Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Cox South ER - Not a fun place to visit
Cox South broke ground today on a brand new ER, and I can tell you from firsthand experience that they need the extra room.
I spent all of this morning and afternoon visiting the current ER.
Grant busted his bottom lip today doing stroller gymnastics while I was trying on swimwear for our upcoming Caribbean cruise in the Kohl's department store dressing room.
In a flash, while I was snapping spandex, my nimble 18-month-old had mounted his Baby Jogger, and before I could consider outcomes for his fate, I saw the whole cart tumble backward. His head hit the deep, brown door first, richoceting backward.
"Oh Grant!" I exclaimed, while a woman in a nearby stall, hearing the commotion and the resulting screams from Grant, called over the door, "Is everything okay?"
At first I thought everything was okay, and I spoke over the door loud enough to be heard over Grants wails, "Yes, I think so." A bad fall, but no more than what would amount to a bump on the head. I scooped up my monkey and shushed him, and hushed. That's about the moment I noticed my shoulder was dripping with blood. I took a closer look and saw that Grant's bottom lip and the inside of his mouth were pouring red.
"Oh God!" came my next comment. "Oh, God!" I looked for the source and depth of his cut.
This is where the woman on the other side of the door became my angel. She called for help. "Help!" she said. "We need help in here!"
This woman had absolutely no reservations about shouting or demanding attention, which was good because I was preoccupied with trying to assess the damage to my son. She ran out of the dressing room and before long had returned with a clerk.
I will spare you the horrible details of the inefficiency of Kohl's department store and how they cared more for protecting themselves from being sued than from helping me.
I signed "Please don't sue us" paperwork so fast that I've probably signed away my next of kin and any right to sue a major department store for building incredibly thick dressing room doors. Anything to get me out of there and to the ER.
Problem was - I was no where near my car. It was being serviced at the dealership up the road. I had walked with Grant to the clothing store in his stroller. I celled Gary and told him I was running back to the dealership. Maybe they could give me a courtesy shuttle to the ER. Gary said he would meet me there.
This is the point where I am really glad to have started running. Adrenaline got me to a shuttle and to the ER in less time than it took Gary to arrive from work.
When we arrived at Cox South, there were two people in the waiting room - both looking very much like they were in line for a Swine Flu culture.
The admit nurse, looked at Grant, saw that all he needed was stitches and put him at the bottom of the priority list.
That was at 10:30 a.m.
In the five hours that passed thereafter, more people with suspicious respiratory diseases showed up, addicts to drugs, stroke patients, heart attacks, car accidents, angry relatives of said car accident victims - they all came and sat and then got called back into the back room ahead of little Grant, who may have looked bad but was mostly hungry and bored.
Let me tell you, the ER waiting room was a sad place to visit. By 4:30, over five hours of waiting for a room - wrestling him away from dirty toys, the floor, walking him up and down the hallways and sidewalk - religiously washing his hands with Purex - we had finally made it back to see the doc. He took good care of our little man - numbed his wound, and stitched him right up.
The whole procedure took no more than a few minutes, but Grant screamed for the most of it out of fear and hunger, but mostly fear - until his little emotional core couldn't take it anymore and he, to quote the ER nurse, "went to his happy place." Grant passed out and didn't wake up for over an hour.
I held him in my arms and listened while he took shallow shuddering hiccupy breathes, in and out, in and out, hiccup, in and out, in and out, hiccup. His eyes squeezed shut.
Gary was positively yellow. Hearing your son scream and not being able to do anything to prevent it will make any parent weak-kneed.
We're all safe at home now, but I can testify that Cox definitely needs new ER digs. The place was overcrowded.
They kept taking patients back to check vitals and then making them return to their chairs because they didn't have enough beds to treat everyone. The new facility will have three times the capacity as the current one. August 2010 can't come fast enough. If not for my benefit (my fingers are crossed that I will never need to use the ER again) then at least for the Springfield metro area; it needs the extra space.
I spent all of this morning and afternoon visiting the current ER.
Grant busted his bottom lip today doing stroller gymnastics while I was trying on swimwear for our upcoming Caribbean cruise in the Kohl's department store dressing room.
In a flash, while I was snapping spandex, my nimble 18-month-old had mounted his Baby Jogger, and before I could consider outcomes for his fate, I saw the whole cart tumble backward. His head hit the deep, brown door first, richoceting backward.
"Oh Grant!" I exclaimed, while a woman in a nearby stall, hearing the commotion and the resulting screams from Grant, called over the door, "Is everything okay?"
At first I thought everything was okay, and I spoke over the door loud enough to be heard over Grants wails, "Yes, I think so." A bad fall, but no more than what would amount to a bump on the head. I scooped up my monkey and shushed him, and hushed. That's about the moment I noticed my shoulder was dripping with blood. I took a closer look and saw that Grant's bottom lip and the inside of his mouth were pouring red.
"Oh God!" came my next comment. "Oh, God!" I looked for the source and depth of his cut.
This is where the woman on the other side of the door became my angel. She called for help. "Help!" she said. "We need help in here!"
This woman had absolutely no reservations about shouting or demanding attention, which was good because I was preoccupied with trying to assess the damage to my son. She ran out of the dressing room and before long had returned with a clerk.
I will spare you the horrible details of the inefficiency of Kohl's department store and how they cared more for protecting themselves from being sued than from helping me.
I signed "Please don't sue us" paperwork so fast that I've probably signed away my next of kin and any right to sue a major department store for building incredibly thick dressing room doors. Anything to get me out of there and to the ER.
Problem was - I was no where near my car. It was being serviced at the dealership up the road. I had walked with Grant to the clothing store in his stroller. I celled Gary and told him I was running back to the dealership. Maybe they could give me a courtesy shuttle to the ER. Gary said he would meet me there.
This is the point where I am really glad to have started running. Adrenaline got me to a shuttle and to the ER in less time than it took Gary to arrive from work.
When we arrived at Cox South, there were two people in the waiting room - both looking very much like they were in line for a Swine Flu culture.
The admit nurse, looked at Grant, saw that all he needed was stitches and put him at the bottom of the priority list.
That was at 10:30 a.m.
In the five hours that passed thereafter, more people with suspicious respiratory diseases showed up, addicts to drugs, stroke patients, heart attacks, car accidents, angry relatives of said car accident victims - they all came and sat and then got called back into the back room ahead of little Grant, who may have looked bad but was mostly hungry and bored.
Let me tell you, the ER waiting room was a sad place to visit. By 4:30, over five hours of waiting for a room - wrestling him away from dirty toys, the floor, walking him up and down the hallways and sidewalk - religiously washing his hands with Purex - we had finally made it back to see the doc. He took good care of our little man - numbed his wound, and stitched him right up.
The whole procedure took no more than a few minutes, but Grant screamed for the most of it out of fear and hunger, but mostly fear - until his little emotional core couldn't take it anymore and he, to quote the ER nurse, "went to his happy place." Grant passed out and didn't wake up for over an hour.
I held him in my arms and listened while he took shallow shuddering hiccupy breathes, in and out, in and out, hiccup, in and out, in and out, hiccup. His eyes squeezed shut.
Gary was positively yellow. Hearing your son scream and not being able to do anything to prevent it will make any parent weak-kneed.
We're all safe at home now, but I can testify that Cox definitely needs new ER digs. The place was overcrowded.
They kept taking patients back to check vitals and then making them return to their chairs because they didn't have enough beds to treat everyone. The new facility will have three times the capacity as the current one. August 2010 can't come fast enough. If not for my benefit (my fingers are crossed that I will never need to use the ER again) then at least for the Springfield metro area; it needs the extra space.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Epiphanies in the Dark
Events piled up tonight to create the perfect storm - both literally and figuratively.
Morgan had swim class, which followed with a shower at home.
Lately, she has taken to locking the bathroom door, "I need my privacy, Mom."
Fine, fine. I get it. She's self-conscious. It's a good thing.
But tonight she took a shower in my bathroom, and locked my bedroom door.
Ten minutes into her shower, a shower of another sort started outside. And then it quickly turned into hail and lightning and a bunch of other things that made my inner neurotic think, "My kid should NOT be in the shower when there's cloud to ground lightning and freaky 'Night of the Twisters' action going on outside."
I started banging on the door to get her attention, yelling her name so she could hear me over the shower noise.
That's when the lights started flickering.
So picture this from Grant's point-of-view: Mama is yelling and banging and smacking the bedroom door and then the lights start going on and off like real bad pyrotechnics, and then suddenly - everything goes completely BLACK and Morgan is now screaming with soap in her eyes, and she's naked and dripping wet, and on the other side of the door crying because she can't unlock the door in the dark, and Grant is now crying because he's standing alone in the darkened living room without his Mama or his pacifier or his big sister, and, and, and...It was too much for any baby to take.
The poor kid lost his marbles.
We spent the better part of fifteen minutes fumbling in the dark, searching for a flashlight that wasn't burnt out so we could find matches to light candles. Morgan was still dripping wet holding onto one arm while Grant had a vice like grip of my waste with his thighs.
The cool thing was, once I had him in my arms, Grant stopped crying. Instantly. It was complete trust. So long as I didn't try to put him down, he was fine.
So what was very "scary" and actually to replay it now, pretty comical - all ended up being a pretty decent evening. I snuggled the kids next to the gas fireplace, and Grant tucked his legs up under himself and burrowed his head against my chest. He sighed and fell asleep.
Morgan and I read stories by candlelight, listened to the weather radio, and then she drifted off just about the time the lights came back on.
I can't say that I love being without power. Losing touch with electricity for even an hour made me feel insecure. But I was able to discover one thing: I was able to see the depth to which my children rely on me for their power, for their security, and that was a nice epiphany.
Morgan had swim class, which followed with a shower at home.
Lately, she has taken to locking the bathroom door, "I need my privacy, Mom."
Fine, fine. I get it. She's self-conscious. It's a good thing.
But tonight she took a shower in my bathroom, and locked my bedroom door.
Ten minutes into her shower, a shower of another sort started outside. And then it quickly turned into hail and lightning and a bunch of other things that made my inner neurotic think, "My kid should NOT be in the shower when there's cloud to ground lightning and freaky 'Night of the Twisters' action going on outside."
I started banging on the door to get her attention, yelling her name so she could hear me over the shower noise.
That's when the lights started flickering.
So picture this from Grant's point-of-view: Mama is yelling and banging and smacking the bedroom door and then the lights start going on and off like real bad pyrotechnics, and then suddenly - everything goes completely BLACK and Morgan is now screaming with soap in her eyes, and she's naked and dripping wet, and on the other side of the door crying because she can't unlock the door in the dark, and Grant is now crying because he's standing alone in the darkened living room without his Mama or his pacifier or his big sister, and, and, and...It was too much for any baby to take.
The poor kid lost his marbles.
We spent the better part of fifteen minutes fumbling in the dark, searching for a flashlight that wasn't burnt out so we could find matches to light candles. Morgan was still dripping wet holding onto one arm while Grant had a vice like grip of my waste with his thighs.
The cool thing was, once I had him in my arms, Grant stopped crying. Instantly. It was complete trust. So long as I didn't try to put him down, he was fine.
So what was very "scary" and actually to replay it now, pretty comical - all ended up being a pretty decent evening. I snuggled the kids next to the gas fireplace, and Grant tucked his legs up under himself and burrowed his head against my chest. He sighed and fell asleep.
Morgan and I read stories by candlelight, listened to the weather radio, and then she drifted off just about the time the lights came back on.
I can't say that I love being without power. Losing touch with electricity for even an hour made me feel insecure. But I was able to discover one thing: I was able to see the depth to which my children rely on me for their power, for their security, and that was a nice epiphany.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Hamsters Escaping
Many, many months ago, Morgan begged us for a Hamster.
Many, many months later, Morgan had earned enough good, gold star points that to delay her reward any longer would have been child torture.
Our little hamster, Matt, came home to a glittered, pink cage that looked great in the box, but has failed miserably at keeping the little Hamtaro in his place.
When Matt escapes, it makes for great fun for the family cat, Sarafina.
Since Sarafina has proven she knows how to kill - birds, rodents, small crickets - we do our best to secure Matt's cage and shut the door to his bathroom at night.
Alas, last night, Matt exerted his biceps and escaped, and we had left all the doors that might have prevented a full housebreak open.
I was dragged from bed this morning by an anxious family chowing down toaster breakfast waffles while crawling on all fours, looking in dark corners for a cowering rodent.
Grant was especially cute as he imitated everything Gary did. Gary looked up. Grant parroted his head up. Gary looked down. Grant dropped his head to the floor and peaked in all directions. I'm not sure Grant understood the nature of the game, but it sure made for a different morning routine - all fun for our little baby.
Most days, we find Matt hiding behind a toilet, but this morning - nothing.
Gary drove Morgan to school like a madman and left me to continue the search.
I cordoned off the house into sections and began searching room by room, watching the eyes of the cat, whose ears twitched - listening for the sounds of pittering and pattering that my own sorry eardrums cannot.
Sarafina paced Morgan's room, then the living room, cowering in a box ready to pounce at the slightest movements. But it was all for show; Sarafina had as much clue about where to look as I did, and she collapsed on her favorite chair, disgruntled and salivating.
I started my search with Morgan's closet, which is now much more organized - however, no hamster resided there.
I moved on into Morgan's room, putting away some towels in the hall bathroom.
Grant, who had been dutifully searching high and low (mostly low) alongside me, followed behind me inspecting everything I did twice.
Grant became interested in the wonderland of towels in the bathroom. Until this morning, I don't think he realized that the doors to bathroom cabinet opened.
I returned to Morgan's room to begin the task of disassembling her bed when Grant insisted I return to the bathroom. He pointed to the corner of the cabinet, into the dark recesses, behind the mattress pads and beach towels.
I saw nothing and was set to turn away again when Grant insisted I look again. "Dare. Dare," he said and pointed once more to the corner of the cabinet.
"I wonder?" I wondered.
I slid out the little drawer that holds Morgan's washcloths. My suspiciouns peaked. What did I see? Hamster droppings.
I lifted the washcloths with hope, expecting to see the dark, little black bear cuddled underneath: no hamster. But underneath the drawer, hidden in the corner of the cabinet was little Matt - just where Grant said he would be.
I heaped tons of praise on our little 17-month-old. He was very proud.
Unfortunately, our little lover of animals is quickly losing all of his gold stars. He now has most of the acquarium's lid off and is terrorizing the poor goldfish. Gotta go!
Many, many months later, Morgan had earned enough good, gold star points that to delay her reward any longer would have been child torture.
Our little hamster, Matt, came home to a glittered, pink cage that looked great in the box, but has failed miserably at keeping the little Hamtaro in his place.
When Matt escapes, it makes for great fun for the family cat, Sarafina.
Since Sarafina has proven she knows how to kill - birds, rodents, small crickets - we do our best to secure Matt's cage and shut the door to his bathroom at night.
Alas, last night, Matt exerted his biceps and escaped, and we had left all the doors that might have prevented a full housebreak open.
I was dragged from bed this morning by an anxious family chowing down toaster breakfast waffles while crawling on all fours, looking in dark corners for a cowering rodent.
Grant was especially cute as he imitated everything Gary did. Gary looked up. Grant parroted his head up. Gary looked down. Grant dropped his head to the floor and peaked in all directions. I'm not sure Grant understood the nature of the game, but it sure made for a different morning routine - all fun for our little baby.
Most days, we find Matt hiding behind a toilet, but this morning - nothing.
Gary drove Morgan to school like a madman and left me to continue the search.
I cordoned off the house into sections and began searching room by room, watching the eyes of the cat, whose ears twitched - listening for the sounds of pittering and pattering that my own sorry eardrums cannot.
Sarafina paced Morgan's room, then the living room, cowering in a box ready to pounce at the slightest movements. But it was all for show; Sarafina had as much clue about where to look as I did, and she collapsed on her favorite chair, disgruntled and salivating.
I started my search with Morgan's closet, which is now much more organized - however, no hamster resided there.
I moved on into Morgan's room, putting away some towels in the hall bathroom.
Grant, who had been dutifully searching high and low (mostly low) alongside me, followed behind me inspecting everything I did twice.
Grant became interested in the wonderland of towels in the bathroom. Until this morning, I don't think he realized that the doors to bathroom cabinet opened.
I returned to Morgan's room to begin the task of disassembling her bed when Grant insisted I return to the bathroom. He pointed to the corner of the cabinet, into the dark recesses, behind the mattress pads and beach towels.
I saw nothing and was set to turn away again when Grant insisted I look again. "Dare. Dare," he said and pointed once more to the corner of the cabinet.
"I wonder?" I wondered.
I slid out the little drawer that holds Morgan's washcloths. My suspiciouns peaked. What did I see? Hamster droppings.
I lifted the washcloths with hope, expecting to see the dark, little black bear cuddled underneath: no hamster. But underneath the drawer, hidden in the corner of the cabinet was little Matt - just where Grant said he would be.
I heaped tons of praise on our little 17-month-old. He was very proud.
Unfortunately, our little lover of animals is quickly losing all of his gold stars. He now has most of the acquarium's lid off and is terrorizing the poor goldfish. Gotta go!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Catharsis
About once every two or three years, I get into this "funk." I feel like all I want to do is cry, and I have absolutely no idea where the feeling comes from.
The need to cry will follow me wherever I go, pushed into the back of my thoughts. I wish I could be like a normal person and have a good cry and be done with it, but I'm not much of a crier. I've tried to expel the tears by force. I can sit in meditative state and concentrate on giving the ducts a free pass, but nothing comes up.
And then when I can ignore the sadness for no longer, the "We need to talk" conversation comes.
Since I have absolutely no idea where the feelings come from, Gary serves as a listening ear to help me sort it all out.
Last night was one of those nights. And then before you know it, I'm crying, and I have no idea where the tears are coming from, but they are coming, and coming, and somewhere in the mix is stress and anxiety, and loneliness from being a single-mom while Gary is away working, and I'm feeling like I have to be strong and keep us going, and be a good mother, and a good sister, and a good friend, and keep the house clean, and a good listener, and interesting, and strong when others need strength, and suffer through the tedium and boredom, and laundry, and never be weak, and keep it all together, and try to be the supportive one because I measure Gary's stress to be so much more stressful than my stress, which to be fair it really is, and fear that I can't show Gary my hurts because if I do then it will only add to more stress that he is feeling, and what I'm really scared about is that I'm really the weak one who in the end is dependent and needs him more than he needs me, and all I want is to be respected and admired, and not feel bad if I feel selfish for wanting him to go to the mall with me even though I know it is the place he hates the most, but I feel like I've done so many little sacrifices that have gone unnoticed and later unappreciated, that when I'm ignored or passed over, I feel sad...and sadder...and saddest, until I want to cry. But I don't know why.
So I cried last night. I had a catharsis, and it felt good. And now I don't feel sad anymore because when I add up all my stress, I still love my life. I love that I have a husband who cared enough to listen and held me while the tears welled up, understanding that it wasn't his fault or my fault, just living's fault, a husband who refused to denegrate my need to have a release from all the little things that added up to a big, hurtful something.
And that's all I'm going to say about that - for another two years.
The need to cry will follow me wherever I go, pushed into the back of my thoughts. I wish I could be like a normal person and have a good cry and be done with it, but I'm not much of a crier. I've tried to expel the tears by force. I can sit in meditative state and concentrate on giving the ducts a free pass, but nothing comes up.
And then when I can ignore the sadness for no longer, the "We need to talk" conversation comes.
Since I have absolutely no idea where the feelings come from, Gary serves as a listening ear to help me sort it all out.
Last night was one of those nights. And then before you know it, I'm crying, and I have no idea where the tears are coming from, but they are coming, and coming, and somewhere in the mix is stress and anxiety, and loneliness from being a single-mom while Gary is away working, and I'm feeling like I have to be strong and keep us going, and be a good mother, and a good sister, and a good friend, and keep the house clean, and a good listener, and interesting, and strong when others need strength, and suffer through the tedium and boredom, and laundry, and never be weak, and keep it all together, and try to be the supportive one because I measure Gary's stress to be so much more stressful than my stress, which to be fair it really is, and fear that I can't show Gary my hurts because if I do then it will only add to more stress that he is feeling, and what I'm really scared about is that I'm really the weak one who in the end is dependent and needs him more than he needs me, and all I want is to be respected and admired, and not feel bad if I feel selfish for wanting him to go to the mall with me even though I know it is the place he hates the most, but I feel like I've done so many little sacrifices that have gone unnoticed and later unappreciated, that when I'm ignored or passed over, I feel sad...and sadder...and saddest, until I want to cry. But I don't know why.
So I cried last night. I had a catharsis, and it felt good. And now I don't feel sad anymore because when I add up all my stress, I still love my life. I love that I have a husband who cared enough to listen and held me while the tears welled up, understanding that it wasn't his fault or my fault, just living's fault, a husband who refused to denegrate my need to have a release from all the little things that added up to a big, hurtful something.
And that's all I'm going to say about that - for another two years.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Missouri Advances to Elite 8
I may have graduated from Missouri State, but my entire family has always had its heartstrings laced at Mizzou.
Grandma and Grandpa both were professors there.
Mom and Dad met there, dated, and married in a Columbia church.
I grew up watching Mizzou football and basketball, and taking tours of the campus every time we visited the grandparents.
Two of my older brothers attended the family university, and I would have gone too if it hadn't been for some serious competition that Missouri State was bringing.
Still, for all my love of Missouri State, I've got a weak spot for the black and gold.
I jitter and fidget when watching my two teams play. And if the heat is really on, I can't stay in my seat. So was the story last night. I was up and down, pacing. I got so bad that I had to pull out my hammer and nail gun and reset interior doors.
So there I am, shimming a closet door and sneaking peaks at Missouri as they start to pull away and dominate Memphis, when I look up for the last second desperation shot before halftime.
It looked like this:
Upon viewing the above, all the nervous anxiety, tension, welled-uped hopes barreled forth, and a domino effect resulted in our living room: I screamed; Morgan (concentrating on Pokemon and oblivious to March madness) screamed because I screamed; and Grant screamed because Morgan and Mommy screamed; Gary stood with his shoulders squared, holding a spatula like a sword and prepared for an ensuing attack.
"Mama," Morgan reprimanded, "Don't do that!"
Normally, I would agree. But when replayed, even Gary had to dance with me in the living room.
Mizzou advances to the elite 8, and I got a crooked closet door fixed. We're all happy, albeit a bit tone deaf.
Grandma and Grandpa both were professors there.
Mom and Dad met there, dated, and married in a Columbia church.
I grew up watching Mizzou football and basketball, and taking tours of the campus every time we visited the grandparents.
Two of my older brothers attended the family university, and I would have gone too if it hadn't been for some serious competition that Missouri State was bringing.
Still, for all my love of Missouri State, I've got a weak spot for the black and gold.
I jitter and fidget when watching my two teams play. And if the heat is really on, I can't stay in my seat. So was the story last night. I was up and down, pacing. I got so bad that I had to pull out my hammer and nail gun and reset interior doors.
So there I am, shimming a closet door and sneaking peaks at Missouri as they start to pull away and dominate Memphis, when I look up for the last second desperation shot before halftime.
It looked like this:
Upon viewing the above, all the nervous anxiety, tension, welled-uped hopes barreled forth, and a domino effect resulted in our living room: I screamed; Morgan (concentrating on Pokemon and oblivious to March madness) screamed because I screamed; and Grant screamed because Morgan and Mommy screamed; Gary stood with his shoulders squared, holding a spatula like a sword and prepared for an ensuing attack.
"Mama," Morgan reprimanded, "Don't do that!"
Normally, I would agree. But when replayed, even Gary had to dance with me in the living room.
Mizzou advances to the elite 8, and I got a crooked closet door fixed. We're all happy, albeit a bit tone deaf.
Monday, March 23, 2009
New Years Staring Contest
In January, I stared the New Year in the eye and dared it to flinch first.
I've never been much of a person for New Year resolutions. They last about as long as a week; at which point I realize I was deluding myself about any chance of success and probably drinking when I made the promise to "keep a clean house" or "lose 10 pounds" or "landscape the front yard" or "you fill in the _____________."
That was until I stared the New Year down and also listened to the advice of a good friend, Megan, who told me, "This year I'm only going to commit to something I want to do."
That got me to thinking, "What do I want to do?"
I've always had a hankering for running a marathon.
I know, I know, sounds like your typical New Year's resolution snake pit.
So I decided not to run a marathon.
Actually, I researched how long a marathon actually is. Then I got in my car and used the mileage meter to trace 26.2 miles. Across town, back again, and one more time to make it stick, and I realized that I am in no shape mentally or physically to run to the airport from home and back.
Not even a half marathon seems conceivable.
I started to look for Web sites that gave advice for couch potatoes who wanted to be runners, and not many were helpful. Most of the Web sites I found gave advice for people who already could run at least 30 minutes straight.
And then I stumbled upon Runner's World. It gave me a great morale boost. Their Web site posts an 8 week beginner's running program. At the end of 8 weeks, you're running 30 minutes four to five days a week.
Here's a link: http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-380-381--9397-2-1X5-3,00.html
Like most times when I embark on something new, I don't want to say too much at first for fear I will chicken out, and I don't want to hear people ask me, "So how's the running going?" when I've already fallen off my pledge. That also means I tend to clam up on my blog. Thus, no blogs since November.
But I did tell a few friends of my goal: run for 8 weeks. That's a resolution I knew I could keep. If I hated it after 8 weeks, I could quit. That was also my promise to myself. I've basically been looking at this 8 week resolution as really a deadline for quitting.
I did great at first. Who wouldn't? In week 1, the plan calls for you to run for 1 minute and walk for 2, alternating this routine until you reach 30 minutes.
Of course, somewhere around week 5 I got sick. And then Morgan and Grant and Gary got sick. So there were about 2 weeks where I had to repeat weeks 5 and 6 because family took precedence.
This is where in the past I would have flinched, and the New Year would have collected his due.
But see, I only had four more weeks until I could quit, and I was already up to running constantly for 15 minutes with 1 minute breaks in between.
I pulled my ass off the couch and got back to my original plan.
Odd thing is: I've lost track of what week I'm on. I know 8 weeks has passed because I'm already past mid-semester.
And what's better. I do not want to quit (which was what I was hoping would happen all along). I've got new running shoes, and a new goal: run in a 5k.
Gary has been supportive of my goals. He sent me a link to a charity fun run at the end of April, http://www.caretolearnfund.com/run.htm
I'm up to running 30 minutes straight now, and so all I want to do is improve my time so that I can eventually run a 5k in 30 minutes or less.
New goal. New date to quit, April 25th.
I've never been much of a person for New Year resolutions. They last about as long as a week; at which point I realize I was deluding myself about any chance of success and probably drinking when I made the promise to "keep a clean house" or "lose 10 pounds" or "landscape the front yard" or "you fill in the _____________."
That was until I stared the New Year down and also listened to the advice of a good friend, Megan, who told me, "This year I'm only going to commit to something I want to do."
That got me to thinking, "What do I want to do?"
I've always had a hankering for running a marathon.
I know, I know, sounds like your typical New Year's resolution snake pit.
So I decided not to run a marathon.
Actually, I researched how long a marathon actually is. Then I got in my car and used the mileage meter to trace 26.2 miles. Across town, back again, and one more time to make it stick, and I realized that I am in no shape mentally or physically to run to the airport from home and back.
Not even a half marathon seems conceivable.
I started to look for Web sites that gave advice for couch potatoes who wanted to be runners, and not many were helpful. Most of the Web sites I found gave advice for people who already could run at least 30 minutes straight.
And then I stumbled upon Runner's World. It gave me a great morale boost. Their Web site posts an 8 week beginner's running program. At the end of 8 weeks, you're running 30 minutes four to five days a week.
Here's a link: http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-380-381--9397-2-1X5-3,00.html
Like most times when I embark on something new, I don't want to say too much at first for fear I will chicken out, and I don't want to hear people ask me, "So how's the running going?" when I've already fallen off my pledge. That also means I tend to clam up on my blog. Thus, no blogs since November.
But I did tell a few friends of my goal: run for 8 weeks. That's a resolution I knew I could keep. If I hated it after 8 weeks, I could quit. That was also my promise to myself. I've basically been looking at this 8 week resolution as really a deadline for quitting.
I did great at first. Who wouldn't? In week 1, the plan calls for you to run for 1 minute and walk for 2, alternating this routine until you reach 30 minutes.
Of course, somewhere around week 5 I got sick. And then Morgan and Grant and Gary got sick. So there were about 2 weeks where I had to repeat weeks 5 and 6 because family took precedence.
This is where in the past I would have flinched, and the New Year would have collected his due.
But see, I only had four more weeks until I could quit, and I was already up to running constantly for 15 minutes with 1 minute breaks in between.
I pulled my ass off the couch and got back to my original plan.
Odd thing is: I've lost track of what week I'm on. I know 8 weeks has passed because I'm already past mid-semester.
And what's better. I do not want to quit (which was what I was hoping would happen all along). I've got new running shoes, and a new goal: run in a 5k.
Gary has been supportive of my goals. He sent me a link to a charity fun run at the end of April, http://www.caretolearnfund.com/run.htm
I'm up to running 30 minutes straight now, and so all I want to do is improve my time so that I can eventually run a 5k in 30 minutes or less.
New goal. New date to quit, April 25th.
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