dearest daughters & son

A Running Epiphany

Dearest Daughters,

When I began running over a year ago, I didn’t realize what a therapeutic and transformative effect it would have on my life.

I started running for my mental health, listening to affirmations because I couldn’t bear my own thoughts or the pulsing rhythms of music, releasing pent up anxiety, getting out of the house when my agoraphobia was at its worst. So, I should have had an inkling how much it would help me on my emotional journey.

But, over the past year, I’ve seen running as just that and little more: running. For my mental health, with benefits for my physical health. And, sure, a reason to get better shoes and cute running clothes.

Because my main reason for running has been to combat my anxiety, I’ve been able to approach running from an entirely different direction than most other aspects of my life. I am a perfectionist. I’m also both literally and figuratively bipolar.

It’s been a familiar pattern in my life to suddenly have some new life-changing idea or activity into which I lunge head-first. I’m going to do spinning or yoga or start my own business or make friendship bracelets or only eat foods that begin with the letter “c.” I binge on a particular activity and then, especially if my perfectionism kicks in, I give up. I give up, as a precaution, before I fail. I am paralyzed by failure. I’ve given up on photography classes on new jobs on dozens of unfinished sewing or knitting projects; things I have enthusiastically begun, but lost the drive to finish.

I’m afraid of failing and therefore, afraid of taking risks. The years of making excuses in conversations or therapy sessions echo in my ears. No, I don’t have time for that. No, that costs money. No, I shouldn’t. No, I couldn’t. All that negativity because of the illusion, the fallacy, the unattainable expectations of my own perfectionism.

But, running has not been that way for me. I do it. Or I don’t do it. It’s not a manic impulse or a binge activity. I am gentle with myself. I am not a perfectionist about running. I listen to my body. I don’t push myself too hard or too little. If I didn’t run last week, it’s okay. I can get up and run again this week. I don’t compare myself to others. I don’t measure my worth by my miles. Running has somehow become a practice, a framework for how I ought to live out the rest of my life.

This past Sunday when I ran my fist 5K, I felt full of emotion. I felt feelings so intense and overwhelming I knew I would cry if I gave them any thought. I pushed my tears back and I ran. As I rounded (several) corners, coming into the last stretch, strangers cheered, children held hand drawn signs of encouragement and I felt my eyes begin to water.

What a feeling! Not of achievement, of success, of straight-A’s or perfection. Not of someone else's or society's or my own skewed expectations. I had an epiphany. I realized, as I crossed the finish line: I can. And not only CAN I do this, but look at all the people who believe in, love and support me.

Afterwards in the car, I choked back tears, as I told my husband: “I don’t know why I ever EVER ever doubted myself... [insert sniffles and sobs here]... when there are so many people who support and love me.”

It was a true, in my gut, in my heart, in my soul feeling. And I let myself feel it. I let the love and support wash over me. In its boundless and unconditional forms. Not just for that day and that race. Not just for running. But for all my choices. For all the things I’ve done and not done. For my life.

What a feeling! To truly let love in. Not only accepting the love of others, but also accepting my own self-love, a love that I have deprived myself of all these years. Allowing myself to feel pride in my achievements, to know—beyond a doubt—I’m doing the right thing for myself, and the right thing as a role model to my Dearest Daughters, caring for myself emotionally, intellectually, physically.

I’ve lived the past twenty-nine years feeling undeserving of attention, of praise, of love. I’ve shrugged off achievements and compliments, always second-guessing, judging and measuring myself by an imaginary, but cruel yardstick. I have blanketed myself in negativity, demeaning and negating everything from the smallest compliment on my cooking to my educational achievements, even, to my most beloved creations, my Dearest Daughters.

This 5K certainly did not cure my perfectionism or mania. I still have a yardstick that I must continually remember to blast to smithereens. It’s still my inclination to be negative, to confine myself.

But, I have experienced Yes. I have experienced Possibility. I have experienced Freedom.

Little did I know what a pivotal moment running a 5K or running at all would be.

As I prepare to turn thirty in the new year, I’ve been thinking a lot about this year; about this being a “Me Year” or a “Say Yes to Lauren Year”—what that involves I’m still working out; classes, travel, doing things I’ve always wanted to do or should have done for myself, taking risks.

Regardless, this year will be a special one.

Thank you to all who will make it so, to all those who have always supported and loved me, who have believed in me despite my refusal to see and accept such things. Thank you to my family and my husband and to those strangers at the three mile marker.

And thank you, especially, to my Dearest Daughters who have been my light in my darkest moments, my reason to keep living and who inspire me to be both a better person and, simply, the person that I am, the person they love no matter what.

I love you back no matter what,

The Non-Runner’s, Undisciplined-Person’s Guide to Running or [insert form of exercise here]

Dearest Daughters, 

When my therapist suggested I started running, I laughed in her face. I heard her out and humored her with a: sure, yeah, right, Sparky.

But, then I thought about what she said and figured: what the heck? And I tried it.

I’ve been running for about a month now. And I aim to do it 4-5 days per week. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t.

Here are four things that helped me, a very undisciplined, non-runner, non-athlete, sedentary-lifestyle-activist:  

1. Authentic Motivation and Reframing

It sounds simple, trite, even, but you have to tap into your unique motivation for running. If you’re running [or insert any form of exercise here] because you think you should, because someone else thinks you should, because that’s what healthy people do, etc. then you won’t be running for long.

Maybe you have had some life-altering experience and you truly are a convert to exercise for the sake of your heart or your waist-line or for the feel of the wind in your hair? Perfect. More power to you. You’ll probably stick to it.

But, every time I’ve attempted exercise out of a vague concern for my “health” or to get rid of that (second) baby fat or to get ready for that Hawaiian vacation, I’ve given up before I’ve even started.

What worked for me was reframing running altogether, not as something I have to do and hate doing, but as something I choose to do for a couple of very simple reasons.

One: I get time to myself, dedicated to myself and not a damn other soul.

And two: because I have anxious energy to burn.

While those reason certainly have to do with my mental health, they don’t have anything to do with my physical health. While physical health is certainly important, it isn’t a HUGE concern for me. I’m not overweight. I don’t have any health issues. I don’t really care how I look in a bathing suit.

What I’m trying to say is that in order to have any stick-to-it-ness, I had to reframe and find what was truly my own, singular and authentic motivation: my mental health.  

2. Small Steps

I’m a perfectionist. You probably aren’t. But for me, where I failed before in running or any other temporary athletic pursuit I’ve had (spinning, yoga, eliptical-ing, weight lifting, aerobics-video-ing) was in thinking I had to run the whole mile, hold the downward facing dog the longest, lift the maximum weight. I was in a competition against myself. Or, okay, maybe everyone else in the room, because I self-consciously imagined they cared or noticed what I was doing.

But, I’m not perfect. (Ding, ding, ding!)

It’s not a race and I can stop whenever my body tells me to. And I actually listen to what my body, not my mind tells me.

So, I don’t run for miles. Only blocks. I don’t run for hours. I don’t have time for that. I roll out of bed, taking advantage of the time beadle spends with the Dearest Daughters in the morning before he leaves for work. I walk for five minutes, run for ten minutes and walk for another five. There’s some stretching in there too somewhere.

And while I’ve pushed myself a little over the past month, it was ever-so-slowly. Again, only an extra block or two at a time. More out of curiosity about the houses and landscaping in the 1400 block, than out of any personal determination. (Note to self: further motivation can be found in home and landscaping snooping.)

And if I don’t feel like taking the longer loop, because I went hiking over the weekend and my legs are sore or because I haven’t been running in a few days, I don’t, dang it.

Only yesterday, I finally downloaded an app to tell me the distance I’ve been running. I’ve been doing the same mile and a half all month. And I’m not at all disappointed. Or concocting plans to out-do myself, despite what the running app yells at me!

3. The Cool Stuff

Okay, so maybe I only run a mile and a half. And when sales people ask me if I’m a runner, I tell them “not really.”

Nevertheless, I buy the cool running iPhone armband from them. And the moisture-wicking, light as a feather running apparel. And the comfy socks. Maybe because I’m consumeristic? Or maybe because it makes something totally unpleasant feel special and fun. And, again, just for me!

Source: fashion.onlineline.net via Onlineline on Pinterest

 

And sure, it cost my day’s wages and my Dearest Daughters will have to eat meat-less spaghetti, but, dang, Mama be lookin’ goooood running down our street.

Source: store.apple.com via AppStorm on Pinterest

 

And Americans eat too much meat anyway.

4. Grace

This kind of goes back to #2, above, but now that I don’t see running (or exercise) as a Should Do, a Have To or a Goal, I’m less extreme about it.

Before, it was either I Am Someone Who Exercises or I Am Not Someone Who Exercises.

If I don’t run for a week, because I feel shitty, it’s okay. As soon as I can pull myself together, I can hit the pavement again. If I want. And because I’m not such a Self-Dictator anymore, I probably will want to, of my own volition (see #1, above).

I’m not boldly declaring myself a Runner here, to you, to everyone I meet, setting myself up for failure, disappointment or embarrassment when and if I “stop” running.

If next month is a crappy disaster and I can’t find time or motivation for running, I’m not gonna be like: um, yeah, about that, I don’t do THAT anymore.

I know there is grace and I can always take a “pause,” and get back on my feet again, walking, running, skipping or jumping—however the heck I want to spend my fifteen minutes to myself.

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So, am I a runner? No.

Am I an expert? Far from it.

Am I an athletic evangelist? By no means.

But, I’ve learned this much about myself over the past month and I hope that it’s helpful to you, my Dearest Daughters (one of whom, at least, is bound to take after me) and to, you, my Dearest Readers, any of whom may deal with anxiety or other mental health issues or physical health issues. Or, who like me have followed the general policy of "Exercise? You can get hurt doing that!"

Love,

Party Planning, Reclaiming Me-Time and Two-Years-Worth of Danjo

Dearest Daughters,

It's been hard to find a minute to myself, let alone a few minutes to write to you this week.

Not only do I have this temp job, but also we're in full party-prep mode.

Not to worry, I'm not going all out and getting crazy like I've done with parties in the past. (See: Danjo's Halloween Open House, Danjo's Garden Party, and Bel's Train Your Dragon Party.)

Food is catered. Location is not my home. Entertainment is bouncy house-d. Decorations are nil. Party end-time is set (versus our usual, seemingly endless family parties.)

Only thing I'm doing is the cake.

Oh, and the honey badger hoodie I made already. And, um, favors, but nothing handmade. I promise.

Me thinks I doth protesteth too much.

Well, fine! I am putting forth some effort. But, let it be known, I'm not cleaning up. I'm leaving that to your Daddy.

Because Auntie Ninang Katherine and I are leaving town right after the party for a mini-seaside-vacation-retreat.

On this side of my life crisis, I truly know what "time for myself" means (not putzing around on the Internet or even writing this blog) and I fully acknowledge that I need that time. Or else I'll go crazy (again).

Day by day, I feel more like myself and that's great. On the other hand, I feel more like myself. Which means more doing and going. Less time for myself. And things are falling by the wayside--things like yoga, meditation and other coping mechanisms that I clung to in the depths of my despair.

Those things served a purpose and carried me through, minute by minute, breath by breath, to the end of the day. A few months ago, I was a meditation convert. I still truly believe that Jon Kabat Zinn's Full Catastrophe Living saved me from believing and succumbing to the very intense thoughts circling like hungry sharks around my mind. But, I can't tell you the last time I sat still or did yoga for thirty minutes.

(I've picked up running for short periods every day to burn excess internal energy and get my natural adrenaline pumping. And to spend time with and dedicated to myself. Now taking bets on how long that will last before I discover the next new thing to "pick up"! Ha!)

Now I can walk calmly through my day, so I don't have to rely on meditation or yoga or other tools as much, but I know that I could still benefit from some quiet time, some focused mindfulness, some time to observe my mind, to accept it, to clear it.

I miss that dedicated me-time. Time that my circumstances demanded. Time that Daddy and Lolopop and Lola demanded and supported. Time that I demanded.

And I'm determined to reclaim that time.

Starting... um, uh, well, now?

Off I go for a short run and a day of knitting while watching Downton Abbey--my most favorite thing to do lately.

While, I'm gone, we (and I mean that royally) can brace ourselves for my baby, Danjo, turning TWO by reminiscing over things I've written about Danjo the past two years. In Danjo-years, that's like, at least, four years' worth of material. Click here to scroll through all-posts Danjo related, even just to see the photos and how much my little booger head has grown!

Love,

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This is where I usually try to pimp out my blog and get you to like Dearest Daughters on Facebook, but I'm not going to do that today. ;)

Out and About: Lake Chabot

Dearest Daughters,

Well, here we are. Here I am. And every thing's fine.

There was a short-period when I seriously, intensely, viscerally, for reals believed with every fiber of my being that I would never ever ever ever in a million years be able to go out in public without having a panic attack, let alone out in public with both of you and no other adult supervision.

And, looky here:

 

Starting our hike at Lake Chabot Regional Park.

Snack break. About two minutes in to the hike.

"Mommy, take a picture of me with this big rock!"

Dear God, please don't let DJ fall into the lake while I take this picture? Amen.

Roots. [Insert symbolism and/or analogies here.]

Errrybody say: hiking!

Lake Chabot, boat, island. Communing with nature, expressing thanks for all that we saw and felt; doctor's orders!

Someone's little legs got tired, so I became a double-sided mommy pack mule.

The top of the "mountain." Time to turn around.

And a stop at the snack shack for Cheetos (Bel's choice). A balanced life, right? Nah. They're just a yummy treat. (To my credit, I have never before this moment purchased Cheetos for you girls.)

Racing back to the car after a lovely hike!

In the midst of my anxiety and depression, many of our readers, friends and family, assured me that healing and a return to normalcy (whatever that is!) would come sooner than I could fathom. And they were right! (Lots of love to all you smarty pants!)

 

And thank goodness.

Love,

The Stay at Home Momdrobe, Part II - Accessories

Dearest Daughters,

I wrote before about the four foundational pieces of my Momdrobe.

For my birthday, my sister, Auntie-Mommy Dee, as we call her, gifted me with The Best Present Ever: Lucy yoga pants.

I got them on Tuesday. I have not removed them from my person. That's how awesome they are.

The other three elements, I'm still working on. You can't rush these things. Don't underestimate the importance of finding just the right sweatshirt. I mean, hood? No hood? Full zip? Half zip? No zip. These are important first world conundrums.

While you go sit and consider those mind-boggling things, I wanted to add some accessories to the mix.

1. The Mom Hair.
Short, out of the way, and I mean business! Sometimes, I wish I had long hair, that I could shape into meticulous tendrils. But, 1) my thick, relatively textured hair don't play that and 2) WHEN. EVER. my hair is long, it ends up in a pony tail or bun. And not one of those cute, fancy pants, with braids and wisps and a romantic softness around the face kind of deals that are popular these days. Nope. We're talking high school athlete pony tail. But, with less sweat. OF COURSE. (Exercise? You can get hurt doing that.)

2. Hello? Hipster Glasses, duh.
Makes up for whatever street cred I lost when I cut my hair. Ugh. I'm getting to an age where I'm not sure what I can pull off anymore. I try to wear things that I won't regret twenty years from now when you girls pull out the ol' iPad12 to look through family photos. Unfortunately, I know glasses are one of those things that will date me. I can hear it now: "MOM! You wore THOSE? You look... you look... like a dork." And I'll reply, "Hey! Your cousins were wearing those glasses in the 2010s too." And you'll roll your eyes and be like: "Weren't they like cool 'tweens and high-schoolers at the time?" Uh, yeah, so what? And you'll walk away shaking your head, with a "my point exactly" look on your face.

3. The Whip.
It was time to enter Mom-car territory. Your daddy would NEVER go for a mini-van, not that I pushed it. So, an SUV took the cake. (It can also haul a LOT of cake). We could have survived in our four-door sedan, but I started to suspect we were getting minor brain damage from the number of times I hit your and my own head putting you in and out of the car. And if I ate one more donut, I wouldn't have been able to squeeze between the two car seats in the back. Now, we can carry more People and more Stuff! Like the good red-blooded Americans we are... driving in a Swedish car, in our Swedish clothes, hauling our Swedish furniture. BUT! BUT! I'm most excited, that now I can go buy REALLY BIG things at the lumber yard and build things with my own two American Pioneer Homesteader Urban Farmer Off the Grid Zombie Apocalypse and Earthquake Proofer hands. I digress. What's most important, is that I can commence donut eating in 4, 3, 2, 1...

This has been another quasi-helpful public service announcement for those investing in a Stay at Home Momdrobe.

Love,

The Stay at Home Momdrobe

Dearest Daughters,

Only six more days of going to "work."

And of all the anxieties about my transition (back, I should say) to Stay at Home Parentdom, none is so pressing in my mind at this: what do I wear to my new job?

Do I even bother to change out of my pajamas?

 

Source: jumpinjammerz.com via Lexi on Pinterest

 

Or do i just wear my clothes to bed?

Source: freshfinds.com via Valerie on Pinterest

 

I do live in the East Bay, after all, so I imagine I can pull off that just back from yoga class, hot of the treadmill, took my dog for a sunrise hike kind of look. Comfortable, but put together.

I just need a few essential pieces.

1. The Yoga Pant

Source: lucy.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

When I was pregnant, both times, I wore yoga pants to teach and to the church wear I work. A good pair, made not to fade can give the appearance of a nice pair of pants. If you don't look too closely. These are the only acceptable form of stretchy pants to be worn in public. As such, I plan on embracing them to the maximum.

2. The Dressy Hoodie

Source: lagarconne.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

These are overpriced swaths of material, which can be fitted or baggy. They say: "I got dressed this morning! And brushed my teeth." Even if you didn't.

3. The Fitted Fleece

Source: images.thenorthface.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

For those chilly morning jogs that I'll pretend I took. MUST be fitted. A baggy fleece won't do to achieve the illusion of svelte discipline and attention to one's physique.

4. The Blingy Running Shoe

Source: shopnewbalance.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Brightly colored running shoes are the showpiece of the Momdrobe. Peacocking at it's best. These fancy shoes tell the world of your plight. That you spend all day running around chasing children, wiping butts, trudging through the battlefield of Left on the Floor Legos and shards of broken glass your toddler likes to eat. The best part, you don't *actually* have to "go running" in them!

Or, there's always the great, old standby, the muu muu:

Source: lavahut.com via Susanne on Pinterest

 

Clearly, I have many important decisions and considerations before me. Please pray for me as I continue to grapple with this and other important questions, such as: if we walk to McDonald's, does it still count as fast food? And to what degree are fruit snacks really fruit? Or is there a statute of limitations on showering?

Love,

Danjo of Many Talents

Dearest Daughters,

I have no words.

I am blessed with unique and gifted children. We'll leave it at that.

Love,

What their injuries say about my children's personalities: a guide to common toddler injuries

Dearest Daughters,

I have to apologize.

I often write about Bel, characterizing you as injury-prone. I shouldn't label you or stick you in a box. You're only two. (But, knowing and accepting this about you means that you will most certainly be enrolled in dance, gymnastics or martial arts classes. You might never be a professional dancer and you might continue to run into invisible objects like I do. But, you can gain the physical confidence that I still lack from never doing anything remotely physical.)

I diverge.

So, yes you are injury-prone. And I shouldn't be caught emphasizing that, because turns out: so is your sister.

Yes, the child that I thought would gracefully somersault, back flip and quarterback through life. Yes, that one. She is also injury-prone.

Her injuries, though, are another animal altogether.

Here's what your injuries say about each of you:

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Thirteen Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

You are now thirteen months old.

Kind of a let down after turning twelve months and its corresponding festivities?

I forgot to say when you turned one year old, so I'll say it now: a BIG thank you to all of the people (and animals, that's you too, mister loyal, cuddly, psuedo-guard dog, Lapu) who helped you survive a whole year.

No, really.

I mean, SURVIVE.

Thank you, thank you, yada, yada for the support and all. You know, the general care and concern, outpouring of love and time from all directions.

But, I mean, like SURVIVE survive. You really might have not made it if there weren't so many eyes watching you.

You are a quicky quickster and tricky trickster to begin with; add an ever-emotionally-imploding older sister in the mix and well, let's just say it's not abnormal to find me running around the house, after attending to someone else's need or another, yelling, "DANIELLEY! WHERE ARE YOU!? WHERE ARE YOU?! MARIBEL, DO YOU KNOW WHERE DANIELLE IS? DANIELLE! FOR REALS! WHERE ARE YOU?!? COME HERE RIGHT NOW!"

And our house is only 1018 square feet.

And you'll crawl innocently out of hiding, from the bathroom or a closet, from under the bed or behind the couch, carrying a toy in your mouth (as your hands are occupied with crawling), like: "Hey, what's up mom? I was just building a bomb back there. Relax."

And I'm all: "DANIELLEY YOU COULD HAVE DIED IN THERE!"

And I clutch you to my chest and promise I'll never take my eyes off of you ever EVER ever again. And you'll snuggle me and smile and generally melt my heart.

Then, I'll blink.

And when I open my eyes a millisecond later you're standing on top of a rocking horse, playing the piano, having already mixed yourself a drink from the liquor cabinet, turned off the television, turned on the radio and fan, read no less than fifteen books which you've strewn across the floor and unfolded every piece of laundry in the house, including those inside of three separate dressers.

And I'm not exaggerating 95% of that.

So, basically, given the amount of ground you cover each day, I just need to teach you to dust. And we'll be good to go.

You've taken a couple of steps here and there. You're in no hurry to walk. You are just fine, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, as you say to passersby who comment on your "inability" to walk while you also flip them the bird, which they mistake for cute baby waving.

You are not unable to walk. You get it, I'm sure. You are simply unwilling.

Did you catch it earlier when I said that you carry things in your MOUTH? Like a DOG? As parents have told me, many children start walking at the point at which they think: hey, I'd like to carry this thing over there, but, by golly, I can't crawl AND use my opposable thumbs at the same time. Let's try this thing!

Not you. No.

You have a toy in your hand. You look up at us walking creatures, down at the object in your hand, back up at us, then put the item in your mouth and crawl to the other room. LIKE A DOG?!

Unwilling, I tell you.

Sounds familiar. When I gave birth to your sister, I asked if I HAD to push during the next contraction. The nurse said, no, you don't have to, but this baby's gonna come out sooner or later, you gotta face the music sometime. Oh, and another time, when your dad and I were dating, he paid for me to take snowboarding lessons (while he went off on his own). We rented all the gear, bought some too. After a couple falls, I REFUSED to go down that bunny hill with the rest of the class who left me in the (snow) dust.

"Listen," the instructor said, "you have to decide that this is what you want to do."

"That's the thing, I don't want to," I replied.

And that was that. She told me she had to leave me to attend to the other students. I could choose to meet her at the bottom of the hill in five minutes or I could go to the ticket office, tell them I'm sick and get my money for the lesson back, like a LOSER.

I think she thought she was being inspirational.

I found it to be informational.

You can guess where I was five minutes later.

I doubt this will happen to you, Danjo, since you seem to be very athletic, but I empathize with your On My Own Terms mentality.

Also, I fear the Day You Start Walking. I'm pretty sure it will also be the Day You Start Running. And the Day I Remove All Sharp Objects From the House.

Please send bubble wrap. Or a large mammal kennel.

Love,

GONE FISHIN': Suffice it to say, I never went to another spinning class ever again

Reposing old content while we're away.

My thoughts on exercise from Summer 2006.

JESUS CHRIST! Forgive me, while I take your name in vain.

Because I took my first spinning class today and it kicked my ass--not to mention my calves and hamstrings. It hurts so good.

But, the jury's still out on spinning. On the one hand, it makes 45 minutes go by real real fast. On the other, my body wants to die for about 44 minutes of that time. Back to the other hand, there's sort of a camaraderie in the class, like we're all really biking Le Tour de Francia together. Then again, following the pack isn't really my thing. Moreover, someone telling me what to do and yelling at me makes me want to cross my arms in a huff and go stand in a corner to give everyone the evil eye.

Overall, the fun and fitness factor is high, so I guess I'll get over my laziness, introversion and willfulness... only from the hours of 5:30-6:15 on Mondays and Wednesdays, of course.