A Much Needed Vacation

I have this memory in my brain of a family gathering in 2006.  My son was only a few months old as I gathered with all of my cousins and their children for our annual holiday get together.  One of my cousins was going on a trip in early January with her husband, and they were leaving their two children with grandparents for a week. 

I felt sick to my stomach at even the thought of leaving my baby for one night, never mind A WHOLE WEEK!!

Another cousin shared that she was going Christmas shopping with two girlfriends for a weekend.  Two nights away from home.  WITHOUT her husband and two children. 

I held my baby tighter as my anxiety grew. 

At some point I was able to regain control, pick my chin up off the floor, and say that I could not imagine ever leaving my son to go away on a trip.  My much wiser cousins with older children looked at each other and then back at me, and then said in unison, "You will."

It's taken me five years, but I finally get it.  I am taking my first trip away from my children.

I have everything in order:  notes left for my husband regarding all of the activities he needs to remember each day; books and small "treats" for my children to open each day that I am gone; daycare lined up when my husband is at work; and my boarding pass printed and ready to go in the morning. 

Everything is ready.  So why the anxiety?

I think I am worried that something will happen, and I will be far away and unable to get back to my babies fast enough.  Ridiculous.  What could happen?  

Don't.  Get.  Me.  Started!

I need to just stop thinking about it, trust in my husband's ability to care for our children, and be grateful that he recognized my need to get away from my responsibilities for a few days.  After all, this trip was his idea and a gift from him to me.  He bought me the ticket, altered his schedule to be home with our children, and encouraged me to go and have fun.  So I am going.

And I will remember to tell myself that I will be a better Mommy after taking some time to myself to relax and enjoy one of my favorite places.

When Life Seems Unfair, Choose Joy

My sister's friend, Sara, is dying.

Life is not fair.

Sara is 38 years old.

Life is not fair

Sara has been confined to her home for many years, I have lost track of the years.  She suffers from a painful disease, Ankylosing Spondylitis, as well as Leukopenia that makes her susceptible to germs, and she has had to live in a very controlled environment for the past several years. 

Basically, all the things we all enjoy daily - sunshine, fresh air, most food, other people - would kill her in a short amount of time. 

Life is not fair.

And now, as I type this, she is lying in her bed.  She is surrounded by family and close friends.  Hospice has arrived.  Her breathing is slowing.  Her organs are shutting down. 

Why aren't they screaming "LIFE IS NOT FAIR!"???

Because Sara believes in a power higher than her.  She believes in God.  She believes that He has a plan for her, has always had a plan for her.  She believes that she was given this disease for a reason.  She believes that something greater than "here" is waiting for her "there", and she is ready to see it.  She believes that an eternity of painfree living is within her grasp.  She believes that her dad, who died suddenly last year, is waiting for her with open arms.  That she will see him as soon as she passes to "the other side". 

I cannot begin to understand what she has been living with for the past several years.  I can't know what it is like to have groceries delivered to your door that you go get only after the person has left.  I can't know what it is like to take so many medications every single day.  I can't know what it is like to only talk to friends on the phone because it's not safe to see them in person.  I can't know what it's like to never leave your home. 

I think I would feel so lonely.  So depressed.  So sad.  So angry.

But she did not choose to feel those things.  To live like that.  And that is what makes her AMAZING!

I cannot begin to understand how important it has been for her to believe in God, heaven, and all the things she believes.  I cannot begin to understand how fully she embraced her motto, CHOOSE JOY, rather than be eaten up by sorrow and self pity. 

What is remarkable about this young woman is how calmly she is staring death in the face.  She is using her last breaths to comfort those who love her.  She had someone phone my sister this morning so that she could say simple words that she wanted to say - "I love you!"  But the words she said next were meant to comfort my sister: 

"I am going to find your Dad as soon as I get there and give him a big hug.  And then I am going to dance with him again." 

She was referring to dancing with my dad at my sister's wedding.  Her words made my sister choke back sobs, but she felt such comfort because SOMEONE is going to see our dad, even if it can't be one of us.  SOMEONE we know, love, talk to, is going to hug our dad soon.

For that alone, I want to believe.  I want to believe that she will pass peacefully from this world to heaven.  That her Dad will be waiting for her with open arms.  That she will find my Dad and flash him her big smile that makes her eyes sparkle, and that he will smile back and hug her tight.  I want to believe that the place she is going is better than the place she is leaving.  I want to believe that our loved ones in Heaven are watching us, guiding us, with us always. 

But I am scared of that unknown. 

I am trying to trust Sara.  I am trying to believe.

I will take her words with me and try very hard to CHOOSE JOY in all aspects of my life.  I know it will be hard, but it can't be as hard as living the way she lived.  I get to see my friends, eat what I want, run outside, hug others, be ALIVE.  She cannot do those things and yet she vowed to CHOOSE JOY.

So, for you Sara, I will CHOOSE JOY.  And I will take the life that is given to me and try not to judge what is fair and not fair.  And I will look to God, the power higher than me, and try to trust His plan.  And I will believe that you are there, in Heaven, meeting your God with a smile on your face and a body free of pain.  And I will remember you.

Please give my Dad a hug and tell him how much I miss him.  And then sing him a song with your beautiful voice.

This is Sara singing "Amazing Grace".

September 11: Then and Now

It snuck up on me. 

September 11, 2011.  The ten year anniversary of a day that I should not be allowed to forget. 

But it snuck up on me.

Today a friend of mine shared some thoughts she has been having as this anniversary date is upon us, and I allowed myself to think back and remember what I saw, heard, and felt on September 11, 2001.

I had just started my sixth year of teaching Kindergarten and First Grade.  I had a great team of teachers that I loved seeing everyday.  I was proud to be teaching for one of the greatest principals in the district.  I was engaged and ready to start the married part of our relationship.  And I was looking forward to my first solo trip to New York City on September 21, 2001 to visit a very good friend who had moved there.

Life was great!

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was in my classroom and kept hearing bits and pieces of things going on in New York and then Washington.  We had one tv in a conference room that the custodian and secretary had on to get updates.  We were all running in there to watch Diane Sawyer in her white sooty blouse broadcast live from the scene.  We watched the loop footage of the first plane crashing into the tower.  We stared in disbelief, and then gathered ourselves as we headed back to the classroom to meet our students and act as if nothing had happened.

As my students came in, these five to seven year old children, they gave me more information.  I remember a boy saying, "Two planes crashed into a tall building!"  I had only heard about the first plane at that point so I said, "Two?  Are you sure there were two?"  I pulled up my computer screen and verified that a second plane had indeed crashed into the towers.  This same boy would later cry softly during circle time as it sunk in that his "mommy works in a tall tower", a building in our city's downtown.

I remember thinking of my very good friend living in Brooklyn.  I knew that she took the subway to work every morning, and that she would pass through the train station under the World Trade Center.  I called her cell phone, and thankfully she answered!  She was standing on top of her building in Brooklyn with other neighbors watching the smoke fill the sky.  She was going to work late that day after working late the night before.  She was fine.  I remember telling her that I love her, and to be safe.  She told me to tell everyone she's okay. She had a friend at work in that building.  She would spend several days searching for him or anyone that saw him get out of the building.  She would be the contact for local authorities since his family was in Minnesota.  She would provide details about what may have been on his desk, in his wallet, on his person so that they could identify him if they found him.  I never knew that horrible detail until a year later.  I can never know how much she agonized over those details.  How much she wishes she could have been chatting with him months later rather than attending a memorial service and dedication in his hometown in Minnesota.

I remember a student coming in a bit late saying "A plane crashed by the President's house."  I started to correct him and say that the President doesn't live in New York, but his mother told me that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon.  I felt like things were spinning out of control.  What was happening?  Would we all be sent home?  Were we safe? 

I remember sending an email to my friend who lives in D.C.  I remember her words of reply soon after:  "We're all fine.  Scared shitless, but fine."

I spent a lot of time just talking with my students that day.  I tried to calm them, reassure them that we were safe.  I remember showing them on the map where New York is, where Washington is, and where we live in the Midwest.  I remember telling them that we are so far away from the bad stuff.  But were we?  Where was all the "bad stuff"?  Who were the "bad people" crashing airplanes into buildings?  I certainly did not have those answers. 

Parents starting coming early to pick up their kids.  They would walk into the room, looking shell-shocked, but calm.  And I remember that each one gently kissed their child, hugged their child as if they hadn't seen each other for days, and held their child by the hand or in their arms as they left the room. 

I didn't have children of my own.  I had no idea what they were thinking.  Were they worried that their kids weren't safe?  Were they worried that the same things could happen in our city? 

Now that I have children, I think I have a better idea of what they were feeling. 

Relief.

Relief that it didn't happen to you, your spouse, your family.  Relief that your child wasn't in a daycare at the site, or a school just down the block.  Relief that your baby was safe and that you were able to pick him or her up from school because you were safe too.

I remember driving home that day, a beautiful early fall day, and seeing a set of three airplanes fly over the interstate.  Traffic actually slowed to watch this trio of planes pass overhead in a blue sky that the FAA ordered free of all aircraft until further notice.  I would learn later that it was Air Force One and two fighter jets returning the President to the East Coast from his undisclosed location. 

As much as I didn't want to see the horror happening in New York and Washington, I knew that I would be glued to the TV as soon as I got home so that I could get all the details.  I watched non-stop coverage, on numerous channels.  I watched the planes crash over and over on each news report.  I watched the people gathering with candlelight vigils all over the country.  I watched Diane Sawyer continue to broadcast live from the streets of New York where she had been since running from the set of Good Morning America early that morning.  I watched one of the nightly news anchors (Peter Jennings?  Tom Brokaw?  Brian Williams? I can't remember which) get choked up as he ended his broadcast.  He had just heard from his daughter or son who was overseas, and I could see the relief that he knew all of his children were okay.  I remember his words as he choked back tears, "Parents, hug your children tonight." 

I have other fuzzy memories from the days immediately after September 11th.

I remember talking to my friend in New York and deciding not to make my trip to see her the following week.  I remember she said, "Don't come.  It's so sad here.  And it smells bad." 

I remember watching all the news reports, and seeing all the faces of those who were "lost".  I remember the looks on the faces of those looking for lost loved ones as they shared pictures, and told what floor their loved one worked on or what emergency crew they were with that day. 

I remember crying.  A lot.  And I hadn't even lost anyone.

I remember when Broadway reopened after 9/11.  I remember hearing the story of the musical "The Fantasticks", a show running at the time not far from The World Trade Center.  On its first night back after the attack, many in the audience and a few in the cast were moved to tears as the lyrics of the opening song took on a new meaning. Here are a few of those lyrics, written 40 years before the recent events:

"Try to remember the kind of September

When life was slow and oh, so mellow . . .

Try to remember the kind of September

When no one wept except the willow . . ."

Deep in December it's nice to remember

the fire of September that made us mellow

Deep in December our hearts should remember

And follow . . . follow . . . follow . . . follow . . .

I took my trip to New York the following year, September 2002.  I went to the site of the World Trade Center.  I saw the giant flag hanging from a crane.  Saw the cross constructed out of steel beams.  Saw all the pictures and other memorials hanging on the fence around the chapel across the street.  I saw the giant hole that used to be buildings.  I felt the pain, the sadness, the loss of that city.  And, as much as I love New York and my many visits to the city, I was so grateful that I didn't live there and didn't have to feel all that pain every day.

Now, ten years later, I am still a teacher.  I still live in the Midwest, but love the bustle and excitement of the big city.  I am again taking a trip to New York in September.  But now I am the mother of two small children.  The news is again showing images from that fateful day.  Diane Sawyer again did a segment on the babies born to men who died on 9/11.  The babies who are now almost ten years old.  I cried when I saw them because I thought of my own babies and how much my husband would have missed if he had died before they were born.  I can't imagine raising them without him, and I can't imagine what they would be like now without their Daddy. 

I finally, ten years later, have a better understanding of the parents who walked into my classroom to pick up their children on that morning in 2001.  I know how it feels to hold your child in your arms when you are sad.  I know the relief and calm they bring when you see them again and they look exactly the way they looked when you left them.  I know that when the world seems crazy, when things are spinning out of your control, your children center you. 

My children are my purpose.  And even on their most naughty, most hyper, most annoying days, they are my reason to be. I wouldn't trade my NOW for any of my THENs. But I will remember the events from my past, and I will learn from those events so that I can be the mother my children deserve.  I owe that to the mothers and fathers who never came home to their babies ten years ago. I remind myself to enjoy every minute of our life together because I never know when my last minute with them will be. 

Mommy's Turn To Run

July 4, 2005...the last time I ran in a road race.  In fact, the last time I ran more than a block.  I was eleven weeks pregnant, running in an annual 8k with my running group.  The next week, I told them all that I was pregnant and had a great excuse to stop running for awhile.

Fast forward six years, and I am finally returning from my hiatus.  In that six years, I have had two children, and watched myself slide further and further into "Sloth Mode". 

I am not proud of it, just stating a fact. 

I used to really enjoy running.  I ran my first marathon, Grandma's in Duluth, in 1996, and I was in the best shape of my life.  My second marathon was in 1998, New York City, and my third marathon was in Chicago in 2000.  In between, there were numerous 5k, 8k, 10k, 1/2 marathons, trail runs, relay runs, and even one triathlon. 

My husband was always a runner, and in our 19 years together we have often planned trips to great locations based on the running events available.  Slovakia in 2000 for the Peace Marathon (half marathon for me).  Italy in 2004 for the Prato Marathon (half for me).  In 2002, a fun run in Scotland, and a half marathon in England. 

Then came baby number one in 2006, and I happily said good-bye to running.  We continued to travel and my husband continued to participate in various events, but now he expanded to biking as well.  So baby and I went along as he competed in marathons, trail runs, 50k races, bike races, triathlons, and 3 Ironman Triathlons.  Then baby #2 came along in 2008, and I starting taking two small children to numerous races and events for him, including another Ironman.   

This summer, our family drove across the country so that my husband could compete in his 5th Ironman.  I endured the long months of training without complaining.  I packed the car full of entertainment and snacks so that I could survive the 12 hours it would take him to finish.  I hauled two kids and all their stuff, a stroller, my husband's bike, his three gear bags, and his very weak body back to the car after the event and got everyone (2 sleeping children and 1 very sick athlete) into the hotel room and into beds.  And I was happy to do it. That was my job - support crew.

But as I watched the athletes competing in that Ironman, as I recalled days when I could run a marathon (or at least a mile!), I decided the time had come for me to get back at it and start running again.  On the drive home, my husband was saying how happy he was to be done with training for awhile.  I jumped at the opening and said, "Good.  Because it's my turn now."  Luckily he is very supportive and more than willing to give me the time to train for an event.  He found me a half marathon during my next driving shift, and I was a registered participant shortly after that. 

I would have 2 1/2 months to go from no running at all to a half marathon.  I now have about six weeks left, and I am surprised how well my training has gone!  I actually get up early in the morning to run, and I ENJOY it!  I am not a morning person, so the fact that I get up AND enjoy it is AMAZING!!!

I love how peaceful it is early in the morning.  I love that I can run, shower, and have a cup of coffee before my kids wake up for the day.  I love that my clothes fit a little better since I have lost almost 20 pounds in eight weeks.  I love that I have something that is just for me and that I look forward to doing several times a week.

And I wonder, why did I ever stop?  Why did I let it all go? 

To say it's because I became a mother is a really weak excuse.  I know lots of women who continue to run or exercise in some way despite having children.   Saying it's because my husband is always training is not any better of an excuse.  First, he is not that selfish and would never tell me that I can't do something because of his schedule.  He always asked me before he signed up for any event, and made sure I had time to do things that were important to me when he was training. 

I think it's safe to say that I became lazy. 

So now I am trying to break the "Lazy Sloth" cycle and find joy in running again.  My reasons for wanting to run are plenty, but these are the top three reasons:   

1.  I want to be healthy.  That means losing weight, eating right, and exercising.  I have been blessed with a family history of heart disease, and I need to make more healthy choices with my body so that I can live a long life.  Since I started running again, I don't think daily about the possibility of dropping dead at a young age like my grandfather did.  I feel good about my weight loss and how I look, and want to keep fit so that my pants continue to stay comfortable. 

2.  I want my children to see me doing something great.  I see how my son's face lights up when he sees his dad running or biking in an event.  I love his smile when he yells for his dad.  I want him to smile and light up as I run by him.  I want him and my daughter to yell for me during my race, to be proud of their mom.

3.  I want my husband to be proud of me.  I love watching him compete in various events.  I love watching the string of athletes until I see his familiar stride, love the emotion I feel when I see him, love his look of satisfaction when he finishes.  I want him to watch for me, to cheer for me, to feel pride when he sees me.  I will look forward to seeing him at various points on the route, and I know that he will keep me motivated so that I will finish.  I am grateful, in my training, to have a supportive husband.  He runs and bikes much less right now so that my training can be a priority in our house. 

I am very grateful for a recently discovered running partner, an old friend who knows me well.  She meets me on dark streets early in the morning, and we run.  Sometimes she talks more, sometimes I talk more.  Because we have known each other for 30 years, many things can be said and heard between us in only a few words.  It's great therapy, just having someone listen to you a few mornings each week.  I have cried more than once on our runs, not because my body was hurting but because my heart was hurting.  She listened.  And when I couldn't talk, she did the talking and reassured me that everything would be okay. 

I have had a tight calf muscle, and recently a very sore hip, but my friend keeps me motivated to run.  And she walks with me when I can't run and tells me, "It all counts!"  It's good to have a partner to get me up and out the door on these early mornings.  I am so thankful that we ran together one morning, and that it has turned into a 3-4 morning a week ritual. 

On the day of my half marathon, I will be alone at the start.  That's two places I haven't been in almost six years - at a race start and ALONE.  My husband and my kids will be somewhere in the crowd waiting to yell for me, but I will be alone with my thoughts for at least two hours.  I know I will stay motivated because there is always good crowd support at this particular venue.  I am not worried at all about finishing.  I just want to feel good at the finish so that I will stay motivated AFTER the event.  I am on a healthier life track now, and I want to stay there long after this one event. 

My daughter helped me make the bracelet pictured in this post.  The green is my son's favorite color, and the pink is my daughter's favorite color.  The message in the middle is a reminder to me to stick with it during my training and on race day.  But I will continue to wear it after this half marathon as a reminder to stick with it for many years yet to come. 

I hope to make all four of us very proud on race day.