“Now if you are going to win any battle you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do. The body will always give up. It is always tired in the morning, noon, and night. But the body is never tired if the mind is not tired.”
- George S. Patton, U.S. Army General, 1912 Olympian

So, remember how I said a while back that I was training for a marathon? Well, I took a big hiatus. And then I panicked and switched to the half-marathon as there was NO way I was going to make the full. After Noah left for Saskatoon in May, I had to stop running because I couldn’t leave the girls by themselves. Well, I could, but I don’t think that would be a very good idea and I’d rather they not be taken away because of my abandoning them.

Now that we’re all living in the same city again, I can ditch the three of them and run to my heart’s delight.

I looked up a 10-week half-marathon training schedule and I start tomorrow. I was going to start today, but since the marathon is on a Sunday and I am planning to do my long runs on Sundays, I need Mondays as a rest day. Plus, it lets me put it off another day. I really love running, but I really love procrastinating even more.

Since we no longer live in Regina and I can no longer run my favorite route around Wascana Lake, I had to find something else. Until I find somewhere better, I’m planning runs around my house using mapmyrun.com. It’s WONDERFUL.

Now I just have to figure out how to get my mind to convince my body that it’s never tired.

It started out as a typical Monday. I woke up exhausted and hating the fact that I had to leave the warm covers and got Kaylie and myself ready to go to school and work. It all went downhill after that and I decided that when the clock hit noon I would head over to the pub next to my office building and drown my sorrows in a burger (with extra mushrooms and jalapeños) and a Guinness (or two).

And that’s what I did. By myself. On my birthday.

It wasn’t all that bad, really. Lunch time obviously isn’t really “prime time” in a pub so it was pretty dead in there. The bartenders were singing along to the music as they went about their business (hold me close Tony Danzaaaa) (yes, I know those aren’t the right words, but that’s what they were singing and DID YOU NOT SEE THAT FRIENDS EPISODE?) and I beat my high score in Tetris on my phone while I waited for my food.

It was just dandy.

I went back to the office in a better mood.

I’ve never been a fan of having a big shebang for my birthday. I usually like it a little more low key. Maybe it stems from my childhood when my mother would have a birthday party for me while at the same time reminding me how much she hated birthday parties. I don’t know. She and my dad called last night and sang Happy Birthday to me, so that was pretty cool.

I still don’t like birthdays though and it didn’t even have to do with the whole age thing until last year. Last year I had a mini freak-out about the fact that I was turning 26 and that I was now closer to 30 than I was to 20 and how I thought that I’d have accomplished more in my life by this point than I have. This year isn’t much better. I still feel like I should have more accomplished – have some sort of career figured out that I actually like, rather than random office-y type gigs. (Side note: I really like my current place of employment, but still. Not what I’d choose to do if I were 18 and freshly out of high school and looking at my big bright future.)

Maybe it’s just that I struggle with the whole failure thing more than I should. I’m sure my psychologist and I will cover that. Maybe I just don’t feel like I’m actually this old and when I remember that I’m married and I have two children I have a little panic attack and wonder WHEN THE HECK DID THAT HAPPEN? Maybe time goes just a little too fast and there’s too much to pack into a little 24-hour period and then 365 of those 24-hour periods go by and you’re like OH CRAP, it’s my birthday AGAIN.

I’m glad birthdays come only once a year.

This morning we attended the church that my father-in-laws pastors here in Saskatoon. Since it is Mother’s Day, there were certain things during the service that coincided with the whole mothering thing. One such special presentation was a video played on the big screen of a bunch of interviewed children all asked the same question.

“Why do you love your mom?”

They grouped some of the answers together, as it was hilarious how many kids (some grown children included) had something to say about cooking or food or chocolate chip cookies.

Then my child showed up on the screen. Noah had taken the girls up here three weeks ago, and apparently that’s when they did the taping. Kaylie’s response?

“I love my mom because she is great!”

That’s my girl.

I got a letter in the mail from SGI about a month ago telling me that I had to (pay them a bazillion dollars and) attend a traffic safety education session by the end of May or else they’d take away my license. The session was scheduled for the day my sister arrived. I asked to change it, and they picked tonight. Score.

I didn’t get there until 5 minutes before it started, so I was stuck sitting in the front row. I hate sitting in the front row. I like people-watching, not being people-watched.

The first part was pretty standard. Rules. What happens when you break the rules. Super cool PowerPoint slides. A quiz that I technically failed, but it was just for “fun”. And then it got scary.

The dude’s last two PowerPoint slides listed the top 10 driving infractions. Number one: speeding. But he didn’t just leave it at that. NO, NO HE DIDN’T. He showed a photo of what happens when a red BMW goes 210km/h and then meets with a tree. The car was completely crumpled and wrapped RIGHT AROUND the tree. There were people standing all around it, as the photo was taken by the first responding officer right after the accident happened. And that’s when the instructor guy said the words that are still haunting me.

THE PEOPLE IN THE CAR HADN’T BEEN REMOVED FROM THE VEHICLE YET.

Obviously, they did not survive. There was no way.

Note to self: Do not buy a BMW. Also, maybe stay away from driving 210km/h.

(I managed to find the exact photo. Here. He showed us that one and one from the other side. Apparently it happened just north of Winnipeg.)

Number two on the list: seat belts. Dude then told us a story of another first-responding officer who was talking to a woman who had just been in a two-vehicle accident. She was talking really fast, running on adrenaline, trying to explain what happened, and giving up her parents’ contact information as she was on her way there and she was obviously going to be late. Then, the officer noticed that the seat belt was not in front of the woman. It was behind her. It had gone RIGHT THROUGH HER and she was literally cut in half. She died when she was removed from the vehicle. His point in telling this story being that your seat belt cannot go over your big puffy winter coat, it has to go over your hips. Thanks for the tip, dude.

This is the point where I started to feel physically ill. I haven’t been watching crime drama shows as much as I used to and I’m losing the desensitization that I worked so hard for.

BUT HE WASN’T DONE YET.

He then showed a very graphic British commercial which was apparently fake BUT LOOKED VERY REAL. But, since that was “fake”, he showed a real video of a car what was involved in a police pursuit. It lost control, rolled, hit the median, the driver was thrown from the vehicle, and then he was run over by an unsuspecting vehicle on the other side of the highway.

AND HE STILL WASN’T DONE.

Further down his list was red lights. The video was from the states where they (apparently?) have red light video cameras, instead of red light still cameras. (Which I now know we have six of in Saskatchewan. Six. Watch out.) A guy was crossing on a crosswalk, when he was supposed to, and was hit by a PT Cruiser which was hit by someone going through a red light 16 seconds after it went red. He apparently survived. But you wouldn’t know that by watching the video.

AND THAT STILL WASN’T ALL.

Then there were the stories. I wanted to get out of there. On the evaluation, I gave the instructors good marks, as they really were great, but I wrote SCARED THE TAR OUT OF ME down under the part where they asked if their methods were effective.

Yes. They were effective.

So effective that I never want to drive ever again.

And I may have been the most cautious driver in the history of the world on my (very slow) drive home.

Yes, SGI, your traffic safety education session worked on me.

Now stop sending me invoices.

I admit that I did the one season of figure skating thing to Kaylie, but it was for her own safety. You see, I have no patience. NONE. I took her to the local rink a couple times in an attempt to teach her to skate, but I ended up so frustrated that I signed her up for figure skating so that SOMEONE ELSE could teach her how to skate. The bonus being that she’d live to see her next birthday.

Kaylie was in soccer our last year in Terrace but didn’t get to play last season because of too many summer trips/camps planned and the fact that I forgot about it until it was too late. I made sure this year to make a note of when soccer sign-up started … and then forgot. As I mentioned before, I missed the cut-off by a couple days and Kaylie ended up in the north league instead of the south league – but she still made it on to a team. I’m determined to give her the opportunity to be in at least one activity per season. You know, within reason. She’s also in ballet, which overlaps with soccer for a couple weeks.

I signed Liliana up as well, and her soccer starts on Monday. AND HERE LIES THE PROBLEM. Kaylie has ballet on Mondays at 5:15pm. Liliana has soccer on Mondays at 5:30pm. Kaylie has soccer on Mondays at 6:00pm. Noah starts work on Mondays at 6:00pm. AND WE ONLY HAVE ONE VEHICLE. I was not aware of the days that their soccer practices/games were on when I signed them up. That information was not available. BUT THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE, NOW WOULDN’T IT?

I used to love Mondays. I used to have Mondays off. Liliana and I would spend the day together getting groceries and doing errands and having a lunch out. I loved it. Now my Mondays look like they were vomited on by a mini-van-driving soccer mom. AND I DON’T DRIVE A MINI VAN ANYMORE. (Have I mentioned this yet? We sold it. Good bye van. Good riddance.)

I’m sure we’ll make Mondays work somehow, even though I’ll probably wine (yes, that IS spelled correctly) my way through them. (Okay, I’ll probably just END them that way, relax and stop dialing social services.)

To add insult to injury, I haven’t bought tickets to Kaylie’s end-of-the-year ballet performance yet. It’s not until the 29th, but they went on sale last Saturday, and I’m sure they’re almost sold out already because parents ARE that crazy about their children’s events, right? AM I RIGHT? I already wrote it on my hand to do it tomorrow. Yes, on my hand because I LOSE pieces of paper.

Also, this morning I woke up to this:

Snow.

In May.

SNOW.

Kaylie’s soccer practice tonight was canceled. Thank goodness.

Mother Nature and I have a deal though. It’s not allowed to snow after my birthday. EVER.

So far, in my lifetime (that I can remember), it hasn’t.

She’s got until Monday to find some way to HOLD THE SNOW OFF UNTIL NOVEMBER.

So. In conclusion. I hate snow. I hate cold. I hate Mondays. I hate birthdays. I hate having too many things going on in one day.

Next Monday is going to be a treat.

I pretended that it didn’t bother me. I told everyone that I didn’t want to get married just because I was having a baby. I didn’t know how else to fend off the “So, when are you guys getting married?” questions that came at me rapid-fire from friends, family, and random strangers on the street who thought that pregnant bellies were free for the groping.

I did such a good job of convincing everyone else that it didn’t matter to me that my child’s parents weren’t going to be married that I eventually convinced myself. I became hardened toward the constant questioning and got used to the looks from the holier-than-thou people. I embraced single-motherhood and loved every moment with my baby girl.

As I watched my second baby girl run down the hall yesterday morning, blond curls bouncing with each step, that familiar feeling that I’d been faking it came back to me, this time for a different, yet similar reason.

I took this week off of work, at both jobs, so that we could head to BC to visit with my Opa, who was recently diagnosed with both colon and liver cancer. Even though we don’t leave until Wednesday, I wanted a couple days to pack and prepare for our trip. Since I work every day, I didn’t have my weekend to do it.

I’d spent the morning driving Kaylie to school, watching Dora videos (on VHS!), getting Liliana her snacks, changing diapers on request, reading, and preparing lunch. On a normal day, this would have been done by Noah or I’d drop both girls off at school and daycare and go to work. Simple daily tasks, yet I rarely get to do them.

When I was first pregnant with Liliana, the news was received less than favorably. (Not by me – I was beyond excited – but by others.) I felt guilty about the fact that I was pregnant as it was not planned and I’d just started a permanent job a month earlier. I shoved my disappointment at the negative reactions down, and told my work that I’d only be taking six months off – long enough that I could still nurse the baby full time until he/she started solid foods. I answered all the back-to-work questions with things like, “I like working! I wasn’t meant to be a stay-at-home mom anyway!” As I’d done previously, I gave out those answers so much that I began to believe them myself.

Because of poor financial management in the past, I have to work full time (and then some). I do not have a choice. Recently, it’s been about 60 hours per week. As I watched Liliana run down the hall to play when I’d finished changing her, I found myself longing to spend all my days like I was spending that one. At home with her, not paying someone else to care for her; not being envious of all the time that Noah gets to spend with her while I’m at work. I’m sick of pretending that I want to work more than I want to be home with my girls. It’s just not true, but it’s easier saying that it’s true since it’s not a possibility anyway. It doesn’t hurt as much that way when I’m sitting in my puke-green cubicle during the day or serving tables in the evening wishing that instead I was reading stories or tucking my children into bed myself.

Or maybe I just have a case of crybabyitis.

Okay, um, not really.

I am kind of a TLC addict. While pregnant with Liliana, I think I watched every single birth-related show that there was. Even if it was a repeat. I still sometimes find myself watching an episode once in a while.

I was watching 18 Kids and Counting last night and heard Anna’s baby’s heartbeat via Doppler. I don’t know why it struck me – I’m not that attached to the show – it was the sound. That *pow pow pow pow*. I think it’s the most reassuring sound in the world.

I remember exactly the day that I first heard Liliana’s heartbeat. It was October 2, 2006. It was one of the worst and best day of those nine months.

I was really sick during the first 14 weeks of my pregnancy. Let’s just say that it was a good thing that there was a washroom right across from my office, even though I rarely used it as I’d run (literally) down the hall to save the guys from hearing me hurl 8+ times a day. (No exaggeration.) (It was better when I remembered to take my Diclectin, but if I forgot? Watch out.) (Aren’t I a nice colleague?) It was so bad that I’d get sick before leaving to bring Kaylie to school, and then I’d get sick again half way there. It was only a couple blocks. I’d pull over and quickly open the door before tasting my breakfast in reverse and as I watched it splatter on the side of the road. Apples were the worst. (Too much information? Sorry ’bout that.)

I was having a particularly bad day that day. I was extremely sensitive emotionally (as I was the entire pregnancy). Liliana was not planned, and Noah had said something about it that morning and it had made me feel completely ashamed and paranoid and just plain pregnancy-induced insane. (Dear Noah: I’m not trying to blame you, just giving a little background into my mindset that day.) (Dear everyone else: give the guy a break. He’s more than made up for it.) I had stepped on the scale that morning to find out that I had lost another two pounds. It brought the total weight loss to 10 pounds. On a normal day, I’d be thrilled. But, since I was trying to gain weight, it made me even more nauseous and emotional. It wasn’t like this with Kaylie. With her I had no nausea or vomiting and I had a steady weight gain due to the steady diet of buffalo chicken strips from Denny’s and half-cookie-dough-half-Oreo blizzards from Dairy Queen.

I told my boss (who just happened to be my father-in-law) that I was going to go across the parking lot and talk to my doctor. (Convenient to have her office so close!) I ended up going across the street first to see my nurse friend (hi Janna!), as I was so nervous and shaky I thought I was going to pass out. She calmed me down as I talked through my fear and anxiety with her for an hour and a half. She weighed me and talked about diet changes and reassured me that I was doing alright.

A couple hours later, I finally made it up to my doctor’s office. I needed to hear the baby’s heartbeat. I needed to know that she was okay. I was only 12 weeks, and she said that it was unlikely that we’d be able to hear anything, so not to get my hopes up – and not to get disappointed or worried if I didn’t hear anything. She took out the Doppler, squirted some of that gooey stuff on it, and started to move it around my belly. She reassured me again that it might be too early, but a couple moments later I heard it. That sound. That *pow pow pow pow*. 140 bpm. All of a sudden all the shame and paranoia and nervousness and fear and anxiety left me. I wish I had it on tape. It was the most amazing sound that I had ever heard. I could have listened to that sound for the next 50 hours straight.

I got back to work and apologized for being gone so long. I may have worked for my father-in-law, but he was objective and not about the favoritism. He asked me, on a scale of 1 to 10, how scared I was. I said that a couple hours ago I was at about a 9. But now? Now it was all good.

I heard my baby’s heartbeat for the first time.

And I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

I started my second new job on September 28th. It’s a job that I’ve wanted ever since I can remember. I won’t go into the details now, but I’ve mentioned it before (if you want to use your detective skills), and will hopefully share more with you in the future. These first two weeks have been intensive training in very delicate issues; issues I am very familiar with. It’s been a ride – one that involves a lot of narrow bumpy roads with a few wide smooth sections every once in a while.

I’ve been slipping further and further into this depressive funk since that first day. I didn’t really notice it at first, and just thought that my blurry thoughts were due to the fact that I no longer had whole days off. But, this week the slipping has been more like sliding on a very steep slippery slope.

My alarm went off this morning and I didn’t care. I didn’t hear the kids, so I turned it off and went back to sleep. I’d had a fitful night, and Liliana had woken up at 4:30am crying. She’s been sleeping through the night since she was 12 weeks old (don’t hate me) and from the time she was born she’s always been a great sleeper. So, the times that she does wake up in the night (which are extremely rare) really throw me off. But, even if she hadn’t woken up, I still wouldn’t have slept well and still wouldn’t have cared about my alarm.

You see, this depression thing has a self-destructive twist with me. I like to purposely sabotage myself. I guess “like to” is the wrong wording, as I’m always angry with myself afterward, but it’s like I don’t let myself succeed in anything – even things as little as waking up on time. I like to be on time and hate being late. I also hate for Kaylie to be late for school. She rarely is. But, in the last two weeks, she’s been 5-10 minutes late 2-3 times per week, and at this point in her school career, it is not her fault. It is mine. She’s also had to have lunch from the canteen twice this week (which she LOVES) because I haven’t had time to make her lunch. I’ve been late for every day of my new job. I’m really sounding like a model employee (and mom), now aren’t I?

You see? I “like to” sabotage myself. I’ve wanted this job for years and now that I’ve finally gotten it, not by my own doing even, I won’t let myself enjoy it or even be on time for it. (I didn’t apply for this job, I was offered it. The best offer I’ve ever been given.)

I am, by nature, very independent. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m the oldest child in my family or maybe it’s just how God made me. Maybe it’s both. In many ways, my extreme independence has been a good thing – like when I was a single parent for four and a half years. But, in other ways, it is not. The thing is, I cannot live by my own strength. I know this. When I’m struggling, though, I start to think that if I just tried a little harder, I can overcome my issues on my own. By my own power. I’ve learned over and over AND OVER again, that this is not true and yet I keep deceiving myself into thinking that it is.

The thing is, there is a God – my heavenly Father – who wants to help me. He wants me to come to him with my burdens.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” ~Jesus (Matthew 11:28)

I sometimes hate referring to myself as a “Christian” because of the negative connotations linked with the word. But, in it’s original definition, a Christian is simply a follower of Jesus Christ – one who has a relationship with God and strives to live as Jesus did while He was on this earth, and as He still lives in heaven. That is what I want to do.

(Let me just take a little moment here to explain to those who are unfamiliar with God – He is three persons in one – God the Father, God the Son (Jesus), and God the Holy Spirit. It’s like an apple – there’s the core, the flesh, and the peel – three parts, but still one apple. I’m not a teacher for a reason so I hope that made sense, but if I didn’t, I’m sorry!)

I have a relationship with my God, my heavenly Father, that has nothing to do with what church I go to or what denomination I’m associated with. My church/denomination encourages me in my relationship and teaches me things about my Father God, but going to church does not make me a Christian. My relationship with my God does.

Apparently I’m all about explaining myself (and my God) today.

Anyway, I find that when I neglect that relationship, my life does not exactly go smoothly. It starts to fall apart. That’s what’s been happening lately. I can do it myself. I can beat this depression myself (with the help of my doctor and a lot of drugs). I can live the way I want to and make all my own choices, because I know better than He does.

“But those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.”
(Isaiah 40:31)

On my way to work today, I gave in. I surrendered my independence to One who knows me and knows what’s best for me way more than I do. I physically felt my mood lift. I have the privilege of working with fellow believers and asked them to pray for me during our usual morning prayer time. I even sent out a text for prayer.

I’m not exactly one to ask for help, in fact I hate it. But, I don’t want to hit more of a rock bottom than I already have. Every time I think that I’ve hit rock bottom, I fall off a new ledge and find out that there’s an even deeper rock bottom. I’m blessed to have an amazing support system, I’m just not very good at tapping into it when I should. Sometimes I just have to swallow my stupid independent pride and seek the help that I so desperately need.

I’ve found that, from attending church my entire life and going to a Christian school for eleven years, some verses of Scripture (the Bible) lose their significance with me. They turn into “just” words. But, last week I read Psalm 23 like I’ve never read it before. It was more than just words on a page. It was comforting and uplifting. I needed (and still need) it.

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters,

He restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for His name’s sake.

Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff,
they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

(Psalm 23)

I love that when I hit rock bottom, I can depend on my rock solid God. I can cast all my worry, concern, and problems on Him because He cares for me and knows what is best for me. He will make me lie down in green pastures and he will restore my soul.

My day (week, month, year) just got a whole lot brighter.

That sound affected me. I’m sure it would have affected me a lot more visually had there been an injury or a fatality, but that sound – I can’t get it out of my head. Since then, I’ve been even more aware of what is around me when I’m driving. I’ve also been hallucinating vehicles hitting each other ahead of me. I hear that sound again, but it’s not real. This doesn’t help the whole I think I’m going insane thing.

I heard that sound again today. Except it wasn’t a hallucination. It was real. And it wasn’t someone else’s vehicle, it was my own. A word that does not frequent my vocabulary may have slipped out of my mouth.

I was alone in the vehicle. It was my fault. I had gone down a deserted road. I was turning right and someone had slipped in beside me. I didn’t see him. I took out the left-side headlight and put a good-sized dent in his left front fender. I am awesome.

I pulled over and he pulled up behind me. I got out right away and started apologizing as we assessed what I had done to his car. He wasn’t mad. I told him that I’d never done anything like this before and didn’t know what to do. He said he’d been in a couple accidents before and knew the steps. We swapped information, and he drove away in his still-drivable-but-dented car. I picked up the side rail that had been ripped off the side of my van and called Noah while fighting back tears. It was not a good time for this to happen, as the girls and I are heading to BC in the morning. We need a drivable vehicle.

Our van is fine though, except now it’s got a big long silver stripe on the side that wasn’t there that morning. And it’s missing the side rail thinger in one section. When Noah took the van out later, he said that the door wasn’t working properly, but hopefully that’s something that my dad can easily fix. (Um, hey Dad, can you fix that?) I left a message for my boss that I would be late and finished up what I had to do – renew my insurance (ironic, right?) and head to the police station to make a statement. They ended up telling me that because it wasn’t a hit and run, nobody was hurt, and both vehicles were drivable, I just had to follow up with SGI (Saskatchewan insurance place). I was heading there anyway. Good timing. Riiiiiiight.

When Noah woke up later in the evening, I took him outside to show him the damage. The side that we saw as we walked toward the van was not the side that was damaged. Not today anyway. There is a long yellow streak on that side though. Someone went through the McDonald’s drive-thru last fall and someone turned a little too sharply. Someone hit the yellow cement pole that is supposed to guide you through the drive-thru. That someone was me. I think that was the last time the above-mentioned word escaped my lips.

I joked with Noah that I got in an accident so that we could have matching mis-matched stripes on either side of our vehicle. Because we’re hoobie-doobish like that. He wasn’t mad. He was glad that it was just a minor accident, that the van was still drivable, and that I was okay.

I don’t like that crunch sound – on my vehicle or anyone else’s. I hope to never hear it again. Ever.