It's My Job

Last week, I was the Mystery Reader in George's class. Lest you think I'm a super-charged, high-volunteering, PTO kind of Mom, let me assure you that this is one of the very few times I volunteer in my kids' classrooms. I love, love, love to the be the class reader. And they love, love, love for me to stay as far away from school as possible. But as I always explain to them, it's my job as their Mother to embarrass them. Someday, I assure them, they'll look back and appreciate the spirit and joie de vivre that I brought into their young lives.

Right now, they're not so sure.

When I walked into George's classroom last week, his teacher announced, "Well, our Mystery Reader is here today!" Every little third grade head turned around to see who the elusive Mystery Reader was. But George's reaction was priceless. He did the classic, slow-motion double-take... and when the dreaded realization hit, his face turned 583 shades of purple.

"Does anyone know whose Mom this is?" George's teacher asked.

Many of the kids raised their hands.

"I do! I do! It has to be George's Mom because his face is SO RED!"

When I settled in down to read, George sat as far away from me as humanly possible. In fact, if he could have pushed his back through the locker he was leaning against, he would gladly have disappeared into the lunch bags and backpacks until his greatest torment was over.

And what did I get to share with the third graders?

The dramatic reader's dream: "The Indian In the Cupboard."

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this particular story, let me elaborate on the vast potential for kid embarrassment contained within. There are TWO distinct accents that I got to create -- the very un-PC Indian dialect and the drunk cowboy vernacular.

Before I opened the book, George's teacher discreetly whispered to me, "If you get to the part about the cowboy drinking whiskey, make something else up instead. Call it tea or water or Diet Coke or something."

So, friends, I had to be on my "A" game the entire time lest I encourage those little buggers to drink whiskey and suffer from delirium tremens.

And let me just say that it's impossible to NOT do an un-PC Indian accent when the dialogue is written in this manner: "You, Boy, find me squaw. Then I do happy dance. I do love dance."

And it's just as impossible to NOT do a drunk cowboy accent when the dialogue is written as such: "Shucks! I jest need me a gud naught's sleep, and aw'l be gud as neeyew in the mernin'!"

Try it. I dare you.

And so, I entertained the class with my over-exaggerated cowboy drawl and my deep Indian staccato -- much to the dismay of my youngest son.

"WHY did you have to do the ACCENTS?" he asked with great disdain when he arrived home.

"They were written that way, George," I explained. "Didn't my accents make the story more exciting?"

"No, it made the story more EMBARRASSING!" he cried. "Please don't EVER be the Mystery Reader again!"

"Well, George, I might be the Mystery Reader again," I explained. "Your teacher asked me to come back."

He sighed heavily and plodded downstairs to consider this sad and unsuitable state of affairs.

But just between you and me? George's teacher said I did the best accents of any of her Mystery Readers. With that kind of praise, do you really think I'm NOT coming back? I am an Approval Whore, after all.

And I'd call that particular performance an A+++.

Melancholy Baby

I did it, friends. I ran 20 miles on Saturday. It wasn't fast. It wasn't pretty. It didn't smell good. But I finished. My beloved husband supported me with water and sustenance the entire way. Beautiful Stacy met me on the road at mile 14 and did an encouragement dance in the middle of the street. My boys rode their bikes to meet me at the edge of the neighborhood and escort me on my last mile home. A true team effort. It was a stunningly gorgeous day -- the kind that causes you to drop to your knees in gratitude. I could have asked for nothing more.

Recovery took some time. I spent an hour or so in my bed Saturday afternoon with a vat of water and a soft pillow. I drank slowly at a neighborhood party Saturday night, feeling the dehydrating effects of my beloved red wine with every sip. My recovery on Sunday was more mental than I would have hoped. I was, admittedly, beyond melancholy. Weepy at best, pathetic at worst, I battled my way through church, through a trip to Greenfield, through a lonely evening at home while Chris was at the Colts game. I soothed my sadness with some fresh-from-the-oven brownies and a side of Jonathan Franzen. I hope that my state of mind was a result of my body adjusting to 20 miles, not as a sign of who I truly am. Because throughout the day, I found myself questioning everything, crying at nothing, overly-sentimental and less than emotionally stable.

And wondering, always wondering... Am I enough? Do my kids have what they need? I can't -- and won't -- give them everything they want. But am I meeting all of their needs? Do they feel safe, loved, secure, fulfilled, powerful? Do I lift them up? God forbid I hold them down.

Is Chris fulfilled? Does he look at my every day and think, "Yes. Yes. This is the one thing that I know is right." I think he does. I hope he does. My life would mean nothing if he didn't.

And my friends? What about them? Surrounded by so many, blessed with overwhelming abundance, am I able to give them each what they desire? I know I want more from some -- do some want more from me? I felt myself on the periphery of so many friendships -- knocking tentatively on the door, wanting to be let in, but too timid to truly ask. Because what if they say no? What if I've said no to those who have knocked on my door?

A much-appreciated visit -- albeit brief -- with my best high school friend and college roommate left me weepy and doubtful. So many things I could have done differently in the past, so many mistakes I would have undone. Will I look back on this life twenty years from now and think the same thing?

Seeing my Mom yesterday was the most devastating blow of all. Hearing her friends ask about her -- "How is your Mom doing? I used to see her all the time and now I don't... I heard your Mom spent some time in the hospital this summer. Is she doing okay?... Give your Mom all my love, please. Tell her I'm thinking about her..." They, too, are thinking about what used to be, reconciling the past with the now, facing their own mortality through my Mom's long and debilitating illnesses.

She is, simply, not going to get better. Every time I see her, her stoop is a little more pronounced, her color a little more gray, her pain a little more evident. She wants to be with her grandkids, but tires in so little time. My Mom is old. She is sick. And I am 40. And still, she defines me. Still, I measure myself in terms of her. Who will I be without her someday? Where do I fit? What am I creating? What will remain when she is no longer with us? What kind of life is she living when she has already decided to no longer live? What can I do to make her life worthwhile?

Am I enough? For my Mom? My family? My friends?

And the question that truly looms? The one that is most haunting? Most poignant? The one that I am most afraid to ask?

Am I enough for me?

A Diversion

It probably seems like all I do is talk/write/blog about my marathon training. Ad nauseum. And you'd be right. Because it seems all I do these days is train for my marathon. Who knew it would be so time-consuming? Well, I suppose anyone who's ever trained for one would know... but that, obviously, wasn't me.

I was at the Fall Festival Parade Saturday talking to skinny Scott, the triathlete, about my Friday night debacle and he was giving me lots of good nutrition and hydration pointers.

"You really need to increase your caloric intake," he advised. "Some runners actually gain weight while they're training for a marathon."

It was then that I stuck my fingers in my ears and shouted, "La! La! La! La! I can't hear you! La! La! La!" Perhaps I didn't actually do that, but I thought about it. I've worked my ass off to lose this 63 pounds and I'm not going to let a little marathon stop my weight loss momentum! That's easy for a skinny-ass, super-smart music professor to say. Sheesh. I'd tell Andi to fatten her boyfriend up a little so he can run with the Big Dogs, but I also found out on Saturday that SHE DOESN'T READ MY BLOG. One of my very best friends for the past 25 years, and SHE DOESN'T READ MY BLOG. We did, however, agree to start a video blog that will be sure to amuse and entertain you. Stay tuned...

Today, I decided to do a little cross-training, so I hopped on my bike, put my helmet on the right way (I tend to wear it backwards -- much to Chris's dismay and embarrassment), and rode off into the morning for an hour and a half journey. And you know what? It was fantabulous. Here's the thing... on a bike, you can:

A. Go much faster
B. Cover much more ground
C. Stop to visit friends and loved ones without offending them with your horrifying runner's sweat smell

My first stop was to see my beloved hubby. It does make my heart go pitter-patter to see him sit behind his big mahogany desk all spiffed up in a sexy tie and just the right amount of hair product. I mean, I love him even when he wears his ragged undershirts and athletic shorts around the house, but I can't resist seeing him in his element.

And have I mentioned how much I love him? Because as shitty as Friday night was for me, it had to have been worse for him. I'm sure he wasn't thrilled to drive around Zionsville with water and Gu and to listen to me complain about how tired I was. I'm sure it was even worse to have to load my sweaty, stinky, confused body into the Suburban and ply me with salt water. And when I put my flannel PJs on -- you know, the sexy ones with the dogs and the Milk Bones all over them -- I'm sure he was lamenting the fact that he was most definitely not getting lucky. And still. He took care of me. He took care of the kids. He was only a wee bit crotchety. He's a good one, my husband. A keeper.

After visiting Chris, I wheeled over to see Andi in The Enclave. (Yes, Stace, I stopped by, but you weren't home...). I hadn't seen Andi since her surgery, but she was up and about and looking good... despite the finger-length incision and the six staples that she didn't know she had until she changed her bandages on Friday. I'm anxious to hear how THAT one turns out...

It felt good to be out and about with the wind blowing through my newly brunette hair. I enjoy running, but a diversion is good. And don't you all enjoy reading about something a little different than running, running, running, vomiting, running?

This training process has been such a learning experience for me. I'm so grateful for all your support, all your comments, all your messages, all your Facebook posts. I truly appreciate every word of advice and encouragement. Thanks to Jenny for saving my blistered heels with her Skin Shield liquid bandage that was more painful than an ancient torture device. Now that I'm all healed, I can even forgive her for calling me a baby and making "waahh, waahh" noises at me while I screamed and shouted profanities in her kitchen. Thanks to Tommy for his shin splint healing miracle exercises. Thanks to Ashley, Laura, Adam, Dawn, and countless others for helping me traverse the whole what-in-the-hell-do-I-eat-and-drink-while-I'm-running landscape. (Adam, I'm still trying to figure out what my "sweat rate" is. Right now, I can only confirm that it's HIGH.) Thanks to my kids for being polite about not wanting to hug my sweaty, stinky self after a run.

I'm off now to map out Saturday's 20-miler. The 18-mile path that I succumbed to on Friday night has become my own personal Trail of Tears. I'm not sure I have the mental toughness to run by the spot where I barfed up my raspberry-flavored Gu and say to myself, "That was in the past. I can DO THIS." Instead, I think it might just be in my best interest to blaze a new trail.

I'm picking one that's free from blurry vision, vomit, and nonsensical speech. I think that's a good start.

Friday Night Fun

Friday night was my scheduled 18-mile training run. I was anxious to get started, nervous about the distance, eager to get this one over and done with.

But I only made it through 14.

It was a beautiful night -- perfect weather, mid-70s, couldn't ask for anything better. But by mile 10, I was feeling like I'd already run 18. When Chris met me for my hydration and nutrition stop, I said, "I'm hurting, Chris. I don't know if I'm going to make it."

"Sure you are!" he said cheerfully as I wiped the nasty, white salt residue from my face. "I'll see you in four more miles!"

And away he drove in the air conditioned Suburban. The one with seats. And water. And food. The one that could so easily have driven me home to a warm shower and a waiting bed.

But I trudged on.

The sunset gave way to darkness as I ticked off mile 13. Five more to go. FIVE. I wasn't entirely sure I could take five more steps.

By the time I was approaching the 14-mile mark, it was fully dark, I was on a lonely stretch of sidewalk, and my vision started blurring. The last thing I consciously remember before calling Chris was passing my friend, Karlee and her husband as they carried a casserole dish to a Friday night party. Oh, how I wanted to be at that party... drinking heavily, eating things I shouldn't be, drinking a little more.

I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

As I lumbered through the dark, my vision started blurring. (As most of you know, I don't wear glasses on my long runs. If I could get away with it -- and if my neighbors wouldn't be forced to rip their eyeballs out of their sockets -- I'd run naked. I just don't like any extra weight. The only thing I'll carry -- strapped to my arm -- is my iPhone. I need a little "SexyBack" when the going gets rough, and I feel a wee bit safer knowing I can call my personal sag wagon at any time.)

And call I did.

"Chris, I need you to come get me," I blurted into my sweaty phone. "I'm not right."

"Are you sure?" he asked, leading me to believe that he thought I was wimping out on him. "You've only got four more miles, right?"

"I'm not right," I assured him. "Come get me now. Please."

"Where are you?" he asked.

I looked around, but everything was hazy. And dark. And confusing.

"I'm on Willow Road somewhere. I'm not sure where."

"Jesus, Katrina, you don't know where you are?"

"It's dark," I explained. "And my vision's not right. And I don't have my glasses."

"Are you near Azionaqua?" he asked.

"Somewhere around there," I promised him. "Just come find me. Now. Please. Hurry."

Then I hung up the phone and promptly vomited all over the side of the road.

Afraid to stop completely, I continued to walk. Until I stopped to vomit again. Then I walked a little more.

At some point, Chris found me. At some point, he loaded me up in the car. I don't remember any of it. Apparently, I was a bit of a mess on the drive home. He claims I passed out briefly, tried to talk but mumbled unintelligibly instead, and was unable to focus on his face while he was talking to me. Apparently, he also informed me that if I wasn't able to communicate with him within the next four minutes, he was loading the kids up and we were going to the ER.

I hate the ER.

When we arrived home, he forced some salt water into me. He fed me a banana, spooned some peanut butter into my mouth. I threw up again, and he gave me more water. Eventually, I was able to get it together enough to get out of the car and inside the house.

"I won't take you to the ER if you PROMISE you'll do everything I say tonight," Chris informed me. In my right mind, I would have been giggling about the implied sexual innuendos in his statement, but in my I'm-Entirely-Fucked-Up mind, I simply agreed.

For the next hour, he rehydrated me with salted water and potassium-laden snacks. He helped me shower, and I sat shivering in my flannel pajamas and old-woman robe while he actually fed me SALT water. Yuck.

When I was coherent enough to realize that I didn't complete my 18 miles, I cried.

"I'm never going to be able to do this!" I sobbed. "I can't run more than 16 miles!"

"Oh, for the love of God!" Chris replied. "Would you GET IT TOGETHER?!"

He doesn't tolerate a whole lot of self-pity.

"The kids didn't see me acting like a drunk, did they?" I asked.

"Not tonight," he replied.

The next day, I asked George if he'd seen me when I was sick.

"No," he said. "Dad wouldn't let us. You must have looked pretty bad."

Indeed.

And so, my friends, this body of mine failed me once again. I'm not so sure I like that. I prefer to think of myself as invincible. And the saddest part is that it wasn't my legs or my lungs that gave out (which is what I've battled in the past), it was my entire being. My whole body decided that 14 miles was IT Friday night.

I'm not pleased with the rebellion.

And lest you get all crazy and think that my body's revolt has to do with some fast-moving, single-digit mile counting, let me assure you that there's NOTHING FAST about my runs. Truly, snails keep a quicker pace. For me, it's all about the finish, not about the time. And if I can't even finish, well...

I know it's a stretch to think about my Mom and her battle with MS, but I'm starting to get a little glimpse of what it must feel like to have your body betray you in every possible way.

So, today, I'm treating this one like a temple. Water, water, water. Can't get enough. Lots of grains, lots of potassium, lots of good stuff. I'm cutting back on the wine, not drinking any on the days preceding my next long run (TWENTY MILES this weekend!).

I'm going to figure this damn thing out if it kills me.

Running and Writing

On Sunday, I ran 16 miles. For some of you that doesn't sound like much (yes, we have certain friends -- PAT -- who run in excess of 100 miles at a time, so 16 sounds a bit... wimpy), but for me it was MONUMENTAL. I've never run that far at one time. EVER. My dear, sweet husband met me every 4 miles with water. I even tried the gels that Ashley suggested.

"What do they taste like?" Chris asked innocently.

"Hot, raspberry-flavored _____," I replied. (You'll have to use your imagination.)

The first 4 miles were nothing. The next 4, not bad at all. I started to feel a bit sluggish around mile 11 or so. And by the time I got home, I was a Hot Mess.

While I was standing in the shower, I was fairly certain I was going to:

A. Vomit
B. Die
C. Vomit and Die simultaneously

I stepped out of the shower, immediately flattened myself out on the floor, and called for Chris.

"Honey, I don't feel right," I said as I -- quite literally -- saw stars. I've never really seen "stars." Even in the high-intensity, over-dieting, prone-to-fainting phase of my life, I never really saw them. As I shivered on the floor, I felt the out-of-control sensation of my body failing me.

"Well, your lips are gray, Kat," Chris replied with measured calm. "Don't move." He bounded down the stairs and returned in a heartbeat with a banana, a large scoop of peanut butter, and a vat of water.

"Get this in your body. NOW."

And although I was still fairly certain I was going to:

A. Vomit
B. Die
C. Vomit and Die simultaneously

I did as he instructed. Because, quite honestly, I've never felt quite so betrayed by my body. It was entirely surreal. All completely fixable, but a bit scary nonetheless. Lesson learned: proper hydration and nutrition is non-negotiable. Period.

This morning, I received a package from Bennington College. When Chris handed it over to me, I felt a very familiar sensation. Yup. You guessed it. I was pretty sure I was going to:

A. Vomit
B. Die
C. Vomit and Die simultaneously

"It's too soon!" I yelled at Chris as I shoved the package back toward him. "If I've been rejected already, they had to really HATE everything I sent them!"

I pictured the Admissions Committee gathered around a large conference table smoking cigars, laughing jovially, and pointing out all my literary shortcomings.

As I opened the envelope, my hands were shaking uncontrollably. My heart was beating faster than it did during my 16-miler, and I broke out into a cold sweat. No exaggeration. Who knew the world of academia and the world of chafing and stinky socks could merge so beautifully?

Of course, the envelope contained nothing more than a standard "We've received your application and expect to notify candidates within the next two months" set of materials. OF COURSE, they didn't turn my application around within 6 days spanning a holiday weekend.

And so the waiting begins...

To help pass the time, I think I'll go grab a banana and a spoonful of peanut butter.

First

Sam is "dating." Apparently, that's what it's called in eighth grade. When I was in eighth grade, we "went together" -- although I'm not really sure where we ever went. He'd be mortified if he knew I was blogging about this. That's why I've advised all of my children not to read my blog until they're at least 21.

SAM, IF YOU'RE READING THIS, STOP NOW! YOUR 21ST BIRTHDAY IS ONLY SEVEN YEARS AWAY. BE STRONG.

His new girlfriend is a sweet, pretty, quiet girl. I hope she doesn't get eaten alive in this loud, obnoxious, irreverent family. Her primary interests are reading and writing. Yup, I love her already. And I absolutely adore her parents. Mama is very, very happy with this Big First.

I'm treading lightly around this even though I'm bursting at the seams for DETAILS, DETAILS, DETAILS! I did find out that he actually talked to her when he asked her to "go out with him." Thank God Almighty this is not a text-based relationship.

When he told me about his new love interest, his face turned at least ten shades of purple. But he offered the information up freely.

I like the way this has gone so far.

His new girlfriend's mom texted me after tucking her daughter in to say, "she had a sweet smile on her face" when she talked about Sam. Sweet smiles and purple faces. Love, love, love it!

I talked to him today about being respectful, about treating her like a queen, about not caving to the whims of his eighth grade friends. "I'm not dumb, Mom," he said. "I know, Sam, but you ARE thirteen."

The best part of this whole deal so far? Mary Claire's reaction. She came busting through the garage door on her way home from school today yelling, "OMG!! I can't believe you have a GIRLFRIEND! I thought you were going to be lonely FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!!"

She then followed that outburst with an adamant, "I would NEVER date you!"

Good idea, Mary Claire.

Another One Bites the Dust

Summer, that is. Today marks the beginning of grades 8, 6, 5, and 3 for my tribe. A new school year, many life changes in store, lots of excitement to look forward to.

Blogging has been light lately. I know. I KNOW, JODY. But I'm making my comeback. Here's a quick run-down of where we sit in our lives...

CHRIS: 45 pounds lighter, job change, finishing his dissertation, soon to be called "Dr. Willis," new business venture with some pretty fantabulous partners, goatee, lovah, on the edge of 40.

KATRINA: 60 pounds lighter, training for a marathon, just finished VIA with the amazing Indy 58, peddling her memoir (Table for Six: The Extraordinary Tales of an Ordinary Family) to agents, finishing up her next novel (See How They Run), applying to Bennington College (alma mater of my beloved Donna Tartt) to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, five sizes smaller than this time last year, still wrangling 4 unruly and surprisingly fun children (who knew I'd love the elementary and middle school years so much?), summer blonde hair that's bordering on "Pamela Anderson-tacky," madly in love with my goateed spouse.

It's the Year of Reinvention for the Willis adults.

We've been on an off-road journey for the past six months or so. From contemplating a move to Washington to nearly hosting a "For Sale" sign in our yard on numerous occasions, from crying about the unknown to embracing whatever adventures show up at our doorstep, from worrying about scarring our children for life to teaching them to see through a different set of eyes, from preparing to pack up and leave all that we've ever known and loved in our wake to beginning a new business right in the safety and familiarity of our own backyard, from a breast cancer scare to visiting two of our parents rooming two doors apart in the ICU -- it's been a wild ride, indeed.

And what have we learned?

Well, lots.

Most importantly, we've learned about What Matters.

And as a classic over-sharer, I've learned the beauty of mystery and intrigue. When people knock on my door or accost us at the Farmer's Market with questions and comments and stories about our lives, I've learned the thrill of an enigmatic, Mona-Lisa smile that says, "Go ahead and have your own story." I feel a little Cindy Brady-ish. I sometimes want to chant, "I've got a secret! I've got a secret!" But so far, I've been able to refrain.

Because, after all, our stories are just stories, aren't they? Like one big game of "telephone," we hear a few tidbits, process them in our own unique way, and pass them on to the next person who gets to start the process all over again. I'm no longer about taking away someone's story. It's not mine to take.

But they're damn entertaining to listen to.