Life Lessons from parkrun

(They're not just running and crying; they're ALSO building character.) (Photo credit: author)

The things we do for love

When we moved to London, I wondered what I was going to do with myself, having left my full-time career behind to follow my husband.

"Maybe you'll become an avid runner," he suggested.

And we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Chris is the runner, has been one since his twenties. When we met, he was training for his second Boston marathon (his fifth-ever marathon) and hoping for a(nother) sub-three finish. So yes, he's a serious runner with a six-day-a-week habit. When we were dating, I "happened" to take up jogging a few times a week, in hope of "accidentally" crossing him on the path at lunchtime, and getting a kiss as my reward. (Speaking of the things we do for love.)

For me, the best part of a run is the shower afterwards. I found, though, since I worked out and taught classes and I married that runner, I didn't see any real reason to continue running. I found excuses to shower at other times.*

However, since moving here two years ago, I've fallen in with a group of runners. Women Running the World have changed my life and possibly/probably saved my life as well. I've written about them before; we run three times a week for set distances, routes and paces, and work up to an annual girls' weekend half marathon somewhere in Europe.

Although I still won't run without the motivation and companionship of a friend, my dog, or Chris -- I do not run alone -- I now define myself as a runner. One might say that I'm a reformed non-runner.

So, when I heard about parkrun (and junior parkrun), I was so excited to share this experience with my children.

parkrun* puts on weekly 5km timed runs around the world, for free. These events take place in "pleasant parkland surroundings" and they are open to everyone: people of every ability take part, from those starting to run to actual Olympians; juniors (aged 4-14) run 2km.

I immediately registered my children. They are like me in a lot of ways, in that many things come easy. But they tend to complain, whine, and quit when things get hard. They are soft.

This is normal, and not just for kids, of course. But because their lives have been so...easy...I felt that they needed to face a challenge. To be uncomfortable.

Character building for free

I was the only one who was excited! We had downloaded their barcodes, set our alarms on Saturday night for 7:30 am, and rode our bikes the mile to the park. It was going to be awesome.

parkrun was a disaster for two out of the three. Crying, gasping, clutching at their throats, it was 2 km of sheer hell, tantamount to child abuse. I suggested once or twice that if they put half the effort into breathing that they put into screaming "I CAN'T!", they'd do better. They were not amused. We all recovered with brownies from Starbucks.

This was not the lesson I wanted them to learn.

A few weeks later, we tried it again. This time, it was raining, and Chris stayed home in his bathrobe, sick. Vaughn tripped right at the start line and was screamily refusing to keep going. I could see Tamsin jogging in fits and starts ahead of us, struggling and crying, because I had told her I'd run with her; but I couldn't leave Vaughn, who needed me more (and hated me more) with every step. At Starbucks afterwards, Tamsin was limp from crying. Vaughn was just angry. Ailsa was strutting around bragging about being the first girl to finish, and the third kid in her age group. She wasn't reading the room. It was a full-on parenting fail.

I told the story to some of the WRW runners the next day, of course hoping for support and commiseration. They all said, "Maybe running isn't their thing. You could find something else that they like."  The consensus was that, even though Chris and I are runners, it's ok that our children are not.

And I fully, totally, 100% agree.

My point of forcing them to participate in the 2-kilometre, no-more-than-15-minute exercise wasn't -- and isn't -- to turn them into runners. They're kids. Of course they'll find sports and activities that they enjoy more. They don't have to play football or baseball like Chris, or softball and swimming (with a hint of late-onset cheerleading) like me. But they have to understand the difference between discomfort and pain. They need to realize that discomfort means that there's a challenge to overcome and that it's worthwhile to put your head down and work through it. These are important lessons that (hopefully) all of us will understand if we live long enough.

Discomfort is just part of life.

So, yep, if you go to parkrun on Sunday, I'm that mom with between one and three sobbing kids, shouting over-cheerful words of encouragement to keep going, to not stop, because if we keep doing these every few weeks or so, I know I won't have to.



* Showers taken after not running are, admittedly, not as fantastic as post-running ones, but I got past that by feeling joy in not running. 

** As an editor, I despise proper nouns that are intentionally not capitalized. Why can't parkrun just admit that Parkrun is so much better at the start of a sentence? e.e. cummings, don't make me come after you next. 

Gesundheit

Some languages seem to have embraced the magic of single, compound-noun words.*

For example, in German (should I know how to speak German, that is), I could claim that several people have exhibited Freundschaftsbezeugung ("demonstration of friendship") for me, even though I am Dreikäsehoch ("three cheeses high").**

In Welsh, I could take a train from Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch ("St. Mary's church in the hollow of the white hazel near to the rapid whirlpool and the church of St. Tysilio of the red cave").

And in Iceland, I'm sure I would help look for vaðlaheiðarvegavinnuverkfærageymsluskúraútidyralyklakippuhringur, ("a keychain ring for the outdoor key of road workers shed in a moor called Vaðlaheiði"), should it go missing.

So, surely, someone could have come up with a better phrase than Kauf einer neuen Anlage / prynu planhigyn newydd / kaup á nýju álverinu ("purchase of a new plant") to capture the complicated feelings of I'm-so-happy-with-your-lush-greenness-and-full-of-hope-that-you-will-transform-my-living-space-but-already-feel-guilty-that-you-are-going-to-wither-and-die-but-maybe-you-won't-even-though-I'm-repotting-you-into-the-Pot-of-Death***-which-has-already-claimed-too-many-victims-to-count.

Willkommen in Ihrem neuen Zuhause, sterben Sie jetzt!
("Welcome to your new home, now die!")

* If I have misspelled a word or phrase in your language, please blame wikipedia.

** SO much more dignified than three apples high.

*** New pot, same outcome.  Sigh.

This Magical Life

There are moments when I look around, amazed at the life I'm so lucky to live. And hours/days/weeks when I am horrified.

I don't often share our "perfect" moments (probably because there aren't many), and also, in an effort to turn the lifestyle-envy-inducing feelings that twitter and instagram and facebook propogate, I'd rather share the hilarious and real moments.

But those real moments, hilarious and absurd, are often my favourites.

Like at our wedding, waaaaay back in ought-seven.  Seated at the head table, Chris and I could barely talk above the cacophony of kazoos, which I, in my quasi-unhinged state of wedding planning, had ordered online so that our friends and families -- to prompt a kiss -- could serenade us with love songs via kazoo. Each was printed with our names and wedding date, and I had splurged on the extra-fancy "Bugle Bell" ends.

(I do hope that they are still kicking around out there... and that our friends pick them up once a year on our anniversary.  If that's not happening, don't worry, you still can:  we have a whole bag of them left over.  Call me.)

So yes, at one point, I looked over at my groom, laughing SO hard, and I said, "This is just how I pictured it."   He looked completely dazed, as if to say, you planned THIS???  Of course, it was too late for him by then.

Anyway, as I see it, it was a great investment.

***

Last September, we took a quick 2-day trip to the Isle of Wight, which was somehow missed in my "blogging about travel" schtick.  Possibly because it was wet, it was windy, and we stayed in a damp 2-star hotel with the dog.* And it was fantastic.  

#QuestionableParenting

We went down to the beach, and Chris looked at me incredulously when I said, "Go ahead and play, kids, but if you choose to go into the water, I don't want to hear you complaining later."  So, they did.  Shoes, socks and all, they chased the waves, shrieking and laughing, and Ziggy raced up and down the beach, and we were all cold and wet and windblown.  For dinner, we swept into a pub, grabbed a table, and had the best pub night ever:  we did karaoke on my phone (just the five of us), played Heads Up, and laughed and laughed.

On the way back from the pub...smiles all around!

Again, I was smart enough to step outside of myself for a moment to see the magic and truly appreciate my weirdo, bizarro family as they shimmied and sang in the booth.

***

The latest contender in my collection of weirdly magical moments occurred on the weekend.  We have a somewhat-regular lax-parenting pizza-and-playdate with friends, in which the grownups sit around and drink wine and talk, and the kids... well, we don't know what the kids do (because we're sitting around drinking wine), but there are six of them, and they never seem to want to go home, so we assume they have fun.

At some point, I turned around, and saw Chris and Ailsa standing on the coffee table, playing Just Dance.  To Fraggle Rock.**

It's another moment that stood out to me as absolutely brilliant and perfect, but one that I didn't know I had always wanted till I saw it.

It was magic.


* "2-star" is pushing it.  We couldn't bear to leave a review; the owners were so nice, but the hotel was so terrible.

** Have you ever tried to explain Fraggle Rock to someone who's never heard of it?  Go ahead and try - you can't do it without sounding like you have a serious drug problem.  

Identifiably Me

At some point every year, I look at who I am, who I’ve become, and realize that I was probably never going to be exactly what I set out to be (an artist/ballerina/astronaut who owns a tiger). For better or for worse, I’m not even close.

That’s right, I still don’t own a tiger.

I compare the current me to the me of last year, the me of five years ago, or even me as a (horribly awkward) teenager. This is always a painful and depressing process, because although I’m happy to not be an adolescent anymore, the last time I checked, I was also neither an artist, a ballerina, nor an astronaut. So, who am I?

Full disclosure: at the risk of alienating a huge number of mothers, I try not to let “being a mom” define me. Sure, I have three kids — and don’t get me wrong, I love them — but before I was “Vaughn’s mom”, I was… well, I was pretty awesome.*

Before kids, I paid for my own university education, and rent, and books. I bought a car right after graduation, and a motorcycle a little while after that. I was, in turns, a professional cheerleader (2001–2006), a personal trainer (1998–2003), and a national-level competitive fitness athlete (2001–2005). I was amazing, in retrospect.

Since kids, I have held several, more “grown up” jobs, some super cool, some not so cool. I have kept three kids — who all started out pretty scrawny and helpless — alive and (mostly) healthy for quite a while now, and (sometimes) I am proud of their manners and abilities, but I still struggle with “children” being an accomplishment, or something I can really brag about.

There’s always the nature/nurture argument, which means (to me) that I can choose to take total responsibility when they’re being good — by which I mean being asleep, of course — or wash my hands completely when they act like rabid werewolves, point to my husband behind his back and whisper, “poor breeding stock,” with a what-can-you-do shrug.

So, we’ve established that “Mom” isn’t my identity.

As a child, I was a proper redhead. Not strawberry-blonde, not orange, but red. Freckles? Temper? Check and check.

I was constantly asked where I got my pretty hair, and I would repeat that my father, whose hair I always saw as dark brown, had had red hair when he was a boy.

In university, I dyed it several times: black, dark brown, highlights, stripes, all to stop it from being so red. All I ever wanted was shiny, straight medium-brown hair (the sort my middle daughter has), and I never got that. I got “Annie” and “Anne of Green Gables” and “Pippi Longstocking”.

Now, though, I have darkening-while-somehow-fading hair. My youngest has shiny, smooth strawberry-blonde (orange) hair, and people turn to me and ask me where she got it from.

Being a ginger is a weird thing to have as an identity, but every redhead knows it is. We’re told over and over that we’re becoming extinct, that only 2 in every twenty-five people have red hair. That we are special. My hair was a free pass and a motivator to be more volatile and …fiery?… than I would have been otherwise. And now, it’s gone.

What does that leave?

I was a redhead ( — 2012).

I had defined six-pack abs (1999–2008).

I roller-bladed everywhere (1995–2005).

I drove a Honda Shadow 500 (1998–2006).

I was a manager and an analyst (2011–2017).

I drive stick (1993 — ).

I’m a good cook (2009 — ).

I’m a runner (2017 — ).

I’m a writer.

I’m funny and smart.

I’m kind.

I’m really fit.

I’m a mom.

I am me.

Illustration by Don Nedobeck.  I own this as a print, and it's true.

* my own assessment, definitely not my husband’s, who finds me-with-swagger (even more) unbearable (than usual)

Karen (Power) Hough is a writer and a blogger with an Honours BSc. in Human Kinetics, and would trade her office dog for a tiger in a heartbeat.  Her part-time "superhero job" has been as a fitness instructor for over 20 years.  She currently lives in London with her husband, three energetic kids and a codependent dog and bores/impresses them all with stories about how she used to be a nutritionist, personal trainer, and national-level fitness competitor. 

Chances are...

So, walking to work this morning, I selected my "Keep It Down" playlist, and put it on shuffle, even though I sort of wanted to hear the first two songs most. (Background: it's a mix of 42 laid-back songs and is delightful.)

The first song to come on was "Alive" by Edwin, which was the first song on the playlist!!!

What are the freaking chances of that?

(1 in 42)

Ok, not crazy/out-there, but still impressive.

But wait!


The next song was "Angie" by the Rolling Stones. Which is the second song on my playlist.

Ooooo....


Now, people who are good with stats (anyone remember the Destiny Dice?) would say that it's STILL just 1 in 42, but the way I calculate it (hey, MIT, why don't you return my calls?), to play those two songs in that order, the chances are 1 in 1764.

That's pretty freaking awesome.

And then I thought, there's a better chance that maybe I didn't push "shuffle" after all (1 in 2) and perhaps my awe at life, the universe and everything is really because I'm not very bright and/or coordinated in the morning (1 in 2).

The next song came on, by Blue Rodeo.

Oh well, I thought. There goes the incredible what-are-the-odds moment, as the third song on my playlist is "Bad Timing" by Blue Rodeo (is anyone judging me yet?). Which means that there aren't crazy-huge odds. There are only toe fingers.

But wait! It wasn't "Bad Timing"! It was "Five Days in May"!

So, I stand by my 1 in 1764... which is a powerful square number, being 42 x 42... which makes me think there is some meaning to this life after all...

So now we are 34

All in all, a fairly non-descript birthday. No parties, no big celebrations, no Cora's Birthday Breakfast (snif).



Thirty-four doesn't really seem that bad. Or didn't, till I thought about it this way: it's been TEN YEARS since I was 24.



Ok, that one blows my mind a little.



At 24, an impossibly old age when I used to think ahead to how old I'd be in the year 2000, I was living alone in my awesomely slummy one-bedroom apartment on Henderson, with two rescued cats (Trouble and Billy). I was coaching cheerleading and just starting my competitive fitness "career". I was working as a fitness/wellness consultant, using my degree, and making quite good money for the the 22 hours of work I did a week, driving my motorcycle (the Beast), or, in poor weather, my beloved Snotmobile.

.

.

.

At 34, I'm living in connubial bliss (mental note: look up connubial before I post this, just to make sure it's not something I wouldn't want my mother to read) (oh, good) in my awesomely bright and spacious three-bedroom townhouse in the Hat, with my two boys (Vaughn the Vampire and Fis). My cheerleading career, I believe, is over forever, but fitness still wants me to give it another try (maybe after I have this baby) and so does musical theatre, as long as I'm clear on my audition form that I'm there to dance and am willing to lipsync. I'm working as an administrative/communications assistant, having turned my back on all things Human Kinetics-y except for teaching a step class here and there, maintaining fairly high levels of personal fitness (considering) and terrorizing my mother* over her own activity level. ...But the communications bit is exciting and new, and if not exactly a promotion or prestigious, it's experience, and will look nice on my dust-gathering resume. My takehome is actually less now than it was when I was a 22-hour-a-week wellness consultant (due to some grievous misunderstandings with Revenue Canada way back when!), and the motorcycle, alas, is ancient history, as is Snotty, may he rest in pieces.



What a decade, though! So many highs and lows: fitness triumphs (Miss Fitness Ottawa/Ontario/2nd place in Canada!) and employment woes (boo for unemployment and subsequent, long-lasting destitution); incredible times with friends, and leaving everyone but one behind on a Grand Adventure Out West; my professional cheerleading debut (remember, Danielle?) and my last night on the field at Frank Clair; bad relationships (no names named), pretty good ones (Fis), and the amazing experience of unconditional love (Vaughn and the 'lump-to-be, although I must admit that I'll be much fonder of 'Lump v2.0 on the outside, instead of stretching me three ways to Sunday (like the V-man, it doesn't seem to get that "fetal position" shouldn't be optional)).



But have I grown up?



Nope.



Sure, I'm more "responsible", but it's not because I want to be. Sure, I have three grey hairs (eeeek! Until last night, I thought I only had 1!). But I still stand firmly by my right to be silly at any time, to eat cookie dough (ok, not right now), to wear the same clothes I've worn since high school (ok, also not right now...well, maybe that green dress would fit!), to nap my heart out (when I'm allowed!), and to drink as much as I want...soon... Sure, I drive a Subaru (which, backwards, sez "yer a bus!") more often than I drive my little Trevor...but I'm still that 24-year-old me. In fact, I'm not even that 24-year-old. I think I'm still that 17-year-old - still struggling with height and hair and skin and awkwardness and self-confidence and loving adventure and excitement and life.



34's not old at all.



Note to self: pick up some hair dye on the way home.









*and her sisters, this week. That's right, Aunt Joanne. Mom told me everything.

Welcome to NowWhat, population me

If I could have lunch with any person, living or dead: Douglas Adams. Brilliant writer, amazing sense of humour, and apparently, he was full of joy for life, for adventure, right to the end.

One of his creations in the HHGG series (I forget which book) was NowWhat, a planet discovered and populated by a group of people, who, after crossing the universe for years and years, finally reached it. Then, these brave and dedicated space pioneers looked around the damp, dismal and depressing new world and said, "Now what?"

I feel for them.

Let's see: Graduate university. Get sensible job. Get married. Check, check, check. So where am I left? (Kids can wait a few (19?) more years.)

In NowWhat.

I see several options. The one that makes the most sense (ish) is to work on my career, and hard. Get training, get advanced, make connections, take over. But then, another part of me thinks, why? If we do have children eventually, I'll have to leave work (and be a taxpayer burden - I mean, more than I am already) for a year. Longer, if there is more than one childer involved. And why work to make yourself indispensable if you'll need to disappear from the workplace, one year at a time? (And land, depressingly, on ThenWhat, the planet one goes to once all life steps are completed?)

Or perhaps I should "turn Martha." I figure that Chris would embrace this option, too, except that he would be the victim of the decorating, scrapbooking, gourmeting, and napkin-folding... and the many, many disasters that I'm sure would ensue.

Take my "last chance," maybe, with fitness competitions? Go back to my chicken-and-veggies-and-train-till-it-hurts lifestyle? This, to me, is somehow the most attractive of my options. With each option, though, I have a feeling of marking time, marching in place (treading water/writing metaphors, so to speak) until the next big life change (aka a Baby) comes along.

This is probably just the post-wedding blues: nothing big coming up; bills to pay; loss of identity (Karen who?); sense of stasis; search for meaning; a sudden loss of direction... ah yes.

I know where I am now.

Careful what you wish for...

Ok, so here's some content.


Unfortunately, I've only got engagement photos saved on this computer, so here we go: kiss-kiss!

This is actually relevant to my life as it has been for the last year. I knew wedding-planning would be challenging and a lot of work, a lot of detail-management, etc. but wow, has it taken over my life. I've been enjoying it, more than I even thought I would, but the problem is that you really can't talk to anyone about it.

Married friends have that "been there, done that" condescension thing going on, and single friends really don't want to hear about the love of your life, let alone the ribbons that you found that match everything perfectly. (They really do - a beautiful aqua with... see? My point exactly!) The wedding party has heard enough already, and the fiancé? Poor guy - the hunted animal look comes out and you have to just trail away... and you can only call your mother so many times (a day).

So, to digress, because I'm spending every waking minute (at home, at work, at the gym, in bed) thinking and doing wedding stuff, and I can't talk to anyone about it, and really, that leaves me with nothing interesting to say to anyone. And this: a quiet little blog. I'm a complete frickin' bore right now!!!!

(unless you want to know about the wedding, that is...)