Marathon Woman

In case you missed it, I'm currently in the throes of training for the 2013 Chicago Marathon. This will not be my first marathon. It will be my third. But, if you'd asked me after either of my others, I would've told you that I would not do another one.

As I stared at my blackened toenails and hobbled gingerly down all flights of stairs after my first one in Dallas, I swore up and down that I was a one-and-done marathoner.

Feeling victorious ...

but, completely dead after the Big D in 2006.

Then, I had a couple kids, and felt the need to prove to myself that I could still do it. So, I signed up for another one. This time, I swore 'round about mile 24 of the Route 66 marathon in Tulsa, OK, that I would never do this to myself again.

With Sarah, who I peer pressured into running. That was it for me. I was done in 2010.

Well, it's three years later, and somehow I got peer pressured into signing up for another one. This time in Chicago. I was excited about going on a trip with my girlfriends, but the daunting training miles and 26.2 race miles were not all that exciting for me. Don't get me wrong, I would do it, but I wouldn't be super happy about it.

So, with all these training miles and running constantly on my mind, I happened across a blog that mentioned the autobiography of Kathrine Switzer. Switzer is the first woman to run with a number in the Boston Marathon in 1967. She's also the woman made famous by this series of pictures:

Switzer being chased by race director Jock Semple who was yelling, "Get the hell out of my race and give me those numbers!"

Although she'd officially registered, she'd done so using her initials, K.V., so they didn't know she was a woman. Race officials, clearly, were not happy when they found out, as women weren't supposed to run. I'd heard of this story before and knew of Switzer, but didn't know a ton about her. So, of course I was intrigued by the thought of a book by her. 

Cinderella, nail polish and nausea

As you all saw, we had Charlotte's polar bear birthday party last weekend. After her party was over, she was sitting with me on the couch, playing with a new Dora baby doll. She looks at me and says, "Mommy, remember when I put that Cinderella baby doll on my birthday list? I didn't get it." Cue mommy-guilt.

Now, a little backstory. Before Christmas, every time we went anywhere (I'm talking anywhere, Home Depot, the grocery store, Starbucks,) Charlotte would see something she wanted. So, I started telling her that she needed to put it on her Christmas list, knowing full and well she wouldn't remember anything on this so-called list. It was a great way to recognize what she was saying but not buy out the Target toy department every time we went.

A couple weeks before Christmas, we were walking through Target when Charlotte saw something she wanted. I went through the regular rigmarole and told her to put it on her Christmas list. She turns to me and says, "Mommy, my Christmas list is full. I'm going to put it on my birthday list." First off, I had to stop myself from cracking up in the middle of Target. But, considering her birthday is only about a month after Christmas, it wasn't that crazy of an idea.

So, from that point on, everything she saw got added to her birthday list. And, if you think I actually wrote down everything that she "added" to this list, well, you're a crazy person. I did not remember the hundreds of things she put on her list, nor did I really expect her to.

And, now, you can see why I was feeling bad when she actually remembered something and brought it back up to me. Well, now I was on a mission.

Except, I am with Charlotte all day, so going shopping for her birthday present became a challenge. On Tuesday night, while Molly was at dance, I dragged Terah with me to both Wal-Mart and Target to find stuff for Charlotte's family Dora party (remember I promised her that, too) and a baby Cinderella doll.

But, I couldn't find any Dora party hats (another request of Charlotte's) and I couldn't find a baby Cinderella doll I wanted to buy. So, along came the idea of a special birthday day for just her and me.

On Wednesday, Charlotte's actual birthday, I took her to music class in the morning. Then, I surprised her with a trip to the mall and the Disney store. (Going to the mall is a surprise in and of itself because I truly hate going to the mall and avoid it at all costs.) At the Disney store, I told her she could pick out her very own baby doll. She picked the Cinderella one.

Charlotte with her new Cinderella baby doll!

Then, I happened to mention to the worker that it was Charlotte's birthday, and the worker came out with all this stuff for Charlotte. She gave her a birthday crown, a birthday button, coloring sheets and crayons. I mean, if you ever want something to do on your kid's birthday, I highly recommend the Disney Store. They were awesome.

The beauty of aging?

Remember when I said I was often overdue on haircuts, thus leading to lots of hat wearing? Well, for the past couple weeks, my head has been covered in hats about 85 percent of the time. Yup, I was super late scheduling my trip to the hair salon. So, yesterday, I finally got in to see my fabulous hair dresser, Kerry. We're chatting away about our lives, how long my hair had gotten, the Royal Wedding. During this discussion, I mentioned that I had been finding some (gasp!) white hairs lately. She swore she saw none. We continued chatting. About our kids, the crazy weather, summer plans. All of a sudden, Kerry says, "Oh, there's a white hair. Oh, and another. They're all up here on the top of your head." Heavy sigh. Yes, I know. We then proceeded to have a "color treatment," which entailed Kerry plucking all those blasted white hairs right out of my head.

This experienced unfortunately served to remind me of all the ways I am creeping up there in age. Along with that whole "turning 30" thing, I have started noticing a lot of things that, while taken individually, wouldn't be too big of a deal. But, when you start listing them out together - apparently they indicate that I am getting old. I am no longer that high school dork. Make no mistake, I'm still a dork; just not a teenage one. So, in hopes that I can make you all feel old, too, here are a couple signs that maybe, just maybe, I'm not such a spring chicken any more:

• Because I had been freaking out about the whole "30" thing for a while, I decided to celebrate my 30th birthday by running a marathon. I'd run one before, back at the baby-girl age of 25. And, back before I had completely ruined, wrecked, changed my body by carrying and delivering two kids. So, I wanted to prove to myself I could do it. And, I did do it. I finished. In a much slower time than my previous marathon. And, somehow during the process, I jacked up my knee. It hurt for months afterward. The only thing that eventually healed it was the horrible winter. There was so much snow on the ground that I couldn't run for weeks at a time. I guess there was one positive from this winter. But, I'd never before had a running injury. The irony of it happening mere days after I turned 30 was really too much to handle. Stupid 30. 

After I finished the marathon and before I realized how messed up my knee was.

• One thing that will really put you in your place is seeing where your former babysitting charges are in life. High school, college, married, with kids of their own. Yikes. How is that even possible? Heck, one of my very first babysitting charges (and adorable ring bearer) has now signed a letter of intent to play football in college. I am now one of those people who can say, "I remember you when you were knee-high to a grasshopper." Yes, I am that dorky. 

• Peptides, Retinol, Q10, Hydroxy Acids, Green Tea Extract. What do all of these have in common? They are all common ingredients in anti-wrinkle creams. Yes, that's right. I've gone from buying anti-acne products to anti-aging products. When did that happen? Oh, yeah, right about the time I learned how to Photoshop wrinkles out of pictures. Not that I would ever do that. Nope, never. Now, here's the thing about anti-wrinkle creams. I have no idea if they do any good whatsoever. I clearly can't afford to spend the thousands of dollars on creams like celebrities do, so I have to make do with my normal method of choosing products. By the label. It's the same way I buy wine. Show me a cute label, that's the wine I'm taking home. So, who knows if the cream is actually working? I try to tell myself that laugh lines are evidence of all the laughter of my life. I'm still trying to sell my mirror on that one.

•  If you know me at all, you know that I am a Target aficionado. Seriously, I love that store. I know my way around my local Target like it's a second home. Cory would agree, though he is none too pleased by my intimate knowledge of all things Target. So, here's the thing, at some point, I started drifting into the Merona collection instead of the Mossimo collection. If you aren't a complete Target fiend like myself, this is like moving from Juniors into Misses. From teenage to old woman. But, here's the thing,  I swear Merona has really cute stuff. The clothes aren't completely see-through and actually cover my behind. Which, brings me to my next point ...

• I have actually uttered the phrase "I have underwear bigger than that girl's skirt." On more than one occasion. And, it is no exaggeration. I know I sound like a prissy, pearls-and-twin-set lady, but seriously? I'd be scared to sit in a public place in some of the skirts and shorts I see girls walking around in. It probably also has something to do with having two girls of my own and trying to imagine their teenage years. That thought just sent shivers down my spine and made the hair on my neck stand up on end. I'm scared. Very scared. (PS. I will not put a picture up to illustrate my point, because it frightens me to think of my blog popping up when someone searches for "girl short skirt image.")

• Now, I'm not sure when this next transition happened. And, I'm admitting to a bit of an embarrassing guilty pleasure here. Ok, a very embarrassing guilty please. So, no judging. Here goes: I like teen movies. And teen shows. And teen books (hello, Twilight anyone?). But, somewhere along the way, probably when I had the aforementioned children, I went from empathizing with the main characters (in almost every case, a teenage girl) to the adults and parents. What I used to find "independent," I now see as "rebellious" and in many cases, "stupid" and "ungrateful." FYI: It is not a wise decision to turn yourself into an blood-sucking undead creature, no matter how much you love another blood-sucking undead creature. That being said, I will still be seeing the newest Twilight movie when it comes out. Remember, I said no judging! (Becca, if you're reading, I'm looking at you!)

So, if you are among some of my younger not-yet-30 readers (Bible study girls, I'm looking at you), I hope I haven't scared you too much. I should probably try to wrap up this post by swearing that I'm so happy in my 30s and that I'm sure the best is yet to come. And, logically, I know that. Sometimes, between buying anti-wrinkle cream and kvetching about the clothes on "kids these days," it's just hard to remind myself of it. But, I guess there's really no other option. I'll take getting older over the alternative. And, truth be told, I'd rather Molly and Charlotte look back on their childhood and remember me laughing, no matter how many laugh lines I get. But, be warned, white hairs: I will be fighting you bastards until the day I die!

Special shout out to Anne, who helped inspire this post!