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    The Why

    Four months ago today, I was having that godforsaken procedure done which means I’ve officially been mourning the loss of a  baby longer than I was actually pregnant with one. What a surreal thought to grieve someone that you never met, longer than their actual life. Prior to all of this, I would have naively expected a woman to lose a baby and find the cure in immediately getting pregnant again. I suppose the joke is on me because a) it’s not that fucking simple and b) I’m not pregnant, still.

    16 weeks have gone by since I laid in that chair, in that cold doctor’s office and gripped my husband’s hand and sobbed in the direction of my aunt. We said goodbye that day and life has resumed, people have stopped giving me the sad, puppy dog eyes and I’ve ceased to bring the topic up because “hello, awkwardness.”

    In all honesty, I am doing better. There’s some truth in the assholes who routinely said “time heals” or “it’ll get better over time” because it has. The initial wound has closed up some and the blows have softened.

    But then I have my hard days and when they’re bad, they’re bad.

    For example, two weeks ago I injured my knee running. Well, let me rephrase that because I didn’t do jack shit.

    My knee decided to be a little wuss and stop cooperating while running (there, much more accurate).

    Last Friday, I decided to try a treadmill run to test out my pansy ass patella (some medical jargon for you all). Needless to say, it did not go well.

    In fact, while limping on the treadmill determined to keep running, I had a complete mental breakdown that spiraled from my knee injury to the miscarriage to somehow openly, and loudly, fighting with God.

    I’m not the most religious person which must be shocking to you all because I have such high morals and such a pious persona, but organized religion generally scares me. Why are we all shaking hands? Why are we chanting in unison? Why are bad singers invited to sing? Why are we eating stale bread and drinking shitty wine AND sharing a glass with strangers?

    Sidenote: if Church allowed me to openly drink red wine as some type of BYOB then maybe I’d attend more.

    These are pressing questions. But trust me, I get it. There’s something comforting and reassuring about believing in a higher power. I got married in a Catholic ceremony and achieved all of the compulsory sacraments as a youth, but my faith has admittedly waivered through the years. I’ve felt disconnected and have too many questions that no one, on this planet and in this life, can answer.

    One of those questions as I literally stumbled through my run was “why?”

    Why do bad things happen? Why do we give thanks to God when all is right, but disregard his presence in his “plan” for us when things are really bad? We chalk it up to “everything happens for a reason” or silence our questioning under the belief that we can’t question God.

    But last Friday, I did question Him.

    Why, when I am a good mother, was I not given that baby? Why is running, the only thing that distracts me from the loss, taken away? Why are undeserving women who make poor decisions and don’t have a pot to piss in given perfectly healthy babies? Why are babies born into unhealthy and unstable homes when we can offer them stability and love? Why do I have to pee on an ovulation stick every day for nearly a year, but some drug-addicted floozy in the middle of a one-night stand can conceive effortlessly without fertility trackers and ovulation calendars? How is that fair?

    Why is that fair?

    No response.

    Silence.

    After I hit “stop” on the treadmill, I sat on its edge and sobbed. Hard. So loud and violent that my children who were innocently playing outside came running in to check on their mom. They hugged me, didn’t ask questions and returned to their playtime after I reassured them that mom was just frustrated.

    I suppose frustrated is a grand understatement. The inability to run forces me to recognize how deep this hole really is. There’s no distraction. Running has always been a hobby, but lately, it has served as some type of necessary therapy. Now it’s painful and actual doctors have advised me to cut back. (Um, no. Rest is for the weak!)

    Maybe that’s my why as to why I can’t rundon’t rely on a band-aid to power you through deep cuts. Running is a mask and disguise for a much bigger problem regarding my recent sanity. Take it away and the real me is exposed: a struggling woman that’s trying to power through emotions that society tells me to suppress. If I were a celebrity, fans would be applauding me for my openness and raw approach to grief, but I’m just an average civilian which means I just look fucking insane yelling at God on a treadmill.

    The universe does what it needs to do and without much explanation. Asking for answers is useless, but accepting unfairness seems like a sign of maturity and strength. I’m not there yet. I want a concrete resolution, but I know I won’t get it in this lifetime and I need to come to terms with that. Certainly, people have bigger questions that demand deeper answers than me, but we are all walking our own walk and right now this is my path.

    I’m making my way through, one limping and painful knee at a time.

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    The Gray Zone

    We’ve reached Friday. Another week of winter is done. Another week of the school year is done. One week closer to summer vacation and as my body confirmed this week, another week that I am not pregnant.

    It’s been three months since the miscarriage and I feel frustratingly torn by my emotions. It’s a weird state of desperation to get pregnant again and a simultaneous feeling that I’m not ready to be pregnant and perhaps, never will be. The last statement isn’t meant to garner “yes you will!” responses about faith, resiliency, and optimism. I know I can get pregnant. Three pregnancies have proven that. What I am concerned and struggling with is whether or not I want to be and if so, when?

    I’ve always envisioned myself with a lot of kids. Two was never my intention. Hell, it was only my beginning number. Three was a definite. Four was a maybe. Five would have been a dream.

    Now…I’m wondering…

    I’m questioning…

    What if I’m not meant to have more?

    My children are of an age of independence. They can dress themselves. They entertain themselves. They can get their own drinks. Not for nothing, but they can get me drinks- coffee and wine included. They’re two years apart and have an unshakable bond. They’re each other’s best friends. How would a third fit into that? Would they? No matter how joyous, a third baby would disrupt their lives. Throw a wrench in our routine.

    Our lives are settled and stable and now I question whether or not I truly want to start from the beginning again. The sleepless nights, the bottles, teething, the toddler temper tantrums, potty training, diaper explosions, smelling like spit-up for a year. I’m so far removed from the trenches of parenthood. Do I want to crawl back in and exchange my structure for chaos? I think I do, but every passing month that I’m not pregnant, I wonder if it’s foolish to try and be.

    Furthermore, the last three months have caused me to unfairly judge myself as a mother. My children are sweet, creative, imaginative, kind, intelligent and empathetic. I feel as if these two adorable, evolving individuals are the way they are because of the environment they’re in, the amazing father who gets on the floor with them and builds LEGOs, their compassionate teachers and their extended families that nurture them to no end. I feel, as of late, that I’m a lackluster mom. Someone who is a shell of her former, fun self. My patience is low. My kid-centered creativity is nonexistent. I feel like a taxi driver, a book reader and a perpetual nag for them to brush their teeth, get on their clothes, clean up their messes and eat their dinners.

    I’m not, once again, seeking some type of “you are a great mom!” response because yes, I know I’m a good mom at the end of the day. Rationally, I know I’ve helped shape them into these amazing little people, but if I were actually thinking rationally, I wouldn’t be writing this.

    I love them with everything I have which is a true sign of a good mom, but I question if I’m enough. Enough for them and enough for another baby. If motherhood were a job, I feel like my boss would be having a very awkward meeting with me about my “declining performance” and my “uncertain future.”

    Babies were always my kryptonite. I’d melt around them. I was the creeper in Wegmans staring at your baby, waving, playing peek-a-boo from across the aisle. Now? I feel despondent towards them. They exist. They’re there. Sure, they’re cute, but they’ve lost their luster. It’s like that Marie Kondo phenomenon: do babies spark joy within me nowadays?

    No.

    That makes me sad.

    I’m jaded, there’s no doubt about that. I’m healing, I’m aware of that. I’m a little broken, I get that. But how the hell do I fix all of that?

    Don’t tell me that it takes time.

    Don’t tell me to see a therapist.

    Don’t tell me I’ll get pregnant soon.

    None of these are cures. They are people’s default responses to an awkward conversation that, by the way, people are over having with me. It’s safer, easier and more acceptable to just shut the fuck up about it. Part of me doesn’t talk about it because I feel as if I should be stronger and be “over it” already. The other part of me doesn’t talk about it because I don’t want people to judge me for not being over it already.

    A new baby isn’t and shouldn’t be a band-aid for my miscarriage. A lost baby isn’t something that you can replace with another one. It’s not a goldfish. It’s not a pair of shoes. But at one point, babies were a source of happiness for me and now, I’m indifferent.

    Indifferent towards babies that are not my own and indifferent towards babies that could be in my future. I hate that feeling.

    That feeling of being in the middle.

    The gray zone of life.

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    Run down on the Run

    It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I’ve falsely convinced myself and others that all is well and that there’s nothing more to note in this space. However, we all know that shit isn’t true. I’m just really super good at covering up reality. Way better at covering up my misery than I am my hormonal facial breakouts, but whatever.

    The truth is that I sometimes feel a little lost. The world has certainly resumed its spinning which I knew was going to happen. My personal loss is not the loss of others. It is not a shared misery. However, I didn’t expect the physical feeling of abandonment that I do right now. If life were a race, I’d still be at the start line, crying and confused while everyone else has lapped me numerous times. My apologies for the running analogy, but it brings me to today…

    A few weeks ago I registered for the Buffalo Marathon in May. Not because I love suffering through five hours of running, but to keep my mind occupied. Marathon training forces a very disciplined lifestyle– a rigid running schedule, long Saturday morning training runs, dietary restrictions and general busyness. Work, kids, a husband, family and friends were not enough. Let’s factor in a marathon.

    Today during the first stretch of our 14-mile run (ugh), I unconsciously separated myself from the group. I was alone with my thoughts and allowed myself to sink deep into those thoughts. It wasn’t pretty.

    Everything I’ve been avoided crept its nasty, sneaky way into my head.

    Everyone around you is pregnant and you aren’t!

    Everyone who is pregnant seems to complain about it a lot! That must make you pretty pissed.

    Everyone around you has a baby that they seem to resent. Sucks that you won’t have a baby.

    No one cares much about your dumb miscarriage anymore.

    You probably wouldn’t have handled a third baby well anyway. Look at you. You can’t even handle this.

    You did something wrong. Even though the doctors said you didn’t, you know this is your fault.

    You’re not going to get pregnant again.

    You’re only here running because you’re NOT pregnant anymore. YOU lost your baby.

    As the miles progressed and time went by, I felt more and more enraged by life. I’m not here to suggest that my problems are the worst. I know firsthand that people have and have had it much worse. Cancer, death, illness, injury– all terrible and all, in the grand scheme of life, far more damaging than my pregnancy loss. I get it.

    I am here, however, to bitch about my own problems because this is my damn blog. To me, my miscarriage was like a knife to my life plan. She was perfectly planned and profusely wanted. She is no longer here. There is a void in my life that I’m frantically trying to fill. 2019 was predestined to be her year and now it’s a ginormous haunting question mark disguised as a giant middle finger to my life.

    There’s a certain level of muteness I feel as well. Last week at a work meeting, I told a colleague that I missed last month’s meeting because I miscarried and I might as well have told her that I had a highly contagious strain of smallpox. It was awkward. Not awkward for me because I clearly don’t have a problem discussing it, but others don’t want to. I feel shy about my honesty and embarrassed by my prolonged pain. Society seems to dictate a certain mourning time period for this and I’m passed that. Now it’s taboo to speak about it. Another example of how I’m left in the dust.

    They’ve lapped me yet again in the race.

    Once we got back to the running store, I felt pissed. This shit card has been dealt to me and here I am trying to ignore it like an idiot. I don’t want to run, I want to be at home rubbing my belly and joking about prenatal hiccups or something. I don’t want to be drinking wine every single night, but I am because I’m really fucking pissed and despite what psychologists say, wine solves shit. I don’t want to be logging my daily calories to lose the pregnancy and mourning weight I put on, but here I am scanning barcodes and counting how many Tostitos I ate. The whole thing is SHITTY and I hate it.

    I sat on the sidewalk of the store and felt some internal rage fill me. As my friends stood above me to discuss the next phase of our run, I just wanted to cry.  One of those hard, lengthy, scary, uncontrollable cries, but that wasn’t the time nor the place. Screaming felt appropriate, but I didn’t. Punching someone or something felt justifiable, but there’s no one or anything to truly blame.

    Today was the first time, in a long time, that I just wanted to cry. My friends were thankfully there to ask if I were okay and to encourage me to keep running. Force the small talk, think and talk about anything else, I kept reminding myself. We ran for another hour after my mini-meltdown and I felt remarkably better. The physical pain of running helped with the emotional pain of my crap circumstances.

    Like I told my best friend today when I recounted the story, I am rambling. Nothing makes sense other than I know need to get back into my therapist and keep working on myself and my outlook. If this whole thing has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not alone despite how I may feel. With that being said, I’ve started writing a book. Like one of those things that you pick up and read. Those things, yes. It will probably go nowhere, but it’s healing to give a voice to the pain. If it sits on my computer for the rest of my life without anyone else reading it, I’m fine with that. Right now, it’s another outlet to fill the crack of my life’s foundation.

    Apologies if this is a rambling post that makes zero sense. I’m listening to a sad playlist and am on my 2nd (or 3rd, WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE) glass of wine and am racing to post this before my kid’s show is over.

    Time’s ticking, life is moving and I’m trying really hard to be apart of it.

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    Race Recap: Empire Half Marathon {Fail}

    Because Hillary Clinton and I are so much alike, I’ve composed my version of “What Happened.” Her failed bid at the presidency and my failed attempt at a half-marathon PR are basically the same level of loss.

    Date/Time of Race:

    October 8th, 2017 at 8am.

    Weather:

    The weather gave me major concern in the days leading up to the race, but it the race started at 74 degrees with 15 mph winds. There was a slight drizzle of rain around mile 5 that lasted for about 10 minutes.

    Course Description:

    Out and back course along Onondonga Lake. A couple of miles on the road and then dominantly in the lake’s park.

    Pace Objective:

    I’ve been training for a 9:15 mile, but knew I could pull several miles under that. In my heart, my big goal was an elusive (to me) sub 2, but I would have been happy and content if I finished somewhere between 2:00-2:05.

    Official Chip Time:

    2:12. Wanted to punch someone. Still do.

    Background Story:

    In June, I hired a coach to help me get better, stronger and more confident as a runner. I wanted some type of structure to my running instead of “Oh, I’ll just run xx miles today!” with random paces and routes. I have never run competitively against myself. It has always been “if I do well, I do well. If I don’t do well then just tell yourself you’ll get serious next time.” I spent the summer trying to hit paces that I certainly never thought I could. I ended up with a PR at the Shoreline Half Marathon, a PR in my 15k in September and a PR in my 5k time. But still…I really wanted to truly rock a half marathon and feel like I genuinely earned it.

    Pre-Race

    Ryan and the kids graciously came with me to Syracuse to stay in the hotel overnight so I wouldn’t have to drive at 4am. The evening beforehand, I ate a bowl of pasta and some bread, stayed on top of my hydration and did everything I usually do the night before a race. I slept fine, got up on time, ate my protein pancakes with some coffee and water and waited around in the minor league baseball stadium that was the site of both the start and finish. Maybe I got there too early because and had too much time on my hands because by 7:40am, I was feeling worried. I was worried about the weather, my outfit, my stomach…everything.

    Race

    Well, let’s be honest here: I started out too fast. My coach told me to take it easy the first few miles because of the temperature + humidity, but I’m a dumbass. I was like “bitches, I feel great! I’m going to win this shit!” I cruised between a 8:54-9:36 mile for the first six miles. But then I realized that we weren’t at the turnaround yet and I was getting tired already. I ate my applesauce pouch, grabbed some Gatorade and the feeling didn’t go away. Every step felt like a step backwards, if that makes sense. When we reached the turnaround, I grabbed my phone and dramatically texted Ryan and Jen to tell them not to come to the finish line because I wasn’t going to do well (spoiler alert: they still came). At that point, the humidity had peaked and I felt like I wasn’t pulling in enough air. In a race that was going well, I probably would have pushed through it or wouldn’t have even noticed it, but I became hyper aware of my tired legs, asthmatic chest and the feeling of a rock in my shoe (spoiler alert: NOT a rock. Just a giant blister that formed and burst for the last 5 miles. Such a win!). Everything was bothering me. I could feel tears coming around mile 8 and that’s when I ripped off my pace bracelet I had made, knowing full-well that a PR was out of the question. I didn’t need a reminder on my wrist of my failure for the next 50 or so minutes.

    Once I reached the 10 mile mark, I tried to switch my mindset to “it’s just a 5k. Don’t stop running.” Even though it was slow for me (10:30-11:00), I just wanted to finish with maximum effort. No walk breaks- just bust it out and get it over with. Running slow is still running.

    I turned on my hispanic music and “cruised” to a 2:12 finish time.

    Conclusion:

    I’m unhappy and upset. I’m aware that it’s “just a race” and that “I still finished” and all that other kind-hearted, well-intentioned stuff, but I really, REALLY hate not reaching a goal. Especially one that I put my heart into. Furthermore, I didn’t fail because I didn’t put in the work. I failed because I didn’t believe I could do it. Total case of self-sabotage and self-doubt.

    I’m upset that this is how my “season” ends– feeling bitter and defeated. I will have to wait months and months to redeem myself.

    But moving forward, I hope to train hard again and hit my goal in the spring. But for now? Wine, pity and cookies.

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    Six Figure Update

    Yes, we got the cat

    In the least shocking update, yes we adopted the cat. Remember how his little write-up was all about how he just likes to hide under his blankets? BOLD FACE LIE. I feel like I adopted this:

     

    And came home with this:

    So far he’s broken a lamp, spilled water everywhere (multiple times), tried eating a Barbie’s hair and most notably: pissed and shit in Oliver’s bed. It’s going well.      

    Potty training

    Sweet baby Jesus, halleluiah! Those that know Oliver know that he has been defiant when it comes to potty training. Asking him to sit on the toilet would illicit the same response as asking him to give both his kidneys to an active member of ISIS.

    We turned a corner a few weeks ago with him, but it’s still a struggle. Caroline hated the feeling of an accident in her big girl underwear, but Oliver is more along the lines of “yeah so what? I pissed in my Finding Nemo underwear. He’s a fish, he likes to be wet. Sue me.” There’s no winning.

    Furthermore, I’ve spent his college fund on bribes. I’ve visited every Wal-Mart, Target and Toys R Us in a 20 mile radius to purchase $.99 trucks yet he still has multiple “accidents” daily. Imagine if everytime a drop of urine came out of you, you got rewarded. It’s so simple and he’s just mocking me at this point.

    Best Friend’s wedding

    My best friend got MARRIED. All sarcasm aside, it was the perfect day. She looked so stunning and happy. The wedding had zero pretense to it– you could feel that it was a wedding between two people that loved each other as opposed to two people who just wanted throw a wedding. It was so them. I’m sad it’s over!

    Hilariously enough, the night ended for Oliver with his pants going up in flames from a sparkler induced incident. He’s fine, of course, has a little burn on his ankle, but seriously…he wasn’t even drunk. I was like 5 glasses of chardonnay into the night and even I didn’t set myself on fire. He’s a true amateur.

    Kids party

    Because I only conceive around Christmastime, I have double birthday’s on the horizon. We are having a big joint celebration in two weeks so I’ve been crafting construction truck and purple kitty decorations. I also apparently have to feed guests which is appalling to me. I’m okay with feeding people baked goods, but there’s an actual meal beforehand. I don’t know. Grab some McDonald’s on your way to the party, people.

    Back-to-school

    Why’d you bring this up? I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

    Taylor Swift

    Ooh, but I DO want to talk about this. At first, I disliked her new song because zero people care about how a rich, white girl’s feelings were hurt by other millionaires. But after 200 listens, I’d like to hear ALL of her new songs right now. It’s 2017! We live in the age of Beyonce who drops surprise entire albums overnight. So Taylor, why do we have to wait until November for your songs? She rhymed “time” with “time” on her latest single so it’s not like she’s composing masterpieces. I ain’t got time for your theatrics Taylor!

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    I Can Haz New Cat?

    How is it already AUGUST. I ask this as a genuine question because I feel as if I’ve done nothing and am still waiting for summer to get started. I need at least another six months and I DEFINITELY need the “back to school” displays at stores to GTFO. That’s disrespectful to this country’s brave educators to rush their summer like that. Shameful

    Anyway, last week I decided to take the kids on an adventure our local animal shelter/farm. I figured we could tour the adoptable cats, dogs, birds and farm animals for something to do on a day when I had nothing on the agenda.

    In terms of animal favorability, I much prefer cats to dogs. Cats are innate assholes. They don’t give a shit whether you like them or not. In fact, they already hate you before they even meet you. My cat wouldn’t save me if I was burning alive. She’d probably just sit there with a firehose and be like “that’s so sad, bitch. Buh-bye” I respect a cat’s disdain and obvious disinterest in so many things. They like napping and occasionally clawing people’s faces– these are things that I wish I could do more of.

    So of course, we hit up the cat and kitten area. Caroline and Oliver swooned over every adoptable feline in the joint. They even had a room full of cat towers and couches where cats just chilled and you could go in and hang out with them. We met one cat, Kaya, who was all sensual and rubbing up on all of us. Come to find out, homegirl had just given birth to 500 cats (it was actually 4, but whatever). We discovered this when one of the pet counselors told us AND the fact that her nipples were staring us in the face. It’s always fun to explain cat breastfeeding to toddlers in public.

    After leaving the cat apartment area, we roamed the aisles of caged cats. I stumbled upon a cat who was hiding under blankets with his description reading “very sweet, just likes to hide under his blankets.” I peeped his little paw and gave it a rub.

    That mofo popped his head out so fast and immediately started rubbing his face on the cage. Homeboy was working it and pathetically enough, it worked on me. I signed up to have some alone time with him which didn’t help my cat fever.

    While I was petting him, Caroline decided to start talking with the pet counselor who was supervising the visit.

    Caroline: One time, our cat Maggie got out and she was gone for days.

    Counselor: Oh no, that’s so sad.

    Caroline: Yeah, mom cried in the bathroom.

    Counselor: …..

    Caroline: We got a kitten once too.

    Counselor: You did??

    Caroline: Yeah, but we gave it away. I was only a little sad.

    W.t.f. Caroline.

    It was like meeting a hot guy in a bar and up stumbles your drunk best friend who has verbal diarrhea and is like “Oh, did she tell you she’s been divorced twice and has genital herpes? She cries a lot too.”

    Like what the hell, Caroline! Here I am trying to rescue a cat and make our family bigger and she’s spilling the beans on that time our cat was gone for 8 days and I had a near mental breakdown. Why don’t you also tell the pet adoption person about how our diabetic dog once ate a bowl full of Christmas Hershey’s Kisses and then puked red and green foil in several neighbor’s driveways. I mean, really.

    We left cat-less, BUT because I have problems…I don’t know if this is the end of the road for this cat and I. So if you come to my house and see another cat, just don’t ask any questions. If Angelina Jolie can request privacy regarding her divorce then I can request privacy concerning my potential new cat.

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    Nature Bust

    Yesterday morning, I decided to take the kids on a little trail/nature walk. Why? Because I enjoy struggling and testing the boundaries of my anger management coping skills. Innocently enough, I thought it would be a fun way to get our steps in, burn off some energy and tire out both dog and children.

    We have a trail in our neighborhood that runs along the river and until they finish the trail, literally ends in our backyard. Apparently, the trial contains rare flowers which is news to me because that joint looks like it’s overrun with weeds. Like seriously, they put up signs about NOT picking the flowers because it’s a crime to humanity and a felony or some shit. They’re very serious about these wildflowers, guys. The town will literally take both of your kidneys if you dare harm those no-one-cares-about flowers.

    After sharing these death threats with the children, we began our journey into the “forest.” I usually refrain from going into the woods alone because as a woman, I WILL get kidnapped, murdered, butchered and dumped into the river. That’s just fact. Just a part of being a female.

    However, I figure my preschool aged children who have been known to lick shopping carts and a blind diabetic dog would be enough to heed any potential threats. Power in numbers!

    We looked for fairies, elves and wolves, but didn’t find any. INSTEAD, Caroline yelled “Mom! Come here!” I figured she wanted to make me aware of a pressing issue like her ponytail being crooked, but instead she pointed to this:

    What. The. Actual. Fuck. Is. This.

    There I was trying to expose my children to the beauty of nature and what do they find? A skeleton and detached bones of a dead animal. Caroline looked at me with big wide eyes asking what happened.

    Me: Well, whatever animal that was…it died.

    Caroline: How?

    Me: I mean, if I had to guess…it was killed.

    Caroline: That’s TERRIBLE!

    Me: Well…you know…food chain and all.

    Caroline: What’s a food chain?

    Me: Um…when animals kill each other to eat.

    Caroline and Oliver: :::stare blankly at me:::

    Me: Um, well, okay…so everything in nature has predators and stuff, I think. They hunt to eat. So maybe this animal was hunted and killed by something? I don’t know. But look! It still has hair on its tail! That’s cool.

    Caroline: That’s awful. Everything gets killed? Do we get killed?

    Me: Ughhhhhh. Um…..nature walk is over, guys! Let’s go home and watch “Paw Patrol.”

     

    I slept throughout every science I ever took so me explaining the environment to my children is like Donald Trump explaining space in front of an actual astronaut.

    What a bust. I ended up with 89 mosquito bites and Caroline acted like the titular character in “A Princess and the Pea” by having an epic meltdown every time a rock was felt in her shoe. Oliver, on the other hand discovered a caterpillar and found some precious joy in throwing stones in the river so maybe next time I go to Target, I’ll just drop him off by the trail for a little bit. He can keep himself occupied while I shop.

    Now back to this:

    I’m thinking of sending the picture in for an episode of “Forensic Files.” I want trace DNA, blood spatter, an age and occupation of the victim and a profile of the murderer. Caroline says we need a paleontologist, but I don’t know. Whatever it is, let’s take a moment and pour on out for it…RIP to the thing that forever traumatized my daughter.

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    I’M GOING TO THE OLYMPICS

    Saturday I ran my 5th(?) half-marathon located about 50 minutes from me along the shores of Lake Ontario. Despite being called “The Shoreline Half Marathon” you never actually run along the shoreline. I mean, you see it from a distance, but if you go into this race thinking that you’re going to have be swept up in lakefront breezes and cheered on by drifting boats then you are WRONG.

    What you will see are several ranch-style homes with pick-up truck occupied driveways and “TRUMP” lawn signs. Oh. And corn. Lots of corn.

    This race is commonly referred to as the “half that you love to hate” which is very true. It’s usually hot, sticky, lacks shade throughout and is very little crowd support, but we still run it anyway because what else is there to do on a Saturday in mid-July? (The answer is anything else. Literally, anything.)

    Like most things in my life, I committed to this race under the influence of alcohol. It took two beers on a Sunday afternoon for me to hit “register” and once the beer exited my toxicology report, I immediately regretted it.

    I brushed it off that it would at least be a good way to get my miles in and I wouldn’t put any pressure on myself to race it. Just run through the beautiful “scenery.”

    Sure, sure.

    I woke up on race morning and was immediately hit with the frigid temps of a Rochester “summer.” It was barely 60 degrees and drizzling. I was dressed in a tank top and shorts and arrived to a parking lot full of people who actually read the weather report and had dressed appropriately. It was like I had shown up for a Christmas party in a bikini. You is so stupid, Allee!

    However, once the gun went off, I warmed up rather quickly. My expectation was to run a 10:30/mile since that is my long run pace, but I looked at my watch and it was 9:30. Instead of slowing down, I just tried to maintain it. Every time a new, completed mile showed on my watch, I figured the next mile would be the one where I would crash and burn.

    And bitches, I NEVER DID.

    13.2 miles at a pace usually reserved for 5ks for me. I ended with an 11 minute PR! It was one of those rare “runner’s highs” where I got quantitative proof that I’m stronger and faster than I give myself credit for.


    Also, I’m going to the Olympics now. It’s inevitable at this point. My inbox is flooded with sponsor requests. Nike is saying that I’m the “next big thing” which is both humbling and accurate.

  • Uncategorized

    Two Days in a Row! Miracles!

    Well yesterday I made the commitment to blog more regularly and with that, comes the pressure of “what do I write about when all I do is check Facebook and play cars with my son?” Well clearly the writing gods were listening because as Caroline and I were snuggling in bed this morning, fighting the internal pressure to wake up and start our day, she turned to me and yelled “MOM THERE’S A SPIDER IN YOUR HAIR!”

    Bitches, I have never heard anything scarier come out of her mouth. I would be less scared if she was 16 and announced she was pregnant.

     I shot up like someone detonated a firecracker between my legs. I saw something move towards the top of our headboard, but because I didn’t have my glasses on, I didn’t know where to channel my flailing arms.

    Caroline and I sat at the end of the bed waiting for this vicious creature to reappear, but it never did. We talked smack to the hidden spider for five minutes with Caroline brilliantly announcing that “this day you will die in your life, spider!” — that’s some powerful shit, right there.

    You all know that the spider is behind my bed laying eggs and by tonight 459 baby spiders will be released into my home, overtaking us and making our certain deaths look like suicides.

    Anyway, last night was the second race (of a 3 series set) that takes place once a month in June, July and August. The race series is called Run585 (that’s Rochester’s zipcode, folks) and last month, we did a 5k and this month was an 8k.

    The entire ride to the race, I kept wondering “why an 8k? What a random ass length” and then it occurred to me that an 8k represented the 8 in “585” and next month is another 5k. I know, I know. I can’t believe the damage blonde highlights have caused my brain either.

    It was exceptionally humid last night with bouts of light rain, but overall, it was a really pretty course. All of the races run along the Genesee River which is apparently more than just a place to dump dead bodies in– the trails and waterways are actually quite pretty. My coach wanted me to run 9:30 miles and not overdo it because I have a half-marathon on Saturday. I hit my mark and didn’t even feel the need to puke afterwards so that’s a mark of success.

    They had a loaded baked potato bar post-race which is literally like a carb-lover’s wet dream. The potatoes were as heavy as newborn babies, I’m not kidding. I took one for the road and came home to eat it PLUS two slices of reheated pizza. My diet is going well, thanks for asking.

    Well, I’m off to spend this day with my kids cooped up in the house. There are thunderstorms until 4pm (it’s only 11am!) and it’s currently down pouring. I have no idea how to keep these kids occupied in the house this long. I’m letting Oliver have pretzels for breakfast and Caroline informs me that we should “do crafts all day!” **

    ** When is too early to start drinking?

  • Uncategorized

    Hola, Bonjour, Ola, Guten tag

    {As seen on my Facebook page, this site is a work-in-progress. Everything was lost because the writing was too good and The New Yorker felt threatened. I’m working on it! }

    Let’s just pretend that it hasn’t been 486 years since I last wrote because I genuinely don’t know how to properly address my blogger laziness. I have no excuses other than ensuring my kids aren’t playing with knives or becoming burdens on society. Children + work + trying to grow my nails out has taken up the majority of my time lately. But I’m back! I’m on summer break and since writing in here beats watching another episode of “Sophia the First” with Caroline—hopefully this isn’t a one-time thing.

    So before we go forward, let’s get the necessary updates out of the way, shall we?

    How are the kids? Well, Oliver learned the mass appeal and comedic factor of potty-talk in all situations and places. He was recently denied for speech therapy because they said he was “too smart” and “just needed time to find the right words.”

    He found them, all right. You know the old rule of “don’t end a sentence with a preposition?” Well, if Oliver could stop ending his sentences with “butthole” that would be great.

    Caroline ended her second year of preschool and begins kindergarten prep in the fall. She can write her own name and knows how use a loofah in the shower so I think my job with her is almost done.

    How is the husband? They just announced that they’re re-releasing the Super Nintendo console in September soooo…he’s happy and well.

    Are you still obsessed with baked goods? Great question, reporter. The answer is “yes,” but with far more thought behind eating them. In March, Ryan and I completed “Whole30” which is this crazy drastic diet that prohibits booze (OMG), sugar (WTF), pasta (MY HEART), bread (SWEET LORD) and anything in the grocery store that looks genuinely appealing. We basically survived on Larabars, avocados, sweet potatoes and uncured bacon. I ended up losing nine pounds and gaining a new appreciation of what I put into my body. Will I still eat an entire cookie cake if you leave it on my counter? Yes. Will I regret it more and then follow it up with a bowl of fresh fruit? Yes.

    Do you still run? Obviously. An Olympic athlete doesn’t just end her career because she’s “busy.”

    Actually, I hired a real coach for the summer. His full-marathon time is close to my half-marathon time so it’s basically like LeBron James training Roseanne.

    I’M GOING TO BE SO FAST.

    What are you going to do this summer? Well, you’re looking at it. Actually, you’re reading it. My goal, however lofty, is to blog everyday (or like every other day. Or twice a week. Or a month) of summer vacation even if it’s just a picture of my cat eating Doritos (she loves them!) or a story about how I found a ziplock bag of almonds on the side of the road (true story. Almonds are expensive—who is so rich to just lose them?)

    Get ready, folks! Summer blogging 2017 has commenced!