Running, post-baby

One of my oldest friends, Cyndi, from Lynchburg has just recently had her first baby—an adorable little boy named Porter:

Seriously, isn’t he a peach?!  And FYI, Cyndi is thinking of starting her own blog, so can everyone who knows her please convince her that this is a fabulous idea—I for one would love to see more of that adorable boy (and his beautiful mommy)!

Cyndi emailed me the other day asking how I fit running back into my routine that first year after my kids were born—those tough months after you’ve gone back to work, but are still nursing and your precious, sweet time-sucker is nearly 100% dependent on you.  I remember, Cyndi; and it is hard.  Exercising during maternity leave is tough enough—you’re sore, surviving on very little sleep and are learning to adjust to life with the tiny, little human who you love more than you ever thought possible.  But at least when you’re on maternity leave, you can time-shift your day.  If a morning run isn’t possible because the baby is still sleeping (and you really could use another hour or two yourself), then you can run after lunch.  But once you reenter the workforce most of us have exactly two options for running—pre-work or post-work.  If you miss one window, the other one may not be available and there goes your run for the day.

But, this is how I was able to do it:

I could never have done it alone

It must be said that without Will’s tireless contributions, I could never have gotten back into running.  I am a morning runner, which means then (and now) I primarily run when everyone is still sleeping.  But when you have an infant, that sleeping-thing is no guarantee.

I didn’t know it at the time, but Frances was an easy baby.  By the time I returned to work, we could count on her sleeping until 6am (after one or two nighttime feedings) before she was up and ready to start her day.  I knew as long as I could get my run in before 6am, Frances (and her daddy) would be asleep and not hungry.

George was a different story—George had colic; George had allergies; George contracted every cold, flu, croup, and bronchiolitis there was to catch.  And George was a voracious eater.  If I fed him at 3am, he was sometimes up at 4am (and then 5am; and then 6am) wanting more.  There were many times I would feed George, get dressed as quickly as possible for my run, head out the door, and come home to find George and Will watching a rerun of Sports Center on ESPN for the second time through.

But Will never minded (or at least that’s what he said and I believed him because I needed to believe him.  I needed those runs).  He understood that I felt unfulfilled and miserable if I did not get in my daily exercise; and he never hesitated to do what he could to ensure that would happen.

Support is key.  Help is crucial.  Don’t be afraid or ashamed to ask for it, every single day.  As they say in Franklin Lakes, NJ, “Happy Wife.  Happy Life.” 

Mornings, mornings, mornings

I am convinced that if you are not already a morning person, your child will turn you into one.  I’m not sure if it’s that babies are happier in the mornings and tend to sleep better and longer past midnight or if parents are beyond exhausted come 8pm and couldn’t imagine taking one more step past the couch, much less in running shoes. 

I snuck in every run by making sure it was in the morning.  With Frances, that meant before 6am.  With George, that sometimes meant at 3 in the morning.  Yeppers,th at is 3am, my friends.  Ridiculous; certifiable; irrational.  But I remember those runs vividly—dark, cold, silent, all the while thinking to myself, “Please let this be one of those ‘harder times’ that I’ll look back on later with appreciation.  Please don’t let Will think I have completely lost my marbles.  Please don’t let that be a black bear I see up ahead going through someone’s garbage.”  Don’t worry, I have yet to see a bear; but at 3am your mind can play some pretty mean tricks on you.

You will lose sleep.  I guarantee it.

There’s no way to soften that blow—by adding one more thing to your plate (running!), you will sacrifice others (sleep!).  I know this because sleep is always the first priority to go—you will eat, you must work, and you absolutely would never want to forego time with your sweet one (while he or she is awake, that is). 

But I also know this—that lost sleep is worth it.  An hour of running on 4 hours of sleep will make you feel better and more energized than 5 hours of sleep and no run.  Both scenarios are bad; but at least one included a run.

Nurse and go

That was the case with both of my babies—I nursed them that first (or sometimes second) early morning feeding and made a beeline for the door.  The instant their tiny mouths detach from you, the clock has started ticking for the longest period of time before they will need you again.  Do not think.  Do not even look at your bed.  Get out and run.

And if they do need you again before you can get back, that’s when your support system will kick in.

Invest in a great jogging stroller

Someone gave us a BOB jogging stroller before Frances was born and it saved me many a heartache.  I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t discover the infant car seat attachment until George was born (poor Frances was pushed in our jerky, bumpy Graco stroller for her first year), but we still used it all of the time.  Whatever your stroller of choice, it is well worth getting one and using it on those runs when either you have no one to watch the baby or you just feel like you want some company.

And here’s the kicker (and what I wished someone had told me when Frances was born)—use it now.  Before they turn 1 and start having opinions.  Because I thought that I would use the stroller much more once Frances could sit up, eat snacks, look at the birds, and watch the cars go by.  Except what you don’t realize with your first baby is that toddlers like all of that for about 10 minutes.  After that, they start to cry, then scream, then wail and just generally act like you are torturing them.  And then you find yourself turning around and sprinting back home after having run less than a mile.

When all else fails, bag the run and exercise at home

If I can’t run, I need to do something, anything that results in a racing heart and a sweaty shirt.  My at-home exercise of choice is Tae-Bo, but it can be anything (I’ve been dying to try one of those intense workouts like P90x or Insanity).  I check them out from our public library until I find one I really like and then buy it (usually from Amazon, which seems to have every conceivable product on the market).

These videos won’t replace running, but they will keep your momentum going and keep you from feeling as sluggish or out-of-shape.

Some things I didn’t have, but that would be helpful for those that do

A 24-hour gym.  Our local gym doesn’t open until 5:30am, which to any other normal human is plenty early.  But when your ‘easy’ baby wakes up at 6am and your other one will likely be waking up earlier than that, 5:30 does not give you enough time.  Gym-time flexibility would have been great.

A treadmill at home.  Who needs to belong to a 24-hour gym when you have your own in-home equipment?  I know I would have used one of these lovely contraptions a lot in the beginning.  But there is no way we are squeezing one through our 1960s Dutch colonial’s small front doorframe, much less into any of our overstuffed rooms.  If you are lucky enough to have one, use it!

Flexible work schedule.  Running during lunch or any other time of the day when your baby is in daycare is a great option.  It just never was one that worked for my schedule, since my days were almost exclusively spent in court or with clients.

Finally, it goes without saying that “this, too, shall pass.”  In other words, in just as many months since his birth, he will change immensely.  He will start sleeping through the night.  You will stop nursing.  Your morning routine will slowly morph into something that can accommodate a less-crazy schedule.  But I am a sound believer that establishing and asserting your need for these daily runs is just as important (almost more important) when they are infants.  Your child will grow up with memories of their determined, hot, sweaty mother coming home from her runs tired but happy.  You are planting a seed; you are telling them that I need this, I love this, and one day you will, too.

That was quite a dissertation and the sad thing is, I know I will think of 10 things I forgot to say; and very likely on a morning run.  In any event, I hope this helps, Cyndi!

Happy Sunday, everyone!

Olympic fever

I have a confession – I am a complete Olympic Games junkie.  I am a sucker for positive patriotism, good natured competition and our national anthem playing in the background while the American flag is raised and the gold medalist’s chin involuntarily quivers.  When I was younger, I had high hopes of being a top US swimmer, competing in an Olympic games and making my country proud (and isn’t that the one time when that ‘proud’ phrase is most pure and sincere – an Olympic athlete encompasses it entirely).  Sadly, my dreams were squashed pretty early on when I realized I actually wasn’t that great of a swimmer.  But the next best feeling is cheering for those athletes that are that good—abnormally, incredibly, almost impossibly good.  I am just enough of a swimmer to know that that those young men and women competing in the Olympics are phenomenal, in every sense of that word’s definition.  And while I don’t have a similar understanding when it comes to the other sports—gymnastics, diving, track and field to name a few—I still sit back in awe and gawk at those able and willing to push their bodies harder and farther than anyone else before them.  And if all else fails, there is the NBC Olympics jingle to really get the heart pumping.

For me, the Olympic Games is a lot like the Christmas season—the atmosphere around even the ordinary changes and everything, including the third round of an obscure sport, seems magical (the Christmas equivalent in my mind being “Holiday in Handcuffs” staring Melissa Joan Hart and the overly-dimpled guy from Saved by the Bell – pure magic, I tell you).  And when else other than every four years can you find primetime coverage of synchronized diving, fencing and basketball all given equal weight by the sportscasters.

But all kidding aside, I am as excited as ever to watch as much Olympic coverage as I can this summer, which I am certain will include plenty of viewings of this Proctor & Gamble commercial:

Please tell me I’m not the only person who cries real tears every time she see this.  My children are almost certainly not destined for the Olympics, but on the off chance that they are I am going to be dissolving into a puddle on the sidelines if this commercial is any indication.  I’m also still in that adult/child in between stage because I have vivid memories of my own mother’s efforts to ensure my swimming, dancing, college or law school career was as successful as possible and I realize there is no possible way to thank her other than a comparison to a sentimental P&G advertisement.  Tears from all sides on this one.

These 2012 Olympics are the third games Will and I have watched together—2004’s competition we watched from Hawaii where we honeymooned (yep, we were roughing it, huh) and 2008 (the year of Michael Phelps) we watched from our small hotel room on the Chesapeake bay with our 10-month-old daughter sleeping soundly in the closet.  This year, we don’t have a celebratory Olympic trip planned, so we’ll be watching from our sunroom couch or more likely catching the next-day replays online because one of us can’t stay awake past 9pm and the other one is up to his eyeballs in work.  But I am excited as ever, viewing these tiny, muscular athletes with the appreciation of one who is quickly aging past her prime.

Shalene Flanagan (marathon)

Go USA!

And happy Wednesday, everyone!

The in betweens

Some June moments captured in between the dance recitals, graduations, birthday parties, and field trips:

Will’s old Spiderman mask

Frances wore this for an entire day (paired with the skirt that my sister made me when I was four-years-old) and I haven’t seen it since.  It was adorable at the time, but I’m secretly glad it’s gone missing—I’m sure the poor girl was as hot as can be.

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I call this one, “Marshall the Burrito.”

He’s becoming such a good sport with the kids.

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The carnations from Frances’s dance recital are still going strong.

I put them next to my work station in the kitchen and even though they are small, ballet pink, and odorless, they’ve helped brighten that area up more than I thought.  I don’t buy many fresh flowers “just because,” but every time I have some in the house I always wonder why not.

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One of Frances’s “naptime” activities - Magnadoodle dog food.

I guess she thought her friends were getting hungry.

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My parent’s dog, Calvin:

Poor thing had to stay in Richmond after Frances’s dance recital because he swallowed a huge piece of mulch, which then not surprisingly became obstructed in his intestines.  George and I delivered him safely back to Lynchburg last week (when we picked up Frances) under strict orders from the vet that he stay quiet.  The best way my mother knew to ensure he wouldn’t move was to put him in the middle of their kitchen island.  And don't let the long face fool you - he loved it.  He's just garnering sympathy on the off chance that someone will slip him one of those Honey Nut Cheerios.

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Will has started a countdown to our Spain trip.

My Spanish is a little rusty, so I'm not sure if that says 17 days until Spain or 17 days until Lucy's first culture shock meltdown.  

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Finally, a happy, happy birthday to my older brother, Johnny!

This is what happens when you trade your attorney salary for a stay-at-home lifestyle—homemade presents.

Happy Monday, everyone!

My boy of summer

I am head-over-heels smitten with this little big guy.

During the summer months, it is rare that there isn’t at least a faint line of sweaty, blonde hair encircling his ruddy face.  I had forgotten how much I missed that from last year; that sweet, sweaty little boy smell.  Summertime was made for boys, wasn’t it—the lightening bug chases, the poolside playing, the playground outings, the endless games of tot-sized basketball in the backyard.  And after a morning of doing all of that—twice through—his three-hour nap is testimony that he used up every ounce of energy his little body could contain.

But do you want to know my favorite part?  Waking him up from that midday slumber.  Walking into his dark, cool room with the fan blowing in the background; slowly stroking his warm, wet forehead as his huge, blue eyes slowly but surely open; watching him roll over to his side like the teenager I know he will one day grow into, slowly easing into the idea that it is time to arise for the afternoon; peeling his damp shirt away from his hot back to allow a gentle breeze to penetrate the moist cocoon his bed has become.

I don’t know when memories start for children—I have heard they begin at three-years-old, but who is to know for sure.  I imagine that if George remembers anything about these summer days, it will be the fondness for those long, cool, restful naps.  Those rare hours of true independence—falling asleep at his own pace, in his own bed, and without a care in the world.

A carefree summer begins and ends with a sweaty boy.  And Frances and I are enjoying the ride.

Happy Saturday, everyone!

First week of summer

Frances’s last day of school was this past Friday (which also coincided with her last day of dance class, thus the leotard and tights getup):

After Saturday’s dance recital, my little world traveler ventured to her favorite place in the entire world to visit by herself—Nana and Pop’s house in Lynchburg!  By all accounts she is having a fabulous time, staying up a bit later than usual, buying new shoes, and eating butter on her lunchtime sandwiches (I kid you not on this one.  But as my mother said, what happens at Nana’s house stays at Nana’s house).  She even had time to make her debut television cameo in a local news story:

Those are her now-famous new shoes pictured in the lower right photo.

My mother is Immediate Past President of the Lynchburg Rotary and one of her pet projects as President was raising funds for an all-inclusive children’s playground at one of the more popular parks in Lynchburg.  Frances attended the groundbreaking ceremony and stole the show.  What you don’t see in these pictures or the news story (click here if you’re interested in watching it) is how much praise my mother received for her tireless efforts in realizing this project.  Congratulations, Mother!

So, while Frances has been gallivanting around Lynchburg in new, white Mary Janes smiling for the television cameras, George and I have been enjoying a quiet week in Richmond.

Heading to the pool!
Parenthood is nothing but relative, isn't it?  Only when you have both a 4 1/2-year-old and a 2 1/2-year-old is a week with just your youngest "quiet."

He’s starting to miss her I can tell, but I think we both feel like we’re on vacation—George is able to play in Frances’s room with her toys completely free of distraction and I’m guaranteed a 3-hour block of time in the afternoon while my growing boy naps.  No doubt all three of us are in for a shock once things get back to normal next week.  But the house is much too quiet without her and (just as suspected) we find ourselves talking about Frances all of the time.  We are all missing her!

Father's Day morning.  Daddy is wearing his new "tie" from Frances and Frances is wondering when she gets to leave for Lynchburg.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

My pineapple princess

This past Saturday, Frances had her second annual dance concert:

For these last two years, Frances has taken dance through a great organization that comes to her school to teach her.  I love this for many reasons, the top two being (1) she doesn’t take dance class during family time (weekends or evenings); and, (2) she dances with all of her friends.  I’ll give you three guesses which of those reasons Frances likes better:

The girls danced to Annette Funicello’s “Pineapple Princess,” which as best as I can tell was from her heyday as part of the teen duo with Frankie Avalon in the 1950s and 60s.  I dare you to listen to this song and not smile though; they picked a good one:

And now, while you’re listening to that ridiculousness, picture all of these adorable girls shaking their tutus, pointing their toes and sashaying around the stage for a good 2 ½ minutes.  I laughed until I cried, probably to hide the fact that I was crying.  Dance already stirs up more tears than almost anything for me; add Frances to the mix and it’s a recipe for waterworks.

Once again, Frances drew quite a crowd to her show:

Mr. Pyles, Gram-E, Nana, George, Pop, Grandpa, Daddy, Grandma and Trey

After the final curtain call, we headed to Red Robin for dinner with some of the other families.  Carissa asked to sit with our table and George was in heaven.  To say he loves his lady friends is an understatement:

My sides still hurt from laughing so much at George and Carissa’s ongoing flirt-session.  They were quite a pair.

This will be the last dance recital with this group—Frances can’t keep the same in-school program with Kindergarten starting this fall.  I’ll double-triple check that she wants to keep dancing outside of school.  We are blessed with many great dance programs in this area (Richmond Ballet being one of them), so I am not short of places to take her.  But dance is hard enough, even when you are passionate about it.  I know the way a song can bubble that chasm below the breastbone, involuntarily moving your limbs and stirring up the butterflies waiting impatiently in your stomach.  I know that feeling and I see that reflected in Frances’s eyes when she hears “The Nutcracker,” “Carmen,” or even the “Curious George” soundtrack.  As silly as it sounds, that passion is what you cannot teach and I want to ensure hers doesn’t get lost in the fray of mirrors, recitals and peer pressure.  Maybe I’m gun-shy or a bit overprotective, trying so desperately not to be a dance mom that I’m becoming a ‘you cannot dance’ mom.  I’m keeping an opened mind, eyes, ears, and heart.

If Frances wants to continue dance, I will be her biggest fan.  Well, almost her biggest fan:

Happy Monday, everyone!

Father's Day

It’s hard to believe another year has gone by since I wrote my last Father’s Day post for Will.  I know you all have heard it 1,000 times before, but Will is truly an inspiration as a father—he’s patient, kind, creative, playful, and stern when he has to be (which is almost never because when you are all of those other aforementioned adjectives, children just listen.  Amazing.  And a little exasperating for those of us who are not all of the above).

As I was scouring our old family pictures earlier this week, I realized (for maybe the first time) just how close Will has been to both of our kids.  I sometimes forget that a mere 15 months ago I was working as a fulltime family law attorney (which translates into a 60 hour plus week, sleepless nights, rushed mornings, grumpy evenings, weekend work catch-up, and countless other intangibles that are hard to translate into words).  Will was my true partner in parenting throughout it all—we were as close to 50/50 parents as you can get.  We both took the kids to the doctor, he dropped the kids off at school and I picked them up, he fed them breakfast, I fed them dinner and we alternated who made the lunches.  But not only did we share all of the responsibilities, we shared all of the fun parts of parenting, too—the playing, the outings, the birthday parties, the daily ups and downs when you have babies, toddlers and preschoolers.  Yes, we were both working (hard), but we had equal amounts of bonding time with our brood; and Frances and George were as close to their father as I’ve ever seen two children get.

And now, we still share family responsibilities, but instead of 50/50 it is 100/100—Will has 100% of the breadwinning status and I have 100% of the home.  It’s no more than before, but the breakdown is different.  And a part of me wonders if it’s a little unfair for him.  And particularly, for the children.  By gaining me at home they have lost time with their father.

But, do you want to know the truly amazing part of all of this?  Will is not the least bit resentful of the new breakdown.  I am fairly certain (oh, who are we kidding, I am completely certain) that if I were in his shoes I would be heartbroken to know that my relationship with the kids had to be curtailed for my career.  I would be thrilled to know their father was with them more, but I would selfishly miss my old time with Frances and George.

I know Will misses us; misses seeing the kids because of his ridiculous work schedule this last year.  But he is happiest when the rest of us are happy.  It takes a special person to put others’ wellbeing before his, but Will does this on a daily basis—easily, joyfully, and without a hint of resentment.  One day, I hope to be the kind of mother that Will is as a father.

"A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms when his hands are empty." -- Unknown

Thank you, Will!  And a happy, happy Father’s Day to all of my wonderful fathers out there (Daddy, Frank, Jerry, and “Mr. Pyles”)!