Because Babies Should Have Grandpas

Saturday is the Fifth Third River Bank Run. The 25k is the one local race that still remains on my bucket list. This was going to be my year to cross it off the list. More than the fact that I was ready, one of the charity partners is the Alzheimer’s Association of West Michigan. And, as you know, raising awareness and trying to fight this awful disease is near and dear to my heart. So, this race? This was my chance to tell my our story and do good while doing something that brings me peace and happiness and pride.

But then, something incredible happened. And Mr. B and I are going to be parents. In October. I’m 19, almost 20, weeks pregnant. (Still waiting for that “glow” to appear, though.) And, while I’m incredibly blessed to still be able to run while carrying Pickle, I realized during the half marathon a couple weeks ago that running long distances like that while pregnant is hard on my body.

Exhausted as I come up on the finish line during the Gazelle Girl Half Marathon.

And I just couldn’t see myself happily — healthily — making it through 15.5 miles. So, with a heavy heart, I switched to the 10k.

But I didn’t quit.

I will be there. Shoes will be laced up. Bondi Band will be on. Mr. B will be on the sidelines. Because this run is important. And it’s so much bigger than this one pregnant gal carrying herself over 6.2 miles to cross the finish line.

This run is about babies. And parents. And siblings. It’s about family. And friends. And caregivers. It’s about loved ones. And people we’ve never met.

This run is about every single one of us.

Because Alzheimer’s Disease knows no strangers, and it knows no boundaries. And, not to scare you, but the situation isn’t getting any better as time goes on. That’s why fundraising runs like this one are so important. Because, one day, a woman — not yet 30 years old — will see a short text on her phone from her mom. A text confirming a diagnosis she so feared: “A.”

“A” is for Alzheimer’s.

“A” is for Alzheimer’s.

“A” is for Alzheimer’s.

And she realizes that no matter what she does or how hard she fights, her dad is going to slowly forget who he is, forget who she is. And he’s going to become a shell of the person he once was. And her family will never, ever be the same. And it’s going to break her heart as everything she knew with 100 percent certainty fades into a world of gray. And she’ll have to stop thinking about the “what shoulda beens” and start thinking about the “what’s gonna bes.” Because all she can do is move forward.

To put it simply, Alzheimer’s Disease changes your life. Nothing is ever the same for the person diagnosed with this disease and for the people who love them. And, once you hear those words, “Alzheimer’s Disease,” there’s no going back — and going forward is hard. But all you can do is wake up every morning, smile and thank God for the moments you have together and get on with your day, taking it all one step at a time — together. ~”Running for a Cause“

I quickly realized that I needed to talk about it. I needed to tell my story. Because that is how I fight. And unless I fight and raise awareness and raise money, so many other people are going to feel this pain. And sadness. And anger. And fear.

So many people are, like me, going to wonder whether their soon-to-be-born baby will ever get to know his/her grandpa the way he should be known — as the funnest Papa any kid could ever have (just ask all of my nieces and nephews — they’ll tell you). Luckily, and thankfully, Pickle will get to know his/her Papa. It will just be oh-so different than the picture I used to have in my head of my child playing with Papa in the orchard.

So, Saturday, when I head out on that course, I won’t be running for myself. I’ll be running for my dad. And for my mom. But, mostly, I’ll be running for Pickle.

Because babies deserve grandpas.

Pickle (Kinda) Gets What Pickle (Kinda) Wants

When Pickle gets a craving other than the always-present watermelon craving, Pickle craves a very specific food that this girl would have eaten:

Pickle thinks he/she has the same taste in food as this Mama B.

When Pickle gets a craving, Mama B tries to feed him/her like this girl likes to eat:

I’m doing my best to share this Mama B’s taste in food — and balanced look at what goes into a healthy outlook on diet and exercise.

Sometimes I indulge the cravings and enjoy some fries or a milkshake or a burger. But, 85 percent of the time I try to make a better choice — or “healthify” the craving.

Today, Pickle wants a bean burrito. From Taco Bell. It has been, oh, I’d say, eons since I’ve had a bean burrito from Taco Bell. So I have no idea why this little person growing inside of me would even want one, much less know exactly what it tastes like.

In lieu of rushing out to the Taco Bell drive-thru, I decided to take advantage of my open afternoon and the glorious sunshine and walk to the grocery store to pick up a few things to make my version of a healthier bean burrito. While I was at it, I figured, I could pick up the Redbox I’d reserved, too. The store is a two-mile roundtrip walk. No big deal. In fact, it’s quite handy and convenient.

I got to the store, walked around a bit and picked up the items I needed. As I went to pick up the Redbox, I was surprised to find out that I’d actually reserved it at the store about a half-mile farther up the road.

Pickle’s Taco Bell craving turned into a three-mile walk and “healthy” bean burritos. Ha! That’ll teach him/her. Next time, Pickle, you might as well stick to watermelon. And maybe a salad, mmkay?

Trying to Process What Happened in Boston

As we all know, I ran a half marathon on Saturday.

Getting ready to race.

A half marathon that I was having a lot of mixed feelings about, truth be told. I sat down a couple of times Sunday to write my recap of the race. But, I was having trouble finding the right words to describe it. “I’ll write it Monday, once my hips stop hurting,” I told myself. (Because, heaven knows, you can’t write when your hips hurt.)

And then …

… Monday happened.

And, as a runner, a marathoner, I felt like someone attacked my family. Runners have come to be a huge part of my community, of who I’ve become. Some of my dearest friends and supporters are runners. As a group, they’ve changed my life. And those spectators? Cheering at the finish line? They’re the ones who pull us through. They’re the ones there at every single race, cheering our names, clapping their hands and bringing us home — whether they’re our family and friends or total strangers.

The unthinkable had happened.

I was in shock. I think, maybe, I’m still in shock.

To sit down and write a race recap for my own half marathon seems … I don’t know … silly. If I couldn’t find the right words before, I am now completely speechless. All I can think about when I try to write about my half marathon is when I ran across that finish line.

As a distance runner, when I see that finish line, something inside of me lets go. All the pain from the miles before, all the exhaustion of the months of training, all the worry about the race … they all just disappear. And a sense of happiness and pride and relief spreads through my body. I melt. And then, at the finish line, I see Mr. B’s smiling face chanting “Go, Kimi, go!” And my friends and family cheering me on — right under that clock that says “You did it; you’re here.” And it’s a feeling of pure and utter elation that takes over. Oh, yeah, and there’s love — knowing that my friends and family are there to celebrate that moment with me.

My support crew — and my biggest cheerleader.

That finish-line memory was still fresh for me, is still so fresh for me. And that makes Monday’s tragedy even harder to comprehend and process.

All I can see in my head is those runners running toward their families and friends at the finish line in Boston — a smile on their faces because they’re there, they did it. For some, a lifelong dream just to be on that course. For others, a chance to do better than the year before. Weeks, months, years of sacrifice — for the runners and their families. And I see their friends and families — smiles on their faces, so proud and full of love for their runner. All that love, pride, joy and excitement.

Stolen.

To have all of that taken away in an instant. It’s heart breaking. And confusing. And … so many other things.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, crying about it. Thankfully Mr. B was home. We watched some news. I cried. And then, we turned off the TV and left the apartment. I needed space; I needed air.

So, we went to pick up my race charm from Saturday’s race.

Saturday I ran for Pickle. Always for Pickle.

I expressed to Mr. B that I’m so sad that these types of things happen in the world. Added to a difficult hate-filled experience earlier in my day, it was a lot of hate and sadness for me to take in for one day. And I told him I’m scared about the world we’re bringing a precious, precious child into. As usual, Mr. B’s wisdom was just what I needed to hear:

“This is exactly why we do need to bring a child into this world; this world needs another kind person.”

And, so it is on this that I try to focus. Even amidst the horror and tragedy and hate, there is beauty and kindness. And givers. And sharers. And helpers.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me: ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” ~Mr. Rogers

What’s more, there is always running. There will always be running.

There is always running.

Tonight I laced up my still-muddy-from-the-race shoes and ran. Well, as much as Pickle would let me. Not because it was on a training program. Not because I needed to burn some calories. Tonight I ran because I can. I ran because it is a gift. I ran because I had to.

I ran because that’s all I know to do right now.

Sans watch. Sans GPS. Just me and my thoughts. I have no idea how far I went, though I could hazard a guess, nor how long it took me. All I know is I ran.

(And walked a little, too. Pickle likes that better. We’re compromising.)

True Confessions: Half Marathon Edition

Confession time: I talk a good game. I’m just maybe not so good at playing it.

Training for this half marathon has been a roller coaster of emotions and strengths and weaknesses and everything else that goes up and down over time. When I started training for it in December, I was running a sub-8:30 pace for even my longer runs — faster than that, even, for some of my shorter runs. What’s even more? I was feeling great. And confident as a runner. And as someone who was finally done looking back at who I was and being shocked because, ohmigosh, I’m actually running.

My initial goal for this half? 2:05. It would have been a PR by at least four minutes. And, if my training kept up as it was going, I maybe could have knocked even more off of it.

I was excited and really looking forward to this race.

And, then, the most amazingly wonderful thing happened.

That’s a baby in there! Not a Sunday dinner.

And I got tired. Really, really tired. And sometimes, Pickle’s desperate pleas for a nap won out over an evening run. Because, holy cow!, I’m actually growing a human. (Thankfully, I never did get any morning sickness — for this I am immensely grateful.) And when I did run — and I didn’t miss a single long run (WIN!) — my exhaustion became an evil monster dragging me down, slowing me down. My 8:30s quickly became 9:30s then 10s then 10:30s. Now, I’m doing a run-walk on all of my runs, no matter the distance (10 miles, 6 miles, 3 miles). Run a mile, walk a quarter-mile — lather, rinse, repeat.

And, from many of my runs, I came home even more tired. And, worse yet, defeated — even as I tell myself (and truly believe) what a gift it is to be able to run while pregnant and what a gift it is to be carrying this child. And:

“Don’t worry, Kimi Joy, running will be there after the baby’s born — and so will your PR.” 

Still. That voice? That one in the back of my head who pushes me (admittedly, sometimes too hard) and is hard on me? She’s making me feel bad about how far I feel I’ve “fallen.” As much as I believe that if you run, you’re a runner — regardless of your speed — I miss my 8:30s. Because that’s when I felt BEST as a runner, as myself. That’s when I felt most proud.

Right now? I’m not feeling proud. I’m stressed out and worried about this race — this race I was so excited to be running and so looking forward to. I find myself more nervous than I’ve been for any race. Even more nervous than I was for the marathon.

I think it’s because I don’t know what to expect.

Running while pregnant is new for me. My body feels different, it reacts differently. It’s harder to carry it over distances — even though I’ve not gained too much weight. I can’t get a handle on how to fuel this body. Because my tried-and-true fuel for my long runs? My body is processing them completely differently. And I just feel like I can’t get it right. Nothing feels right. Plus, I get tired so much sooner than I did pre-Pickle. Plus, obviously, I’m slower. And, while I’m not competitive against other people, I am immensely competitive against myself. And when I’m out there, running three minutes per mile slower than my previous races? It bothers me. More than I care to admit.

Oh, and did I mention that I’ll be sporting Mr. B’s running clothes because none of mine fit me anymore? (Picking out a fun race outfit is, like, 75 percent of the fun of racing.)

Please don’t get me wrong — this baby is more important than any race I could ever dream of running. I love this baby, I love our growing family — more than I ever dreamed possible (I mean, I’ve never even met Pickle and already, he/she is the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before I “sleep” — and the thing that most commonly appears in my dreams at night). And I really do feel honored to get to run this race with Pickle. (YAY for Pickle’s first 13.1!!!!)

I just wish I didn’t feel so weak and tired and nervous. I wish I felt more ready going in to this race.* For me and for Pickle.

*Truth be told, pre-race nerves and jitters are nothing new. In fact, they’re part of my pre-race routine. I think they’re just more prevalent this time around because it isn’t just me out there running. It’s this tiny, darling, precious gift who is just along for the ride.

A Pre-Race Routine

So, over the past few years of running, I’ve developed a routine in the days leading up to the big race (“big” = half marathon or more). I don’t often detour from this routine, as it’s as important to my “success” on race day as the months of training leading up to it.

My routine:

• Monday: The day I start obsessively checking the weather for race day
• Tuesday: The day I start fretting about whether my training has been enough, has been good enough
• Wednesday: The day I start worrying about fueling my body properly in the days before the race — and on race day
• Thursday: The day I go back and forth about why I’m doing this — and if I even should
• Friday: The day all of those worries intensify and become one big ol’ ball of nerves — and excitement — that makes sleeping difficult
• Saturday: The day I wake up early for oatmeal pancakes and use the bathroom umpteen times before the race begins. And then I “race” — and stop at every bathroom stop. (I can only imagine it’ll be worse with Pickle bopping around down there for 13.1 miles.)
• Sunday: The day I sleep in and, when I wake up, look back and still can’t believe it was me running that race on Saturday

Basically …

Just a few more days until the half marathon. I’m having very mixed feelings about it. More to come on that later. For now, I must get back to fretting — it is Tuesday, after all.

A Guilt Trip

It’s bad enough that our little Pickle tries to keep me from running by telling me it’d be better for me to take a nap. But, then, I have to deal with Annie Cat giving me guilty eyes every time I lace up my running shoes. Seriously, how am I supposed to walk/run away from this adorable face?

Don’t worry — I did. I went for three miles. Three miles that were WAY better than yesterday’s three miles. (I would have gone for four, but my pregnant bladder wasn’t familiar enough with the park and the placement — or presence — of porta potties.)

A Quickie Recap of Tonight’s Run

The good:

• Got in my planned three miles — even though I was completely exhausted and did not want to do it
• It was absolutely gorgeous out, and the sun felt great
• I’m still loving my shoes, ugly as they are
• I glanced at my watch and saw my old 8:30 pace pop up a couple of time (it did not last long)
• I realized I have a pink running skirt and can borrow Mr. B’s blue running shirt (since none of mine fit me) for the race, and I’ll look so “awesome” with the new shoes. Not sure how the race-day Bondi Band will fit in, but I don’t care because it’s my favorite ever:

Custom made for Pickle and me for our race next weekend.

The bad:

• It was my slowest mid-week run since I got pregnant
• Everything felt was heavy and tired and slow
• I was so tired the whole time, and this run was a definite physical AND mental battle

The ugly:

• Seriously, you guys. This baby has been making me so gassy lately. It got ugly out there today. Thank goodness for the breeze. (Payback, I think, for going for a run instead of listening for Pickle and taking a nap.)

As bad as I felt out there, if I look at this list, I guess the good outweighs the bad. The ugly? I don’t know — it was pretty ugly. Still. I’m lucky to get the opportunity to run — for me and Pickle.