Chewymom

For the past four months, I have been training to run in the PF Changs Rock and Roll Marathon in Arizona. I signed up through Team in Training. If you aren’t familiar with this group, you need to be!! They provide the training, coaching, and support to help people like me walk or run half-marathons, marathons, participate in triathlons, and century bike rides. In exchange, we, the participants, raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

I chose to do this after one of my friends ran a 1/2 marathon last year through TNT. My mother had recently died after a very short battle with leukemia, so the organization had meaning to me. My mother was also always in excellent shape. Even though she was 77 when she died, until the very end, she did not look older than 65, max. I can remember waking up in the morning as a little glrl, walking down the hall and seeing my mother in the extra bedroom, exercising to a show on the old black-and-white television. Later, she joined an aerobics class at our church and did that faithfully, three days per week, unless she was really ill or out of town. Nothing got between her and her exercise! Which is why she could brag that except for when she was pregnant, she never weighed a pound over 119. Now, there’s a weight I don’t think I’ve seen since about 8th grade.

So last fall I attended a Team in Training meeting, and I have been training since then! I was skeptical that I would be ready. Sometimes I still am! But I have gone from being able to run 20 minutes without stopping to running for over 2 hours straight! My race is now a mere three weeks away, and today during my 10-mile run, I was thinking through the lessons I have learned as a result of this experience.

• I don’t like asking people for things! Seriously, I think the hardest thing for me to do has been asking people for money. I am responsible for raising $3800 for LLS. It is a cause I believe in. It is a cause that is near to the hearts of many of my contacts, because they loved my mother. And yet, even though the money is not for me, I hate asking for it. I feel guilty. I hate to impose. This has really stretched me. Every time the money aspect of my race comes up, I force myself to take a deep breath, remember that a person declining to give is not a personal rejection, and just give my little speech.
• It is okay to be the weakest link. As a child and teenager, I participated in two sports - basketball and swimming. Here’s the thing. I grew early. I was a very tall 7th grader–the tallest on my basketball team, in fact. I was horrible, but the one thing I could do was stand under a basket and rebound and shoot, over and over, until eventually a shot fell in. Or the spectators all fell asleep. But nobody could out-rebound the tallest person on the team, who also had the ability to jump like a kangaroo, I might add. Hence my bball nickname of, well, Kangaroo. And so I learned to be good at basketball through lots of practice and opportunities to shoot over and over. To the point that I was typically the high scorer and rebounder in the games. I loved basketball! In addition to early height, I was also blessed with very broad shoulders, so that as a swimmer, I could just pull myself through the water really fast! I was the fastest person in my age-group on my team, and with the occasional exception of Candy on a rival team, I was the fastest in our division. I was so good, in fact, that I decided to swim for the AAU team, the Atlanta Swim Association. My mother drove me across Atlanta nightly for an entire year so I could swim. And guess what. Up against the entire city…well, I’ll just tell you that I was put in lane 6. Out of 6 lanes. And no, that was not the fastest lane. Not only that, I never even got close to lane 5. So do you know what I did? I quit. And years later, I would realize that I refused to lose. If I was good at something, I would do it. If I was bad, I would quit. Which may explain why I never make my bed. And it definitely explains to me my poor grades in college. If I couldn’t be one of the best, I just wouldn’t give much effort at all. Hence the Cs. Lots of them. Fast forward to now. My basketball coach would so laugh at me, because although I could score, I was always the slowest person on the team. That, according to him, was one of the reasons I was good as a center. I never got that logic, but anyway….I am the slowest runner training with Team in Training in my city. It is humbling and humiliating at times. My teammates occasionally need to wait up for me, or circle back to be sure I don’t get lost on the unfamiliar route on our long runs. I am learning how to be in a situation where I am giving my best effort yet am far from being the best, and to be okay with it.
• Food really is fuel. I have learned this lesson in the past month. It’s something that I think we all really know deep down. But I cannot put iced Christmas cookies, cheesy, rich casseroles, homemade eggnog with a kick, and on and on into my body day after day and have good runs. First of all, my weight will go up, making it that much harder to carry my body along. But second of all, I will end up dehydrated, having reflux, suffering from low-energy, and just generally feeling crappy right at a time when I’m supposed to be increasing my mileage!
• Walk breaks are not for wimps. This is a very new lesson for me. As in, the last few weeks. I have pushed and pushed to increase my mileage, and I have done it! I went from running a little and walking a lot to running for two hours, non-stop! And then I hit a wall. My cardio was better than ever - I was not winded and felt like I could keep going forever. My muscles were not cramping up. But it was like I had NO energy to propel my body. Suddenly and for no apparent reason, even my short 3-4 mile runs were hard. I was having to walk. A lot. A friend suggested that I read some of Jeff Galloway’s stuff. He is a former Olympic runner who now earns his living helping other runners. His philosophy is that muscles need a break. Not only do they need rest days to prepare for long runs, but they also need rest DURING runs. He advises walk breaks even during a race. I was skeptical, but I decided that I could either take walk breaks because I HAD to, or I could plan them into my runs. And BAM! I’m back to running well. For me. As long as I take planned walk breaks throughout my runs, I can run for a long time! And that is very encouraging two weeks out from my race, when I was really starting to think I would be walking that 1/2 marathon! I still feel a little self-conscious when another running is passing me and suddenly I just start walking. I want to lean over and say, “I’m not wimping out, I’m doing this on purpose.” But I refrain and hold my head up knowing that I am out there for 10 miles, and my legs are continuing to feel strong and fresh because I am giving my running muscles frequent rests along the way.
• If I can do this, anybody can. Seriously. That is my last lesson, and it is more for you than for me. If I can go from a mom who is a couch potato almost every single day with occasional bursts of exercise energy spattered throughout the last 15 years of my life, to running a 1/2 marathon, then you can, too. It’s a new year, so make yourself a resolution, set a goal, enlist help (like TNT), and do something you never thought you could! Because believe me, you CAN!

Ditch, Sally-dear. The word is ditch.

There’s a story here.

We have been visiting various churches in our town recently. It has been a really neat learning experience for our family–seeing worship styles we have never been exposed to before. This morning we decided to visit an Episcopal church. We were preparing the children for the Eucharist because two of them have never had the Lord’s Supper before, and we were fairly certain that it would be offered. We explained that most likely, we would go forward and that the priest would place the bread in our mouths. This was obviously concerning to Sally.

I am happy to report that first of all, the priest did not in fact, stuff bread into anybody’s mouth. He carefully placed it into our open palms as we knelt at the altar. Then a challis of wine was brought, and we dipped our bread into the wine (and no, it wasn’t Welch’s, like we get in our usual church) and then ate it.

As soon as the bread was in her mouth, Sally made a face, fanned her mouth, and whispered loudly, “That bread is DISGUSTING!”

Watching two of my children take their first communion was a beautiful thing, even if they slightly missed the point of the whole thing.

Can I make a true confession? Advent season underwhelms me.

There. I said it.

The lighting of the candles, the hanging of the greens, the recitations, even the hymns. Often they leave me rather ho-hum.

Part of it is probably my upbringing. My mother’s birthday was on Christmas day, which is depressing in itself. Two-for-one gifts and spending her birthday in the kitchen. Plus, I believe she suffered from SAD. She was just not very excitable in December. I mean, sure, we were good Presbyterians and did all of the Christmas stuff–made the advent wreath and did the little family readings and lighting of the candle nightly, went to the Service of Lessons and Carols, even rode the Pink Pig at Rich’s in downtown Atlanta. But still, I think as hard as Mom tried, December was stressful for her. (Duh! She was a mom!)

Another part of the issue for me is that it always seems that compared to Easter, the Christmas story is just less moving or something. I mean, Easter - now that is big! Jesus rose from the dead! He died for our sins! And he didn’t even stay dead! That’s big news!!!

But a baby being born to an poor, unwed mother in a stable? Well, not very noteworthy. And not something that tends to draw worship and awe, quite frankly.

Which is probably part of the point.

So I mosey along, caught up in the stresses of the season, barely taking a breath. Rushing to various stores to buy food, gifts, trinkets; fretting over teacher gifts, neighbor gifts, friend gifts; wondering what Santa will bring the kids (and where he is going to get the money!); rushing to chorus practices and concerts, basketball games, school Christmas parties; taking a breath and mourning over the fact that I lost both of my parents awfully close to Christmas.

And then “O Holy Night” comes on. And just as it does every time I hear the song, I am literally almost brought to my knees. Fall on your knees, it exclaims! I catch my breath and really listen to the words. I worship. I, who rarely shed a tear, find my eyes welling up as I listen.

And I am struck by the real message of Christmas. It is huge, just like Easter. Perhaps even more so, because the birth of Jesus marks the beginning of a death march. In a sense, when any of us is born, we begin the march to the grave. But how much more so with Jesus! He left his rightful place as God so that he could limit himself as a human and walk through this life with the sole purpose of death. Not just death because of old age or some crazy accident or illness. But death because without it, we were all going to die. He came to earth with that as his sole goal and intention. Or rather, he came to earth with US as his sole goal and intention.

Not karma. Not you get what’s coming, or you reap what you sow. But you get life. You get relationship with God. You get love from the creator, in spite of yourself and your screwups and mishaps and ill-thoughts and intentions, because God set out with that intention by wrapping himself in the package of a baby, and being born just so that he could die.

And so at his birth, the angels sang.

Fall on your knees! Oh! Hear the angel voices! Oh night divine! Oh night, when Christ was born!

Stop for a minute. Fall on your knees. Worship.

Okay, how many of you local friends logged onto Chewymom this morning, just to see my take on the front page headlines?? Glenn, admit it.

I am all about keeping the public informed. Today is certainly no exception.

“A Tax on Passing Gas.”

That’s right. Front page, top story. Meaning not a lot is going on around here these days.

And meaning that I was initially a bit alarmed. If you have spent any time in the Chewy household, or even on my blog for that matter, you know that passing gas is something we all find hilarious. Yes, even the Chewy parents. Because we are immature like that. Makes you nod your head and say, “A-ha! Now I understand why they have spent the last four years working with middle school kids.”

If we aren’t passing gas, we are joking about it. Some in our family actually aim it at others. Heck, even Max, the Golden Retriever gets in on the fun. He burps and farts all. the. time.

The point of the article, much to my relief, was that–well, let me just quote it for you. “The idea of imposing heavy fees on livestock flatulence to help reverse global warming has prompted criticism from officials and others who fear such regulation would shut down many U.S. farms.”

That means we are off the hook. They’re talking about cows. But I’m pretty green-minded and try to do my part to halt global warming. I recycle (even yanking stuff out of the trash to toss in the recycle box), I bring my own grocery bags to the store, I went through a phase of using only cloth napkins (although I’m back to paper these days). Even though I own an SUV, I try to drive the little Honda Fit whenever I am going the farthest distance that day. But now I’m wondering if there is more I could be doing. Is there a cloud of methane gas hovering over my house? If somebody could truly measure our carbon footprint, would the gas we pass raise ours significantly?

And that’s when I cooked up an evil idea. How about if I put a tax on gas? I could be rich! Rich, I tell you! Every time someone farts–one dollar, my friend. Talk about gas? Twenty-five cents. Fart at someone? Five bucks.

I think I could easily pay for a nice vacation in the Caribbean. For me.

I just wonder who will cough up the bucks for the gas Max passes?

I can’t explain it, but my heart has been drawn to Africa for many years. Watch this video. Maybe this explains some of the draw for me. And maybe it will draw you as well.

HT to Boomama

Click here to join my Chewymom team at MochaClub to support Orphans in Africa.

A true friend is hard to find. We have moved around a lot in our married lives, and I have found that I have to live in a place for a good 3-4 years before I really feel like it is home. That feeling of home usually comes around because I have made some real friends. People who have seen me snap at my kids, who know that Chewydad and I do not have the perfect marriage, who have seen me with greasy hair and no makeup, and who have been inside my house when it has been 2 weeks since I vacuumed and 3 weeks since I changed the sheets, and they still love me.

I have lived in Alabama a little longer than that, and I have been blessed with some dear friends. One of them is Mongoosemom, who started blogging a while back.

I knew Mongoosemom was a real friend a long time ago, but she really proved that when she invited our whole family of seven to join them at the beach during their vacation! It only worked out for us to be there for a few days, but boy did we have fun!

Mongoosemom’s friendship was proven even more when it turned out that I had an ear infection. It was a Saturday, I was far from home, and I was in pain. So we hauled ourselves to a health store and…well…this was the result.

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Only a true friend would help me stick a candle in my ear to suck out earwax, and help prevent me from catching my whole head on fire. I think her children are now terrified of me. Or just think I’m awfully strange. They wouldn’t be alone in that thought.

Two little helpers and I mixed some dough, rolled it out, and baked the cookies. And then we had the REAL fun of ICING the cookies…and the best part–EATING the cookies!

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Hey you local friends! If any of you needs to have Christmas portraits done, have I got a deal for you! I have a friend in Birmingham who does a great job! Check out her website here. Those of you in my Bunco group met her at my house several months back. And maybe we could convince her to come up our way if she had some photography work! So go take a look at her work!

As I have reminisced about my simple high-school faith, I have been listening to some of the old music of that day. I discovered a seven-part series on You Tube called “The Keith Green Story” and watched the whole thing. Oh what an influence that man had on my life in the 80s!

I loaded some Keith Green songs onto my iPod and listened to them as I ran today. The song “The Prodigal Son Suite” came on. This is not the original version performed by Keith Green, and it is broken into two parts, but you can hear the song here and here:

I thought about my life as a prodigal son. Actually, when I have heard that parable over the years, I have related to the older brother. I am the child who wants to live by the rules. I yearn for someone to give me a play-book and tell me how to act. I can do that! I tried it for years as a teenager and college student, not giving in to the usual temptations. As a parent, I bought into the Ezzo’s “Growing Kids God’s Way” and other programs that promised perfect children, if I would just live by certain rules.

My life fell apart when my husband decided to play the role of the younger brother and stray from his faith for a brief time. As he returned to his faith, everyone rejoiced! Elders prayed over him, people got together with him regularly for accountability, Bible study, and prayer. And I sat on the sidelines thinking, “What the hell??” Seriously. I had been offended and hurt, and suddenly I was forgotten while attention and praise was lavished on my husband. I was pissed!

And frankly, I felt like Jesus gave the older son the shaft in his little story. I mean, if we were talking about salvation, I was just fine with Chewydad being welcomed back into the fold. Lavishly, even. But come on! In the day-in-day-out of my life, I wanted just a little sympathy. A little help. A little pity. Something! I understood the older brother in the prodigal son story being pretty ticked off. Let’s welcome the brother back, be glad to see him and all, but enough already.

Have any of you felt like the older son in the story? Has anything happened in your life to give you a glimpse of the younger son? It did in mine, and I will share that a bit later.