Spaghetti-ng On With My Life!

There is only one way I like my spaghetti, and that is EATING it.

I am currently at home recovering from surgery to repair a possible spaghetti, err spigelian, hernia.  I was given a different diagnosis from my doctor and surgeon as to whether this bad boy even existed; however, I had to stop running in case it was a hernia, as the risk of it becoming incarcerated could have horrific consequences.  After trying to find answers some other way and procrastinating the inevitable, the only way to know for sure was through this "exploratory" surgery.  And finally, the verdict:  no hernia.  

Yay!  Good news!

Mmk, so raise your hand if you like having surgery for no reason.   Oh wait.  Your hand didn't go up.  Huh, whaddya know...mine didn't either!  I will stop whining eventually.  But not yet.  Maybe tomorrow.  Nah, let's go with next week.  Yeah, that's better.  Two weeks.

So, what was discovered:  my diastasis recti (a condition where your abs split in half during pregnancy) has not healed, there is evidence of other tearing and strains, and I have a small hole in my groin.  What?  Apparently none of this is causing my pain though.  Oh.  Wait!  What?  ...hence "exploratory" being in quotes.  No real conclusions.

So, my takeaway.  I plan to start working with a PT to restrengthen all this mess and start spaghetti-ng on with my life, eh hem, running.  According to the surgeon, I'll need about three weeks to heal until I can attempt running again.  I have been so good for the better part of a year now.  Following directions.  Resting when told.  Playing it safe.  I feel like none of that has worked?  So, time to revolt.  Ima get my a$$ off this couch today, rip off my steri tape, and go for a run!  Okay, no, no I'm not.  But I want to.  But this incision f*%^ing hurts.  And I refuse pain medicine.  Pain medicine is for wussies.  I'll probably be a wussy by the end of the day...

Don't you love how dogs have this ridiculous sense of when something is wrong with you?  Okay, total side note here, but all Zoe wants to do is put her head on my belly and stare at me with these oh-so-sad eyes as if she is saying, "Seriously, fix your sh*t, Mom!"  It's like, she knows.  Perhaps DOGS should be the diagnostic experts?  Now, only if dogs could talk.  We have all these technological advances today, yet, we can't figure out how to make dogs talk?!  Yes, I am bored and will probably come up with many more of these philosophical revelations by the end of the weekend.

 Mmk, back to sitting still.  To at least celebrate the good news of no hernia (cuz really, it is VERY good news), I think I'll have spaghetti for dinner.  With a big glass of whine of course.  ;)

My Favorite Things to do When I Can't Run

Hi, my name is Jen, and it has been 47 days since my last run.

Currently, I am being monitored closely for mental instability.  Mike has removed all sneakers and other running paraphernalia from the house so I won't go off the deep end and hurt myself further.  Okay, just kidding.  But seriously, I miss running more than bread and peanut butter miss jelly.  I want my identity back.

I did have one relapse.  After watching the Boston Marathon, I was inspired by the great MEB.  I laced up and ran for 30 minutes.  HARD.  Not gonna lie; it was freaking awesome.  However, I was already sick with a cough, and the spaghetti hernia issue is still unresolved, so yes, I was in pain, but heyull if I cared!

So, I paid for it.  I now have strep throat, and since the surgeon and doctor still aren't sure whether or not I have a spaghetti hernia, diagnostic surgery seems inevitable.  I just wish I had more answers before going under.  If not a hernia, they won't even be able to tell me what it actually is.  Frustrating.     

Anywho, I have been keeping myself busy to take my mind off things.  I mean, I do have this thing called a baby, and work has me busier than a one-legged man in the circus.  In addition to these, I have compiled...

My Six Favorite Things to do When I Can't Run

1)   Honk my car horn.  Mm hmm, nothing quite burns off aggression like laying on the horn.  Did you just run a yellow light?  HONK!  Did you just cut me off at that traffic circle?  HONK!  Did you just stare at me for way too long while sitting next to me at a red light?  HONK!  And sometimes, my arm just develops a twitch, and for no reason, there it goes.  HONK HONK!  Ahh, so satisfying.

2)  Daydream.  Do you ever drive past a new road, path, or trail and think to yourself, "I want to run on that!"  Yep, I do it all the time.  My brain then spirals into running alongside Desi in the Boston Marathon, winning Chicago, or some other feat that clearly makes me a BADA$$.  Then when I'm actually able to run on it, I quickly realize that, oh, yeah, no, not even close, dude.  Poop.

3)  Set new PRs...at the grocery store.  I mean, I have to be competitive somehow.  Okay, first, grab a shopping cart.  Second, make sure your shopping list has as many items on it as last time; no more, and no less.  Third, wear the same shoes you wore last time to ensure no unfair advantages.  Fourth, reset your watch.  Okay, you are ready.  On your mark, get set, shop!  Stop your watch when you arrive at the check out line.  My current PR is 8:27 for 28 items.  Mm hmm, bet you can't beat that!

4)  Ride the indoor bike trainer.  Just kidding.  That mess sucks.

5)  Watch "Spirit of the Marathon" over and over again.  Feel awful about yourself as you lick cheeto cheese off your fingers while Deena Kastor pool runs for hours and hours on end while injured.  Then, cry like a baby when she still goes on to win the Chicago Marathon, and vow to never eat cheetos again.  Or until you watch the movie again tomorrow.  Whichever.

6) Appreciate life.  I have to remember that my life is pretty dang awesome and to keep everything in perspective.  Even though I have gone a solid year without real training, I can get it back; I WILL get it back.  Repeat this mantra over and over again.   If that doesn't work, get in the car, go back to #1, and honk the crap out of someone.

Tummy ultrasound.  Notice the black hole in the left picture compared to the beautifully flowing fibers on the right. Hernia?  Lodged flying saucer?

When Logan can't run, he favors the Irish jig.

Happy Running, y'all!

The Adventures of Poopermom

Dear Supermoms,

How do you do it?

Sincerely,

Poopermom

Mm k, so seriously.  Prior to having Logan, I couldn't quite comprehend what being a mom would really be like.  Don't get me wrong; I love my little man, but having only 24 hours in a day no longer seems, uh, practical?  My weekdays over the past two weeks have consisted roughly of the following:  wake up at some ungodly hour, yell at Mike about how life is unfair, feed Logan, negotiate if I have time to catch an extra 30 minutes of sleep before Logan needs to be at daycare, realize the answer is no, yell at Mike about how life is unfair, pump the girls, take way too long to prep for daycare, forget to feed Zoe, drop Logan at daycare, blast 90's music in the car and reminisce about being young, start work, stop work because Logan is now sick, take Logan to the pediatrician, meet with doctors about my spaghetti hernia (or lack thereof? ...more on that later), wash laundry that Logan barfed on (one of his sicknesses), clean pump parts, feed Logan, forget to feed Zoe, deny complaining about life when Mike expresses his concern to me, pump the girls, daydream about showering, yell at Mike about how life is unfair, and finally, read two whole words of the book "Life As I Blow It" before passing out.

I am finding raising a baby, working full-time, managing daycare, and marathon training, all on limited sleep, to be pretty dang challenging.  Oh, and I haven't actually started training yet.  Good times. 

So, what did I do to make myself feel better?  I registered for the Philadelphia Marathon on November 23rd.  Totally.  I figure everything will fall into place as time progresses.  Well, at least this is what I am telling myself.  Perhaps I should have just eaten a bag of cheetos and a box of bonbons instead.

Here are some suggestions I've been given to make life easier in the interim:

* Don't try to be good at what you do...just be good enough.
Hello, Type Z; my name is Type A. 
* Run at 3am. 

What?     

* Just wing it.
I don't even know what that means.

I envy the women that answer the question "How are you enjoying motherhood?" with "It's great; I love it!", as my current answer is, "This mess is %#*^@^& hard!"  I need to find balance; I am determined to find a way to make everything in my life work.  That is my promise to myself.

As for the spaghetti hernia,  I have now been to two surgeons after being given the diagnosis.  The first was a complete, well, err, douchebag.  Sorry for the unfortunate word choice, but it really is the only appropriate one.  Douchie was ready to have a surgery hay-day on my bell-ay without even really talking to me, so rather, I found another surgeon that totally rocks my running socks.  The only conundrum now is that he doesn't think I have a hernia, which I of course translated into, "Go running!"  Unfortunately, the pain was still there, so I have two doc appointments set up later this month to hopefully get to the bottom of this.  My gut tells me I do not have a hernia...no pun intended.  BAHAHA (can I blame sleep deprivation for my cheesiness?).

Okay, did I just write the most depressing blog post ever?  Unfortunately, it is time for me to complain to Mike about how life is unfair, so look for a more upbeat post next time. 

Poopermom, out.

Logan teaching me how to tough it out, courtesy of  
Louisa Dominique Photography.

My Spaghetti Hernia

I have a spaghetti hernia.

What?

Okay, in actuality, I have been diagnosed with a spigelian hernia, but I think spaghetti hernia sounds better and is much easier to remember.  Don't ya think? 

I was a good girl.  I swear.  After my last "marathon", I did just what you are supposed to do:  recover.  I took a full six weeks off, allowing my body more than ample time to heal before hitting the roads again, and didn't complain once*.  I think I deserve an award for my patience, not a spaghetti hernia.

* I complained hundreds of times daily.

As it turns out, I kicked too hard in the final .2 of my "marathon".  After months of extremely conservative training, followed by a week of forced rest right before race day, I went gangbusters.  I had so much pent up energy that even the doctor commented on how strong of a "pusher" I was.  At 5:23pm on December 15th, the moment Logan was born, I thought I was a freaking bad-ass; I brought him across the finish line in less than 20 minutes.  Now, all I can think of is that I am a freaking dumb-ass.  A spaghetti hernia is when your bowel protrudes through a hole/tear in your abdomen.  The pushing force created this hole.  So, given my condition, it turns out I'm actually now a, uh, tummy-ass.  Literally.

I have been running again for seven weeks, nice and gradual.  From day one, I felt a localized pain above my belly button and assumed it was normal post-preggo stuff.  So, I ran anyway.  And then I kept running.  Then I ran some more.  Then I ran again.  Oh, and then there was this day that I ran.  Did I ever tell you about the time I went for a run? 

I finally went to the doctor after setting the world record in the mile.  Yep.  When the threat of a GI episode arises during a run, you sprint.  It does not matter how far you have to run; you sprint.  You keep sprinting until you reach that beautiful, porcelain god, never looking back, and never looking at your watch (okay, be sure to click your splits though because I'm telling ya...you will be FAST).  Anyway, all of this was slightly out of the ordinary for me, and after seeking medical attention, my spaghetti hernia was discovered.  I will be having surgery next week.  Poop.

Oh, and no worries...don't feel like a shithead for not congratulating me on the world record; I really don't give a crap.  I'm pretty mentally gassed from getting the shitty news this morning anyway.  Plus, there are far more turd-bombers in the world causing much worse doo-doo, so please...no need to cause yourself so much strain.

I am still hopeful for running the Philadelphia Marathon on November 23rd.  I get so excited thinking about it that I could shit myself!  Oh, wait...

 Cure for a shitty day

Total side note, but did I ever mention how having a baby makes you super comfortable talking about pooh?!  

I'm really jealous of your Happy Running!  :)

Lucky Marathon Number Seven

Now that marathon number six is in the books, it's time to plan for my next...lucky marathon number seven!  

Okay, this one will actually be of the running variety though, not the pregnancy variety.  Seriously, the bod needs a break, dudes.  As do my hormones.  As does Mike dealing with my hormones.  As does the wall that I threw a lamp at the other day for no reason.

Aaaaaand I am about to do my happy dance for the 6,924th time this week in 3, 2, 1... 

I AM BACK TO TRAINING! 

Okay, I wouldn't say I am in full-on training mode quite yet, but at six weeks post-preggo, I started hitting the roads again.  My first run was a mere three miles, and my second was four miles.  Surprisingly enough, after hearing many horror stories, the following did NOT happen:

*  My uterus fell out.

*  My knees crumbled and separated from the rest of my body.

*  (TMI Alert --->) I leaked foreign substances from every crevice of my body and had to hide in a tree.

*  My b00bs kept smacking me in the face, leaving me with two black eyes.

I am fortunate; on my first run back, I felt incredible.  I was like an excited, deranged dog having been let out of his cage for the first time all day.  Kind of like this:

Powerful, free, and fast!

Although, I full well realize I more likely looked like this:

Jiggly, neurotic, and slow!

Of course, it is important to progress gradually in both pace and distance when coming back from pregnancy.  With looser joints, split abs (yes, my ab muscles apparently split into two during the process), gait changes, and all the unknowns of how your body will respond, patience is key.  Otherwise, the risk of injury is magnified.  With that said, on my first run, I was pleased to be able to run comfortably at 7:50 pace after all my body has been through.  Fall marathon, here I come!

Logan was excited too.  He put on his favorite running shirt for mommy's first day back:

Happy comeback running, y'all!

The Finish Line (Week 34)

Oftentimes, even when you've done everything right, marathons are unpredictable.  You read all the books, trained accordingly, ate the right things and avoided the wrong things, and made a lot of sacrifices with this one goal in mind.  As you approach the finish line, you inevitably start to deteriorate; you're tired, swollen, and mentally vulnerable, but you keep forging forward because hey, you've done everything right, and therefore, nothing can go wrong. 

Except for when they do.  The last 10K of my pregnancy did not go as planned.  At mile 20, I knew something wasn't quite right, and by mile 21 (week 34), my race was over.  I can look at it a few ways:

1)  I went out too fast and hit the wall.  DNF.
2)  I ended up in the medical tent with the worst GI issues imaginable.  DNF.
3)  I got lost and was driven to the finish line by the sag wagon.
4)  I am one competitive mofo, paced the first 20 miles well, crushed my final 10K, and had one helluva PR.

Ding ding ding...the answer is number 4!  Logan Rhys Goff was born on December 15th, a full six weeks early, weighing five pounds even.  

Logi-Bear

Just like your first marathon, pregnancy immediately and forever changes your life for the better.  However, at first, you will question what the hell you were thinking, vow to NEVER do it again, and be sore in places that are just WRONG.  So, with that said, I have 2.4 seconds to complete this blog post, as one (or all) of the following circumstances WILL happen:

*  Logan will wake up and demand being fed.
*  I will have an unforeseen emotional breakdown and throw my computer at the wall.
*  I will fall asleep on the keypad and start typing like this:  pwiorjgoklmnlksmd'ngbl;m
*  My b00bs will start leaking all over my desk.
*  The mailman will come to the door with a package while I am either (a) crying, (b) not dressed, (c) with breast pumps attached to me, or (d) all of the above, thus leading to a panic attack.

Once my feet hit the 20-mile timing chip mat (aka my baby shower), I turned to my best friend and said something wasn't right.  Actually, I described what I was experiencing, but for the sake of crossing a blog-o-sphere line, I'll keep this PG.  You're welcome.  That night, I ended up in the hospital with preterm labor symptoms, and by 5am the next morning, I was admitted to the antenatal unit on bed rest.  I was there for another two nights before being discharged, only to go home and have my water break that same day, sending me back to the hospital for another five days before being induced at the end of the week.  Moral of the marathon story:  ALWAYS listen to your body. 

Things I learned/highlights from boredom bed rest:

*  I was stuck with a needle 22 times during the week.  Yes, I counted.  I was bored.  Shut up. 
*  I now know what it is like to wear Depends.  Nope, not cool.
*  Clothes are AWESOME.  You realize this when you are not allowed to wear them for a week.
*  Peeing is AWESOME.  Catheters can kiss my needle-stuck a$$.

 Bed rest not-so-awesomeness in my sexy, size 4XL robe.  At least my hair looks good.

After my week in the hospital and 10+ hours of labor, I set a new hospital record for fastest push time.  Loga-licious was born at 5:23pm, and my Jimmy John's tuna fish sub (my super forbidden pregnancy craving) was completed at 5:26pm.

After Logan was born, he was quickly whisked away to the NICU, where he would stay for a very LONG two weeks. We have had him home now for another two weeks, and it is hard to believe that our awesome, miniature fart nugget is one month old tomorrow!

Daddy & Logan in the NICU

Aside from sleep deprivation and the massive rack that has eaten my torso, life is good.  During the day, I feel like I have no time to breathe; yet, at the end of the day, I look back and feel like I accomplished nothing.  And you know what?  That is okay.  Our little man is home, healthy, eating like a champ, and kicking some preemie a$$.

Oh, and t-minus 12 days until I can run again!  Not that I am counting (mm hmm), but I am ready to attack a fall marathon.  My sights are set on either Chicago, Columbus, Philly, or Greensboro, but wherever it may be, it is going to be awesome having someone extra special there to greet me at the finish line.        

 Happy Running!        

Mile 20 (Week 33)

Holy shitballs; the race has begun:  the 20-mile mark.  Where is that damn finish line already?  My feet feel like they are going to bust out of my sneakers, I'm tired, I'm bitchy (no seriously, stay the hell away), and if I try and stretch my achy legs, everything cramps.  Oh, and one note to all you spectators...what the heyull are you staring at?   I mean, you've obviously seen other marathoners before.  You know, your mom was a marathoner many years ago; how do you think she felt when people stared at her like an alien?  Keep it up, and I might unleash all my GI issues on you...

So, do you know what every pregnant woman's fantasy is?  THANKSGIVING.  Aww yeah, baby.  A day of eating everything in sight, no holds barred, GET. IT. ON.  They should rename the holiday to Thank-a-Preggo.  Seriously.  Having one of us at the table will make you feel so much better about how much you ate because chances are WE JUST HOUSED YOU.  I also discovered on Thanksgiving that I have officially reached "tent" status.  Yep, I put on a maternity dress, thinking I looked all sexy and whatnot, until I saw a picture of myself.  Yeah, no, I looked like a tent.  I always said I would never be the pregnant lady that holds the bottom of her belly all the time, but I get it now.  I plan to not let go for the next 6 or 7 weeks, as it totally reduces the tent-age.  See, look: 

Scary Tent Lady

 Semi-normal Beer Gut Lady

Mmk, so pregnancy stats update:

Spud's Vitals: 

*Chunky boy has now been nicknamed "Bubba" by our doctor.  He is still measuring large-and-in-charge and staying consistent in his growth each week.  May the labor and delivery gods be with me on game day...

Pregnancy Gains: 

* 24 pounds.  I have nothing else to say.  It's like I swallowed the whole, damn turkey and forgot to chew.

* Cholesterol.  252...WTF?  Never have I ever.  The boy has now eaten all my iron and protein, leaving me with nothing but high cholesterol.   The doc says it is normal; I say Spud is expecting a steak dinner once he pops out.

* Wine club of the month membership flyers.  Is this a joke?  I get them in the mail, like, everyday.  If I ever find the person in charge of sending me these, I WILL RIP YOUR HEAD OFF.

* Speaking of ripping things, I bent over the other day, and my pants ripped right up the a$$-crack.  Let me tell ya; you haven't quite lived until you've ripped your pants up the a$$-crack. 

Pregnancy Losses:

* My belly button.  The tent ate it.

* Willpower.  I couldn't decide if I wanted a bowl of cereal, pop tarts, or a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast this morning.  So, I ate all three.  Thank-a-Preggo should really be a week-long celebration anyway.

* Yep, the brain is still nowhere to be found.  When you come home from work, where do you put your keys?  Perhaps on the counter, a rack, or some sort of tray maybe?  Well, I buried mine in a plant in the kitchen.  Cuz, ya know, that's where they belong.

* Sleep.  Picture the scene:  You and your hubby buy a new, albeit decrepit, house.  Your parents come to visit and obviously hate the house, so you decide to walk into town instead.  However, the sidewalks are filled with oil slicks, and you fall, leaving your legs blackened and greasy.  So, you go back to the awful house, where Will Smith is waiting for you to play hide-and-seek, except this is hide-and-seek with lifelines, like those in "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire."  You lose the game when you try to "phone a friend" to find Will, and he then feels threatened, pulling out one of his alien guns from "Men in Black"... 

SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHY THE HELL I WOULD DREAM THIS??

* Unfortunately, running.  I made it to 31 weeks, and there were just too many odd pains that I felt comfortable pushing through.  Spud takes priority.  Looks like it will be prancercizing for me from now on.  Okay, no. 

I just realized something pretty awesome...the next time I write a blog post,

I WILL BE A MOM!  :)  

So, despite all the unknown shitters that lie ahead in this final 10K, I can't wait!

 

  32 weeks