Running Purposefully

We spend our entire lives searching for our purpose. From childhood to the elder years, we are all looking for some purpose. Nearly every child development book I have read discusses, at least in part, the need for children to feel purposeful. As parents, that is one of our primary responsibilities -- to help our children feel needed. You can see this as your child begs to sweep the floor with you at 18 months, or helps you fold laundry at 2 years old or cares for the neighbor's baby when they are only just a babe themselves. At the core of their being, our being, we all need to find some purpose.

Being a mother surely makes one feel needed. In all my life I have never felt as loved, desired or even purposeful as I do now that I have these three beings that came from within. For me, that is almost enough. I say almost, because I know that for some that is enough. For some being a mother is their sole purpose in life. I have friends who are such goddess mamas that the day they held their firstborn, they knew they had discovered the meaning of life. And I have many other mama friends, who are just as wonderful in every way, whom do not find their purpose through motherhood. We all lie somewhere along this spectrum.

I love my kids and I adore being a stay at home mother, but I know that is not my sole purpose. There are many magical days where I feel blessed beyond belief that this is my life. There are those days that I have to pinch myself just to be sure I'm not dreaming. Those days like last Friday where I hired a sitter to literally sit with a baby monitor watching my sleeping Isaac so that I could go out to lunch with my first daughter who had the day off school. We ate a luxurious lunch and then went to the preschool where she read for her former class and her sister's current class of 3-4 year olds. We followed it up with beach time play with some of our closest friends, followed by a quiet drive home and a relaxing dinner and fit-free evening. Those days are wonderful and they do occur, but even on those best days there is fighting and screaming and hair pulling and pushing and dirty diapers and sandy butts and sandy eyes and messes upon messes. I can not feel that my purpose in life is to clean up messes. I need more.

Luckily I have running and that has been where I find my purpose most days, especially on extra challenging days. I feel fortunate that running in and of itself has always felt purposeful to me. Now is when the famous Bill Bowerman quote floats through my head, 

"Running, one might say, is basically an absurd past-time upon which to be exhausting ourselves. But if you can find meaning, in the kind of running you have to do to stay on this team, chances are you will be able to find meaning in another absurd past-time: life.” 

I can find great amount of meaning in my running. I recently reached the 1-yr anniversary owning my triple stroller and with that one year of serious running with the kids. This past year has changed me in many ways, but one of the biggest changes has been my preference to run with a stroller versus rolling alone. Just like any new mother, the running jogger was awkward, annoying and a nuisance. It was not love at first run. Scroll through my past blog entries for more on this… 

Yesterday Alan was home, after a lengthy work trip overseas, and I just wanted to savor our time together. I finally had my partner, my love and my co-parent back. He was home all morning and it was a lazy one. One in which no one brushes their teeth, hair or changes out of PJ's until past 9am. We were still up before 7am, but enjoyed a nice breakfast, multiple cups of black tea and extended play downstairs as a family. It crossed my mind a few times that I could sneak out for a solo run. There was nothing to do, nothing to be done and surely no one would mind if I went on a run. Except me. I didn't want to miss this family time. The kids seem to be growing under my own nose and lately I am feeling like I don't want to miss a thing because it just goes so darn fast. So I stayed put. 

Finally it was 9:30 and the weatherman was calling for another 100+ degree day. Alan wanted to mountain bike ride, it was nearing Isaac's nap time and I had nothing to do. So I loaded all three in the stroller and had a blast running up the hills, exploring our local trails together with my little ones. I was overcome by how much more fun it is running together. It just makes running feel so much more purposeful. Together, I felt, we were accomplishing something great. Yesterday, under the hot summer sun, covered in dirt and sweat, watching three little ones hike (during a mid-run break) up and over steep climbs, I found my purpose.

What is your purpose? What do you do or need to do to find some purpose in this life?

Friends Mean Something

** I have a bunch of cute pictures ready to attach to this post, many fitting and many of Adara on the schoolyard or doing homework, but my husband has my mac in Germany and I'm at home with this old junky PC and it simply won't allow me to attach photos. Such a pain, but one I must accept. So I apologize, but no pictures, just words tonight.**


Today was the first day back to school for many. Not for us. This is old hat. Adara is mid-way through her 3rd week of Kindergarten and it feels like she has been at this new school for years. She loves it. She has made friends and I can tell, that to her, Friends mean something. They mean everything.




I have been thinking a lot lately about what that means to have these special friends. What is means to her to make a friend. What the bond means to her, what the bond meant to me. When you are 5 years old and have spent the vast majority of every breathing moment by your mother's side for your entire life, going off to school and saying good-bye for 6-and-a-half-hours 5 days a week can feel like a lifetime. Long enough to scare you. But Adara was not scared. My independent, quiet and timid but adventurous at the same time, oldest child, walked into Kindergarten that first day and gave her Daddy a quick wave of the hand. Just a quick, simple, no-looking-back, wave. No tears were shed. No body peeling was necessary. She was ready. It never fails to amaze me how children always know when they are ready. There is no amount of prodding or begging or pushing that can be done to make a little one do something before they are fully prepared. But when they are ready, step back, big world.


I was not ready. Luckily Adara's incredible preschool teachers told me that last year. I went back and forth, back and forth, agonizing the decision over which Kindergarten to send her to, which program to send her to, whether to place her in Transitional Kindergarten or real, full-fledged Kindergarten. She was/is so young. Public School scared/scares me. I will admit it. I was raised in private school -- whether it be Catholic or Independent -- and my high school class had 49 students. "Those are your own fears, Caitlin," Adara's nursery school teacher told me last Spring, "Those are not Adara's and you can't let them become hers." How true is that statement, not only in referring to school but referring to life.


As parents we all hold our own fears. We all hold our own hesitations and our own pasts, whether dark or sunny. We all had our challenges, our traumas, those moments that we cannot let go of, that we cannot forget, that we strive to protect our children from experiencing themselves with every ounce of our being. We are mothers and so we are protectors. That is our job. But it is also our job to prepare them for this world. And this world can be harsh. I hate to even say it, or think it, but try as we may, we cannot hide our children from the pain and the heartbreak that they will experience, because they WILL experience it. The very best we can do, I believe, is to raise them well, teach them well and be there for them every step of the way. But sometimes being there must mean being in the bleachers or being in the crowds. Eventually, we have to sit back and let them live their own lives.


Adara told me yesterday about the red light, yellow light, green light reinforcement system that is in place in her classroom. It terrifies me that she might someday see her clothespin pinned to the yellow light -- or dare I even say it, the red light! (And yes, I have seen the recent social media links about this exact behavioral reinforcement system, but I have also ignored it, on purpose). It is what it is and frankly, she is excited by it. "My name is always on the green because I am a good listener," she tells me. Part of me cringes. Part of me holds my breathe. This is life. One day, she might be on the yellow light. One day, when I was merely 5 years old, my clothespin was moved to that yellow light. And it was upsetting, it was traumatic, I still remember it, but I also remember that I moved on and that I moved back to green light. And guess what, I married happily, I had kids, I earned my Master's Degree with honors. I am more than that green light.


I will strive to teach my daughter also that she is more than the shade of the circle light where she sees her name. But I will also strive to teach her respect, and to be a good listener and a good learner and a good citizen. That is what I hope public school teaches her -- that she is one member of this big, incredible, diverse and varying world. She is one person but is one person whom we need, to get along, to see no race or color or socioeconomic or religious differences. She is one person just like every other person in her classroom and in her school. She is one person and one equal. One person in this great big puzzle of a world.


At the same time, she is my person. So I will fight for her, I will protect her, but I will also let her go. I will watch her fly. I will watch her fall. I will let her make her own mistakes, I will watch her fail and I will help her back up again and watch her pull herself back up again. I will watch her be her best and I will be proud.


She is loving kindergarten and she is thriving. She has already learned a lesson that it has taken me 29 years to learn -- and that is that friends are important. Friends mean something. She needs her friends to get by and she knows that. I can sense she knows that when she looks around shyly each morning outside of her classroom, hanging onto my leg until the moment sweet little Amelie arrives. The second her school friend is there, everything is alright. She is ready, she is confident, she is her best person. She gives me a quick kiss and runs right away.


I am the same. I need my friends to get by. My friends make me my best person. Alan has been working like crazy (Ok, he always works like crazy. Lately, he's working like crazi-er.) He has been in Germany for a full week now and we still have two more sleeps until his return. The days could be long, the nights could be lonely, but for the first time in my life, they have not been. For the first time in my life, I have friends and I know they mean something. I have the best friends in the world. The ones who watch my kids so I don't have to miss a race that I've been pining after, the ones who then watch my kids after the race so I can nap and be a good mother for the rest of the day, the ones who scoop my kids up for soccer practice, who bend backwards and flip and flop and drop their own plans to make ours a little easier, who invite us over to family parties where we know we are outsiders but don't feel like it in the least, who drive many miles through LA traffic (and that alone means something!) to keep us company on quiet afternoons, who hold, change and bathe our babies and love us as we are -- imperfect, scattered, messy, cracked and broken at times -- with every ounce of their being and not because they have to, but just because they are our friends and because they know that Friends Mean Something. Some days, they mean everything.

Long Run Thoughts

Hey there, Happy Sunday to you all! I sit here writing poolside. Pink and blue duel side-by-side baby-pool-side, is. Little boy is inside napping and the girls were antsy and noisy inside, so this Mama kicked them (and herself) out to the backyard for some old fashioned hot, hot, hot summertime afternoon play. The mercury is rising and we are welcoming (or NOT) the 100 degree dog days of summer. But really, life is good.

Sunday is long run day for me. Some thoughts from this morning's 19-miler:

1. God, I am lucky. Seriously, I was thinking those exact sentiments for nearly the entire 19 mile solo sunrise run this AM. Lucky that the kids are home, safe and snug with daddy. Lucky that they are probably having an absolutely blast alone with daddy -- doesn't happen to often as he works long hours and it isn't rare for an entire day to pass without these three daddy-lovers getting a chance to see their amazing father. Lucky that my legs are healthy. Lucky that my body is healthy. Lucky that I can run 19 miles.

A very happy boy with his Daddy at a Getty Kid's Concert last night.

2. I love Hoka's. One day I will write much more about Hoka's -- my running shoe of choice these days. For now I will keep the story short. I wore minimalist shoes (sandals, to be exact). I changed/corrected my form. I re-taught my body how to run, literally from the ground up. I put my miles in. I am now a fore-foot striker. Then I increased my mileage, started racing, ran speed workouts weekly, got a calcaneous stress fracture. I was lost, I was depressed, I was embarrassed, devastated, miserable and many other words. Then my husband got me a pair of Hoka's. I have managed to score 3 free pairs now from some lucky work and friend connections and man, are they amazing. Yes, they look and feel very Frankenstein-ian at first, for a week maybe, but the extra cushioning and padding and support is incredible. They are actually a maximalist shoe, encourage proper form and have enabled me to run healthy, long, relatively high-mileage weeks (up to 50 mi/wk these days) pain-free and with very little joint fatigue after even 19 miles of pounding. Hoka's are amazing. I love them. I will write them a more proper ode later. : )

3. I wish I had a stroller + kid with me. Running with kids is more fun. Kids make life fun. They make everything a little more challenging, a little longer, a little more effort, but a LOT more fun. And stroller running also means they carry my water. It may seem silly, but I'd chose pushing a stroller with 1, 2 or 3 kids any day with my water loaded in the stroller trunk over running solo and carrying my own water. I hate carrying my own water, but alas it's part of the game.

Not a HOV (high occupancy vehicle) this week.
With Adara in Kindergarten now, the triple is no longer fully loaded for afternoon runs. 

4. Running in the heat is treacherous. As an exhausted mother who has been sleep deprived for 5+ years now, who rarely sleeps through the night and is lucky to get 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep (and I know, it could be worse because it has been worse, I've paid my dues), I abhor the idea of waking up to an alarm. My kids are early-risers, typically up before 6am. They are my alarm clock. But with the heat on full power these days, I have been setting my alarm every Saturday night for 5:30am. And oh, is it worth it when I am out the door before 5:40am and back from a 19-miler before 8:30am and the temperature is only 80 degrees. I'll take it.

Sweating it out. Backyard/naptime play.

5. I love marathon training. Mostly, I love long runs. I love the feeling that I am about to go out there and run further than I have ever run before. I get a rush from the knowledge that my body is being pushed to some new limits. Mostly, I am constantly amazed and inspired by the body's incredible ability to go further, push harder, respond positively without breaking down and while achieving amazing feats. (Sorry for this wacky formatting -- I suspect my computer may be overheating as it's acting a bit wacky at the moment and is refusing to align this paragraph correctly!)

6. Most days I cover more mileage running than by car. My mom gave me a little Fitbit. I put it on each morning and go. I rarely check the data, often forgetting for weeks on end. Sorry, Mom! One day I'll take full advantage of all the Fitbit apps and tools. For now, it serves an entertaining accessory to me. It always makes me smile when I get all 5 lights flashing before I have even reached the middle of my run. Five flashing lights signify that "You have reached your goal" or taken as many steps as the Fitbit program recommends per day. Today I reached my daily step goal before 7:00am. I suppose I should look into re-calibrating my baseline. One day! Ha -- as I sit her typing, an email alert just popped up with a message, "You've walked 30,000 steps today!" I guess that's cool. I still do not run with anything more than my Fitbit, handheld water bottle and a few Gu's. I don't run with a watch (I just get too time-obsessed and start racing myself) and for the same reason I don't use GPS, running computer, smart phone, music, iPod, or anything besides my own two legs. I love running for the pure joy and fun of it. Too much gear takes that away for me. Google maps or mapmyrun does come in handy pre- and post-run for determining exact mileage.

7. Running is fun. Simple as that, running is fun. Like nothing else, it leaves me with a deep sense of peace. Overcome with happiness, gratitude and love. 19 miles complete and I am ready to face the day, face the kids, face the world and all its ugliness, all its depression, sadness, stress and injustice. Ready to be my best and be the change. In my heart I believe that is all the world needs each day, it is all we can ask of ourselves: To be our best.

That's it for now. This pink pool beside me is calling and I am ready to join my girls for some baby pool swimming.

Half-Marathon Race Report

On Sunday, June 8th I raced the Valley Crest Half Marathon. It wiped me out. The challenges of trail racing never cease to amaze me. At the core of my being, I am a trail runner. I love to run, explore, play in the dirt. Luckily for me I have three little kids who also love these things! For years I have trained on the exact course that the Valley Crest Half Marathon traverses. Sometimes multiple times a day. It is our backyard, our sanctuary, our home. I know the trail back and forth. I could run it blindfold and still recite my exact landmark at any moment. And I have a bad sense of direction, so that says something. Heck, I have even written an ode to this course on my blog titled, Mulholland is a Woman.

And so, you would think I had some sort of advantage. You would think this race would be easy for me. But, it is trail running and trail running is never easy. And now I am convinced that trail racing is a different beast entirely. Trail racing is just plain tough. I crossed the finish line bloody, sore, stiff, exclaiming with my final breath, "Man, that was freaking hard." Trust me, I wanted to say worse, but my catholic uprising, God-fearing guilt kept the bad words in.

This year, the Valley Crest Half Marathon was freaking hard. The first 200m of the race start up a 15% grade, single track and technical. 300+ runners jockeying for position, just to get started on a 13.1 mile adventure. I reached the top with heavy, leaden legs. It was okay, though, for I expected that. What I didn't expect was what happened next. Once you reach the top, you descend. With tired legs, still getting warmed up and waiting out the pain while lactic acid slowly began to flush out, I raced my way downhill. Until... I ate it. Tripping, I slammed to the ground, sliding and skidding against ragged rocks, brand new handheld bottle flying, top off and smashed, water gone. Adrenaline rising, my biceps pushed my body right back up, I grabbed the top of my bottle and prepared to toss it to my husband and three babies whom I knew would be right around the bend anticipating my passing. Bottle empty, I knew I was in trouble with little aid on the course. Oh well, what can you do? Fall seven times, get up eight, played on repeat in my head. I don't know who said this or in what frame of thought, but I recalled reading it on the backs of many fellow runner's shirts during the LA (1/2) Marathon. It was enough to get me going again.

A few turns later and less than a mile up and I would reach my family's cheer station. Alan had planned to rush out of the house after breakfast with the kids in the triple to cheer for me. Afraid of them seeing me bloody and dirty, I wiped my open cuts against my dirty and dusty 3 inch shorts. What would they think? Would they think I was intense or just crazy? Clumsy? Or all of the above? I dusted myself off and kept on going. Shortly down the trail I spotted them. Shouting in as few words as possible to offer a simple explanation while not wasting the little breath I possessed, I tossed my bottle to them and continued on running.

And then I just kept on running and running and running. Honestly I was red-lining it for the entire 13.1 miles. At times the realization went through my head that I didn't have to be out there suffering. I didn't have to be out there red-lining it, on the blink of collapse at any given moment, toughing it out and just praying that the end was near, trying to ignore the fact that we still had another 2 miles of uphill before we even neared the finish. Some people can run a race for fun. I am not one of those. As much as I wish I could be one of these people at times, I can't. When the gun goes off, I'm out there suffering. And so I suffered hard that day.. through diarrhea mid-race, twice having to duck off course and clear my bowels just to keep some dignity as I crossed the finish line bloody and dusty. The second potty stop cost me 2nd place (female), but so it goes.

After 13.1 miles of pain, I crossed the finish line in 1:43, good enough for third place woman and sprinted straight to the aid station to get my open wounds cleansed and bandaged. I was done in every sense of that word. Done with trail running. Done with trail racing. For 1 day, at least. By Monday, I was out there again running and signing praises to Mulholland. By Tuesday, I was registered for my next trail race: Bulldog 25K in late August. Next time around I could put myself through 15 miles of pain on an even tougher course in the mountains of Malibu.

Trail running is freaking hard. And this was Week 0 of Chicago Marathon Training. Why do I do this to myself? 

Five Years a Mother

Adara will turn five years old tomorrow morning. I decided to post this tonight as we have a fun-filled day ahead, and one in which I want to enjoy and savor each moment rather than be spending time on a an electronic device.

Late July 2009. Adara filling me up inside.

I remember every second of this day -- and the 32 hours that preceded it -- five years ago. Alan, my little sister Ellen and I went grocery shopping at Sprouts, we watched half of the movie The Namesake,  but it paled in comparison to the novel I had just finished with the same title, so we turned it off and cooked fish tacos instead. We went to bed at 9pm. Contractions had already started. Deep within, I knew something amazing was about to happen. Yet I never realized, nor could I have realized, that the next series of hours would change every moment of my life from there on out.

On August 2nd, 2009 I was simply... exhausted. I was filled with an exhaustion and relief like none I had ever known before. After 32 hours of labor, 24 hours of it very intense with vomit and flooding fluids and contractions that sent my brain spinning every 2 minutes for an entire day, I was just happy to be done. I was ready to hold my baby and breathe her in. However, in my moment of utter exhaustion and other-wordly sensations (drug-free sensations as the entire labor and birth was intervention/drug-free), with my entire world spinning I failed to realize that I could not hold my baby. I could not breathe her in. Finally a mother yet no baby to hold. She was already taken. The next minutes and hours that passed were the longest of my life. Longer than those 24 hours of intense labor, longer than that final month weighing nearly as much as my husband and sweating through a hot hot July in the Valley.

Late July 2009 - Ready to be a mother.

Moments before I pushed Adara out, my midwife realized that something was wrong. Entirely focused on the task at hand, and so near the end, with my baby girl's head finally cresting, the nurses and midwife and my husband kept their eyes locked on the monitors and called in for emergency assistance. Adara was born with pneumonia after inhaling meconium, likely due to the length and intensity of my labor and the stress she was under herself with each raging contraction. And so, when Adara was born she had to be taken immediately to the NICU, meconium sucked out, lungs cleaned, placed on breathing tubes and feeding tubes and lots and lots of tubes. That is how I saw my baby girl for the first time ever, 2 hours after delivering her.

The first photo ever of Adara Kelly Jacobsen.

Touching my baby for the first time.

I remember shaking I was so nervous to hold her for the first time...

Pure Love.

Late nights in the NICU holding my Adara.

She was perfect. She was beautiful. She was a fighter. She was my Adara. The girl who made me a mother, who made me strong, who made me perfect, who made me beautiful. Happy Birthday to the sweetest first little baby who is growing up beside me, teaching and showing me the way of motherhood and of life. I love you, Adara.

And I know they all tell you and I know everyone says it, but man, it just all goes by way too fast. What I wouldn't give to go back five years and relive these five years again, just for the fun and the love.