Half Marathon-One Month To Go.

Yeah, I know, it's been a while.  But now I have a pressing need to write, and a pressing reason to.  I'll be running a half marathon in a month, and I figured updating this thing daily will help keep me accountable to my training and to my writing, which I've vowed to do more often.  There's lots of reasons for both of these, mainly because I'm going through a pretty difficult personal time (which no, I will not be elaborating on here, or most places for that matter) and now that I'm too old and have too much to do to deal with hangovers, drinking it away isn't an option.

So I'm going to take another path I've used in the past-exercise myself to exhaustion.  I'll be updating this daily (I hope) but not posting the links, so check back every so often.

I signed up for this race months ago, because I need something to train for to keep me on track.  I've run on and off my whole life, it seems like.  My mom used to kick us out of the house in our Keds to "go run a few laps" which, I think, was less about her concerns about our health and more about the fact that she had four kids and wanted us out of the house before she fucking killed one of us.  I've never been that fast, and in the past few years I've packed on a bit of weight, so I sign up for races.  My diet and training have been hit or miss, but I decided with one month to go, I could do a lot of cleaning up in both areas.

That brings me to the first piece of advice I'd have-don't radically change your diet one day before you're scheduled for your first 10 mile run in....probably 8 years.  Or else you too will utter the phrase "Keep your phone near you, because I haven't ruled out shitting my pants."  Sure, more vegetables are great, but any diet change has the potential to wreak havoc on your digestive system, as it did mine.

After those issues were resolved I threw on my running clothes and shoes, strapped on the iPhone, loaded up the Map My Run app, and started a podcast.  Those things are a lifesaver-Aisha Tyler's Girl on Guy is about the perfect length.  And is not sexual, though it sounds it.  (I guess this could be a plus or a minus, depending on your taste.)

The run itself went pretty well, though towards the end I got pretty anxious to hear my app say "Distance, X miles"  to tell me I was actually progressing and not running backwards.  Like I said, I'm not fast.  And I may have shrieked "SAY TEN MILES, YOU CUNT!"  towards the end to the automated voice.  But I  only said it in my head.  I think.

Now I'm on the couch with sore feet and Richard Pryor's Live on Sunset Strip playing, and I'm planning on being asleep before the credits roll.  More tomorrow, when I will, no doubt, be too sore to sit on the toilet.

Hey, I keep it sexy.

I'm a runner.

Just some random thoughts going through my head right now.  This should have been such a happy day for so many people who worked so hard.  And here we are.  And here's what I think right now.

I am a runner.

Not a good one.  Not a fast one, but I have been one all my life, since my mom started us out at age 4 or so, demanding that we run a mile for every half hour of TV we wanted to watch, or video games we wanted to play.  Running holds a huge part of my memory and identity.  It's a bond I have with my family.  It's where I met my first real friends, many of whom I still talk to today.  My first boyfriend was on my cross country team.  When I was lost and felt invisible in high school, I was a runner.  I had that.  I've had that when I haven't had much else.

There have been times when I've trained harder than others, been more consistent, more in shape.  But the thought is never far from me, "You really need to go running."  It's my meditation.  It's rooted to my soul.

I was just at a race, the Monument Avenue 10k.  There were tons of people and lots of inconveniences, but nobody was mad or complaining.  Everyone was happy.  The crowds were filled with laughter and cheering, and even though I was running by myself, I didn't feel alone.

I know those runners felt the same way.  And I am so sorry that their day came down to this-some sick, sad individual trying to make a point, some group lashing out-no one knows right now.  I'm sure it will come to light soon.  A moment that should have been filled with so much joy and relief, detonated and destroyed.

But bad news for the person or people who did this, or people who think about doing it in the future.

We're going to keep running.

Well, You're Just Screwed.

Sitting at home with a sick kid, stressed about work and knowing I'm about two hours away from getting sick myself.  I've been reading a lot about women in the workplace and trying to balance family and work lately.  The Atlantic had a great article about it a few months back-it was refreshingly honest. It basically said you CAN'T have it all-not the career you want with being the kind of parent you want to be-that the demands are just too much.  It was kind of a relief to know that more people are struggling with this.

I always put my kid first, but I didn't anticipate having a kid with asthma, or the total germ bath that day care would be, or trying to schedule Ben and my schedules so someone could be home.  We don't have any backup here-no family that can take a day off, and even if they could, what do you say: "Hey, do you mind coming and hanging out with my contagious sick kid so I can go to work?"?  That's not really fair.  Plus he needs breathing treatments every four hours, I need to monitor his food....it's a handful.  And in interest of full disclosure, I'm not entirely comfortable handing it off to someone else, I  still have a heaping dose of "no one can do it right but me" -itis.

And there's the basic fact that when he's sick, Henry tends to want me.  I get it, when I'm sick, I still sort of want my mom around, and I'm 33 years old.  I'd feel terrible all day if I was at work.  So Ben and I juggle and I try to telework in the afternoon/evening, knowing full well that missing so much time leads to me not being taken seriously at my job.  So you can pretty much feel like you suck at your job, or suck at motherhood, or both, because your kid is trying to snuggle with you while you answer emails and track down footnotes so work doesn't get held up because of you.  Luckily I don't have the "maybe I should stay home" guilt because it's overcome by the "if I don't work we'll be homeless and I'll default on all my student loans" concern.

It's enough to make you want to sit down and cry while you play play-doh with your coughing kid.  Maybe the right thing to do is accept that I'll never get as far career-wise as I'd hoped because I chose to have a kid, and I choose being present in his life over 80 hour work weeks or other job demands.  I'm lucky I found a job that's flexible at all, and hope they keep me around.  Studies have also shown that working moms who have to miss work more than make up for the missed time by busting their asses when they get back, and I have no problem putting hours in-even when I can't clock them and get paid for them.  I take pride in my work and I want it done on time.

We're left with the basic fact that our cultural structure is still not set up for households where both parents work, even though two incomes are a necessity these days.  We're left feeling like we have no options and that no matter what we do, we're shortchanging someone.  This isn't exclusive to moms, but to all parents.  What about a dad who works long hours so one parent can stay home?  Ben did it for the three months I was on maternity leave and I can tell you it was no picnic for either one of us.  He missed bonding time with his son, and I felt like an overworked, unappreciated dairy cow.  (Sorry, when kids are young, that's your main function).

Sorry, the humor is lacking from this one, but I don't think I'm alone here.  On a brighter note, we're progressing with the potty training, and Henry is picking up on language, resulting in him using his potty, then turning to look at his product and saying "Hey, Mom, that's a great big shit!"

He gets it from his father, I swear.

I'm Just Walking to the Bathroom, Give me 20 Minutes.

Just an update now that I'm feeling up to sitting up straight long enough to type out a blog-this surgery was a doozy.  I knew it would be rough, but I had no idea how rough.

It started out with the bowel prep-I won't get too detailed about that but I lost eight pounds in five hours, and I do NOT recommend it as a course of weight loss, unless you like feeling like a giant toothpaste tube that's being rolled up to get that very last little bit out.  My brother Casey showed up at 5am to take care of Henry, and to drop him off at day care, since they didn't open until seven and we had to be at the hospital at 5:45am.  I was pretty apprehensive through my prepping, Ben made me laugh by showing me the honey badger video (seriously, how had I missed that?)

I got rolled back to the OR, and before I knew it, it was all over.  And I was in the worst pain I've ever been in.  I mean, worse than C-section.  I woke up digging rivets into the metal hand rails on the bad.  The nurses were nice enough to stuff me with enough morphine to "knock out a small horse", as one of them put it, and I stayed overnight so they could monitor me.  This was a hospital in the Bon Secours system, so lots of crucifixes and such around.  Even though I'm a lapsed Catholic I find that comforting.  The hospital chaplain came up to visit me, and she pointed out that I had a very good looking man holding my hand. I managed a smile and said "And he can cook!"  She said, "All RIGHT, girl!"

After he watched me drop in and out of consciousness, I made Ben leave, and spent the rest of the evening getting drugged and watching standup comedy on the iPad.  Once I was sufficiently sober, my doctor told me that they'd removed several adhesions, three cysts, some scarring on my bladder, and an accessory fallopian tube.  Yes, apparently that is a thing, and can be really bad if a fertilized egg gets in there and causes an ectopic pregnancy which can, you know, kill you.  One of my fallopian tubes was completely blocked, so they fixed that, too.

So basically it's a very good thing that I got all of this taken care of when I did.  They will run biopsies on the things they removed, and we should find the results out tomorrow or thereabouts.  The next day I was released, and I've never been so happy to see my two beautiful guys walk into my room to take me home.  It was a little bit of a rough trip-my inner mantra was "Don't throw up in the car.  Don't throw up in the car."

I told Ben this today and he said "Hey, that was MY inner mantra, too!"  I know he loves me, but he has a really nice car.....

I'll be recuperating at home for the next two weeks.  Didn't really think I'd need that long, but given the level of pain (I haven't been able to walk upright yet, more like an elderly gorilla) I think I'll be glad I have the time.  The nurses at the hospital talked nonstop about how great my doctor is, how thorough she is, and how she gets patients from all over the U.S.  who have had problems with fertility and endometriosis.  She's thorough, and I feel confident she's gotten me far along on the road to feeling better.

Thank you for all your well wishes and thoughts for myself and my family.  And I was right it my previous blog-I did indeed shit my pants.  Now Henry and i can bond on a whole new level....

Ah, The Joys of Womanhood

WARNING:  This post is basically all about periods and the things that can go wrong with girl parts and the things you have to do to fix them, so if you are a guy, you probably won't want to read it.  Also, I may talk about shitting myself.  I don't know if that's a deterrent or a draw, I don't know what you're in to.  Not here to judge.

Anyway.  I am a lucky lady with a condition called endometriosis, which is fairly common and occurs when the cells from the lining of your uterus grow other places and cause all kinds of problems.  I'd go into details but I don't want to and besides, I've come to the conclusion that the medical profession doesn't know how to deal with it anyway.  I've had years of treatments, two surgeries, hormone replacement therapy that turned me into a meaner, weepier version of Satan, and periods that leave me exhausted, puking, and in horrible pain for weeks.

I suppose I'm lucky-a lot of women who have it have a difficult time conceiving, if they can at all.  When I told my gynecologist Ben and I were going to start trying, she referred me to a fertility specialist right away, and started throwing around words like Clomid, IVF, etc.  I asked her what our chances were if we just gave it the ol' college try, and she said, I quote, "I guess I've seen stranger things happen."

Exactly a week later I was holding a positive pregnancy test.  I don't think she understood the kind of fertile Irish stock I come from.

In reality it wasn't that easy-Ben and I hadn't been trying for six years, but we hadn't been "not" trying either, so Henry was just a stroke of luck.  Pregnancy sometimes cures endometriosis, but not for me.  If anything, it's gotten worse.  So we were at the point where we were looking at another kid (if I could even have one) or a hysterectomy, when I started reading about a new surgery, one that didn't just burn off scar tissue that could be seen, but cut down to healthy tissue so new scarring doesn't grow back.  Turns out a specialist in Richmond actually does the surgery, and I was able to get in with her.

So I'm scheduled for a surgery Friday, and I'm a little freaked out.  I'm really hoping it helps but part of me is scared that it won't, and I'll be out of options.  Part of me is scared that I'll wake up and they'll tell me that while they were in there they found something horrible, like cancer, or my twin that I partially digested in the womb.  And part of me is scared that I'll die, even though the chances of that are very slim.  As a mom, my worst fear is something happening to my kid, but second is something happening to ME, and not being able to be there for him when he needs me to be.  I think about how much time I've put into raising him already, but if something happened to me now, he wouldn't even remember me.  That freaks me out.  I also think about Ben, and what he'd do without me, and how quickly he'd be scoring sympathy strange.

On to lighter topics.  I know I'll be ok, and hopefully this will end the sixteen years of steadily worsening pain I've had, and I can get my life back on track.  I'm tired of being tired and hurting.  Tomorrow I'm going to get up and go for a run, then go to yoga, and then start my surgery prep.  Since there's a good chance the endo has grown through my intestines or bowels, I get to do a bowel prep, which is a really nice way of saying "you get to drink salt water and shit so much you'll be passing food you haven't eaten yet."  So if you're looking for me tomorrow, I'll be holed up in the bathroom, catching up on my 30 Rock episodes, and being really glad I don't have to go through this at work.

Seriously, I can barely pee in my work bathroom.  I can't imagine having to deal with the constant explosion my pharmacist pretty much confirmed would happen.  When she was recommending one of the solutions, she said "Don't get anything that's a flavor you like, because after this, you won't ever want it again."

Hey, at least this might put me ahead in my weight loss challenges.....

Fuck yeah, Porno PTA Mom!

I'm up too late on a Friday night, fighting a week-long stretch of insomnia.  I thought I'd use this time to catch up on my 30 Rocks, because we no longer have cable and I'd like to be smug and hipster about that, but it's just because we're cheap.

So I'm up at one in the morning watching the new season on Hulu, and the following advertisement happens.  Try to picture it, I just may not be able to put it into words.

White background. Model, in all white clothes, ridiculously high heels, struts down a hallway, holding a whisk.  She walks past podiums holding Betty Crocker cake mix boxes.  These boxes explode in vibrant red and blue.  The model crushes two eggs in her bare hands, with no regard to where the shells land.  All throughout the ad, sultry music plays and she clearly is in control of this domestic situation.  The last line of the ad:  "DOMINATE THAT PTA BAKE SALE".   And then in whispered tones "theeverydaycollectionbytarget".

It's not good enough that you're in shape.

It's not good enough that you're stylish.

It's not good enough that you're dressed and made up like someone who goes out to clubs at 11pm and IS EXCITED ABOUT IT.

Now you have to be the best mom at the PTA by using a Betty Crocker cake mix.

As if that would even compete in this age of organic, hand milled everything where no matter what you do, some mom has done it better, has milled her own wheat, or some sort of freak non-wheat because gluten is evil, and has used the self-generated energy from her house to concoct level 5 vegan cupcakes (the kind that doesn't cast a shadow, if you're not a Simpsons fan this may not make sense, but trust me, it's a hilarious pop culture reference).

My distress about this ad, which repeated every time there was a break in my show, is not about my inability to cook, or my lack of time to mill my own non-gluten grain, or whatever.  The root of my distress is that I have extensive education in marketing and business.  And that lets me know that if this ad exists, it's because market research was done and an opportunity was identified and seized.

That opportunity was based on the inadequacy that all moms feel.  We're not good enough because we haven't lost the weight, because we aren't made up and dressed up every day, because we don't have baked goods every day, because, as usual, women compete against each other for no good reason at all.  When we really should be leaning on one another, even if we don't agree on everything.  I don't care if you breastfeed til your kid is five and try to feed them organic everything and use cloth diapers and I happened to just catch my kid eating a goldfish cracker he found in my own bedsheets from a snack he had at least two days ago (hint-he still ate it).

I'm done trying to top other moms and I'm done supporting organizations that capitalize on my own feelings of inadequacy as a parent and as a mom.  So as hard as it is to say, fuck you, Target.  We're all doing our best, even if we do it in yoga pants, old sneakers, no makeup, and the reassurance that our kids really don't give a shit what baked goods we bring to the bake sale as long as we love them.  I'm better than you and I'm better than fitting into a cookie-cutter image of a parent that was identified by....who again?

Oh yeah, and I can make cupcakes from scratch, when I feel like it.  Which is mostly never.  

Megan, you're such an asshole.

Time to start with some lighter topics.  I can't fix the world myself and I desperately need to laugh or make fun of myself rather than cry over the news today.  So here I go, in an attempt to do both.

Yesterday the kid and I headed to Amherst to see my parents.  It's their 35th anniversary this weekend, and I wanted to spend some time with them.  I also needed a day where I spent some of it doing something relaxing, and I find driving relaxing.  I'm generally happy to get where I'm going, I can't do anything else (clean, work, read news) so I get my playlist going, let Henry watch some How to Train Your Dragon (I don't know who invented car DVD players but if they need a kidney both of mine are theirs for the taking) and hit the road.

I decided to take my parents out to dinner in the town where I went to high school.  I never really go there except to visit my parents-I'm not the best about staying in touch with people, and I didn't really have a great time growing up there.  My parents also moved from the house I grew up in to a new house when I left for college.  Yes, my parents moved when I went to college, and didn't tell me.  Seriously, I got a call near Thanksgiving to let me know to not go to the old house because they didn't live there anymore.  I guess I should be glad they told me.

It's not like I had a terrible childhood, I was just very shy and awkward and attempted to make up for it by trying too hard.  I didn't hit my stride until my twenties.  People who knew me in my twenties are probably scoffing and saying "You call that hitting your stride?  You were still at the level of an unsocialized, talking rhinoceros who someone let drink Jack Daniels" but trust me it was an improvement.

Anyway, on to me being an asshole.  When we walked into the restaurant, the guy at the stand looked really familiar, but I was trying to corral Henry and I just didn't put it together.  If you have a small child, you know eating dinner in public is not a relaxing event.  If that child has not had a nap, it is the equivalent of eating a meal next to a ticking time bomb that is certainly going to explode and act like a total asshole and embarrass you in public.  It's not their fault, but there it is.  So the guy comes to say hi, and it's someone I actually knew pretty well-I was also good friends with his sister, but I just didn't put it together.  That plus having one eye on a small child who was slowly transforming into a crabby stomping dinosaur made our conversation too brief, and I felt really bad about it.  I'm pretty sure this guy lost no sleep over it but it's probably going to be one of those embarrassing things that decides to replay in my head at night when I can't get to sleep, and my subconscious feels the need to scream "YOU ARE SUCH A DORK" and chortle at me while I cringe and accept that as correct.

Here is the thing about me.  My vision sucks.  I have a problem with my optic nerve, so it's not really my vision, it's the way my brain and eyes communicate.  I can look like I'm looking at one thing, and really be seeing something else-something above or beyond it.  Face recognition is really hard for me, and if you're moving, there's no way I can pick you out.  I've walked past my husband and my mother, among others, without seeing them, making them both chase me down like we're on a blind date instead of people who have known each other for years.

This leads to lots of misunderstandings.  People have told Ben, "I saw your wife and she looked right at me and didn't say hi, is she mad?"  Which is a nice way of saying "Your wife is a total cunt but I'm going to see if you have a good excuse for her."

Please know that there is literally NO ONE I know who I dislike to the extent that I wouldn't at least say hi to them if I saw them.  If you see me, and I don't say hi, it's because I didn't see you, or I can't figure out who you are.  I would never be that rude and chances are I'd really like to talk to you.  My eye problem led to a lot of my social awkwardness and a lot of people thinking I was cold or stuck up when I wasn't-I wish I had figured out a good way to address it when I was younger, I could have saved myself a lot of time and a semi-alarming drinking problem I developed in a sad attempt to relax myself enough to fit in at parties.

So to everyone out there that I may see this holiday season-Hello!  I've missed you.