Why I love/hate/love running

"Where mummy going?" asks Z.

"I'm going running" I reply.

 

And the look on his face is the absolute reason that I run (or jog). His two-year-old brain cannot believe that "going running" is actually a thing. He loves to run everywhere and can't comprehend that it's yet another grown-up pastime he's excluded from.  Like eating biscuits and staying up late.

 

I'd wish I thought running was as much fun as eating biscuits and staying up late.

 

My relationship with running is complex. I want to be a positive role model for my children. I'm a bit lazy and I love food so exercise is basically obesity prevention.  I hate the afternoon before a scheduled long run.  I love to clear my head at the end of the day and running has got me through some stressful times.  I'm a miserable runner and I certainly don't like to chat.  I love knowing I accomplished something.  I hate spending money on running gear.  I love reading running magazines...

 

I've never been sporty, I did my first 10k (in fact, ran my first mile) when I was 28. And in the 5 years inbetween I've travelled the world and had two pregnancies.  I don't think that my story is any different from most runners.  It tends to be a bit of a love/hate relationship, perhaps founded on times of glory/ stress/ injury and often includes major set-backs, minor victories and lots of internal and external motivators.

 

I'm running a half marathon in 3 weeks and I'm well behind on my training. It's going to be slow and painful. But I'm aiming to get round and raise some money for Dementia UK in memory of my Grandad who passed away in January.

 

 

I did my first half marathon in 2010 and in an okay time. I ran my last 10k race when I was 3 months pregnant with Z. I'm going to complete a half marathon before my twins are 1.  So I'm also hoping to start taking myself a bit more seriously as a runner.  I bought some sports socks at the weekend so I think that's a step in the right direction.

 

So this is the last push - 3 weeks of taking it seriously, drinking less wine, training every other day, wearing my new socks, doing what I can to make it slightly less painful.

 

And I'll think about how I'll feel once it's done.  And the fact my daughter will grow up with a biscuit loving runner as a role model to help her on her way to being fit not thin.   And I'll wonder what Grandad Jim might think of my determination.

 

And I'll imagine Z's face as I cross the finish line.  And then I might do a couple of fist pumps.

 

Watch this space......

 

https://www.justgiving.com/eloanddadgorunningagain/

 

I am a Mum.

Being a Mum, is falling asleep in the dentists, while she's drilling your teeth, because it's the most relaxed you've been in weeks.

Being a Mum is spending hours traipsing round the house with a wailing toddler looking for 'his tow twuck' before you remember you confiscated it yesterday when he was naughty.

Being a Mum is staring with horror as your baby picks up a peppercorn from the kitchen floor and starts to eat it. But letting it play out.

Being a Mum is realising you have a huge snot smear on the back of your work jacket and having no idea how it happened.

Being a Mum is the tragedy of cutting a tiny finger nail too close and a baby bleeding everywhere. And the health visitor knocking on the door that moment.

Being a Mum is the ability to make cupcakes, pastry and bread without the weighing scales.

Being a Mum is thinking you look cool, then going on a night out and realising you look like a Mum.

Being a Mum is being able to tell your twins identical teddies apart from the way they smell.

Being a Mum is not being phased by a bath poo.

Being a Mum is packing a case for a girly weekend and your toddler asking 'are you excited?'

Being a Mum is heading off on a weekend away and feeling very excited about what you are when you aren't a Mum........

When should I worry?....

When should I worry?  I ask this question of myself a lot more than I ever used to.  Previously it was reserved for when hubby was being boisterous on a cliff edge, or if a friend was overwhelmed after a break up.

It's now a daily question, revolving in my mind, contributing to the relentless noise.

Twin 1 coughs: when should I worry?
Twin 2 isn't crawling yet: when should I worry?
Z's being aggressive again: when should I worry?
Barry and I are bickering: when should I worry?

Twin 2 was recently in hospital following a virus that meant he needed oxygen.  He was nebulised throughout the night and I didn't worry.  It really messed with my weekend plans and I was a bit irritated actually.  He didn't seem that bad to me...

Twin 1 rolled off the changing table the other evening - hubby was babysitting and I was on my way out of the door for a much needed night out.  After a brief checking over, I left.  I wasn't worried.

Are these shocking things to confess?  Will I be ostracized for saying that fairly serious things happened to my 9 month old babies and I was unconcerned?

Or is that the purpose of my mother's instinct?  That when I listen to the Mama inside, I'll actually know when something serious is happening.  I'll feel it in my bones, in my heart space, in the place where they once lived.

And perhaps if I can quell the part of me that frantically researches health conditions online in the middle of the night, the part of me that listens when other mother's compare developmental milestones, the part of me that takes advertising emails about childproofing seriously, or the part of me that weeps when I read a Facebook post about the tragic death of an infant.

Perhaps if I can turn off this external facing, nervous worry, and listen to the Mama inside, I won't feel so guilty about a night out.  I won't feel guilty for not using the inhaler as recommended.  I won't feel guilty about not covering the plug sockets.

I'll worry when I worry.

Because I'll know when.

A little bit of "me time"

Today I was standing by the sink, looking out of the window.

Z was in the garden, wearing just a nappy and his shoes, gathering sticks to throw over the neighbours fence.  Twin 1 had just spit up on her dress and Twin 2 was sucking on a wet wipe.

We were running behind and I needed to get the bath run, the bedtime bottles made, our dinner put on...

In that very brief moment, I had a little look at the sky (still beautifully clear blue on this summer evening), I felt the water running through my fingers, I felt my bare feet on the floor and I stopped worrying.

I stopped thinking "I should clean up that sick, I should take away those wet wipes, I should play with Z, I should find him a t-shirt, I should hoover the floor, I should bring in the washing, I should be thinner, I should be eating organic, I should be posting on Instagram, I should call my Gran, I should reply to that text, I should get my nails done"

I managed, for one very brief moment to switch off the "noise" - to stop feeling guilty, or obligated, or inadequate.  And it made me realise what a very rare moment that was.

In fact, it made me realise how infrequent those moments are.  I'm constantly trying to grab some "me time".  But when I chill out and watch a movie, I feel guilty that I'm not tidying the house.  When I go to get my hair done, I enjoy talking about the kids.  As I fall asleep I think about tomorrow's plans.  When I go shopping, or read a magazine, I think "I should be as thin as her, I should buy that top, I should redecorate"

But actually, "me time" shouldn't be orchestrated, it's any moment - anytime of day or night when I feel like I'm just me.  No worries, no self- imposed guilt or obligations.  Just a kid running around in a nappy, or chewing on a wet wipe, or absent mindedly staring out of a window at the sky.

Effective Communication

I'm still trying to think of some comedic nomenclature for my husband, as seems de rigueur for a Mummy-type blogger.  I've yet to come up with one I like. "DH"/ "The Mr"/ "Him Indoors".....

Let's maybe just call him Barry.

Barry is the MOST AMAZING fella in the Universe (according to me - according to others he's ridiculously loud, a bit funny looking, tight with money, has rank feet and farts too often)

Details of his being amazing include:
- most excellent drinking companion
- physically holding me up to take a post C-Section shower
- skilled washing putter on and sorter outer
- most excellent Daddy who builds dens, drinks fake tea and thinks up cool treats and adventures

Despite this, I am still on a continual mission to "improve him" (which mostly involves buying better pants with no holes in Tesco and reminding him of my friends names) Like many women, I also like to provide helpful suggestions and comments on a fairly continual basis.

Barry is on a continual mission to ignore my advice and do what the f*ck he wants.

We've come to a tacit agreement whereby we ignore the fact that I'm a nag and he still behaves like a teenage boy.

Here is an example of some particularly effective communication:

Me: "Your wee smells like you need to be drinking more water"

Barry: (in head)
"Why were you smelling my wee? I definitely need to start flushing.  Have I got no personal space left?  Why do you care?  YOUR wee smells like you need to drink more water.  I can't wait till I get a shed."

Barry: (aloud) "Yeah, probably"

Me: (in head) "I can't believe that I've become so controlling that I'm commenting on his urine/ hydration cycle.  I'm going to start giving him the space he deserves.  He really is the most amazing man in the world... You know, I don't think he was really paying attention to me then.  I'm pretty sure he was placating me with that comment.  I don't know why I bother.  Don't drink more water then - see if I care. Forget it. I can't wait till he gets a shed."

Me: (aloud) "Okay"

How to make a cardboard rocket

I LOVE blog posts that give me step by step instructions for wonderful craft ideas that I can then fob off as my own.

I mostly steal ideas for delicious cakes, festive wreaths and fancy dress outfits.  I add a good dose of wine and a lot more sellotape than required and usually end up with something that looks and/or tastes a bit shit.

Here is my version of one of those lovely, informative blog posts.  We had an old packing box in the house and I thought it would look cute transformed into a rocket.  Next time, I will leave the box in one piece and let Z use his imagination.

Making a Cardboard Rocket

Things you will need:
- a sturdy cardboard box
- extra cardboard
- parcel tape
- masking tape
- double sided tape
- scissors
- a plate
- tin foil
- stickers
- more poster paint than you have in the house
- some wine

Instructions for Day One

1. Cut the cardboard box down one side and insert extra cardboard panel to create a 5 sided "tunnel" using parcel tape (this was unnecessary - stick with a 4 sided rocket for ease)

2. Cut off bottom flaps of box to create firm base

3. Cut corners off top flaps of box and tape together to create pointed, rocket shape roof.  (don't use parcel tape for this, use masking tape, you cannot paint over parcel tape)

4. Use plate to draw circle on one side of box and cut out "window"

5. Tell toddler to go back and watch telly - rocket is not ready yet and there are scissors lying around

6. Cut out two sides of a rectangle on one side of the box, starting at the bottom to create a "door"

7. Lay out token gesture newspaper on the floor

8. Get toddler to come and help paint the rocket.

9. Decide to have a blue rocket with a red roof and a yellow door.

10. Mix all paint together to create a purple/ brown colour and paint all over rocket and floor

11. Trample paint all over house

12. Explain to toddler that he can't play in the rocket until it is dry.  Get toddler to watch more telly to avoid tantrum

13. Hide rocket while it dries (cursing 5th side that means it will not fit through door) and cover a piece of cardboard in tin foil using double sided tape

14. Get toddler to make "control panel" using stickers on tin foil covered cardboard

15. Go out to avoid another tantrum over not yet dry rocket.  Curse the fact you used parcel tape which the toddler painted over and now won't dry

16. Eventually allow toddler to play in rocket and take photos.

17. Once toddler and babies have gone to bed, drink lots of wine and glare at rocket.  Bemoan involvement of toddler in rocket making activity.  Decide that actually all errors in crafting are your fault and you are a second rate mother/ crafter

18. Drink more wine and feel all better

Instructions for Day Two

1. Take toddler to nursery

2. Cut open cardboard rocket and turn it inside out so that the packing company advertising is on the inside (which you should have done in the first place)

2. Remove all parcel tape

3. Stick all sides together using masking tape (with some parcel tape inside for strength)

4. Go round raw edges of door, window, bottom of rocket etc with masking tape

5. Paint entire rocket in correct colours.  Nearly run out of paint.  Manage to get by.

6. Use spare cardboard to make wings.  Paint in correct colour.  Cut slits in side of rocket, score along side of wings, put wings through slits and secure inside with parcel tape

7. Recover cardboard with tin foil for control panel and cover in sticky back plastic so that tin foil cannot be ripped off and deposited around the house. 

8. Add lots of lovely details like a "framed" family photo on the wall inside and authentic writing on outside. 

9. Take photos that you can actually put on Instagram

 

10. Collect toddler from nursery and spend entire evening being a bit overprotective of cardboard rocket

 

11. Decide never to craft again

I am already the older woman I will become

Days like today seem long but I know they are fleeting. I am already the older woman who looks back on these days in amazement.

I have forgotten the pain of childbirth, I have forgotten the anxiety of being sixteen and I will forget the bone aching tiredness of today.

I am already the old woman who is thrilled by the energy and vitality I have. Who looks back at photographs and sees invisible details. The bracelet on the wrist that holds the baby, the vase just out of shot. These are the details that will help me place the memories of these days.

But the memories of these days are already who I am. As we play hide and seek between the sheets drying on the line. As I'm handed a daisy from our overgrown front lawn. As I hear babies laughter mixed with birdsong and a lawnmower in the distance.

These are old memories. They are clichéd. Sometimes I can't remember if they're mine or if I saw them in a film.

These days are already my favourite days. And I am already the older woman I will become.