Cecilia – …and she runs.

August 23, 2015August 23, 2015

Sixteen months

Sixteen months ago I delivered a beautiful baby girl via emergency C-section after pre-eclampsia forced an induction at 37 weeks that didn’t go as planned.

My world was turned upside down. All parents say that. Other cliches that were inevitably true:

“You’ll never understand the love until she’s in your arms.”

Yep.

“Your whole life changes.”

Duh.

“You will never be alone again.”

I’d really wish I’d have listened to that one. I think about how my husband always seems to be able to poop in peace. As in he gets to be alone. I end up having to take my toddler everywhere with me. Including the bathroom. Sometimes she’s in her Tula – a fancy, expensive baby carrier that will save your life if you let it but is beyond the financial reach for a lot of moms – and I end up in a bathroom with her. Yes. I’ve gone to the bathroom at Target with my child attached to me. Deal with it.

I didn’t prepare myself for what happened this week, the push to start this blog and the emotions that came with every single moment of my life.

I went back to work. Full time. Teaching mass communication at a community college.

Let’s back up. I was part-time prior to this semester. In fact, this “job” has been mine since 2010 when I took over the campus newspaper after being told I was “out of my damn mind” for doing so by people on campus. Yes, people at the institution told me NOT to take the job five years ago. I still did. I love a good challenge.

In that five years, I unceremoniously left a a full-time job. Started freelancing immediately. Helped build a freelance empire for a very deserving friend. Pushed for my part-time teaching position to go full time. Interviewed for that full-time position. Delivered an eight-pound, healthy baby girl. Had the full-time position pulled back at nearly the eleventh hour. Went back to teaching part-time. Worked my ass off to build a degree. Had the full-time position move back into rotation. Apply for the position. Celebrate my child’s first birthday. Get hired for the full-time position. Take a summer school assignment to prepare. Go back to work four days a week.

Then, this week, I went back to work five days a week.

I know, I know, you’re thinking: “Hold it lady, you’ve been basically a work-at-home-mom for sixteen months. You’ve had to have few people other than you watching your baby. And suddenly you’re super emotional about it? Some women have to go back after six weeks.”

I’m so lucky. And yet, I’m also so screwed.

I’ve spent the past 16 months home for at most five days a week, at work four and half with my child. I’ve been, by definition, her primary caregiver. And now I’m in my office and lab five days a week. It’s a huge challenge. It’s a change. It’s not as easy as it seems.

And I spent my Wednesday morning sitting in my car wishing, hoping that I could turn off the tears I felt coming. I wondered if there was a way I could do it all. But I chose this. I wanted this.

In many ways, the stay-at-home moms I know would say I did this to myself. Some have, actually. But in reality I’ve worked the past five years for the position, for the chance to prove my part-time success could translate into full-time employment.

One person told me I don’t get to be sad. I made my decision. I took myself away from my child.

My response: You’re an asshole.

It doesn’t hurt less. It doesn’t minimize my role as a mother. It doesn’t mean I don’t love my daughter. It just means I made a choice. It doesn’t have to be YOUR choice. Or what you agree with. It’s my choice.

In that horrible moment when I was stuck in my car and only wanted to go back to my daughter, I remembered something our ridiculously fantastic pediatrician said to me when my daughter was four-months old, I was heading back to work part-time and my breasts – which my daughter rejected from day one – had begun failing me completely. I was only pumping an ounce of breast milk a day. I was tired of the five-time-a-day pumping routines that were yielding absolutely nothing. I was done. But everyone wanted to me keep trying, my husband included.

I was near tears in the pediatrician’s office, but didn’t want to start crying when I was supposed to be at an appointment for my child. The doctor put her arm across my back, and squeezed me a little.

“You’re OK mom,” she said, offering me one of her huge, no bullshit smiles. It’s the reason I chose her. She’s genuine, unlike my own physician who can’t seem to get me out of the exam room quick enough.

And suddenly I was OK. Even if I’m not right now. Even if I’m dreading going back to work tomorrow because it means more time away from my tiny human. Even if I don’t know it now, I am OK.

I will be OK.

At least I hope so.

February 11, 2015February 11, 2015

Training for a half marathon, on a treadmill

I’m running a half marathon in three days, but you wouldn’t know it by the number of times my Garmin has tracked runs lately.

Because that number would be zero.

But my miles logged are as impressive as I could hope for with a very active nearly 10-month old running my life lately. I could wake up very, very early to run. I could. But I’ve never been a morning runner.

My life used to revolve around 10-hour days working at a newspaper, then jumping straight in my car to meet my running buddies for a six-miler.

Now I’m trying to prevent my precocious baby from escaping the family room into the kitchen area where the three dogs would love to lick all over her as she splashes in their water bowls.

That image pretty much sums up my day today (a non-teaching day).

My schedule doesn’t align with my husband’s at all. He works an hour away. He leaves later than the commute. He gets home sometimes as late as 9 p.m.

I don’t live in a particularly bad area, but I’ve never been a huge fan of taking the jogging stroller out in the evening, even with a head lamp. And let’s be practical: My baby goes to sleep at 7:30 p.m.

I can’t leave the house once she’s down. I’m hoping that’s stating the obviously.

So I close her bedroom door, grab her monitor, put something on my iPad and run as far and as fast as I can before 10 p.m. Sometimes my runs start at 7:30 p.m. Sometimes I start at 8:30 p.m. It really depends on how quickly I get through the bath, bottle and sleep routine.

I’m not complaining. The commute makes his pay worth it. The pay is the reason we have a beautiful home and live a comfortable life. (Real talk: My teaching income is nice, but I’m part time. My freelance income has taken a hit since Cecilia was born because I just can’t do what I used to do.)

But the commute runs our life. I have a 30-minute commute too when I head to work. It used to be 20-minutes, but I go further into town than I once did and the highway has been under construction for more than a year.

So I have to run when I can.

All of my training for this half marathon has been treadmill based.

I know that can potentially be bad. I’m kind of willing to take the chance because it’s the only way I get the runs in.

So I’ve cranked the speed. I’ve moved between an incline of .5 and 1. I’ve done tempo training, distance runs and speed work. Today I went on my first outside run in a long time because my daughter was particularly cranky.

And outside of a front wheel that kept going wonky (my husband needs to check the bearings), it didn’t feel as bad as I thought it would. It was slower than my treadmill speed, but I was also dealing with a cranky baby and cranky wheel.

I’m also still very unsure of myself with the stroller. I’m worried about cars pulling out of driveways or coming at me in intersections. Valid worries.

I want to do a race report that essentially says “look I can train on a treadmill and still run a half.” But I’m not sure that will happen. I don’t know how Saturday will go. It’s a mostly flat and fast course on trail.

I just no I have no hip pain. That’s a plus. And the only thing that bothered me were my foot arches and that stopped after about a mile.

But it was only two miles. I need to add 11.1 to that for a half marathon.

Did I mention the half is a Christmas gift on Valentine’s Day? My husband’s present is that he is going kayaking on the water next to the course while my mother-in-law watches our daughter. It’s the perfect date for us, even if we won’t be together the whole time.

We’ll see how it goes.

February 7, 2015February 7, 2015

Bikini Body Mommy maybe

Or not.

Actually, probably not.

I’m not a huge fan of bikinis. I think I’ve owned quite a few tankinis. But a bikini? I doubt I’ll ever have enough confidence to pull that off. Despite that, in early January I signed up for Bikini Body Mommy Challenge 3.0.

Because, why not? I mean the worst that could happen is I would lose interest in it and give up. It’s said that it takes 21 days to develop a habit. This is why most diets fail. This is why it’s very easy to give up.

There’s also that Pinterest image floating around that talks about how it takes four weeks for you to see a difference in yourself, eight weeks for those close to you and 12 weeks for the world. Or something like that. I’ve been avoiding Pinterest lately because I’m trying to plan my daughter’s first birthday party and a baby shower for a friend. Pinterest has turned into a time suck.

So I signed up for Bikini Body Mommy.

I realized the first week that the meager five-pound weights I had sitting next to my treadmill weren’t going to be enough when, halfway through the first-day fit test, I felt as if I was lifting absolutely nothing. Say what you want about body after baby, one good thing that comes out being a new mom is that your upper body strength increases, specifically with all the lifting and holding of your little person.

And your little person’s car seat. At this point I think Cecilia in her car seat is a breeze. When I first had her I thought I was dying every time I loaded her into the middle position in the back seat of our Jeep. (I was also driving around with a newborn, only a week after a C-section, lifting her myself, because no one bothered to tell me I shouldn’t be driving.)

I bought some 10-pound weights and immediately regretted it.

“This won’t last,” I said to myself.

And yet, here I am, 34 days into the challenge, continuing my exercises.

I’ve lost about four pounds. Not huge, but a slow, steady loss. The skin on my arms is tighter. My legs, which are already pretty solid from running, are now flexing at every movement. My abdominal muscles are also, it seems, reattaching to their proper places.

I’m also drinking less soda and more water.

And I ran 100 miles in January. It was my first 100-mile month since I found out I was having a baby.

Do I look any different? My husband says my flank area is slimmer. That could be a result of the extra mileage more than anything. I notice I slim down in the sides when I run more or am training for a marathon, which I am … to run in June.

I’ve also noticed my gut isn’t nearly as big. At least I hope I’m noticing that.

The best part, though, is that I’m seeing progress in my exercises. I didn’t do my measurements the first day, or on day 15 or on day 30. I probably should have, but I feel like my progress is being measure in how I’m feeling.

And I feel great.

I do record my Fit Test results, which have been pretty promising.

I also consider it a sign that after only four weeks, I had to make another run to Target to pick up a 12-pound set of weights when we moved into a new strength routine. And I didn’t do too bad, even beating my score from the first time I used the 10-pound weights.

The best part about all this is that I can put Cecilia in her bouncer for the duration of the workout, which I’ve had to do quite a few times this week since my students were producing the first newspaper of the semester and I worked longer days.

She laughs when Briana says “Hi Bikini Body Mommies!” She also bounces up and down when we do anything cardio related. I feel like my nearly 10-month old is giving me her stamp of approval.

Do I think I’ll be bikini ready at the end of this challenge? No. Definitely not. But I think it’s a huge push in the right direction, specifically since I’m running more and running faster. It’s helping me build strength and push through my runs.

January 11, 2015January 11, 2015

Loving my body again: A tale of broken boobs

My daughter will be nine-months old on Thursday. When people meet her, there’s generally a consensus about how happy she is, how much she smiles and how good of a disposition she has. I’m lucky that at this point in the mommy game, I’m rarely getting asked the question that I was so frequently at the beginning.

“Are you nursing?”

“That’s complicated,” was the standard and necessary response.

“How can it be complicated?” was usually the retort.

It just was.

The honest truth? I tried. I tried with every fiber of my being. I willed myself to get up when night was at its darkest. I spent early morning hours in my daughter’s nursery while she was sleeping soundly in her bassinet next to where I was supposed to be in bed. I wanted my breasts to be engorged when I woke up in the morning. I wanted the discomfort of knowing when I needed to feed my child.

And I got none of that.

In fact, my daughter recoiled from me so much whenever I tried that I would cry in my bathroom with the door closed so my husband couldn’t hear me. I’d flush the toilet when he came in just to avoid the questions of what I was doing locked up behind a bathroom door I rarely close (because no one ever comes into our master bedroom but us).

In her birth story, I talked about how I felt my body failed me. I felt betrayed. I had spent years running my butt off to be fit enough to have a complication-free pregnancy. I ran and did yoga. I didn’t gain a ton of weight.

Then, at about 26 weeks, everything started to fall apart. My legs swelled. My body pressure began rising. By 32 weeks I was being monitored twice weekly.

The gut punch after I’d already spent time crying over all that? My daughter screaming at me whenever I tried to put her to my breast.

So I pumped.

Feverishly. Ferociously. Determined. Intent. Angry even.

I pumped so often that for my first Mother’s Day, less than a month after Cecilia was born, my husband bought me one of those “hands free” pumping bras so I didn’t have to hold the pump to my chest for 30-plus minutes at a time.

At first it was six times a day. Then I got a solid flow going. Or what I thought was a solid flow. I dropped down to five times a day and still yielded the same amount.

“Stimulate your breasts” everyone kept advising. I spent so much damn time stimulating my breasts that by the end of the day, my breast pump should have bought me a drink. And dinner. Preferably something at a steak restaurant.

And yet? So very little came out.

The worse part was that it seemed very few women, other mothers included, could remotely understand what I was going through. Instead, they offered tips to how to increase my supply as if I hadn’t scoured the Internet for hours on end, at my wit’s end, looking for a solution.

“Have you tried drinking more water?” Yes. I’m a runner. I drink a ton of water.

“Did you make those lactation cookies I told you about?” No, but I bought some online and they didn’t work.

“Maybe a beer would help.” I hate beer. Next.

“Try wine.” Did that. It was delicious. But no change.

“You should get one of those breast shields that act like a nipple, they do wonders.” Have one. Tried it. She realized I was trying to fool her. She’s a smart baby.

“Fenugreek.” Yes. That too. Already been there, done that.

“You know, if you stopped running, you’d probably have more milk.”

Really? I mean, really? The running was at one point the only think keeping me from being a crying mess in my husband’s arms as I did a Kim Khardasian ugly cry about how my daughter hated my boobs.

I’m a practical woman. I’ve spent a lot of time in the past few years learning to react based on evidence and logic rather than emotion. But even I knew what I had found myself in the middle of: the mommy war.

Because the mommy war is real. And while I’ve met some graciously supportive mothers who have let me cry on their shoulder or on the phone with them, I’ve also had first-hand experience with the women who tell me that my daughter will die of SIDS if I don’t breastfeed. Or how I can restart my breastfeeding now and “give it another go” because the formula will make her obese.

At four months, as I was gearing up to go back to teaching and advising, my milk started to dry up. My peak output was about six ounces a day. I had been supplementing since my daughter was born.

In a two week period, I went down to an ounce. Five pumping sessions a day and all I could get was an ounce.

A lonely bottle, that took four days to fill, marked the point where I made the decision to stop hating my body. I’d had enough. My daughter was turning four months old. I wasn’t producing milk. I was going back to work. And I no longer wanted to be attached to a breast pump everywhere I went.

Call it selfish. Others have.

But I was done.

I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror most days because of the vitriol being spewed at me for not breastfeeding from others — but mostly from myself.

There was a moment, as I was frustratingly finding clothes to wear my first day of teaching after 18 weeks at home in yoga pants and spandex where I looked up into my bedroom mirror, saw my reflection — crazy hair, red face, tears, baby throw up on my shirt — and said: “I don’t hate myself.”

Because despite my body failing me, I managed to bring an eight-pound baby into this world. I somehow didn’t mess her up with all the things I did wrong those first few weeks, including not realizing she wasn’t getting ANYTHING from my breasts. And she was happy.

Bottles and all.

Cecilia was sleeping at the time. I put on my running clothes, inched her door shut and jumped on the treadmill. I ran the best two miles of my life that day. I was no longer finding reasons to not to love my body.

Cecilia’s pediatrician reaffirmed how wonderfully she was doing at her four-month check up. When I expressed frustration about pumping, she was one of the first medical professionals to tell me it was OK. She put her hand on my shoulder and said: “Mom, you tried. That’s all we can ask.” She smiled at me with a look of reassurance. I know she wasn’t just telling me what I wanted to hear. I’m thankful she said it in front of my husband, who had urged me to continue pumping, despite my low yield.

Nine months after her birth, I still have stomach hangover. I struggle to fit into my clothes. I’m constantly battling my diet as I try to find out what works for post-baby Tara. But I ran 10 miles this morning, albeit on the treadmill, and never once considered stopping because it was too hard even though I’m running faster than I was before I conceived.

A few months ago, another mother I respect very much whose daughter is a few months younger than Cecilia called me because she, too, was struggling with breastfeeding. I didn’t do what was done to me. I didn’t make suggestions for how to increase her milk supply. I didn’t ask a ton of questions in hopes of helping her “see the light” as one mother did to me.

I told her the words that I’d wish I’d heard at the beginning:

“Sometimes it doesn’t work. That’s OK. It doesn’t make you a bad mother. It makes you human. If it’s not working, stop. If it’s causing you undue stress, stop. It’s hard enough to be a first-time mother without hearing all of that. If anyone tells you otherwise, tell them to mind their own business.”

Broken boobs are not the end of the world. My daughter’s health and happiness, and my own, are more important than being hooked up to a breast pump five times a day to squeeze a few ounces out.

And in order for me to truly be a good mother, I have to love myself as much as I love my little girl.

January 8, 2015January 11, 2015

A new direction

After my daughter was born last April, I decided I wasn’t going to turn this blog into a space about being a mom. People close to me asked the question throughout my pregnancy. I stayed firm and said that while my posts would include my adorable offspring, I wasn’t going to fall into the trap.

This would not be a mommy blog.

The problem is that I had become a mom. The moment my daughter was handed to me the first time I fell head over heels in love with her.

And suddenly everything became about her. If not about her, I was thinking about her.

When I went back to work in August, I had a full four months off with Cecilia. It was so very hard and so easy to go back all at the same time.

It was easy because I finally felt as if I had some “me” time after spending nearly every waking moment with her since the moment she was born. I’ve been teaching for five years. My job goes beyond the typical lecture, lab, test, correct, etc. I supervise the campus newspaper and news website. In the spring, I was pulled out of work two hours after we sent our pages to the publisher for the fifth issue of the semester. Five days later, Cecilia was here after I was induced at exactly 37 weeks.

I missed six weeks of the school year. I missed two issues with a staff. Those were the first issues I didn’t directly supervise since August 2010.

I was happy to see my staff. I was excited to get back to work.

But my body yearned for my baby. My C-section scar hurt.

I remember coming home and scooping her up from my mother in law as quickly as I could.

And on that day, I knew two things: I couldn’t be me anymore without being a mom.

So I had to make a choice. I had to decide whether or not I was going to continue this blog or let it completely die out, just keeping it as an archive of my marathon training and three years of my running. As much as it pained me to think killing it off was a good idea, the thought crossed my mind.

Then it took a backseat to work. During weeks my students produce a newspaper, I’m on campus 30-plus hours. I’m a part-time employee, so those weeks are particularly hard for childcare. I thank everything that I have a loving family that watches my daughter for free so I don’t have to leave her with people she doesn’t know and it doesn’t hit my pocketbook drastically.

That means, though, that during the weeks my students aren’t putting out a newspaper, I’m working on WordPress websites on a freelance basis. When you stare at WordPress-based PHP, diagnose problems and generally maintain more than 50 websites on a regular basis, it’s easy to get fatigued by it.

Bottom line: I didn’t have the time or energy to blog.

Because all the time and energy I had left goes to my daughter.

Every time I felt an inkling to blog, I stopped myself because I’d be writing about Cecilia. Because I’m her primary caregiver. But more because she’s the biggest part of my life.

So I’m not going to fight it anymore.

I can’t.

And it was foolish for me to think I’d be able to.

But in the process of really getting into the flow of being a working mom after four months home with my newborn, I’m also woefully out of shape. I ran two more half marathons after the San Francisco Marathon Second Half Marathon last year – the Ventura Half Marathon and the Big Sur Half Marathon.

At Ventura, I broke my femur. Because I WOULD break my femur right when I was starting to find my running stride again.

At Big Sur, I ran a strong ran, but finished in the 2:32 area. I know I’m far from where I was. I know I’m 20 pounds over my “marathoning” weight. I’m promising to take better care of myself in addition to my daughter this year.

That starts with taking this blog in a direction where I can talk about being a mom, running, fitness and, at times, my failures at all of those things.

August 8, 2014August 9, 2014

The long road back at the San Francisco 2nd Half

I told myself after I ran the Oakland Half Marathon in 2011 that once I finished I’d have at least one thing going for me: I would never have to run my first half marathon again.

Fast forward to July 27, 2014.

I felt as if I was running my first half marathon all over again. But without the appropriate training this time. And without the stamina and core support. Basically I was running my first half marathon as if I just woke up one morning and said: “Today is a good day to run 13.1 miles.”

In reality, I should have waited.

But at least I finished.

Ahhh, the early miles in Golden Gate Park where I was already falling apart. Can’t you see it in my face?

The morning started off well enough. We woke up on time. The baby’s bag was already ready. It took me about 45 minutes to get ready. We were out the door at a decent time for the hour-ish journey to San Francisco for my drop off point.

I tried to take a nap in the car and kind of did as my daughter fell asleep in her car seat. When I woke up, I realized my husband was taking a new route into the city. I looked at the time. I realized where we were and I had a moment of panic.

We weren’t going to make it.

It had been nine months since my last race and I realized my husband may have forgot how to be a race husband. By the time he got me to Golden Gate Park, he was on the wrong side of the end of the 1st Half Marathon. And, well, we were about eight blocks from the start.

With less than 15 minutes to my corral start, I had no choice but to run to the start, going right through the first half marathoners, and gunning it to the area where I was supposed to be about two minutes before my start time.

Needless to say, I was already slightly warmed up and ready to go by the time we started.

But then it all went downhill.

Actually, it went uphill and that was part of the problem.

Mile 1: 10:32 — This is misleading, the first part of this mile goes downhill, so it wasn’t as if I was trying too hard here. So this mile became my fastest. I had taken a Gu before we started after eating a peppermint Luna bar in the car.

Mile 2: 11:54 — This is more like it. The 2nd Half is a tougher course than most regular half marathons. I figured I’d average 12-minute miles. I could feel the incline here. I wasn’t ready for it at all. My legs were burning.

Mile 3: 13:21 — My legs were still burning. It was here that I was considering calling Thomas and telling him I was done. I’d had it. There would be no half marathon today. I did a Gu.

Mile 4: 11:49 — This area is one of the most beautiful of this half marathon. It moves around Stow Lake, which seems to go on forever.

Mile 5: 11:13 — Still going around Stow Lake here. My legs were starting to get tired here. I did a Gu.

Mile 6: —12:17 — The Gu wasn’t exactly working. In fact, nothing was working. I was exhausted. I think I should have ran a 10K instead.

Mile 7: — 14:09 — After getting out of the park, the course runs up Haight Street. It’s uphill for a good amount of time. In 2011, I struggled on this part because I suddenly felt as if I had to run to the bathroom. The problem was there is a huge drought of bathrooms along here. The SAME thing happened to me this year. So I was tired and had a stomachache.

Mile 8: 12:19 — Trying to pick it up. This would be my last mile at a decent pace.

Mile 9: 12:56 — My legs hurt. It was getting hot.

Mile 10: 12:44 — I had this “I hit 10! I can finish this thing!” moment just to realize that I had a 5K to go.

Mile 11: 13: 14 — I’m slogging at this point. My C-section incision started to ache a little. Then I knew I was in trouble.

Mile 12: —14:35 — Walking/running. Exhausted. Warm. Spent. My whole body hurts.

Mile 13: 13:49 — I texted my husband, which I never do. I basically told him I was slow. But I was finishing. I was tired. I needed water. And a nap. And a hug from my baby.

Mile .22: 11:10 — The deception of this race is that you can’t actually see the finish, because it’s around a corner a little bit, until right at the end. It’s kind of a cruel finality of the race.

Garmin time: 2:47:20

Chip time: 2:47:14

That nice image to the right is one of the free ones that the San Francisco Marathon offered this year. All I had to do was “like” a page on Facebook to download them. I love that. I’m only used to that at much smaller races.

I collected my medal, walked through the finish line shoot in mostly a daze, then started looking for my husband. He was near the finish line with baby girl and a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers, my favorite.

I think it’s fair to say I THOUGHT I was ready for this race. I truly wasn’t. My total mileage for July was 75. I’m already nearly halfway there for August.

I didn’t have the base going in. I felt strong because I’d had some eight and 10 mile runs over the course of four weeks, but not enough constant mileage to feel good running a half marathon.

But I’m glad I went out there and did it, even if the last half of it was a painful memory of blur to me.

To remedy the experience, though, I’m upping my mileage. In the past seven days, I’ve done a nine-mile run, a five-mile run and a six-mile run. The later two runs were at a faster pace on the treadmill. My goal is to do more mid-length runs, as much as I can, in the coming weeks before the Ventura Half Marathon, which I’m running with one of my best friends.

I don’t have a time goal in that specific race because it’s my friend’s first half marathon. I’ll be running with her, though I have a feeling she’ll be pacing me at some point.

I kept telling myself that I could do this if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. But in reality, the 2nd Half Marathon in San Francisco showed me that I have a long way to go to really be “back” to half marathoning.

July 3, 2014August 9, 2014

When a good run changes everything

Pregnancy does a number on a woman’s body. I say that, now 11 weeks postpartum, only minutes after trying to find professional clothes to wear to a formal event. It, obviously, changes the abdomen. Even though everyone swore I was “all tummy,” my legs and arms feel deflated.

The day before I was induced, I weighed 205 pounds. I’ve never weighed that much in my life. I hit 200 right before I started running and vowed to never do that again. Pregnancy was a different circumstance, though, so I allowed myself to gain without looking at the scale as long as I felt good.

My problem was that the high-blood pressure that led to Cecilia arriving three weeks early caused me to massively retain water. Within two days of her arrival, I was down nearly 30 pounds. As much as I’m ashamed to admit I gained 10 pounds back AFTER she was born, I also know I’ve been working to rebuild my muscle bulk that I lost when I stopped running at 30 weeks.

But my body is no doubt different.

And I’m incredibly insecure about it.

That’s what I took into the See Jane Run 5K on June 22. I came out of it, though, with a renewed confidence.

I had two goals for this race:

Finish strong
Preferably finish under 45 minutes

I’m happy to report I did both. My 5K time wasn’t my slowest to date by any means. I ran a comfortable 32:49. I didn’t push myself too hard. I didn’t give up. I just ran. When I got to the end of the first mile and felt good, I reset my thinking and wanted to finish each mile with a 10 in front of it.

I did that.

Mile 1: 10:33 — I paced myself behind two women who I overheard say they were “taking it easy.”

Mile 2: 10:56 — This included a water stop and walk break because I still can’t drink and run at the same time.

Mile 3: 10:36 — My legs were burning a little, but I also feel like I was coming alive.

Mile .11: 1.26 — Also, I forgot to turn off my Garmin right at the finish. Amateur mistake, but one that was easy to make since I haven’t raced since October.

I ran the 5K so fast that my husband hadn’t even unloaded our daughter from the car and brought her to the finish line yet. So I ended up wandering around for a bit.

That led me to the “I run for a reason …” chalkboard put up by race organizers. I used to run to be a better me, which is obviously still a laudable goal.

I have a new reason.

For the first time, I crossed the finish line as a mother. I longed to grab my baby girl up and give her a big hug, which I did after she woke up from a very much needed nap.

My husband took the photo above and another of me looking forward. I love the one above so much more than that one. I was having a conversation with her at a picnic table behind the race area while another new mom breastfed next to me.

I add all this into the typical race recap because as I sat there pondering how my See Jane Run ambassador shirt didn’t fit as well, how my legs look a little more deflated than usual and how my stomach was more prominent than before, I realized that none of that really mattered.

Nearly 10 weeks prior to this race, I had major surgery to give birth to my first child and, despite my complications, she came out perfectly healthy, with 10 fingers and 10 toes.

Some women say there body isn’t wrecked, their stretch marks are tiger stripes, etc. I’m saying it’s OK that my body isn’t what it once was. Especially right now.

So my tummy is a little more flabby than usual. I’m thicker across the middle. My arms are fatter too. My Lululemon tanks are more stretched out across my chest. Whatever.

I had spent three weeks trying incrementally to get to three miles on my training runs for this 5K. I finally succeeded the Thursday before I ran 3.1. My confidence was shot. I kept feeling as if I’d never run distances again.

Since this run, I’ve run multiple four milers. Two nights ago I made it to 5.14 before I turned off my Garmin and walked it in because the wind was so bad where I was running.

The See Jane Run 5K was a good run for me. It’s propelled me to other good runs.

Why? Because my body remembered. Despite the excess baggage and the mental uncertainty, my body remembered what it was like to run and what it felt like to knock out three miles.

I’m not saying it was easy.

But I got to the finish.

One of the reasons I’m proud to be a See Jane Run Ambassador is because of the company’s motto:

“If you can run a mile, you can run a marathon.”

The nine weeks before this race and post baby, I was having serious doubts about whether or not I would be able to run distance again. I know that’s hyperbole, but I honestly felt as if everything in my life had change. It has, truthfully. But I was amazed at the end of this race when I realized something awesome: My body remembered. By mile three, I felt as if I was only warming up.

For weeks I had run two miler after two miler and just felt horrible. I needed See Jane Run to be a good run. And it was.

I now feel as if I can run a marathon again. Just not this year. I’ve given up my hopes of running and PRing California International Marathon for 2014. Instead, I’m shifting focus toward one of my favorite half marathons in November and then gearing up to go long next spring by signing up for the San Luis Obispo Marathon and then bricking my training to also run the San Francisco Marathon.

Lofty goals.

Three weeks ago, I didn’t have those lofty goals. I’m excited about how I feel now about running.

Something else happened to: I’m learning to be kind to myself about my body. I don’t fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes all that well right now. I might not still by the time I start teaching again in the fall either. That’s OK. My husband reassures me that I’m as sexy to him as I’ve ever been. I have clothes that fit, even if I did wear my maternity dress pants to an event at school this week.

I’m learning to accept my body for what it is now. I gave birth 11 weeks ago. It’s OK to not be where I was a year ago, before I got pregnant. I’m accepting myself a lot better right now.

All because of See Jane Run.

And a certain little person who, despite being completely over me by the time we left the race — too many snuggles and kisses from mommy — had a good time cheering me on with daddy. OK. Maybe I don’t know she had a good time. But I like to think so.

She seemed pretty happy in her stroller on the way back to the car.

Also, check out the amazing ambassador jacket that I received from See Jane Run! I’m going to wear it to every running event I go to this year, no doubt. I want to wear it all the time now, but it’s much too hot.

See Jane Run puts on a Seattle race on July 13 and athletes in the Pacific Northwest can still sign up, for 10 percent off, using my coupon code: SJAMB243. There is also a Wichita, Kansas race on Sept. 13.

June 22, 2014August 9, 2014

An amazing day

At 8:29 a.m. I hadn’t stepped up to a race start in seven months. At 8:32 a.m. I was starting off on my first 5K in more than two years.

I was anticipating a disaster, truth be told. All my training had been condensed into a month period as I fit in runs when baby girl was either sleeping or my husband had just come home from work. I didn’t know how to feel.

I went through my nerves with a random woman at the start. I just needed to talk to someone. She assured me that however I did, it would be fine.

“You’re out here, so you’re already ahead of most new moms,” she said.

THAT is why See Jane Run is such an awesome race. And THAT is why I am glad it was my first race “back.”

I didn’t PR or anything, but I finished strong and only walked through water stops (because I still haven’t mastered running and drinking water at the same time). Whenever the voice in my head told me to stop, I kept going.

I finished in 32:49, which is far better than I could have anticipated.

The best part was that my husband, who cheers me on at the finishes of all my races, was there with Cecilia. She slept through most of the commotion, but woke up enough to look around. She loves looking around right now.

I am overwhelmed with a runner’s high I haven’t had in months. A full race recap will come, but right now I’m just excited to have said I was out and running again.

June 18, 2014August 9, 2014

Counting down to my return to racing

My return to running hasn’t been easy, and not even for the obvious reasons.

First off, I’m going to count myself in the minority of new parents who get MORE sleep after welcoming a baby. I’ve been an insomniac since my first year of grad school. I rarely, if ever, sleep through the night. Instead I usually wake up four or five times, barely get back to sleep and then wake up again.

Right now? I put Cecilia down at 11:30 p.m. and sleep until she stirs at 5 a.m. I actually panic if she doesn’t wake me up (do mothers ever stop worrying about SIDS? Does everyone tap their child to see if he or she is still breathing?), so I wake up ready to grab her up and see what’s wrong with her.

But I sleep fairly soundly.

Instead I’m trying to work runs into my two-month old’s schedule. It means that I end up waiting for my husband to commute home before I can hop on the treadmill, if I’m lucky. It also means I’m missing runs when he gets off late because baby girl needs to maintain somewhat of a schedule.

As I type this I am trying to soothe her in her bouncy chair while I wait for my husband to get home so I can run. I never anticipated THIS before my problem. I always figured it would be something like being overtired, having no ambition, etc.

The time struggle is real.

So I’ve been fitting in two mile runs as often as I can. On Monday night I ran my best two miler since I was 30 weeks.

It brought some of my confidence back going into this weekend’s See Jane Run 5K in Alameda. I’ve run the half marathon portion of the race twice. This will be my first time running the 5K and my second year as an ambassador for the running store/race company.

Two good miles doesn’t necessarily translate into a solid 5K. But I’m hopeful I’ll feel OK. I’m hopeful that I’ll run strong, but likely not fast.

And I know I’ll be encouraged by a group of other women who have similar goals.

I’m still anxious. Even though I’ve done this race twice I’m nervous. I feel like it’s my first 5K all over again.

I haven’t raced since last fall. I, essentially, took two full seasons off of running and racing while pregnant. I don’t know how my body will react or what to expect from my legs. There’s a lot of uncertainty. (See how I’m psyching myself out already?)

I do know that the party at the end will, as always, be rocking. My Bay Area readers can still join in the festivities (including chocolate and champagne at the end!) and get 10 percent of registration by using my ambassador code: SJRAMB243

I also know that my little running ambassador is coming to cheer me on with my husband. I know she’s not old enough to understand what’s happening quite yet, but I hope this will be the first of many races she’ll be at the finish line for. I want her to see her mommy staying active. I want fitness to be a part of her life.

So while I’m nervous about getting to the start of my new role as a mother runner, I’m anxious to where the race will take baby girl and I.

May 28, 2014August 9, 2014

‘She was always the plan’ : Part II

I left the doctor’s office with instructions to basically sit on my butt for the weekend and monitor my blood pressure. I went home to the couch and called work to let my division office know I wouldn’t be returning. I emailed over the appropriate documents, including a new form for my maternity leave to start.

My original “off” date was April 18. I had intended to work until April 25 when I found out I was pregnant. I look back now and realize how laughable that was.

I spent the next few days moving between feeling excited that within the week my daughter would be in my arms and anxious that she was doing OK in my womb with all that was going on with my own health.

I thought I was living the longest three days of my life.

On Saturday, my husband and I went out to dinner. We called it our “last supper” without a child. We spent the night at home, watching television and relaxing. Come Sunday, I woke up and finally packed my hospital bags. I tried, as much as I could, to tidy up our house so I wouldn’t be coming home to dishes needing cleaning, laundry not done, etc.

At noon, I made “the call.”

My OB had instructed me to call and see if a room was available. I’m lucky my time was scheduled for 2 p.m. and was only pushed back to 3 p.m. By 2 p.m. we were on the road, since I had to stop at the bank prior to going to the hospital.

By 3 p.m. we were checking in with the Boppy pillow, numerous bags and Goldfish crackers in tow. Neither of us said it, but my husband and I wee both very nervous.

INDUCTION BEGINS

The nurses didn’t even ask who I was when I walked in because I was the only induction scheduled for that day. By 4:30 p.m. I was going through the motions of signing paperwork, getting IVs started, changing into a gown and becoming a “patient.”

At 5:30 p.m. the on-call OB came in and inserted a suppository to “soften my cervix.” Everything started slowing down after that. I had to wait as the medicine did its job.

I had blood pressure checks every 15 minutes.

Because of my swelling, every time the cuff closed, I was in excruciating pain.

That wasn’t a contraction. It was the blood pressure cuff tightening so hard around my arm it hurt like hell. It felt like I was being crushed from the inside out.

A friend stopped by and chatted. My husband and I called my mom and told her not to come that night, nothing was happening. The doctor said the Pitocin wouldn’t start until Monday morning.

By 10 p.m. I was dosing off. At 11:30 I woke up and did feel quite right.

I got up, grabbed my IV pole and took a waddle walk through labor and delivery. I figured I just needed to get out of bed for a bit. My husband was sleeping on the couch next to me. I didn’t wake him.

When I returned to my bed after a 15 minute excursion, the nurse came in to check my vitals. My blood pressure was skyrocketing.

I don’t know the exact number, mainly because my memories from the whole induction/labor period are fuzzy at best. Why? Immediately after that blood pressure reading happened, I was put on a magnesium drip. The magnesium was supposed to prevent seizures that could have happened because of my high blood pressure.

The magnesium, though, also make me loopy and eventually everything felt like an out-of-body experience.

On Sunday night, my blood pressure was so high I wasn’t allowed to leave bed at all. The nurse brought in a bedpan. The indignity of it all had begun. I barely slept. I didn’t eat because everyone was expecting labor to begin “soon.”

LABOR PROGRESSES

“Soon” is relative. Soon for one person can mean 10 minutes. For another it can mean tomorrow.

In my case, labor didn’t really “begin” until sometime late Monday night/early Tuesday morning.

The Pitocin drip was started on Monday morning. For awhile, nothing happened. Or at least it felt like nothing was happening. I felt some minor discomfort. The nurse began turning up the Pitocin every hour. Monday seemed to drag on as the nurse would come in, up the ante, leave and then come back and check the response.

I watched a lot of television before my mom arrived sometime before noon. By the evening hours, the Pitocin was being turned up every 30 minutes because it seemed like nothing was happening.

I should have known then that my body wasn’t having this process. I didn’t feel she was ready to come out yet. Apparently my body agreed.

It wasn’t until Monday night that I started feeling anything significant. And then it all got so weird and distant.

My nurse, who was amazing, kept asking me if I wanted the epidural yet. Let me make it clear: I wanted an epidural. I wasn’t going to try to be super woman by delivering my daughter, who my OB estimated would be nearly nine pounds if she wad born to term, without pain intervention. My pain threshold is non-existent.

Apparently I was having contractions, but wasn’t in that much pain so I kept saying no. I was told, though, that my body would relax and help baby girl get out if I had the epidural. At 3:30 a.m. I finally did. I held on to my husband as the doctor inserted the needle. I want to say it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but I honestly don’t remember much about it.

Once that happened, I was again confined to the bed. And my nurse was right, that’s when things really picked up. I started getting turned on my side every half hour or so, from one side to the other, to help baby girl move down the birth canal. At 10 a.m. the on-call OB came in to check me. I can’t remember how dilated I was, but it wasn’t enough.

The Pitocin got turned up again. By noon, I started pushing.

Most hospitals allow women to “labor down” in order to prevent unnecessary pushing, but the ward was full that day. It was a Blood Moon, and that meant everyone was going into labor. The OB instructed my nurse to get me ready to push.

My husband was taking a shower when everything started. He walked out to me on my second push.

I would push, every way you can imagine, holding onto a bar, on my side, with one leg in the air, etc. My nurse tried 20 different positions to get baby girl to come down. More importantly, baby girl needed to turn face up.

NOTHING GOES AS PLANNED

By noon, I was dilated to 10 centimeters and ready to push.

I spent an hour pushing and feeling like I was getting nowhere. I was exhausted then. I hadn’t slept in more than 24 hours outside of a few minutes at a time.

There wasn’t enough running or yoga in the world that prepares a woman for nearly four hours of pushing. I had a break in between (where my usually reserved husband apparently went down and hit a vending machine when it took his money because he was anxious/annoyed/frustrated for me).

I can’t remember much of the second time we started pushing. I know, only because I was told, that I had extra injections of pain medicine inserted into my epidural. I know I was pushing for at least another hour. I know the on-call OB tried the suction twice (my daughter had the mark to prove it). I know an episiotomy was considered, but rejected because where most women have a small amount of muscle that needs to be cut, I apparently had four-times the normal.

The doctor advised my husband and mother that even with an episiotomy, she wasn’t sure the baby would come naturally. I don’t recall who mentioned a C-section.

I only remember looking up at my husband, who was tearing up at that point, and saying: “I’m sorry.”

I know now that he made the decision to go that route. I was exhausted. I felt like I was losing consciousness. Everything around me was lights and noises, but really just a blur.

I was wheeled in the operating room. I was prepped. Thomas was in an adjacent room getting suited up. But apparently, there was a miscommunication. Someone had said I had a spinal block. I only had an epidural.

So when they started to cut, I felt it. I was immediately put under for the rest of the C-section.

MISSED MOMENTS

When I was put under, it robbed me of the chance to hear her first cries and see her immediately after she was born. It also took away my husband’s chance to see her being born completely.

I’ve mentioned before how fortunate I am to be married to my husband. He reaffirmed it the day Cecilia was born.

A nurse made a comment about how I couldn’t do Kangaroo care for my daughter, because I was in horrible pain, begging for relief. Thomas didn’t think twice and started stripping his top half down to hold her close to him. He held her in his arms so tight in the recovery room. He brought her to me so I could kiss her and talk to her.

I’ve heard that a woman becomes a mother the moment she finds out she’s expecting, but for some men it’s the moment they see their child. My husband guards his emotions, but he cried when he saw Cecilia. He fell head over heels for her the moment he saw her.

The night she was born I was stuck in bed with a catheter, still on magnesium and slightly loopy. Thomas changed every diaper. He responded to every cry.

She loves her daddy so much. Even now, at six weeks old, she responds to his voice when he comes home from work. He moves her entire body toward him.

I struggle with how her birth happened. I’ll never get to see how my husband reacted when he saw our first born. Those moments cannot be replaced. Everyone said I should be thankful the baby is healthy, but more than that mattered to me. (Consequently, my freelance boss sent me this article today and it is dead on).

I’m thankful none of the worst-case scenario events happened. I didn’t have a seizure. I didn’t die in childbirth. Cecilia was born healthy, strong and beautiful.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. My body failed me in many ways.

I felt so much confusion those first 48 hours after she was born. I blamed myself (more so when she wouldn’t latch for breastfeeding and still won’t to this day, I’m pumping and supplementing because she’s a very hungry girl). I was upset. I allowed myself to be upset.

“This wasn’t what I planned,” I told my husband as I sat helplessly watching him change her for the third time that night.

He looked over at me with sympathy in his eyes. He knew I was hurting, physically and emotionally. He reassured me and told me that sometimes things happen that way.

Then he said the most comforting words I heard nearly the entire week I was in the hospital.

“You followed the plan,” he said. “She was always the plan.”

I’m pretty sure I fell in love with him all over again at that moment. Because he was right.

It doesn’t matter how she came into this world. She’s here. She’s amazing. And she was always the plan.