Chasing My Inner Athlete

My in-laws just returned from a fantastic trip and gifted our girls with a beautiful set of handmade Russian nesting dolls. I was thrilled to receive them, as my sister and I grew up playing with our own set. I always found the doll within a doll-within-a-doll arrangement fascinating and strangely comforting. No matter how many dolls I opened, there were always more waiting for me; that final, solid doll, small, smooth and smiling in my hand, seemed like the perfect reward for my unscrewing efforts. Though the surrounding dolls were bigger and more vivid, she, the core doll, held everything together.

I thought of them tonight as I plodded sweatily through my run, thumb flicking through ipod song choices in a rather desperate search for inspiration. Somehow, I hoped, the right rhythm would move my feet, the right words would still my thoughts, the right tone would let me just let go.

Those first few minutes of my runs are the worse, as my 17-year-old self offers 33-year-old me snarky reminders of what "used to be," inevitably locking me in a stupid, stubborn battle over pace and distance. On a good day, I can quiet the competitive voices and lose myself in the run, luxuriating in the amazing space of time where I am responsible only for myself. On others, I have to fight my way through every step, knowing that, at the very (unpretty) least, I gained a small victory by even running in the first place.

You would think that my love for running - or, more importantly, my need to run - would ensure that I would be a regular runner all of my life. And yet, that hasn't been the case. Life has intruded along the way, with unspoken insecurities and fears often causing my running shoes to collect more dust than dirt. Any former athlete will tell you that the one of the hardest hurdles is getting back on track once you have stopped competing and working. It is a humbling, humbling process...

In the past year, my husband has lost a significant amount of weight. His transformation has been amazing to witness and I've met, for the first time in my life, the athlete he was in college. He rises early in the morning to swim, bike or run and has faced the challenge of reshaping his body, his mind and his self-image head on. He's been inspired and inspiring - and a complete wake up call for me. In the 10 years that I have known him, I have been the fit (or at least fitter) one. All of a sudden, my reality was redefined. I needed to find my inner athlete. And no one was going to unearth her but me.

As a new mom of two, I've learned a great deal in the past six months. I love my girls and have actually settled more naturally into motherhood than I did as a mom only to Claire. I have found my footing and love what life has become but in doing so, there are some parts of me that I've let slide into the background.

I think any mom will tell you that she keeps (the occasional?) score in her head. No matter how balanced a parenting partnership is, Mom is going to feel like she bears the bulk of the load and that Dad doesn't (quite) know what her day/heart/life/mind is all about. I'll admit it: I envied my husband's freedom to focus on his health and fitness. I was jealous of his time on his feet, on his bike, in the pool. I would sometimes grow irrationally frustrated with his fitness "ah-ha" moments and new running path discoveries, thinking that I had "been there, done that," so why was he an expert?

And yet, even in my crabbiness, I knew the truth: no one was going to get me back out there again but me. And no one would be a bigger cheerleader for me in that pursuit than my husband.

So, I've laced my shoes up again, purposefully carved out time during naps or bedtime and forced myself out the door. I even signed up again for a half-marathon. Who the hell knows how I'll actually do (racing makes me so nervous!) but I'm out there trying.

The other day, I went for my longest run since before Claire was born, finally letting go of my battle with pace and relaxing into the experience of the run. Crossing the driveway's finish line, I found my husband chattering at our youngest, her pajama-ed feet kicking away in the stroller as she oversaw Dad's garage organization. It was one of those scenes you capture with your heart's camera.

"How did it go?" he asked, taking in my panting form. Jenna blinked at me, curious and smiling.

"Actually, pretty great," I grinned.

And somewhere, deep inside, under all those other life layers, my little inner athlete smiled too.

Too

I've had some moments that aren't going to make the highlight reel of motherhood.

Take, for instance, my "argument" with my 23-month-old the other morning. After Claire threw everything out of her crib, a shrill "NO!" looping on repeat, I too became two. In a less than stellar performance, I countered with "Stop it!" and tossed a blanket in the corner for good measure.

She blinked at me, startled, breath hitching. Mom had officially lost it.

I hugged her without saying anything and for the next twenty minutes, we were very careful with each other. She played in her crib, singing along with the Wiggles while I headed to the shower to regather myself. Water pounding on my head, I contemplated my reflection in my husband's shaving mirror. There, blinking back at me, was my inner two-year-old.

Sometimes, in the heart of one of Claire's outbursts, I look at her face and know exactly how she's feeling. I see her emotion and imagine how freeing it would feel to be able to express myself without filter. If only I could fling myself to the floor in stubborn refusal to give in to someone else's directions. If only I could be unapologetically honest. If only I could let all my feelings fly out without restraint - all of the good and bad and in-between ones - and not later dwell on how I should have handled things.

As Claire approaches the beginning of her 24th month, she's living in high definition. Everything she feels, experiences and expresses is intense and new and sometimes all-consuming. Jeff and I are amazed at her seemingly overnight development. The little girl who wakes up in the morning is somehow vastly different than the sleepy toddler we put to bed at night. Her transformation is bittersweet for us: we are in awe of the little human she's becoming but often homesick for the baby that she was. Time is passing a bit too quickly.

While in the midst of a battle of wills with my oldest daughter, I don't have the capacity to focus on the bigger picture of her development. When she throws food off her high chair or kicks in protest against riding in the stroller or yells at the dog to get out of her way, I can't sit back with Zen-like calm and think, "This too shall pass."

But the truth is, it will. The challenging Mom-moments always do. More importantly, the innocent freedom that allows Claire to show exactly how she feels will someday disappear. I hope that as she grows, I can be a safe place for her to turn.

When we talk, face to face with older eyes, I want her to know that I understand her emotions. Because, chances are, I'll feel them too.

Truth Among the Towels

“You can become blind by seeing each day as a similar one. Each day is a different one, each day brings a miracle of its own. It's just a matter of paying attention to this miracle.”
- Paulo Coelho

Sometimes a mom's life can be a little mundane. The routine - or lack of routine - of daily tasks makes it easy (at least for me) to get lost in the minutiae of minute to minute life. Diapers, meals, laundry, errands, activities and events eat up the clock.  When the girls are finally tucked into bed at night and Jeff and I sit down to dinner, I don't know where my day has gone. I lose hours and days, weeks and even months in a way that would shock my pre-baby self.

I came across Coelho's quote during a quick Facebook check-in, a login sparked by the need for momentary adult connection after the girls had gone down for naps. As I paused there in the kitchen, dishwasher whirring, crockpot lid bouncing quietly, strains of a lullaby CD floating down the stairs, I was moved by the truth of it.

While my life is perhaps not as ambitious on paper as I imagined it would be in my early twenties, I'd be lying to say that I didn't feel fulfilled in what my life has turned out to be. No, there is nothing glamorous about poopy diapers or toddler meltdowns or the fact that I got all of the garbage cans emptied out before my husband came home.

But today, my oldest daughter clomped around happily post-tantrum in my shoes, wearing her footy pajamas, squealing, "Mommy shoes!" And my younger daughter held her bottle for the first time, smiling so big around the nipple that formula dribbled everywhere. As I sit here at the counter with a glass of wine, I am more emotional about those images than I could have imagined before the girls joined our life.

The laundry I folded before firing up this computer tonight held a little bit of everything from every member of our family. Seeing ruffled little girl socks next to big man boxers and teeny tiny washcloths piled close to full body towels, I smiled in spite of myself. Somewhere in the middle of one of the last to-do's of the day, I uncovered a quiet truth. Our life was right there in front of me - fluffy and fresh - and I had a hand in each little part of it.

It's easy for me to be blind to the uniqueness of each day, especially with sleep-deprived eyes. The normal stresses of life can narrow my focus so that I only see what's immediately in front of me. And yet what's in front of me is really, truly a miracle.

I just need to pay attention. Even when I'm only folding towels.

Love, Amplified

I'll admit it: as an oldest-child-mom-of-one, I was (a bit) worried about adding another baby to our family.

My husband, a middle child, gently teased, "Um, Megan? Life didn't end for my brother when I was born."

My sister, also a middle child, openly laughed: "Seriously, Megan? Would you prefer I wasn't here?"

My mom, yet another middle child, just smiled and patted me, offering, "A mom's heart is full of love for all of her kids. You'll see."

My head swirling with their words, I turned my anxiety inward, my heart twisting a little each time Claire sat on my lap, back pressed against my pregnant belly, her little sister tap dancing in utero. We had a cozy little world, the three of us and the dog. While I was thrilled to be pregnant with our second, I couldn't help but wonder what this new addition would bring.

Perhaps this is a worry shared by other moms, an unspoken one because there aren't really the "right" words to express the feeling. It's not that I wasn't excited to meet my youngest daughter or that I was worried I wouldn't love her as I did Claire. I think it was more of the unknown of it all...how would Claire feel? How would I share my time? Could I be the mom to our youngest that I had been to our oldest? What would happen to our marriage? At my most vulnerable, I even panicked about the dog. How would he react to another one? Would he ever have any attention? If I couldn't imagine adding another dog to our family, how was I going to add another child?

In the middle of the night, after yet another trip to the bathroom, I would pause in the doorway of the nursery, watching Claire breathe. She was my baby. What would another baby be like?

The moment Jenna was born, my heart exploded. The entire birth experience was a special one, maybe because we weren't so overwhelmed by what to expect. Jeff is a fantastic partner and there is something so intimate (even in such a institutional setting) about the world contained in that hospital room. When the nurses put her in my arms and I saw her face for the first time, everything my mom had said became clear. Jenna was meant to be ours.

Jeff and I tell first time expectant parents that the minute you meet your child, you love each other more than the day you got married. For as much joy, anticipation and celebration there is in "I do," there is ten times that in the welcoming of Baby. For us, welcoming Baby #2 intensified that feeling even more.

Holding Jenna, I was overcome with relief and wonder. My heart could hold both of my girls - and their dad. My world, my family, had grown in love.

When Claire burst into the room to meet her sister for the first time, her big eyes eager to see what all of the fuss was about, I knew that we had also given Claire a gift. She, like her mom, would have the chance to be a big sister. And there's nothing greater than that.

This morning, as we had breakfast together on the couch, Jenna on one knee and Claire on the other, Rocky snoring at my feet, I smiled at the fullness of my lap and my heart.

Adding to our family didn't divide my love, as I had quietly feared. It amplified it.

I am humbled and grateful for that gift.