tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80679355588819190952024-03-05T14:34:48.322-08:00The Belchigator AdventuresBelcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-37247483045821236392015-08-26T11:21:00.004-07:002015-08-26T22:29:07.594-07:00Free TimeThe past 10 months have been a blur. P changed jobs, we went on a house hunt, we bought a house, we moved, we discovered a wildly insane flea infestation, I quit my job, we had our 10 year anniversary, and soon school will start while I am still unemployed.<br />
<br />
We didn't move far, just over the Columbia River to Vancouver, Washington. P's new job is 30 minutes north of our new home, but adding in the traffic to cross the bridge into Portland, and the Traffic to our home in the SW suburb of Tigard, and his commute was almost 2 hours each way some days. That is hardly sustainable.<br />
<br />
I had the crazy notion that I would keep my job in Beaverton for the next school year, as L's preschool is down the street from work. Between having a 1.5 hour commute some days, and the knowledge that our site was moving farther south, away from L's preschool and deeper into traffic Hell, I finally came to terms with the inevitable, and quit my job. I was certain I would find work by the time school started. After all, I'm smart, energetic, and highly employable. Yet, as each day in August goes by and I don't get that phone call offering me the safe haven of a paycheck and benefits package, I grow a few more grey hairs, wrinkles, and deepen my need for anxiety medication.<br />
<br />
School starts on September 2nd, and I'm still unemployed.<br />
<br />
School starts on September 2nd, and I'm still not a licensed educator in the State of Washington.<br />
<br />
School starts on September 2nd, and my checking account balance is getting low. <br />
<br />
School starts on September 2nd, and I'm actually considering that dog walking position posted on Craigslist.<br />
<br />
I'm sure once school starts, I'll enjoy the freedom of a quiet house all to myself for a while. I may finally finish unpacking and get the garage cleared out enough to park our cars in it. I may finish that weighted blanket I started making for L's birthday (in April) that he keeps asking about because it's about the only thing that will get him to sleep at night. I may build a chicken tractor and then fill it with egg makers.<br />
<br />
Until then, I will fret, check the status of my teaching license and job openings online every hour, and google "work from home jobs" every evening.<br />
<br />
But now that I have all this free time on my hands, perhaps I'll write more. I have a few things peculating in my head, things I've jotted down in my mind as I begin to drift to sleep and see things with a clarity I don't have in my waking hours. Once the kids are in school, I won't have the distractions of finding lost items, putting together train tracks, or cleaning up spills around the house (how did the toothpaste even end up behind the couch?), and I can write freely, honestly and beautifully.<br />
<br />
Or, I can finally watch Season 3 of OITNB.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ippME2guNAM/Vd4Dh1CcjwI/AAAAAAAAXqs/7krNHhfDRK8/s1600/20150619_121206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ippME2guNAM/Vd4Dh1CcjwI/AAAAAAAAXqs/7krNHhfDRK8/s320/20150619_121206.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, I probably won't be writing...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-73782888601808719092015-03-31T00:20:00.000-07:002015-03-31T00:20:01.039-07:00Not ImmuneWhen you have children, there are many things you think will never happen to you. <br />
<br />
Your children won't scream and cry and make a big fuss in public. <br />
<br />
Your children will go to bed without whining. <br />
<br />
Your children won't watch TV or play with electronics. <br />
<br />
Your children won't eat fast food.<br /><br />You won't ever say or do anything that your mother did when you were growing up.<br />
<br />
You'll never threaten to pull the car over, and you most definitely won't have to make good on that threat.<br />
<br />
As you gain experience as a parent, you come to realize that you never say never. Ever. Even when you see photos of toddlers drawing all over their baby brothers with Sharpie. (But you just know, deep down inside, that <i>your</i> toddler will never find your Sharpie hiding spot).<br />
<br />
And even after you discover what you think is the last possible place a three year old could possibly find to mark with a Sharpie, you still laugh at the photos on the internet of things children write or draw, and you still think that you are immune.<br />
<br />
Well, you're not. It will happen to you. I promise.<br />
<br />
I thought I was immune to it. I thought "There is just no way that this could happen." Sure, L drawing his imaginary friends all over his walls is one thing. But this is something completely different.<br />
<br />
This is something my angelic six year old did.<br />
<br />
This is something my husband can't even look at.<br />
<br />
This is something that I didn't see at first because my eyes wouldn't let me see it.<br />
<br />
This is something that made me lose my breath. <br />
<br />
This is something that made me simultaneously cry and wet my pants.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is.....<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This is a Gumball Machine.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzTBMmkh6ZpOdOHyR2fogGF3AHugxEB729usGI6pEJBcS36tLauxkmc9EBf4HvZMCEWSJCZGTLT4QVsHp0l4t5lgw_5eX-T9W-zkicQd7WL6chkIuHOemGqD3SPkT61FB2KRsIEzy9u6W/s1600/20150330_153414-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzTBMmkh6ZpOdOHyR2fogGF3AHugxEB729usGI6pEJBcS36tLauxkmc9EBf4HvZMCEWSJCZGTLT4QVsHp0l4t5lgw_5eX-T9W-zkicQd7WL6chkIuHOemGqD3SPkT61FB2KRsIEzy9u6W/s1600/20150330_153414-1.jpg" height="640" width="378" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-4908035926054590442015-03-02T23:12:00.000-08:002015-03-02T23:13:36.062-08:00Unanswerable Questions<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I wish I was never born...”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My heart sank, as I tried to process
the sentence coming from my sweet, precocious six year old as we
drove down the road. I didn't think such things until I was in the
middle of my junior high “yuck” phase, hating everything about my
life, a female George Bailey with no Clarence to convince her
otherwise. But this was different. My daughter was still innocent.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“...because then I wouldn't have to
die.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then my heart shattered. Poor
E is still processing all the grief of losing a loved one,
and grappling with the inevitability of death. I have a hard time
with it myself, so it's no wonder that she would consider such dark
ideas. Hell, I caught myself thinking the exact same thing only
the day before.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My father passed away suddenly and
unexpectedly in August 2013, followed a month later by my maternal
grandmother. Since that time, both my children have been obsessed
with death. And who wouldn't be? I'm obsessed with death and think
about it all the time. Perhaps it's because I have no answers, but I
have the same questions they do. What happens? Where do you go?
What do you do? Do you see your family? Can you talk to people?
Does it hurt? And my favorite - Are you magical?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aside from Christmas, Easter and when
her baby teeth fall out, I am completely open and honest with my
daughter. I try to tell her the truth in everything, in the best way
I think she will understand. When I broke the news to her about my
dad dying, she was initially upset that she wasn't going to be
getting pretty dresses for Christmas and her birthdays anymore. And
then she blew me away and broke my heart by saying “He'll be your
daddy forever and you'll never see him again.” We held each other
like our lives depended on it and cried until our tear ducts dried
out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Until December of last year, I've been
able to reassure her that I won't be dying anytime soon. While I've
been honest that I don't know when I'm going to die, I may have
allowed her childhood innocence to believe that only old people die.
My three year old drives her crazy because 32 is the biggest number
he can fathom, and he's convinced that is the magical number for
death.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Mommy, when you turn 32, that's when
you die,” he says.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But Mommy's 41! Don't say that, L!”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And the tears flow.<br />
<br />
Just a few
weeks before Christmas, a dear friend of mine lost her baby at 27
weeks gestation and my daughter learned that death does not
discriminate. The only thing more heartbreaking than watching your
daughter realize that you can die at any moment, is watching her
realize that she can die at any moment.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hearing her only logical solution to
this mysterious and frightening puzzle on routine drive home from the
store made me question my ability as a mother. How can I reassure
her and restore her love for life when I'm not 100% certain about
this thing myself?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We sat on the couch when we got home,
and we talked about those unanswerable questions. I told her that I
don't know exactly what happens. I told what I believe, why we go to
church, and that we should look at death as a peaceful thing - not
something to fear. She asked if we would be with our families when
we die. I told her that I certainly hoped I would get to see my dad
and my grandparents again, and that I hopefully would be reunited
with her when it was time. But I don't know for sure, and that's
what's hard. And scary.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I spent the first six years of my
child's life holding every answer to every question in the palm of my
hand. I was the omniscient and omnipotent being in the household. I
was God, and Unit 14 at Timbercrest Condominiums was the Garden of
Eden. As my daughter's innocence is stripped away, I feel my resolve
weaken. I cannot protect her. I cannot save her. I am just as
helpless and vulnerable as she is. I'm fairly certain she figured
this out long before I did, even though she still seems to act like
she adores me. But maybe that's because she's six.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can't protect her and I can't promise
her that nothing terrible will happen. I can only promise that I
will continue to eat my vegetables, keep up with my running, try not
to hit other cars in traffic, keep my doors locked at night, drink
ample amounts of water, avoid soy, take my vitamins, brush and floss
my teeth, and practice yoga.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can promise her that I will strive to
bring joy into our lives. A friend of mine who lost the battle with
breast cancer many years too soon always ended her journals with the
line: “Every day is beauty – beauty in the every day.” I
promise that I will find that beauty, I will share it, and I will
treasure it. From early morning wake-up kisses, to the surprise
pumpkin muffin in the lunch box, to raspberries on her cheeks at
tuck-in. I will treasure the not so pleasant moments, too. The
legos I step on in the middle of the night, the rush to the car for
school in the morning because she decided to play in the bathroom
instead of brush her teeth, the screaming with her brother in the car
over which song to sing, who has what toy, or whatever egregious deed
she accuses him of.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can promise to treasure each moment
as she grows from precocious six year old to the intelligent and
creative young woman I imagine she will become. I can promise to
share all of my joys and hobbies, and create memories that we can
cherish together and will keep us warm when we're not.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can promise her that I will support
her through her hardships, cheer her endeavors, and relish her
accomplishments. I can promise that nothing she can do or say will
diminish the amount or intensity of love I feel for her today, and it
will only grow stronger as time goes on. I can promise that I will
never give her reason to doubt my love.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Because without love, what is there to
live for?</div>
Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-5713687062325367542014-11-07T12:00:00.000-08:002014-11-09T11:40:00.004-08:00Traveling with Small ChildrenA friend of mine was flying down to San Francisco to
run the Nike Half Marathon. She asked me for some tips for flying with
her almost one year old. After typing up my tips and sending them to
her, I realized that these should be shared with everyone, because at
some point in our life, we will find ourselves with an infant on our lap
riding a silver tube through the air.<br />
<br />
These tips are listed only in the order I thought them up, so my apologies if anything seems out of order to you.<br />
<br />
1.
A car seat won't be counted against you in the baggage department, so
it's good to bring it and check it with your luggage. You may plan to
take public transportation everywhere, but how will you be getting to
your final destination from the airport? If by something on wheels that
isn't a city bus, you'll need a car seat. Plus, you never know what kind
of plans will crop up and you may need one. Car seats are too expensive
to have to purchase once you're there.<br />
<br />
2. Take a stroller with
you all the way to the gate, but don't put your kid in it. Put the kid
in a child carrier and throw your carry on bags on the stroller. It is
much easier and less painful to get through the airport that way. The
stroller can be gate checked and will be waiting for you when you
deboard.<br />
<br />
3. If you have assigned seats, wait until the last
possible moment to board the plane. This pre-boarding for families with small children is a joke. You don't want to spend any more time on the airplane
than you really need to. Also, when the plane lands, wait until everyone
else has deboarded before getting your stuff. It will be less
stressful, and all of your luggage will have already been pulled off the
baggage claim and waiting for you when you get there.<br />
<br />
4. Buy a
ridiculous amount of snacks, and mostly food that you wouldn't normally
feed your child because it's too this or too that, but that you know
your kid will love and will probably go insane over. Do the same with
toys. In fact, hide some of his or her favorite toys right now so that
they are completely forgotten, and pack those. Do not let your child
know that you have them, or that they exist, even when you get on the
plane. Wait until the last possible second, when you are pretty sure
that if you don't do something right this moment, your kid will start
losing their mind and all the passengers on the airplane will hate you.
That's when you pull one thing out. ONE. THING. Let it entertain your
child until you get to the same nearly crazy point, and then pull out
another thing, but just one. The idea is that you will get through the
flight without going through your stash, because you have another flight
home, and if your kid knows what you have in your bag, you'll be up the proverbial creek.<br />
<br />
5. Get an aisle seat. (This is especially advantageous on Southwest Flights that are not overbooked).<br />
<br />
6.
Practice changing a diaper on a thimble, because most airplanes don't
have changing tables, and if they do, they are the size of a lunch tray.
I did diaper changes on the toilet seat.<br />
<br />
7. If you are still
nursing, nurse on take-off and landing. If people glare at you, stare them down. It's intimidating to maintain eye contact with a nursing mother. If they complain, tell them it's better than blood
curdling screams, and at least your bosoms are silky smooth. If your
kiddo takes a bottle and/or you're uncomfortable nursing with a
stranger's elbow in your ribs, give him or her a bottle at take-off and
landing. Once, I was lucky to sit next to a young man who had a Mormon
upbringing, with a mother who nursed all 7 of them, so when I told him I
was going to have to nurse my child, he told me that it not only was
OK, he asked if there was anything he could do to help. THAT was
unexpected. And then my son proceeded to kick him the entire time he
nursed.<br />
<br />
8. Ask for extra snacks when they come around, and for
your beverages to stay in their original containers, unopened. You may
end up wearing them otherwise.<br />
<br />
9. I just remembered the whole TSA
craziness. You can bring anything you want as far as food goes. They
will try to tell you that your applesauce cup is above the 2oz limit,
but they can't stop you from bringing it. If it is food for your child,
you can bring it. Whatever it is. Plan extra time for the TSA because
you will have to claim everything when your time comes, and they will
have to swab everything and attempt to shame you for not simply purchasing the overpriced "food for purchase" on board, and cause you to worry
that you're going to miss your flight, but trust me on this one. <a data-cke-pa-onclick="window.open(this.href, '', 'resizable=no,status=no,location=no,toolbar=no,menubar=no,fullscreen=no,scrollbars=no,dependent=no'); return false;" data-cke-saved-href="http://www.tsa.gov/traveler-information/traveling-children" href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1502089020">Here is the information from the TSA website</a><a href="http://www.tsa.gov/traveler-information/traveling-children" target="_blank">.</a>
I brought 5 ziplock containers of bone broth through once because "my
child has terrible allergies and is on a special diet" and after three
minutes of shaming, they let me go. Also, you can't wear your baby
through the machine, nor can you push baby in the stroller. But you
likely won't have to do the body scan thing because you'll have him or
her in your arms.<br />
<br />
What are some of your tricks to survive an airplane ride with small children?Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-11478988803478281572014-09-24T00:06:00.000-07:002014-09-24T00:07:12.964-07:00Re-Commitment TimeThis Saturday marks the half-way point of the Team Challenge training for the half marathon in Las Vegas. I joined the team about a month after everyone else, so this isn't my true halfway point.<br />
<br />
Still, this is the weekend where we decide, are we in or are we out? Have we been able to raise enough funds that looking toward what we have left to raise and the amount of time we have to do so, do we think it's possible? Do we have what it takes?<br />
<br />
Part of Re-commitment is handing over your credit card and saying "I'll cover what isn't" when fundraising time is over.<br />
<br />
As I ask myself these questions, I wonder why there is even a question.<br />
<br />
When I joined Team Challenge, it wasn't because I needed to find a cause to support. It wasn't because I wanted a trip to Vegas. It wasn't even for the awesome running coach I don't have to pay for.<br />
<br />
I joined Team Challenge because I have seen first-hand how people with IBD suffer. The pain and physical discomfort are just the tip of the iceberg. And because it's a digestive issue, it's often too embarrassing to talk about. I have mostly kept the nitty gritty to myself, for Paul's sake. But it's time to re-commit, and it's time to think about why<i> </i>I chose to take on this challenge and why I would continue on.<br />
<br />
1. The face he gives me when I'm on the toilet and he needs to use it. Nobody should ever have to contemplate having to ask their spouse to vacate the toilet or <i>shit their pants</i>. <b>Nobody</b>.<br />
<br />
2. The number of conversations we've had about poop that have nothing to do with my teaching, thru-hiking, or our children.<br />
<br />
3. The medicines and their weird side effects - vision problems,
migraines, diarrhea (<i>How do you know you're getting better? Because
it's not bloody?</i>).<br />
<br />
4. The various diets and food modifications we have made (dairy free, gluten free, Paleo, SCD, Low-FOD Map, etc.) that have become more and more restrictive.<br />
<br />
5. Going out to a restaurant with the family and hearing him say "Nothing for me," because there really is <b>nothing </b>he can order off the menu. <br />
<br />
6. Being bombarded with suggestions by well-meaning friends who think it's as easy as [<i>insert random, relatively unhelpful but well-meaning suggestion here</i>]. If only it was so simple.<br />
<br />
7. The <a href="http://www.ccfa.org/resources/faq-colorectal-cancer-ibd.html" target="_blank">increased risk for colon cancer</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
8. Knowing there is a <a href="http://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases_conditions/hic_Inflammatory_Bowel_Disease_IBD_QandA/hic_Genetic_Aspects_of_Inflammatory_Bowel_Disease" target="_blank">genetic component</a>, and not wanting this for my precious babies.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, will I re-commit? Will I hand over my credit card and say I'll cover what isn't when the deadline rolls around? Is it worth <i>that much</i> to me? <br />
<br />
It's worth that much, and so much more, which is why <b>I already have</b>.<br />
<br />
My question now is.... <span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Will you?</b></i></span><br />
<br />
Join me in fighting for this cause, honoring Paul and the 1.4 million others with this disease. And if I can't convince you, take a look at these adorable little kids and try to tell them no.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.active.com/donate/lasvegasNP14/BelcherRuns" target="_blank">Visit my fundraising page to make a donation today! </a></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9iz94RAzqz0/VCJpYZVBHMI/AAAAAAAATmk/YBbY40iR8uE/s1600/20140914_131018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9iz94RAzqz0/VCJpYZVBHMI/AAAAAAAATmk/YBbY40iR8uE/s1600/20140914_131018.jpg" height="238" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Help our daddy beat UC!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-44691842530032883762014-09-18T01:00:00.000-07:002014-09-18T01:06:48.032-07:00The Oregon MarathonWhen I started out on the Nike trail last January, I didn't think I would ever run more than a mile. My first 5k was a big deal for me, and running a 15k a year later was insane. I never ever ever thought I would run a half marathon. In fact, even after signing up for the half marathon, I still was in disbelief. Driving to the start line, I felt completely unprepared. Yes, I ran 13 miles two weeks before-hand, but in those two weeks since running 13 miles, school had started for the kids and my "taper" to the race seemed more like a halt. In the week leading up to my race, I ran a total of three miles. That is hardly the distance you want to cover when you have to run 13.1 at the end of the week.<br />
<br />
But there I was, at 6am, in a van with 5 other women, heading to Mt. Angel, Oregon to run my very first half marathon. I was hoping to finish in 2 1/2 hours. I figured I would finish in about 2:45. It was a beautiful day for a run, and an awesome place to run. The Oktoberfest was in full swing (at least, it would be by the time I finished), and the weather was unseasonably warm and dry for a mid-September weekend. <br />
<br />
When I signed up for the race, I signed up with Moms Run This Town, a nationwide, free running group. Because we ended up having the biggest team registered, we won VIP status. What this included was preferential parking, dedicated toilets, and a special VIP tent after the race, with food, juice and iced towels just for us. Our bibs had VIP emblazoned on them, which made me feel pretty cool and elite, especially since I was probably going to finish after a few marathoners.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZg6KJlpFIADZeOwSjZQvTlsxWvyF7-hyBuiLwJ92y0gjc_3gHOpp0DqIkc_dgHt5MrlBLR1rKpOeMNwkMrY4HlMGJ5jlLRSUKiTBjCBb1gO7__KXCbbE7HjRxZZa2l4qN2NsI7KvXsPQ/s1600/20140912_192703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZg6KJlpFIADZeOwSjZQvTlsxWvyF7-hyBuiLwJ92y0gjc_3gHOpp0DqIkc_dgHt5MrlBLR1rKpOeMNwkMrY4HlMGJ5jlLRSUKiTBjCBb1gO7__KXCbbE7HjRxZZa2l4qN2NsI7KvXsPQ/s1600/20140912_192703.jpg" height="320" width="191" /></a>Our parking spot was awesome. We didn't have to walk far to the start line or the bag check (Oh yeah, our bags were to be delivered to the VIP tent. The peasants had to go ask for theirs at the finish line bag check). I couldn't find a VIP toilet, though. I was told that the VIP toilet would be at the finish line. <br />
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<br />
I forgot to pack a banana to eat before the race. I always eat a banana before I go for a long run. I have no idea why I eat a banana, but it certainly seems to keep me going, so I have no need to change this routine. I didn't think much about the fact that I had forgotten my banana, because every other race I have ever run has bananas at the starting line. <br />
<br />
This one did not.<br />
<br />
Yes, I had no banana.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5R7FDM_RvDrT0yBCpdtvL3nA1eDTwZV9lDTvn8q_9wxSu0Xba0ku62uLRt70vfhUS41xh6NAKfl3MziBU7F-9iLvK7GZL2EC69TMHGeLytnCEG26ZMUpngWsihP_jca5-sv4bXAButiix/s1600/20140913_072752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5R7FDM_RvDrT0yBCpdtvL3nA1eDTwZV9lDTvn8q_9wxSu0Xba0ku62uLRt70vfhUS41xh6NAKfl3MziBU7F-9iLvK7GZL2EC69TMHGeLytnCEG26ZMUpngWsihP_jca5-sv4bXAButiix/s1600/20140913_072752.jpg" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "900" Corral</td></tr>
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Not only that, but I had to poop, and I don't particularly like port-a-potties. I hopped on a line and waited for a while before I realized that the line of toilets in front of me were all locked. Except for one. No wonder there weren't so many people in this line and it wasn't moving quickly. As I calculated the wait time for the other row of toilets, someone came up and unlocked the rest of the ones in front of me. I was able to poop in a virgin toilet. It was amazing. I forgot to make sure my door was fully locked, and an unassuming runner opened up my door as I was in the middle of a grunt. I think he was more embarrassed than I was.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSzbpM164Kyg6TmseYIddGHDz0WDaA7pzUJnmXWeG7tYdWarqTOGkmYoJfO1IMbvy2U-uB3aP-ExUcNqxWGbg3Kwea2G339a8U-gzAU-Gy1sYVOc_lrCQVS46AYCMDVQySqqa2hYBvaTG/s1600/20140913_072707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSzbpM164Kyg6TmseYIddGHDz0WDaA7pzUJnmXWeG7tYdWarqTOGkmYoJfO1IMbvy2U-uB3aP-ExUcNqxWGbg3Kwea2G339a8U-gzAU-Gy1sYVOc_lrCQVS46AYCMDVQySqqa2hYBvaTG/s1600/20140913_072707.jpg" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awesome Mother Runners!</td></tr>
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A concept in racing that was new to me with this race is that of "corrals." I had never heard this term before. What they do is assign your bib number based on your estimated finish time. You find people who have bib numbers near you, and hang out together at the starting line. That way, when the race starts, all the people who expect to run the race in an hour and change won't mow down those who will do it in three times the time.<br />
<br />
The half marathoners were led to the start-line of the half marathon, about 1/4 mile away. We lined up on both sides of the street, creating a runner tunnel for the marathoners to run through. We took photos of ourselves, photos of others, and then photos of the marathoners as they came through. Then it was our turn.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwyCQoHQP6LkZ7fsNo6ykeIjiegkejOQhM3USHRMojaqBP3yDT_uDJ5IaS5itoFlbpJ1UN4ECA15Ucwg8QlEMDK9k0mSWvqyzEnHWPK1KvxVO54x59OA5F_sD94v0Mkadku4-oOpMKxip_/s1600/20140913_073332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwyCQoHQP6LkZ7fsNo6ykeIjiegkejOQhM3USHRMojaqBP3yDT_uDJ5IaS5itoFlbpJ1UN4ECA15Ucwg8QlEMDK9k0mSWvqyzEnHWPK1KvxVO54x59OA5F_sD94v0Mkadku4-oOpMKxip_/s1600/20140913_073332.jpg" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy Marathoners</td></tr>
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I wore my GoPro, using a "Chesty" mount (yes I kind of bought it because of the name) and set it up to take a photo every second. I figured I could make a fun little time lapse movie. I'm still trying to figure out how to make it, so you'll have to be patient with me because I may not get that posted for a while. In the mean time, here are some photos of the course that were taken by the GoPro.<br />
<br />
I was impressed with how well I did for the first half of the race. I stayed in the 11mm range, even taking a pee break at mile 4. I felt strong, fast, and very much like I could run all day like this. I couldn't believe how well I was doing when I hit the 10k mark. I was on target to finish well before the 2:30 goal, and because my playlist magically alphabetized itself, I was in the middle of a Tom Petty "R" set (who knew he had so many songs that begin with R?). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aD2iCgewkgI/VBqNF4ViY3I/AAAAAAAATg8/aSyq-ilbmgU/s1600/G0026569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aD2iCgewkgI/VBqNF4ViY3I/AAAAAAAATg8/aSyq-ilbmgU/s1600/G0026569.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready...Set...Go!</td></tr>
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And then I hit the wall. At least, I think that's what I hit. It's something runners say, and since I have a half marathon under my belt, I guess I can safely say that I'm a runner. Anyway, I ran mile nine with my eyes closed. Not all of it. I opened my eyes every now and again to make sure I was still on course and not about to run into someone. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out why I was feeling so sluggish, and then I remembered. No banana. <br />
<br />
At 9.3 miles, because I had to at least run as far as my longest race before walking, I walked. It was only until the end of the song, which may or may not have been Sunday, Bloody Sunday. I didn't feel bad that I was walking. Other people were walking. Some of them had recently passed me. I planned on passing them back when I was ready to run again. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_li0LMxUdlVfb56aRIzSVCdMzlOS98aB8LmWBTtY5UabnnvYP_KKNDFpCBaC8elmoDFbJnfqKL2amyLZarvuTIh-C6iTO9hdX-JUNbSiWCU1E_jLh6_Rbe26mhKoFUl5mpcFwGtYpM_o2/s1600/G0026628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_li0LMxUdlVfb56aRIzSVCdMzlOS98aB8LmWBTtY5UabnnvYP_KKNDFpCBaC8elmoDFbJnfqKL2amyLZarvuTIh-C6iTO9hdX-JUNbSiWCU1E_jLh6_Rbe26mhKoFUl5mpcFwGtYpM_o2/s1600/G0026628.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janet and Erin</td></tr>
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And I did run again, because I knew that there would be electrolyte drinks at mile 10. I ran to the aid station and stopped to grab a cup of the orange liquid. I braced myself, expecting something sweet and syrupy like gatorade. I was so pleasantly surprised that it tasted more like salt water. A almost turned back to get a second drink.<br />
<br />
Even with the electrolyte drink, my body was pretty much done. I ran some and walked some for the next mile. I ran through a covered bridge at some point, and thought that was cool, but mostly, I was calculating how many more miles I had to run, and how long I could walk and keep my pace above 11:30. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmPBoxCBqlozdS9haUw_G9H8LYy-gROHRHX_m0MSNZ6YB3g8XmNoK3Y2V_s0kdAPeE7rxw9F-BjsxvE1O7Qbnn-8JJaMo4QAIznAg28qiz9fc-EWXQ2KAfhbqO9SZNJn_p_MDI9h031dbC/s1600/G0039591.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmPBoxCBqlozdS9haUw_G9H8LYy-gROHRHX_m0MSNZ6YB3g8XmNoK3Y2V_s0kdAPeE7rxw9F-BjsxvE1O7Qbnn-8JJaMo4QAIznAg28qiz9fc-EWXQ2KAfhbqO9SZNJn_p_MDI9h031dbC/s1600/G0039591.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>I lost feeling in the toes of my right foot and had tremendous pain in the ball of that foot every time my foot hit the pavement. I thought that maybe I would be walking through that finish line. I wondered how long it would take for Janet to catch up, and if she would drag me across. I considered hanging around for the crew pushing Andie, and hoping in her chair for the last little bit. All of these options sounded great in my head.<br />
<br />
And then, like the happy, motivating angel that she is, Mariah showed up. Mariah is one of the leaders of my chapter of Moms Run This Town. She's amazing, super fast, and always so up-beat. We both ran in the Portland Trail Series this summer, and a couple times she ran me in to the finish line. It was a giant ego boost to keep up with someone who can sustain a sub 8 minute pace for more than three minutes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOW6oXSd5XxKhvKZoAhyphenhyphencGaFv2AUHwIFFT83Q6GSXXvK33hpVjwCzw5v4AWwev3ovGEUydjuzZZ0vDTa5q6_h2j0Ys2_t30GFk7ZBwZPY7V2G_GknYDhLUMH9Rs8HuoyHkoHM1yMungSG/s1600/G0060192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOW6oXSd5XxKhvKZoAhyphenhyphencGaFv2AUHwIFFT83Q6GSXXvK33hpVjwCzw5v4AWwev3ovGEUydjuzZZ0vDTa5q6_h2j0Ys2_t30GFk7ZBwZPY7V2G_GknYDhLUMH9Rs8HuoyHkoHM1yMungSG/s1600/G0060192.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mariah offers encouragement</td></tr>
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<br />
"You have a mile and a half to go!" she shouted to me. I went into self-defense mode and told her about my foot pain - my excuse for being caught walking, and walking slowly. We gave high fives, she told me I could do it, and since Mariah said so, I started running again.<br />
<br />
When I hit the aid station at mile twelve, I couldn't feel my toes and I sucked down the last bit of water in my camelbak. If I wanted to hydrate, I had to make it to the finish line.<br />
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The course made its way back into town. Little kids stood on the street corners holding signs and cheering us on. I forgot about my toes, the mileage and my thirst. I was happy again, and I had less than a mile to the finish line.<br />
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As I came up to the high school, I got emotional. I was on the verge of finishing my very first half marathon. 13.1 miles. I've hiked this distance many times, but running the distance is so very different. I suddenly had difficulty breathing. I was about to step onto the track, not even a full lap left to go, and I couldn't suck in a full lung of air. 'What the hell is wrong with me?' I thought. I can't pass out here, this is my first half marathon. <br />
<br />
And then the a-ha moment. This is my first half marathon. Holy Fucking Shit. I'm about to finish my first half marathon. No wonder I can't breathe. I'm so fucking emotional.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iWwLduD4xTE/VBqPVnv-RRI/AAAAAAAAThY/kPNbmiIqVTw/s1600/G0060420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iWwLduD4xTE/VBqPVnv-RRI/AAAAAAAAThY/kPNbmiIqVTw/s1600/G0060420.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sight for sore eyes... and feet!</td></tr>
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I immediately put the thought out of my head and started thinking about whether or not I could hold my pee (I hadn't gone since mile 8) as I crossed the finish line. I saw the photographer and pulled myself together for some cool finishing shots, and then I ran as hard and fast as I could to the finish line. I almost lost it when I heard my name (it's nice that they have that service for these long races), and nearly collapsed when they put the giant medal around my neck. OMG, that thing weighs about as much as my three year old. And the best news, I finished in 2:29:04! 56 seconds faster than my goal!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hO1k9UMPxt8/VBqLLW6NgfI/AAAAAAAATgY/9j8Dyzqr9_w/s1600/ImageHandler.aspx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hO1k9UMPxt8/VBqLLW6NgfI/AAAAAAAATgY/9j8Dyzqr9_w/s1600/ImageHandler.aspx.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I make it look fun</td></tr>
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<br />
I didn't see Paul and the kids, so I called. They weren't at the stadium yet. They ran out of gas. My happiness deflated as I had to immediately go into problem solving mode. But first, I had to go into blame mode and be irritated with my husband for not noticing that the car was on E when he got into it.<br />
<br />
I didn't get to fully enjoy the VIP tent because I was no longer in the race. I was too busy thinking about my husband and kids, stranded on the side of the road, waiting for the tow truck guy or Janet's husband (whoever got there first) to bring him gas. It took me a while to find my bag, since all the VIP bags were placed haphazardly in the tent. A woman offered me a towel. It was warm and dry. People kept stealing chairs out of our tent. I wanted to yell "Hey Bitches, we're VIP! Get your own chairs!" but I was moping.<br />
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I didn't partake in the cold showers like I thought I would. I got on a bus and went back to the starting area at Oktoberfest. I found a parking attendant at the lot where we parked to have him guide Paul in. It was the staff parking area. I asked him if we could still park in the lot, since it's where the runners parked this morning.<br />
<br />
"Sure, as long as he has a yellow tag on his dashboard."<br />
<br />
I showed him my bib and said "Well, I'm VIP, so does that work?" <br />
<br />
"I guess so," he replied.<br />
<br />
So, while my family wasn't at the finish line with hugs, high fives and flowers, we at least got sweet parking at Oktoberfest. I didn't last long, though. After a brat and kraut, I faded fast. At least we got to watch the glockenspiel (which E called "boring"). The kids ate corn dogs on sticks and we shared a slice of marionberry pie on our walk to the car.<br />
<br />
So there it is. I finished my first half marathon. And 60 days from now, I'll be running my second. In Las Vegas. I won't have the husband and kids to meet me (or to run out of gas on their way to meet me), but I will have my team. <br />
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I've raised $135 so far. It's a very small amount when looking at what I have left to raise, but I did some calculations, and if I can raise $56/day, I can meet my goal. I need your help with that. Please, donate what you can. Help me get to Vegas! <a href="http://www.active.com/donate/lasvegasNP14/BelcherRuns" target="_blank">Donate today!</a> Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-65193269115854169572014-09-08T00:50:00.000-07:002014-09-08T00:50:16.289-07:00Cramming the WeekendThis past week was the first week back to school for the kids. Tuesday was E's first day (and mine) and Wednesday was L's. Wednesday night we had swim lessons, Thursday evening an ice cream social at E's school, and Friday I had to get up for PT before work (more on that another day, but one thing I have discovered is there is nothing therapeutic about Physical Therapy).<br />
<br />
You would think that for such a busy week we'd take it slow for the weekend. Not when PCT Days is happening in Cascade Locks! Not only that, I had my first group training run AND a bowling fundraiser to attend. How was I going to cram it all in? It seemed impossible, but I was determined.<br />
<br />
Saturday morning, I got up and got myself ready to drive down to Road Runner Sports in NW Portland. I had no idea where I was going, nor did I know what to expect. I pulled in, walked in the store and saw my coach talking to a parent of a former student. What the what?!?!?! I couldn't believe it. She joined our group run as a guest, and we spent the first two miles catching up and talking about how school is going for her son. It was nice to have something to do other than listen to music and calculate how much farther I had left to go. She turned around at the 2 mile mark to make it a four mile run, while I continued a little longer for a 5 mile run.<br />
<br />
I didn't turn my music on, so I was alone with my thoughts:<br />
<br />
Wow, over two miles and I don't feel the need to wet myself.<br />
I didn't know the Dragon Boat races were this weekend. I wonder if we can come here Sunday afternoon.<br />
There's one of my teammates coming back. I hope that means the turn around spot is coming up soon.<br />
There's my coach. She didn't see me and I put extra energy into smiling. I hope I don't run out of energy now. <br />
That guy on the bike is an ass. It's people like him that makes people hate cyclists. I think I hate him.<br />
Hmm... was it this bridge coming up that has our water station, or the next one?<br />
I don't remember running by Saturday Market on the way down here. Am I lost? <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eUR3m9EA8HRsimYV9ZJC6StidOsCheFvsU43kpNzyF7A4d4ZHmFvgArRE9_enyBF8eVNeO9xvjj1pFUR98M-Gl4iVWjG6QyyRPPmk7DgeTJIVznowu0Jcw5YF1WCVhPsJ5Dh2qyG583C/s1600/10689885_1556623537899120_1459547979980977760_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eUR3m9EA8HRsimYV9ZJC6StidOsCheFvsU43kpNzyF7A4d4ZHmFvgArRE9_enyBF8eVNeO9xvjj1pFUR98M-Gl4iVWjG6QyyRPPmk7DgeTJIVznowu0Jcw5YF1WCVhPsJ5Dh2qyG583C/s1600/10689885_1556623537899120_1459547979980977760_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of smiles before our run</td></tr>
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Oh wait, I do remember running by Saturday Market.<br />
Are those people really thinking they can drag their bikes down those stairs? Should I tell them there's another way around? Too late, I'm already past.<br />
I wonder where M is now. Should I have turned around when she did? I'm supposed to run 6 miles today. Should I run more later today or tomorrow? <br />
Hung Far Low. Are you kidding me? How long have I lived in Portland and I have never seen that sign? <br />
Or maybe I have seen that sign and I just don't remember. How could I not remember? Am I really getting <i>that </i>old?<br />
<br />
And so it went like this until my coach caught up on her bike and we talked and talked until I completely ran out of breath. And I walked a little bit, which is strange for me because I ran 13 miles not too long ago and didn't walk one step. But whatever, my pace was 10:36, even with the walking, so I guess I can't complain.<br />
<br />
I like my coach, <a href="http://www.pdx-fitness.com/home.html" target="_blank">Kimberly Graime</a>. She feels really familiar to me, and reminds me a lot of my friend Beth. Maybe her familiarity is what makes me like her. Or maybe it's the fact that she told me to hold my arms close in to my chest when I run uphill, and it really did make the hill easier. Either way, I like her, which is very important when training for a half marathon.<br />
<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVUnmLLUNs6wvn7M913GoyZd6QZZAK2wX88bPCt1P8imaG9f40-S8NShwlyjyewXT04bv0Fyl0zIi9QkSscCdnfYV9MbDIvtD-5bab2ouSgNrenSvuqlWGmlTKO1Rsw-Zgk0t-_4nFhZ2/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVUnmLLUNs6wvn7M913GoyZd6QZZAK2wX88bPCt1P8imaG9f40-S8NShwlyjyewXT04bv0Fyl0zIi9QkSscCdnfYV9MbDIvtD-5bab2ouSgNrenSvuqlWGmlTKO1Rsw-Zgk0t-_4nFhZ2/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somebody was not too pleased to meet Smokey.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got home later than I expected, which means we left town later than we expected, but when we arrived at PCT Days, there was a great tent spot waiting for us. We got to hang out for the night with hiker trash. The kids became BFF's with another hiker trash kid, and we enjoyed trail magic and merriment, even when Nalgene bottles were raining down on us.<br />
<br />
In the morning, we hung around at the ALDHA-West (American Long Distance Hiker's Association) thru-hiker breakfast, watching Freefall flip pancakes and AllGood make coffee. The kids played, we talked and reminisced, and life slowed down for a few beautiful moments.<br />
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<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3VLtY5c0rcBlO79OSqx24dwQMEmLb5ulTCBdCNKEsjATvCeeU_5Cl2rD7bkLsK1aqnyNX4z3f1wzlthSClapOJxMthu9H91IGgJ0lWi9C9914hqDE7u6tLJyJIwo8d_XhObJYH9attVo/s1600/DSC_0446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3VLtY5c0rcBlO79OSqx24dwQMEmLb5ulTCBdCNKEsjATvCeeU_5Cl2rD7bkLsK1aqnyNX4z3f1wzlthSClapOJxMthu9H91IGgJ0lWi9C9914hqDE7u6tLJyJIwo8d_XhObJYH9attVo/s1600/DSC_0446.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She makes bowling in a dress look easy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was tough to pack up, as any time we're near trail folks, we just want to stay and hang out and do trail folk sort of stuff. Alas, I had a fundraiser to get to - my first one for Team Challenge. A bowl-a-thon at Grand Central Bowl.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-tU5Qy9ahsw_lhCxYVfoh13nzwcDoVIWLveweTQN3p93UEPjCgstxTTc9X8g9JV7USmvhC8DZv0I1hFgx4ZIysxq1uFHPbUKNh4zK5SwRXN0mvnzX301_0SiTobKBzfRgxITLC988QeN/s1600/DSC_0469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-tU5Qy9ahsw_lhCxYVfoh13nzwcDoVIWLveweTQN3p93UEPjCgstxTTc9X8g9JV7USmvhC8DZv0I1hFgx4ZIysxq1uFHPbUKNh4zK5SwRXN0mvnzX301_0SiTobKBzfRgxITLC988QeN/s1600/DSC_0469.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He has amazing form. No speed, but amazing form.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I brought the kids in with me while Paul went in search of food since he didn't have breakfast and was ready to eat his own arm. I met more members of our bigger team, people who are doing walks, other runs, and alumni who have already done or or more Team Challenge runs. Everyone thought E and L were adorable, which is good, since L was running around like a fool and crawling all over the couches like a monkey. While I don't know how much we collected altogether, I think it was a successful fundraiser. I didn't take a picture of the final score for our game because it's embarrassing for me, but I beat my children at least.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-YEh3b7hyphenhyphen29P5vAMJhHB7P8QuvpYQgRN6-oLa1uRjyaaPnubcUhFbuJQvPctGnCq_cFZcLUQA-dUhBa5Nxak1Ub4-PFcgZyhtDOzROYiKFxGHfgdZvURBPRCxBIL07nCb92a-jUoO_DY/s1600/DSC_0397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-YEh3b7hyphenhyphen29P5vAMJhHB7P8QuvpYQgRN6-oLa1uRjyaaPnubcUhFbuJQvPctGnCq_cFZcLUQA-dUhBa5Nxak1Ub4-PFcgZyhtDOzROYiKFxGHfgdZvURBPRCxBIL07nCb92a-jUoO_DY/s1600/DSC_0397.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can't even slow down for a picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We also were lucky enough to win some prizes in the raffle. I kind of splurged and bought 20 tickets. But come on. It benefits the CCFA, so I kind of had to buy the tickets, right? I won a cool reusable cup with lid and straw (which E has already decided to claim as her own), and a family pack to bowling night in Hillsboro. <br />
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I typically don't plan so many events in one weekend. I usually pick one big event and ignore the rest. For this weekend, hiker trash would have trumped everything else. But there I was, staring at my training plan, fundraising goals and time left to do it and realized that I needed to make the commitment. I needed to figure out how to get everything to fit into this super-compact weekend. I made the running and the fundraising a priority, and I made it to those two events. I am committed to Team Challenge and the CCFA. I am committed to Paul, and finding a cure and better life with UC. I am committed to running and training for this half marathon. I can do it!<br />
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<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-24716377343797482732014-08-29T10:15:00.000-07:002014-08-29T10:15:11.318-07:00Team ChallengeWhen I began my running career, I never considered the fact that I would ever train for a half marathon. But here I am, training for one. Last week, I ran 13 miles to prove to myself that I can run 13 miles. I was impressed by how well I did. I thought my legs might fall off and we had to cancel our plans to go to Sunday Parkways, but I did it. I ran 13 miles. And, because I had been thinking about it for a long time, I finally decided to make the commitment to join Team Challenge to run <i>another</i> half marathon in November. <br />
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What is Team Challenge? Team Challenge is the Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation of America’s
endurance training and fundraising program. ThroughTeam Challenge, I’ll help find cures for Crohn's
disease and ulcerative colitis, two painful, seldom-discussed and
debilitating digestive diseases. With the Half Marathon and Triathlon
Training Programs, I'll train for a rewarding and exciting endurance
event while raising vital funds
for research into these diseases. These dollars will help make new
treatments possible and fuel the search for cures.<br />
<br />
This cause is very close to my heart. Paul was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis six years ago, not long after we started our family. It has been a hard road, with many more downs than ups. Until he was diagnosed, we had never heard of this disease. Since his diagnosis, we have learned that others have this, and other Inflammatory Bowel Diseases that are related. While it's quite painful and sometimes debilitating, people rarely speak about it.<br />
<br />
Through Team Challenge, I will be running the Las Vegas Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon. My fundraising goal is $3500. I hope to surpass that goal, and I hope that you will help. You can read more about our family's story on my <a href="http://www.active.com/donate/lasvegasNP14/BelcherRuns" target="_blank">fundraising page</a>, like my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BelcherRuns" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>, and follow my blog posts on my training and fundraising here. I look forward to sharing this experience with you all!Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-10838408367798947692014-07-04T10:06:00.006-07:002014-09-18T23:53:41.749-07:00Tips for Successful Road Trips with ChildrenThis past week, I took the kids on a road trip to visit my grandmother down in Merced, CA. I'll write more about our adventure later. What I wanted to write down right now was a list of things I learned during this trip that may help you have a successful road trip with your own children.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. When planning your final destination, and the time you expect to reach said destination, add about five hours. </b></span><br />
This happened to us on our last day, the home stretch. I told my husband we should be home for dinner. When we were at our last stop before home (which was dinner time), I called him to let him know we wouldn't make it. We stopped at a Subway to get dinner for the car, which added another 30 minutes. Then we hit construction, another 30 minutes. Once we were out of the construction, and five miles from the highway that would lead home and away from the coast, both kids had to poop. That added another 45 minutes to our trip, and we didn't get home until after 10pm.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2. When you see a rest stop sign, don't ask your children if they need to go potty, just pull in to the rest stop.</b> </span><br />
As Murphy's Law would have it, every time I saw a sign for a rest stop coming up, I would ask the kids if they had to go. Naturally, they would say no. As soon as we passed the rest area off-ramp, one of them would begin crying that they needed to pee.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3. If you are the solo adult for the trip, keep the cooler with food in the passenger seat. When the children start complaining of hunger, reach in and toss back some food like they're caged lions.</b> </span><br />
Because, on a road trip, that really is what they are. My favorite go-tos are Lara Bars, trail mix, salami and fruit.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4. Always anticipate where you may need to pull over to the side of the road for an emergency bathroom break.</b> </span><br />
Because even if you heed #2, you will still need to do this. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>5. While you may plan 10 activities to do before your final destination, be OK with the fact that you may only get to do about 3.</b> </span><br />
Everything takes longer with children involved. Pick your three "must-see" activities, and all the others will be bonus.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>6. The television in the motel room will keep your children occupied long enough to get the luggage out of the car.</b> </span><br />
This is especially helpful if you are the solo parent on the road trip. We don't have a TV at home, so the novelty of it, even though it was CNN, was enough to keep my kids from running out onto the balcony, climbing over the rail and dropping three stories below.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>7. Sometimes the kids sleep better in their sleeping bags from home than on unfamiliar hotel room beds.</b> </span><br />
My son had a hard time getting settled in one of the hotel rooms. He asked for his sleeping bag. He tried to sleep in it on the bed, but eventually climbed out, pulled his bag to the floor, and slept a good 10 hours.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>8. A dinner of sandwiches at a local park sometimes makes a hard day easy again.</b> </span><br />
Rather than going to a diner or grabbing burgers for the car, we found a park, made some PBJ's and played for a while. It made the last three hours of driving bearable because the children were happy again.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>9. An old digital camera will keep a child happy and noticing the amazing scenery you're driving through.</b> </span><br />
I gave E my old digital camera last fall. She loves it, and she spent quite a lot of time taking pictures from the car. I'd point out things, like Mt. Shasta, and she'd say, "Oooh, that's beautiful. I'm going to take a picture." <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>10. Even in Spanish, the Frozen soundtrack gets old. Make sure you have a variety of music that everyone can agree on.</b> </span><br />
Since they go to Spanish Immersion school, I bought them the Frozen soundtrack in Spanish. I didn't think it could get to me like the English version, since I wouldn't know the words. It was worse, because I don't know the words. Now I have "Libre Soy, Libre Soy, la la la la la la la....." stuck in my head.<br />
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I will be keeping all of these tips in mind when we take our second trip of the summer in August. We're heading to Glacier National Park. This time, we'll be taking Daddy.Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-66917911407299505902014-05-18T23:32:00.002-07:002014-05-18T23:42:13.862-07:00Promises to KeepIn December of 2012, there was a shooting in a local mall and another in an elementary school in Connecticut. During that time, we listened to NPR a lot. Perhaps we listened to it a little too much. My daughter, E, suddenly became obsessed with death, shooting and guns, and began to ask a lot of questions - questions I wasn't quite ready to answer, but because we had exposed her, we had to answer.<br />
<br />
We talked a lot about choices people make, sometimes they are not friendly, and they cause a lot of people to get hurt. We talked about death, and what it means to be dead. She had some experience with it, since both our cats died in the years after she was born, but it was a little hard for her since she didn't quite remember the cats. Sure, she saw pictures of them, and pictures of herself as a baby with them, so she knew they had existed, but she didn't quite get the feeling of loss, when something (or someone) you love so much is suddenly gone, and you will never get to see, touch or speak to them again. She just didn't understand that kind of devastation.<br />
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And then one day, out of the blue, she turned to me and said "Mommy, I don't want you to ever get dead!" <br />
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I grabbed her and held on to her as tightly as she held on to me. She was crying and shaking, and I felt myself doing the same.<br />
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"I promise," I said, not knowing exactly how I could keep such a promise, "that I will do everything in my power to keep myself from getting dead."<br />
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We held each other a little longer. I kissed her and stroked her hair. I inhaled deeply as I sniffed the last little strands of innocence passing away. My daughter finally figured it out, and realized that I could die. That I could no longer be there to hold her, pat her back to go to sleep, take the spiders out of the house, cut her meat, or read her Charlotte's Web at bedtime, one chapter at a time. That was heartbreaking.<br />
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In January, I started to make good on my promise. I decided that I would take a walk on the berm trail around the Nike campus on my lunch breaks. After all, it's right next door. I had no idea how long the trail was, nor did I know if it was even legal to walk around it, but that is what I was planning on doing.<br />
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It was a sunny day, and unseasonably warm for January. Come to think of it, it was unseasonably sunny for the Pacific Northwest. It felt good. I felt good. I was beginning my journey to not get dead for my daughter. I was strong and smart and capable. As I stepped onto the trail, something came over me. I can't describe it, nor do I know where it came from. But what I did was a complete surprise. What I did, was run.<br />
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I <strike>am</strike> was not a runner. I ran cross country in high school so I wouldn't get fat, but I was the slowest person on the team. My coach would always yell at me, telling me to "stop having conversations with the wind!" I attempted running one day in college, and gave up immediately. When I moved out to Portland, I tried the couch to 5k program. I lasted a week. I didn't like the way my body felt when I ran. Everything hurt - my joints, my lungs, my feet, my hair - it sucked.<br />
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But there I was, running on the Nike trail, and I kind of enjoyed it. I remembered the last time I ran, and how much I hurt. My joints didn't seem to hurt the way they did before. My lungs didn't feel like little knives were stabbing them from the inside. My feet were happy. What was this crazy dimension that I had just walked into? Does Nike pump chemicals into the air so that anyone on campus breathing it in suddenly enjoys hard, physical work? That had to be it.<br />
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I didn't run far, and I didn't run fast. But I ran. I ran until the song on my iPod was finished. Then I walked. When the next song came on, I decided to run again. I continued this run/walk combo until I found my way back to the start of the loop trail. I hadn't planned on it, but that day was the beginning of my journey to be a runner.<br />
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I returned to the trail two days later, and two days after that. In the next few weeks, I was there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I was soon able to run for two songs without stopping to walk. Then three, and four, and then I was running the entire time. I couldn't believe it!<br />
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I told my friends, my husband and my doctor about this new activity I had taken up. P was pretty sure the reason I didn't find it painful this time around is because I now have the experience of childbirth, which is the gold standard of comparison to all pain. My doctor encouraged me to sign up for the Shamrock Run. It was a 5k - 3.1 miles. The Nike Berm trail is 1.97 miles. I just had to run one more mile for the race. No problem.<br />
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The Shamrock Run was a blast. I wanted to finish in 35 minutes, give or take, and I did. I felt strong. I felt accomplished. I felt that I was not getting dead. I was keeping my promise.<br />
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I found myself signing up for more races, and bettering my time with each one. My children and husband were always there, my biggest fans, cheering me on.<br />
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I signed up for a race on Mother's Day, called Run Like a Mother, which is what I did. I also wet my pants as soon as I crossed the finish line, in true motherly style. I packed a change of clothes because I knew that would happen.<br />
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I began training for my first 10k, because I felt that it was time to move forward. I was feeling strong, and I was certain that if I could run 3.1 miles, I could run 6.2. I was dedicated to my training until my father passed away and I didn't have any desire to run for a while. I also didn't have any desire to finish reading the Run Like a Mother book I had checked out from the library and hadn't put down for the two days prior to getting the news. I had three chapters left. I still have no desire to read it.<br />
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My father wasn't the healthiest person. He was overweight and had heart issues which are what eventually ended his life. It was sudden and unexpected. It was preventable. A few years ago, he lost a lot of weight and was able to get off some of his medication, but lately, he seemed to have put on some weight, and had some issues that he didn't really go into detail about, but they were his reason for not coming down for L's birthday party that spring. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1f1wL-cVgt-zp_kf_QkpteF1mPeVFLyoT4JoETI_3XOcfLlLdhZc_yRCnyu-TFbZopSVMXwrci4xEJDtiwJtIwVS-wB4JaxfctdE2AMNHNqIIxtce19Dr9tkIWfl5Cc8YXzYIJEJTZDq/s1600/523747_10150785761684558_1623746684_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1f1wL-cVgt-zp_kf_QkpteF1mPeVFLyoT4JoETI_3XOcfLlLdhZc_yRCnyu-TFbZopSVMXwrci4xEJDtiwJtIwVS-wB4JaxfctdE2AMNHNqIIxtce19Dr9tkIWfl5Cc8YXzYIJEJTZDq/s1600/523747_10150785761684558_1623746684_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Tulip Festival for L's 1st birthday 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My dad and I didn't have the best relationship for almost half my life. I was so mad when he died because I felt that I had lost the best years I would have with him. I felt robbed, and I was angry at him for not taking better care of himself. I'm slowly getting through that, embracing and cherishing the time we did have together, because that was spectacular and special. I've also realized that the best way to memorialize him is to keep my body and heart in good shape. In the weeks after his death, as we made arrangements, flew down to California and laid him to rest, my daughter's plea played in my mind. "I don't want you to ever get dead."<br />
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I started running again. I started running while I was still in California. I signed up for a different 10k. I signed up for a 5k the week before that. I trained. I trained hard. I was not going to get dead. I was not going to have a weak heart. I owed it to my daughter; I owed it to myself; and I owed it to my dad.<br />
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I completed the 10k, and got a PR that I have yet to break for the 5k I ran the week before. This year, instead of running the Shamrock 5k, I ran the Shamrock 15k. That's 9.3 miles. NINE POINT THREE. For someone who, a little over a year before, could run for only 3 1/2 minutes at a time, that's quite an accomplishment.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZkFgQvztKq8/U3mgWxUx3yI/AAAAAAAAQgU/cD-80jhW-sY/s1600/1022835_race_0.10439877802755848.original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZkFgQvztKq8/U3mgWxUx3yI/AAAAAAAAQgU/cD-80jhW-sY/s1600/1022835_race_0.10439877802755848.original.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I <i>love </i>to run!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I ran like a mother again this year. I was faster than I was last year. More importantly, I didn't wet my pants. I continued running after I crossed the finish line and didn't stop until I got to the bathroom, but at least I made it there.<br />
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I'm not the fastest runner, nor am I the best runner. But I'm a runner and I'm not dead.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uomCIAgNkEU/U3mgd_IkQWI/AAAAAAAAQgc/_zsOYe7PaeU/s1600/IMG_20140511_080848.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uomCIAgNkEU/U3mgd_IkQWI/AAAAAAAAQgc/_zsOYe7PaeU/s1600/IMG_20140511_080848.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother Runners</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today would have been my dad's 70th birthday. Had the significance of the date of the race occurred to me, I would have signed up for and run the Rock & Roll 1/2 marathon today. I'm not sure I would have been able to make it the whole 13 miles without breaking down into a pool of emotion, so maybe that's why the date didn't strike me when people were talking about it. I knew I had to do something physical and special, though.<br />
<br />
Because the next race I have coming up is a trail run in Forest Park on July 16th, I decided to sign up for a free training plan on RunKeeper called "Running 4 Fat Loss." I chose it for three reasons: 1. It's free; 2. It has speed training in it; and 3. My coworker/running buddy is doing it, too. Today was the first workout of the plan for me. I had to run 30 minutes at a steady pace - 70% of my max heart rate, or (since I don't have a heart rate monitor) at a pace where I can carry on a conversation.<br />
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I checked every so often to make sure I could talk out loud. I wasn't winded or panting. I was breathing in my nose, and had to remember to breathe out my mouth. I felt amazing. I felt strong. I felt like I could run this way for a good long while. Perhaps I could run a half marathon. Perhaps I <i>should </i>have run that half marathon.<br />
<br />
And then it was decided. I will run a half marathon. I don't know when I'll do it, or which one I will run, but I will run one. I may not run one until this time next year, to commemorate my dad, but I will run one within the next calendar year. And not only will I run a half marathon some time in the next year, I will run a half marathon when I'm 70 years old. Because dammit, I wish my dad could have done that. <i><span style="font-size: small;">(mental note: talk mom into running a half marathon)</span></i><br />
<br />
My pace for this steady run was about the same pace I ran my first 5k. During that first 5k, I was winded. I was tired. I wasn't quite sure I was going to make it to the finish. Today, I was sure I could run that fast (or slow, however you want to look at it) for as long as I needed. My heart is strong. It is not going to fail me, seize up, or stop. It will keep beating with love for my children, my husband and myself. I will keep my promise and do everything in my power to stay alive for my children. I know first hand how devastating it is to lose a parent. If I can prevent pain and suffering for my children, I will do it. <br />
<br />
Today, and every May 18th, I will run.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
For my dad. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
For my children. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
For my heart. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
For me. </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mDVHNvl2uew/U3mhsotVd-I/AAAAAAAAQgw/tjagGCwyLys/s1600/dsc_0964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mDVHNvl2uew/U3mhsotVd-I/AAAAAAAAQgw/tjagGCwyLys/s1600/dsc_0964.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let's hear it for running!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-67615927648957788252014-03-26T12:10:00.000-07:002014-05-18T23:33:10.205-07:00Spring Break Barf-o-Rama HaikusSpring Break Staycation<br />
Gardening, zoo, happy kids<br />
Sudden halt with barf.<br />
<br />
<br />
Puke in the backseat<br />
Cleaning it from the carseat<br />
Vomit on my shoe.<br />
<br />
<br />
Head over toilet<br />
Waiting for vomit to come.<br />
Surprise! Liquid poop.<br />
<br />
<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-12288764662127743322014-03-24T23:32:00.000-07:002014-03-24T23:32:40.184-07:00Spring Break StaycationI don't know if people still do Staycations anymore. I know they were the big thing a few years ago when the economy tanked and nobody had any money to pay their mortgages, much less leave town for even a short time. I'm always a little bit late on trends. I just joined Instagram, and I still don't understand the point of Twitter, or why the President and Pope each have a "feed." <br />
<br />
But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that we can pay our mortgage and we can leave town . . . <i>if </i>we wanted to leave town. The thing is, I've left town so often since my dad died in August, that I don't want to leave town for a very long time. If I don't get on a plane for another year, I'll be pleased as punch. So, Spring Break started this weekend, and I decided that we are going to do fun things at (and around) home.<br />
<br />
The weekend was amazing -- blue skies, and temperatures in the mid to upper sixties. We decided it was the perfect time to work on the garden. Our condominium complex has a <a href="http://timbercrestgarden.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">community garden</a>. P & I do most of the work, and because most of our neighbors are cool and don't take much, we reap most of the benefit. This year, we created a <a href="http://timbercrestgarden.wordpress.com/2014/02/17/condo-friendly-greenhouse/" target="_blank">condo-friendly greenhouse</a> to start a bunch of seeds, and they've really taken off. Our three dozen cucumber plants are already flowering. We started hardening them off this week, and hopefully (fingers crossed that spring really has sprung) we'll be able to put them in the ground next weekend.<br />
<br />
We cleared some space to plant beans, peas, carrots, radish and cabbage from seed. E loved helping drag the stick through the dirt to make a line for planting. It wasn't always perfectly straight, but it won't matter once the beans are weighing down the plant. L, in stereotypical boy fashion, played in the dirt, threw rocks, and nearly broke a window. He makes me such a proud mother.<br />
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We drove to one of our <a href="http://www.cruiseincountry.com/" target="_blank">favorite burger joints</a> for lunch and ate on the patio. Aside from spending six months hiking a very long trail, professing forever love in front of family and friends, or meeting your child for the very first time, lunch on the patio of a restaurant is one of the greatest feelings ever. There's just something about the warm rays on your skin, iced tea in hand, and hot food made to order. It's magical.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3TUHZLLyjOY7f171t21zadGQrno5wvvvi8okad0eX5QSPvCB-WLf4bDhZBY5f0YDsjxn7w-nfO_sVwKBf1omc8W1y6mtGnBnPI7aamRmIItVGM4mx7vxwpLQy_hivWecHr6tULTMRVQp/s1600/IMG_20140322_125431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3TUHZLLyjOY7f171t21zadGQrno5wvvvi8okad0eX5QSPvCB-WLf4bDhZBY5f0YDsjxn7w-nfO_sVwKBf1omc8W1y6mtGnBnPI7aamRmIItVGM4mx7vxwpLQy_hivWecHr6tULTMRVQp/s1600/IMG_20140322_125431.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
The magic didn't end there. 4:10 was tip-off time for the game between the University of Dayton (my alma mater) and Syracuse University. I wasn't expecting the game to be so intense. Or close. Or for Dayton to win, but all of those things happened. I don't have cable, so I was stuck listening to the game on the Westwood 1 Radio network. It's very hard to listen to a fast paced basketball game and figure out who has the ball when you haven't paid attention to the sports team in, like, ever. But there I was, standing in front of my laptop, listening to the streaming radio, jumping up and down like a fool, as Dayton stuck their foot into the glass slipper and danced their way into the Sweet 16.<br />
<br />
Sunday began with a 5 mile run and more time in the garden. I met up with an old friend to watch the Veronica Mars movie at the Living Room theater. I had my first glass of wine in I don't know how long, and ended up with a stomach- and head-ache by bedtime. I'm thinking my body isn't a fan of alcohol, but boy did that wine taste amazing.<br />
<br />
Today, E insisted that we go to the zoo, so after getting some cabbage seeds into the ground, I packed up the kids for the insanity that is the Oregon Zoo on the one nice day of Spring Break. We saw two animals -- the elephants and the lions, and then we headed home. I don't like crowds, and neither do my kids. But they will be damned if they don't get to see the baby elephant or lion cubs. We have a membership, so it's no big thing to swing by for a 45 minute visit. <br />
<br />
E suggested we eat dinner al fresco tonight. It was a bit chilly, since the sun was hiding in the trees, but it's supposed to rain for the rest of the week, so what the hell? As it turns out, I love eating outside. Even when I have to cook and serve the food myself. Maybe it's all the time I spent backpacking, eating, sleeping, living outside. Maybe it's the fact that I know I don't have to sweep after dinner. Whatever the reason, I always feel happier and calmer after sharing a meal with anyone outdoors.<br />
<br />
It didn't even bother me that my neighbor's son barfed all over the hallway when I informed him that it was almost time for my kids to get ready for bed, so it was time for him to say goodbye. As if on cue, he projectiled at me. Juice? Tomatoes? Eggs? I don't know exactly, but I found myself holding a towel under his chin and asking (begging) if he was all done yet, thinking that if I had sent him packing when I decided to set the timer for a one minute warning, his own mother would be doing this, and I would be continuing on my staycation, not realizing the ticking time bomb that was set in our house tonight.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow is a new day, and if my children don't wake me up in the middle of the night with vomit all over their beds, we'll probably do something fun, and vomit all over that instead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-27399379826526817942014-03-16T23:28:00.000-07:002014-03-16T23:28:35.274-07:00Whole30 Clean Eating Wrap-UpI planned on writing more about the Whole30 diet while I was doing it, but like everything else in my life, that didn't happen as planned.<br />
<br />
The first day was easy-peasy, and I was very proud of myself that I didn't have any cravings for anything and was able to turn my nose up to processed shit food.<br />
<br />
Days 2-7 were a completely different story.<br />
<br />
I spent those days fantasizing about opening up a gallon sized Goldfish carton and dumping it into my mouth. I had the worst time keeping my energy up, especially when running. My mile pace dropped significantly, and I found myself walking a lot on my long runs. I went from a steady 10 mm to 12 + mm.<br />
<br />
I had a <i>very </i>hard time figuring out my work out nutrition, but I did learn, quite by accident, that when I eat 16oz of guacamole for lunch, I can run 4 miles at 10:38 per mile. <br />
<br />
Because I'm a sugar addict, I chose not to eat fruit for the first week. My first fruit after the hiatus was a blueberry. It tasted like candy. Every fruit since has been just as amazingly delicious. I never want to eat sugar again.<br />
<br />
By the last week, I began to feel amazing. My running got easier, and I felt stronger. I felt leaner, even though I don't think I look much different. I lost 8 pounds, but I don't know where I lost them from.<br />
<br />
My last day on the Whole30 was Friday. We had a potluck at work. I ate some carrots and cherry tomatoes, then bought a salad at New Seasons. I sighed heavily at the fact that there were bagels and cream cheese for the potluck, but then I thought "That shit is crap, I don't even want it!" and I felt better.<br />
<br />
Today, I ran a 15k with an 11:38 mm. This included a pause when my running pal had to stop and go back to the start line to pick up her inhaler that she dropped (about 15 seconds), and the fact that we got stopped by a train (couple minutes). I pressed pause on runkeeper for that one, and got 10:52 as my pace on there. Either way, it was less than 12 minutes per mile, and that was my goal. Also, I didn't walk. 9.3 miles of running (some running was excruciatingly slow, but it was still running). I didn't feel the need to pull out my applesauce packet for extra energy, either. My breakfast of eggs (no veggies, which is a Whole30 no-no, but I'm technically not doing Whole30 anymore) was enough. Afterwards, I got my free beer, and while it was tempting, I did not drink it. Of course, it was only tempting at first. After thinking about the fact that there is no nutrition in it what-so-ever, AND it's full of gluten, I had no problems passing it off.<br />
<br />
Had it been wine, that would have been a different story alltogether.<br />
<br />
I met my family for brunch at my favorite restaurant. Verde Cocina. I ordered the Buenos Dias Breakfast - eggs, bacon, bean mash, loads of veggies, and two made-in-house authentic corn tortillas. Corn is the first non-Whole30 item I decided to add in. I also had some sugar (from the bacon) and a couple of beans, but mostly it was the corn. Fucking amazing, but I'm totally fine having it every once in a while, not all the time. I much prefer (and I'm sure my mother's heart may stop when she reads this because I was THE WORST eater in the world when it came to veggies growing up) the veggies. Kale, zucchini, carrots, onions. Sooo delicious. I'll be bringing the leftovers from my kids' plates to work tomorrow.<br />
<br />
When I started the Whole30, I just wanted to do a cleanse and rid my body of processed food gunk. What I learned on the Whole30 is that I feel better and want to eat better <i>because </i>I feel better. I'm not ever going to admit that I'm "Paleo" or on a special diet, I'm simply going to say "no thank you" to certain foods because they don't provide sound nutrition and their ingredients are questionable. <br />
<br />
Because if food isn't nourishing, why eat it? And the blueberries that I gobbled up during our teacher meeting on Friday was 100% more satisfying and nourishing than the chocolate cake everyone else ate.<br />
<br />
I would upload my before & after photos, but I'm in my underpants, so I'll keep it clean. Maybe when I lose another 10 pounds I'll delight you with pictures of my skivvies. <br />
<br />
To make up for it, I'm adding in my post-race-beer-tent photo. <br />
<br />
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<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-52602767527424277112014-03-13T23:42:00.003-07:002014-03-13T23:47:43.781-07:00HauntedI'm being haunted.<br />
<br />
It's a good thing, though.<br />
<br />
Things are reappearing.<br />
<br />
We got married eight years ago. A good friend of ours, <a href="http://www.squatchfilms.com/" target="_blank">who happens to be a documentary film maker,</a> was our videographer. He made a pretty darn awesome wedding video - one that didn't put our friends to sleep when we showed it, like so many wedding videos. We loved it. We loved it so much, we brought it with us all over the country, to show our family and friends. Somewhere along the way, it was misplaced. We tore our house apart searching for it. We ransacked my in-laws' house searching for it. We dug through my mother's house searching for it. It was nowhere to be found. Vanished in thin air -- for over five years.<br />
<br />
In June of last year, my husband started the Specific Carbohydrate Diet in an attempt to help out his autoimmune disease. He lost a lot of weight. So much weight, that his wedding band fell off his hand on more than one occasion. One such occasion happened to be while he was walking in a parking lot. He heard a tinkling sound and noticed something shiny bouncing ahead of him. It was his ring. Good thing it was sunny that day.<br />
<br />
So, six months ago, he couldn't find his ring. He thought he may have left it on the windowsill of the kitchen, where he keeps it when he cooks. Nope. Then he thought maybe it was on the windowsill of the bathroom, where he keeps it when he takes a shower. Not there, either. He checked next to the bed, and the windowsill in the bedroom (because he seems to like to put his ring on windowsills), and he had no luck. He figured he took it off at work and left it on his desk. He couldn't find it there, either. The only other explanation was that it fell off his finger, and this time he didn't hear it tinkling, or see it shimmering <br />
<br />
He bought a new one. In eight years, the price of our particular wedding ring has tripled. I told him to make an insurance claim. He never did, because he figured he was an imbecile and it was all his fault.<br />
<br />
Last month, my car was broken into. The glove box was opened, and the broken GPS was taken, along with the broken GPS's power cord. When I realized that what the thieves took was a crappy piece of electronics that was simply taking up space in my glove box, I laughed. And then I remembered that E had an MP3 player in the back seat. I looked in her cupholder. Gone. I found her headphones and sighed. I pulled on the cord with hope. It was light, and as I came to the end, my fear was realized. Lizzie's MP3 was gone. Stolen by middle school thugs who have nothing to do on a Saturday night except wander through a condominium parking lot trying the doors of every car until one opens, and taking the one thing a five year old girl looks forward to during a long car ride. Fuckheads. Bastards. Cum Wads!<br />
<br />
It's no secret that 2013 was a terrible year for me. 2014 wasn't looking very rosey, either.<br />
<br />
And then one day in the middle of February, I decided to go shopping at Natural Grocers. They are a little grocery nearby that has organic hippie food. They also don't put your food into bags, so if you don't bring your own, you have to carry your food out in a cardboard box. Not wanting to deal with the box of shame, I opened the back of the car, and emptied out the one bag that we had, containing an assortment of tools, twine and rope. I heard a tinkling. I saw something sparkly bounce in front of me. It was a wedding band. I thought it was mine. I looked at my finger. My ring was there. I looked at the ring in the back of my car. Could it be? No... how could it have gotten here? I picked it up, and sure enough, it was the missing wedding band. No. Fucking. Way.<br />
<br />
The next week, as I was putting L into his car seat for the five hundred and four millionth time, I noticed there was something black stuck between his car seat and the seat back. He is still rear-facing, because I'm one of <i>those</i> parents (I should wear a t-shirt that says "Talk to me about extended breastfeeding, babywearing, cloth diapering and rear-facing car seats!"), so noticing some strange object between the car seat and the seat back shouldn't be that difficult. This strange object just happened to be in the exact spot where I put my hand to loosen the car seat strap. I loosen the car seat strap every time I get him out of his car seat. How did I not notice this strange black object before? I picked it up, and was surprised to realize it was the stolen MP3 player! For a nanosecond, I actually thought that the thieves felt remorse for what they had done, broke into my car a second time, and stuck the MP3 player in that spot so it would seem like it was just misplaced.<br />
<br />
And then, last week, the most insane of all things to ever happen in this house happened. P had spent half the week in Seattle at a conference. He was in the bedroom, putting away his suitcase in the closet. As he was moving an old bag that we haven't used in years, in order to make room for his bag, he heard a strange sound coming from one of the pockets. He pulled down the bag and opened the pocket. Inside was a giant ziplock bag. Inside the giant ziplock bag were four DVD's. Two were documentaries about the PCT that our friend and videographer made. One was a video slideshow of photos compiled from a bunch of people who hiked the PCT in 2003. The last DVD was the one and only copy of Camp Belchigator shenanigans. It was truly unbelievable.<br />
<br />
He didn't tell me right away. He kept it a secret. In fact, this was the day we had <a href="http://belchigators.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-hardest-word.html" target="_blank">the big fight</a>.<br />
<br />
That night, as I was about to play another episode of Weeds, he said "No, let's watch a movie instead."<br />
<br />
"OK. What movie?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"I have one," was his reply as he sauntered toward the bedroom. He popped it into the computer before I could see what it was.<br />
<br />
I thought he'd gotten Squatch to make another copy, since we had just seen him. Either way, it was so nice to relive those happy moments, especially after our fight. I only cried once, during the father/daughter dance.<br />
<br />
I try not to get ethereal on my blog, or think about other worldly things in general. I can't explain them, and while I've considered my own mortality and that of my mother, siblings and children fairly regularly since Labor Day, I still can't fathom what happens in the end. I can only hope. For the past month, as items that I thought were gone for good find their way back to me, my hope grows -- hope that there is something beyond this life; that my dad, grandmother, grandfather, former pets, teachers, friends, and others who have touched my life have found peace, are happy, and are never very far away.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WTvIuNHmqU8/UyKkg_vHuLI/AAAAAAAAP4o/wdkU745XI6E/s1600/IMG_20140309_100423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WTvIuNHmqU8/UyKkg_vHuLI/AAAAAAAAP4o/wdkU745XI6E/s1600/IMG_20140309_100423.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What once was lost now is found.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-70963138697573299422014-03-09T21:07:00.001-07:002014-03-09T21:07:37.245-07:00The Hardest Word<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband and I got into a fight today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not unusual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve been together for over 10 years, and
married for over 8.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s bound to
happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It happens every time I’m
PMS-ing (which is now), and every time one of us comes back from a trip (also now).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I honestly can’t remember the exact reason we were fighting,
and it really doesn’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It simply
matters that we were fighting – yelling and screaming at each other, saying
hurtful things, swearing; and we did this in front of our children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know E was very upset over this, and asked
us to stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>L simply cried while
clinging to my leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember peeling
him off before I dramatically stomped into the bedroom and carefully closed the
door so I wouldn’t smush any tiny fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>P yelled one more hurtful thing at the closed door before walking
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought 15 hurtful things in my
head and cried for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But while we think and say hurtful things to each other, we
really don’t mean it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We love each other
and would go to the ends of the earth for each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trouble is, how do you reassure your
children of this, when they have born witness to the slaughter of your
feelings?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve heard people say you should never fight in front of the
children, and I remember having friends in high school who were blindsided by
their parents’ divorce because they never saw it coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the same token, I’ve also heard friends
wonder why their parents weren’t divorced, since all they did was fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we got engaged, P told me that we would
end up hating each other, but that it would all work out in the end, because
that’s what happened to his parents.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My parents divorced when I was one, so I have no idea how
parents are supposed to handle stress and disagreement in front of their
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew my parents didn’t like
each other from the moment I remember, and the divorce papers were proof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They did eventually allow time and physical
distance move that water under the bridge, and a couple years before my dad
passed away, they were cordial with each other (they became Facebook friends,
and may have even sent each other letters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the mail).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I certainly don’t want my children to think that we hate
each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same time, I don’t
want them to think that everything is coming up roses when a family of moles
has moved in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we fight, scream, yell,
say hurtful things in front of our children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The children do the same thing to each other in front of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They probably have some empathy in that
regard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We live in a 950 square foot
condo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There really isn’t much room to escape,
especially when the Pacific Northwest Winter is bearing down and your road has
become the new off-shoot of the local creek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One thing we do, however, that I think is hard to do in
front of other people, is that we make up in front of our children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could be the fact that we live in a
shoebox, so they are subjected to the good, bad and ugly in our marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could be the fact that we don’t want them
to think that we actually hate each other, because we don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all have bad days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all lose it, and we all say things we don’t
mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re human.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our children should be witness to that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They should know that everyone, even parents
make mistakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what’s more, they
should be witness to the make-ups, not just to be reassured that their world
will not be falling apart any time soon, but to learn that crucial part of
making relationships last:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saying “I’m
Sorry.”</div>
Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-48990268082975290722014-02-11T23:07:00.000-08:002014-02-11T23:07:15.210-08:00Whole30I'm not big into diets, especially fad diets. I scoff at Paleo every single day, as I eat bread sticks in front of my friends and their paltry slab of meat and boring broccoli. When coworkers dramatically exclaim "Oh, I CAN'T eat that!" whenever there is a delicious treat in the staff room, I happily eat two servings... just for fun.<br />
<br />
But the thing is, my belly aches, and I'm addicted to something. I'm guessing it's sugar, because that's what it breaks down to, but I don't eat a lot of sugary things. I love bread. I love it so much that I think about it all the time. I love it warm, toasted, and slathered in garlic-y, buttered goodness. So buttery that you fingers shine after you finish eating, and you still need a napkin after licking them. And when I finish that delicious piece of bread, I want another. Even before I've finished that piece, I'm already thinking about the next one.... and the next... and then the loaf is gone. <br />
<br />
On Monday, when I was fortunate to have another snow day, and the children's school was open, my husband and I sat down together to a delicious lunch, free of distractions. He's been practicing the SCD lifestyle since last spring, to cope with an autoimmune disorder, so the lunch he made was amazing: salmon with fresh squeezed meyer lemons from my grandmother's back yard, with a side of cucumber. It was delicious and filling. I was completely satisfied. I was not hungry anymore.<br />
<br />
Yet, I wanted something more. I<i> needed</i> something more. I desired it so much, that when my husband left for a couple hours, before he was even down the driveway - Hell, before he was in his car - I was pulling down the bag of tortilla chips to shove some in my mouth. As I type this and think about tortilla chips, I want some. I just might get up and get a handful right now.<br />
<br />
Well, it's not that bad, at least not today, because I have a plan. I've wanted to do a cleanse for a while. The last time I did one was over six years ago, before I got pregnant with E. It's nice to rid your body of toxins and eat cleaner every now and then. I would do a cleanse about every 6 months or so, and it would take a little while before I was back to eating like crap and needing to re-start my eating. But it's been over 6 years. I need to do more than a quick 7 day cleanse. <i>That's </i>not going to clear out 6 years of gunk in the system. I need something more.<br />
<br />
I considered SCD, since that's what hubby is doing, but just picking up the plan and eating the accepted foods for an indeterminate amount of time isn't going to work for me. How long would I do it? Would I cook all my veggies first, or just avoid all the "no" food on the list? And what if I don't like it? It would be easy to say "I've done this for 10 days, I can quit now..." because I wouldn't have a plan.<br />
<br />
And then I researched the <a href="http://whole30.com/" target="_blank">Whole30</a>, which is an extremely clean eating plan that lasts for 30 days. I'd heard about it, but figured it was another one of those fad paleo diets that I wasn't about to fall for. There are a lot of no's (no sugar, no grains, no legumes, no dairy, no processed foods), but it's more about <i>what</i> you eat than what you don't. I's about eating whole foods with nutritional value, and making the conscious decision to leave the fake, processed foods with all nutritional value erased back on the laboratory floor where they deserve to be. I took the bait and paid $9.99 for the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1936608898/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=whole9-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1936608898" target="_blank">ebook</a>. After chapter 2, I'm hooked. This is totally me. I am addicted to sugar (or carbs, or processed nastiness, whatever you want to call it), and I'm going to take this step. I'm making a commitment to myself and my family that I'm going to eat cleaner and break this addiction. I might have to pull out my dad's 12 Step book when I start to feel weak. <br />
<br />
I start this new venture tomorrow. Today, I ate like crap, like it was a final farewell to junk and nastiness - a last day of binging before checking in at the Betty Ford clinic for food. I pigged out on crackers, and sugary sweets (OK, they were SCD legal lemon bars, but they had honey, and honey is persona non grata in the Whole30 arena). My tummy aches, and all I want to do is eat those last two slices of bread from the Tula Bakery, smothered in garlic butter. But I won't. At least, not right now.<br />
<br />
To prepare for tomorrow, I baked myself some chicken wings, and picked out my veggies and fats for lunch and snacks. I'm on the fence about allowing myself fruit the first week, because I am afraid it may start me on the slippery slope of sweetness -- like an alcoholic drinking Fre wine. But I'm afraid I won't have enough food, that I'll still be hungry and have nothing left to eat, and those stale Triscuits in the staff room will be just too tempting.<br />
<br />
And then I stepped back and <i>looked</i> at the food I had prepared. It was a lot. Normally, I eat about 4 chicken wings in a meal. I'll have about 1/4 cup of veggies, and then fill the rest of my belly with bread. Without the bread, I found myself filling containers with food, in a desperate attempt to make sure I will not starve to death. I cooked myself 12 chicken wings. I'm pretty sure I'll return home with six.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nqeJbZesuk0/UvscJEZj-yI/AAAAAAAAPsM/CHxkEeSjM8Q/s1600/DSC_0540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nqeJbZesuk0/UvscJEZj-yI/AAAAAAAAPsM/CHxkEeSjM8Q/s1600/DSC_0540.JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a lot of food!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-5625711423609158862014-01-23T21:15:00.001-08:002014-01-23T21:17:55.703-08:00The Eleanor ProjectA few months ago, a friend of mine told me about a really cool blog called <a href="http://eleanorproject.org/" target="_blank">The Eleanor Project</a>. The idea behind the project is to show the beauty of all women, not the airbrushed, unrealistic fantasy that hollywood and media portrays. They named it the Eleanor Project after Eleanor Roosevelt, one of my favorite people in the world, because she exuded beauty, vibrancy, elegance and intelligence throughout her life.<br />
<br />
Every few days or weeks, someone is celebrated on their blog as an Eleanor, and the best part is that any woman can be an Eleanor. You just have to send a little email with an introduction and answer a few questions.<br />
<br />
My friend, who told me about it said "You should totally be an Eleanor!" I thought about it for a bit. And then I thought about it some more. I read about all of the other Eleanors on the blog. I liked their<a href="https://www.facebook.com/EleanorProject?ref=br_tf" target="_blank"> Facebook page</a>. I got updates in my newsfeed from The Eleanor Project, imploring me (and all the other women who liked the page) to join the sisterhood.<br />
<br />
So one night, as I was wrestling with insomnia, I decided to take the chance. I opened up my email, typed up a bunch of stuff, pressed send, and then immediately second-guessed myself and wished I hadn't done it. Even though I have a blog and seem relatively easy-going around others, always quick with a joke, I really hate being the center of attention. That, and I suddenly felt inferior to all the Eleanors who preceded me. Their bios and their answers to the questions seemed so much more thoughtful and intelligent. <br />
<br />
And the next morning, I got a gushing thank you in my email inbox, asking me for my photo (of which, I have about three that I like). So I got excited, and I couldn't believe that I was going to be featured on this really cool blog that celebrates really cool women. Me! I started to get excited.<br />
<br />
I visited the blog every day, sometimes more than once (OK, probably about once every couple hours), anxiously anticipating my face, smiling from the page. The week seemed to drag on, as I talked myself out of my worthiness of being an Eleanor, because that's what I do. And let's be honest, this is what we all do at one point in our lives. And this is what the Eleanor Project is working against.<br />
<br />
So this afternoon, when I checked the page, my heart almost stopped when I saw <a href="https://www.facebook.com/EleanorProject?ref=br_tf" target="_blank">myself smiling at me</a> from their page. I read my post like it was the first time, and I found myself inspired by . . . <i>me!</i> And there was a comment, from someone I've never met, who said she wanted to be my friend. And someone else sent me a sweet comment on my blog. And here I am, gushing and blushing, and not quite ready to share this with all my friends on my facebook page. But I'll share it here, because you have to come here to find out about me. It doesn't shove itself into your face and jump up to the top of your news feed with every like and comment. Because, while I'm still an introvert and rather shy, I'm still pretty damn proud to be an Eleanor. Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-72532155671090350602014-01-12T21:41:00.001-08:002014-01-12T21:41:35.069-08:00Blazing a Trail to Preschool<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I began my search for a preschool without a road map or any
clue of what direction to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had so
many questions and very few answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
old should my child be before I start looking?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What type of preschool would work for her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Montessori or Waldorf?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faith-based or not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about language immersion, or co-op?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do these terms even mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And how much will it cost?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it even worth it for my child to go to
preschool when she can learn the same things from me at home?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or will she learn more things at
preschool?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I keep her home, will I be
doing her a disservice?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will she be
ready for kindergarten?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course, I
thought all of these things before she even blew out that first candle on her
birthday cake.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s hard to live in the moment of parenthood and simply be
and love your children where they are when you’re inundated with Facebook
status messages about your friends’ children reciting their ABC’s (in French),
spelling their names, or solving quadratic equations and you look over at your
two year old, giggling with glee, diaper off and playing in his poop in the
corner of the living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So then I
become the “funny mom” who posts those off the wall status updates of “cute”
and “silly” things my kids do because she skips 17 every time she counts, and
he sings just the first two lines of “Twinkle Twinkle” over and over
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just have to keep up,
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to start their education
right now, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there is one thing I’ve learned from
my experience as a teacher, and my most recent experience as a mom, it’s that
children are learning all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let
me say that again: children are learning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All. The. Time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the time
they wake up in the morning, to the time they go to sleep at night, they are
learning things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They learn by doing,
playing, exploring, experimenting, making mistakes, observing, talking,
listening, running, jumping, painting, making messes, cleaning up, crying,
laughing, hugging and kissing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So you
see, their education has already started, because their education goes hand in
hand with their development.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are four major areas (or domains) of child
development: cognitive – how children think; physical – how children move;
social – how children relate to others; and communication – how
children…um…communicate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way
children develop in these domains directly affects how and what they learn, and
vice versa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition, each area is
dependent on the other for development.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So many childhood tasks require all four domains to complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s look at potty training as an example
(since this has created my most recent motherhood battle scars).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In order to be considered potty trained, a child needs to be
able to do the following things in the four domains:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Cognitive</b><br />
Know the sequence and routine of using the toilet (first pull down pants, then
sit on toilet, etc.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Physical</b><br />
The ability to hold and release waste.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Social</b><br />
The understanding that others prefer not to play in your puddle of pee, or
smell the poop smoldering in your underwear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Communication</b><br />
The ability to understand and answer the question “Do you need to use the
bathroom?” as well as being able to state “I need to use the bathroom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because of this, a child entering kindergarten needs a good,
strong foundation of learning that encompasses all four domains of
development.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An enriching environment
where a child can explore, experiment, problem solve, make mistakes, get angry,
laugh, cry, make connections, run, jump, and express themselves in any manner they
please is essential to building that foundation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That environment also needs to provide a
safe, predictable structure to the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
where is the best place for a child to find this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right – preschool.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know you try very hard to make sure everything in your
child’s day is enriching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do the same
for mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, we have them
24-7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a LOT of down-time in
your day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think about how many times you
lock yourself in the bathroom just to get a moment’s peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Preschool lasts about four hours, max.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so much easier to create four hours of
highly enriching structured activity that keeps children engaged, than to do it
all day every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, it’s easier
when they’re not your kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this
from experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter was a student
in my class one year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lasted five
months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lasted three.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i>
has been answered, I’m guessing you want to know the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who, what, where, </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember that road map that I mentioned at
the beginning?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blazed a path on my own, following
recommendations of friends and random people on mommy boards online.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I visited a few, fell in love with some, never
wanted to see others again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end,
we found a school that worked for my kids, for my family, and had the same
philosophical ideals on early childhood foundations that I have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would love to give you a map of the trail I
blazed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, it may not be the right
fit for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I can do is offer you a
key – a map legend of sorts – to blazing your own trail to the right preschool
for your children and family, and an opportunity that I did not have or even
know about when I began my search.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This key is the Lake Oswego Mother’s Club Preschool
Forum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every year in January, the LOMC
invites preschools from around the area to gather together in one place,
providing information on their programs to parents and families like you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All you need to do is show up, walk in, ask
questions and get answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s no
cold calling here, just warm greetings and time for you, because there is
childcare, too!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the best part – it’s
free!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if you’re pretty sure junior
won’t be enrolling in the fall, it doesn’t hurt to start asking questions
now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may learn something you didn’t
know about a school or a teaching philosophy that could change your
course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If nothing else, it will make
blazing your path for preschool education much easier than mine ever was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/lomoms" target="_blank">For more information on the Lake Oswego Mother's Club, visit their Facebook page, here.</a><br /><br /><a href="https://www.facebook.com/lomcpreschoolforum" target="_blank">For more information on the Lake Oswego Mother's Club Preschool Forum, visit their Facebook page, here.</a></div>
Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-49434383017678855732014-01-01T03:27:00.002-08:002014-01-01T03:42:31.575-08:00New Year, New HopeWelcome to 2014. The world as we knew it ended in December of 2012. I think that explains why 2013 fucked me up so much.<br />
<br />
I was not prepared.<br />
<br />
This year, I'm preparing for anything. I'm glancing over my shoulder, expecting the absolute worst to happen, like it will tap me from behind and say "surprise!" I hold my breath when I answer the phone and my mother says "Dawn," in a very concerning way, like she has the worst news in the world to tell me... even though the worst news has already been delivered, and that she could not deliver the news that would be unfathomably worse than that.<br />
<br />
I started my period yesterday, which is pretty apropos. When I lived in New York and worked for Bankers Trust, I worked with a guy named Aramis Perez. He wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree, and I always thought the following comment proved such, but tonight, or this morning (however you want to look at it), I'm thinking there may be something to it. One day, after a blood drive, he mentioned that men needed to donate blood because women at least had their periods, so they got their monthly cleansing. I never thought much about bloodletting, nor about the fact that I do it regularly. And this month, I've been especially PMS-y, so this bloodletting has been a huge emotional release.<br />
<br />
But then, I've been an emotional volcano since August. Turning 40 and losing both my father and grandmother within a month of each other has forced me to face the reality of my own mortality. While I know it may not come for another 40 or 50 years, or could happen before I finish this sentence, I have faced, called into conference, sent to detention, contemplated, considered, denied, accepted, denied again, blamed, hated, pined for, and entertained the thought of death for the last quarter of 2013. The last week has been the most difficult. I returned to the place where I first learned of my father's passing.<br />
<br />
Colville, WA was once our oasis. In fact, when we were so full of stress and screaming at each other and our children on our way out the door for Labor Day Weekend, Paul and I were both longing to get to my in-laws' place, as it's our emotional center, drawing us away from the crazy of city life, work, and commercialism, taking us back to the simpler times of daily chores, cultivating food, and preparing for the near future. Little did I know as we were pulling away from the city, leaving our cares behind, that my oasis would soon become my misery. I didn't realize until I was there for Christmas, just how much I had been undone in such a short, painful weekend.<br />
<br />
Last year, we spent the week sledding, building a snowman and tromping through the hundreds of acres in the snow. This year, I didn't leave the house. I couldn't convince myself to do so. Even though the trees were bending to the weight of the ice and snow, begging me to photograph them in their brilliance, I couldn't do it. I couldn't make that mistake again. I couldn't enjoy myself while someone so dear to me left the earth with nothing more than a random passing thought while pulling up my pants in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
Did I not mention that yet? The day my father died, before I went for a hike with my brand new camera in hand, I had a crazy thought go through my head as I glanced at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. I thought "You know, one of these days you're going to get old and die. It happens to all of us." I looked at myself and gave a shy smile, not knowing why the thought came to my mind. And then I thought "Don't look in my closet," thinking about my "sewing room" that I created out of a closet. In addition to all the sewing supplies, I keep a random assortment of shit in there. It's a wasteland... a garbage dump of stuff I can't quite figure out what to do with but can't seem to let go of and toss. And there I was, at the moment of my dad's demise, thinking that I didn't want anyone rooting through my closet should I pass.<br />
<br />
And the next week, I was rooting through my dad's closet, which, minus the sewing supplies, was just like mine.<br />
<br />
It gives me comfort to think that my dad may have tried to notify me in an ethereal way, to say goodbye in the only way he was able. But this time, I waited to hear something new, something more comforting, and expected more pain, another message from another loved one's passing. Instead, I merely felt the echo in the memory of the old thought, and this time, all I could think was "death and taxes, death and taxes," over and over. All weekend. No matter where I was -- bathroom, kitchen, or bed, between the legs of my husband.<br />
<br />
I was a sentry, waiting for a message, not leaving my post, lest I miss important orders. At night, I dreamt of losing family members - one night it was my mother. Another night, my brother. I was on high alert, keeping my phone with me at all times, expecting a call I should never expect, jumping at every ring.<br />
<br />
I couldn't wait to get home, away from the memory of that day, when I got the phone call from my brother while we were in the driveway, and for some strange reason I finally had good cell phone service up there. I remember asking him to repeat himself a few times. It didn't compute that my dad. MY DAD was dead. Even now, I expect a phone call or letter from him. After all, it's Christmas, isn't it?<br />
<br />
At the hotel on the trip home, I found myself loathing the morbidly obese man at the breakfast bar who was unquestionably larger and unhealthier than my father. How <i>dare</i> he be alive when my father is not! I found myself asking nobody in particular in my head why that man couldn't have died instead, and then immediately felt guilty for wishing such.<br />
<br />
Now we're home and I'm surrounded by his memory -- all the things I took from his place, for Christmas craft projects I didn't have the strength to make. Pillows from his old t-shirts, hats and bookmarks from his old sweaters, copies of his AA testimonies on CD. All of these things in neat boxes added to my closet -- my closet that I hope nobody has to go through should I leave this earth. My shit is now his shit. His shit is now my shit. Our shit. No wonder he pops into my head every time I'm in the throes of ecstasy with my husband. I thought I was just really fucked up. I am really fucked up, but maybe not as much as I thought Freud would think I am.<br />
<br />
So here I am, standing on the precipice between 2013 and 2014. I'm so ready to jump, to leave behind the pain and suffering that I remember from the last year. I can't remember being happy. I'm sure I was at some point, but the lingering pain snuffs it out so quickly. I'm also terrified to move on, as I can imagine even more terrible hardships ahead. I've lived a charmed life for the past 10 years, and now things are beginning to crumble away. December is crumbling away at my feet. If I don't jump into January, I'll fall into it with no bearings or footing.<br />
<br />
So here goes, 2014. I'll jump, face forward, feet first. I'm tear-stained, battered, bruised, beaten and tired. But I'm also strong, secure, and brave (if only on paper), and I have a lot of love around me. I'm coming through, not the other way around. Make way, and let me have my time, my love and my peace. If you bring me as much hardship and strife, I may leave you fading into history blood smeared and splattered like I did your predecessor, even if it is only on the absorbent layer of the pantyliner left in the trashcan of yesteryear.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And 2013, Fuck. You.Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-91356878691654459252013-11-19T23:05:00.000-08:002013-11-19T23:12:23.345-08:00Sir Chomps-A-LotMy kids go to a Spanish Immersion preschool, called <a href="http://www.amiguitos.org/" target="_blank">Amiguitos</a>! (The exclamation point is in the name, so I include it whenever I write the name, even on my tuition checks). We love the school, the staff, the teachers and the other families. However, tonight, I'm not writing about the school. I'm writing about L in the school.<br />
<br />
I spent what feels like the better part of the summer getting L potty trained so he could attend Amiguitos! They have a policy that you must be 3 when you start school there, and if not three, at the very least, potty trained. They simply don't have the facilities to change diapers. Since E was already flourishing in her Spanish aquisition, I just <i>had</i> to get L into the program. Plus, it's five minutes from work, so there really was no other option.<br />
<br />
L started at Amiguitos! at two years, five months, the youngest kiddo in his class. In addition, he's small for his age. He only recently outgrew is size 18 month pants. The boy is a shrimp. He's a freaking adorable shrimp, but he's a shrimp nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Because he's small, the other kids in his class assumed that they could do whatever they want when it comes to him and the toys he's playing with. What they didn't expect is that L had honed his dirty fighting skills on his big sister. So, within the first month, I received my first report of my son biting another child. It was over the little bike, which is popular among the kids because it's low to the ground and cool. It's also the only bike the little kids can ride where they can actually reach the pedals.<br />
<br />
So L was getting on the bike and another child decided to push him out of the way to get on the bike.<br />
<br />
Not so fast, was L's thought, and he bit the other child.<br />
<br />
On<br />
<br />
His<br />
<br />
Back.<br />
<br />
When you are a parent of a child who bites, it's embarrassing. When your job title happens to be "Early Childhood Education Specialist," it's humiliating. For one thing, I felt like I should have known this was bound to happen, and I should have figured out a way to prevent it. For another, after the third incident, I realized that I had no idea what to do, and I honestly thought I should send my teaching license back to TSPC.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-obDeiiQjd9k/UoxeWpysvzI/AAAAAAAAPJI/msviAONsDzE/s1600/IMG_20131027_120216-ACTION.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-obDeiiQjd9k/UoxeWpysvzI/AAAAAAAAPJI/msviAONsDzE/s400/IMG_20131027_120216-ACTION.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birds of a feather...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's shameful, really. This is what I do for a living. I figure out functions of behavior in young children and help them meet their needs in socially appropriate ways. I do this every day, and more than once in a day. Yet, when it came to my own child, all I could do was hang my head, cross my fingers and pray that I would not be given the news that "this just isn't a good fit" when I picked him up from school at the end of the day.<br />
<br />
And then I remembered that I have friends -- smart friends who also do this kind of thing for a living. So I enlisted their help. Specifically, I contacted my friend Ashley, who heads up the 2-1-1 Family Info line. The 2-1-1 Family Info line is a great parenting resource for anyone living in Clackamas, Multnomah or Washington Counties. You can call, email, or post on their facebook page any and all questions about parenting. You may have questions about child development, school readiness, handling family stresses, finding playgroups or other parent support groups, and biting. So I asked Ashley what I should do about L. Not only did she respond, the great crew at 2-1-1 created an illustrated story. I think they captured L's essence.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://211info.org/blog/bite-or-not-bite-illustrated-story" target="_blank">Click here to go to the totally awesome story.</a><br />
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Since contacting 2-1-1 and creating a partnership and plan with his school, we haven't had any more biting incidents. In fact, L has told me "I rode the little bike today. I took turns with _____!" And I tell him that he must be so proud of himself for using kind, friendly words to take turns with his friends. We walk out together with our heads held high. Thanks, Ashley!<br />
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<i>To contact the 2-1-1 family info line:</i><br />
<ul>
<li><i>dial 2-1-1 on your phone</i></li>
<li><i>text "children" to 898211</i></li>
<li><i>email children@211info.org</i></li>
<li><a href="https://www.facebook.com/211FamilyInfo/info" target="_blank"><i>facebook </i> </a></li>
</ul>
Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-2970977628347187872013-11-17T22:23:00.001-08:002013-11-17T22:23:23.048-08:00Camping With KidsI know it's technically not winter, but in NW Oregon, we have two seasons: Rain, and Going to Rain Soon. When the rains come, it's officially winter in my book. And what does a parent with two young children do during the 6-8 months of rain? Pack them up in the car and head to the coast for some camping, that's what!<br />
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I know you just blinked your eyes, swallowed hard and said "What the what?" in your head. But "winter" camping on the Oregon coast is nothing like "winter" camping anywhere else. For one thing, it rarely gets below freezing out here, and for another, we don't use tents. We use yurts. According to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yurt" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>, "A yurt is a portable, bent dwelling structure traditionally used by nomads in the steppes of Central Asia." The state park system of Oregon realized the benefits of having such in their campgrounds, and we discovered them many years ago. They're cheaper than a hotel, and warmer than a tent. Once we had kids, we realized it was the best way to camp. It's kind of like RV camping but without the RV (or the satellite dish). It's so freaking awesome. If you have kids and live in Oregon, I highly recommend you look into it.<br />
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This past weekend we stayed at Ft. Stevens State Park. We've never been to this particular park before. I imagine it's insane in the summertime. The campground part of the park is gigantic, with loops running the entire range of the alphabet. The nice part about camping in the off season is that half the campground is empty, so you can let the kids run around with wild abandon. Our yurt was on a hill, and the kids had a great time running up and down.<br />
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We packed in a hurry Friday night, and kind of forgot a few things. Some things, like my camera and E's headlamp weren't terribly important. Others, like our dutch oven and L's pants, were. So Saturday morning, we drove into Astoria to get some breakfast and do some thrift-store shopping.<br />
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We found a quaint restaurant with views of the bridge. The kids ate french toast with two kinds of syrup. They thought they had died and gone to heaven. We visited two different thrift stores. The first, just around the corner from the restaurant, was a bust. The second, located between Astoria and Ft. Stevens, was un-fucking-believable. If I had realized I would be writing a blog about it, I would have taken a picture of it. I would have taken TEN pictures of it. It's called Penny-Wise Thrift Store, and it's amazing. It's like everyone in the Astoria/Warrenton/Seaside area of Oregon cleaned out their garages and brought the stuff to Pennywise. There is sooo much stuff! You couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a toddler ride-on toy, and when I couldn't find any kid clothing, the guy told me "That's next door." I was confused, and then he explained that they had a second building where they keep women's & children's clothing and toys. He gave us a key and we walked over. The other building was a house. The entire downstairs was filled with clothing and toys. So many toys. E wanted everything. We had to remind her that we were there for pants for L. But we ended up at the cash register with some pots and pans, pants, a musical jewelery box, a puzzle and alphabet stamps. Nothing had price tags on them. When we asked the woman about it, she said in a very cute New Zealand accent (I only recognize it as a New Zealand accent because she sounded exactly like my neighbors when I was growing up, who just happened to be from New Zealand), "That's because we have so much stuff and we're all volunteers, dear. We can't put prices on everything. All this benefits mental health, dear. It looks like you have about $15 worth." Paul looked in his wallet. He had eleven. I had conveniently left my purse in the yurt for the day, but remembered that we had a bunch of quarters in the car from when we were without a dryer for 6 months. Paul really didn't want to do that, but the woman was excited, because "the fishermen are always looking for quarters to do their laundry. They wipe us out all the time." She offered us Dum Dum lollipops (which E insisted are "suckers" and definitely NOT "lollipops"), and was impressed when L took two, offered one to Daddy, and when Daddy said "Thanks, but no thanks," he put one back. "You're doing a great job!" she said. Thanks, lovely lady at the thrift shop, because I'm pretty sure I was doing a terrible job the night before when we realized we had nothing to feed them. And I probably yelled at them about something stupid that morning. I always yell in the morning.<br />
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After our trip, we decided to take a walk. The sky was blue, and we figured we had a very short window of time to do much. Within two minutes of leaving the yurt, the skies opened and down came the hail. The kids didn't seem to mind. They happily ran through it, tried to catch it on their tongues, jumped in puddles, examined leaves on the ground, and simply enjoyed the simplicity of being outside, in the rain, in the clouds, in the hail, in the wind.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catching raindrops</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simple Pleasures</td></tr>
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We roasted marshmallows after dinner, in the 30 minute rain reprieve before bedtime.</div>
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This morning, after packing up the car, we checked out the shipwreck of the Peter Iredale. It ran aground in 1906, and the skeleton of its hull still stands at the beach, a constant reminder of the power of the sea. Even though I grew up on the ocean, the Pacific still scares me. The rocky beaches, freezing cold water, "sneaker waves," and this...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Atlantic's got nothing on the Pacific</td></tr>
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Please note that this photo was taken from quite a long distance away. The wind was really whipping and I didn't want to get any closer. Some day when we return and I have my good camera, I hope to go down there during low tide and get some awesome shots. For now, you'll have to settle for crappy cell phone photos from 1000 feet.<br />
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We also took some photos to commemorate dragging the kids out in the whipping cold wind and rain. This is what makes the memories, kids.<br />
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Next, we went to the fort. L fell asleep in the car in the five minutes to get there, so E & I walked into the museum together. There was a gigantic diorama of the fort during WWII, and with the push of a button, a little train chugged down the line. It was a hit with E. After L woke up, we walked around the old fort, and found a lookout tower that offered some cover for our lunch.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I swear, my family is not homeless</td></tr>
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We returned to the museum, played with the diorama again, and looked at the displays. One of my favorites was of a letter a woman had written about the attack of Ft. Stevens by a Japanese submarine. Not only was it amazing to read the first-hand account of what it was like to be attacked, it was amazing to read it in her handwriting. I felt a closeness to her in reading the words that she penned, in trying to decipher her script. How amazing and frightening that time must have been.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Jetty & Mouth of the Columbia in the distance</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Battery</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing down the stairs from the watch tower</td></tr>
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Google does this really cool thing when you upload photos. If they're taken in quick succession, they get put together into an animated gif. Well, here's one that was made today when my photos were uploaded from my phone. It looks like the Jeep is moving!<br />
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Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-38224638121987062822013-11-11T19:00:00.000-08:002013-11-13T22:38:07.031-08:00A Day of ThanksAhhh, November. It's the month of Thanksgiving, so naturally social media is filled with "30 days of thanks." And naturally, I fell for it, trying to post daily one thing that I could think of that I was actually thankful for that day. Cutting back on my social media time has made it more difficult to post, yet not so difficult to think of things I'm thankful for. Today being Veterans' Day, my thoughts and thanks go toward my grandfather, Sgt. Michael Hreha, a decorated WWII veteran. While I'm thankful for his service to our country, I'm much more thankful for the life and memories I have of him growing up. He was a kind, gentle and patient man who loved unconditionally and found joy in the simple and everyday.<br />
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I have an immense amount of respect for him. He was in the first wave of the D-Day invasion in Normandy, landing on Omaha beach, a member of the 29th infantry division. He was wounded twice, and when he took his last breath of life at the age of 89, still had shrapnel in his chest.<br />
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He didn't speak much about his time in the war. One of the stories I do remember involved him getting shot from behind, and being saved by his bible...and shovel. My mother had not yet been born when he left for the war, and she was two when he returned. When he did return, she greeted him by pushing him back toward the door, saying "No man! No man!"<br />
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How extremely heartbreaking it must have been, to spend that many years away, miss the birth and first two years of your first child's life, witness God knows what on the battlefield, escape death, be wounded, and return home to rejection from your baby girl.<br />
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It didn't last long, as my mother grew up adoring her father, but still. It couldn't have been easy.<br />
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And I'm sure the years to come were difficult. He most likely was dealing with PTSD, and in retrospect, I'm not sure he was over it in the 1980's, when I was growing up. I remember grandma telling me one day when there was a terrible thunderstorm that grampa always went into the bedroom during thunderstorms because the noise reminded him of the war. She said his friend was killed on the battlefield. I always imagined it like a football field, with rain coming down and his friend being struck by lightning. I'm sure it was just as intense, but I think it played out a little differently, and after reading the history of D-Day, I imagine there was more than one friend he watched die in front of him, or next to him. Because he never really spoke of that day, I wonder how many hands he held as lives slipped away right before him. I wonder how many times he was convinced he was dead, or going to die.<br />
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And I wonder how, after all of that, could he have been such a sweet, loving man my entire life.<br />
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As a parent of two small children, some days all the patience I have won't fill up a postage stamp. After experiencing the sudden, unexpected death of my father, followed closely behind by the death of my dear grandmother, I found expecting postage-stamp sized patience was probably expecting too much from me. I imagine grampa probably had the same trouble in the days and years following the war.<br />
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But I wasn't there, and I didn't know him then. I didn't know him as Mike Hreha, or Sgt Hreha, or Dad. I knew him as Grampa. Who he was and what he did prior to becoming Grampa is important, as it shaped him into who I remember, but it is not as important to me, since who he was when we were both alive together is the most important thing.<br />
<br />
I remember snuggling with him on the couch as he watched TV, with my head in his lap, resting my ear against his belly, the rhythmic up and down that corresponded with the breathing that I heard from the inside (a little rattle in his chest, thanks to smoking), lulling me to sleep. I remember that he always smelled like tobacco, and it was always comforting.<br />
<br />
I remember living down the street from my grandparents, having him walk me home after spending the night over there, and trying to keep up. He always started out on his left foot, a habit from the military, he said. His palms were rough, and the hair on the back of his hands was jet black and wiry, some strands standing straight up, at attention.<br />
<br />
I remember watching him stand over the hood of his car, just looking, tinkering, changing a spark-plug or two. I remember watching him build a fence, paint the shed, lay concrete, and turn the carport of our house into an extra room. Grampa could build anything.<br />
<br />
I remember bringing broken things to his house: toys, electronics, tools, furniture, you name it. He would fix it. He was the king of splicing. Just about every item in our house that had a plug had a new plug spliced onto its cord when it stopped working, thanks to us kids pulling the plugs out of the wall by their cords.<br />
<br />
I remember every piece of artwork I made getting a frame, and every puzzle I completed getting painstakingly glued, piece by piece, to a piece of cardboard or plywood. I remember getting my hair cut off outside in the back yard when I had lice. I remember countless pick ups and drop offs at school, work, play practice and cross country meets.<br />
<br />
I remember Grampa's laugh -- it started as a wheeze, and would shake every part of him as he "heed" and "hawed" over and over again.<br />
<br />
I remember Grampa building the dome for the new church, and seeing his picture with it in a supermarket tabloid of all places. Who says they don't write the truth?<br />
<br />
I remember jumping off the self-propelled merry-go-round contraption at the park, falling backwards and cutting my forehead at my eyebrow. Grampa picked me up, and stopped the bleeding with his handkerchief. As we pulled into the driveway, mom and Gramma were there, pale as ghosts, since the handkerchief was pretty bloody. <br />
<br />
"It's OK, Mommy," I replied, "Grampa bought me a cheeseburger!" He knew exactly how to make me feel better.<br />
<br />
I remember the poem he wrote about me, and how much I loved and hated it when he wrote it, and how the hate dissipated as time passed, and I find myself reciting it whenever I need a laugh and a little encouragement.<br />
<br />
I remember playing Uno with him on the back porch during hot summer nights. No matter how many times we played, he never quite understood how the game worked, and always ended up with tons of cards in his hand at the end of the game.<br />
<br />
I remember swimming in the pool as he got the grill started. I remember the delicious smell of lighter fluid, charcoal, burgers, chlorine, Hawaiian Tropic and sunshine. I remember eating the burgers while listening to WNDB, "The Music of Your Life," and Gramma insisting that the song about watching the girls go by was his favorite. <br />
<br />
I remember how much I loved his delicious sauteed cabbage dish that I have yet to figure out how to replicate.<br />
<br />
And my most favorite memory, or group of memories, will always be when he would pick me up from dance class on Saturdays when I was in elementary school. We always stopped at McDonalds. He'd order a cheeseburger happy meal with milk, and two hamburgers and two coffees. We'd get it to go, and at his house, we'd all sit down at the table. Gramma would pull out her green, plastic placemats with leaf designs that I spent much of my childhood tracing with my finger. She'd open up my happy meal and pass me my cheeseburger and milk. Then she'd dole out the fries. She'd take two (she was on Weight Watchers), and split the rest evenly between Grampa and me. I loved sharing my fries with Grampa. He always seemed genuinely grateful to get those fries and I loved making him feel that good.<br />
<br />
I don't remember seeing Grampa get mad or yell. I was pretty sure he was incapable of such things. I know it happened, and if I dig hard, I could probably find one or two examples, but that's not what I want to remember. I want to remember how he hugged me, how the stubble on his face would scratch me when I kissed him, how that one stray eyebrow hair always stuck out, and how his toenails were so long and thick. I want to remember how he would always crack a smile when Billy sang "Go go go Grandpa!" to the Godzilla song. I want to remember the way his hands looked when he started his car, the Galaxy 500. I want to remember the skinny legs and boney knees that came out of his swim trunks, the only time he ever wore shorts. I want to remember his wheezy laugh. And I want to remember his love. He had a lot of it, and I am ever so thankful that I got it.<br />
<br />
So on Veteran's Day, and every day, I am thankful that I got to be part of Michael Hreha's life, and I'm thankful he got to be part of mine. I love you, Grandpa.<br />
<br />
And because you're probably wondering about that poem, here it is.<br />
<br />
Dawn Stringer<br />
was a singer.<br />
She sang like a bird<br />
that nobody heard.<br />
She danced on a stage<br />
and she was a rage.<br />
She also smoked a pipe<br />
that nooooobody liked.<br />
<br />
<br />
Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-28726090889508440522013-11-11T00:17:00.000-08:002013-11-11T00:17:56.733-08:00Hard TimesI got a phone call on my 40th birthday from my dad. I missed his call. I meant to call him back, but never got around to it. Every time I pick up the phone to call someone, the kids get into a fight, or one of them needs help with something, or suddenly there's poop on the floor, wall, and other surfaces of the house. Since we were on summer break, I couldn't call him from work, so I just didn't call. I kept telling myself that I needed to call him, but each day ended with no phone call.<br />
<br />
On August 29th, 25 days after I missed my dad's phone call, I got one from my brother informing me that I would never get the chance. He died suddenly that morning, of an apparent heart attack. Motherfuck.<br />
<br />
We all headed to California, dealt with the craziness of packing up his house, getting him buried, finding a caregiver for my grandmother, and moving forward with our lives. In less than a month, on September 27th, my mother's mother, the grandmother I grew up with and considered a second mother to me, passed away, just four days shy of her 96th birthday. Doublemotherfuck.<br />
<br />
It took six weeks to get her funeral scheduled at Arlington to finally rest with my grandfather, her greatest love. It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but it was a beautiful ceremony, and so apropos to happen this close to Veteran's day, when grampa's picture is on my calendar to signify it. It was quite unfortunate that it also happened to be the exact day of my daughter's 5th birthday. Triplemotherfuck.<br />
<br />
However, I've been trying to be zen about everything, stealing a line from Kurt Vonnegut's <u>Slaughterhouse Five</u>, "So it goes." Of course, whenever I think that line, it always ends with motherfuck. <br />
<br />
Because of everything that has happened in such a short amount of time, I've become overly sensitive to mortality -- mine, people I don't know, my mother's, my siblings', my spouse's, and my children's. It is very hard to be zen about such things. so it goes, so it goes, so it goes. motherfuck.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to slow my life down a bit, take time to smell the roses, and my babies' hair. I'm also checking their breathing on a regular basis, double checking their 5 point harnesses in their car seats, and cutting their food into the most impossibly small pieces so they don't choke. <br />
<br />
Part of my slow down plan includes limiting my social media time. It has become such a time suck for me. I found myself in groups on Facebook that did nothing for me, and only made me angry, posting advice to people I don't know and shouldn't care about that they're not going to read or heed anyway. I don't have time to worry about other peoples' problems. I have two beautiful children and a husband to worry about. THEY need me, not names associated with profile pictures that may or may not portray the actual person. I have actual people to think of and care about.<br />
<br />
So, I spent one evening removing myself from all but a handful of groups on Facebook. It was liberating.<br />
<br />
My next step is to limit my time on said time-sucking social media website. I haven't quite figured out how to do that, whether it's to set a timer or have a specific time of day when I can access the site. I've already cut back on my time, and I think it's because I'm not reading all the posts on all the group pages that I'm no longer on. <br />
<br />
I've also decided to start writing more, because I have a lot to say. I have so many ideas in my head that are dying to get out, and quite honestly, I can't handle any more death right now, so I need to let them out. I have a lot of half-started blog posts saved, as well as ideas jumping up and down in my brain shouting "Pick me! Pick me!" as I sit down in front of my computer to type away. My fingers don't work as quickly as my brain does, so they will have to wait a little while. But I will write. By God, I will write. I may not get it all down in one sitting, but that's because I have children, and a husband, a job, laundry, and a shit-ton of squash to turn into sweet bread tomorrow. But I will write. I promise you that. I will write.Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-40021639354394567202013-08-24T10:06:00.002-07:002013-08-24T10:06:37.391-07:00A Post About Food<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I have never posted about food, but I do admit that I love it. I
seriously love to eat. I also love to cook, but you wouldn't ever guess
that since Paul is the one who does the bulk of the cooking in the
house. I don't like cooking for the kids. They're picky, they tell me
they hate things that I slave over a hot stove for, and they don't like
their green beans to touch onions. Ever.</div>
<br />
So there's no fun in
cooking for them. But I do love to cook. Before Children (BC), I loved
hosting parties and get-togethers so I could showcase my talents,
trying out new recipes and testing new ways to prepare old favorites.
Once children came, it was too much to do all that, and clean the house,
and keep the kids fed, and change diapers... So I stopped.<br />
<br />
But
every now and then, I get the urge and inspiration. Today we're on our
way to the local PLSO (Professional Land Surveyors of Oregon) chapter's
summer picnic, so I made one of my old standby favorites - Macaroni
Salad.<br />
<br />
For those of you who don't know me, we have been gluten
and dairy free for almost 5 years. I have spent that time tweaking old
recipes into new ones that work for our family. This is one such
recipe, and it keeps getting better! For Father's Day, I bought Paul a
Vitamix, so this version has homemade mayo. If you've never liked
conventional mayo from the store, I highly recommend that you make your
own. I can't stand the stuff, but the first time I made my own, I ate
half the jar.<br />
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You see -- it's not all weird whiteness. It has a nice yellow sheen. I think it has to do with the fact that you use dry mustard in the recipe... </div>
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..but I also use farm fresh eggs. I love living in Portland. Everyone has chickens (except me), so you can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone who wants to sell you some of theirs.<br />
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So back to this macaroni salad that I made (with home-made mayo from farm-fresh eggs, because that's how we Belchigators roll). I chopped up 1/2 of a gigantic onion, two stalks of celery and a red bell pepper. <br />
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Then I mixed up my mayo, vinegar, sugar, salt, pepper and mustard. (Why, yes. That <i>is</i> the whisk attachment to my hand-held mixer! I'm classy like that)<br />
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Then I cooked up my pasta. I use Trader Joe's brand gluten free pasta. I cook it for 10-11 minutes (the instructions say 7-10) so that it's good and done. Once it sits in the fridge for a few days, it starts to get crunchy, so it's best to start out with really well done noodles. I drain them and rinse them with cold water. And when I rinse them, I <i>really </i>rinse them. I stir them around and make sure that every single noodle is good and cold.<br />
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Then I mix up the noodles with the veggies...<br />
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...dump the sauce on and stir. Voila! Delicious macaroni salad!<br />
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And now that you want to make some because you know I'm eating this while I type (and getting that yummy sauce all over my keyboard), here is the recipe. Enjoy!!<br />
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<div class="hrecipe">
<span class="item">
</span>
<div class="fn">
<span class="item">Gluten Free Macaroni Salad</span></div>
<span class="item">
</span>
<br />
Ingredients<br />
<ul>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">2 - 16oz packages</span>
<span class="name">Trader Joe's Gluten Free Pasta (I use the Fusilli)</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">1 Cup</span>
<span class="name">Mayonnaise</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">1/4 Cup</span>
<span class="name">Distilled White Vinegar</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">1/4 Cup</span>
<span class="name">Sugar</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">2 1/2 Tablespoons</span>
<span class="name">Prepared Yellow Mustard</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">1 1/2 Teaspoons</span>
<span class="name">Salt</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">1/2 Teaspoon</span>
<span class="name">Ground Black Pepper</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">1</span>
<span class="name">Onion</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">2</span>
<span class="name">Celery Stalks</span>
</li>
<li class="ingredient">
<span class="amount">1</span>
<span class="name">Red Bell Pepper</span>
</li>
</ul>
Cooking Directions<br />
<ol class="instructions">
<li class="instruction">
Chop onion, celery and bell pepper and set aside in large bowl.
</li>
<li class="instruction">
Cook pasta in boiling water for 10-11 minutes, until very well done. Drain and rinse well so that every piece of pasta is cool to the touch.
</li>
<li class="instruction">
While pasta is cooking, whisk together mayo, vinegar, sugar, mustard, salt and pepper by hand.
</li>
<li class="instruction">
Add cooled pasta to veggies and mix. Pour sauce over and mix well, so that everything is coated.
</li>
<li class="instruction">
Cover and store in refrigerator overnight.
</li>
</ol>
</div>
Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067935558881919095.post-46978295482195148962013-08-13T15:44:00.001-07:002013-08-13T15:46:22.446-07:00Strength In NumbersSo, I'm on this message board on Facebook for a Baby & Me group from the hospital. The Baby & Me groups were formed by the hospital for new parents to get together and share the joys and despair of new parenthood. It's mostly moms, even though the hospital promotes it as a place for anyone to come. On this board, I have a friend, whose daughter is about 6 months younger than L. She recently posted a question asking the other moms what to do about her daughter screaming in restaurants. There was a ton of advice, and most moms posted what they do/did, and how long this phase of screaming in restaurants lasted for them. It's an awesome place to go (both physically and electronically) to get a lot of ideas and commiserate over motherhood.<br />
<br />
The thing that struck me, wouldn't leave me, and kept me up last night was the fact that she mentioned that while at a "family friendly" restaurant, she got disparaging looks for the fact that her 19 month old daughter was screaming (and then giggling like a fool because she was getting the attention she wanted) during dinner. After reading all the responses, it seems to me like <i>every</i> toddler does this at some point in their life. So I couldn't figure out how people at this restaurant could be put off by it. If you have a family, you've been through this. Are you so far separated from the toddler years and early motherhood that you forget? Or have you rewritten your personal history in your head that tells you that your children <i>never</i> did such things?<br />
<br />
Motherhood (and fatherhood) is the single-most difficult job you will ever have in your entire life, for the least amount of pay. It is also the most isolating life change a woman experiences, which is why, I think, so many women judge other mothers' parenting skills and choices. You don't get much public support and praise for giving your best, just disdain for the outcome of your child screaming in a restaurant, peeing on the waiting room floor of the pediatrician's office, or having an all-out, on the floor, kicking and screaming meltdown at Target because you came to buy toilet paper, not a Thomas train.<br />
<br />
When E was a baby, another new mom friend of mine & I went to one of those big consignment sales in downtown Portland. Another couple of moms noticed the diapers our kids were wearing, and made a sweet comment: "Cute diapers!" I noticed that those moms used cloth diapers, too, so I decided to show off my awesome cloth/disposable hybrid <a href="http://www.gdiapers.com/" target="_blank">gDiapers</a>, which are a local company (because local is good in Portland, right?) The two women looked us up & down with disgust and stated "We <i>only </i>use wool," and walked off. <br />
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What?!?!?! <br />
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I couldn't believe that another mother could do something like that - to make another mother feel inferior to you just because they made a different choice about what they should catch poop with. I went home and thought about this for a while. And by "a while," I mean, I am still thinking about this. I will be the first person to admit that I judge. Rather, <i>have judged</i>. Past tense. When you're a new mom, and the majority of the advice you get is 30 year old stuff from your mom who takes it as a personal affront that you're not doing things the way she did it, you need some way to validate your choices as a mother. When you're pushing your happy kid through the grocery store and someone else's is whining over not getting chocolate, admit it. You smile to yourself and give yourself a pat on the back because <i>your</i> child would <i>never </i>do that... at least not at this particular moment in time.<br />
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When I realized and acknowledged the fact that I was silently judging other moms, I knew I had to do something to change, or I might become that mom at the consignment sale. It doesn't take long to go from silent, passive judge, to loud, obnoxious, overt, pushy judge. But what <i>could </i>I do? How could I feel good about my parenting choices in a world of parents who are different from me? Yes, I had friends who exclusively breastfed, but not all of them used cloth diapers. I had friends who used cloth diapers who bottle fed. I had friends who nursed exclusively and used cloth diapers, but turned their kids forward facing at 1 year. If I surrounded myself with people who did exactly what I did, I would be a group of 1. And then I realized why it was that motherhood is so frigging isolating. There is not one person who parents exactly like you. There is not one person who will make the same parenting choices as you. Not even your husband. And when you're brand new at this job, you really need some validation to know that your choices are good and right. Hell, even when you're at it for a few years, you need that validation, because even though you've been a mom for 10 years, this is the first time you've been a mom to a 10 year old.<br />
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And that is when I made the conscious decision to support every mother I met, no matter what, in their decisions and their parenthood. When I nursed in public, I would seek out another nursing mom and sit next to her. While I'm extremely shy and didn't even speak (the internet is a savior to us introverts), just having that silent support and strength in numbers was enough. Any jackass can tell one mom to cover up, or leave an area for feeding her child in public, but there are few who will speak up to a group of moms. In restaurants, I choose to sit next to other families. Again, strength in numbers.<br />
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But I can do more, I can do so much more. When I see a mom struggling in the grocery store with a screaming child, I can say "I know where you are right now. Parenting is a bitch, and you are awesome. My kids do that all the time." In fact, today I did just that. While buying shoes at the local Fred Meyer with my kids, a woman with three kids (for those of you who are mathematically challenged, that's a 3 to 1 ratio of children to parents; a 6 to 2 ratio of kid hands to adult hands. Try to wrap your head around that one) was experiencing the drop to the floor tantrum.<br />
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I stopped and said, "Parenting while shopping is tough, isn't it? As if parenting wasn't hard enough as it is..."<br />
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She replied that she couldn't wait until school started.<br />
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"I hear you, sister!"<br />
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And off we went on our separate ways. It was a short exchange, but I hope that the commiseration was enough to keep her strong through that moment.<br />
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I plan on continuing to offer encouragement to struggling parents in public wherever I go. And I offer you a challenge to do the same. When you see a mom nursing in public, give her a thumbs up, pat on the back, high five, whatever you feel comfortable with. Same goes for a mom bottle feeding in public. If a toddler is screaming in a restaurant, go over to the mom and tell her what an awesome mom she is for braving a restaurant with a young child, and how you remember those times. When a mom is dealing with an all-out tantrum, let her know that you have been there, will be there, and understand everything she is feeling right now, and that she is awesome. Hell, if you're feeling really good about it, how about you offer to watch her cart while she goes outside to help her child with an attitude adjustment? <br />
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Let's all make a pact, right here and right now that we will stop
judging to make ourselves feel better about our choices as parents, and
instead start encouraging others so that we <i>all </i>feel good.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because 20 minutes of this is enough to make Mother Theresa drop the F-bomb.</td></tr>
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<br />Belcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00977620631846588173noreply@blogger.com4