Thursday, July 22, 2010

the world, it ENDS

So, anyone who knows me knows... Starky aint a runner. Starky is kind of a big gallumphing landwhale. Starky is better suited to yoga, to deep breathing and stretching and slow movements.

Guess what? STARKY'S A RUNNER.

I always kind of envied people who ran, because, wow, does that take a lot of work. You have to build up your conditioning, and it's physically very taxing. And it is damn good for your heart! I wanted to do it! And I always chickened out, thinking it would be too hard, and I'd never be able to do it, and everyone would laugh at my big gallumphing, gasping self and think "what a damn landwhale."

And then I had Spagett. And I thought to myself, "if I can do that, I can do anything." Pregnancy and birth were the hardest thing I've ever done, physically and emotionally, and if I can get through that, anything else is small potatoes!

So last month, I started running a few days a week with Spagett in a jogging stroller, and Sid along for motivation. And yeah, I do really fucking suck at it, but I've already made improvement. When I started, I couldn't do a 1/4 mile without stopping, and now I can. I can go a little farther a little faster every time. I am making progress, I AM DOING THIS THING I ALWAYS THOUGHT I COULDN'T.

So, Starky's a runner. Hell has frozen over.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

thank goodness for little therapists

There are times when I don't know whether I should laugh, cry, or just shit my pants. Lately I've been having a lot of those times.

Spagett is still teething, and showing no signs of letting up any time soon. The dark circles under my eyes may well become permanent. Sid and I have been... well, to put it gently, we've hit one of those inevitable spots in a relationship where you are either going to kill each other with the fighting, or work through it and come out stronger. Which outcome we'll have remains to be seen.

We're both stressed out. I'm not sleeping well, he's working all the time, and when he's home, it's just nonstop whining and screaming from Spagett. There is not a moment's peace to be had here at Manson Homestead II. Ever. At any time of the day or night.

Thank fuck for my therapist.