Dividing a freshly baked pie into 7 even pieces is messy
business. I vividly remember the last time I pulled a piping apple pie out of
the oven, and my kids descended on it like vultures. First, I had to satisfy
the sharp-eyed ones who knew their fractions and expected their fair
share. Next I had to contend with the
grabbers and whiners who weren't getting served quickly enough and, after
burning their tongues on spicy, hot apples, began complaining that the
chocolate was missing. I made sure that
the prize piece was hidden in a Tupperware for Stephen before I served the
baby. He promptly threw my perfect,
flaky crust on the floor and smeared the rest in his hair. The pie and the children had all vanished by
the time I got to lick the spoon and squirt a blob of whipped cream in my
mouth, trying to convince myself that I didn't feel deprived. While I wiped up
messy dishes and milk spills, I began to wonder if my whole life was turning
into a blown up, sticky picture of this pie fiasco.
A couple of years ago, I came frighteningly close to a full
blown mommy meltdown. Don't get me
wrong. I am no stranger to the rigors of
motherhood, and I consider myself insanely blessed to spend each day teaching
and raising and having adventures with my houseful of precious, unique
children. All I know is that my
children's relentless needs and my tireless output caught up with me, and I
began feeling depressed. My sensitive
husband noticed that I was losing heart and made a wild suggestion. Since he knew jogging helped me recharge, he told
me that I should join a racing team. I
argued for a while that there was no way a grown up mommy could justify such a
frivolous outlet, yet I agreed to give it a try. I dragged myself to the first meeting,
hanging on the sidelines and feeling like a misfit. After 4 1/2 years of pregnancy and a dozen
years of breastfeeding, I had long ago relinquished ownership of my body. My self-consciousness was slipping into a
dark self-loathing. I felt ashamed of my
sags and stretch marks, my damaged stomach muscles, and the extra weight I
carried. It took a while for me to let
go of this distraction and hold my head high among this group of dedicated
runners.
I will never forget my "ugly duckling" moment when
I realized that there was a lovely alternative to the cookie cutter standard of
beauty. Here I was surrounded by women
who showed up in team shirts and running shoes with pony tails and no
makeup. They weren't driven by a need to
feel sexy, yet they carried their fit bodies with confidence and ran with a
focus and grace that was beautiful to behold.
The duckling
had never seen any like them before. They were swans, and they curved their
graceful necks, while their soft plumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They
uttered a singular cry, as they spread their glorious wings and flew away from
those cold regions to warmer countries across the sea. As they mounted higher
and higher in the air, the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange sensation
as he watched them. He whirled himself in the water like a wheel, stretched out
his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so strange that it frightened himself.
Could he ever forget those beautiful, happy birds; and when at last they were
out of his sight, he dived under the water, and rose again almost beside
himself with excitement. He knew not the names of these birds, nor where they
had flown, but he felt towards them as he had never felt for any other bird in
the world. He was not envious of these beautiful creatures..."
My progress was slow. Running took the back burner to 9
sweet months of carrying my little Brandan, delivering another baby, and
managing postpartum recovery, but my passion for the sport never died. I walked every day of my pregnancy and,
following my baby's birth, shed 30 pounds and got back into my spandex. I ran
my heart out all winter and returned to the racing team in even better shape.
This time I had graduated to the "middle of the pack" and was proud
to introduce Siobhan, my favorite running partner, to the rest of the
team. I no longer felt like a newbie and
was growing in confidence and speed.
[The ugly duckling was so happy, and yet
not at all proud. He had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now
he heard them say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the
elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun shone warm
and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried
joyfully, from the depths of his heart, “I never dreamed of such happiness as this,
while I was an ugly duckling...”
Granite State Racing Team
Perhaps the greatest relinquishment of motherhood has been
that of my mind. Stephen and my newlywed
days were consumed with multiple jobs and pregnancies, and my academic dreams
were laid aside. I had graduated valedictorian
of my college class and had such lofty goals of pursuing more education. My book list grew longer, but I couldn't find
more than a few minutes to read without a grabby nursling or babbling toddler
interrupting me. These disruptions fed
resentment in me, so I gave up on reading altogether. Occasionally I'd peruse a
cooking magazine, but the delightful escape of literature was out of reach. I
consoled myself with the reminder that my homeschooled children would one day
read grown up stuff and I could progress with them beyond children's
classics. When my daughter began her
Omnibus curriculum which included a reading list of 26 classics each year, my
heart soared in anticipation. Starving
for such great literature, I determined to read through the summers, evenings,
and every spare moment to keep up with her so I could revive my bleary mind and
teach her with confidence. Not
surprisingly, my reading goals proved as futile with 6 children as they had
with 2 babies. I still had a houseful of little ones who claimed all of my
spare time and preferred Dr. Seuss over Shakespeare. My frustration and sense of inadequacy knew
no bounds.
One day my mom told me that she had a surprise. Realizing that I was buried under the load of
homeschooling multiple grades, she prayed that God would show her how to help
me. "And
His answer is in this gift bag!" she announced. I opened the bag and found a little black
device on which she had recorded an encouraging book she read aloud for
me. "You can use one of the ear
buds while you do laundry or jog or wash the dishes," she explained. And I'll read as many books as you give
me!" I was thrilled and presented
her with a dusty stack of books I had accumulated over the past several
years. Theology books, fun novels,
classics, books on mothering and dieting and everything in between. Before long we were swapping 3 of these
recorders back and forth and beginning to take this quite seriously. Mom agreed to tackle Siobhan's Omnibus
curriculum and patiently plodded through the dreariest academic histories and
challenging epics. And she mixed up the
heavier stuff with fascinating Henty novels, Frankenstein, and Gulliver's
Travels. These recorders and the
countless hours of reading are a tangible reminder of my mom's love for me (and
God's, since He gave her the idea in the first place). I have brought Mom's recordings on almost all
of my runs and simultaneously refreshed my body and mind.
Somewhere along the way I got the crazy idea that I'd like
to run a marathon. I mentioned this to
my lifelong friend, Crystal (who also happens to be a professional,
international racer), half-expecting her to snap me back to reality and remind
me that this was not the season of life for such a big dream. I confessed my insecurity that pretty much
everything I'd ever accomplished in life had been done halfway - half the
normal years of high school, half the college education I wanted, half a
marathon... Heck, I was only half way
through parenting some of my kids, and half the time I was terrified I wouldn't
even be able to see that through! She
listened patiently, handed me half of her gluten free peanut butter fudge
cookie, and said, "Well, there's
nothing half way about the marathon and you should go for it!" During these past several months, Crystal has
been a lifeline of support and encouragement to me. She has diagnosed my sports injuries, given
me nutritional tips, prescribed ice baths and Ibuprofin, mailed me treats and
clothes, and convinced me that my dreams were worth holding onto.
About two months into my marathon
training program, I started wondering if my life had become an allegory for
running, instead of the other way around.
I remember pushing myself harder than usual at a track workout, forcing
my aching legs to pick up speed when I wanted to collapse. Then it occurred to me, "Hey, I've
pushed through this kind of timeable pain and exhaustion each time I delivered
one of my babies! I experimented with some of my tried and true strategies to
get through childbirth - focused breathing, mind games, focal points, and utter
relaxation during the rest periods. On
my lowest days, I reminded myself of my elusive goal and pushed ahead,
convincing myself that anything
worthwhile I've ever accomplished has been through forcing my feet ahead when
my vision was spent and I could barely remember why I had begun in the first
place. I reminded myself of all of the
big things I had successfully accomplished in four hours (cooking a week's
worth of meals, switching over the kids hand me downs, deep cleaning my house, ordering
curriculum for five kids, delivering a baby...) and tried to convince myself
that running a marathon would be no exception.
There were times when my enthusiasm
waned significantly. Especially when I
injured my hamstring and every step began to hurt. I asked Crystal how all of the early
mornings, long runs, and pain could possibly be worthwhile. She said, "remember the feelings of empowerment and confidence you
described... And remember the feelings
after running a race and the endorphins and excitement from having a personal
best? The delicious feeling of achieving something arduous? I can
hear it in your voice when you talk about your running and the marathon goal.
You love it and it is so GOOD for YOU!!!"
Thankfully
I regrouped and pressed through the second half of my training. I lost a bit of speed with my injury, but
Stephen told me I'd be crazy to quit, so I didn't. He surprised me with a Garmin racing watch
(more romantic and meaningful to me than a diamond bracelet!), massaged my
legs, and kicked me out the door each Saturday morning. Even when I would disappear for a few hours
on a long run, he never complained about picking up the slack at home and would
flirt with me when I most needed it.
It's funny to recall how I'd leave the house plugging my ears and
running from the mayhem, yet I would always be eager to return to my entourage
of noisy little people who greeted me with kisses in the driveway and showered
me with praises when they heard I ran more miles than they can count.
Today I ran my first marathon. It was the most grueling, satisfying
experience of my life (second only to childbirth!). Before I left, Stephen handed me a new
collection of songs he had stayed up late recording for me - the sound track of
our early romance. I hit play and closed
my eyes for a few seconds. Instantly I was
nineteen years old, jogging on Nantucket Island with so many big dreams just
within reach. I ran with all of my heart
and crossed the finish line to be greeted in the rain by everyone who loves me
most - my mom and dad who can't imagine why I would run so much but support me
anyway, the beautiful children who drove me crazy enough to pursue this dream
and cheered the loudest when I succeeded, and my loving, attentive husband who
gave me the gift of my first marathon.
Somewhere during this journey, I decided to scrap weepy,
messy pies. I make apple dumplings instead. The dough divides beautifully into eight
pieces so I can turn the kids' prize apples into culinary masterpieces. There's no dividing, grabbing, whining or skimpy
rationing, and the best two are always set aside to relish in the peaceful
company of my husband when the little ones are settled for the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment