Kick Rocks

Her Ladyship and I went for a run tonight. There was a nice breeze, lots of toads

and many people out on front porches. Some of the people would wave back at me, some looked on with puzzled expressions, and one group was down right mean…

I live in military housing, which means all my neighbors are service members and their families. Running at night (my habit) means that I see and hear quite a bit of … humanity’s extremes. I’ve seen surprise home coming hugs, surprise home coming fights, wives holding a phone and crying, and I’ve heard all manner of conversations people have in the dark. I pretend not to hear, keeping my eyes forward; I listen always, though. I listen out of curiosity and I listen for danger. The nicer the weather, the more opportunities there are for folks to be outside.

There was a group of 7 women on a porch. I could smell the cigarette smoke long before I saw or heard them. I smiled. I waved. I heard, “I like your dog! What kind is it?”

Ask me about me dog and I’ll talk your ear off. So I stopped running and sang the praises of the local Pound Puppies. Maggie sat and smiled. Then I heard, “You know you’re too fat to be out here, right?” …laughter…loud laughter…

Okay… This came from a group circled around the carcass of an RC cola case, cigarettes, and had their plumber’s cracks shining in the lamplight. Also, I’m no barbie doll, but dang…

I said, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” and turned to go.

I heard, “Stuck up officer’s-wife-bitch! You and your pearl earrings! Keep running, dumbass!” I turned back and said, “Enjoy the spoils of your evening, ladies.” and curtsied. (yep…an honest-to-goodness curtsy that I could pull off because I happened to be wearing a running skirt.)

Maggie, to her everlasting credit, growled at them. I heard vague threats about Animal Control and pepper spray… I didn’t hear them long, though, as I happened to be going at a pretty nice little pace, if I do say so.

Why are women so mean? I wasn’t bothering them. I wasn’t trying to convert them. I was enjoying a run with my dog, thinking about an upcoming trip to the beach.

I am an officer’s wife, but I’d like to think I’m not stuck up about it. It’s his rank, not mine. I do run with pearl earrings, though. All runs. Training runs, races, trail runs, marathons… I wear them to remind me that I am a lady, I am not a quitter, I have a husband who believes in me, and I am an example to those around me. I wear my pearls for my fellow army wives…

…I wear my pearls for those mean-y faces who hurt my feelings.

My dad has a million sayings; he should write a book. The one that came to mind tonight is “Kick rocks, sweet heart. You’re burning’ daylight.”

kick rocks :get a move on; start walking; do your job.
burnin’ daylight :wasting time.

So there it is. Kick rocks.

I think about those sad, angry women and I’m glad I met them when I was sweating and smiling from effort. I’m glad I met them at mile 3.5 and my eyebrows were crunchy with salt. I’m glad I met them with my happy, healthy dog at my side.

I’m glad I met them while I was kickin’ rocks.

An Ode to my Running Homies

My favorite quote ever is from Rudyard Kipling:
-If you can fill the unforgiving minute with 60 seconds’ worth of distance run, yours is the Earth and all that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a man, my son.

The Idiot’s Running Club. They’re like…like fit, zany Yoda’s spreading smiles and lunacy throughout the running community. Why Yoda? …well…because there are epic adventures and unforgettable quips that are endlessly quotable.

“Run. Smile. Drink Water. Don’t Die.”

…also, many Idiots are bald, have over-large ears, and more than a few have demonstrated questionable fashion sense. I”ll have to check to see if any of us are green Jedi masters.

To be an Idiot, one mustn’t take themselves too seriously, always smile while out for a run, and generally have a good time. There are stories of IRC members having legendary running adventures, but most are so silly, I think Mr Bean must surely be making a movie about us. (Running into a deer on a trail. Honestly!) Many Idiots raise money for charities or race for causes; as far as I know, there aren’t any evil Idiots. (at least, I’ve never encountered them. I think Mr Wilson would frown stoutly at evil…)

…my first trail run ever ever ever.

Why “Idiots”? To loosely quote the Head Dude, it’s because we’ve all been called an idiot for running at one point or another. “You’re running in the rain?” “You’re running how far? On purpose?” “Man, I don’t drive as far as you’re running.” “Why do you pay to run for a t-shirt?” We’re taking the world’s incomprehension of our sport and turning into an empowering joke. Yep, we’re Idiots. …where’s the cookies?

I’ve only met 2 Idiots in real life; the rest I know through FaceBook and the Great April Fool’s Day Gift Exchange. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never met them in person, though; I know these folks because they are me. There are Idiots all over the world and I know that wherever I go, if there’s an Idiot nearby, I am not alone. I’ll always have a running buddy. …and possibly the use of their bathroom.

Runners are like that, though, aren’t we? There’s my buddy Dacia over at Run.Ride.Repeat.  …never met the girl, but I love her! And Melissa at Running Momma’s Runway. And David at Run Like a Mug. And the guy over at Make it Fun for Thumbs. And this crazy guy at Rock Farm Knives. Once a person becomes a runner, they have family all over the world. We may not speak the same language, but we all understand shin splints and dehydration and sweat.

If you are a runner and you are willing to have a good time with your sport, if you can laugh at your mistakes and rejoice in the victories of others, you should check out Idiot’s Running Club We’re good, silly folk who have giant hearts, even if our brains aren’t always engaged.

-ti on trid emos bur
(rub some dirt on it)

New Games

Doctor Who pretty much owns our TV right now. The kids love the show; I’m also harboring a slightly unheathly obsession with all things TARDIS…

This edition of Monopoly requires a British accent, however, and expletives like “Fantastic!” and “Geronimo!” and “Allons-y!” (for when people are taking too long to decide whether or not to buy a house or hotel…) make it sillier.

Instead of rail roads, you collect different versions of the TARDIS. The game pieces include celery, a bow tie, and an umbrella stand… Also, I landed on Free Parking for the first time in an Ood’s age, so I super love this version of the game.

Our family has taken up a couple of new sports: hurling and Gaelic football. I don’t know enough about them to give you details, but I’ll say this: awesome!

Hurling involves sticks (hurls) and running and balls (sliotars) and bruised hands. (I didn’t know the palm of my hand could bruise. I now know my hand is capable of hosting a rainbow of colors and pain ..) The football involves running and kicking and general sweatiness. The whole thing is a ridiculous amount of fun and everyone on the team is so nice! Most of the team is fresh off the boat Irish, a few Brits, a Scotsman or two, and the odd American. So far, there’s only 2 girls on the team; the female version of hurling is camogie, but it’s almost exactly the same.

So between Scouts, tutors, church, hurling, training for future races, and general Mom Stuff, I tend to sleep pretty well lately. …even Her Ladyship enjoys her naps more.

The big sewing news is that the t-shirt quilt may get finished sometime before I’m 90. The binding is pressed and waiting to be pinned:

I rolled it around my foam roller to keep it from creasing. Also, I hate my foam roller and I really enjoyed sticking it with pins. (Now it knows how my ITBs feel.)

Random fun: when you microwave a marshmallow, they puff up:

Happy…whatever it is you do! Sports or quilting or poking things with sticks.

…Geronimo!

The Olympian and the Eight Year Old

I’ve been tearful and upset since the bombings in Boston, but I haven’t really known how to express myself. My son is 8, just like the little boy who died…the agony of loss for his family must be suffocating…

There are so many folks out there that have said wonderful things, inspirational, uplifting things. Yesterday while at the track, my son provided some much-needed inspiration.

We attended a Remembrance Run hosted by the local Team Red White and Blue. There were probably a hundred folks or so, lots of flags, news crews, and one guy wearing a BAA jacket. He got lots of attention, though he didn’t run this year. We all walked and ran for 26.2 minutes around the track.

After we were done, a tall young man started running the track. Then he lengthened his stride and sprouted wings on his heels and he flew around the track. He was wearing a USA singlet; he looked like a super hero, all limbs and muscles and height.

My son said, “I think I saw that guy on TV. He’s so fast!“

While my husband herded the kids and gathered our stuff, I happened to be at the scuttlebutt at the same time as that young man. I told him that my son thinks he was on TV.

“I was, ma’am. I was in the junior Olympics. They showed our races right after the London games.”

So, my son had spotted an Olympian named Marcus.

I told Marcus about how my son had run track right after his cast was removed (broken leg…very nasty.) I told him how my son’s leg had atrophied and he limped; how he’d get to about the 200m mark and the start to cry from the pain of running. How he’d finish the last 200m with tears streaming down his face, his hair matted with sweat. I was his coach and I encouraged him to stop and rest. He’d say, “No. I can’t quit. The workouts aren’t done and I’m on a team.” …and my son would start another lap and finish it in tears. He never ever quit. At the end of track season his teammates voted him MVP because he didn’t complain, and though he came in last for everything, he always cheered for his team the loudest.

Marcus said, “That’s amazing. That’s determination right there. Your boy’s got heart. You give him my baton and tell him I said he’s awesome. You tell him he’s my boy.” and he handed me the baton he was practicing with.

I thanked him and he loped off, graceful as a gazelle.

And I stood there and I cried. Here was a world class athlete taking the time to talk with me about my 2nd grader…thoughtful enough to give him a gift of the only thing he had in his hands.

He passed the baton.

That’s what runners do, isn’t it? We encourage others, no matter their skill level. We high-five successes and give struggles a pat on the back. We help each other along, sharing sweat and smiles and porta jons. And no matter the struggles, we are all the same breed on the same team.

And we cheer for the other guy. Always.

And I am still cheering for the folks Boston. And those folks in Boston are on my team. I’ve never met them, but I know them and I love them and my heart soars and aches for them. And they are determined and they are awesome and they are my boys.

And Marcus doesn’t know my kid, but he’s on my kid’s team. He passed him the baton. And the baton will be carried forward and it will be run with the indomitable heart of an 8 year old, his head thrown back, his hair blowing up from his sweaty forehead, feet a blur.

And the bastards who tried to destroy our spirit on Monday cannot ever take that from us.

Runner’s Guilt Guild Revisited

Running is so good for my brain. It calms me, helps me to feel productive; it even makes my dog happier. When I run, I feel healthier, better able to cope with the Everydayness of being not only a stay at home mom, but a human, too. Running makes me a better person.

Not running? …well…not running makes my brain sort of feel like that Woody Harrelson movie: Natural Born Killers. I feel all pent up, cranky, volatile; a tiger pacing a zoo cage. I’m snappy, ugly. I feel gross, no fun… I am not a nice human when I don’t run.

It’s interesting, then, that I feel incredibly guilty when I run…

When my husband was deployed, I’d wait until the kids were asleep and run around the block in front of my house. I knew this made me better able to cope with the stresses of having three kids and a husband in an airborne infantry unit. We did alright through this deployment.

And then he came home and now when I think about going for a run, all I can think about were the long days without him. I think about The Fear of The Knock. I think about all the mortars and shells and the IEDs that came so close to taking him… I don’t want to have alone time, I want to sit and stare at his face and rejoice that his is alive. I don’t even want to run while he sleeps because that’s time I could be snuggling up to his back, soaking up all the warmth that was missing while he was gone.

I know it’s alright that I run. I know I am a better wife when I run. He encourages me to run and is very proud of my accomplishments. …that phone call, though… The phone call that started out with, “I’m fine, but you should know…” It’s the phone call that keeps me from enjoying a solitary trip to Target. It’s the phone call that could have been The Knock.

So I’m working on this weird thing that seems a lot like vicarious PTSD. I try to think of it logically, concentrate on the being grateful part (because I am very, very grateful!). I’m recognizing it when I see it, taking a deep breath…

…and then I kiss his cheek and head out for a run. And I do my best to make it worth the time.

Best Wishes for Boston

Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.

-James 1:2-4

endurance

Endure: To tolerate. To put up with. To go the distance. To last. To not give up. To deal with. To remain.

For those headed toward Hopkinton, over HeartBreak Hill, and on to Boston…

Consider it all joy, my brothers and sisters…enjoy the course. Enjoy the experience. Embrace your happy tears and bask in the cheering crowds.

Embrace the sweat.

Embrace the perfect result of your Finish.

Month of the Military Child

Every month has a dozen Causes and every Cause has a month. This month is The Month of the Military Child. I have three of those. (kids, not months)

I don’t want you to feel sorry for my kids and their friends. Pity is absolutely unwarranted. I’m also not going to compare my kids to your kids, as they’d be different anyway, what with being different people, and all. But I’ll tell you some things about my kids that might make you think a little more about The Cause of the Month.

**My kids are just kids. They don’t walk around in miniature PT shirts or salute their Dad when he gets home from duty. They don’t have high and tight haircuts, their rooms are a mess, and I have to jump through hoops to get them to do their homework.

**My kids know the value of time.. They know how special it is that they can see their father at the end of the day and they know that not seeing him for a week of field exercises isn’t a big deal. A week isn’t a big deal. A month is a bummer. A deployment will suck, but is manageable. An afternoon at the park with Dad?…priceless.

**My kids know about death. As the children of soldiers, they have friends who’ve lost a parent on the battlefield. They’ve made sympathy cards in art class. Please don’t speak in platitudes or euphemisms around my kids. They’ll feel sorry for you and think you don’t know any better. They know that Daddy may not come home when he goes Over There, but…

**My kids have faith in God beyond their years. They know that Jesus is their best and truest friend. They know they can count on Him. They know if Something Happens, there will be a reason; but they have faith that Daddy will come home and they praise God all the way to Green Ramp.

Military kids can make quick friends and tell 24hour time. They know all the acronyms (PT, PFT, ACU, HRC, NCO, OIC) and the biggest one of all is…

**My kids aren’t afraid to PCS. (that’s moving to civilians). They don’t particularly like it, but they aren’t scared. They know the boxes and movers will come, they know their stuff will be show up in the new place eventually, and they know they’ll be making new friends. They know how to pack their Bag of Special Stuff that the movers don’t get. My kids are excellent road trippers.

**My kids are respectful of the Flag, of old veterans, of Memorial Stones, of Wounded Warriors, of Generals, of Retreat and Taps, and military spouses, and other kids, and of Command Sergeants Major because they get it and can comprehend the hard work and sacrifice behind every single one of those things. Their best friends’ dad is a firefighter…those kids get it, too.

My kids aren’t better than your kids, they may not be tougher or smarter. They aren’t more special than your kids. They are special, though. They’ve said good bye to friends, family, their dad, and their homes. Rejoice for them, however, because they’ve said hello to new friends and adventures. Most importantly, they’ve hugged their Dad and they know what a big deal that is.

Freebasing Reese’s PeanutButterCups

So…
Easter happened.

In addition to celebrating the Risen Savior at church for four days in a row, I also ate my weight in bunny-brought candy.

Not just any jaw-breaking, old-lady-coffee-table, obligatory jelly bean candy. No, sir. Reese’s Peanut Butter cups. mmmmmmm…

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (RPBC) are to the candy isle what Hot Topic is to the mall: The Only Reason to Go There.

I should not be rolling around naked eating so many RPBC. I have a half marathon in 19 days. It’s my first ever trail half marathon; peanut butter may be a viable source of nutrition, but chocolate isn’t really conducive to effective training.

What really concerns me about the race is the disturbing lack of porta potties on the course. I’m told that trail races don’t have “facilities” except at the start/finish areas. This is bad.

I, like, need bathrooms on a race course. I become the Pooping Godzilla of Doom after mile 8. My guts revolt against me, punishing me for deluding myself with athletic dreams of any kind. Once, while out on a run, I had to go soooooper bad. I had no TP, but the tree I’d chosen to hide behind had lovely broad leaves. Being a bit of a country mouse, I was not too proud to use a leaf. Mother Nature, though, harbors much ill will for WayWard Poopers.

Poison Sumac does hideous things to an undercarriage.

This is why my diet of RPBC is not acceptable right now. I need to regulate my guts with healthy foods and “git on tha’ r’glar.” I don’t have an aversion to using The Great Outdoors, but I’d rather not do it within earshot of 350 people on a trail. Plus, digging a cat hole will seriously hinder the PR I’d like to set…

So, after today, no more ambrosia RPBC. Lots of water and good food. Yep. Just milage increases and ITB stretching and yoga.

(this last cup doesn’t count…)

Easter Triduum Checklist or How I Need Rollerskates

Last Sunday: Sunday School for the kids at 1100, rehearsal for all of us at 1500, coordinated 1700 Mass.

Last night: rehearsal for Easter Vigil until 2130.

Tonight: Holy Thursday. I am reading, my daughter is an altar server, my husband and one son are getting their feet washed. Set up for Friday. Perpetual Adoration.

Friday: Good Friday. A vet appointment. Kids out of school. Fundraising. Rosary. Reflection. Service at 1800.

Saturday: Holy Saturday. Boy Scout Hike in the morning. Shopping. Meal prep. Easter Bunny Prep. Mass at 2100. Pass out candles. Read. Usher. Lights. 7 Baptisms!! Yay!!

Sunday: Easter.

Easter… ((breathe))…Easter…

The Eternal Work of the universe is done, complete with the Salvation of mankind. We will celebrate that He is Risen! I will rejoice!

This Easter Sunday, after the chocolate and food, after 1700 mass, I will go for a run. I will run to feel my legs and my breath and be grateful for my Savior’s gifts to me.

I will run to celebrate and rejoice and be calm.

Happy Easter Triduum, my friends. Whether you know it or not, whether you like it or not, you are loved and I will say a prayer for us all.

Shameless Plug for Team Fisher House

I’m running the Marine Corps Historic Half Marathon in May with Team Fisher House.

look! a tu-tu! also, a Team Fisher House hat…

 

I need to raise money. Lots and lots of money.

 

Donate and you will have all sorts of warm fuzzies.

 

How many warm fuzzies will you get? Well…one warm fuzzy for each dollar you donate. That means my friend Dacia over at Run.Ride.Repeat. got 50 warm fuzzies. And my friend Jennifer over at My Pet Democrats got 25 warm fuzzies.

 

Theoretically speaking, you could obtain enough warm fuzzies to choke Sesame Street.

 

You can donate directly to my Team Fisher House page here. You can buy super cute jewelry here, which will earn my fundraiser 20% of all sales, now through April 5. Also, if you donate or buy through the fundraising links, you’ll be entered into a drawing for this awesome book and a goodie bag (here’s the skinny on this phat book.) If you donate as well as share this blog entry on your own blog (pucker up and give me some blog love!), you’ll get two entries in the book drawing.

(I hope the very nice and kind and beautiful author won’t sue the spandex pants off me for sharing the cover of her “War and Peace”-rivaling tome…)

 

Bottom line: even a dollar helps! If all of my followers only gave $1, I’d be sitting pretty, you’d all have a warm fuzzy, and then my goal of helping soldiers and their families will have been met. Everybody wins!

…or you could not donate…

I use this meme a lot…it really speaks to my soul, you know? really ties the room together…

 

And now for a random photo…

the morning of the Bataan Memorial 26.2