Desperately Seeking Superwoman

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Social distance diary – Day 18

April 3, 2020

I’m sitting at my desk with the windows open, for the first time in so long it’s painful to try and retrace the days. I can hear birds chirping. I can hear bicycle tires ramping up over the curb that takes folks down the path behind our house. And I can hear children. My children, but also, other children. Playing. Laughing. Indicating that the world – weird as she is at this moment – is still turning.

It all has me feeling pretty nostalgic. Remember when we were kids? There may be some years between those of you reading this and myself, but generally, it was similar. We were always outside. I can remember playing Jail Break with the neighborhood kids until what felt like midnight (but was probably 10 o’clock). For the most part, we all knew each other, but if someone new showed up, the conversation was basically like this:

“You gonna play?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Don’t take my hiding spot.”

“Cool.”

And that was it. Thirty seconds and it was on. We were running and getting dirty and freezing well into the dark hours of the evening, noses dripping and ready to drag across a heavy sweatshirt sleeve, and it was freaking fantastic. Those are great memories.

If there was a patch with more than five trees, it became an epic forest where we played pioneer people or kidnapped princesses. I remember crouching down in a vacant lot in our old neighborhood for hours, making salads and potions out of clover, dandelions and Queen Anne’s Lace. I’d talk to myself and whoever else came along and we’d rub the sunny petals on our fingertips and make endless jokes about how it was pee.

And always, after hours, or atleast what felt like hours, I’d burst through the garage door and my mom would be sitting at the kitchen table or up in her room watching her programs and munching on stovetop popped popcorn with melted butter, never concerned or frantic about where I’d been.

These days, we’re all “Where are you going?” “Who are you going with?” “Who are their parents?” “Where do they live?” “What’s their social security number?” I don’t know if it’s the simple fact that we get powerwashed daily with disturbing, horrific stories about padlocked creeper vans and color-coded alerts on social media 24/7 or just that time has changed the culture that much, but somewhere along the line, just letting your kids go out and play got so much more complicated!

But of the few blessings to come from this COVID-19, social-distancing bizarro world we’re inhabiting, one has to be the return to simple joy. To neighborhood kids meeting by a giant puddle to catch tadpoles and exchange exaggerated stories. To muddy legs and wild hair. To filthy fingernails and new discoveries. Though caution is still part of the impromptu playdate. This afternoon, I stood in the backyard and Sloppy Joan yelled across the common area, “Mom! We have new friends! But we’re not touching them!”

Granted, this newfound freedom has come simply because I don’t have the capacity to entertain a 10, 8 and 5-year-old while still working a full-time position in healthcare during a global pandemic, but it’s a blessing all the same. Twice this week I actually lost them. All three of them. But I found them … eventually.

I will not sit here and type lies to you people. I love you too much. This has not been easy. If you’d like an honest recap of days 8-17, please take these bulleted items and rearrange them in different configurations:

Feed people
Clean up food
Yell
Work
Yell
Cry
Conference call
Yell
Feed people
Clean up food
Yell
Conference Call
Work
Drink
Sweet moment
Feed people
Work
Yell
Cry
Marco Polo
Sleep
Repeat

But it isn’t all bad and I’m trying so damn hard not to let the insanity of it all just swallow me whole. Last night, after dinner, it was beautiful out and we decided to go for a walk. There were so many people outside. As our motley crew strolled along, everyone was waving and chatting. It felt like a neighborhood of yesteryear, when people stood over fences and chatted until the mosquitos emerged.

We walked to my brother’s house (he lives on the other side of our neighborhood), and he informed me that what we were witnessing was actually intentional. Something called “The 7 o’clock Wave”. Well … how wonderful is that? A set time to stroll out and smile at the other people going crazy in their houses which are a stone’s throw from your house, where you’re going crazy. I’m in.

I’m finding that, as accessible as certain people are right now, it’s almost becoming easier to neglect those relationships. I’m being so intentional about connecting with the people I can’t see, but I have to be intentional about the ones I’m locked in my house with, too. Yesterday afternoon, after they announced the chicks would not be going back to school for the rest of the year, we sat on our driveway in a circle. I asked them what was something good that’s come from this situation? Something bad? How they’re feeling overall. The warmth of the sun felt so soothing. We baked in the light and released all of it. I was honest, too. Just because I’m the mom doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. Sometimes I think I feel them bigger and deeper than anyone. (Somewhere nearby my husband just uttered, “No shit!”)

Anyway, we’re still here. The sun has stayed for a couple of days and, while I know she can’t stick around, that’s been the greatest gift this week. I hope that you are well. I hope that you are finding release and relief. I hope this time of slowing down is bringing some sweetness to your life. Consider this your 7 o’clock wave. I see you. You aren’t alone. We’ve made it through another week.

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Social distance diary – Day 7

March 23, 2020

9:30 am

It’s been a week. Officially. A week of this bizarre counterfeit reality. I didn’t fall asleep until 3 o’clock this morning. I tried all my tricks … The Gilmore Girls didn’t even work, and that adorable duo always turns my lights out. My body doesn’t know what day it is, what time it is, what I want from it. What is the circadian clock of which you speak?

There is no talk of such things as work/life balance right now. Why try, when it’s really work/life/anxiety/activity planning/binge eating/homeschooling/distraction creating/workouting/stress reducing/refereeing/sanity salvaging balance, instead? I have decided not to set expectations that I simply cannot meet during this unscripted, unexplored, unprecedented period.

JoJo brought Hank and I breakfast in bed. She’d hand-squeezed (literally, with her tiny hands) a small cup of orange juice for each of us. She had Golden Grahams for him and high fiber something-or-other for me, and a bowl of fresh fruit (half apples, half sweaty raisins). I turned on CBS Sunday Morning and leaned into it. She was so proud of her efforts, and I was so proud that she thought highly enough of us this far into this thing to do it.

11 am

The chicks decided to put a tent up in the backyard. I used to worry about only having our little chicks. I wondered if Hank would ever regret not having a son. But the truth is, he’s just so good at being a Girl Dad. I sat in the next room, listening to him coach JoJo through assembling the poles, and my heart nearly exploded. These times are different, tense even, but they’re sweet, too. It’s opening up space for more imagination, more play and more willingness for us to say, “sure, why not?”

1 pm

Canceled race be damned, my training buddies and I decided to meet for a little run at our favorite state park. I’d been so desperate to stretch my legs and see my trail sisters. Call it forest bathing or tree hugging or nature therapy … whatever you name it, the stuff works. Passing like a pin through a sea of sturdy oaks gives me perspective. It humbles me and warms my heart. I take so much in with me – stress and expectations and doubt – and I lose them somewhere along the path. The woods absorb my problems and wash me clean.

Today, maybe more than ever before, I tried to sink into my senses. I listened to the boisterous bullfrogs around the pond. I felt my feet lower into the mud. I acknowledged the subtle burn in my legs as the hills picked up. My friend, Dr. Dave, recently wrote a great piece about mindfulness during this COVID crisis, and I highly recommend checking it out and then applying it wherever and whenever possible.

The funny part is, I was absolutely dying to see these girls. Dying. The only thing I wanted was to catch up with them and have real conversation with real humans. But once I got there, I realized I didn’t have much to say. The world was in much the same disarray as it was the last time we ran. My house, the same. My mind, the same. It was still nice though. Lovely actually.

One thing I love to see, I have to share, is the increased number of folks getting outside. The park was hoppin’ like a Florida strip on high school spring break. People were strolling with pups and kids and one couple, I swear, was on a first date. As I ran by and for several minutes after, I imagined they met in some virtual space and decided to take it face-to-face but had legit fears about swapping air. I’ve been watching a lot of Love is Blind ,OK? Anyway, so glad to see people gettin’ out there.

4 pm

“What the hell is going on?” Sloppy Joan asked from the kitchen. We all gasped and Hank sent her into the corner to the soundtrack of our muffled snickering. It was directed at some carpet Hank had torn up in the basement, but really, isn’t it what we’re all thinking? I couldn’t even fault the five-year-old for voicing the question I’ve been asking the general universe every 10 minutes for the past few weeks.

One thing giving me life right now is the app Marco Polo. I have three main groups: My high school posse, my family and Hank’s family. My girlfriends are always entertaining (my friend in LA shared an entire sequence of her catching a mouse on a sticky trap, transferring said-mouse to a jar and then letting it go, all on Marco Polo) and it’s just good to see their beautiful faces, but the family groups … oh, you guys. I love people of an advanced age navigating new technology. For her first five submissions, it was just my mom’s squinting, shifting eyes and crumpled nose. The next slide would be my teenage niece just hysterically laughing at her Grammy. It is the comic relief we need in this time of quarantine.

People hate on technology so hard all the time, but with all that’s going on, I say zoom, facetime, instant chat, polo … whatever virtual meetup you need to do to stay connected and share the experience of hiding from your children in a pantry. We don’t have to be totally alone right now.

And now, it’s snowing.

7 pm

The doorbell rang while we were havingdinner. It was my sweet friend Taylor, stopping by to drop off a framed illustration for my new home office. It was a tiny, giant gesture; a flashlight flickering to send signals of life in the darkness. She stood on my porch – absolutely embarrassing from hours of little girls setting up forts and herding earthworms – snow falling furiously behind her, and smiled brightly. She’d driven across town just to hand deliver the paper-wrapped gift. We couldn’t hug. She didn’t come inside. But I still felt the contact, and it felt so, so special. At a time when nobody knows what to think, she thought of me.

I said it before and I’ll say it again, these times are tense, but they’re sweet, too. When this thing passes, and we thaw out from the social freeze, we will be so grateful for the touch and closeness of the people we love and who love us. We just have to keep our eyes forward. Toward the warmth.

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Social distance diary – day 3

March 19, 2020

6 am

I did it. I worked out. It was brief, but better than nothing. I opted for a Beachbody Fight Club number, and let me tell you, when the instructor prompted me to picture what I was punching, I visualized the actual word “COVID-19” and then I went all Kill Bill on its ass. Who needs to pay for therapy?

7:30 am

The four of us, sans Hank, went for our walk around the back path. We each cupped our coffee and hot cocoa and delighted at the orange sherbert skyline peeking out from behind the trees. It was chilly – somewhere in the low 30s – but with the sing-song birds and leisurely pace, it felt warmer. Or at least like it should be warmer. The older chicks ran ahead so they could log onto their first day of e-learning, but I stayed with Sloppy Joan. We shuffled along as she sucked the droplets of cocoa off her lid and giggled wisps of sweet breath into the early morning air. I love five. It’s such a magical age, isn’t it?

2 pm

My Misfits Produce box arrived! Guys, it’s the simple things in life right now. This is my third round of misshapen, salvaged produce and I’m a believer. I do the big box, $35, every-other week and it’s crazy how much you get.

The concept is really simple. Basically, some genius decided to take all of the fruits and veggies that weren’t as pretty as their peers or slightly bruised on the verge of being trashed or “extra” and box it all up and ship it out to folks for a discounted rate. It’s a great way to help reduce food waste and it’s also a fun little surprise. Is this a squash or an ungly fruit? I don’t know! Let’s find out! (Get 50% off with code COOKWME-ZN8QWY … I feel like a legit podcaster right now. Only I don’t get paid to say that. I just like it.)

Also, my friend Jen sent me this screenshot. So … I guess I’m pretty much famous. I’ll always remember you guys.

3 pm

Today I had a huge epiphany. Huge, Jerry! Spike was talking about how desperately she missed her BFF from aftercare. Just so happens, I know said-BFF’s darling mother. So I sent her a text and set up a Facetime playdate. At 3 pm sharp, their two adorable little grins showed up on a shared screen. Spikey walked around showing her our basement, our geratric dog, her bedroom, what we had for snack. The things 8-year-old girls talk about are absurd and adorable and altogether precious.

“I’m just so excited to see you!” she said. “Even if you’re just on the phone.” She covered the entire house and 25 minutes of conversation. It was the biggest smile I’d seen between her fantastically full cheeks in days.

7 pm

My JoJo was showing all the signs of stage 4 meltdown. She wouldn’t talk to any of us at dinner, she didn’t react when we all raved about the chocolate cupcakes she made from scratch (#COVID15) and she didn’t want to talk about her first day in the virtual classroom. “Would you like to Facetime your bestie after dinner?” I asked.

She hopped out of her seat and watched over my shoulder as I text her homegirl’s mom. A few technical glitches and bam! They were nose-to-nose. “I miss you so much!” she gushed into the smudged screen. Her bestie – we’ll call her Sid – is quite the character. I sat a few feet away and listened in as she put on a show with her cat, explained what sparkling water was and walked JoJo through her entire dinner and jigsaw puzzle activity from earlier in the day (an orangutan meme saying something like, “I farted”).

Today I realized that my girls have friends, too, and they need those lifelines just as much as I need my circle of soul sisters. It’s so easy to forget, with all the disruption to our work schedules and social schedules and meal planning, that these little humans lives and social connections have been disrupted, too. Of course they’re feeling cranky. They’re sick of each other! They’re sick of me. They miss playing tag and setting up silly clubs for people who like magic and losing their minds over accidental classroom toots.

I need to be better about supporting them in watering those seeds of friendship so they can keep blooming even in this cold, unseasonable climate.

Also, this just in: Sloppy Joan has a fever. First 99 then a hop, skip and scare up to 100 within an hour. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Stay well, friends.

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Social distance diary – Day 2

March 17, 2020

8 a.m.

We had a quick video shoot, so I got up at my usual time, dressed, poured my coffee and headed into work. The parking lot was fuller than I’d anticipated. It almost felt like a normal day. Just for a minute.

Our department was pretty sparse, everyone off making decisions and scrambling to protect people and form policies. I checked in with the folks who were there, always at least four feet between us, and we engaged in what has now become the typical “this is crazy” conversation before heading back home.

9:30 am

My high school girlfriends – The OGs – have an ongoing group text thread. The screen on my phone lit up. It was them. Howls from my wolves out in the woods somewhere. We were taking each other’s temperature. How is everyone? How are your kids? How is your heart?

One of my girlfriends shared that she’s not great, feeling anxious and isolated. She said she plans to go deep into prayer and meditation in the coming days. I didn’t say it, but I’ve been going deep into food for all the same reasons. Some people turn to a higher power. I turn to high fructose corn syrup. I have work to do.

The messages kept coming … canceled vacations, sick parents, lost wages … These aren’t just people out there on the Internet. These are my people. My people are facing uncertainty. And my people are losing hope. And my people are coming undone. Somehow tossing out a text just doesn’t feel like a long enough rope to pull any of us back to shore. Back to safety.

A siren wailed in the distance.

10:30 am

Some thoughtful soul posted on our neighborhood facebook page that people should decorate shamrocks and put them up in their windows so kids could walk around and spot them. I pulled out the craft goodies and had the chicks get to work. Distraction is good. Tasks are good. Cut things out, paint them, throw glitter in the air. Anything to convince us there’s nothing to see here.

I could hear them from the other room, the oldest and the youngest, fighting again. Then me, yelling again. I had JoJo pull up a Cosmic Kids Yoga and ordered them each to get on a mat. “You all need to zen out for a little bit and quit driving me nuts!” Is this the definition of irony? Perhaps.

11 am

Just after 11, my body turned up the volume on what had been, up until that moment, a brewing anxiety attack. My chest was tight. I felt hot tears behind my lids. I could hear my racing pulse in my ears. Well, hello there, Panic. It’s been awhile. I stood up and started frantically swaying my arms back and forth, desperately trying to disengage the fight or flight hormones coursing through me.

Is it all the sugar I’ve been eating? Yes.

Is it the nature of my work? To some degree.

Is it being too plugged into the negative chatter? 100%.

Is it the girls fighting? Undoubtedly.

Is it fear? I’m sure.

It’s a million things and nothing at all, and for about 40 minutes my adrenaline surged and my nerves shook under my normal-looking flesh. For those of you who have experienced anxiety, you know the misery of its flexed muscle. The uneasy feeling in your stomach. The weight pressing down. The irrational conversation between your mind and your essential organs. If this was my body’s warning shot, the message is received: Move coping mechanisms to the top of the list.

(If you can relate entirely too well to this section of my post, please know that you are not alone. There are so many of us and there is so much strength, I believe, in speaking about it, naming it and fighting it in healthy ways.)

1 pm

At Hank’s recommendation (this is why God pairs people off), I text my niece to ask if she would ride her bike over and take the chicks out for a walk and some shamrock spotting. I had a work call.

Sidenote: Just to add a little more irony to this post, the call was with a group of mental health professionals to discuss the anxiety folks are experiencing as a result of the pandemic. Mind you, my primary focus was making sure that none of these co-workers could sense how completely dismantled I’d been just a short time before. How funny is that? I’m tossing out suggestions for “some people” when I was really just referencing myself and my close friends.

2 pm

My neighbor (and friend) sent a text in search of our country’s new currency, hand sanitizer. I happened to have a little bottle on hand, so I ran it over. I hope everyone has neighbors like we have. I’d spent the last hour pretending to be totally together and then walked into their house and did whatever the exact opposite of that is. I confessed that my beautiful children were driving me stark raving mad. That I was overwhelmed. Eating everything. Basically a stay at home working mom failure. They laughed, kindly, as people with hearts like theirs do.

The crew came marching up the street. They’d found 107 shamrocks to be exact and now had big plans to head over to Uncle Matt’s for a little hot tub party. I loaded them up in the car, clad in bathing suits with frilly netting and smiles that can only come with a lack of responsibility in a climate like this, and we drove through the neighborhood. Past windows plastered with homemade paper shamrocks and teenagers awkwardly strolling in pairs. Past parents cleaning out garages and waving from a safe distance. It’s our neighborhood. But it isn’t. But it is.

5:30 pm

Tonight I still have videos to post and tweets to answer. Tonight I have to set the girls up for online learning, which starts at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow (Praise be!) I have to do something with chicken in the instant pot and put away 300 pairs of folded socks I made the girls match this morning. But tomorrow, you guys … Tomorrow it begins.

Tomorrow, I’m going to get up early and sweat. I’m going to do my affirmations with extra conviction. I’m going to take my walk with JoJo around the back path. I’m going to help people but respect my own healthy boundaries. I’m going to eat things that nourish me (big one!) and I’m going to take thoughtful breaks. Tomorrow I’m going to hit refresh, reboot and do everything I can to keep my anxiety at bay. Because I’m still here and I’m sure, with time and grace, it will all be OK. But not tonight. Tonight I need wine.

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Social distance diary – Day 1

March 16, 2020

7:35 a.m.

JoJo and I decided to go on a short morning walk around the path behind the house. “Let’s do this every morning,” I said, my voice whimsical and drunk on the optimism I’d sponged off of celebrities’ Instagram stories just minutes before. The sky had a gray glow about it and the air was cold but welcoming. Birds flew over us in arrowhead formations and mismatched groups of three. They were talking to each other. JoJo and I were talking to each other. The day was rising and it was all going to be fine.

JoJo saw her friend’s Great Dane trotting around his backyard. “Hi Jake!” she boomed. “Hi Julie!” she called to her friend’s mom, who was standing at the door trying to coax her small horse of a canine back into the house. The poor woman, likely braless and uncaffeinated, smiled and shyly stepped onto her back porch. She gave a slight hello. “Good morning,” I offered, and urged JoJo to keep moving, out of respect for this woman and the quiet house I could see just beyond her shoulder. This, I realized, might be the only somewhat peaceful hour in her entire day. Let us not tread on that.

7:55 a.m.

Hank was waiting in the garage when we got back to the house, showered and ready to go face the public and all its pandemic-feeding germs. We walked into the house and found two little chicks awake and sniffing around for breakfast. “Can we get donuts?” Sloppy Joan asked. There’s something about a 5-year-old with raised eyebrows and a glazed twinkle in her eyes that just melts me.

“Does everyone want donuts?” I asked. I was trying to give off the oh-this-is-such-a-sacrifice vibe, but anyone who knows me knows that a donut run is just like a warm bubble bath to me. I’m always up for the cheap thrill, given the time. We climbed in the SUV, turned up “Hot Girl Bummer” and went for a box full of Long Johns and fritters of various sorts.

After my second cakey sour cream wheel, the guilt set in hard. I’m realizing that more time at home also means more time near my pantry. That, paired with my impressive impulsive stress eating habits, is shaping up to be quite the scale shifter. I’m tuning into a familiar inner dialogue:

Me: You’re going to go for a walk every morning, at lunch and to end the work day. You’re going to get all your workouts in, even extras when you have time.

Also Me: We should probably eat those zebra cake rolls to make room for more healthy staples. Also, that last fritter isn’t going to take care of itself.

I was on a phone call with a co-worker while eating my morning pastries. She expressed similar concerns about the carb-laden, shelf-stable staples she had in her cabinets. “Do you think the COVID 15 will become a thing?” she asked. I mean … if the last nine hours are any sign of what’s coming down the pipeline for this mama, it’s not out of the question. Thank goodness I only buy things with elastic around the waistline these days.

8:25 a.m.

I work in social media. Healthcare social media. Times are not slow, I assure you. The last several days have been an onslaught of direct messages, tweets, comments, replies, emails … all of the digital forms of all the communication. They haven’t tapered or showed any signs of slowing. I don’t see that as something that’s coming any time soon. And that’s OK. People are so scared. They’re sick or their loved one is sick and they’re trying to make the best decisions in a climate filled with booby traps and quick sand and unknown enemies lurking around every hidden door.

In my lifetime, we’ve never encountered a situation like this. So many lives are on the line and people – as empowered as we truly are given the option to distance ourselves and really impact the outcome here – are terrified. If I can offer an answer in someone’s moment of uncertainty, I am here for that. I am plugged in and on stand-by for that.

I sat down at my desk and refreshed the feed of messages. It looked much like it had for the past 72 hours – a colorful bouquet of political divisiveness, prayer, conspiracy theories, rally cries, questions and hate. So much hate. I don’t care how many years I spend scrolling the depths of social media, I will never get used to the anonymous warfare that plays out in hand grenades of profanity and bazooka blasts of disregard for civility. The things that people type from the safety of their cowardly keyboards is astonishing. Surprisingly, times of crisis, when the world should be pulling together and dosing out love in abundance, seem to amplify the disgusting dialogue. I’ve seen more people wish this virus on total strangers, simply because they don’t like their preferred political candidate or agree with state- or city-level restrictions, than I care to count.

If I may just offer one small suggestion … If you, unlike me, don’t have to jump into the deep, dark ocean of chatter and social scuffles, don’t. Follow and fill your feed with the people and personalities that lift you up. Lord knows that’s what we really all need at a time like this. Opt for facts. Stay above the rumors and run-ins and just hunker down with hope, happiness and humorous memes, instead. (There are some really good ones floating around.) Let all the children out there scream at their screens. Right now there’s all the time in the world, and absolutely no time for that.

11 a.m.

It took no less than a few hours for Spike and JoJo to start fighting. Ugh! The fighting. They were playing Battleship and lying about the location of their missile carriers, or whatever they’re called. Who raised these children, I ask you? We’d already had a handful of come-to-Jesus chats the day before, so they were familiar with the high points … We’re going to be spending a lot of time together … We have to work together as a family to get through this … Your sisters are going to be your best and only friends for a while … I will send you all to your rooms … blah, blah, blah … etc. and so on.

It’s so tired. Everything I say is so tired. They don’t wanna hear it. I don’t wanna say it. And every time I start in, I find myself already thinking about how many times I’m going to have to give the exact same lecture in the weeks to come. All we want is more time with our kids, until we get more time with our kids and realize just how unreasonable they really can be.

I told them they get one hour on the tablet or watching TV a day, so they better get creative. JoJo picked up her cookbook and chose a soft pretzel recipe. (Shout out to the Man Upstairs real quick for tucking that half a pouch of active yeast in the top cabinet. Thanks brotha!) This kept her occupied for a pleasant chunk of time.

Noon

I hung up from a conference call and realized there wasn’t any chaos. They were playing, peacefully. They’d repurposed the Battleship game into some sort of pirate-Medieval times scenario. There was a lot of scurvy and talk of those poor souls held captive, and I just kept typing away until the crew inevitably started demanding lunch.

JoJo’s timer beeped and she checked her pretzel dough. She was confident in the proof. I wasn’t quite convinced it had the right bounce-back, but I was trying to be pretty hands-off. She started rolling and shaping that dough like a gosh dang boss, and I couldn’t believe the Auntie Ann’s showmanship on display. “What? We had a pretzel guy come to our preschool class,” she shrugged.

“OK, guys,” I clapped my hands together, “We’re going to eat the more perishable foods first. So, what do you want for lunch?”

“Chicken nuggets!” Spike shouted.

“No, that’s a frozen food. We can hold onto those for a bit.”

“Ramen!” Sloppy Joan requested.

“Nope. Again, that’s a food we can hold onto for a long time.”

I was starting to realize that my children were 1) Sodium-seeking junkies, and 2) Not on the same page as me. We settled on deli sandwiches, apples and a second round of my lecture on sisterly love.

When JoJo’s pretzels were done, we all picked a condiment and grabbed one, warm off the baking rack. You know when your kids make stuff and you eat it to be nice or fan the flame of their creative fires? This was not that. These were so good, you guys. Like a warm, expandable hug that traveled down your esophagus, deploying miniature baby hugs all the way down. Here we go again, I thought. The COVID 15 is coming for me. Hard. Should I even fight it at this point?

3:20 p.m.

The governor just confirmed the first death related to COVID-19 in our state. The article announcing the news said that the patient’s wife also has the illness. “A nurse stayed with the patient so he didn’t have to die alone.”

I read that sentence, and then I read it again. And then I cried for a man that I never met. And I cried for his wife, who will hopefully one day soon feel physically healed, but who will be left with a scar so deep and so sore I can’t imagine the pain. I cried for the enormity of it all. And I cried for the beautiful, selfless, heart-wrenching gesture his nurse made today. One soul sitting with another soul, walking them right up to the place where the human experience crosses over into something else. That is so overwhelming and big. Bigger than any petty inconvenience this pandemic may cause. Bigger than politics and policies and brackets that never get to be busted. It’s as big as it gets … people loving people.

It’s a reminder that behind all of the climbing numbers on the maps and closure announcements and fear-inducing headlines, there are real human beings, fighting for their lives. And there are real healers and housekeepers and delivery people and manufacturers working tirelessly and giving relentlessly to this battle. It’s frightening and moving and immensely humbling.

6 p.m.

My phone vibrated on the desk next to me. A message from my friend Britni to the thread of gals I’ve been training with for the GE40, a 20-mile trail race in April. The event is canceled. It was a text I’d been waiting for, and dreading for a week now. All those miles we’ve logged. Not for nothing, but certainly a disappointment. We shuffled down rooty, soupy paths and up slushy hills in 30-degree weather in pursuit of a better time than the year before. I guess it isn’t in the cards. Onto the next challenge, whatever that might be. One that doesn’t involve more than 10 people coming together in one place apparently. It feels like everything is falling away, being taken off the table, one at a time, and seemingly all at once.

I put my phone down and finished up dinner. Sloppy Joan was rambling about who snuggled with whom last night and at what times.

“And then,” she said, “I walked in and I saw two little coochies in your bed.”

“You saw what?”

“Coochies. Two of them!”

And just like that … we smiled. We even laughed a little.

Uncategorized

Oh, hey Universe!

March 5, 2020

Isn’t time a funny thing? You go to bed one night, put in your bite guard and wake up months later only to realize you’ve been neglecting all personal creative outlets in your life for an obscene amount of time. Truly, it’s been an entire season of the Bachelor – maybe longer – since I posted anything. Two humans have formed a connection, met each other’s families, gone to the Fantasy Suite, gotten engaged, cashed in 12 wine delivery and teeth whitening endorsement deals, broken up and booked a seat to Bachelor in Paradise in the time I was away penning things tied to paychecks and project management systems. Pathetic. I’m embarrassed. I don’t recognize myself.

The important thing is to come back to the practice, right? To recenter. The beautiful thing about this space we’ve created here together, is that it isn’t going anywhere. It’s waiting for me any time I need to put some words somewhere, and it’s here for you any time you possibly want to read them. We’re reunited, if only for this one post, and it feels so good.

I wanted to share a bit about a book I’m working through and see if I can entice any of you to give the pages a flip. I’m about a quarter of the way through“Super Attractor” by Gabriel Bernstein. The premise is simple, really. It’s essentially about how good things flow from the Universe to those who are open to receiving them..

To give you an idea of the flavor of what we’re serving up for supper here, I’ve taken the liberty of gathering together some of my favorite lines from the beginning of the book …

“As soon as I allow the Universe to replace my fear-based beliefs with new perceptions, I receive miracles.”

“The ego convinces us that ‘good’ is limited and eventually our luck will run out. We’ve become addicted to suffering because we believe it’s necessary for reward.”

“In order to truly live as a Super Attractor, we must accept that good things can come easily.”

“Our resistance to feeling good is what blocks the good that we want to attract … The moment we let go of resistance and let ourselves feel good, everything we truly desire begins to come to us, naturally.”

“Feeling good is feeling God. When we feel good, we remember the God within us.”

Interesting, right? At first glance, it might feel a little woo-woo, but there’s something so attractive (no pun intended) about aligning with the invisible positive forces, swirling and delivering gifts all around us everyday. There have been so many times things didn’t go the way I thought they would, or something unexpected popped up and I struggled over what to do with it. Reading this book, I’m wondering now if those were all little baubles and trinkets from the Universe. Presents I shook wildly next to my ear and didn’t always open, either because I was unsure or because I was scared to flirt with change.

What would happen if we all stopped over-analyzing and pro-conning and speculating and just opened ourselves up, unprotected, to the possibility of goodness? What if we resolved to break up with pessimism permanently? What if, as Gabby puts it, we opted to “choose again”. To choose to find meaning and trust and hope in the seemingly disruptive introduction of something new or optional or unexpected. I still have a few hundred pages to go, but I think really great things could happen.

If a full vulnerability overhaul isn’t in the cards for you, allow me to offer something else. Something a tad more practical. The real motivator for me to hop on here was to share a practice I picked up from the book. Gabby encourages readers to write down a list of affirmations. Keep in mind that these could change over time. The goal here is not to write down things like, “I am JLo’s body double,” or “I will have a Corvette by Christmas,” and hope the Fairy Godmother shows up in the pumpkin patch. No, these are more general statements that set you up, if you will, for success. They’re declarations to the Universe that you’re here for this whole groovy miracles thang.

Gabby recommends writing them down and then reading them out loud to yourself in the mirror. Then sit and meditate on those affirmations, in silence, for about 10 minutes or so. This gives you the opportunity to really marinate in that feel-good, miracle-conjuring Au jus.

Now, everyone’s hang ups and hurdles are going to look a little different, so your list of affirmations will likely vary a bit from my list. For me, I know that self-doubt, comparison and fear are my biggest bliss blockers. Maybe for you it’s more of a motivation-vision–self-worth-type of barrier. We’re all uniquely wired, for the good and the bad.

I won’t share my entire list of affirmations (I currently have 10 of them), but here are a few of mine to give you an idea …

My body is capable and my mind is clear
My heart is open
I have gifts to offer
I give myself permission to let go of the things that don’t make me feel good
I am open to miracles
I am enough
All is well

Full transparency, I do not say these into a mirror. I take my notebook down into my basement with me and I read them out loud after I finish a workout. Then, if I feel like I need it, I read through them again. I always end with, “All is well.” It’s just a beautiful, peaceful statement. Especially when, the second I ascend the lowest level of my house, my children, news, social media, strangers and just about everybody and every headline tries their damndest to convince me otherwise. “All is well,” I repeat silently to myself – 2,000 times a day – “All is well.” I find that it has a 43% success rate.

If you’re game, try it out! Find a scrap of paper and pen, a quiet moment and tap into your inner cheerleader. (Oh my gosh, did you watch “Cheer” on Netflix? It’s amazing. Mat talk. All hail, Monica! OK, I digress.) Start with one or two statements. What are the words that comfort and steady your frazzled nervous system? What is the phrase that tames your surging Cortisol? What do you desperately need to let go of? What’s holding you back? Name the odor of that stinkin’ thinkin’. It’s time.

Let’s break out the WD-40® and blow the doors off our self-doubt. Let’s get wide open and see what the Universe has in mind. I just love a good surprise.

Uncategorized

The gospel at 37

November 4, 2019

I turned 37 over the weekend and shuffling my Tom’s loafers toward 40 really has me thinking about all the years that have passed, the way we evolve as we age and the boxes I’d really love to tick before the next birthday, or the birthday after that, or the milestone birthday after that.

I’ve never operated under the illusion that perfection is attainable, but I do subscribe to the idea that I am working to build a life that’s perfect for me. That being said, in the spirit of full transparency, more often than not it feels like I’m surrounded by mountains of bricks and shingles and panes of fragile glass, but a devastating shortage of daylight hours to get any significant construction done. But it’s not all bad news and insurmountable aspirations. I’ve managed to form some stable structure in my life over the past several decades. These are some of the truths I’m currently carrying with me through the peaks and valleys and along every long stretch of desert in between.

Don’t be so convinced you can’t.

Right after the holidays, at the start of the new year, I started working on a training plan to run a 20-mile trail race. I’d never gone farther than 13.1 miles, and I’d only done one very short trail race a few months before that. It seemed ambitious but manageable under the right expectations, and those were: I wouldn’t be fast and it wouldn’t always feel good. But I truly believed, if I just kept showing up, I could get down the path to the finish line. And I did. And all of my predictions were spot on. I was slower than shit and it hurt like hell, but, by checking each training run off box by box – and with the company of a really stellar running companion – I met my goal and fell in love with the trail running culture.

The thing about hanging out with trail runners though, is that they’re obsessed with mileage. How far they’ve gone, how far you’ve gone and how far you’re all going to go the next go-round. And they are disgustingly supportive. I mean it’s just gross how nice these people are. I volunteered at a 100-mile race in early October, and everyone I talked to tried to convince me to sign up for the 40-mile version of the race I did back in April. And they were so certain I could do it. And the thing is, I cringe at the thought of it, but they’re probably right.

Because I’ve learned that if you create a plan, set realistic expectations and keep doing the most important thing, which is just showing up, you can accomplish most things. The problem is, we sell ourselves short over and over again because that’s so much easier. And because the moment you commit, if you do it right, is the moment the hard work begins. And let’s face it, hard work really sucks most of the time. But it’s also the most reliable track to personal satisfaction and strength and all the sweet, sweet things that trickle in and warm you up after you reach a really big goal. Tell yourself you can, and you just might. Or come find me, and I’ll tell you you can.

Sifting is survival.

Years ago, I got to see Glennon Doyle (then-Melton) speak about mental health and motherhood. During her chat, she talked about the sifting that happens in life. How, when something bad happens, or we experience the suffocating, relentless overload of everyday life, or we experience any number of scenarios that brings the emotional equivalent of a big heap of sand being dumped into our bucket, we have to pick up the strainer, raise our arms and let most of that sand fall through the holes so we can find the big, important things that should never fall through the cracks. Translated to simpler terms: We have to learn to let all the bullshit go and focus on what really matters to us.

The hardest part here is identifying the big things for you and building firm boundaries. Growing up as an aspiring writer, I was conditioned to fear the lurking famine of the starving artist. Creative jobs don’t always provide a steady paycheck, and you’re taught to take the money as it comes. This means that a lot of creatives end up taking on freelance gigs, or side hustles as the kids say these days. It’s hard to justify saying no to anyone who’s willing to slip you some cash for a few hours of copywriting or editing.

But the monetary reward of those few hours starts to dull when it gets tacked on to the end of a 9-hour workday, or it’s nestled in between cooking dinner and putting kids down for bed, or it means less of your already pathetic 6.5 hours of sleep. On an average week night, I get approximately 3 hours with my girls before they’re supposed to turn out the lights. That’s is nothing. That’s like watching Titanic one time! When you really start to do the math, it really makes you reconsider your recreational budget.

When I’m thinking about spin class, or dinner and drinks with girlfriends, or making cookies from scratch instead of buying them at Costco or the latest pyramid-scheme-come-smell-or-sip-this-crap party, I have learned to subtract the sacrifice and carry the one. I used to fear disappointing people, but the older I get, the more I realize that my time is not an abundant resource. It’s dwindling and precious, and so are conversations around the dinner table with my crew. We all have to embrace the sift and let the shit that doesn’t matter, including the guilt, just fall right through those little holes.

You’re the mirror, so make it count.

I am an Olympic-level competitor when it comes to self-deprecation. I have openly complained about my cellulite, my thighs, my upper arms, the empty baby apartment that is my midsection, my dry lips, my voice, my bad toenail … There isn’t a whole lot that God gave me that I haven’t picked apart to whomever was standing within earshot. Then my girls started talking.

Nothing sobers up a sharp tongue quite like three tiny sponges following you around all day. The first time I heard Spike say, “I feel so fat!” after eating a walking taco, I started reprogramming my outer dialogue. That meant working on my inner dialogue, a daunting wall I work my way up and over each and every day. When I eat five fun-size pouches of peanut M&Ms, instead of softly verbalizing my disgust over my choices morsel by morsel, I now acknowledge it wasn’t the best move and try to hit reset. Again, this is an ongoing effort.

I’ve noticed that my little parrots impersonate the positive as much as the negative. When I fit a workout in, sometimes they join me, and sometimes they just take note of it, and I happily embrace either. They talk about being strong and being healthy, and they work so hard to move their hips like the backup girls in the Fitness Marshall videos.

They are always, always watching, listening, imprinting. I will never make perfect choices. But what I’ve learned is that the thing I decide to do right after I make the bad choice, matters. It matters just as much as making a good choice from the jump matters. I’m working on inserting a thoughtful pause before I speak, before I eat, before I glare. And the better I get at it, the more I realize it’s as beneficial for me as it is for the little humans watching me.

Someone needs to see your mess (and to show you theirs).

To be clear, I am referring both to your literal mess and your metaphorical mess here. I am so tired of making myself so tired. The dust and toys in my house have to be procreating; reproducing at an alarming, puzzling rate. Because kids come with an unbelievable amount of crap. And they are carriers of crap. They take great joy in picking up crap in one room and, for no logical reason, moving said crap to another area of the house to mingle with other crap.

I cannot tell you how many times I have mopped my kitchen floor and come in an hour later to find paw prints or playdough or sticky red punch splattered across the tiles. No one ever knows where the offensive substance came from and therefore, no one can be held accountable for cleaning it up. This is my life – a series of mysterious, anonymous crimes, the likes of which I’m on the hook to erase.

My mother-in-law stopped by once unannounced and I was mortified at the dumpster pile of book bags, art projects and coats on the floor where she walked in. When I started to apologize, she waved her hand and said, “Oh gosh! It means kids live here and they’re off having fun,” and I thought, hey, I kind of like that. I’m still going to scream my head off at them the second you leave, but I really like that. When people come over or I go to their house, instead of assuming we’re all sizing up the untidy situation, it’s so much better to think of the misplaced stuff of life as evidence of new hobbies and imagination and play. If my girls want to build a fort for the fifteen thousandth time in the front room, and take every cushion off every couch and strip every blanket off of every sofa, wonderful! I ask you to reserve judgement about my landfill of a living room, and I in turn, pledge to wait an entire two hours before completely losing my mind about how awful it all looks.

We can all relate to the Indy 500 pit crew cleanup that happens when someone calls to say they might … might stop by in a little bit. Our voice says we’re all calm and excited, but the minute we hang up we start assessing the messes in our home, on a scale from most offensive (Did anyone leave a treasure in the potty?) to least offensive (A dog hair dust bunny barreling across the entryway). We frantically spray and sweep and stuff toys into places not designed to hold toys, and when we open the door to welcome our friend, sweat dripping down our brow, we play it off like the house looked that way the whole time. It’s a lie. An exhausting, stupid lie. Here’s the thing, I’m not ready to completely let my filth flag fly, but if I know you and you’re coming over, I’ve started leaning into the idea of it is what it is. And it would make me feel a whole lot better if you did, too. Maybe just like a ring in your toilet or something, if it’s not too much to ask. My kid’s just going to go plug it up with a whole roll of toilet paper anyway.

I think we can all agree that a messy house is entirely forgivable and a universal bedsore. So, too, I would say is the impeccable image we’re all tossing out on social media. The relatively recent phenomenon is sucking the souls out of parents everywhere, and it needs to be squashed, yesterday. I have three kids, a decrepit dog and a camera-shy husband, so I’m not buying for a second that your family just happened to stumble into the pumpkin patch at sunset and your 3- and 5-year-old spontaneously gave each other a smooch. Not to say I don’t want to see it if you pulled it off, I’m just saying, toss in a little reality here and there to spice it up. If you’re a #fitfamily or #blessed or require #nofilter, no one is happier for you than I am. But I’d be just as happy to see all the gut-busting, frustrating, embarrassing moments you happened to capture on the fly, too, because it all adds up to who you and your people are, and I love those people! I know so many mamas who opt not to be in pictures with their kiddos because they don’t have makeup on, or they have three chins or a zit. I say, pop the pimple and stick your mug in there!

A few months back, we were on a camping trip and Sloppy Joan was swinging in a hammock. The sun was streaming through the trees and her hair was blowing in the gentle breeze and she had a cherry popsicle in her hand and a grin as big as Texas on her face. I put down my beer, picked up my phone and tried to capture the blissful scene. “Whee!” she said, before, in a total freak series of events, the hammock twisted, spinning her in the air and eventually dumping her out onto the ground with a thud. The whole thing transpired in the blink of an eye. She was fine. No injuries. And if you know anything about me, you know that people falling down is one of my favorite things. So, naturally, once we confirmed that all her collar bones and baby teeth were intact, I posted the video of the tumble.

The reception was varied. People either found it hysterical or horrific, and there wasn’t much in between. I felt profoundly unapologetic. Had she gotten hurt, the footage never would have seen the light of day, but I captioned it with the disclaimer, “The only thing hurt in the making of this video was the popsicle,” which was true. I’m a firm believer in giving equal weight to showcasing the bumps and bloopers as well as the awards and triumphs. It’s all happening. We’re winning and losing, posing and pouting. C’mon … I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I might be alone in this, but I actually prefer the messy stuff. If it makes you feel better, you can still put a filter on it.

Don’t assume people know how much you love them.

People need to feel loved, period. Love is the most valuable expression of appreciation and acceptance and it says, hey, if you disappeared from this planet tomorrow, somebody would be horribly, miserably sad about it. I love a lot of people. I have a killer family all around, from the trunk and out through all the branches, fantastic friends and a lot of little mortal gems I’ve picked up and put in my pocket throughout my personal and professional journeys. I’m a firm believer that, when the world puts a good human in your path, you should always ask them to walk with you for a bit, or forever.

But it’s true what they say about the toilet paper roll. The more time passes, the faster it goes. The bigger my kids get, the more the days and years and milestones blur together. It’s all a big trick – this life’s so good you should savor every second, if, that is, you can keep up! A few months back, my family had a very unexpected loss and, as is often the case in those situations, we were all pretty shaken up. We assume there will always be another opportunity to affirm our feelings for someone we care about, until that one time when there isn’t.

Hank and I joke a lot about how we don’t see or speak to each other all week long. We’re zone coverage on meals and baths and homework, and masters at the whole “ships in the night” routine. One Friday evening, he made some drinks, we put on NPR Tiny Desk Concerts and we hung out for a few hours. No agenda. Just great conversation and little bit of a buzz. We had so much fun, we did the same thing the next Friday night, and then a few Fridays after that. Sitting on the couch and just making room for each other meant a lot. It was a gesture neither of us knew we needed until someone made it. It’s so easy to ignore that void that gets carved out organically between people by the obligations of adulthood. But we have to remember that even the best love can get lost in a void like that. You have to push the cushions together and make the space.

The same is true for parents and children and girlfriends and neighbors and co-workers. The current of life is stubborn and strong, and it’s so easy to let time and expressions of admiration or appreciation pass by. Again, we’re not talking about a renewable resource here. Time is so sweet and sometimes giving some of it to someone you care about is the boldest demonstration of devotion. If I love ya – and if you’re reading this, chances are I do – watch out, man, because I’m going to smother you in it. Like a ballpark frank in mustard. We rob ourselves of so many beautiful connections when we don’t say the things we’re feeling to the people we’re feeling them about. When it comes to love, I don’t think we should make assumptions, we should make sure. Make sure they feel it, make sure we show it and make sure we’re handing enough of it out. Because everyone could use some.

Kids

Tears of a clown

June 4, 2019

I always get irrationally sad this time of year. Am I alone in this? It’s something about endings and beginnings; I am equally ill-equipped to handle both circumstances. Graduations, and goodbyes and page turning … it all makes my eyes burn.

So much happened this school year. Our JoJo found her strength on the bars and footholds of a ninja warrior course. She made new friends and grew a confidence I feared she would never find. You still don’t have to dig too deep to tap into the lava of sensitivity bubbling just beneath her skin, but she has come so, so far. She’s gorgeous and happy and always inventing new ways to shine. She hit double digits, and she’s going to be in fourth grade! Fourth grade! I can’t handle that.

Spike continued her path toward the Supreme Court. She had a special connection with her teacher this year. They spoke the same language and she thrived in the supportive environment. She is a sponge, absorbing the factoids and infinite details of our world. But as thirsty as she is for information, she craves justice and civility just as voraciously. And that’s what fills my bucket.

But this year is also particularly bittersweet, as we’re getting to the end of our line in one very familiar classroom. Our household’s wild-hearted Sloppy Joan has just a few days left in her preschool class. A class led by one of our all-time favorite teachers. Our third little girl is the spirited caboose bringing this period of our lives into the station. Her final day in PreK-4 marks the official end of a chapter that had three sweet installments during a particularly busy and sugary stage of our lives.

Guys, my sorrow over this can not be contained or explained. Thus, I have no other option than to go hide my face in a sticky tent of shame nestled in the camp of avoidance. Not because I don’t have respect for the situation. Not because I don’t want to give, in this case, the woman who literally loved all three of our children as if they were her own for days on end, the hug and thank you she deserves. But because my emotional break often comes on with so much momentum and on such a high end of the spectrum in comparison to others that it ends up just being altogether mortifying.

While most human, adult mothers in this situation might get “choked up” and a little misty eyed, I experience more of a torrential downpour of snotty sobs likely to collect in a pool on the unsuspecting teacher’s shoulder. I get red-faced, my mouth contorts as it loses the battle not to turn down like a drunken clown’s lips as the tears surge aggressively down my cheeks. I can’t speak. I can’t breath out of my nose. And I sure as heck can’t express my gratitude like a composed grownup. It’s a disaster. Me + sadness = 80s telenovela.

It’s like when you have your last baby, and you find yourself grieving things like the disgusting crust that falls off their belly button. It’s all one long farewell tour. The last trip home from the hospital. The last bottle. The last first steps. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. This year has felt a lot like that. The last first day. The last “Mom” painting covered in tiny ladybug fingerprints. The last time those little voices will gather around a cafeteria table and say their prayers together over muffins and apple slices. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Ugh! It rips my heart out. It just does. Even though she’s five years old and will likely remember approximately 3 percent of the memories she’s made over the past 150 days, it’s just too sad for me to wrap my arms around. This woman has hugged and consoled and cared for three of the four most important souls in my life. And she did it so selflessly and fully. She was all in, you guys. And that makes all the difference. And that makes it so gosh dang difficult.

I’ve been here before. When we decided to move home and I took then-baby JoJo out of the home daycare she’d been going to for nearly a year, the woman thought someone in my family had been in a horrific car accident. When our saint-of-a-sitter we had after that retired, I was curled up on the ground like she’d been given a stage six cancer diagnosis. (She’s fine, by the way.) When we told our sitter after her that we were going to put SJ in preschool instead of keeping her home … sob fest. And, in an all-too-similar scenario, when JoJo – the first in the series – was finishing up her run in PreK4, I wouldn’t take her to school for a week for fear I would fall apart in front of the other, more mature parents. See … Ill-equipped.

I can’t help it. I have a big thing for the people who make my kids a big thing. I mean, let’s be honest, they don’t even have to be that good at it. If you put your arm around my kid just one time, you’ve got a spot in my heart. But, as luck would have it, the vast majority of the folks who have cared for, taught and entertained my daughters have all been really, really good at it. Hence, the frightening clown face of tears.

So what I’m asking you all here is … is it just me? Does the cheese stand alone? Is there anyone else out there who can’t handle the change that comes with the natural progression of the standard school year? I’m attached and overly sentimental, and I can admit it. But surely there’s someone else out there eating chocolate in their closet this week. Where ya at?

Wellness

Glacial Esker 40 Recap

April 30, 2019

It’s Monday. Two days have passed since I ran the Glacial Esker 40, my first 20-mile trail race. The tension in my shoulders is starting to subside. My hips and knees are getting some mobility back. My quads are still holding onto the effort, but I suspect that will ease by the end of the day. My head has a dull ache and the pesky effects of dehydration are clinging to me like a dryer sheet on a sweater. In many respects I’m more depleted than I’ve ever been, but in other ways more invigorated than I can remember feeling in a long time. It’s tough to capture the spirit of the day, but there is certainly plenty to share.

A 6 a.m. call time

For 15 weeks, I’d been checking off boxes on a printed training plan on a half sheet of paper. My best friend Jackie, who I’ve known and adored since our freshman year of high school, miraculously stepped in during week 5, after my brother tore his ACL and it became clear he wouldn’t be able to run. We would greet the sun on Saturday mornings and layer up for training runs around the GE course at Chain-O-Lakes state park, a little over 30 minutes away. Even then, in the company of about 30 other runners, who we’d never met before I knew there was something special about this trail and this tradition.

Around the 5-week mark, I found out that my sweet friend Libby would also be running. Throughout the weeks leading up to the race we’d exchange the occasional text message about how underprepared we were. I’d encourage her and offer tips from the training runs. She’d respond with sweating emojis and exclamation points.

The night before the race, four bags in tow, Libby arrived from Ohio. We went for burgers and ice cream with my crew and then sat on Spike’s bed to sort through the gear she brought. While in hindsight, the day might not have been made or broken by the choice of a mid- or full-length legging, in that moment, it sure felt that way. The weather didn’t really help. It was supposed to be about 36 degrees at the beginning, rise up to the high 40s and then start raining and drop again.

We went to bed around 10 o’clock Friday night. In order to get around, have a cup of coffee, pick up Jackie and make it to the park in time for packet pickup, which began at 5 am, we had to wake up around 3:30 Saturday morning.

At 5:45 the participants, volunteers and race organizers gathered in a heated tent for a brief download. It was like standing inside a sealed container packed tight with concentrated doses of optimism and nervous energy. We were all just waiting for someone to pop the lid off. Standing in the warm tent, sandwiched between two women I love and respect, I said a silent prayer that we would all make it through the morning. It was nearly 6 o’clock and we had six hours to get the job done.

Outside, the sapphire sky was dotted with the brilliant glow of stars above and the runners’ headlamps below. There was no gun or canon, no playing of any national anthems, no pomp and circumstance. Just a simple, “Go get ‘em!” and the group started to move up the hill toward the mouth of the trail. We’d calculated that, given Libby’s typical road race pace, she should be done about an hour before us. The second things started shifting, she was gone, and we wouldn’t see her again until we came back around the lake we stood next to now hours later and crossed the finish line.

Sunrises and sandwiches

There’s something truly extraordinary about watching the world come alive through the eyes of the forest. There was a small window where we trotted along tentatively under the modest square of light cast down by our headlamps. But very shortly in, I looked up and saw the neon layer cake of dawn filling the gaps between the tree trunks. Everything felt good in that moment – the crisp air in my lungs, my fresh, rested legs.

We hit the first aid station at 2.5 miles in the blink of an eye. The volunteers were phenomenal, offering tater tots and broth and various protein-packed baked goods. I put a half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich down over my empty stomach and we continued along the path in a faint, beautiful light.

I knew Hank was going to be at the next aid station, Rally Campground, at mile 8. He was bringing a change of shoes and socks, bandages and drinks. As we came around the corner, under an arch of pine trees and a bed of their needles, I stepped right into a deep puddle of mud and screamed. Six strides later, my little girls had their arms around my waist.

I debated changing my shoes at Rally. It certainly wouldn’t have hurt anything, but I remembered something LIbby said the night before as she was sorting through gear. “Run in what you know.” I’d trained in these shoes. I knew what the trails felt like in these shoes. A little muddy water couldn’t do that much damage. I sipped some broth and ate another half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Jackie and I took off down the gravel road out of Rally and my two older girls jogged alongside us, joking and giggling. Without intention we reconnected with our slow, carbon copy stride.

All the mud

Jackie and I had never been on the other side of Rally Campground. We had no idea what the terrain would be like.

“It’s kind of fun,” Jackie said in those first couple of steps, “not knowing what’s coming next.”

Within minutes we discovered exactly what was coming next, as we encountered a stretch of mud four inches deep that stretched for as far as our eyes could see. We started by trying to go around it, which proved a fool’s errand. Soon, we realized that no matter which lane you chose, you were going to get dirty. We started plowing up through the middle of the puddles, praying our shoes would stay on and fighting the suction below us.

After we made our way through the first mud pit, we naively expressed our optimism that we might just be through the worst of it.

“OK,” Jackie said. “Maybe it gets better from here on out.”

We heard chuckles behind us. It was a gentleman we’d chatted with many times on our training runs and a friend of his. Both of them had clearly been on the other side of Rally before.

“It’s just getting started,” one of them said. We looked at each other.

They weren’t exaggerating. The next six miles was like navigating the slip and slide from hell. We slid, we tripped, we jerked our feet up out of the earth as it tried to suck us in. Everything burned – my butt, my hips, my thighs. At one point, I stepped down and my foot was entirely submerged in thick, warm, wet dirt.

“Cheese and rice!” I complained. “It feels like I just stepped into a gorilla turd and it ate my foot alive.”

After working through a large stretch of mud, it took a good 20 strides or so for our bodies to remember how to run normally. Our feet were heavy. Our socks squished and rubbed against our toes. We were streaked in brown and still miles from the finish line.

The worst watch malfunction in history

The day before, Hank told me that he would be at Rally Campground and then meet us again at mile 16.5. My watch vibrated on my wrist indicating we’d reached mile 17, and I started to hypothesize with my trailmate.

“Huh, I know this part of the trail from camping up here, and I know there isn’t a road for a while.”

“Yeah?” Jackie panted.

“Yeah. Hank must have calculated wrong.”

“Maybe.”

When the mileage on my wrist read 18.5, I saw Sloppy Joan running down from the top of the hill. Her momentum took over and she face planted up ahead of us. Her heels kicked up behind her. She lifted her dirty chin and started to cry. I reached her, and the other two, and picked her up off the ground.

“You guys are going to have to help her,” I instructed. “I’m too tired to carry her.”

We jogged on, leaving my girls to sort out the suffering of their smallest member. I came up to Hank at the final aid station. In my mind, we had 1.5 miles to go and I wanted to get rid of everything. I took off my hydration pack and my vest. I was shedding clothing like I had fire ants under my shirt, except for my handkerchief. I tucked that into the back of my pants. I chugged a small sports drink, kissed him on the cheek and took off again. We were almost done, and the volunteers promised it would be all downhill.

My watch vibrated every half mile to alert me of our progress. After the second vibration, with what should have been just .5 left to cover, I started to worry.

“Jac, where is the lake?” I asked. “Like, if we have just a half mile left, shouldn’t we be able to see the lake? And why don’t we hear any cheering?”

“Maybe no one’s finishing right now,” she offered. But we both knew something was wrong. She waited a few minutes and then said, “What if Hank really was at mile 16?”

“There’s no way my watch is that off, right?” I negotiated with her and also with the universe. “I mean, that would mean it was like multiple miles off.”

As we jogged along, our bodies turning to rust with each exchange of our hips, it became abundantly clear that the watch could, indeed, be that far off. If there was any moment that broke our spirits that morning, it was that one. It didn’t happen on a steep hill or in a mud puddle like we thought it might. It happened two miles away from the finish line on a relatively flat path where we momentarily misplaced our hope.

“Well, it is what it is, right?” Jackie finally said. “We have to get out of here one way or another. It’s just gonna hurt really bad.”

And it did. It hurt really, really bad. It packed the sting of disappointment and the brilliant burn of exhaustion for at least 15 minutes. An older woman came up behind us and announced we were at 19. The news gave new life to our limbs as we picked up our pace the slightest bit. It was a shift undetectable by the untrained eye, but we felt it.

The woman was waiting for her husband. “We always cross the finish line together,” she shared. And soon the couple, and their daughter, ran right past us.

“Stage 4 cancer survivor!” the daughter said to us over her shoulder.

“If I can do this, anyone can!” the older gentleman, her father, added.

We could hear cheers now. We were that close. The last stretch of trail ran parallel to the lake. We could see the tent and the parking lot less than a mile away. I can’t remember what we said to each other in those final minutes, but I do recall hearing, “Let’s finish this.” It might have come from my lips, it might have come from hers. I could see my girls. I could see Libby. I saw Hank standing off to the side with his phone recording the moment for us so we’d never forget. The race organizer gave me a high five as we crossed the finish line, just before 11 am. I cried and pulled Jackie in for a hug. We each got a wooden medallion on a string of twine placed around our necks with “GE 40 – 20 Miles” burned into the face. The medal was a token of accomplishment taken from the trail we’d just conquered and in that moment it meant more to me than gold.

My starving child

I hobbled over to the car and changed out of my blocks of mud. Libby had been done for an hour, just as we predicted. She looked rested and glowing with achievement. She’d loved the race. Every bit of it, just as I’d hoped she would.

Someone mentioned there was food in the tent where we’d been briefed earlier that morning. The girls were at my sides as we surveyed the offerings.

“Does this cost anything?” Sloppy Joan asked one of the volunteers. It was a question I had never heard my almost five-year-old ask anyone ever. The volunteer laughed.

“Can I have a grilled cheese?” Spike asked. One of the women running the griddle kindly obliged and handed her half of a sandwich.

“Me too, please,” JoJo said. “And a cup of soup.” Again, the volunteer obliged.

But when I asked for two more, for me and Sloppy Joan, I started to get the sense we might be abusing their generosity. It all clicked for me at once. The half portions, the tiny cups of candies, the hamburger buns cut into fourths. We were unknowingly ransacking an aid station! This wasn’t a celebration meal for the families. This was a fuel stop for all of the amazing men and women who planned to continue on and do the 40 miles.

“Let’s wait and make something at home,” I told Sloppy Joan. But, like a bad dream, she was already mid motion, picking up a giant spoon they’d placed in a bowl of goldfish crackers and shoveling them into her hot cocoa-rimmed mouth.

“Everything is free!” she cheered, and I wanted to crawl in a hole.

“Four year olds,” I said, mortified, and handed the volunteer the spoon with her greedy spit on it. It was time to take my homeless child out of the tent and get everyone home. It was time to let the healing begin.

All the stuff you feel later

Libby ended up finishing fifth overall for the women in the 20 mile race. Such a badass. Jackie and I were a little closer to the back of the pack. I’m just in awe that it’s over, and experiencing a bit of a race hangover to be honest. I can remember being in my 20s, and talking to people who ran about how much I wished I could be a runner, but conceding I just didn’t have it in me. We tend to achieve what we believe. I believed this myth that you had to go at a certain pace or look a certain way, but watching my silhouette move across the ground as I racked up more and more mileage, I accepted a new belief. I accepted that a runner is anyone who can cover the distance. It’s the person who shows up. Our race might not have been the prettiest, but we put in the time and training and we saw it all the way through.

For my first long distance trail run, I couldn’t have asked for a better experience. Every single person involved with the GE 40, from the other runners who checked in as they passed by, to the volunteers who offered to fill water bladders and fry up tater tots in 30-degree weather, to the organizers who treated every participant like a friend, it was a blessing. One of the organizers told me I’d be ruined for any other trail run and I imagine he’s right.

I am so proud of Jackie and Libby, for being brave enough to throw their hats into the ring and make the race what they needed it to be. The most treasured part of the process for me is the opportunity to be around these positive, uplifting women and be witness to their wins. They say intense situations tend to make people bond faster and more intensely. I don’t know about that, but seeing two people who are really important to me, who didn’t know each other five hours earlier, embrace and share in such a joyful moment, is what it’s all about. I’m constantly amazed and inspired by their abilities, their support and their sisterhood.

Without ever stepping foot on a trail before that day, Libby came out and killed the game, but she treated us like we finished right behind her. She wears her success paired with a touching humility and they just don’t come any better than that girl.

Jackie is my ride or die. We’ve been breathless and broken together more times than I can count, and we always come out on the other side a little bit stronger. She understands my “why” because hers is ultimately the same. We have things to prove to ourselves and we’re just getting started.

But race day MVP goes to Hank. He picked up the slack all those Saturdays when I went to knock out a training run and never once held it over my head. He got the girls around and up to the park at 6 o’clock in the morning and anticipated our needs and put them above his own comfort and convenience. He showed up. It wasn’t easy, but he showed up. In the cold, early hours of one of my biggest accomplishments, he was there. That’s what love should feel like, look like, sound like. I would run all over this earth for a love like that.

Glacial Esker 40 Mile Run from Red Tide Productions on Vimeo.

Every time I try something new and it doesn’t kill me, I’m reminded of how much I love seeing what’s on the other side of the mountain. Every time I face what intimidates me and choose to cross over that bridge between who I was and who I just might be, I discover a whole new depth to this life. There’s a richness in exploring what comes after the fear, after the pain, after the doubt. If you want it bad enough, you simply refuse to quit. You accept that it’s going to hurt like hell, and you put your head down and you keep moving until someone puts the medallion around your neck. Until someone hugs you and you know you made it.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 64.2-69.6

April 28, 2019

The drizzle grew to an official downpour. Drops of precipitation pelted our rain fly, then slowed, then surged again. The powerful wind was coming in like a tide. From my down and polyester cocoon I observed the rise and fall. The mountains were a giant stadium, the trees were doing the wave and I was wrapped in a whisper of fabric somewhere near the 50 yard line. Starting from miles away, the gusts would ripple and roar until they reached our campsite. The tents would shake and the hammocks would sway and a wild rumpus would begin, then end just as quickly.

The swells kept coming for hours. I’d doze off for a few minutes only to be jolted awake by an explosion of cool air lifting our tent cover and unearthing the stakes around us just a hair. You think about things in moments like that. Things like, “What’s my move here if the rain fly blows off?” And “Are my boots really under the cover? What else did I leave out there?” And “I’ve probably slept for 2 hours, right? At least 2 hours.”

I opened my eyes at one point and the sky was a pale pewter, just light enough to prompt conversation from the tents around us. I listened from the protection of my personal pouch as Just Matt and Bambi worked on getting out of the tent to go pee. I felt my husband shifting intentionally beside me. His tender back was killing him.

“It’s a beautiful morning!” someone cheerfully announced from across the trail. It was Rainbow, the female half of the chipper couple I’d met the night before.

“Shut up!” my brother answered from our cranky quadrant.

Thus the tone of our morning was set. For breakfast, Just Matt would be serving a cocktail of bah humbug and go F yourself, and he had plenty to go around.

I stayed in my sleeping bag as long as I could, until I heard someone announce it was close to 9 am. We had 12 miles on the agenda for the day and if the terrain was anything like yesterday we were going to need every bit of daylight. I pulled my legs up into my chest and pushed the slick fabric down over my toes. The morning nip jumped down my shirt. The air was heavy with moisture but bitter like the bite of a deep freezer.

We were partial statues in a fog, working methodically to break camp using frozen fingers and concrete toes. Everything was damp. Ever wonder what hell is really like? Hell is changing out of a sweat-crusted top into a slightly wet, semi-frozen sports bra when it’s 36 degrees outside. Hell is forcing your feet into frigid cinder block boots. Hell is biting into a protein brick and waiting for your saliva to thaw the almond butter casing.

We were all in a temporary hell, but I believed it would pass. We just had to get moving. Restless and thorny, I took off out of camp first. I had to. The longer I stood, the larger the gap got between my mental prompts for my extremities to move and the actual ability to move them. I was turning to stone. I picked up my poles and walked off into the fog. Bambi passed me within minutes, followed shortly after by Gravy.

See, the way the mountains break you, is they don’t believe in easing their visitors in to their most obnoxious attributes. They just put themselves out there, big and bold, and if you can’t handle it, it’s just too damn bad. The ridge we encountered that morning, just out of Addis Gap, was a beast. For nearly two miles, we climbed, muscles tender, fingers like ice cubes formed around the handles of our trekking poles. One-two, one-two, one-two …

The wind punished the sides of our faces like a dragon’s fiery tongue. I turned toward the mountain to protect my cheeks, paralyzed and strawberry red from the unforgiving slaps of air. I finally reached the top. I could see Bambi and Gravy ahead of me. We snaked down the mountain’s backside and arrived at Deep Gap Shelter.

“Do you guys want to go down and make some breakfast?” Bambi asked.

“Yeah, we can do that,” Gravy answered. “Let’s give it a minute and see if your dad comes along.”

After about 10 minutes, I saw a figure dressed in gray making his way down through the trees. It was Just Matt.

“Dad!” Bambi yelled. “You want some food?”

“That’s fine,” he said.

On the Appalachian Trail, thru hikers will often take a “zero day”. This means they get off of the trail and treat themselves to a hotel room or hostel, a shower and a warm meal prepared by somebody else’s hands. On our second morning in the mountains, my brother decided to take a zero day, for the rest of the trip.

He threw his hands up, bringing his poles out and making a giant “M”. “I’m done,” he declared.

“What?” Bambi yelled back.

“I’m done. I’m getting off this mountain.” No one said anything. “You guys can stay on and I’ll come back for you on Tuesday.”

“OK,” I managed.

“This is supposed to be fun, and I’m not having fun. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to stay out here when it’s 20 degrees and freeze my balls off.”

“Right,” I offered.

And then we stood there, forming a box and unpacking what this declaration meant for the rest of us. A few minutes later, The General came through the garden of bare branches.

“Hey man, I’m done,” Just Matt said.

“Oh yeah?” he asked. “I’m just not feelin’ it this year, either. And I don’t know what it is. I’m just not feeling it.”

Two down.

“Well, I could carry the tent and stuff,” Bambi started.

“If you want to stay out here, I’ll come back and pick you up,” Just Matt said, “But I know I will be freaking miserable if I have to hike 9 more miles and sleep outside when it’s below freezing. This morning sucked.”

“Yeah … let’s get out of here,” Bambi conceded.

Three down.

“So, that’s it?” I asked.

“I mean, like I said, I’m not tryin’ to ruin anybody’s trip. But I’m done.”

I looked at my husband, weighed down by gear he’d spent hours sorting through and assembling. He wore a look of simultaneous relief and disappointment. There just no way to get yourself through an ice cold night in the mountains when you know the rest of your group is sleeping in a temperature-controlled room with a memory foam mattress.

Five down.

The Captain soon followed and we went about the business of finding a signal and calling shuttles. On the trail, you have to get to a gap where there’s an access road in order to drive out of the mountains. We would still need to cover 3.5 miles to get to Dick’s Creek Gap and meet a shuttle by 3 pm.

As much as I loathe the thought of being a quitter, my brother was ultimately right. With the conditions we’d been given, it wasn’t fun. And it was only going to get worse as the temperatures dropped. There was a lightness to the ground we covered that morning, knowing it would be our last for that particular trip to Georgia. It was like the minute we reached a consensus, the gray turned to blue skies and the birds began to chirp. The promise of warmth and beds and dry clothes was all the gas was like jet fuel in our tanks.

We made it to Dick’s Creek Gap with nearly an hour to spare. Gravy pulled the JetBoil out and we mixed up mugs of instant coffee. The sun was shining as if to endorse our decision. We sat at a concrete picnic table on the mountainside and let the finality of it sink in. Less than 48 hours into our latest adventure, it was ending with a bittersweet prematurity.

Three hours later my brother, nephew, husband and I were checking into a hotel in Newport, Tennessee. We showered, changed and drove to a Mexican restaurant where we proceeded to fill every inch of the table with soda, queso and burritos of every sort.

“I just said what everyone was thinking, and no one wanted to say,” Matt said between dipping his chips. “I don’t feel bad about that.”

It was true. No one wanted to spend another night in the cold, wet, unforgiving conditions we’d been in. It was a spot we’d found ourselves in before, at Hickory Flat Cemetery, on Roan Mountain. We’d experienced the type of discomfort your body never forgets, hard as your mind might try to. And the truth is, with as little vacation as we all take in our full time working and parenting lives, it’s far too precious to spend praying for the sun to come and the time to pass.

We were home by dinner time Monday evening. It was a whirlwind four days, and while our time on her trails was brief, the AT left us bruised, battered and sore for a respectable amount of time. We have just nine miles left to cover to complete Georgia, though Just Matt says he won’t step foot on the trail before mid-May ever again. A week after our return, he finally went to the doctor. He has a torn meniscus in his right knee, which explains why it was the size of a basketball.

I’m not quite sure what this year means for our annual spring adventure, but I’m confident we’ll find our way back to the white blazes one way or another. Until next time … XO, Biscuits.

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Glacial Esker 40 Recap

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 64.2-69.6

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