I did it for the quiet. It was "I." It was not "he" or "we." Just me.

We regularly use the YMCA child care option – every Thursday and Saturday – but this day felt different. I can't tell you why beyond that I felt so selfish and worried. (Or, pregnancy hormones?) Worried that Miles would be scared or lonely. Worried that he wouldn't like the toys or the other children wouldn't be nice to him.

But still, I gave him one last kiss as an attendant opened the door and he sauntered in. I shared my cell phone number in the event they needed me, sure that they would. I watched him go to a row of shelves and then I walked away. The door slamming behind me.

It echoed for every step of the 6 miles.

Typically, when I go to Cincinnati to visit Grandma+family, I fit in my runs thanks to the BOB, Mark's help, my grandma or some combination of those. But, this weekend, Miles and I were flying solo, granting Mark some much deserved down time. He would not be there to entertain Miles while I ran or make a convenient trip to Dunkin Donuts. The BOB, though a loyal friend, is not going to happen right now – not with a toddler, not on the hills of my grandma's west-side neighborhood, not at 7 months pregnant.

And, as for my grandma, she was getting ready for dialysis. There were things to do and her pickup time is not predictable. I wanted 6 miles, to boot, which would take an hour. I try to limit my time away to a half-hour since she has a walker and Miles can, sometimes, be demanding. It just doesn't feel right to leave him for that long.

Then again, on this day, the Y didn't either.

But when I returned, sweaty and accomplished, I was reminded than an hour on the treadmill was good for me. And Miles. There, inside the nursery, he was happily swinging on a Fun & Fitness Air Walker, several children surrounding him. When he saw me, he dismounted but with no sense of urgency. He said goodbye to the attendants and waved before leaving with me.

"Were you OK?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Was it fun?"

"Yeah."

"A lot fun or a little bit fun?"

"A lot fun," he said. And, without prompting, he shared that the kids were nice and there were boys who wanted to play with him. One was Gus. "But I don't remember the other one's name."

We walked back down the hall, again hand in hand. The pangs were dulling and the belly calming. He was OK. I was OK.

It was OK.

Birth matters: Attempting a VBAC

This post has nothing to do with running but a lot to do with health and even more to do with lady business. Feel free to skip.

I don't know what a contraction feels like. I didn't feel my water break. I didn't push. I didn't cry out. With a cut and a tug, I was a mom.

On July 7, 2011, I didn't care that I hadn't experienced labor. I was just happy to have a 5-pound, 14-ounce baby in my arms who, by all accounts, was healthy. He had 10 fingers and 10 toes and rated high on the Apgar test. And, oh could he cry.

But in the months and years to follow, I began to wonder. I wondered if I had been able to have a successful, natural birth whether I would have had a better milk supply. I wondered whether I really needed to be induced that day and whether I could have been a better advocate for myself.

I never felt that by having a C-section that I was less of a mother or less of a woman but there was something missing. It wasn't tangible. I couldn't explain it — and I still can't — but Miles' birth story never sat right with me.

So when it came time for baby No. 2, even thinking about it, I knew one thing: I wanted to attempt a VBAC — a vaginal birth after Cesarean. Again, I couldn't explain why. I hadn't done extensive research nor watched any documentaries (though I since have). The most articulate answer I could give when asked why was that I just wanted a chance at the process. I didn't want to have a second Cesarean just because nor did I feel right choosing my child's birth day.

I just wanted to experience birth, what I could of it. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Of course, it's not that easy. "Mothers who deliver a first baby by C-section are about 90 percent more likely to deliver subsequent babies that way, too." {Source} I couldn't just go to my doctor and request a VBAC. I had some work to do.

It was in my best interest and that of the baby's to seek out a physician who was not only committed to avoiding C-sections when possible but had a good track record for VBACS. I switched to a new practice, led by a reputable doctor, that included midwives.

I started reading and watching. Just because is not a good enough answer for my friends and family when I share what I'm hoping to do. More importantly, it's not good enough for the doctor. VBAC candidates must show a commitment to education, whether going through a special workshop session by a local, non-hospital-affiliated group or doing it on her own. I can now say that I want a VBAC because it will enable me to parent better, avoid major surgery and is better for baby and me. (I'm also hoping that it will lead to a better milk supply this time around so that I can nurse happier and longer.)

I started building courage. It's not just because I will be delivering a baby for the first time, something unknown, if I'm successful. If I'm going to do this, I need to be mentally strong and firm in my decisions. I need to be willing to fight for myself and for the baby. I'm known to be stubborn but I can also be timid and afraid, and I find it difficult to stand up for myself. It takes work. It takes courage.

And I will need it.

According to the Consumer Reports piece cited above:

“What it boils down to is culture,” said Elliot Main, M.D., director of the California Maternal Quality Care Collaborative and former chairman of the department of obstetrics and gynecology at the California Pacific Medical Center in San Francisco. “Culture of the hospital, the nursing staff, even the patients.” He points out that hospitals with a culture of facilitating vaginal birth—those that allow vaginal birth after cesarean, for example, or those where 10 percent or more of births are attended by nurse midwives—have far lower rates of C-sections.

Why do I share this? I want to hear your stories, good and bad. I know very few people who have attempted VBAC and the success stories I read don't always resonate with me.

The skinny on motherhood

The 2.3 miles that separate my house from daycare are not marked by traffic lights and stops signs. Rather, the seven-minute drive is punctuated by question marks that leave me wondering why I didn't pursue advanced degrees in meteorology, animation, anthropology, theology and criminal justice before choosing to have a child.

"Who does Spider-Man fight?"

"Who else does Spider-Man fight?"

"Is it going to thunderstorm? See - the clouds are coming together. Why do the clouds come together?"

"Where do the robbers live? But why do they live there? Do they not buckle their seat belts?"

But on Monday morning, as we made the famliar drive, I found myself not pulling my hair out and silently screaming, "I don't give a shit where Superman lives," but answering a question that I'd never thought I'd have to answer. Not while talking to my son, not before he has even turned 3.

"Mommy, why do you want to be skinny?"

Long before I became a mother, long before I met Mark, I knew that of the things I would pass on to my family, I didn't want it to be my own weight history or body image issues. It was not just a matter of the child(ren) not being overweight but also one of recognizing it. Just as one might try to "erase" race, I didn't want them to see fat or skinny, to recognize it, to talk about it.

Yet, here I was. Being forced to talk about it. And I didn't know how.

So I did what I do best. I just started BSing my way through it, hoping to turn the conversation around and distract him.

"Mommy just wants to be healthy and strong."

Why? He asked.

"It makes mommy feel better about herself."

Why? Again.

"When I feel healthy and strong, I feel happier."

Why? Again.

"When I'm healthy and strong, I can play ball with you in the backyard and take you for runs and go to the park and play."

Why?

"Hey! Who do you want to play with at daycare?"

Daycare. I thought, as I drove. Of course.

Recently, one of the helpers at daycare has commented (more than once) that I have been looking skinnier. I think it's probably because I have lost a bit of the wheat bloat and now that it's finally summer, wearing less bulky clothing. I don't like talking about my weight, no matter how well meaning the comments are, and I usually slough it off. I say I'm just doing what I'm doing.

Miles isn't always around for these conversations and, if he is, I'm not sure he cares what we are saying. There are times, though, when he'll ask what we're talking about and pull out words from the conversation.

Words like skinny.

While I thought the issue was one I would need to be more cognizant of if I had a daughter, the inquisition was a reminder that what we say has power. The things we talk about don't recognize age or gender. A parent's opinions, attitudes and comments shape what they think is important.

And, at 33, I can say that skinny isn't one of those things.

Three Things Thursday: Random

I was dressed and ready to go Wednesday morning.

Sort of.

My butt diaper bike shorts were on, and I had a tank on. My computer was on and set up and Nuun in my bottle. All I had to do was pump up my bike tires, queue up something on Netflix or Prime and find my motivation to ride on the trainer.

I was struggling with Prime (my computer does NOT like it) when I heard the cries. The bangs. The chanting of, "I'm AWAKE." It was my out. I plodded upstairs, grabbed Miles and proceeded with my morning routine ... all the while waddling in my butt diaper bike shorts and tank.

Not in need of a rest day, I decided that I would hit the YMCA between daycare and work for a short run. An easy decision. The harder one? Whether to change clothes.

The shirt in question

1. In my little world, I have running clothes, cycling clothes and Bodypump clothes. I wear running clothes to run in, cycling clothes to bike in and Bodypump clothes for other endeavors. I do not wear something I'd don for yoga to run in, and my running clothes never make it to the gym. For my trainer ride, I had on a too-cheap-to-pass-up Kohl's tank that has a yoga vibe and style. I've worn it for a few things - yoga, Piloxing and, umm, pole dancing but never running. Here I was, though, ready to run and wearing this tank. As stupid as it might seem, I literally had to think about whether I could wear it to run ... for longer than I care to admit. But I did wear it, mostly because I need to do laundry.

2. On the way to Bodypump last night, I had a more pressing dilemma. I realized on the drive that my underarms were in definite need of a shave - a not so great thing when you are doing an overhead press in front of a class. It's even worse when you realize this and know you are running late and won't have time to stop at a drug store for a razor. So, new BP participants, I'm sorry for being a hairy beast.

3. I am super glad I got all macho about running in the winter and bought myself extra tights. Wait. I'm not. The tights merely mock me every time I grab a pair of shorts to wear while on the treadmill. I really wanted to be a winter warrior but this polar vortex, negative 5 degrees with negative 20 wind chill stuff is stupid. I am thankful that I'm still getting outside for group long runs though I feel like I might need to spend more money to invest in a pair of pants to wear over my fancy new tights and a balacalva.

Addendum: This post sounded so much better to me when I wrote it out in my head at 4:40 a.m. today as I tried to get Miles back down/stop trying to smother me with his dinosaur. And, in case you were wondering, he was not going to say sorry for the smothering as he wasn't doing it. It was the dinosaur.

Thanks for reading.

Weekly training update: 11/18-11/24

Mark didn't believe it when I told him. He didn't think I could handle it, certain that I would change my mind and go back on my promise.

But I didn't.

For the first time in a long, long, long time, I did absolutely nothing that resembled exercise on Sunday. I went to Kohl's, saw "Catching Fire" and interviewed a family for an upcoming story. I popped into Meijer, bought some lip gloss and the elusive Babybel Gouda. I made dinner and sat on the couch and watched a show about "trying out" for the Green Berets.

In other words, it was an awesome Sunday.

Once I crossed the finish line at Veterans, maybe even before, I knew that I needed to make the off season more about the family and less about what I had to do. I had spent enough Sundays getting up early and running for hours, leaving Mark and Miles to do what Mark and Miles do (read: Dunkin Donuts). I had spent enough weekends hobbling around and eating everything in sight, conversations dominated by those two things. I had spent enough time making it all about me.

So I decided that Sundays would be a rest day. A family day.

It might mean that I don't keep up the longer runs in the winter or spend as much time with new running friends but I think it will be just fine. I'm going to work Denali up to 5- and 6-milers, log some evening walks on the treadmill and maybe even get back to plyometrics.

You know, get crazy.

By the way, I have a love-hate relationship with Jennifer Lawrence's openness about not being motivated to exercise.

The week, in training:

Monday: 6 Week Six-Pack abs + 40-minute walk
Tuesday: 4.12 miles
Wednesday: 4.52 miles + Bodypump
Thursday: 10 miles on indoor bike + Ripped
Friday: 3.18 miles
Saturday: 4.01 miles + Bodypump
Sunday: Rest

Big baking theory: Life with a toddler + recipe

My mothering skill have taken a hit lately.

Quite literally.

My cute and precocious toddler has gone from cute and precocious to temperamental and physical. Or, as Kim said this weekend, a boy of many opinions. He will tell you what he wants, what he doesn't want, what he likes and what he doesn't like. If you dare cross him, which I do often, his response is a bossy "I told you not to {insert action here}" - at best - or tears or ... a bop in the nose, kick in the shins, slap on the hand.

It's a bit disconcerting to say the least. Not only is it embarrassing to have your 2-year-old hit you in front of your friend or have your kid kick you in the grocery, I don't want to be that mom - the one who raises a bully.

I shared my frustrations with my grandma, whom I think was slightly amused by at all. She listened and then I listened, waiting for a grand piece of advice. I was sure after seven kids that she would have insight on how to curb hitting. And maybe she did but what she said surprised me.

Maybe Miles wasn't being a bully. Rather, it's possible he was trying to vie for my attention. It might help, she said, if I gave him a bit more focus.

I wanted to gaffe. I spend my mornings with him, I come home from work and spend time with him. We read at night and hang out on the weekend. The thing is, though, that much of my time is spent in a flurry - doing dishes, packing lunch, switching laundry, trying to get a quiet moment to myself in the bath. I might be with him but I'm not spending time with him.

So yesterday, I took my grandma on and came up with an activity that I was sure we'd both like and might bring us together.

Baking!

I thought it might be a nice treat to make some muffins for my mother-in-law, and Miles would be motivated knowing that we were doing it for Nana.

To make things easier - for Miles and my patience - I measured out all of the ingredients and prepped a few others before I brought him into the kitchen.

I got him set up on a chair and gave him directions on what to add and when but he really did a lot of the work. To be honest, I was surprised at how well he did. He didn't stir too vigorously, swishing flour everywhere, or completely miss the bowl when dumping in baking powder. Our only close call was when he wanted to dump the entire thing of salt in the bowl.

I gave him a mini muffin pan to scoop batter on his own while I tackled bigger pans for Nana and my freezer stash.

While the morning wasn't picture perfect, we did end up with some delicious muffins and a nice gift basket for Nana. Miles was more than proud to deliver it at dinner, and Nana loved having the gift. As for me, I felt better that I could say exactly what we did - together - that day.

Tangerine-Cranberry Yogurt Muffins

Makes 2 dozen

2 cups all purpose flour

2 cups wheat flour

4 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup sugar

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1/3 cup oil

1/3 cup unsweetened applesauce or mashed banana

4 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

3 containers Yoplait Blended Greek Yogurt, Tangerine flavor

1/3 to 1/2 cup orange juice or unsweetened almond milk

1 cup reduced sugar dried cranberries

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Place liners in muffin pan or prepare with non-stick cooking spray.

In a large bowl, whisk together flours, baking powder, salt, sugar and cinnamon. In a separate bowl, combine oil, applesauce, eggs, vanilla and yogurt. Add the wet ingredients to dry, stirring gently to combine. Add juice or milk to reach desired consistency. Fold in cranberries. 

Scoop batter into prepared pans. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes or until a toothpick inserted comes clean.

Disclosure: I was provided with yogurt from Yoplait Greek but all opinions and words are my own.

... and lived happily ever after

It wasn't just a cry but a wail.

The sound coming from Miles' room was fierce and furious and though we are trying to curtail the nighttime shenanigans, I knew that I had to go up to see what was wrong.

"My nose was stuck in the crib," Miles cried between sobs as I opened the door. "Huh?" I asked as I picked him up, sure that I misunderstood him. "My nose was stuck in the crib," he sobbed.

I sat down with him in the ikea chair, rubbing his back and stroking his hair. I told him that he was OK and everything was alright. I reminded him that he was safe and mama would protect him. With each passing second, his body collapsed deeper into my chest.

I was nearly ready to put him back down when his head popped up. "Mac and cheese story, please." I pretended not to hear him, pushing his head back down. He resisted. "Mac and cheese story, please."

The effing mac-and-cheese story. What was supposed to be a funny stopgap between singing and turning on the light to read another story has become a thing for Miles. He requests to hear it at least once, if not twice, a night. It leaves Mark in a quandary when I'm teaching Thursday nights because his only response to Miles' request is: What the hell is the mac-and-cheese story.

Well, it's a story about a prince ... and, here it is to be recorded for all posterity.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away lived a warm and generous prince named Miles. Miles was kind-spirited and loved all of the members of the kingdom. He was always doing what was best for their health and happiness, and his spirit was infections and inspiring.

One morning, Prince Miles woke up and looked outside the bedroom window of his castle. It was a beautiful day that begged to be enjoyed so he bounded down the stairs and called everyone to the kingdom square. He declared that it was the perfect day to enjoy a swim and encouraged everyone to come with him.

Prince Miles and the people of his kingdom ran toward the beach, sand squishing between their toes. The dove in to the calm, cool water and began to swim around the outer edges of the lake. The sun was beginning to rise over the water's edge, inching slowly up with each steady stroke. Prince Miles felt as though he was just getting started when he reached the shore once again, even though he had swam 2.4 miles.

Eager to spend more time with his kingdom, he asked if anyone would like to join him for a bike ride. Prince Miles threw on his kit and cycling shoes and led the peleton to the outskirts of the kingdom. They rode up hills and down hills. They navigated curves and rode through meadows. They saw mountains and lush valleys. The bike path was dotted with animals - deer and rabbits, giraffes and zebras, lions and tigers, polar bears and monkeys.

Prince Miles' Garmin read 112 miles by the time he returned to the start. Even still, the kingdom felt invigorated and excited to revisit some of the sights of the bike ride. They laced up their Brooks, filled bottles with Nuun and grabbed a few Gus to sustain them. Their steps were slow but steady, fueled with adrenaline and conversation. They received "oohs" and "aahs" from the monkeys as they passed, and the deer stomped their hooves.

By the time they returned to the castle, 26.2 miles later, the sky had grown dark and Prince Miles' belly began to rumble. He headed inside the castle and asked the cook to make him something to eat. Knowing that Prince Miles needed a dish rich in carbs, protein and fat, he whipped up a decadent batch of mac and cheese. Made with the finest cheese, it was rich and creamy. The first bite was bliss for the hungry Prince Miles, who promptly declared in the best mac and cheese he had ever had. He ate and ate until his belly could take no more but there was still plenty of mac and cheese.

Prince Miles called to the members of the kingdom to come in the castle and enjoy the cook's masterpiece. They all agreed that it was the best mac and cheese and a fitting reward for such an exciting day. They decided that they must do it again next year, if only for the mac and cheese.

The end.