i want to race, not just run ...

Not quite sure how it happened, but suddenly the half marathon is only THREE days away. This summer (and the 16 weeks of training) has gone by way too fast. It seems like I just signed up to do this, when actually I registered for this race long before I got pregnant. Before we even decided to give it a go.

But really, who chooses to run 13.1 miles on August 31st in Virginia? It's not exactly going to be cool outside. And now I have to do it 17 weeks pregnant. Right ... I'm obviously a brain surgeon.

OK, maybe I'm being dramatic. I really am excited. Plus, I've raced while pregnant. I know what it's like. To be honest, what I'm getting all worked up about is the fact that it hit me today that I am not "racing" this half marathon, but simply "running" it. Sure it sounds like the same thing, but for anyone who has even the slightest bit of competitiveness within them, they know it's not. And we all know I am ultra-competitive.

Ahhh ... it's so frustrating. I want to get on the start line and race. I want to go out too fast like I always do. I want to push through the pain, record a great time, and finish feeling accomplished.

But, since I'm really trying to be sensible, most of that isn't going to happen. Instead, I'll get on the start line, gradually pick up the pace until I hit cruise control (somewhere between 10:30 and 11 min miles), chat it up with my girls, make 2, 3 or 20 pee breaks, and finish the race. And hopefully I'll finish with the same sense of accomplishment. (Yes, I realize that finishing is an accomplishment in itself - stop trying to make me feel better.)

Seriously, sometimes I wish I didn't expect so much from myself. Damn Type A personality ...

anatomy 101

Where: the upstairs bathroom of our house
When: just before bedtime
Professor: Daddy

Dizzle: "Daddy, you have boobies too?"

J: "Yes, but boys call it a chest."

Dizzle: "Boobies, boobies, boobies. Daddy, are those your boobies?"

J: "Yes, it's called a chest. They are pecs."

Dizzle: "Boobies, boobies, boobies."

Minutes later, Doodle and I are peacefully getting ready for bed, when Dizzle busts in yelling ...

"Mommy, G has fake boobies!"

Nice job, J! Great thing to teach a three-year old.

Ok, so it was a little funny ...

i now know why they stop ...

Running that is. More specifically, running while pregnant. I had heard from so many runners that they made it to about 16 or 17 weeks and then couldn't run any longer. I, being superwoman, would be a different story, of course. I was going to breeze through this pregnancy, running 3-4 days a week (albeit, slowly) and then miraculously return to my pre-pregnancy size approximately 48 hours after childbirth. (I can dream, right?)

But I'm not too sure that is going to be the case anymore. It all started early this week while I was doing three miles on the treadmill. I noticed that my upper abdominals started to feel like they were really pulling (I'm not sure why, my stomach isn't that huge). So I took it slow and decided to go get a pregnancy support belt (which I haven't used yet ... yes, I realize my stupidity).

Anyway, when I woke up for the last of our long training runs before the half (only 7 days away! Can you believe it?), again my upper abs were in distress. If I took a really deep breath in, they felt like I had done about a zillion too many crunches after a really long hiatus from core work. (Do you know that feeling?) But I decided to run anyway ... probably not the best idea.

By the time we finished, not only were my abs sore (surprisingly, not where my baby bump is, though) but my hips and butt were on FIRE!! And now I'm having a hard time moving around. I'm walking at the same speed (with waddle and everything) as a woman whose about to deliver. Oh, the agony.

Thanks to all this pain I can suddenly understand why so many runners do not continue to run throughout their pregnancies. It's really uncomfortable.

But do you think that's going to stop me?

No, you know me better than that. It would probably take an amputated leg for me to stop. And even then, I'm not convinced my running days would be over. But I am going to take it SUPER easy this week leading up to the race (where I will also be shuffling more than running). After that, we'll see. I'm hoping that a slower pace and less mileage will allow me to continue for the next 23 weeks. That and that maternity belt that's lying around here somewhere ...

is it plump or bump?

Right now, I hate my pregnant body. Seriously. If I could just stay trapped in my house for the next few weeks, just so that no one would see me, I would do it.

I'm currently smack dab in the middle of that "is she pregnant or just gaining weight?" stage. AND. I. HATE. IT. I hate the looks from people who aren't sure whether to say, "congratulations," or to offer up some weight loss tips (and I have evidence that people are thinking that. Want to know what it is, just ask). I hate that none of my clothes (maternity or otherwise) fit. Or look good for that matter. I hate that I feel the incessant need to wear a sign that says, "Pregnant. Not Plump." (Luckily, Dizzle LOVES to announce to anyone who will listen that, "Mommy has a baby in her belly." Oh, how I love you Dizzle!)

But, really. Why is it that an already emotionally unstable time in your life has to be compounded by body image issues? It's just not fair.

Generally, I am someone who relishes her pregnant body. I love what it does for my hair and nails. I love having a big pregnant belly to show off. I love that for once I don't have the chest of a 12 year-old boy. I love that in a few weeks it will be glaringly obvious to everyone that I am creating another human being.

But right now, I'm not feeling it.

when did my bladder become a stomping ground?

10 miles. 1 hour and 52 minutes. 3 bathroom breaks. Enough said.

chaos. it's everywhere.

I am living in chaos. And I can't handle it. Maybe I've been to tired to notice (or really care), but my house is a mess. Not dirty, like food on the floor, fingerprints on the mirrors kind of mess, but stuff everywhere kind of mess. It's like we decided to use the entire house like a closet. You know, the closet where you shove things when guest are coming over. Yeah, that closet. Except, I'm pretty sure that we forgot that when you use the house like this, you just can't close the door. Not unless you want to live on your front lawn.

Seriously, it's driving me crazy!! I'm tempted to sell my house and have the movers pack up only the stuff that I really use. We'll just leave the rest for the next owners to deal with. OK. Let's be real. That's not really going to happen. I'm sure I am just going to have to suck it up and clean.

But either way (whether I sell or clean), I'm the type of person who tackles a task and wants to finish it. Immediately. I can not be interrupted. And with two small children, that's not really possible. So I'm destined to lose my weekend (with the exception of SS and my run) and organize my house. While J watches the girls. (I'm sure he'd help, but he knows that when I get on one of these organizing kicks, it's just better to stay away).

Now if I could only get my plumpy and rather exhausted butt off this chair and get moving ...

shouldn't I feel better by now?

Someone (or nearly everyone I've ever met) once told me that morning sickness is usually gone by 13 weeks. Then why is it that I am nearing 15 weeks and I am worse than ever?!?!

About two weeks ago, I had two days where I actually felt good. Not a moment of nausea. But ever since then, I have been on a dramatic backslide, culminating last night with an up close and personal meeting with the porcelain gods.

IT WAS HORRIBLE!

Less than two minutes after finishing my chicken and broccoli and placing my fork back down on the table, I was running for the bathroom. Wasting the $9.95 I spent on take-out. SO NOT FUN.

Now I'm pretty much eating bagels and crackers with Easy Cheese. Gross, yes. But at least I don't immediately feel the need to regurgitate.

All I can say is ... I better be having a boy.

and we're back ...

Me: "You don't want me to go, right Dizzle?"

Dizzle: "No Mommy. You go. Leave."

And my heart broke. She was supposed to beg me to stay. Or cry. Or even act like she cared in the slightest. But, just like I suspected, Dizzle (and Doodle, for that matter) weren't upset that we were leaving them for the first time. In fact, I'm pretty sure they were happy about it.

And this picture is evidence why:

Yes, that is a can of soda in Dizzle's hands. And a bag of Tostitos on her chair. Neither of those things would happen under my watch. Add this pictorial evidence to the fact that when J and I called his parent's halfway through our 10 mile run to check in (and let them know where we went - we kind of just disappeared), Dizzle was eating rainbow sherbet. AT 10:30 A.M!! SERIOUSLY!!

Anyway, these events simply proved to me what I have long suspected.

GRANDMA AND GRANDPA SPOIL DIZZLE AND DOODLE ENDLESSLY! (as they should - but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.)

AND when I'm not around, my rules go out the window.

But despite the four zillion tons of sugar that they ingested, we all had a great time. The girls spent time at the zoo and at Camp (J's family's cabin on a small lake in Connecticut).

And J and I had some alone time. For the first time. In three and a half years. It was great. We caught up with old friends, met some new ones, worked out together (hmmm, take that however you want), ate some amazing food (read: gorged ourselves), talked A TON (without interruption) and had the chance to sleep in. I say chance, because we still woke up before 7 A.M. both mornings. I know, an opportunity wasted. Basically it was amazing. And a slap in the face reminding us of how easy life was before kids.

But on Sunday morning, I wanted nothing more than to go see my babies. The break was nice, but I even said it while we were away, "I wish they had been with us." Apparently, Dizzle and Doodle didn't feel that way. When we returned (to Camp), they barely acknowledged that we were back. Finally, after some prying, Dizzle announced, "I missed you so much." And I almost believed her.

We spent the rest of our vacation going back and forth between Camp and the in-law's house, spending our final evening with A and E (who happen to live 15 minutes from J's parents).

Sarcasm aside, the whole trip was great (even if we were ready to get back). The ride didn't even suck. OK, maybe it sucked a little. Despite making record time (under 10 hours each way), there was one minor (and foul-smelling) mishap. About halfway through our return trip we stopped at BK for lunch. And when we were about to exit the parking lot, we were halted by a cough, a BLEH sound and a sour smell. Yes, that's right. Doodle had vomited all over herself and her car seat. And who had to clean it up? That would be me. The pregnant woman. With the heightened sense of smell. It's been hours and I can still smell it (and I'm not even in the car). I'm just happy I didn't add to the mess.

Now, be honest. Did you really think the B girls were going to make it through an entire vacation unscathed? Didn't think so.

I leave you with some visual fodder of our journey.

J and I at the wedding

Grandma and Doodle at Camp

The girls and J making a pond

Dizzle and A