Little coach, big expectations

Back in the days when running a relay was just a possibility, I shared the news with Lil E. We were taking a walk, doing our nightly "5 things about my day" back-and-forths.

"I will be your coach," he said. I am used to his confidence, but this time he spoke with authority. He went on. "I will be your coach and I will help you. I really will. Mommy, I really will be your coach."

I loved every bit of that authority and then the near-pleading that followed. I told him about the possibility of the relay and I told him I was nervous about it because I wanted to show him that it is OK to be afraid to do something new but to take it on anyway. The truth was, I felt terrified. But I took on the run and I took him on as a coach because, even more than my fear and his sweetness, I desired the courage and the purity of his kind of kid support.

With the passing of weeks and surpassing of goals, I've shared what's been challenging, what's kicked my ass and what's gone really well during our "5 things" sessions on car rides home and sitting at the dinner table. He's invested. He cheers for me and gives me a little "woooo! wooooo!" train whistle. He makes suggestions -- inviting me to walk around the block once and then once around, running as fast as I can, or hopping on one foot to alleviate the pain I am feeling in the other. Most of the time, his advice is actually good (OK, so the hopping bit was a little nutters).

He knew I'd been plateauing in the 3-mile range for a few weeks, edging slowly and frustratingly up to 4 miles at a much slower pace than I wanted to when we drove to his school on Monday morning.

"Mommy," he piped up from the backseat. "Today, I know you are going to run 4 miles."

"Oh, you think so?" I smiled to hear that authority return. "I will certainly try."

"No, Mommy," he said. "I KNOW you are going to do it today. And when it is really hard and you think you can't run up to 4 miles, I  KNOW you will think about me and how I said I know you can do it. Thennnnn...I know you will just do it. I know it!"

And there he was, the kid with the bedhead buried under a knit cap and syrup still glossed at the corners of his lower lips and holding a Curious George and Lego Clone Trooper in each gloved hand, and he was coaching me, the mama.

"OK, then," I smiled into the rear view mirror at him. "We shall see."

Hours later, on the treadmill, I peeked under my jacket, strategically covering the numbers ticking all too slowly on the treadmill. I was at that familiar point, and the thought came to me that it would be just fine for me to stop if I needed to stop.

Then I did exactly what Lil E told me he knew I'd do. I remembered. I kept on. I knew.

I did run 4 miles that day. In fact, I ran 4.2 before I was really done, sweaty and tired and smiling. That night, I beamed as I buckled Lil E into his car seat and asked him, "Guess what is the first thing I have to tell you I did today? Guess what I did?"

When I told him, he beamed back, reached out to kiss me and told me he was so, so, so proud of me.

And then, like any coach would, he pressed before the pride sank in to deeply.

"AND TOMORROW YOU CAN RUN 5 MILES!"

I haven't seen that enthusiasm on his face since Santa left a living room full of Star Wars ships for him.

I laughed, stumbled trying to explain it might take me weeks, maybe even a month to get to that point. He was only feet away, but he spoke as if he didn't hear a word of what he clearly thought were excuses.

"OK, next week then. Next week, I KNOW you will run 5 miles."

"OK, then," I said as I had that morning. "We shall see."

And we shall. My coach is going to make sure of it.

I've been writing about becoming a runner over on Shine. Click on over to read up on what I have to say about running skirts, treadmill training and what I've learned (so far) about getting (and staying) motivated.

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This is what a good friend looks like (in glasses)

You know you have a soul-sister connection that reaches across these crazy, entangled interwebz when a friend joins you in posting embarrassing photos from the late 80s.

My grrrl BadKitty read my post on the red glasses I just bought and the ones I wore way back in the days of synth music and pinch-rolled jeans and didn't just let me dangle out here alone online with the people who publish photos of their stretchmarks and bunions for all the world to see.

Oh, no. She put up her own photo. And believe me, you must see it. If only to say, "Ohhhhh yeahhhh, I totally had a ruffle-necked shirt like that!" or to fondly remember the hours you spent caking on blue eyeliner and perfecting your flipped bangs with Dep gel (oh dear God, they still make it?) and the sizzle of a stupidly hot curling iron.

Today, I prefer to save my crayon-colored cosmetics for my nails rather than my eyelids (yes, this refers to the period of time in high school when I thought yellow, celery green and navy eyeshadow made me look like I was standing at the mic with Berlin and that my mother still refers to as the "bruised eyes under red glasses" period of time in my personal artistry). And the lovely and ever-stylish BadKitty encourages this (she is totally sporting fabulously dark green nail polish in that recent photo of us).

For who she is today and for how much we looked alike back in the day, I adore her. And I am so glad we've gotten this over with together and nobody has to flash a single stretch mark.

Who is with us? I dare you to reflect upon your own shameful glasses moments, complete with head-shaking pics.

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Seeing things a little differently these days

A few weeks ago, in a frantic attempt to spend up my flexible spending account, I splurged on a spendy pair of glasses that I intended to wear only for the five to ten minutes I spend between taking out my contacts and slipping into bed. But when I put them on for the first time, I saw a glimpse of the studious-looking drama club and school paper geek and club grrrl who also wore red glasses. That was the late 80s and my life was different and my frames embarrassingly larger (the proof is in the equally embarrassing pic to follow).

The woman behind the new glasses takes more risks, is more thoughtful with her words and wears a body that shows the choices made over all these years. But I still see the world as a place I am always steeled to take on, I still swear too much and I still listen to all that Erasure, Depeche Mode, Crowded House and Boy Meets Girl.

I'm choosing to wear my glasses more often, to have days when I let my eyes adjust to a new way of seeing. I used to be concerned that sporting specs would make people view me differently, that they would only see that serious, geeky side of me and miss the rest. Today, I am not so concerned about that. OK, I am less concerned about that. Since the beginning of the year, though, I've been more focused on how I am looking out on things.

Of course it's a metaphor. The magic red glasses aren't giving me some radical new Deepak Chopra/Oprah-like (would that be Chopraesque?...oooh, spoooky) enlightenment. But I've certainly noticed some things in this New Year that have changed me.

I've realized that my divorce was hard on my friends. Of course, there have been people who turned and ran when I approached them after filing for divorce like it was contagious and there were friends who went with the person who got the couch and 17 mismatched Tupperware containers and lids. The friends, and in particular the women, who have heard many, many details, talked late into the night, helped me transition from married life to single life to dating life -- they've all born the burden of these few years along with me. It's been necessary growth for me to reach out and ask for help, and my best friends certainly have reached back. I get now how not easy that must have been for them. I am in a much better place now, and there's not much more to say than I am sorry and I thank you and that I feel the gravity of it all for all of us now.

I see that, already, much of my son's life is out of my hands. After a lot of tense back-and-forth with The Ex recently, it occurred to me that I released my anger at him for what he did to me a long time ago. But I am still very angry at what he did to our son. Maybe I am mad he is the father of my son.

I've said many times that I am more empowered on this side of my life than I thought I could be. For all of that, filing for divorce is the second best choice I've ever made (aside from that crazy, huggy kid all sprawled out across Star Wars sheets as I type). I have been holding anger at him for the kind of father he is and that comes from my deep fear that Lil E will one day hear the lies and name-calling and yelling, too. I hope -- ohhh, how I hope -- that will not be the case. If it is, though, I won't be able to control it. I can only make our home safe and happy and bright. I can only work on myself as a mother to this boy. I cannot control the kind of father he has and, as hard and as much of a lifelong challenge as this may be, it's time to face that.

I get that alone is good and even necessary. I spent two years filling up weekends and most of my waking (or even barely awake moments) with plans with friends and dates and (shhh) my parents. In the last month, I've not only craved time to myself without anywhere to be or much to do, I've actually followed through with evenings and occasional whole weekends to myself. Surprisingly, I haven't died of anxiety or loneliness. It's also nice to know that the constants of loud music, multiple bubble baths a day, movies from OnDemand, incessant TweetDeck refreshing, terrible and whoreishly wonderful reality television and spur-of-the-moment trips to any nearby shoe aisle are not always healing but are definitely enough. Plus, when I trade in my running gear for my good ass jeans on Wednesday when I do go out, I will probably wobble around for a minute in my freakishly high heels but, dammit, I WILL BE MORE CENTERED. I WILL. All those times I've hit repeat on the Glee soundtrack while I'm reading People in the tub are TOTALLY worth it. Totally.

More will be revealed, I am sure of it. This is enough for now.

Since you've been so kind to read all the way through all this business tucked in an overdone metaphor, here's the shameful vision of me swathed in red plastic that I promised. After the jump, of course.

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