Declaration of intention

I have blogs in my head. Some seeds of ideas, some partially written out in my mind. Most bloggers have this, I'm sure. I need motivation to get these ideas from my cerebellum through the keyboard and into the universe.

The idea that somebody out there might enjoy the writing doesn't motivate me. Probably because there are too few people who read my blog and too many people whose writing far surpasses mine in abilities to entertain and engage. It's discouraging.

I'm not motivated by the personal satisfaction that I do often gain after completing a decent blog post, since I know self-criticism and doubt will be more immediate.

What does motivate me is deadlines and purpose. I am a task-oriented individual, and so when faced with opportunities to choose the next activity to fill the moments in my day, I always go straight to my to-do list. I find it quite difficult to sit on the couch and read--even if I am engrossed in a great story--when necessary responsibilities are hanging over my head. I use the personally fulfilling activities like reading, and even some of my more enjoyable work tasks, as "rewards" for accomplishing the less-appealing "have-to-do's." And making the representative check mark next to a task on my list fills me with joy.

Because I don't always feel a genuine or significant benefit from writing on my blog, it is not usually the activity of choice when I do find free time.

But by giving my blog deadlines and purpose, I am more motivated and find the writing more enjoyable as well. The more I write, the more people read, which feeds the entertainment value, which is all it's about, really. I did glean a "lousy sense of accomplishment" (see sidebar) after completing NaBloPoMo last November, and even kept up with frequent posting for quite a while after that. Challenging myself to blog every day really did motivate me, and the positive feedback from my enthusiastic reader kept the excitement alive (okay, there might be enough to make it plural).

So, as I learned last year that National Blog Posting Month does not occur during any one month in particular, I've chosen to take my 2009 NaBloPoMo Challenge in October. It wouldn't be as much fun to blog daily in the same month each year; a new month provides new topics. Plus I'll be out of town during November. Here is my October NaBloPoMo badge, but don't expect too much related to the suggested theme for this month:

To my blogging friends and family, I issue an invitation to join the endeavor: 31 posts in 31 days! Come on, don't let me go it alone. And keep the comments coming, or I just might pout myself out of contention.

Generations

My grandmother knows her way around a computer. She is comfortable with email and organizes her vast files of digital photos like nobody's business. I respectfully celebrate the folks of advanced age who appreciate and assimilate with the wondrous technologies our lives are blessed with these days.

Recently Gram has been scanning old photos into the safety of jpeg backups. You know, just like those boxes and boxes (and boxes!) of film prints in your closet/attic/basement containing all of your precious moments which occurred pre-digital? I am so pleased that she is taking on such a big yet immensely important project, and envy her those enchanted hours revisiting cherished memories from a well-lived life.

One daughter of this technologically savvy grandma emailed a few of the recently digitized pictures to all of her siblings, including my mother, who described it to me. Mom and her six siblings lined up in the family backyard with their parents, taken sometime in the late seventies. She explained that she distinctly remembers posing for that picture. At the time she had a couple kids of her own, and some of her sisters were also married and had started families.

My mother then proceeded to share the oddly poignant experience of realizing she is now the grandmother in our photos just like this one. Her family circa 1979 is not very different from ours in 2009, only she has graduated to the next generation. She is now about the age her mother was then, her kids are now the young parents, and she now has the slew of grandkids running around the backyard. Thankfully, this awareness doesn't make my mother sad or regretful in any way. In fact, I know she is proud of her family and I don't think she would trade being a grandma to go back to her days as Homecoming Queen at SHS. But she gained a strange, new perspective on the progression of life from exposure to this photographic recollection.

I listened politely to her explanation and even offered a supportive "uh-huh" where appropriate. Her feelings seemed logical to me, but not the foundation of any kind of epiphany. I mean, we all get older; I was a kid, now I'm a mom, one day I hope I'll be a grandma too. It's just the way it is.

And then Gram emailed more pictures. These featured her lot of young grandchildren on a trip to the zoo. At the time only 11 grandkids had graced the family scene; eventually there would be 32 (I come in at number 17--top of the second half!). One of the photos I had seen before. It had been in frames or passed around at gatherings on occasion. Here it is, showing all the kids lined up in chronological order:

My older brothers are numbers 5 and 7 from the left, and my older sister is second-from-last, in the stroller. I've always thought it's a cute picture, and especially enjoy a glimpse at the current fashions, including my oldest cousin sporting a (gasp!) bared midriff, and the utilitarian strollers.

But this next photo is the one that affected me.

In the summer of 1978 my mother (left) was 27 years old. In this photo she is just a few months younger than I am right now.

This is nearly the same scenario as what my mother described: I see that I am now the woman in that photo, pushing a stroller at the very same zoo. Except for me the poignant discovery is not so much in the realization that I have moved up a generation, as the recognition--more palpable than ever before--that my mother was once me.

She changed diapers, kissed boo-boos, and sang stupid nursery rhymes. Of course I knew she did these things; I witnessed some myself. But my mother has always seemed "older" than me. Even in this photograph where I could be a comrade standing to next to her with my own stroller, I struggle to see us as equals. This may partly be due to those waist-hugging pants that have a tendency to make anybody look 50 (no offense mom, you're gorgeous!), but even without them, my mom always looks to me like my mom. Clearly this has nothing to do with aging.

Now I am a mom, but I still feel like a kid. Well, it's not that I feel childlike, it's just that the essence of who I am and what it essentially feels like to be me has not altered much since I was literally a child. I've always been intrigued by this indescribable concept. I remember being 7 or 8 years old and feeling smart and tall. Yet I had so much to learn and so many inches to grow. And as I learned and grew, the substance of "me" expanded but I never felt taller or smarter. This is an abstract idea that is difficult to put into words. Has anybody else pondered what I am trying to convey?

So my big epiphany, gleaned from the way my reaction to this photo built upon my mother's anecdote about the other, is that she once felt like a 20-something-year-old woman with babies too. Not just did the same things that I do, but actually was the same in so many ways. Felt the same--possibly kind of like a kid herself. And now that she is older, she doesn't feel any different. And when I step into the role of grandma within my family, I will probably still feel like a kid. And I will look around and know that I am old only because of the evidence surrounding me.

.......................................................................................

A few more notes about the photo:

I left the image un-cropped because I enjoy the background setting. It's pretty special to see this crossroads near the tiger exhibit where I now take my own child, but occupied with folks sporting bell-bottoms and big plaid pants--and not because they're retro chic. I need to remember this when I'm editing my own photos: that sometimes leaving the background details visible will make a picture more precious in the future.

The other woman in the photo is my mom's older sister, heightening its similarity to dozens of pictures I have of me and my own older sister with our own babies. This adds another layer of intrigue considering how my mother and my aunt probably related in much the same way that I do to Diana. If I think about all this too long it starts to make my head spin.

The first day

I've known this day was coming for a long, long time. I didn't think I would be the crying type. I am thrilled for Madelyn to go to school not only for the valuable experiences she will draw, but also for the break it provides for myself!

For several weeks we have been preparing Madelyn with the concept that she will have to go to school all by herself. We practiced giving hugs and saying, "Bye-bye Mommy and Daddy!" I predicted that it wouldn't be quite that simple, but I wasn't entirely ready for her to lock her arms around my neck when she realized we were abandoning her at the doorway of a strange room full of strange people. Her cries of despair made me weep in empathy.

I appreciate the Montessori School's administrator, Kathi, for having the calm ability to firmly but tenderly pick Madelyn up and carry her into the classroom so she wouldn't witness my lapse in composure.

I know that Madelyn is ready to experience learning in a whole new way. She is ready to interact with friends and have the opportunity to respect caregivers other than her parents. I know that it will not be long before she truly loves going to school.

Walking back to the car, wiping tears, I realized I still had Madelyn's jacket in my hand. I wanted to give it to someone so that we wouldn't be judged for sending our child to school without a coat. The classroom door was closed and I could hear Mr. Tarnowski already addressing the children, only two of whom were crying. One was undeniably Madelyn.

"Our classroom is a happy place." A gentle, caring voice.

Today was an emotional day. A brand new world for Madelyn's inexperienced little self. For me, the transition from baby to child became very poignant, as I realized that Madelyn's journey into her education has now officially and irreversibly begun. It's just primary school, but from now on we will be at the mercy of school schedules and backpacks and eventually homework and grades. It is a pretty big milestone, and I guess I hadn't fully recognized all of its implications.

How embarrassing

Is this the automotive equivalent of having TP stuck to your shoe?

I wonder if this transporter had the common decency to rip off the tissue exposed to who-knows-how-many miles of smog and bugs, or if he (/she? Doubt it.) rolled it back up and had himself a good chuckle at the expense of the next unfortunately oblivious bum.

Beyond Mommy turns one

Yesterday was my blog's first birthday. I can't believe no one sent a card. {snif}

While some months passed pitifully by with little to no contribution on my part to the blogosphere, I maintained a respectable average of 10 posts per month over the past year. This statistic is aided significantly by the fact that I conquered NaBloPoMo last November, posting 30 times in 30 days. To celebrate my "paper" anniversary, won't you join me in reminiscing over some highlights of the past year here at Beyond Mommy?

I believe I have successfully abided by my original predictive description: "a collection of my random musings, minimally restrained opinions, and at least somewhat funny tidbits of my life." For the first few months blogging was fun and novel, but I was also learning what to write and how to make it interesting. I had a lot of fun describing the various circumstances surrounding acquiring my eight peircings. Since the topic was suggested by a reader, I felt like interest was pre-existing, and I started getting a feel for turning historical details into entertainment. That kind of creative writing is still my favorite aspect of blogging, which is why I loved Flashback Fridays. It's hard to choose favorite flashbacks because I always enjoy them so much, but if you missed Scantily Clad Teens in Distress or What Happens in Vegas... you should definitely check them out. Plus there was the time my mom tried to bring a steak knife on a plane and that night we watched a movie with a stranger in our rocking chair. Hopefully with more time available this fall, Flashback Friday can make a grand re-appearance.

Sometimes I don't even have to reach into the past to tell great stories, since some of my favorites were freshly recounted right after they occurred. I wrote quite a bit about running this past year, since I started back at it right about the same time I started blogging. But the best stories actually came from my experience walking the Champoeg Half Marathon last fall. Also in the first month I lamented the price of the zoo and my book idea being written by somebody else. But my over-scheduled life soon reclaimed the time I spent blogging, and last October I only posted once, which prompted the foray into November's great daily blogging attempt, which I sincerely enjoyed.

Some of my NaBloPoMo posts outshine others in the creativity and usefulness departments, but there were 30 of them any way you look at it. I did wax a bit political (a bit late), introduced several parenting themes, including an ongoing potty training discussion, and made some very embarrassing confessions. I am pleased with this tribute to my parents as well as this one to my own budding parenting skills. I loved the experience of NaBloPoMo, and since my bubble was burst upon learning that there is no official National Blog Posting Month, I've decided to take on the challenge in 11-month intervals. So this year I'll be typing into the wee hours of the night in October. I'm counting on a new month providing new topics. Stay tuned!

I kept up a good momentum in December, trying a little controversy (not the best idea it turns out), and a rant or two. I also painfully learned the cruel reality that people can be horribly mean.

Not even ten days into the new year I admitted to sneaking a free movie and explained how I was fired from a job for being too nice. At least the potty training experience was a success.

February brought another favorite Flashback about flirting on the slopes, as well as my induction to the world of facebook. There's so much more I want to write about facebook and my subsequent experiences since jumping on that bandwagon. Maybe someday. We learned 25 random things about me, which was a lot of fun to write actually, as well as why I stopped reading and then why I started again, and why I'm not a real runner. It was a lot to learn in one month.

In March and April I got bogged down a bit in trying to keep up with weekly recaps of American Idol. A fun gig if I were being paid, but a little too much pressure since I wasn't. I did really appreciate the comments from readers who said they liked my articles better than actually watching the show, or that my writing made them want to watch the show so they would have an educated opinion too. That was nice. Maybe it could be attributed to The Funk (later temporarily cured by some purple hair), but I got a little belligerent about some English-language usage and hideous baby naming trends.

I haven't been able to post much in the last three months, but at least we got such gems as a giant turd and the disappearing dinner.

Thanks for reading my blog. In my second year I hope to maintain a more consistent schedule of bringing you the entertainment and inspiration you crave. Or something like that.

Not my #1 parenting moment

From my vantage point on the shady park bench I noticed the unmistakable half-squat stance indicating that Madelyn needed to use the bathroom. My eyes scanned one end of the park to the other and noticed no free-standing restroom facilities. In small, neighborhood parks where we might be the only family present, I haven't hesitated to take Madelyn nonchalantly beside a tree or large rock and allow her to relieve herself as nature intended. Sometimes I even bring our tiny portable IKEA potty seat when I know there won't be a bathroom at a park. But I hadn't brought that seat today, and we happened to be at this large city park to check out a summer youth program, meaning we were not the only people here by a long shot.

My daughter has developed respectable bladder control in her 8 months of being potty trained, so I wasn't especially worried about an accident. I approached one of the volunteers in the craft area to inquire of the whereabouts of the nearest restroom. Through various hand gestures and descriptive directions, I realized we'd be hiking to the library at the end of the field and across a parking lot. I turned to gather up Madelyn and her friend who I was babysitting, and noticed that Madelyn was now modeling a full-squat variation on the pee-pee dance.

Because she was facing me, a moment passed before I realized that Madelyn's pants were around her ankles; her squat not intended for orifice constriction, but release.

"Crap," I thought as I raced beside her, scanning the area for parents' eyes wide with shock and disdain. Kneeling in front of her, I urgently and firmly told Madelyn that we need to go pee in toilets and not on the ground, hearing the words laden with the weight of hypocrisy. While practically rolling my eyes at myself for creating such ridiculous confusion, I quickly leaned over her backside for a status evaluation. Scrutinizing the damp ground, no definite puddle was recognizable--perhaps I wasn't too late and could pull up her pants and whisk her to the socially appropriate facility.

I suddenly realized why there was no puddle, and the reality of the situation suddenly struck me. That was no pee-pee dance. It was a poo-poo dance. I've never facilitated a #2 outside, so I was surprised that she would drop her pants to do so right in the middle of a crowded park. But sometimes you just gotta go, and she knows she shouldn't do it in her pants.

This situation held the potential to be high on my embarrassment scale, so I swiftly helped Madelyn down onto her bum in the grass. My glimpse was enough to establish full awareness that we were past the point of no return, but I hoped to at least cover our shame until a reasonable solution could be determined. As far as unexpected ghastly disasters go, I was relatively prepared. From inside my purse I retrieved the small Ziploc bag that I'd stuffed all of our snack trash into. I attempted to use this little baggie in the way I would scoop dog poop to

pick up the two brown turds on the grass between Madelyn's legs. But my foolish attempt to keep the trash contained as well as scoop poop backfired and, well, let's just say it wasn't the most sanitary of methods. I also happened to have a few hand wipes in my purse, which not only rescued my fingers, but also worked nicely as bum wipes in a pinch. Hopefully anybody who noticed me wiping my daughter's cute little crack didn't put "two and two" together.

I tried to look casual dropping my bag of poop in the trash can. Nobody in the vicinity appeared the least bit concerned with what had just transpired, and as I furtively examined nearby faces, I grew more confident that the debacle had gone unnoticed. Of course there may have been some very understanding mothers who simply turned away to allow me to b

e mortified in peace while they simply chuckled on the inside. That's what I would have done as a witness, anyway.

I let the oblivious little girls under my care play for just a few minutes longer. When the thought of being without hand sanitizer became too much to bear, we all hurried to the car where retrieving it from its handy place in the glove compartment became first priority.

How far did you read before appreciating the pun in the title?

Burn baby, burn

I wouldn't have fathomed it possible, but after nearly a year of consistent training as a wannabe runner, I've experienced little in the way of improvement. Actually, that's not entirely true. As it turns out, I seem to have actually gotten worse. I finished my first 5k last fall in around 27 minutes, but the one I did last Thursday took over 30. Never mind that it was 90 degrees outside and I had two killer sideaches. Alright, fine, I should be proud of the fact that when I started, my major goal was to run a 5-mile race and it took me 8 weeks of training to be able to do it, whereas now, having finished a half marathon and training for another one, I can step out for a 5-miler any day of the week. But for some reason I don't seem to be able to get any faster and running in general isn't much more comfortable.

I don't want this to become a pathetic pity party, so I'll spare you my personal frustrations with consistently being the last of all my friends to cross the finish line. I won't bore you with my theories of running for weight management vs. speed and their relative caloric requirements. The fact is that most of the time, running is still really hard for me. Today I want to pose a query: what if running were actually fun? I believe I may have discovered my answer.

While searching for the next half marathon for me to work toward (I love this website), I came across an event that piqued my curiosity. The Tillamook Burn was described as a 6-mile "Adventure Run," complete with rivers, "mountain-man made" creations along the course, and lung-busting hills. To top it off, camping at the event was free, so I was sold. I just knew that my running comrades would agree that this could be a super-fun girlfriends' weekend. Unfortunately, when I posed the idea, not one of them wanted to/was able to commit. So instead I enlisted my good friend Sarah's husband, Eddie, who has been running for a few months (and is already ridiculously fast). Sarah planned to come along and enjoy the festivities, cheering us across the finish line. Then a sort of tragedy struck when Eddie injured his foot early in the week, and was in no condtition to run. He wasn't interested in going without being able to compete, but Sarah wasn't willing to give up the getaway we'd been planning. So a girls' weekend was born! Don't tell Eddie, but I think we had more fun without him.

Sarah enjoys a salmon burger and fresh Trader Joe's salad at our little camp set-up after a few hours shopping the Nike Factory Store in Lincoln City.

It's clear that these X-Dog Events are not just about running a race. The camping part is a great bonus, plus there was a group campfire/party Saturday night. Sarah and I brought ingredients and roasting sticks for s'mores, so I created social openings by offering them to the strangers around the fire. Most people thought that was pretty fun and were very appreciative. To the three guys who awkwardly refused my offer I wish to say, "Lighten up. Not every girl is trying to get in your pants. It's just a marshmallow. I am married."

As the party progressed, the "Hullagan's" hula-hoop stage opened up. Can't say that I've ever witnessed clothing-optional hula hooping. Among the interesting strip-teases was one bold gentleman who strutted his "stuff" right up there without a speck of clothing to hide his shame. I found it hilarious, as you can just imagine the effect rhythmic hip-swaying would have on a naked--ahem-man.

"Naked Brad" does the hula (I heard someone refer to him this way, and later realized it wasn't just the hula hoop--I saw him taking down his tent the next morning in the nude. Naked is his lifestyle.)

I opted FOR clothing when giving the hula hoop a shot. Cries of "I've never seen a hula hoop move that fast!" were heard. That's a mardi gras mask on my head.

Kristen and Sarah, bright and cheery before the torturous adventure

Since Eddie had to bow out, I adamantly encouraged Sarah to take his place on the run. While I know that Sarah is not a runner, I am also aware that she has been working out consistently for some time now, and figured she could certainly make it through--even if it meant walking for much of it. About three-quarters of a mile into the race--about the time I was trudging up a never-ending vertical climb--I felt intensely guilty for having been so encouraging. Meaning no disrespect to Sarah, I wondered if she might opt to turn around and sit out. After another mile or two, I was sincerely hoping that my friend had done so.

I had no way of knowing in advance the level of intensity and challenge that this course would present. I can't imagine how anybody could actually run most of it. The hills could only be described as mountain climbs, some of them requiring hand-over-hand assistance. Then going down the other side of these hills required grace and balance not to end up rolling head-over-heels on top of the runners below. We ran through creeks, under and over logs, nearly got lost in the woods, and got stung by angry hives of bees.

I finished the 5.81-mile adventure in an hour and 19 minutes. I have no complaints about that time--ridiculously slow for road-running standards--due to the nature of the course. I half-expected to see Sarah relaxing in a camp chair at the finish, having changed her mind early on. But she was nowhere to be found. Which meant that she had not given up soon enough, and was forced to push ahead, as there was no exit from the masochism once you were so far in.

Having now experienced first-hand what she was currently enduring, and knowing my friend has a tendency to twist her ankle, I began to worry. After about 45 minutes of waiting, I decided to go back in and find Sarah. I kept picturing her sitting by the side of the makeshift trail holding her ankle, wondering if anybody was going to come find her.

The further back I walked, the more worried I grew. But I also began to wonder if I was doing the right thing: perhaps Sarah had turned back early, and was just taking a nap in our tent. Or maybe I would find Sarah, but she would be trucking along just fine and be annoyed or embarrassed that I felt the need to look for her. And if either of these situations were the reality, I had no business repeating the obstacle I had just completed. Once was enough. Thankfully, the last mile or so was my favorite part, as it consisted more of interesting obstacles and flat running spots and less of the treacherously steep inclines and kamikaze bees. And I was pleased to take advantage during my rescue effort to photograph some of the terrain so that others might appreciate in some small way how awesome this was.

The end of the course had very minor hills, so this is the best one I could photograph. Imagine much steeper and climbing that way for about a half-mile at a stretch.

One of the refreshing creeks to dash through. Had to be careful of underwater rocks...one of the many challenges that had me worrying about Sarah's ankles.

We didn't just splash our feet. I'm wading knee-deep.

Two of these aqueducts were probably my favorite obstacle. Especially since I passed a girl in the middle of one. :)

Don't fall in!

I did eventually find Sarah, just as I was seriously wondering if I should go check our tent and then get help if she wasn't there. I think after walking alone through the quiet forest for so long she was startled to hear me call out to her in relief. I was also relieved to learn that she was not mad at me for coming back to find her, rather was incredibly grateful to hear that she was almost out. I let Sarah lead the way back and chatted with her to (hopefully) help distract her from the inevitable discomfort.

Sarah wades into the finisher's chute to get ice, bee sting cream, and a free T-shirt for taking last place

I met this calm and friendly man named Andrew at the campfire, and somehow we ended up in close proximity partway through the race. I told Andrew to pass me if he wanted, since I couldn't possibly go any faster, but he said I was setting a good pace for him to follow (or maybe he enjoyed the view--ha ha). So we ran together for a couple of miles, and I have to say it was a welcome pleasure to have somebody to visit and laugh with between gasps for breath. He also went back in with me to find his slower friend, but they reunited sooner than I did with Sarah. I honestly find it sweet and not creepy that Andrew contacted me through my company's website (since I'd told him what I do) to ask how things turned out with Sarah. And just because he is such a genuinely nice person--and also married--the fact that he looked me up on Facebook and discovered that we have the same birthday (August 22, which is coming right up, hint hint!) is also not creepy. It's fun to have a stalker! Makes me feel young and pretty again.

Showing off my battle wounds: bee stings on my butt and arm

Sarah and I officially survived the Tillamook Burn. It was physically and mentally challenging, but the adventurous aspect and element of surprise made it so exciting! This overshadowed my intense bodily pain, and for me, made it more fun than incessantly pounding the pavement in a straight line. I've already looked up their next events and plan to participate again.