My Blog (and running career) Revisited

In May of last year, both my blog and my "career" as a runner came to a screeching halt. Although several of my previous blogs regarded running, the two, in general were unrelated; or so I thought.

Over the past year, a plethora of life changing events have occurred, providing me with an overflowing chalise of writing material. However, despite endless thoughts and intentions of cracking open my computer and composing "masterpieces", I felt neither motivated nor inspired. I have, for quite some time, attributed my lack of fire to stress, exhaustion, and an endless schedule filled with appointments and extra-curricular activities; though these factors cannot be discounted, the past month has taught me a lesson I have learned many times in the past, but seem to have difficulty grasping and applying practically each day despite life's bumps and bruises.

The lack of motivation and passion I felt for writing throughout the year carried over into running. After healing from my injury and being given the "go ahead" from my physical therapist, I simply had no desire to run.  Frustrated with my inability to bounce back quickly, I once again attributed my lack of fire to external factors, traveling throughout most of the summer, the craziness of a new school year, a new child in the house and the onset of winter. The only activity I found myself able to perform with regularity was walking; and oh did I walk, even in below freezing temperatures. I walked to maintain sanity during, what turned out to be, a never ending winter. I told myself that with the onset of warmer spring temperatures, time settling into a new routine with two children, and a less hectic schedule as the school year came to an end, I would find myself ready and willing to once again lace up my running shoes and hit the pavement. Neither my schedule, nor the weather cooperated. 

After several months of endlessly wet days, Vermont finally received the gift of sunshine (Though it was not to stay. The days continue to be a mix of rain, clouds, and sunshine) igniting two small sparks, one in my brain and one in my body, a pulsing desire to both write and run. 

Which came first, the chicken or the egg, remains unclear. However, as soon as I hit the pavement a plethora of coherent blog postings inundated my brain, driving my feet faster and pushing me through the physical pain inevitable after a year without running. 

Last night, as I contemplated these words, I was reminded of several past blog postings regarding the link between my running and my writing. Despite my past assertiveness that my writing and running were independent entities, this past year has reminded me that both are essential to my physical and mental health. And though my writing is not, and does not have to be exclusively about running, it is their relationship to each other that allows me to maintain some semblance of sanity, clarity, and intellect.

I am, therefore making a promise to myself, to maintain both, despite life's craziness, because running my feet over the ground and my fingers over the key board are those actions that allow me to cope with life's everyday stresses and exhaustion.

It is A Love/Hate, Hate/Love Kind of Thing

For the past two years, I have limited myself to running one long race a year, in the fall. I generally have used the warmer spring months to ease back into running, after a winter of hibernating (or cross training, as the case may be). The summer months, I have spent training for a longer half marathon. I have been content with this routine, until this year.

            This winter provided me little opportunity (and little motivation) to either run or cross train, leaving me out of shape and extremely antsy. Vacationing in Florida, two weeks ago, provided me the opportunity to run twice in the sunshine and warmth, and served as a disturbing reminder of how out of running shape I truly am. A week of sunshine, combined with the first hints of spring upon returning home to Vermont, convinced me that one race in the fall was going to neither whip my buttocks back into shape, nor appease the ants in my pants. Therefore, I decided to sign up for a spring half marathon.

            Vermont hosts maybe ten marathon races throughout the year. One of the half marathons (The Dandelion Run) begins not ten minutes from my house. I have avoided this race in the past because it takes place the second week of May. Depending on the severity of the winter, training can be challenging during the spring months in Vermont due to an abundance of lingering heavy wet snow, unpredictable temperature changes, and mud… lots of mud. This year, however, I vowed to ignore these factors and, with exactly ten weeks until race day, registered for the Dandelion Run.

            Yesterday, my first official day of training, dawned with gorgeous blue skies, and temperatures climbing to sixty degrees. Upon returning home from work, I immediately grabbed a bite to eat and rushed to change into my running clothes, anxious to participate in an endorphin-producing, vitamin D stimulating activity. After stretching and warming up, I turned up my iPod and hit the pavement with enthusiasm, only to be quickly reminded of why running and I have a love/hate, or hate/love, relationship.

           

            Because I run, people automatically assume that I love to run, or if not love it, like it. When the truth is, I despise the act of running. I cannot stand that no matter how hard I train, no matter how often or far I run, the act of running never gets easier. Every run is difficult, labor intensive.

I cannot stand the fact that every run hurts. I always feel out of shape when running. If my shoulders are not bothering me, then my lower back is. If my shins are not pinching with pain, then my knees are. 

I cannot stand the fact that no matter how hard I try to silence them; the voices in my head will not shut the hell up! My mind focuses on every painful twang, making pin pricks feel like dismemberments. The stresses of life, relationships, work, and motherhood buzz frantically in my head throughout my runs. Voices of self-doubt regarding my body’s ability to reach goals, or even complete a training run, scream in chaotic cacophony during my runs.

I cannot stand battling the elements; sloshing through rain and mud; feeling my lungs seize as they struggle to inhale thick humid air; transitioning from freezing cold at the beginning of a run, to unbearably hot and sweaty in the middle of a run, to feeling the sweat freeze on my body at the conclusion of a race.

All these things I hate and more!

I have to laugh at the looks of disbelief, confusion, and bafflement that cross people’s faces when I tell them I despise running. “And yet you run half marathons?” they ask in amazement. “Why?” The answer is simple: Though I hate to run, I love the results I get from running.

I have yet to find another activity that burns as many calories as quickly. It would take me an hour of walking to burn the same number of calories I burn in a twenty-minute run.  Furthermore, running builds muscle while also providing an excellent cardio workout. It kills two birds with one stone. Being a mother, and now a working mother, I need exceptional results in a short amount of time.

Running clears my head and relieves stress and anxiety. I inevitably begin and end every run with negative thoughts. However, within thirty minutes to an hour after a run, I feel my mind and body heave a sigh of relief. The stresses that life creates on a daily basis drain from both mind and body leaving me more at peace, more logical, and less emotionally charged.

Running gives me alone time. Mother, wife, daughter, sister, teacher, friend…fulfilling all these duties and more allows me very little time to connect with myself. Often times, they require more giving than receiving. Running allows me time to take care of those little parts of myself that need nurturing and attention.

Running allows me the opportunity to commune with nature. I am not an indoor person. Having been raised in sunny California, I spent the majority of my childhood outside, running, jumping, skipping, riding my bike, or playing sports with my brother. I am an outdoor person. However, the demands of the household, work, and a seemingly endless Vermont winter, often force me indoors and out of my element. Running allows me to get in touch with that piece of me that loves the outdoors.

            Running allows me to feel strong, beautiful, accomplished and confident. Like many women, I struggle with self-confidence. Images of perfection pervade our culture; images of too thin women with perfect hair, skin, abs, butts, thighs, and facial features. Though I know these images are often doctored and are not what they seem, I am not immune to the cultural ideal. When I run, I feel healthy, proud of my body and beautiful. I fall into bed after a long race feeling triumphant because though I have hated every minute of the journey, the struggle is always worth the destination.

            As I curse my way through my training runs for my upcoming half marathon, I will fight to remember all those things I love about running. And as I look around at those running the race next to me, I will wonder, “Do they love this, or hate it?” I ask you, “Do you love or hate running? Why?”

First Steps

WORK

            One month ago, I did something I have not done in four years. I went back to work, tutoring five mornings a week, two hours a day. I was understandably nervous on my first day; not only have I not formally taught in four years, but I would also be teaching a student who had missed an extraordinary amount of school due to his lack of desire to attend. His seeming apathy made me nervous. My nerves were compounded by the fact that this was the first time in my career that I would not only have to struggle to get myself up, dressed, and ready for the day, but also be responsible for getting my daughter Lucy up, dressed, and to school two more days than she had previously been attending, and thirty minutes earlier than she had previously been arriving (feats, which on the best of days were difficult, due to her inquisitive nature and lack of urgency on her part).

            On my first day of work, I rose early with butterflies in my belly. However, these were soon tamed, though not eliminated, by frantic morning preparations. Lu excited about the prospect of attending school five days a week, as opposed to her normal three, was blessedly up early and eager to walk out the door, helping me by getting herself dressed and brushing her hair and teeth. Before I had to ask the customary three times, she had donned her boots, slipped into her coat, and grabbed her hat and mittens. Picking up her lunch box and slipping on her backpack, the two of us walked out the door in record time.

            After situating Lu at school, I kissed her goodbye, jumped into the car, and looked at my clock, happy to see that I was five minutes early; allowing me time enough to grab a soul-soothing coffee on the work.

            The craziness of the morning left my brain little time to mule over the anxiety simmering below the surface of my calm exterior. However, as I drove toward work the butterflies once again began fluttering wildly. They worked themselves into an incredible frenzy when my boss ushered me into a back closet, which was designated as my workspace, its location picked specifically due to the resistance I was told I would most likely encounter from my student. After arranging my materials, I walked to the front lobby in order to await my student, armed and ready for battle.

RUN

            I am not a winter runner. When the temperature dips below forty and snow starts to cover the ground, I move indoors and make the painful adjustment from terrain to treadmill. Even with access to a treadmill, my mileage drops of dramatically during winter, while my cross training and lifting increase. I simply do not have the mental capacity to run unmoving on a treadmill for more than thirty minutes or more than one to two times a week. My boredom gets the better of me. My brain begins to focus on every painful twinge; every second creeps by excruciatingly slow. Sometimes, I make it through my treadmill runs, feeling triumphant. Other times, I slam down on the stop button, unable to bear the mind numbing “thump, thump, thump” of each step a moment longer.

            Winter in Vermont is normally harsh. Moreover, long. Meaning my time indoors tends to drag like my treadmill runs. This year, however, has been an exceptionally warm winter. Unfortunately, the constant fluctuation in temperatures, combined with snow and rain, has left a thick layer of ice on the grass, sidewalks and roadways preventing my normal cross training on snowshoes. This combined with my new work schedule and winter full of constant sickness, has zapped my motivation leaving me little time and less desire to spend time in a sweat and germ filled gym.

            However, two weeks ago I was given a gift that allowed me to do something I have not been able to do in four months, run outside. It just so happened that the weather, which rarely cooperates with my schedule, awarded me a day of sun and temperature in the low forties on the one day of the week that Lu spends the entire day at school, as opposed to the half days she attends the other four days of the week.

            Upon leaving work, I immediately high-tailed it home with every intention of spending some time out of doors. After eating lunch, I quickly changed into my running clothes and strapped on my running shoes. Stepping into the delightfully blinding sunshine, I could not resist the desire to run. However, I had barely run at all in the last four months and did not know whether I could make it a mile, much less the 3.1 miles that comprised my normal village route.

            My nerves began to twang as I adjusted my iPod and fidgeted with my earphones. This feeling was familiar. I was having prerace jitters. I was worrying about my condition, whether my mind and body would carry me through to the end of the mileage. Pushing play on my iPod, I stepped off the curb and into the road, preparing to battle through a very long and painful 3.1 miles.

 

STEP

 

            The battles I prepared to fight on my first day of work and on that first out door run proved unnecessary. My student proved polite, amicable, and bright, working diligently throughout our two hour tutoring session. My run also proved less painful than I expected. Though buffeted by a near constant wind, I finished the 3.1 miles in just over twenty eight minutes; slower that my normal twenty six to twenty seven minute pace, but surprisingly quick considering my lack of foot time.

            It was taking those first steps that proved the hardest part of both events. It was taking a deep breath and conquering the nerves that threatened to consume and defeat me that proved the most difficult task; those nerves that could have kept me from taking those first steps. Had I not conquered those nerves and taken those first steps, I would not have experienced the rewards of engaging a student who was loath to be engaged, nor would I have experienced the lasting joy of a sunshine filled run.

            I continue to tutor the same student; it is not always as pleasant as that first tutoring session. There have been bumps in the road. Nevertheless, it feels good to have something of my own. It feels good to delve into the texts of Edgar Allen Poe and Shirley Jackson, authors that stimulate my intellect and reawaken my inner English geek. I have not had the opportunity to run outside since that beautiful day two weeks ago, which makes that rare moment even more memorable and enjoyable. When the opportunity to trek out of doors presents itself again (hopefully sooner rather than later), I know those first steps will be the hardest to take, but also the most crucial. I will step off the curb knowing that the end result is worth the initial nervous struggle.

An Ugly Duckling or A Mother’s Love

            It did not dawn on me until I was sixteen or seventeen years old that I was, at thirteen, extremely funny looking. When I approached my mother with this realization, she audibly gasped, and very defensively declared, “No you were not, you were, and always have been pretty…and smart, too!” I should have expected this response from my mother. I had grown up hearing, “You are pretty…and smart, too.”  By the time I was sixteen, the saying had become somewhat of a joke between my parents and I. Whenever I suffered from those frequent bouts of teenage anguish over my physical appearance, I could count on my parents to assure me of my stunning beauty, while simultaneously reminding me that my intelligence was equally important to, if not more important than, my physical appearance.

            On any given day, I would have smiled, nodded, and accepted my mother’s compliment without argument, only half believing her statement. However, on this day, I was unwilling to accept the blind delusion my mother had been living with for years. Pulling my sixth grade school picture from a photo box labeled This Is Your Life Alyssa Jill, I presented my mother with the damaging evidence.

There I sat, staring directly into the camera with a shy, or possibly forced, smile upon my face. My teeth were horribly crooked. Despite the fact that I had already suffered through one set of braces in an attempt to make room for my “big girl” teeth, the orthodontist simply could not change the size of my bone structure, resulting in too many teeth in too small of a space. I donned a chunky turquoise turtleneck, that could have held my head in place had it not been attached to my body, the collar was that thick and restrictive. My obsession with Madonna was apparent from my crimped hair to my blue eyeliner. Styles, that over the course of the summer, I had worked hard to perfect.  I spent every moment indoors in front of the bathroom mirror with my mother’s array of eye shadows, liners, and lipstick, applying them with care as I waited for my curling iron and crimper to reach the perfect temperature. After dousing my hair in Aqua Net, I listened with glee as it sizzled on contact with the crimper. All moisture now sucked from my tresses, and the perfect kink achieved, I once again applied pressure to the Aqua Net sprayer, and delighted in the stiff perfection of my style.

            Holding the picture inches from her nose, I declared, “Mom, how can you say I was pretty? Look at my crimped hair and blue eye liner!”

My mother smiled and replied, “That was the style!”

Remembering that I had only recently convinced my mother to forgo her Farrah Fawcett feathers, I realized that I was going to have to try another tactic. My mother had entered into the fashion and beauty trends of the nineteen seventies only to emerge from them in the nineties.

 Looking closely at the picture, it soon struck me that though the crimped hair and blue eyeliner accentuated my adolescent ugliness, they were not the cause of it. My ugliness was a result of something much less easy to identify. Something subtle, yet vital. Proportion. My face, my facial features to be exact, was out of proportion. My nose, eyes, and particularly my lips, were those of an adult (an adult with very large defined features), yet my face was still that of a child. My cheeks were still subtle and soft, without definition. My nose against this subtleness appeared large, and extraordinarily bony. My eyebrows were unplucked and appeared to crawl across my forehead in caterpillar fashion. My eyes also bore the dark bags of a woman, not a girl, with too little sleep and too much stress.

 However, nothing was more prominent than my lips. Today women go to extraordinary measures to achieve such full, plump lips. Mine were naturally luscious, and, at the time, excruciatingly embarrassing. They were the first feature my peers noticed, the first feature my peers ridiculed. Adults would often call them “stunning” and “incredibly attractive”, but these comments, just like my mother’s statement that I was pretty…and smart, too, were lost. At thirteen, what did adults know? It was not until Julia Roberts rose to fame, and I had “grown into” my lips that they, and I, began to receive compliments from my peers; ironically, around the same time I began arguing with my mother regarding my thirteen-year-old ugliness.

I pointed these facts out to my mother with little success. She was determined to believe that I was as pretty at thirteen as I was at sixteen. I sat staring at my thirteen-year-old self, teeth elbowing each other out of the way, lips staging a coup against my other features, and nose rising like a newly formed mountain. I had presented my evidence and lost. I had no other choice but to close my case, and accept that in my mother’s eyes I was pretty at thirteen…and smart, too.

Years later, my mother began scrapbooking our lives. I entered her house one day to bits and pieces of This Is Your Life Alyssa Jill scattered across her scrapbooking desk. Holding my sixth grade picture in her hand, my mother looked up from her desk and with apologetic eyes declared, “So, I have been looking at these pictures of you in junior high. You were right, you were kind of funny looking.”

I could not resist smiling, laughing, and in good humor declaring, “I told you so!”

Holy Atomic Tantrum, Batman!

            It was triggered by a sticky yo-yo and a ribbon baton, but escalated due to exhaustion and a rainbow sprinkled, chocolate frosted, cream-filled, finger donut.

Separate, the elements would have been harmless. Combined they created the perfect recipe for an atomic sized disaster.

            As with most stories, this one begins well before the disastrous event took place.  It began last night with the CBC television premier of Lucy’s favorite movie, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which was showing a good hour after her traditional bedtime of seven o’clock. Lucy, desperate to watch her favorite character on television, began negotiating. Jody and I, exhausted and hoping that a later bedtime for Lu would calculate into a later wake up time, happily negotiated, stipulating only one condition – that she make it through grocery shopping that evening without whining, crying and tantrums. Negotiations complete, all parties satisfied, we set off to the grocery store and an evening of shopping.

            Throughout the trip, Lucy was fairly well behaved, especially considering the full day she completed at school and her state of exhaustion. She was eager to help collect the necessary food items for her coming birthday party, and remained in a jolly mood by dancing and singing up and down the aisles. She had a mini meltdown over being told, “No” to fruit-roll-ups, but collected herself somewhat quickly, and did not resist riding in the cart when asked periodically to do so.

At seven forty five we left the store and headed home to turn on Rudolph, all the while thinking that it would be a miracle should she manage to stay awake for the car ride home, much less ten minutes into the movie. Surprisingly, Lu managed to not only make it home, but also managed to stay alert throughout the hour-long movie, finally making it into bed around nine thirty and falling asleep around nine fifty.

Imagine the surprise of both Jody and I when at seven the next morning, Lu was found to be plodding down the steps in eager anticipation of what Santa had left behind in her advent calendar and magic mailbox. So surprised was Jody that, after turning on the television to keep Lu occupied until I begrudgingly slid out of bed, he headed to work without  the food and presents bought for the underprivileged family his department adopted for the holiday season.

I had not been awake and out of bed more than twenty minutes, when I received a text message from Jody informing me of his mishap and asking me if I could deliver the goods to him at work as soon as possible. With thirty minutes to head out the door, I scrambled into the shower, threw on some clothes, brushed my wet hair, threw a jacket over Lu’s pajamas, slipped her into her boots, and informed her that we could dress her as soon as we returned home from delivering the packages to Daddy, and running an errand or two in preparation for her Birthday party on Sunday.

We had not been in the car two minutes when Lu started whining about being hungry. Understandable, since neither of us had had time for breakfast. Knowing this might be an issue, I promised her a treat at the Price Chopper just as soon as we were finished delivering the food and gifts to Jody’s school. Seemingly satisfied, she sang the rest of the trip and skipped happily into the school. However, just as we were about to leave Jody’s office, Lu once again began whining about being hungry. We narrowly avoided and utter meltdown by handing Lu a Smarties from the stash of Candy that Jody’s secretary keeps on hand. Lu trekked through the school and to the car, happily munching the whole way.

Once at The Price Chopper, I let Lu choose the breakfast of her choice, since she had been so amenable to the chaos. Without stopping to think, she immediately marched to the donut case and pointed to a rainbow sprinkled, chocolate frosted, cream-filled finger. Having an aversion to filled donuts of any kind, I tried diligently to coax her into something with a little less “ick” and a little more “yum”. However, Lucy could not be swayed. Sighing, I reluctantly packed the donut in a bag, dropped it into our basket and headed off to pick up one or two more items that we had forgotten the night before. Lu obediently followed behind, asking only once when she could have her donut and dropping the subject (an abnormal event for the ever persistent and pestering Lu) when I told her she could indulge in the car on the way to our next errand. Throughout the shopping trip, during check out, and the whole way to the car, Lu walked happily beside me, chatting about this, that and the other. Once in the car, she dove voraciously into her donut, finishing three quarters of it before we arrived at The Dollar Tree, less than five minutes down the road.

Happy she now had some semblance of food in her belly, I inquired as to her readiness to enter The Dollar Tree and pick out the plates, cups, silverware, and gift bags for her upcoming party. She eagerly replied, “Ready, Mommy. But can I get a sticky yo-yo while we are here?” A true believer in the appropriate use of bribery, I replied, “If you sit nicely in the cart and refrain from whining, crying, and demanding, then yes.” A cheerful, “Ok, I will,” followed.

Entering The Dollar Tree, Lucy agreeably climbed into the cart. As we moved from one aisle to the next, one item to the next, Lucy sat politely asking for red plates, cups, silverware, and party bags to match her Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer birthday party theme. With one or two items left on the list, Lucy asked if she could have her yo-yo. Thinking her manner pleasant and thanking her for her help, I agreed, but informed her that I still had one or two items. Laying out my expectations for the short remainder of the trip, I turned down the toy aisle where we both began searching the sticky yo-yos that we had seen at least a dozen other times. I was surprised and Lucy was disappointed when we came to an empty spot on the wall, where the very yo-yos Lucy was searching for were usually located. However, despite her disappointment, Lucy refrained from a tantrum. Instead, she politely asked if she could pick out a different toy. I agreed.

Scanning the shelves again, Lucy soon spotted a ribbon baton. The ribbon baton she had “always wanted.” Always wanted, apparently, until she learned that a pink baton was not available. As I recited her color options, I began to see her facial expression change from one of excitement to disgust. With anger she crossed her arms over her chest and in a low growling voice declared, “I want a pink one!” Not intending to buy her something that she would not appreciate, I informed her that if she did not change her attitude, she would get nothing. I then proceeded to review with her the true meaning of Christmas. “Sharing and giving,” she mumbled quietly under her breath. “Thank you,” I replied. “Now if you can apologize for being so demanding and whiny, I will let you choose another color.” With a tilt of her head and a succession of rapidly blinking eyelashes, she declared, “I’m sorry” in a sugary sweet voice and asked politely for the red baton. Cautiously, I handed Lu the red baton, and once again proceeded up the aisle.

Having now gotten what she wanted, Lucy apparently felt it unnecessary to maintain a calm demeanor. The whine crept back into her voice as she demanding that the shopping trip be complete. Stopping the cart, I sternly reminded her of her promise and my plans, and not so gently informed her that if she continued with her current behavior I would be confiscating the ribbon baton. Face set in determined defiance, she declared, “NO! It’s MINE, and I want to leave now!”

“It is my baton now!” I informed her, as I pried the ribbon baton from her fingers, and watched as her face pinched and mouth opened in an ungodly scream! Lashing out at me with her arms, legs, hands, and feet, she flailed wildly, tears streaming down her face. Taking a deep breath, I asked her to calm herself down and listen.

In retrospect, I should have hauled her out of the store right then, leaving my cart full of items in the middle of the aisle, for some poor sales associate to sort through and begrudgingly return to their rightful places. However, with only one item to collect and time running out before her party, I tried bargaining.

“If you can calm down by the time I count to ten and make it through the rest of the trip quietly and respectfully, I will let you earn the baton back,” I said. “One, Two, Three…” the tears slowed, “four, five, six…” her screaming and flailing ceased. “Good,” I said slowly beginning to move again, praying to make it two aisles over without another incident. Aisle One. Aisle Two. Spotting my item at the end of the second aisle, I moved in haste, knowing my time was limited. Apparently, I did not move fast enough.

“I WANT IT! I WANT IT! GIVE ME MY BATON!” erupted from Lucy’s mouth and ricocheted off the shelves, while she suddenly tried to propel herself out of her seat and into the main basket where I had placed the baton. Pulling Lu off the cart, before she tipped precariously over the side, smashing her head against the perpendicular shelf, I placed her on the ground and informed her in an uncompromising tone that the ribbon baton was not only returning to its rightful home on the shelf, but that she had also earned herself a time out in the middle of the store.

            Standing next to her in the middle of the aisle, I pulled out my phone in an attempt to start my timer. Lucy dashed to the edge of the cart in an attempt to grab the baton from the basket. Dragging her back to her time out spot, I once again attempted to start the timer. She once again darted. Placing her back in her spot again, I decided it wise to guess on the time.

            Lucy’s screaming once again ensued, piercing the ears of the Dollar Tree patrons. So angry was she that she not only attempted to hit and kick me, but also made a valiant attempt at pulling items from the shelves in an effort to fling them at my head.

            Having had enough, I hauled her forty-pound flailing body onto my hip, and struggled with one hand to push my cart around to the next aisle to return the ribbon baton to its rightful place. Turning the corner and entering the toy aisle, a couple standing nearby, smiled apologetically, as I quickly slipped the baton back onto its hook, and Lucy slipped off my hip, collapsing on the floor in hysterics over the loss of her beloved baton. Refusing to stand up, after having been asked, I was forced to haul her onto my hip again, still flailing and screaming wildly.

            With great effort and several hikes of her muscled mass up my hip, I managed to make it to the front of the store and the checkout line, where I was forced to place Lucy in a limp mass on the ground in order to unload the cart and pay for my items. Lucy proceeded to, again, try to fling items from the nearby shelves, compelling me to grab the back of her coat while simultaneously swiping my card and loading my bags back into the cart. So ridiculous was her behavior, at this point, that I could not help but smile and laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, while the men and women standing behind me in line reflected looks of horror, humor, and sympathy.

            Having completed my transaction, I moved my cart out of the way and prepared to hike Lucy onto my hip and struggle to the car. Lucy, however, sensing that no amount of crying would bring back the baton and descending from her sugar high, stopped crying and flailing, stood on her feet, and calmly asked to sit in the cart on the way to the car. Relief and disbelief swept over me as I slipped her into the cart, exited the premises, strapped her into her seat, and began the drive home with Lucy chatting enthusiastically about her birthday before falling into a blissful sleep five minutes before pulling into our driveway.

The Greatest Catch!

Growing up with an older brother who adored me had its advantages. I was not only regularly doted upon by him, but was also surrounded by his best friends who, instead of treating me as a constant nuisance, adopted me as their own and doted upon me, too. When building forts, my brother, Brandon, and his friends incorporated my love of princesses, by building me my own throne room, and, as knights, protected me against intruders and dragons. They fetched me my royal tea, my royal Oreo, or my royal kitty without complaint or question, chivalrous to the core.

When ensconced in war, GI Joe permitted my Barbie regular (conjugal) visits at his base camp, and was occasionally seen driving his Jeep around the dusty carpeted roads of our deserted living room.

When wrestling, Brandon and his friends took pleasure in body slamming me, as well as implementing the pile driver and the sleeper hold. Taking pity on my small size, they often allowed me the pleasure of jumping from the top rope (the arm of our couch), and with spaghetti thin limbs flying, tackling them to the ground for the count of three. They even went so far as to dub me THE GOLDEN “A”.

When performing gymnastics in the living room, or on our small patch of front lawn, Brandon and his friends never shied away from acting as judges, holding up their fingers in perfect tens, or, in the rare instance, disappointing eights. I frequently accompanied them to the bike path, creek, and local comic book store, where Brandon introduced me to Dazzler and She-Hulk, women with incredibly liberating powers.

 However, it was playing sports with the boys that I most enjoyed. Though I loved all things girly as a child (including princesses, ballet, and Barbie), I would eagerly drop my tiaras, tutus, and tits for the opportunity to climb trees, navigate the rocks by the creek’s edge, and tackle the boys in a game of football.

Not only did I love these outdoor activities, but I was determined to prove that, despite the differences in our age (five years), size, and sex, I could run, hit, kick, shoot and suffer a beating just as well as any boy, particularly my brother. I unconsciously knew that if I wanted to continue to receive invites into my brother’s world, I would, in fact, have to keep up.

Though my brother and his friends always treated me with respect, it was on a spring day playing baseball with Brandon and one of his best friends, Tommy, that I earned my own special place among them by making the greatest catch in history.

I preferred to be batting, or even pitching, rather than banished to the outfield where balls flew in every direction but my glove. However, complaining was not going to get me what I wanted. Therefore, I stood staring at Brandon and Tommy as they participated in the ritual dance of PITCH, SWING…PITCH, SWING, HIT, and CATCH. The dandelions and clouds were beginning to look more interesting than this game. I could be making wishes and imagining wild worlds made from white stuff. Instead, I stood on the outside, looking in on the fun.

However, just as my impatience with the lack of action I was receiving began to reach a fevered pitch, I heard a CRACK! A loud one! I began frantically searching the cloud-scattered sky for the small white ball. Suddenly spotting it coming in my direction, I began to calculate its exact location and move accordingly. Specifically backward. Back, back, back I went as the ball came closer, and closer. Reaching skyward, I felt the ball hit my glove just as my feet left the ground.

Landing on my back with a THUD, I felt my lungs empty themselves immediately. Gasping for breath, unable to fill my lungs, panic set in, and tears began to wriggle forcefully through my dirt caked tear ducts. Blinking, I gazed skyward to see Brandon and Tommy looming over me, smiles illuminating their faces with excitement. “That was awesome!” My brother exclaimed. Confused and still crying, but now able to breathe, I lifted my head, only to notice that I lay in the playground that bordered the baseball field, having tripped over the curb that separated the two. My glove, still firmly situated on my hand, encased the baseball. “That had to be the greatest catch ever!” my brother shouted, while grasping my hand and pulling me to my feet. Still shaken, and bleeding from my elbows, tears continued to stream down my face while joy began seeping into my conscious.

Brandon and Tommy continued to emote while lifting me onto their shoulders. With shouts and cheers of exhilarating disbelief, the two carried me home straddling their shoulders, while I laughed and cried the whole way. For the rest of the day, we animatedly recalled the events leading up the catch, as well as the catch itself. I fell into bed that evening exhausted, yet deeply gratified.

As I grew older, Brandon and his friends, continued to include me in their daily activities. I frequently found myself standing in the outfield during baseball games. Though I was never able to make another catch of the same caliber, I was able to earn my place among Brandon and his friends; a place one-step above annoying little sister.

Ants, Vampires, Monsters, and The Hand...Longing for Childhood Fears

My brother, Brandon, loved horror movies as a preteen and teenager. He would frequently watch them with our babysitter, Tracey, while I would do everything in my power to avoid seeing or hearing such nightmarish material by exiting the premises and riding my bike or roller-skating in the driveway. However, when hunger or the toilet called I was forced to make my way back inside, frequently catching bits and pieces of blood, guts, and ear shattering screams that sent me scrambling from the house in terror. Nightmare on Elm Street was the popular movie of the day. A movie that Brandon felt compelled to terrorize me with by describing the characters and plot in detail. For years, I avoided the basement steps at the school near our house where we frequently played because I was convinced that Freddy Kruger lurked just behind the basement doors, waiting to pounce on me without a moments notice.

When my mother became aware of Tracey’s poor supervision, firing her, and putting an end to horror movies, Brandon turned to telling me terrifying stories. He told me the story of a woman who, when sleeping, had ants crawl up her nose and lay eggs in her nasal cavity. The woman remained completely unaware of the creatures festering in her face, until the eggs began hatching, ultimately killing her. For years, I avoided sleeping on my back and favored my side in the hopes that ants would slide out of my nose before having the opportunity to embed their eggs in my nasal cavity.

I also slept in my daybed facing the wall in order to ward off the monster-like hand that my brother informed me lurked below, ready to grab me should I lower my defenses, allowing it the opportunity to strike. My bedroom door and closet doors remained open and well lit throughout the night in order to ward off the demons and monsters that lurked in the shadows.  I often clutched rosary beads beneath the blankets, which I pulled to my ears, securely covering my neck, to ward off blood sucking vampires and the Devil, who was always anxious to steal my soul. The rituals of brushing my teeth, washing my face, donning my pajamas, picking books for my parents to read, and receiving kisses, were also accompanied by blowing my nose, peaking under my bed, squinting into the dark recesses of my closet, and uttering prayers for protection and grace. Though bedtime was often stressful, sleep was mostly peaceful.

Three or four nights ago, I had a nightmare of such realistic proportions that I awoke to tears etching paths down my cheeks and a cloud of fear hovering above me much of the day. Images from the dream, so real and frightening presented themselves as anxiety producing flashbulbs in my brain rendering me immobile. For the first time, I wished my brother were present to tell me far fetched, fantastically frightening stories that, as an adult, produce bouts of laughter due to their ridiculousness. I wished that my fears could be easily diminished by sleeping on my side, turning on a light, opening a closet door, or uttering a simple prayer. I longed for rest and the peace that only a full night’s sleep can bring.