Warning: Cranky, Pregnant-lady Post Ahead

I've been a little bitter lately. Okay, maybe a lot bitter. It's just that—and here I go on a rant—my husband has been training for mountain bike races this spring. Last Friday, he loaded up the car with his bike and two day's full of toys and drove to the mountains with some friends to race.

I, on the other hand, was home and in my twelfth day of having a head cold/sinus infection. My muscles and ligaments that support baby number two have been so achy and painful in the last few weeks, that I haven't been able to run, and hiking and walking have also hurt. I couldn't swim when I had the head cold, so I wasn't getting to move in that way, either. And (still complaining here), when I garden, which is usually a stress-relieving activity for me ("You're mine, weed!"), my low back clicks after squatting on my little stool for 10 minutes, and my pelvis hurts.

Plus(!), I'm getting bigger by the second, or so it feels.

I'll be 33 weeks this Thursday. I realize I'm in the homestretch in what is way-more-than-likely my last pregnancy. And I know the weight will come off after, and I'll be back to being more active (which, I realize, is going to take skills in time management). It's just that it's been hard for me, lately, to do the things that make me feel more...normal.

And Mark, though his body hasn't changed at all in the last eight months, ALSO gets a baby out of all this.

That weekend he was off racing bikes, Sam and I managed okay. We played with friends, ate pizza together, had a good time overall.

I'm back to swimming now. And my doctor, after lightly pushing on my lower abdomen an me screeching in pain, has advised me to wear a support belt. I wasn't wearing it for months, thinking it was "tricking" my body into feeling more supported than it was. But, I've been wearing it again, and it does make me feel better.

I'm back on the elliptical once in a while (which still makes me feel like a piece of taffy). I'm lifting weights, swimming again, aqua jogging occasionally, riding the recumbent bike at the gym, hiking with the support belt (the steeper, the better, for me), doing prenatal pilates once a week and prenatal yoga once a week (and trying to hike/walk or do something else light on those days). I probably take one day a week where I'm just gardening, but that, lately, involves digging deep holes, carrying stuff around the yard, raking, weeding...pretty active stuff that seems like a bit of a workout.

So, things aren't really so bad. And, you know? I feel a little less bitter after venting about it. (Thanks!)

And there's always the little face of now-3-year-old Sam, above, that makes me smile, no matter how bitter I'm feeling.

Round Two

We debated trying to have two kids, or being content—and settling into a routine that had gotten easier with full-nights of sleep, transitioning out of diapers, cruising around with a little dude—with one. Mark had wanted another kid since about the time we got home from the hospital with Sam (to which I said, "Don't even talk to me about that.") But, last fall, he seemed to change his tune, thinking one would be fine.

I had been on the mindset of not wanting to go through pregnancy again, and, wondering how on earth we'd manage two as active parents who like to travel. And I was getting back into racing, feeling pretty good.

But something in me changed. For one, I hurt my foot with an odd, acute case of plantar fasciitis-like pain from racing a sprint triathlon last September. Secondly, someone I know emailed me a picture of her sons—one Sam's age, and a baby brother a few months old—holding hands in the back seat of their car. It made me cry.

Not long after, we were pregnant (see pic of an early ultrasound).

I'm happy to say that we still are. I turned six months, or, 24 weeks, this past Thursday. It did take me a few weeks...months, maybe, to wrap my head around the fact that we'd be having two. And it'll still take me every moment—even once this baby is born—to truly get used to the newer, crazier life. But, we feel happy, and lucky, and know we're in for a new level of insanity and a new level of family love.

Aside from the first four months serving up daily afternoon dizziness, nausea and extreme fatigue, I've been feeling pretty good this time around. A couple of months ago, about when the afternoon-sickness was ending, I got really achy from a mellow 40-minute run in the snow. It seemed like the same lower abdomen and abductor muscles and surrounding ligaments giving me pains that I had at six or seven months...at least five months, and I was only at four months. That was a bummer.

I've since been mostly running slowly uphill, and hiking down...shuffling down or on flats when I feel like it. I do this once or twice a week, and that's been okay for me, as a runner. Other days, I'm swimming and loving that (though, wondering how long I'll do flip-turns), sometimes aqua jogging, riding a bike at the gym and lifting weights, and sometimes pulling Sam in the Chariot for a 45-minute ride around town. I'm also doing a prenatal pilates class, which seems to be helping me feel better. Occasionally, I do a prenatal yoga class, or do some moves on my own. I was skate skiing once a week, but it's been probably a month since I've been up to the Nordic center to do that (it felt great, though, when I did).

So that's the news. The fact that it took me so long to post it here is testament to how busy life has been...with just one child! I'll try to post more through the rest of pregnancy, and to report on how nutty it is with two!

(Sam turns three in May; Baby #2 is due on July 14.)

Summer of Love

I realize that it's November 2nd. I've been meaning to write about summer adventures with Sam since, well, my last post in August when it was actually still summer.

Anyway, with Sam turning two last May, I guess part of me feared what everybody calls the "terrible twos." They really haven't come yet. Instead, I felt (and still feel) like now that Sam is two and two+, I have this little buddy to hang out with. He's active, mobile, has a great little personality shining through, and can communicate with me in his funny little ways.

Over the summer, my little buddy and I did fun kid stuff together like ride the Chariot (which, set up to my old 29er mountain bike, is dubbed the "Mama Mobile" by me, and "Mom's Bike" by Sam) to go to the outdoor community pool. There, we'd play on the slide, swim in the pool, wrap ourselves in towels and sit in lounge chairs eating popsicles.

We rode the Mama Mobile downtown Boulder, and took the free train ride. We took long walks through the Community Garden with our dog Hannah, and picked cherry tomatoes ("nomaynos"). In our own garden, Sam sat on a chair in the shade eating a popsicle in the afternoon, and I'd bring him peas from the garden. Late in the summer, we dug up carrots and ate those, too.

We had a breakthrough with him liking vegetables this summer, and I'm certain it's because it's fun to pick them from a garden and eat them.

We walked, and Sam rode his Strider bike, to the playground often. We rode "geen bike" (it's green) to the stream by our house and threw rocks in the water, and let Hannah cool off by going for a swim.

We visited with family on a lake on the east coast, and family on the beach on the west coast. It's particularly fun for me to see him play in the waves and love sand. And it turns out he loves food from my favorite cheap taco stand in San Diego, too. We'd get lunch to go, bring it to the beach, and play there all day.

Maybe what all this is really telling me is that, in a lot of ways, I am still a kid at heart and love doing all the things that my child loves to do. But it's also that I just love sharing things with him, and seeing him explore and discover. And it seems that hanging out with him on days he's not in daycare (when I'm working) adds fun and balance to my week in a way I never would have known without him. It kind of forces me to slow down and...play.

So maybe the terrible twos will come. Maybe we'll have terrible threes. But for now, well into fall after a fully fun summer, two is pretty terrific.

Confessions of a Traveling Mom

I have a confession to make: I went on an 8-day trip to the Alps. Without my son or husband. And I liked it.

Let me clarify/justify: It was a work trip, and I did almost cancel the trip when I figured out it was eight days long. I had agreed to go when I thought it was a six-day trip, and even that seemed long to me. The longest I'd been away from Sam in his 2-year, 3-month-life is five days, and that was hard. But eight days away, and so far away...I just didn't know if I could do it.

Yes, I missed him terribly, but I got into the groove of traveling by myself (until meeting up with the others, but even then, I was traveling more by myself than usual) and enjoyed the change of pace. The trip included running/hiking on the Trail du Mont Blanc which circumnavigates the Mont Blanc Massif, crossing over into Italy and Switzerland and then back into France.

There were a couple of hard days out there. One day, in particular, I thought I'd be hiking/running 10 miles and getting in a van. Due to logistical difficulties, I ended up having to hike/run 26 miles instead on a sore big toe and sore knee. But as we climbed into a storm atop the Col de la Seigne, crossing from the French to Italian border, I was pretty happy to be out there suffering. It'd been a long time since the whole purpose of a day was getting from point A to point B by foot, and that, I cherished.

Another highlight of the trip for me was sitting in cafe by myself in Chamonix for the better part of four hours. I alternated between working on my laptop, reading a book, writing in my journal, and...just sitting there listening to people speak French. I switched between Orangina, Perrier and coffee, after eating lunch. Just to have the time to think, or not, was fantastic.

Now back at home, a month later, I'm back in the swing of family life and juggling everything.and I really dig that, too. (Sam and I rode a little train in downtown Boulder this morning and had some lunch--a very pleasant couple of hours.)

I do feel a little guilty for having gone on that trip to the Alps, but Sam and Mark were totally fine, and I came back having a little more sense of self that I'd missed.

I do realize that I'm lucky to get opportunities to go on trips/adventures like this for work, and this was a big one. But even small outings -- a two-hour trail run, or going to do a race with a friend -- seem really valuable in maintaining life balance between being a mom, and everything else.

I do think adventures are always good, even when they're bad. This one just happened to be pretty darn good.

The Dipsea

My favorite running race of all time, the Dipsea, was about a month ago, and I’ve been so busy with work, travel, and … life, that I’m just now writing about it here.

Yes, I had been trying to rehab my hip/hamstring/back injury just enough to be able to run, really run, my favorite race.

And I was really very happy to be there, at the starting line, with minimal aches and pains. I was raring to go. (And I was ecstatic that friends of ours agreed to drive our little Sam from the starting line to the finish line, and that he didn’t cause too much trouble for them.)

What happened over the next 7.5 trail miles was both fun and extremely painful. I just didn’t have any gusto off the starting line. I ran those 676 stairs okay, walking up the steepest ones and trotting when I could. But I felt slow. On the downhills, the first, through Windy Gap, I had a blast. I charged and passed people, riding the line between just barely in, and totally out, of control.

All the downhills that day were equally as fun. I tore down Suicide, the steepest, roughest of descents about midway through the race, and charged down the Swoop, a rutty singletrack with falling into tall brush as your consequence. But on the uphills, and on the gradual downhills where you can really stride out, I just didn’t have it. I slogged through those portions, and it hurt.

My husband, who started five minutes behind me in the uniquely handicapped race, passed me about mile five. I’m pretty sure I said the F-word, followed by, “Oh, Mark!” followed by… “Go Mark!” And I meant the latter (and the prior). I wanted him to have a good race, even if I was having a bad one.

When I crossed the finish line, I about collapsed. But I also cried. I was in so much physical pain from the effort, but I was also pretty bummed I hadn’t had a good race. I finished much further back than I had in the past six times I’d run the race, and I guess I just hadn’t realized I was that far off where I’d been.

Then I got a big hug from Sam. “Mama,” he said, and reached for me from my friend’s arms. I had this overly sappy sentiment that no matter how slow I was, my son still loved me a whole lot.

Supportive friends and family members have since said things to me like, “You’re older now,” to which I say: “Phooey.” They’ve said, “You have a child now,” to which I say: “There are plenty of fast moms.” There’s the whole: “You’ve been injured” thing, which I can stomach—I have, and that one means there’s hope I can regain speed.

I am happy that I’ve been so busy being mom, working, going to physical therapy, traveling (more on that later), and running. As long as running is in the mix—even if it is slower than I’ve been, and like to be—I feel…like myself. And that’s good.

Running Wild

Sam turned two last Sunday, on Mother's Day, which means a lot of things around here.

Firstly, I now know how to clean ball point pen off of wood doors, and am getting good at cleaning crayon off walls. I also know that when Sam says, "Rwaock" when he's leaving for daycare with his dad some mornings, it means he wants to "walk" to the car himself. And I know that when he closes the doors to the armoire that houses the television, he wants me to put on music really loudly so we can have a dance party in the living room.

I've danced more in the last six months than I have in the last six years.

The kind of dancing I do with Sam is actually perfect for me. It's silly, goofy, almost ironic. Dancing normally makes me feel like a fool. Dancing with Sam makes me a fool, and that's the point. It works for both of us.

Lately, little super-active Sam and I have been playing out on the sidewalk some afternoons. We walk along the street in front of our neighbors' houses, and sometimes he stops dead in his tracks. For a milli-second. Then he kind of swings his arms and yells, "Ggooe!" And then we run. We do these little 15-meter dashes down the sidewalk, me chasing his little silliness.

It's pretty fun hanging out with two-year-old Sam. Sure, we have our moments—some longer than others—of fits and stubbornness and...still taking up to 90 minutes (though sometimes 20) to go to sleep in the big boy bed at night, but this little person and all his new words and personality traits is really fun to get to know.

Happy belated Mother's Day, everyone.

Newfound Freedom

Sam is one active little dude. He turns two(!) in a couple of weeks, and he's reached some big milestones lately...like learning to crawl out of his crib.

One night, a couple weeks ago, I heard his little feet hit the floor (at least he stuck the landing) and then pitter-pattering: thump thump thump thump thump. For a split second, I thought, "What the..." but then I shot out of bed like a rocket. I found my previously contained boy, standing at his door. At 2 a.m.

And so we bit the bullet, and switched him to a "Big Boy Bed." After debating between a toddler bed, a twin bed with a guard rail and just a twin mattress, we settled on the latter and placed in on the floor.

To make matters even more exciting for Sam, we moved back into our house after doing some remodeling. So there we were on Sunday night: new bed, new room, new house.

We tried to keep the same bedtime routine. We tried to put him to bed without much ado, aside from getting him psyched up for his new bed. But the little guy had something else in mind. For two hours after turning off the lights, my husband and I traded off laying in his bed with him...or, without him.

Sam, the active little explorer that he is, cruised around his room. He'd lay down for a little while, then shoot out of bed, rearrange some books. Lay down, shoot out of bed, move his sippy cup from the book cubby to the little table. Lay down, shoot out of bed and play with the ladybug that glows colored stars. Change from red ("wreee"), to green ("neeen") to blue ("booo!"). Lay down. After two hours, he just collapsed on the bed.

Once there, he slept...until about 2 a.m., when I heard him wake up. (I wasn't really asleep up 'til then anyway, worrying about him falling out, escaping from his room, etc.) I spent the rest of the night in his bed with him. We slept in his twin until 4:45 a.m. That's when we got up for the day.

I get it, I do. He's never had the freedom before to explore his room at night. He's been in a cage (his crib), and now he's free. He has things to do. Books need rearranging, sippy cups need moving. Stars need to change colors. I get it.

I can fully appreciate freedom--my running lately has given me that. I've had progress with a physical therapist treating me with dry needling (OUCH, big time) and nerve openers for my back/hip/hamstring, and strengthening exercises. Running, for me, is freedom. And I'm happy to have it back.

Hopefully, I'll soon have sleeping back, too.