Some Tough Bitches

Greetings from the Atlanta Marathon/Half Marathon 2012! That's what the caption would say if this were a post card.  

 This past weekend, I had the time of my life cheerleading for my two buddies, Annie (my Cuz) and Missy (my friend/doctor), as they ran in the Atlanta Marathon/ Half Marathon.   My role in this major running event was strictly limited to moral booster/photographer/cheerleader because let me make this clear:

My ass does not run.   

A nice lady on the hotel elevator asked me if I was participating in the event.  I wanted to say, "No, that's why I'm holding an egg and cheese croissant, while everyone else in running at the moment." But I just shook my head.  She said, "I understand.  Girl, you won't ever catch me running unless somebody is chasing me!"

Those were my sentiments exactly.  

Let me say, I took a lot of crap (mainly from my husband) about going away for the weekend as a cheerleader.  I think he just wanted me to feel bad about leaving him with the girls (I totally don't!!) But, he made numerous comments about how I should just jump in there and join the race...why not?? Perhaps because I had never run a complete mile in my ENTIRE LIFE!  But 13.1...sign me up!!

Maybe I should explain how I got involved in this trip.  My cousin Annie, made it her goal to run her second half marathon this year, so I said, "Sure, I'll come along!", since her hubby would be at home watching the kids.  Once she made this commitment, I started to notice something uncanny.  Runners came popping out of the woodwork EVERYWHERE.

You may have heard me mention my beloved small group (it's a church thang) before. Well, as chance would have it, several of the couples in that group are runners.  Two of the ladies are even pregger runners (show offs)!  Then, my friend Kristen updated me on her life, and told me that she is coaching a group of girls in an organization called, "Girls on the Run," which is an incredible non profit program for girls in the third through eighth grades.  Finally, my buddy Missy started training for the Atlanta Marathon.

Here were my thoughts on all these lady runners: Ya'll are some crazy bitches! 

But now?  After this weekend? I'm starting to drink the Kool Aid. If you do not enjoy running or have never attended a running event, you probably feel the way I did.  But, something happens when you stand on the sidelines and cheer as the runners push themselves over the finish line that they have been running toward for hours.  

You get it.  It is an accomplishment that no one can ever take away. Like raising a child, or completing a college degree, or making a marriage work, no matter what challenges arise.

So I woke up at about 5:30 AM with the ladies to see them off and it was a crazy scene.  The hotel lobby and downtown Atlanta were like this alternate universe that was totally dedicated to people who run.  It was pitch black outside; the streets around Centennial Park were totally shut down and roped off for the runners.  Club music was bumping through massive speakers and nervous runners were finding their corrals, or starting points.  It was one of the largest crowds I have ever been a part of, easily 20,000 people. 

I was expecting a flash mob to start dancing at any moment (very disappointed about that).
I blew kisses goodbye and to be honest, it was very emotional.  For one, I was worried about them.  Annie had run a half marathon once before, but this time she had not trained properly because both Annie and Missy had strep throat just two weeks before the race!  So neither one made it to their training goal before racing.  

And let me add that people freaking die from running marathons!

As Annie took off, I could clearly see the picture of her Dad, my Uncle Frank, pinned to the back of her shirt.  I cried just a little.  Race day was the anniversary of her Dad's death.  Not to mention that my Uncle was born and raised in Atlanta.  Oh, and just for good measure, the race was located spitting distance from the CNN building, the news network that Uncle Frank had a major hand in launching.  

Annie ran every single step of that 13.1 mile race, and at the end she told me that her Dad pulled her through.  Every time she reached another hill and wanted to give up, she whispered, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," and goose bumps would cover her body.  She felt a gentle lift, and knew her Dad was there to send her on her way.  

You did your Daddy proud, Annie. 

Missy was a little disappointed that she had to walk a few steps at mile 17.  OMG!! Can you even imagine?  She is a woman of steel.  Missy never ceases to amaze me.  You know the person you meet who can conquer ANYTHING life throws at them? That's Missy!  Become a pediatrician and internist while raising three kids?  No problem!  Run 13 miles a couple of times a week?  Why not?!  It wouldn't even surprise me if she dropped out her babies while jogging and then strapped them on her back.

Her beautiful family was there at the finish line to cheer her on.  

So now what?  

Well...I'm running.  There are no 5K's in my future; let's not get crazy!  But, I will say this.  I ran my first entire mile the other night and it was surprisingly wonderful.  You know that John Mellencamp song, "It Hurts So Good."  Yeah, that would be a good way to describe it.  

 It's not that I am excited about doing it.  But, I want to know that at age 33, I can do whatever the hell I set my mind to.  Because, if I don't believe that, then who will teach my girls to?  

 Congratulations, girls!  Next time, I'll make a shirt that says, "Girls who run like it tough and fast!"  No?? Too much?

One Sick Puppy

 

I feel old.  And sick.  And mean.  And barfy. 

Yuck.

It occurred to me in my agony last night that I had not blogged in awhile, and I wanted to.  Because this blog was meant to be a forum, if you will.  A place where I can journal about this particular season of my life, with uncensored honesty.  But that changes a bit when you realize that anyone can read your thoughts.  Yikes!  All of the sudden, you think, I better write something witty or perky!

People, I don't do perky.  It's why I did not make the final cut for the Mouseketeers back in Orlando, circa 1989.  They said, "She can sing and dance, but she's just not perky enough for Disney."  

So, today, I decided, "How about a little honesty?"  It will be cathartic! Or perhaps, I will just take some comfort in sharing my misery with others.  

It all started over a week ago, when Savannah came home from school with a mysterious green eye gunk that looked highly contagious and complained of another ear infection.  Oh my Lord!! This is her fifth ear infection since November.  The doctor's office is on speed dial.  That night, she woke up crying in pain, and the next morning at our appointment, the doc informed us that her poor, little ear drum had ruptured.  At this point, the doctor and I both throw up our hands and agreed that it's time for tubes! Now, we just wait for our ENT appointment, while I pump antibiotics into her body.

The next day, Lilah woke up with her little eyes sealed shut by crud.  So now, hubby and I are taking turns wrestling screaming people on the bed, while prying open their eyes to give them drops three times a day.  I actually thought to myself, "This must be what one of those Dateline predators feels like, only not enjoyable at all!!"

A couple of days later, Lilah and I wake up with a sore throat and a general sense of awfulness.  We wade through the afternoon in a haze, sleeping on and off and watching too much Nick Jr.  We drudge through the week, lethargic and mean, growling at anyone who irritates us.  Finally after five days of this crap, I think, "It couldn't hurt to get checked out."  So I make an appointment with our doctor, half expecting her to say, "Suck it up!  You've just got to start exercising, lazy-ass."  

She does not really say this to me.  I just think she should.

As I am insisting that the nurse take my blood pressure again, as I will it to GO DOWN,  my wonderful doctor announces, "You've got Strep and so does Lilah!"

I think I actually said, "Thank you, Jesus! I just thought I was going crazy." So off I go to pick up my wealth of antibiotics, and when they say, "Ma'am that will be ready at about 6 o'clock tonight," I actually start to cry because I am so tired. Did I mention that I just started my period, as well? 

So fast forward two days.  Here we are at home. Me and Lilah.  Just chilling, and honestly she is looking great. I must be like this total drag for her to hang with.   She is ready to hit the ground running.  But I am feeling worse than ever!  

Which led me to open with the "old, sick, mean, barfy" bit.  I am all around impossible to live with.  Hubby subtly pointed this out when he said, "Just to clarify, we do realize that none of this is my fault, right?"  

And I do.  I am just the worst patient ever.  And on a side note, he is the greatest guy ever.  He puts kids in their beds a hundred times a night, without screaming at them.  He doesn't complain that there is no dinner when he gets home.  And he does not comment on the sour smell that is probably coming from the sweat pants that I've been wearing for two days.  

What a guy. Thanks, Babe!  I owe you one. 

Keeping Vigil

I love someone who is an addict.

I always cringe at that term, even though I've used it on many occasions myself. The ick factor for me, always the teacher, is that that term puts the disease first and the person second.  We learn in education to use "people first" language; such as, a person with autism rather than an autistic child.  I know that sounds anal or knit picky but it's important.  I wish we could start saying, "a person with an addiction", and I guess that change needs to start with me.

This is painful for me to share.  There is no way to make this cutesy or throw in a few well placed wisecracks on this subject.  If you have ever loved someone with the disease of alcoholism or drug addiction, you know what an ugly disease it can be.   My cousin recently referenced addiction as a disease on her blog, Peach Prenni, and boy did she get some feedback on that one!  To be fair it was only one aggravated, opinionated, anonymous person, but it sure had some bite.  

I don't expect everyone to feel all warm and fuzzy about people with addictions.  If you have known a person with an untreated addiction, who is not ready to seek treatment, you may have experienced extreme frustration, anger, or even hatred in your heart.  It would be so very easy to say, "He doesn't care about himself, and is choosing this life.  So I'm done!!" I've been there more times than I can count, friends. 

But the cold hard truth is that alcoholism and drug addiction are a disease.  I do not say this as an expert.  Not by miles.  However, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that living untreated with an addiction is like barbed wire to the soul.  Not to mention the body. It is dying one slow step at a time.  No one embraces this life willingly.   No one says, "When I grow up, I want to go to jail, perhaps become a pathological liar, and live a life of isolation from those I love. Oh, and better yet, I would like to walk around the world feeling like I want to jump out of my own skin at all times. " 

Like any other disease, there are treatment options. It is a choice whether or not to seek treatment. I have had this conversation with my loved one hundreds of times.  It goes something like this.  

Let's call my family member Joe, shall we?  

Me: Joe, you did not choose this disease.  No one is debating that.  But like anyone with a disease, you have treatment options.  You can attend daily meetings, see a psychiatrist. You can go to an outpatient program.  You can find a sponsor, etc...

Joe: It was just a temporary setback.  I don't need help.

(I then explain the million and one reasons why Joe does in fact need help.)

Me: I cannot support you living untreated.  If someone I loved had cancer and said, "I think I will just wait to die, instead of taking radiation and chemo," I would have a big freaking problem with that.  It's exactly the same thing.

You see, if someone has decided to continue down this sick path, there is nothing to be done but refuse to enable their disease and pray.  

And I do.  Boy, can it ever get exhausting praying the same prayer one thousand times.  It's like standing outside someone's house and holding a candle light vigil for them every night. Don't give me too much credit here.  I have a terrible track record with my prayer commitment on this subject.  Like I said, it can be exhausting.

But it's time to light the candle again.   

If there ever comes a time when I am too broken to shine my own light, I hope that someone will shine it for me for as long as is necessary.  That, and I hope that they are honest enough to tell me to get my shit together. (I do this quite well for others).

I've been around the block enough to know that God has not given up on Joe.  Prayers are being heard and have been answered.  I could give you a hundred examples of Joe's close brushes with death, but they are not my stories to tell.  

Instead I will leave you with this.  Whenever I close my eyes, I see Joe as himself, not as a disease.  A little piece of me cracks inside when I picture his sweet dimpled smile and his incredibly soft blond hair.  I remember his laugh and his witty, dry sense of humor and his ability to find beauty in the world through music. I see his indomitable spirit that cannot be broken and his Little Orphan Annie belief that everything will be better tomorrow. 

And maybe it will.  For today, I will lay to rest the anxiety, the anger, and the fears.  I will give thanks for every good day and each happy memory.  Because one day at a time is all we ever get anyway.  

As Good As It Ever Was

This week I surprised my cynical husband.  He is a man that is never surprised.  He has a gift for making you feel like a jackass during a who done it movie and is impossible to shop for.  We literally never exchange gifts because there is nothing you could ever buy him that he would want or would surprise him. He'll say, 
"How about you return this and get rid of our second mortgage for my birthday?" 
Obnoxious.  You know that guy.
If you know any cynics, it is a rare treat to catch him/ her off guard.  I am the guileless, gullible one in this house.  I am about as cunning as Bambi.  And my three year old actually lies better than me.  Do not tell me something is a secret if you want it kept.  It will burn a hole in my mouth.  
So when I paid cash for two plane tickets for my in-laws to arrive on hubby's birthday, I thought for sure that I'd spill the beans.  My Mom and Dad- in law arrived Thursday night and I forced them into a corner of our darkened, junk filled playroom when I heard my hubby arrive home from work.  I whisper shouted the code word, "scarecrow! scarecrow!" (so empowering!) and they bolted into their hiding places.  
I put on my best "I'm pissy and it's about damn time you got home" face and greeted him at the door.   This was not a stretch for me as an actor.  
I told him that there was yet another problem with our poorly constructed new house, and led him upstairs.  I started to get really into it, saying, "That's it!! I've had it! Prepare yourself.  It's disgusting!"
Then we walked in as my two kids and in-laws sprung up, shouting, "Surprise!!"
And he was.  My little cynic was genuinely and happily surprised.
The next day we had a quickly thrown together birthday party for hubby, including dollar store decor and cold pizza from yet another pizza joint that refuses to deliver to us out here in Deliverance country.  
It was perfectly wonderful!  My cousin and her lovely family joined us for the celebration and we laughed over cold pizza and gourmet birthday cake (yum!) from Cecilia's of Athens.  
Oh, did we laugh!  We laughed about escorts at office Christmas parties, the early days of marriage, bad ex-girlfriends, and why my father-in-law believes it is not necessary to say, "I love you," ever.  He may be the only man that can actually get away with arguing that point.  He had me convinced for awhile there!  
I had an eye opening moment that has happened to me so often in my new life here, down South.  As I looked around the table at the beautiful people seated in my dining room, I thought, "It just doesn't get much better than this."  
It doesn't.
If you had told me a year ago that I would be celebrating my husband's birthday in Georgia, with his parents and my cousin's family, I never would have believed it.  If you had told me that hubby would have left everything he had ever known to relocate to Georgia, which might as well have been another planet, I would have shook my head in disbelief.  If you had told me that it would be possible for my wonderful in-laws to laugh again, until tears welled up in their eyes, I would have denied it.  
But here we are.  Together.  Happy.
Sadly, they have to home to the boatload of troubles that we've left behind (at least geographically).  They are still plagued with worries that would make Lindsay Lohan's parents feel just peachy in comparison.  But for this week, right now, they are just grandparents.  They are "Babo" and "Dedo".  They play with apps on my Kindle, and snuggle, and try new recipes, and go see stupid romantic comedies.  They push little girls at the park and have push up contests with my five year old.  They even talk to the dog like he is part of the family.  
And who knows?  I learned long ago that God's dreams are way bigger than mine.  I wouldn't put it past the Guy to move the whole family to Georgia in a year's time.  He tends to surprise us with small miracles when we need them most.  
Here's hoping.  

My mother-in-law and my cuz

Me and the old man cookin'

The three little ladies at their table.

The delicious cake that originally said, "Happy Birthday, Doris."

Hunk of Burning Love

I know what you are thinking. 

What a couple of pretty, young things!  Holy Moly...they are hot!! I mean sexy!

Maybe not.  But, in comparison to today...we were lookin' good.  My husband and I have been a couple for sixteen years, officially on Valentine's Day.  That is quite an accomplishment for us, considering we have just about been together for half of our time on this earth.  This was only supposed to be my starter marriage.  And now look at us!!

When I look at this picture of us leaving for our Hawaii honeymoon, twenty two year old babies, with no idea what we had gotten ourselves into, with only the knowledge that we were in love and little else going for us...dramatic pause...I sigh.  

Actually that is not true.  I blush!  I remember how it all started back when I was a girl of sixteen.  Seemingly overnight, I had sprouted boobs and hips, and had absolutely no idea what to do with them.  But, I figured they gave me license to have a boyfriend, so I went lookin' for one.  Picture this: across a crowded intersection,  my girlfriends and I see a florescent purple pickup truck with what looked like a lot of trouble sitting in the back and waving us over.  (Side note: when we told my girlfriend's mom that we had met boys who were riding in the back of a pickup truck, she asked if we would be seeing the "lawn care workers" again.  Nice.) 

I instantly pulled my mom's Volvo over to the Taco Bell parking lot and we met.  It was the usual parking lot exchange.  He told me his name was B.J. (it's not) and we made awkward conversation.  My friends flirted with his friends and the guys handed out their pager numbers (so badass).  I thought 16 year old B.J. was...nice.  

So a friendship ensued!  He was patient.  He bided his time and was a perfect gentleman, always listening to my teenage troubles and when necessary, providing shoulder to cry on.  One day, we decided to meet up in the fated parking lot where it all began.  We had not seen each other in a few months but had stayed in touch over the phone.  I remember seeing a gorgeous guy step out of a red muscle car across the parking lot.  I turned to my friend and said, "Who is that?"

What I was thinking was, "Break me off a piece of that!" or maybe "Can I get some fries with that shake?" What can I say? The man has a great butt.  

She laughed, and said, "That's B.J.!" 

He was tan, a lot taller, and gorgeous.  From that moment on, I was all in.  I worked for that first date.  And when we had our first official date on Valentine's Day of 1996, we kissed through the whole horribly inappropriate first date movie ("Leaving Los Vegas"- barf).  I actually had bruised lips the next day.  

This was not typical behavior for teenaged Kate.  I was pretty scared of boys.  And they were scared of me.  I was melodramatic and fell "in love" at the drop of a hat.  Teenage boys tend to not like this so much.  I didn't particularly want to kiss them.  Just poke them with a stick from afar (like an insect).  They really did not like that.

But I can honestly say that from our Valentine's Date 16 years ago,  I was fearlessly in love and he was with me.  B.J. never ran when the going got tough. He already knew me and bought the whole package of hormones and emotions.  We were both terribly flawed and dysfunctional and together we just fit. He taught me how to speak the truth to the person you love, and we still do today. 

Since then, our relationship has survived 4 years of long distance romance, financial disasters, and tragedy that would sent a lot of people running.  But not us.  My brave husband is a fighter, like none I've ever seen.    I am so proud of the man that he has grown up to be and I do not tell him nearly often enough.  He is my first love and my last.  I would not change a second of our years together.  And just in case he is wondering, I do know that I am the lucky one. 

And most importantly, I still think that man is sexier than socks on a rooster.   Hmmm... I wonder if he would trade in his Lexus for a purple pick up truck.

May the Circle be Unbroken

So. 

I specifically don't want this to be a tribute blog about all the people I love (there are too many to count, thank you Jesus!).  It would get rather...redundant for the readers, I mean.  But I just gotta do this!  I just gotta devote a minute to my sister-friend-cousin.  

Isn't she lovely?  She would hate her picture being posted up here!   Why?? (I know, right? She's gorgeous.) Because she is one of those people who doesn't know how beautiful she is, which makes her even more lovely.  And just when you are thinking...bitch! She's also the most considerate person I've ever known, and has a heart the size of Texas.  You meet her and you love her.  There is no other choice.

I fell in love with my surrogate big sister when I was about two.  Our Dad's were brothers and the best of friends for as long as anyone can remember.  So when we relocated from Boston to Atlanta, it was just a given that we would be spending a great deal of time with my Auntie, Uncle, and two cousins, Kip and Annie.  My mother decided to pursue her master's degree at UGA (go dawgs!) and she needed child care for little me to do this.  Auntie Mary took on the task of watching me daily with all the Italian Mama love she could muster.  Annie, who was 8 at the time, remembers seeing me curled up on the couch with her Mama, and felt a pang of jealousy.  She sat down on the couch and grabbed her Mom's hand saying, "that's my Mama." I calmly took the other hand and said, "It's okay, we can share her."  From then on Auntie was referred to as my "nudder mudder" and Annie and I became sisters.  

What I remember best about my time in Georgia was the knowledge that I was utterly loved.  It has occurred to me over the years that when I was three and Annie was a popular 10 year old with plenty of neighborhood girls to hang with, it must have put a real cramp in her style to always include the toddler in their Barbie dramas.  What a drag! 

But she swears not.  She says that she loved me to pieces.  Even though by five I was a major pain in the ass tattle tale, who would rat out my surrogate brother and sister at the drop of a hat.  

Today, God has seen fit to miraculously scoop me up out of my Yankee residence and bring this Southern girl home again.  And by God's grace, the sibling relationship has been passed down to another set of cousins.  Once the dust on our moving truck had settled, it became apparent that the five cousins, our children, would be the best of friends, as we are. Sweet, sweet memories surface as I watch Annie teach my children the rhymes she once taught me, as I listen quietly to the two three year old cousins playing prince and princess together for hours at a time.  And I am humbled.  I whisper a thank you to the One who is listening.  

Annie is still the person today that I loved as a toddler.  She is a woman who protects those she loves ferociously.  She will stand by her friends when they are wrong and encourage them until they get it right.  She will swoop in when you haven't showered in three days because you've been taking care of sick kids and leave dollar store treasures and hot tortilla soup on your doorstep.  She is a rock and a soft place to fall at the same time.

Alas, this is by definition a tribute!  But, I will not apologize to you who are reading.  Because this life is short and hard.  When you love someone, I think you should shout it from the rooftops!  

Dropped My Basket

 

There are two or three happy topics that I would have liked to blog about this week.  But I think a blog should be about keeping it real, yo.  So I am gonna do just that.  Last week after the incredible birth of sweet baby Mason, whose Mama I attended (much more about this exciting event later), I was riding high.  Then something unexpected happened.  A dark corner of my life, long put away all neat and tidy in a picnic basket, and placed on a shelf, popped out to say "hello...I'm baaaaaack!"  

Has this ever happened to you friends?  Maybe you are blessed to not have any life altering events from your childhood.   If so, you are lucky indeed.  Maybe your whole childhood was a series of unfortunate events and you are fortunate that they have never caught up with you in adulthood.  Maybe you did some time in therapy, and said "peace be with you" to those bad memories and pushed them out the door.  But here is what I've discovered.  Those memories are sneaky little buggers.  They like to wait until you are basking in the joy of your happy life, and then they make themselves known.  

I have a dear friend who went through a terrible bout of postpartum depression after the birth of her child.   I think the thing that initially attracted me to her as a friend was her strength.  She went through trauma as a child, her parents divorced, and she lost both of them at a young age.  Amazingly, she waded her way through the muck of grief without therapy or SSRI's!  But after that sweet baby was born, she was crippled by anxiety that left her panting in the middle of the night, heart racing, crying, and wondering if she would ever be herself again. 

She had dropped her basket.  

This week, I dropped my basket.  Thanks to the efficiency of the internet, I was able to find a face that I thought I had forgiven a loooooong time ago.  By all logic, I should have been through with this chapter of my life. I did the work; boy, did I ever!  I did my forgiveness exercise, yelling at an empty chair (awkward for the poor chair).  I gave myself permission to be loved and to be happy.  I stopped punishing the girl who did not deserve punishment in the first place.   I deserve a gold star for what I have overcome.  

But forgiving a chair and forgiving an actual face on a computer screen are two TOTALLY different things, my friend.  I am learning that once those unpleasant psychic doors have been opened, they do not slam shut easily.  Trust me, I tried!! I have been waking up in the morning, face flushed, heart racing, fighting mad.  Why do I have the uncanny desire to punch a whole in the wall of my pretty new house, I wonder?  Why does my head feel like its going to explode all day?  I will spare you the rest of the details.  I kicked and shoved those doors pretty damn hard, and when that failed I tried to pretend they weren't there. 

Last night, I realized that I must stop trying to shut those damn doors.  So I will do the work.  I will pray with friends.  I will seek council.  And I will figure out what to do with that face.  But make no mistake, I will be okay.  Because I am no little girl. I am a strong, wise woman and I am not alone.  

If you are a survivor I would love to hear your voice!