Too Hot To Handle and why I write about running...

So, Trevor and I ran the Too Hot To Handle on Sunday, and lived to tell about it.  He did the 5k, and I did the 15k because the 5k finishers didn't get a medal.  The Too Hot medals complete the Too Cold To Hold medals we got back in February, which is a stupid reason to run a nine mile race in July in Texas.  But then again, I've never claimed to be smart and have always been a little superstitious about finishing things I've started.

Plus, since I'm already missing a toenail (thanks to that half back in May), it isn't like like my feet can look much worse than they already do.

See?  It is like a giant BFF necklace.  Except I'm keeping both halves.
Because I earned them!

Anyway, I finished.  It was a lot easier than the Too Cold To Hold, which surprised me because yesterday was toasty.  I was hoping to finish in ninety minutes, but it took me closer to an hour and forty-five minutes.  At first this really disappointed me, but then I remembered that I forced myself to stop at every single water stop along the way.  Because even though the race started at 7:30 AM, it wasn't like it was getting any cooler.  In fact, yesterday ended up being our first triple digit day of the season.  Not that it was 100 degrees when I was running, mind you.  But it was in the 80s, and stopping to hydrate seemed like a necessary evil because OMG, THE SUN.

In other news, I always kind of feel weird about blogging about the races I run, because it feels very boastful.  Like, look at me!  I ran all the miles!  But that's not really my point at all.  I write about running because I like to document things.  Especially, things that challenge me, or things that I said I would never do (like running a race in the middle of summer).  But I also do so as a reminder that my body almost always does what I ask.  

See, I'm a big girl.  I've always been a big girl.  Part of it is because I'm 5'10.  Part of it involves my bones and genetics.  And part of it is because I have the metabolism of a turtle.  I don't lose weight.  I'm lucky if I can maintain my current weight, and well...since the miscarriage I've actually gained weight.  Which sucks because I've been eating well (as in "healthy" not "a lot"), running and circuit training in addition to every thing else (like chasing a two year old, gardening and three dogs).  I'm also very competitive and have a tendency to overdo the training, which - on occasion - has lead to weird injuries (my foot) and even illness.

Granted, there is probably a hormonal component to the weight gain.  I retain water like a sponge, especially in recent months.  But I can't tell you how emotionally devastating it is to run a race and actually GAIN WEIGHT.  Especially when your calorie burn is this:

  

And the thing is, I know that the number on the scale is just a number.  People keep telling me that it looks like I've lost weight, and I can't help but beat myself up because I know it isn't true.  

 

I'm healthy.  My blood work (except for a Vitamin D deficiency), blood pressure and cholesterol is perfect.  I take no medication except vitamins, and Nasonex (if I remember) for seasonal allergies. That should be enough.

I can run for hours, and leg and bench press more than most women (and even some men).  That should be enough.

My body has given me a healthy son.  That should be enough.

Trevor loves me the way I am, and that should be enough.

And, yet, I look at the image below and all I see is FAT.

Lining up moments before the race began. Trevor loves this photo.  I hate it.
Because arm flab and tan lines! And OMG, is that a fat roll under my boobs?!

Trevor also took a video of me finishing the race yesterday.  I finished strong; picked up the pace for the last mile and even sprinted the last stretch.  But all I could see was my wide hips, big a$$ and thunder thighs jiggling in overworked spandex as I ran past the camera.

Why?  Why do I do this?  Why do I think these things about myself?

I know it has something to do with the media, and wishing I weighed 125 (or even 150.  Hell, I'd take 175).  I'm guessing it also has something to do with losing 80 pounds in high school and being ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED of being that big again.  It may even have something to do with the miscarriage and wanting my body to be in good shape if/when we attempt to have another baby.

Whatever it is, no matter what I do, I cannot seem to muster a positive self image.  Which probably explains why we don't have a single full length mirror in our house.

Anyway, these blog posts about the races I've run?  They are the only place I give my body the credit it deserves.  Because it is far from perfect, but it gets the job done.  I'm not running marathons by any means, but I'm getting across my own finish lines with energy to spare.  Regardless of what the (effing) scale says.

That's something, right?

And while I'm confessing the true meaning behind some of my posts.  THIS ONE?  I wasn't really ready to donate my hair, but I started to shed about a month after the D&C and simply couldn't take it any more.  Like I hadn't already lost enough and now my hair was falling out.  For reasons I don't understand, I've felt guilty about not explaining that since April.  Maybe because my reasons for donating my hair weren't as simple as not getting a hair cut for eighteen months?  Maybe because I was forcing the smile in those stupid selfies?  I don't know, but there you go.  

But running with shorter hair?  Much better.

It may not be official, but it happened anyway...

Last Saturday, this happened:

I have no idea why the number 12 appears twice.
Clearly, the second 12 was supposed to say 13.

I've wanted to run another half for awhile now, but they keep getting canceled.  First, the Dallas Marathon fell victim to the ice storm in December, and then the Mother's Day half I was going to run...well, I have no idea what happened to it.  I picked up a flyer about it at either the Jog'r Egg Nog'r or the Too Cold To Hold.  But when it came time to register, I could not find a single mention of it in 2014. 

The thing is:  I HAD TO RUN.  But probably not for the reason you think.  See, Trevor is running in a Spartan Dash this coming weekend, and I am way too competitive to simply sit back and allow him to compete without accomplishing something as well.

(Note:  This is why we normally run together, because he is the same way.)

Anyway, I was only cleared for physical activity on April 11th, so I've gone from zero to half in four weeks.  To be fair, though, I've been running pretty consistently for the last year.  But my last run over 5 or 10k was way back in February. 

Which is probably the main reason why my self-imposed half wasn't the prettiest thing in the world.  It took nearly two and a half hours, and I saved all the sun, heat, humidity and hills for the bitter end.  But still.  I finished (with an extra two tenths of a mile to boot!).  Without walking (except oh-so briefly during the final quarter of a mile).  And I can finally check that whole "run another half" off my mental to-do list.

Plus, I burned a heck of a lot of calories.
Totally earned those Mother's Day MARGARITAS!

Of course, I've never been one of those people that can run distance without training for it.  And, obviously, I'm not very speedy even when I do.  So it should come as no surprise that running this much this quickly has resulted in a nasty case of bacterial Pharyngitis.  I was fine Wednesday.  Went to the gym after work, ran a 5k and lifted.  Came home and started feeling off during dinner.  Woke up Thursday, and *wham* could barely swallow.  By late afternoon, I started feeling achy with "the chills", and Trevor insisted we spend the first half of our date night at the local PrimaCare.  Rapid strep test was negative, but doc said I definitely had some sort of nasty infection going on at the back of my throat. 

So, $50 and a couple of prescriptions later (yay, drugs!), I'm supposedly on the mend.  Trevor is excited that I've been told to rest.  I'm just looking forward to being able to swallow again without agony.  This is definitely one of the worst sore throats I've ever had.

Still?  That half last weekend?  Totally worth it.  ;P

Always my baby you'll be...

My dear, beautiful baby -

I don't want to write this letter.  But I feel like I need to.  If for no other reason than it somehow proves that you existed; even if only for a very short time.

First of all, I want you to know you were loved.  And wanted.  From the get-go.  Your father and I had discussed trying to expand our family in 2014 and - BAM! - I discovered I was pregnant in January.  I was in denial for about a week, even though I suspected what was really going on.  Finally, I got around to taking a test, and all my suspicions were confirmed.  Still, it seemed surreal, so I went out and bought another test just in case the first one was the first false positive in the history of ever.  I told your daddy the next day.  The morning I took THIS picture, actually.

Dash Down Greenville with your daddy on March 15th.

I ran three races with you:  Too Cold to Hold 10 mile, The Hot Chocolate 15K and, finally, the Dash Down Greenville 5K on the Saturday before St. Patrick's Day.  I was tapering my running, and had plans to stop altogether once I started my second trimester.  During each race, I closely monitored my heart rate (as did your father).  During the Too Cold to Hold, your dad even turned to me and remarked how much he loved running with "just the three of us".  We hadn't told anyone yet, and you were just our little secret.

The only pictures
we have (or will
ever have) of you.

My first prenatal visit was on February 17th.  I was almost 7 weeks along.  Your heartbeat was a strong and healthy 138 beats per minute.  They estimated your due date to be October 8th, but the doctor strongly encouraged that I consider a planned c-section around the first of the month.  Secretly, I hoped your birthday would be October 2nd.  Partly because - if it was - you wouldn't have to share a birthday with anyone else in the family (we have A LOT of October birthdays around here), and partly because 2 is half of 4 (Banner's birthday), which is half of 8 (my birthday), which is half of 16 (your daddy's birthday).  Silly, I know.  But numbers, in my own strange way, are important to me.

After we left the doctor's office, we stopped at Carter's and picked up two BIG BROTHER shirts for Banner.  Your father was beaming.  He couldn't wait to share the news.

We told our family that you were on your way that weekend by dressing Banner up in one of his new shirts and waiting for someone to notice.  No one did.  We had to point it out to each of them separately.  Everyone was so happy.  Gran cried and Pa-Pa Mint couldn't wait to trumpet the news all over town.  You were a marvelous little ray of sunshine and hope amid a lot of family drama and illness this long, cold winter.

The only place I held back my excitement about you was around friends that have been trying to get pregnant, and have not yet been successful.  I wanted to be sensitive to their struggles.  I had at least one friend cry when I told her.  It was hard, I'm not going to lie.  And part of me was a little embarrassed.  Not because of you, sweet angel, but because you happened so quickly and easily for us at a time when so many others were struggling.

Your father and I went to your twelve week appointment on Monday, March 24th.  We were so excited to hear your little heartbeat again.  Everything seemed fine.  No signs at all that anything was wrong.

We chatted with the doctor about when we could determine your gender.  Your father was hoping it would be at our appointment in April, but I knew I wouldn't get another sonogram until between 16-20 weeks.  At our April appointment, I would be closer to 15.5...missing the minimum of 16 weeks by days.  We laughed, we joked, we listened about our doctor's recent trip to Israel.  They did a test to check for whatever they check for that can cause membrane rupture and premature labor.  Then, the doctor came over to listen for the heartbeat.  7 out of 10 times they can't find it because the baby is too close to the mother's veins/arteries.  Plus, I quipped that I had just eaten Tex Mex for lunch.  There was a lot of noise in my abdomen, none of it was yours.  The doctor said I was one of the "lucky ones", because "they had to hear or see the heartbeat at every appointment".  I got dressed and we waited to be called across the hall.

I think I was the only one at this point that suspected anything was amiss.  The doctor never had any trouble finding Banner's heartbeat during any of my prenatal visits back in 2011.  Of course, your dad chalked it up to my usual sense of catastrophism.  I wanted so desperately to believe him.

I knew in the first second of the sonogram that all my very worst fears were being realized.  It was simply too quiet.  Normally, they plug you in, and the dark room is instantly filled with the rapid whoosh, whoosh of a tiny, little heartbeat.  But there was nothing but silence.  And worse, nothing on the screen was moving.  You...my baby...weren't moving.

Still, I hoped I was wrong, and asked, "Is everything okay"?

The sonogram tech's answer?  A simple, sad, "No".

You died around 8 weeks, 5 days.  Right around the same time I last posted on this blog.  "Bob" the amaryllis bloomed beautifully that day.  He had another bloom that peaked earlier this week.  In some weird, cosmic sense, I'd like to believe that one bloom was for you and the other was for your dad and me.  Like the plant knew what was really going on.

The doctor was insistent that I didn't do anything wrong.  Over and over he told me it wasn't the running or the probiotics. The only way I could have "done this" was by breaking my pelvis in a car crash, and the likely culprit is something as simple as bad chromosomes.  Still, I blame myself.  I can't help it.  And I am so, so, so very sorry.

Pharrell's "Happy" was on the radio when we left the doctor's office Monday afternoon.

Since my body wasn't letting go on its own, the doctor said we needed to do a D&C.  But, because of scheduling, they originally didn't think this could happen until Thursday morning.  At first, I thought this would give me time to come to grips with everything and let it all sink in.  But, by Tuesday morning, I was a wreck.  Part of me didn't want to let you go, but the other part knew that I couldn't begin the process of...I dunno...wherever we go from here?...while you were still inside me.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother called my GYN, who is also a family friend, and she called me.  She then called my OBGYN and somehow got the D&C bumped up to Wednesday morning.

So, yesterday, your father drove us to Baylor Surgical.  We arrived just before 6 AM.  The procedure was scheduled for 7:30.

For some reason, the hardest part of this for me was knowing that you were going to be removed from, taken to the lab to be studied and tested and then declared "medical waste" and thrown away.  I mean, rationally, I get it.  The you that was there was tiny.  And it had been awhile since your little heart stopped beating.  The doctor wasn't even sure they'd be able to find what used to be you in with everything else.  But still.  I wanted you to be acknowledged somehow.  I wanted you to know that are loved, and were loved for every second of the (exactly) 12 weeks you spent inside me.  I know you never grew to be much more than a collection of cells, but our hopes and dreams for you were infinitely large.

Pharrell's "Happy" was playing just before the nurse led me back to the operating room for the procedure.

I couldn't stop crying.  Just as everything was starting to get hazy from the anesthesia, I asked my doctor to tell you that I loved you.  It was stupid, I know.  And I doubt he actually did it.  It was just that - in the last few moments before the anesthesia took effect and I fell asleep - it occurred to me that he was the last and possibly only person that would see whatever tiny part of you that there ever was.  The last thing I remember was him holding my hand and saying that he would.  And, then...nothing.

I awoke 45 minutes later.  It was over.  You were gone.  Forever.

I've cried more in the last three days than I think I have in my entire life.  The more I try to move forward, the more I find I can't move at all.  I have no appetite.  I wake up in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep.  I know I'm depressed.  I'm all achy from the D&C but refuse to take anything because it somehow makes me feel better to feel pain on the outside for a change.  I know that sounds crazy and masochistic, but it is what it is.  Tomorrow, I'm making myself go to work.  I don't know if I'll make it all day or not, but I have to get out of the house.  I have to try.

Really the idea of seeing people scares me the most.  I don't want to see "sad eyes" looking at me.  I don't want to hear that I can try again.  I don't want people to tell me "it wasn't meant to be" and that "everything happens for a reason".  Because I already get it.  I know that nature isn't going to let something develop that has no chance of survival.  That's why things like this happen, and why they (generally) happen early.  Statistically, I'm aware that this shouldn't happen after already having a healthy baby two years ago, and the chances of miscarriage are lower still after hearing an otherwise strong and healthy heartbeat during that initial sonogram back in February.  Still, it happens.  And it has happened to people I know.  Heck, even my maternal grandmother had a miscarriage between her first and second child (she went on to have three more healthy babies).  But in this case, all the knowing in the world isn't helping me right now.  I just want to go back to this time last week when everything - as I knew it - was right and fine with the world, and I was looking forward to my 12 week appointment and hearing your heartbeat again.

Banner proudly brought this to me in bed on Wednesday after my D&C.

Of course, the greatest sources of comfort and joy right now are your father and big brother, Banner.  Banner isn't a snuggler at all, but in the last three days he has piled up in bed, read me books and watched Finding Nemo at my side.  He knows something is wrong.  On Monday evening, he put all his trains in timeout.  When your daddy asked him why, Banner said, "Because they are sad".

Breaks my heart.

Thomas in timeout.

And your father.  What would I ever do without your father?  You were his baby, too, after all.  In all this grief and sadness, he has been the strong one.  He has picked up your brother from school, run errands and taken care of me.  And that hasn't been easy - especially not with me sobbing quietly from the bedroom for days on end.

So, yes, I am counting my blessings.  I know how lucky I am to have to have my boys.  Many women never get to experience motherhood, and I have a healthy toddler running amuck just down the hall.  Some women are not able to get pregnant at all, and - so far - I've been able to get pregnant pretty easily.  But none of that changes how I will wish from now until the end of time that I got to meet you, see your face and be your mom.

Faith has always been a very private thing for me.  I believe in God.  I believe in Heaven.  I go to church.  Heck, I've taught Sunday School before.  Granted, I haven't gone regularly since your brother was born, but not because my faith has faltered.  I like going to church.  I like the music, the history, the symbolism.  I believe you are in Heaven now.  I know God has another mission for you, and part of me even thinks it is you - not DJs overplaying it on the radio - that keeps that d@mn "Happy" song playing wherever I go.  Because I know you are fine, and it is just taking me a little while to get used to the fact that I'll have to wait a lifetime to meet you and see your face.

(For that matter, I've also had to stop watching TV shows with commercials because I keep seeing trailers for the new movie Heaven Is For Real, and I simply can't take it right now.)

Just know that you are loved, wanted and greatly missed down here on Earth. They may have been brief, but your 12 weeks inside me mattered and affected us all. And your father and I will never, ever forget you.

“I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always, 

as long as I’m living 

my baby you’ll be.” 

Love you forever and always,
Your Mom

Hot Chocolate 15k...

After the Too Cold To Hold on Sunday, I really wasn't looking forward to running again six days later.  But I did, and I finished.  And I don't really have all that much to say about it except thank goodness it wasn't as cold as it was a week earlier.

That's not to say that the run was bad.  Actually, it felt better and I ran faster than I did in the other race just days before.  Plus, it was neat to run up Swiss, down La Vista and through my old neighborhood in Hollywood Heights (despite that b*tch of a hill).  I guess, I'm just tired and relieved I finished strong.

I think I need to take a break from running.  A least from running so far so often.  I've been averaging somewhere between 15-25 miles a week now for about nine months, which really isn't all that impressive.  But I've got this dang foot injury.  It showed up in October when we started training in earnest for the ill fated December half, and it just isn't getting any better.  Granted, in recent months, it hasn't gotten substantially worse, but I'm tired of all the hobbling.  I don't necessarily want to stop running altogether, but I wouldn't mind scaling things back a bit.  If only because I'd love to be able to get up without all the limping if I need to pee in the middle of the night.

I know.  I dream BIG.

Also:

Dear Trevor,

There is nothing wrong with a 5 or 10k.

Love,
Deals

Really, I blame myself.  I've always encouraged Trevor to run, and now he is.  And we've been able to run together and it has been fabulous.  Since Trevor started running distance last August, he has lost thirty-five pounds.  I've gained two.  Part of me is so proud of him, and the other part kind of wants to stab him in the eye.  It is a complicated emotion.

It is like that time I stopped drinking soda and lost zero pounds.  And then - years later - Trevor did the same and lost ten.  Men and their metabolisms are effing a$$hats sometimes.

So, I'm sure Trevor will continue to run to spite me, which is terrible because the competitive side of me HATES IT when he is besting me in anything.  So, more than likely, my break from running really won't be a break at all.  I may simply refrain from registering for any new races.

Which?  YOU ARE WELCOME!  Because it is supposed to be SEVENTY DEGREES in Dallas this weekend.  We will take all the credit because it makes perfect sense that the weather would rebound to "glorious" for no other reason than Trevor and I aren't running in a race this weekend.  Seriously.  It just can't be all coincidence and "winter".  Especially since there wasn't a weekend day in January where the high was below 65 (note:  we ran ZERO races in January).  We've signed up for five races since the last week in November, and the warmest it has been at starting time was a blustery 40 in the POURING rain and thunder.  And yet EVERY OTHER WEEKEND IN BETWEEN?  Lovely. 

We've definitely gotten the hint, Mother Nature.

Too Cold To Hold…LITERALLY

Trying not to take it personally that the bottom always falls out temp wise when we run. But the 10 mile Too Cold Too Hold is in the books. It is possible that I may never be able to feel my a$$ again.

Seriously.  

I've showered and gone to lunch, and I'm still cold.

Of course, this is probably due to the fact that today's HIGH of 40 was hit at 12:05AM.  It was in the mid 30s by race time.  According to the weather people, the wind chill was in the teens.  Which explains why those 30+ mph gusts hurt so bad - especially on the south side of the lake.  Miles 4-6 were long, slow and bitterly coooooooold.  

At least, the majority of the rain held off until after we crossed the finish line.  Thank goodness for small favors, because we had to walk home after the race.  Brrrrrrrrr...

Jog'r Egg Nog'r...

Why is it that every race we want to run this year happens to coincide with some sort of major weather event?  The Turkey Trot was a frigid 28 degrees at race time, the half marathon was canceled due to the ice storm and the Jog'r Egg Nog'r took place mere hours after a major cold front hit the area.  Twenty four hours earlier, it had been 68 and sunny.  I wore flip flops.  But at race time Saturday morning, it was pouring down rain and a blustery 40 degrees.  Officially, it only rained about an inch and a quarter at the airport, but my rain gauge told a different story.  Just over three inches filled the little plastic tube in our backyard by Saturday afternoon.  Which is important to note since the race started and ended within walking distance of our house.  It is like the rain gods knew a$$hats like Trevor and I would be running outside that morning, and saved the real heavy downpours for our heads.  Lucky us, right?

All this sort of explains why I could be seen sporting a garbage bag at 8:30 Saturday morning. Some people actually ran the entire race in their garbage bag, but I was stupid and took mine off before the race started. By the end of the first mile, I was completely soaked. I'd say it was awesome, but it was actually rather uncomfortable, heavy and…well, drippy.

Then it started to thunder about 1.2 miles in, and that 5K turnaround point never looked so good.  Except I was registered for the 15K, and I couldn't let Trevor show me up.  Because I have to live with him.

All in all, it took us just over an hour and a half to run 9.3 miles.  Not as fast as the Turkey Trot a few weeks ago, but not bad considering I'd been laid up with food poisoning and fever on Tuesday and Wednesday.  That and I find it hard to run fast when the street is covered in water.

But the most hysterical part of the morning came after the race was over.  I came in first in my division and Trevor came in second in his.  Sounds impressive, right?  But that is what is so funny!  Because it isn't hard to do really, really well in the standings when less than an eighth of the registrants show up and run the actual race.  Also helpful?  I was the ONLY person in my division, and Trevor was one of two in his.  So to qualify, all we had to do was FINISH.

Go us!

(Also, my division was "Athena".  Which sounds all awesome, but just means I weigh more than 150 pounds.  So, basically, I came in first in the fat a$$ division.  But it is all good because I still beat every single one of those skinny b*tches that finished after me.  And we all know that is what really matters when trying to outrun a bear or zombie.  Silver lining:  REALIZED.)

Of course, we had to stand around for forty five minutes after the race to claim our prizes.  Because it isn't like we are first and second in our divisions every day.  We had to relish in that sh*t.

Plus, they had eggnog.  The good stuff.  With whisky. 

Posing post race with our coffee mug "trophies"!

That whole half marathon thing...

Trevor and I were supposed to run the half marathon today, but - thanks to Winter Storm Cleon - we are spending our third day in a row indoors instead.  The Dallas Marathon peeps made the difficult decision to cancel on Friday afternoon based on the deteriorating forecast and icing.

My thoughts on the whole thing (not that anyone asked, but…well, you know):

• First and foremost, I honestly think they made the right decision to cancel.  Conditions simply are not safe.  I wish they could have rescheduled, but I'm sure that would have been a logistical nightmare.  At least they are mailing us our shirts.


• That said, it sort of sucks - after all that training - to not be able to run.  And I say that knowing full well when it comes to races like these, it is the journey not the destination…and, you know, all that crap.


• I especially feel bad for Trevor.  This would have been my second half marathon, but Trevor's first.  Today should have been the day that he finally crossed that particular bucket list item off.


• In a twisted way, I feel like I should have known better than to register in the first place.  It would have been my third time to run this particular race (2nd time running the half in addition to the 5-person marathon relay a bunch of us ran in 2010), and the weather has gotten progressively worse every time I've committed to it.  Third time is a charm, right?  Except, in this case, not.


• On the other hand, I'm glad to not run because the roads are still awful.  We were sliding around last night on a Target run for Trevor's uncle (who hasn't had power since Friday), and again this morning when we ventured out to the mall for some food and shopping.  It wouldn't take much to twist an ankle, blow a tendon or fall and break something.  It is hard enough to run 13.1 miles without worrying about black ice, frozen bridges and streets that resemble skating rinks. 


• We got to sleep in this morning, and watch 20 minutes of Finding Nemo with our favorite little mess all snuggled together in bed.  There is nothing better in this world.  Especially when the temps outside were hovering around 20 degrees.  Even without the ice, running in temps that low would have been absolutely miserable.


• I've been nursing a foot injury (something is all screwy with the arch), and I haven't run since last Monday when Trev and I did a final 8 miles at the lake before tapering.  I'm hoping the extra days of rest have allowed it to heal.


• Training with my husband has been pretty awesome.  I've been his pace pony.  We've done the bulk of our running at White Rock, and have been running both the 9 and 10.5 mile loops at least once a week during Banner's nap time on the weekend (thanks to everyone who has volunteered to sit on our couch and watch movies while the baby slept and we ran).  


• Tomorrow, when we were supposed to be enjoying massages, we are going to run around the lake again together.  Because the next half in the area isn't until February or March, but there is a 15K on the 21st called the…wait for it, wait for it…Jog'r Egg Nog'r.  Yeah, already registered.  I'm excited to have a reason to continue running and a finish line on the horizon to cross.  Keep your fingers crossed for good weather.

Update:  Dallas ISD is closed again Monday, and tomorrow's high is only 36.  Tonight we are supposed to have freezing fog. Suddenly it looks like an indoor run on the treadmill is in our future instead of a trek around the lake.  :(

I'm too happy, tired and FULL to care if any of the following makes sense...

I don't even know what to say about Thanksgiving.  Mainly because it has been an awesome day THAT JUST KEEPS GOING AND GOING AND GOING AND GOING.

Seriously.

We woke up at 6:30 because we registered to run the 8 mile Turkey Trot like a$$hats.  It was 28 degrees.  I was cold.  As is evident below:

Please stop taking my picture, Trevor.  I can't feel my face.  

Because "I can't feel my face" means "selfie".  Obviously.
Also, why hasn't anyone ever told me that I have a Jay Leno-esk chin?!

I've decided Trevor is suuuuuuper annoying to run races with because he insisted on arriving at the starting line FORTY FIVE minutes early.  And that was with all my efforts to delay standing in the cold for no good reason for as long as possible.  Mentally, I compare it to that time he was in charge of our travel itinerary and got us to BWI SIX HOURS BEFORE OUR FLIGHT TO DFW in 2008.

Yeah, still not over it.

Luckily, the freezing temps got our booties across the finish line in a respectable (if you are us) hour and twenty minutes.  Because the trot was only the beginning of our day, and we still had showers to take, country club clothes to don and a certain little, hyperactive dude to pick up from Gran's house.

This is what my kid looks like watching Toy Story after being
fed a slice of pecan pie for breakfast by his grandmother.
OMG.

As Gran would say, "wilder than a hoot owl".
I don't even know what that means, but Ban was it.

Not that she did it on her own.  Uncle Spencer helped.
(Not that MY kid needs much convincing to eat pie!)

When we arrived, Banner was just starting to come down from his pie-induced sugar high and poor Gran looked like she needed a nap. 

(I have a bad feeling that the only lesson Gran learned this morning is to only give Banner sugar immediately before returning him to us.  Lord help us.)



Post-race blurry iPhone family photo attempt #1

Post-race blurry iPhone family photo attempt #2

Thanksgiving PART 1 was at Brook Hollow.  We attempted to take another family picture.  It didn't go well.  But Banner was wearing a collared shirt and sweater and I had actually made a rare attempt at blowdrying my hair, so we had to try.  Mimi is a patient soul:

And, yes, I realize that you can't even tell that I made an effort hair-wise.  But I assure you:  said effort was made.

Then it was on to food.  Banner is thankful for sweet pickles.  

This is Banner's first of THREE plates.  Every pickle was consumed.
Banner is to pickles as I am to olives.  No kidding.

The time between plates two and three was spent running around the golf course like a crazed maniac.  A friend of Trevor's from high school tried to convince me that Banner doesn't weigh enough to injure the putting green.  But I'm not so sure.

At least, we calmed down (briefly) to have a deep conversation with Uncle Baaaaa:

Then, it was home to nap (for a mere 45 minutes) before Thanksgiving PART II with Gran and Pop-Pop.  

Banner was running on fumes, with *almost* explains the following videos.

Dancing to Selena Gomez at half time.

The annoying chicken.

And to clarify, no one was able to capture a video that adequately depicts Banner's INSANE energy level tonight.  BECAUSE WE WERE TRING TO KEEP PROTECT HIM FROM HIMSELF, not photo/video document.  But, believe me, Banner was a complete and utter spaz.  

Needless to say, we were home by 7:30.  Banner was bathed and asleep by 7:45 and I am in my PJs at 8 PM.  But AT LEAST I AM AWAKE.  Trevor is snoring as I type, but still clutching the TV remote like his life depends on it.  Like I'd even attempt to change the channel to anything but football.

(Not because I've been trained well, but because I'm too exhausted to care.)

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Team Durango...

The icing on Trevor's graduation weekend? Why running the White Rock Marathon Relay, of course!

Team Durango
(Not pictured: Ann)

• First Leg (5 miles) - Ann


• Second Leg (5 miles) - Adam


• Third Leg (6.5 miles) - Deals


• Fourth Leg (4.5 miles) - Amy


• Fifth Leg (5.2 miles) - Trevor

Five star shuttle service was provided by my brother, Wee-Yum.

Our team stayed true to our 10 minute mile pace average (almost to the second!), which is fantastic considering not everyone had trained for the race and it was a nippy 32 degrees with blustery winds at start time.

Congrats to Team Durango!!