Tag Archives: baby

Running from the Old Me

How did I—a reasonably sane 42-year-old woman who once fancied herself a college athlete—end up screeching across the dinner table, “Stop saying buttcrack, for the love of God”? It’s a fair question, and the answer, I’m afraid, is that life has a way of sprinting ahead while you’re still lacing up your trainers. None of it was my doing. Not a single humiliating, heart-stopping mile. Call me stubborn if you must, but let me trot out the evidence like so many rogue blisters on a marathoner’s heel.

Exhibit A: Compartment Syndrome, My Five-Year Nemesis (2001–2005)
Ah, college volleyball glory days—until my legs decided to rebel. Chronic compartment syndrome: too much muscle crammed into too small a sheath, swelling like overpacked luggage on a redeye flight. I could barely hobble off the court, pain radiating like I’d run a marathon barefoot over coals. Surgery in 2002? Fizzled like a dud firework. The punchline? I was too fit. My body, that traitorous overachiever, had outgrown its own packaging. Who knew ambition could literally cramp your style?

Exhibit B: The Husband Who Strayed (2015—or Whenever the Heck It Ended)
End of June 2015, baby in arms, no maternity leave, husband off on noble recruiting trips like the dedicated coach he was. Or so I thought. What should have been a relay race through early parenthood turned into a solitary slog through betrayal’s mud pit. The fallout? A wound that festers still, quite possibly the hidden accelerant to that later stroke. Life’s curveballs don’t come with batting practice.

Exhibit C: The NICU Marathon (January 1–21, 2018)
Why my body treats pregnancy like a bad blind date—bolting for the exit before the appetizers arrive—is one of life’s more baffling mysteries. My babies always emerge from the chaos strong, healthy, and perfect as polished trophies, yet my womb seems to regard the whole affair as an unwelcome intrusion, ejecting its precious cargo weeks ahead of schedule. It’s a wretched mismatch, like a marathoner cursed with shoes two sizes too small. That premature arrival turned our world into a 21-day gauntlet of beeping monitors, tiny incubators, and the kind of bone-deep terror that makes every sunrise feel like borrowed time. Touch-and-go doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s thriving now, of course—my little sprinter, outpacing the odds—but those NICU nights remain the slowest, most grueling miles I’ve ever logged.

Exhibit D: The Stroke That Came Out of Nowhere (March 24, 2022)
Picture this: six weeks postpartum, fit as a fiddle, no vices to speak of. I’d never smoked, rarely sipped, and my cholesterol was so pristine you could frame it. Doctors poked and prodded, shrugged their white-coated shoulders, and declared it cryptogenic—a fancy word for “beats us.” Just one of those cosmic pratfalls, like tripping over your own shadow mid-stride. No warning, no fault, just a brain misfiring while I was still catching my breath from new-mom life.

Exhibit E: AFib’s Electrical Gremlins (January 19, 2025)
One ordinary Sunday, my heart decides it’s auditioning for a techno rave. Electrical system gone haywire—no clogged pipes, no dietary sins, no excess poundage. Just faulty wiring in the old ticker, demanding a hospital marathon and surgical pit stop. Here I am, patched up and plodding on, wondering if my body’s secretly plotting a mutiny.

I could keep lapping this track—miscarriages, job upheavals, the daily gauntlet of boy-mom chaos—but what’s the point? Running from everything has left me winded, circling the same bruised shin. No more. I’m grabbing the baton, plotting a new course, even if the map’s half-sketched. Because here’s the truth I’ve pounded into my skull on a thousand solo jogs: you don’t outrun life’s ambushes by fleeing faster. You lace up tighter, pick your stride, and charge toward whatever finish line you damn well choose. Buttcrack or no buttcrack.

Running from the Crib

Something quietly earth-shaking happened at my house this week: I took down the crib. For the uninitiated, disassembling a crib is a parental rite of passage roughly equivalent to sending a child off to college, but with more Allen wrenches and slightly less tuition-related panic.

Wynn, who’s now three, has reached a level of lankiness previously reserved for NBA rookies and particularly ambitious green beans. The child has sprouted so effectively that his toes threatened to claim squatters’ rights on the far end of the crib. Add to this our household tradition of “musical beds”—a nightly game in which children ignore both boundaries and physics by cramming themselves into whatever sleep surface seems most inconvenient for the adults—and you have a recipe for familial togetherness. Not long ago, I discovered Wynn and our ten-year-old squished together in the crib, as if it were a tiny vessel crafted entirely from teething bars and childhood memories.

And so, the crib came down. I thought I’d feel only joy at this new, baby-stuff-free era. Instead, it’s orbiting somewhere between minor liberation and “oh look, my heart’s leaking a little sadness.” I barely got to savor Wynn’s littlest days; a stroke took that easy glow and replaced it, temporarily, with medical charts and pill bottles. Now, suddenly, the “baby” part of our life is tiptoeing quietly (yet somehow loudly) toward the rear exit.

Let’s take stock for posterity:

  • Binkys: Nighttime only, thank you very much.
  • Pull-ups: Also nighttime only—we’re nothing if not selectively mature.
  • Bottles: Still appearing more often than I’d admit on a parent survey, but there is significant improvement.

There’s a thrill in being free of strollers and diaper bags. I haven’t wielded a stroller in a year, and I feel like I should get a merit badge—unless, of course, the destination is someplace immense and Disney-branded, at which point all bets (and dignity) are off.

Last week, Wynn cracked the code of pedaling a bike without the assist of training wheels, leaving me to marvel at his skill and quietly assess my insurance deductible. He’s officially a pro. Yet he still naps hard—truly, with the kind of dedication only the very young or the spectacularly elderly can muster.

He’s little, yes, but growing. I’m clutching remnants of babyhood like they’re the last snacks on a long road trip, but what’s left is precious. So, if you see me lingering in the toddler aisle at Target, looking misty-eyed at a bottle of baby shampoo, just know I’m not ready to let go. Not quite yet.

If childhood flies by, at least let it leave a trail of mismatched socks, bike helmets, and—just for a little longer—the echo of lullabies in a room where a crib once stood.

Running from the Toddler

Ah, motherhood. That grand, mysterious adventure that begins with nine months of discomfort, followed by a brief stint as a conveyor belt for tiny humans and culminates in the realization that your life is now entirely dictated by someone who can’t tie their own shoes. The remarkable thing about this whole process is how quickly we forget the pain—the swollen ankles, the sleepless nights, the moment you realized your bladder had been demoted to a trampoline. It’s as if nature has thoughtfully provided us with a mental delete button. But then, just when you think you’ve moved on, along comes the age of three to remind you that perhaps you haven’t forgotten quite enough.

Now, people often talk about the “terrible twos,” which is misleading. Two is merely an amuse-bouche of chaos compared to the full buffet of madness that awaits at three. Three is when your cherubic toddler transforms into a pint-sized dictator with an alarming grasp of language and an uncanny ability to manipulate adults. They don’t just demand hot dogs; they demand them with conviction. They don’t just want you to play; they want you to be exactly the Transformer they’ve assigned while they prance about as Slinky Dog. And heaven help you if you don’t queue up their favorite show for the 87th time—an oversight that will be met with outrage worthy of a United Nations summit.

I can say with confidence that I despise three-year-olds—my own included. It’s not personal; it’s just that they’ve perfected the art of being simultaneously exhausting and infuriating. They refuse naps, despite being visibly more tired than a marathon runner at mile 26. They develop peculiar preferences for things like milk cups, which they express in cryptic proclamations like, “That’s more like it!”—a phrase so bizarre it makes you wonder if you’re raising an eccentric Victorian aristocrat.

But let me assure you, it doesn’t stop at three. Oh no, seven and nine have their own unique horrors. Seven-year-olds seem to think sibling rivalry is an Olympic sport, and nine-year-olds have mastered the fine art of being insufferably smug while still needing help with basic hygiene. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve shouted “Keep your hands to yourself!” I’d be lounging on a private island right now, sipping cocktails and marveling at my fortune.

This is why I run—not metaphorically or figuratively—but literally. Running is my escape from the madness, my chance to pound out my frustrations on the pavement while fantasizing about a world where children come with mute buttons. Lexapro helps, but even modern pharmaceuticals have their limits when faced with preschoolers who think they’re ready to govern small nations.

Still, hope glimmers faintly on the horizon: preschool starts in the fall. Surely someone else can deal with his boundless energy and insatiable curiosity for a few hours each day. Until then, I’ll be here—dodging demands for hot dogs and Transformer reenactments—counting down the days until sanity returns (or at least takes a brief holiday).

March 4th, 2018

Today was a beautiful, windy, Kansas day. We started the day with coffee and a trip to Home Depot to pick out a new storm door. After lunch, we went for a walk up by the baseball field. We spend some time watching the game, and wandered around the neighborhood. It was an awesome afternoon, and the boys were so good.

About 5:30 though, everything changed. All the sudden Cub walked over to Chas and vomited everywhere! I ran him into the bathroom where it happened a few more time, then threw him in the bath. While I was helping Cub, Chas yelled for the thermometer, and come to find out, Oz had. 101 fever! What the heck!

A wonderful day quickly turned into a very long night.

Lots to say, little time to say it

I feel like I have been thinking of a million things to blog about lately. The problem is getting the time to actually write them up. Finally tonight I decided to take my Big Brother watching time and use it to write for you all. Life is changing so dramatically lately, and it’s time I filled you in.

As I am sitting here typing this, my next little boy is kicking me like crazy. That’s right. Another little boy. I can’t even remember if I announced to you all that I was pregnant again, so if I didn’t, SURPRISE! February 13th there will be another wrestler joining Team Thompson. Because of everything that happened with Quinn, I had a special test done call a Q-Natal at week 10. Besides finding out that the baby is a boy, we also found out that the baby is genetically perfect… that sounds funny to say. What I really mean is that there are no genetic abnormalities like Quinn had. Great news for us!

Speaking of Quinn, my due date was last week. And to be honest with you, I didn’t think I would get as emotional as I did. It was a very hard day, and honestly I felt it the entire week. I know she’s watching over us and making sure Cub and his new brother are safe and sound.

I have been getting into a really great routine lately working out most mornings. My friend Melanie and I have running and walking together. She is 7 weeks post-delivery, and at week 14 of my pregnancy, it’s great to have someone to stay in shape with. I am sure it won’t last forever, as I get bigger and the weather gets chillier, but for the time being I am enjoying it so much! It’s great to have a little adult conversation, commiserate about “mom things” and of course get a good workout in. A Best Running Friend makes the nastiness that can be a hard workout a lot easier!

 

Day 96/366- Driving Ms. Emotional

For about 2, if not 3 years now, I feel like I have been a woman posing as a runner. My stats have been atrocious, my runs few and far between. Becoming a wife and a mother, moving halfway across the country from beautiful, sunny Northern California to windy western Kansas and dealing with sleepless nights and so much time without Chas during wrestling season has put a damper on my athletic spirit. In my mind and heart, I am a runner, but in actuality, I am a fraud.

Last week I ran twice. It was so refreshing to wake up before anyone else and know that while everyone in Hays, KS, was still fast asleep, I was working hard and showing the world my perseverance. Morning runs are really about putting one foot in front of the other. I generally have just nursed the baby, and instead of crawling back in next to my husband, I opt for the cold, windy tundra that is Main Street at 5:30 am. I run an out and back usually, trying to complete one leg faster than the other. Pounding the pavement that earlier makes a person ponder big things, future goals, the meaning of life, etc. In a way, it makes me feel superior, the fact that I can do this, that I have the will power to do it, even if just for my usual 2 mile stretch. When I walk back in the door, I am no longer free or powerful. I am mom, Marketing Director and chef, but I feel more empowered in my daily activities, and more patient in my handling of crying babies, dog messes, and dumb emails. A run can certainly mellow a Type A personality like myself, but at the same time makes me feel more secure in who I am and what I am doing.

Besides my running lately, I have been playing in a rec volleyball league and working on some Nike Training Club workouts. On Monday, we played a team that had 3 former collegiate players on it. By former, I mean just graduated. Being 11 years out from my playing days, I am confident in my ability and skills, but am most certainly a step behind where I was when training was my life. We lost the game on Monday, and I left the facility feeling embarrassed and angry. They other team was cocky, stuck up, and not fun and light to play like most of our “Rec” league opponents. I hate that feeling. But then I started thinking about my NOW self as opposed to my 11 years ago self. When I was in the same position as the cocky girls we played Monday night, I am sure I was similar, and enjoyed beating up on older people. But I will tell you why they should be bowing down to me:

I am 11 years out of my volleyball career and I still was blocking the crap out of them.
I have the guts and moxy to put myself in that situation knowing that I am not the same 100% I used to be.
Those girls don’t know what it is like to be up all hours of the night nourishing a human being.
I created a human being with my own body!
I can work a 50+ hour week, cook, clean, and nurture my family while still looking to maintain my health and the health of my boys.
I am setting an example for my son, showing him that anything is possible and fitness is forever.
Those girls aren’t up at 5:30 to make themselves better.
Oh, and they certainly don’t know that people may not remember what you did, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

I am a mom, a fit mom. A mom that is continuously trying to make herself a better person, wife, employee, and human. I know everyone is fighting some kind of battle, as I am. I know that there were probably days when I acted like them, but now I see the world in a different light. Someday they will too.

Day 38/366- The Irony of Parenthood

668bc110c6fa8462fda88543f5e47eeaThere are basically 3 elements to my life nowadays. The first is Parenting. The second is work, and the third is attempting to get back into shape. I am taking the first day by day. I mean, how else to do you parenting. Very little planning can be done, and the messes are inevitable. I still have yet to sleep for more than 3 hours at a time in going on 8 months. However, my little boy is growing up to be a fierce, tough and determined young man, but then again what else should I have expected? He is half Ginn after all.

Work is as busy as ever with no end in sight. It is satisfying to help the company grow, be in charge of a lot of the daily going abouts, and watch kids blossom into wonderful journalists. As we continue to grow, I am hoping that my role will continue to expand, as I feel like I am a good advocate for the brand and have spend the last 4 years of my life dedicated to its well-being.

The final is really what this blog is all about, right? I mean, I started The Running Year to not only document my goals and achievements, but I also wanted to hold myself accountable by having those things written in a place that more than just I could read.

dailyburn-logo-colored_0As I have told you on my last post, I have started using a service call The Daily Burn. It basically gives you access to workout videos via an streaming device. I have found it very convenient because I don’t have to pack up Cub and got to a gym or class. As soon as he goes down for a nap, I can flip on the Roku and work up a sweat. I highly recommend it to moms looking to get their body back. It is only about $15 a month, and I definitely feel like I have gotten my moneys worth in just the 3 weeks I have been using it.

So anyway, I decided to try a little bit different of a workout the other day. Instead of the normal tabata workouts that I had been doing, I found a hip hop dance workout to do. I thought it would be fun to try, as well as amusing, as I am not a dancer. I am just not coordinated in that way. Well I definitely didn’t disappoint. Honestly, I don’t know how one person could possible be as impossible at dance moves as I am. The coach would show a move and with all the confidence in the world, I would swivel, shake or shimmy the way I felt was appropriate to make myself look just like her… NOT HAPPENING. I was TERRIBLE! Honestly, I finally just laughed at myself and made up something that was as close as I could to what they were doing. It was a comedy act. Needless to say I am not elegant or graceful on my feet in the dancing sense.

Now, back to the title of this post. The irony of parenthood and trying to get back into shape after baby… When you are trying to get into shape and lose weight, exercise, healthy eating and water consumption are so important. Yet, as a nursing mother, I am getting absolutely NO sleep (I was up at 3 am turning on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse for my 7 month old last night, and OMG that hot dog dance). A tiny human is sucking you dry every 3 hours, so if you sweat, you have to drink 2 times the normal amount of water to even break even. I am also hungry ALL THE TIME, partly because I get my furnace running when I exercise, so I burn calories more easily throughout the rest of the day, and while nursing, you need extra just to sustain your milk supply. It feels like a constant uphill battle. Let’s face it. It IS an uphill battle.

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Here’s the good news. I only have 2 pounds to go before I am back at pre-baby weight. I am feeling strong and confident about my body again. I am eating healthy, which is the best thing I can do for Cub, because what I eat, he eats. And finally, I am setting a good example for my son. Making time to exercise whether it be doing a Daily Burn class, running, taking a walk, whatever shows Cub how important it is to move, and hopefully that is a lesson that he will take with him for the rest of his life.

Week 1/52- Progress Begins

We are officially one week into the new year, and I am happy to report I am making good progress on my resolutions. I have run all but 1 day this week, and for I sat that day out for good reason. I played 3 volleyball matches on Sunday night, and my knees were so sore from diving that I could barely walk, let alone run.

My starting weight last week was 143.5 lbs. That is 8.5 lbs. above my pre-baby weight. My goal is to lose about 20 lbs. I would like to be close to 125 by Cub’s first birthday. I think this is doable in 6 months, and I am already making good progress. At the end of week 1, I am down 1.5 lbs. I honestly think I could have dropped more, as I know I could have worked harder than I did. The problem is that as soon as I start something, I quite often get interrupted. I try to walk while Chas is having practice, and Cub will start screaming, so we have to stop and move on to something else. The same happens with the blog actually. I have started 3 different posts this week, none of which I have finished. I lose my train of thought in the interruption and just can’t get back to what I was doing.

I am so missing Marathon Weekend this year. I need to be there. I miss the friends, the magic, the competition and the running. Next year I will be back, and I absolutely cannot wait.

 

Looking Back, Moving Forward

It’s been the best of years. It’s been the worst of years. My baby was born and has made our life full and sent us in a new direction. I haven’t slept in 6 months. Life is so vastly different when you become a parent. “I” have taken a back seat, which means running, health and fitness have all fallen to the bottom of the priority list and shear survival remains at the top of it.

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Yesterday was Cub’s half birthday. He is doing so well, with 2 teeth, eating (what seems like) gallons of baby food a day, and can play by himself with not much help from mom for a few minutes at a time. I finally feel like I am in a good place where I can move up the list just a few notches. And what a perfect time of year. January 1st always gives you hope for a new start and a refresh.

I am ready for a refresh. Being a new mom is so full of joy, but at the same time, it can make you feel completely deflated. I find myself trying to make it from nap to nap (Cub’s naps, not mine), and have to adjust my thinking as to cherish all my moments with him, not just when he is happy and cooing, but when he is crying and crabby too.

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With that being said, I have been pondering my New Year Challenges, which I post every year. I started this blog a few years back to hold myself accountable for my running challenges. It has since turned into a Jen’s life blog, which is fine, but has strayed from its original purpose, sort of like my life.

With just a few pounds of baby weight left to lose, I have upped my weight loss challenge. People only know what they are taught. I, fortunately, had parents that made sports and fitness a priority in their lives, as well as ours. Cub deserves the same. He deserves fresh, healthy meals, opportunities to run, jump and play, and a mom and dad that do everything in their power to stay healthy so that they can live a long, happy life with him.

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So… Here it goes! My 2016 New Year’s Challenges:

  1. Lose 20 lbs.
  2. Eat a cleaner, more simple diet
  3. Keep better track of the good things that occur in my life
  4. Judge less, listen more
  5. Attempt to run at least 1 mile everyday in 2016
  6. Document my strength and struggles here for you all to read

I know there are some lofty goals in there, but I am going to attempt to be a better person than I was this year. I think that all these challenges will make me a better mom as well. Cub deserves the best me, and I am going to do everything in my power to give that to him.

So here’s to being better, stronger, healthier and smarter in the new year.

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The New Adventures of Old Jen

Well, I have some good news, if you didn’t know already. The day after my last post (Pregnancy is a marathon), I delivered a healthy baby boy. Cub William Thompson is my new normal. At 8 lbs. 3oz. and 19 inches long, he made his appearance just as his mother wanted, very quickly. After having what I thought were just Braxton-Hicks contractions for about 12 hours, we knew that it was close to time for him to arrive. Sunday morning, June 28th, we headed to the hospital about 9:15 am, as my contractions were about 3:30 mins apart. After being checked at 10:30 am and measuring in at 3 cm dilated, the doctor broke my water, boldly predicting that I would be holding a baby by supper time. Cub had other plans.

I have been very strong in my opinion not to have drugs while I was in labor. I did not want an epidural, and knew that I had the strength to skip it. At approximately 11:30 am I looked at my husband and finally said, “if this is a 3, I need an epidural.” After discussing it with him and the nurse, she went to order the epidural and then came back to check my progress again. To everyone’s surprise, the extremely pain I was in was not 3 cm pain, but 8 cm pain. Before the anesthesiologist could even make it to the room (approx. 10 mins.) I was dilated to 10, pushing, and praying the doctor would get there in time to catch the newest member of my family.

At 12:21 pm, four pushes later, Cub came into this world with a perfectly round little head, and the cutest little cry you have ever heard. He was (and is) perfect.

I don’t remember a lot about the delivery. I remember my legs shaking like crazy, getting really hot, and keeping my eyes closed almost the entire time. It was an unbelievable experience, and the parts I do remember will never be forgotten.

Then there is this guy. Cub is the best and most challenging thing I have ever had to deal with in my life. Motherhood is constant problem solving, and I am getting better at it. I could spend all my time just looking at him. He is such a special and loved little boy.

Now that we have reached the 6 week mark, and I am almost feeling back to my normal self, I am excited to get into some sort of a routine, particularly with regards to my fitness. The healing process after birth is no joke, and I am still working on it.

The new life I am living is definitely the complete opposite of where I was just a year ago. It is still the old me, but I know I will continue to evolve, so really, it is a new me. And I like the new me.