Archives for August 2012

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Can You Keep A Secret?

August 31, 2012 By

Recently, I had the opportunity to read a delightful chick-lit book called The Booby Trap, by Anne Browning Walker. The protagonist is a woman who works in a bar similar to Hooters. Everyone just assumes that she is a bimbo, because she is blond and pretty, and earns a living in a place where men ogle her. What they don’t know is that she is a PhD candidate, and that her job provides her with material for her dissertation on women’s studies.

The woman meets a rich man during one of her shifts, and he has the same assumptions about her that everyone else does. She agrees to go out with him, but carefully guards her secret. She’s not ready for him to know that she is smart and ambitious – not at the beginning, anyway.

Although I would classify this story as very enjoyable light reading, it does raise an interesting question. How much do we really know our partners? Especially right after we’ve met them? Sometimes we go into relationships without really knowing a person, and I’m not talking about their deep dark history or the skeletons in their closet. Everyone has baggage that they don’t want to reveal right away.

No, I’m talking about the basic stuff. The information that most people can reasonably expect to know about someone before they start dating them. Here’s an example: I once dated a guy for five months without knowing that he was married. That’s a pretty fundamental thing to not know about your boyfriend. In fairness to me, the guy hid it really well. He kept a separate apartment in the city, he didn’t wear a ring, and nothing in his behaviour indicated that he had a wife stashed away.

Right after I found out about the wife, I broke up with him. It was nasty – the kind of breakup that involves yelling and insults slung all over the place. About ten days later, I was sitting on a park bench licking my wounds and vowing never to trust another man, when a stranger sat down beside me and told me I had beautiful eyes.

It was love at first sight. We went on our first date that night and we’ve been together since. We moved in together very soon after meeting, and neither of us kept anything secret from the other. We pretty much laid all our cards on the table right away.

There was one thing that was a little odd, though, and I’ve never been able to figure out the rationale behind it. When I met this stranger in the park, we exchanged basic biographical information. I told him that my name was Kirsten, I was originally from South Africa, and I was 31 years old. He told me that his name was Gerard, he was a first-generation Canadian of Irish descent, and he was 38 years old.

He lied about his age. At the time we met, he was actually about to turn 42.

It was not a big deal – I honestly didn’t care how old he was, and now I look back on it with a degree of bemusement – but it was just so unexpected.

I mean, a dude? Lying about his age?

WHY???

I thought only women lied about their ages, and to be honest, I’m not really too sure about the reasoning behind that either.

When Gerard told me his true age, he did give an explanation about the little piece of misinformation. I cannot remember the explanation now, but it seemed very philosophical at the time. I was so enthralled with him that I would have believed anything. He could have convinced me that he was actually an alien from Mars.

And who knows? Maybe he is.

Have you ever found out any secrets about your partner? Has he or she ever found out any about you?

(Photo credit: Steven Depolo. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: relationships, Secrets, The Booby Trap Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Toronto Women’s 5K: Speed Demon Wannabe

August 30, 2012 By

Most runners have some specific distances that they seem to excel at. There’s no formula for it, really, it’s just a matter of personal style and preference. Some runners are sprinters and do very well in the 5K runs, where pacing strategies aren’t really used. Others do better in longer distances, like 10K and 10 mile races. Then there are those who are slightly insane and do half and full marathons.

We will not discuss the freaks of nature who do ultramarathons.

I myself have always gone for the mid-to longish distance races, varying between 10K and 21.1K (half-marathon). The only reason I have not attempted a full marathon is because I cannot commit the time to the training. But someday…

The point is that 10K is generally the shortest distance I run. The poor 5K distance has been shamefully neglected.

Last weekend I put that right. I decided, early on this season, to put at least one 5K race into my schedule. Although it seems like a humble distance for a half-marathoner, I realized that it could be a really good test of my ability to just run like hell for half an hour or so.

I went into the race with some specific goals. First, I had to beat thirty minutes. Second, I would only take one walking break and that would be going through the aid station. Finally, I would finish in the top 50%. This last one was going to difficult, because I really had no idea how the other 390 runners in this race were going to do. I have been a little frustrated of late, though. When I first made my big comeback to running just over three years ago, I was finishing races in the bottom third. Since then, my performance has steadily improved, but that top 50% has been eluding me. As great as my 15K race ten days or so ago was, I still missed the average finishing time by just a couple of minutes.

I knew that I would have to work hard to achieve my goals, primarily because I had been out with my husband the previous night and consumed almost a full bottle of wine. Yes, I confess that I lined up at the start with a hangover the size of a mountain. I felt dehydrated and a little ill, but if anything, this motivated me to run as fast as I could, so I could get this over with.

I took my place in the starting corral at the last minute, so I was further back than I really wanted to be. And so when the race started, I got caught in the crowd, and I wasn’t able to go out as fast as I wanted to.

After a bit of weaving and dodging I was able to break away a little. The first two kilometres passed in a bit of a blur, and when I got to the turnaround point, I realized that I was actually enjoying myself.

Nothing cures a hangover like an elevated heart rate and a ton of sweat. It was great.

I was easily maintaining my target pace, so I slowed down to walk through the aid station.

Actually, that’s a lie. The aid station was manned by delicious-looking firefighters. And when you’re trying to impress firefighters, you don’t walk during a race. Not, at least, where they can see you. Your inner show-off emerges, and you pick up the pace. And that is why I was moving at a sprint when I grabbed a cup of water from the most delectable of the young gents. I ran on, not caring that I was sloshing my water all over the place. When I rounded the bend, then I slowed to a walk.

I drank my water, allowed my heart rate to subside for twenty seconds or so, and then I was off, with just two kilometres to go.

I started to get tired, but I was still keeping up with my goal pace. I slowed down marginally, just for the sake of keeping enough gas in the tank for a strong finish.

When I entered the final kilometre, my legs wanted to fall off. But I kept moving. At my current pace, I would nail that last kilometre in five and a half minutes. I kept reminding myself of what my friend and coach Phaedra told me as she ran me to my half-marathon finish along this exact path three months ago: “You can do anything for five minutes.”

When I saw the finish line ahead of me, my legs kicked into overdrive. I crossed the line with the clock reading 30:02 and a chip time of 29:18.

So. Finish the race in under half an hour? Check. Although it would have been nice to actually see the clock reading under 30:00. Next time I will pay more attention to my start line position.

Only walk through the aid station? Check. Kind of.

Finish in the top 50%? Check! I came in 86th out of 391 runners, and out of 44 in my age group, I was 15th. I was well ahead of the average finishing time of 35:10.

On Saturday afternoon, feeling content and triumphant, I took a nap on my back deck. Because dammit, I deserved it!

(Photo credit: Ryder Photography)

Filed Under: Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Dear George

August 28, 2012 By

For the last week, I have been participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” challenge. Life got in the way of blogging over the last few days, so I am a day behind.

Yesterday’s prompt: When I was your age… – Write a letter to your child/ren starting off the with the phrase “When I was your age…” share a story of your own with them.

Dearest George,

When I was your age, I was very much like you. I had the same shyness, the same difficulty with speech, the same awkwardness around people I didn’t know. Learning was difficult for me until someone realized that I was smart but couldn’t learn in the same way as other people.

The world was a different place then, when I was an eight-year-old girl. In the late 1970’s, there was no Internet, so my parents couldn’t Google my symptoms. While diagnoses like autism existed, they were not very common, and not easy to come by unless the doctors knew exactly what they were looking for.

Throughout my childhood, I was sent for tests and assessments, but the most my parents were ever told was that I had “learning disabilities”. No-one was really sure what that even meant.

Like you, I loved books. I remember the summer I learned how to read. It was as if a door to a whole new world had opened to me. My newfound love of reading was both a relief and a source of worry to my parents. On the one hand, I could read, and this is something that everyone wants for their children. But on the other hand, the more I delved into the world of books, the more I withdrew from the world I lived in.

In spite of my rough beginnings, I turned out OK. I graduated high school, got myself a university degree and some post-graduate qualifications. I have a reasonable career, and most important of all, I have my family. You, your dad, and your brother.

You see, even though teachers and doctors didn’t really know what to do with kids like me, I was lucky enough to be part of a loving, supportive family.

My dad was always there for me to talk to, anytime I needed. He was my kindred spirit in many ways, sharing my love of reading, and later, my enthusiasm for running. He was like my rock of support, something that would never waver in the harshest of storms.

My brother and I fought like cat and dog, but in the end, we would have moved the earth for each other. God help anyone who hurt my brother’s little sister.

And my mom, your granny – she was a pillar of strength and support for me. She never doubted that I was capable of succeeding in life, and she helped steer me in the right direction. She worked tirelessly with me, making sure I was doing my homework, reading with me, being my advocate at school.

I often had conflicts with all of the members of my family. There were times when I wanted to run far, far away.

But there was never a time when I doubted that my family loved me and were there for me. When things got stormy, I always knew that the storm would pass and everything would be OK.

This is what my hope is for you. Parents and kids argue. Brothers fight. All of that is part of life. But I hope you know that no matter what, you are loved more than you could possibly know.

Please know that we are here for you, and always will be. I hope that can be at least half the mother to you that my mother was to me.

I love you always,

Mommy

(Photo from Kirsten Doyle’s archive of childhood pictures)

 

Filed Under: autism, Childhood, family, Learning Disability, parenting, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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There is No-one Alive Who is Youer than You

August 27, 2012 By

Although I am a bit behind on my prompts, I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival, in which I describe our lives as an autism family.

Today’s prompt (OK, yesterday’s prompt): Quote, End Quote. Post – Let someone else’s wise words inspire you. Find a quote that moves you in some way then free-write about it. Don’t stop writing for 15-20 mins. Now post!

Dr. Seuss was a wise man. He had so many profound things to say that one could be forgiven for thinking he was a philosopher disguised as a children’s storybook writer. I am raising my children to live by the words of Dr. Seuss, because he really did have sound advice for every occasion.

A couple of years ago, I came to the uncomfortable realization that I had fallen into the habit of inadvertently defining my son by virtue of his autism. It was always the first thing I told anyone.

When asked about my family, I would volunteer the information that I was married with two boys. “My older son has autism,” I would say, as if my audience just had to know that about George.

The truth is that I have been so determined to be open about my son’s autism in order to knock on the head any notion that there should be a stigma attached to it. But I started wondering if perhaps I was doing my son a disservice by labeling him from the outset, and thereby creating an instant perception that was based on his diagnosis, and not on who he is as a person.

So I decided to change my approach. While I will never, ever make any effort to hide the fact of George’s autism, I no longer make a point of stating it up front. Because George is not just a boy with autism. He is a boy, a beautiful person with individuality and many great qualities, and he has the right for people to get to know him as such.

The subject of autism always comes up, and it never takes very long. I am always happy to talk about autism and the challenges of special needs parenting, but now it is something that arises naturally in the course of conversation. I no longer treat it as the central element to my son’s existence.

I want George to grow up knowing that he is loved and valued because of the person he is. There is no-one in the world like him, and every day I thank my lucky stars that I’m the one who gets to be his mother.

(Photo credit: Brendan-c. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: Acceptance, autism, Dr. Seuss, Individuality Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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Once Upon A Time

August 25, 2012 By

This week I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival, in which I write posts in response to prompts. I am having a lot of fun with this!

Today’s prompt: Once upon a time – It’s storytelling day! Write a story about yourself, your loved one, and others as though you’re a children’s book author. Be sure to include a beginning, middle, and end. Extra points for illustrations!

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who didn’t really like dolls, except for the rag doll her granny made her and the child-size walking doll she once got for Christmas. She didn’t really play with dolls, though. She preferred to play “Cops and Robbers” with her brother and his friends, even though her brother always made her be the bad guy who was shot dead.

The little girl thought her brother was bossy and annoying.

Many people thought the little girl would never be a mommy. She didn’t know how to take care of dolls, and she couldn’t sew or cook. Everyone thought that you had to be able to sew and cook in order to be a mommy. The little girl didn’t really care. She wanted to be an astronaut.

The little girl became a teenager and stopped being little. She still couldn’t sew or cook, and she was painfully shy around people she didn’t know. Apart from a couple of short-lived attempts at relationships, she didn’t have boyfriends. People still didn’t think she would ever become a mother. The girl still didn’t care about that, but she was starting to wonder if she would be alone for her whole life.

When she went away to university, the girl – now a young woman – met a man who flattered her and made her feel special. But then he hurt her and made her feel worthless. Now the young woman didn’t want to be a mother. She didn’t want to be a wife. She wanted to be alone, and for a long time, she was.

The woman grew older and moved to another country. One day, when she was sitting in a park, a man sat down beside her and told her she had beautiful eyes. When she looked at him, she felt as if she was looking at her future.

The man and woman moved into a house together. They had a baby, and two years later, they had another one. The woman had become a mother! She loved her children more than anything, and her children loved her.

The woman no longer thought her brother was bossy and annoying. He walked her down the aisle when she got married.

When a doctor told the woman that her older son had autism, she cried. But after a few years, she knew that even though there would be hard times, her child would be OK, because he had a family who loved him.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: family, life, Marriage, parenting, Siblings, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Challenges of Special Needs Parenting

August 23, 2012 By

This week, I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival. Each day, there is a prompt that I answer in the form of a blog post. Although only George has the autism diagnosis, we also recognize the challenges faced by his little brother. All of my posts here this week are dedicated to him.

Today’s prompt: Challenge accepted! Parenting isn’t all sunshine and ice cream – it’s hard. Write a post that delves into 3 challenges that you face as a parent.

Me and my boys, September 2010

“That must be so hard.”

That is a common response when people find out that my son has autism. And they are right. It is hard, but not necessarily in the ways one might expect. Because as parents, we all do what we have to do. We all want the same things for our children, whether they have special needs or not. We try to keep our children safe, and for me, that sometimes means physically restraining my son to stop him from banging his head on the hardwood floor. We try to make sure they are reaching whatever potential they are capable of, and for our family, that entails intensive behavioural intervention, speech therapy, individual education plans, and navigating the special education system.

These things are challenging, and at times, heartbreaking. But I am so busy just doing what needs to be done that I don’t really give a lot of thought to the hardship factor of it all. At the end of the day, the reward is far greater than the challenge. We get the smiles, the hugs, the occasional leaps of progress that make it all worthwhile.

As full of bravado as I might sound, though, I am only human, and there are things about this whole special needs parenting gig that I wish I could be better at.

Managing the sibling connection

I often worry that James got a rough deal, being the brother of a kid with autism. So many things happen that, if I were in James’ shoes, I would be downright mad about. James, for instance, gets more timeouts than George, not only because he is more aware of what his behaviour should be like, but because George doesn’t really get discipline. I can explain to James until I’m blue in the face that the best way to punish George for bad behaviour is to simply ignore it, but how can a six-year-old be expected to understand that?

Then there are the times when James has to patiently stand by waiting for attention while I am dealing with one of George’s meltdowns. Those meltdowns, which involve George screaming in frustration and trying to bang his head on things, must be so frightening for James to see and hear. And yet this little kid waits patiently for whatever he needs, be it a cup of milk, or the answer to a question, or simply a comforting hug.

I try to make it up to James in other ways. I try to talk to him about George’s autism and what it means. There is no doubt in my mind that James adores his brother, and for the most part he seems to be happy. But I cannot help wondering just how well I am doing this parenting thing. How good a job am I doing of balancing the oft-conflicting needs of my two boys?

Managing the marital connection

When George was first diagnosed with autism just over five years ago, my doctor gave me a startling statistic. About 80% of couples who have children with special needs or chronic illnesses break up. I think that is unspeakably sad. I mean, when someone’s life is turned upside down by the reality of there being something wrong with their child, a strong spousal partnership could bring such comfort and take away that feeling of being all alone. But instead of coming closer together, many couples are ripped apart by their grief.

My husband and I both went through a process of grieving when we first discovered that George had autism. We had put together a beautiful picture of what our family life was going to be like, and in one swoop that picture was destroyed. At the time, we had no way of knowing that we would ultimately build a new picture – one very different to the original, but no less beautiful. All we knew was that we were crushed under the weight of what was going on.

Things got rough for us, but we survived. Together. We have our moments where things aren’t so great, but in the end we are partners, and we are in this together.

It can be so hard, though, to find the time and energy for one another. We are both working so hard to create the best possible lives for our boys, that sometimes we drift a little. At those times, we have to make the effort to drift towards each other.

Managing my own needs

I don’t claim to be anything special. I’m just a regular mom who happens to have a child with autism. I have a full-time job a one-hour commute away from home, I help out with my husband’s business, and I raise my kids. I cook, I clean, and I do laundry. I make sure the bills get paid and I try to get to bed at a reasonable hour each night.

I stay sane by running, and by writing. Occasionally, I even write stuff that makes sense. I love to write because it gives me a voice. I love to run because it provides a physical release from the stress, and because it gives me time to myself, to clear my head.

Here’s the thing, though: I am only one person, and no matter how well I manage my time, there are only 24 hours in one day. And when I start running out of time to do everything that needs to be done, the first thing to go is the stuff that I do for myself. Gaps start to appear in my blog. I submit archive pieces to the ezine I write for. I curtail training runs, or even – Lord forbid – cut them out altogether.

It’s as if my lowest priority in my life is myself. And I wonder if that is OK. Could those bills not be paid tomorrow instead of today? Will the world end if the laundry doesn’t get done right away? Does it matter that, once in a while, I’m grabbing something convenient from the freezer just so I can spend time taking care of myself?

I don’t know the answers. But I do think I do a reasonable job as a parent, and I am having the time of my life seeing my kids grow up.

(Photo credit: Holly Bannerman)

Filed Under: autism, Autism Diagnosis, Brothers, Challenges, family, Marriage, Self-Care, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things

August 22, 2012 By

This week I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival. Over the next few days, I will be answering blog prompts to talk about our life as an autism family. All of the posts on my blog this week are dedicated to my son James, in recognition for what an amazing brother he is.

Today’s prompt: A few of my favourite things – Write 5-10 of your favourite things about your loved one. Celebrate their uniqueness and be sure to tell us why those are your favourite things.

I make a big deal of the fact that my boys are great brothers to one another, and that is something that means a lot to me. I try to encourage a positive relationship between them in whatever ways I can. Today, though, I want to celebrate them as individuals.

 

A few of my favourite things about James

1. He is snuggly. When he is sleepy, or simply wants a cuddle, he climbs into my lap and his body relaxes completely against mine. At those moments, he is like my very own teddy bear, all softness and warmth. No matter how bad I might be feeling on any particular day, those snuggles bring a smile to my face. Because how could that not make me feel better?

2. He has a natural sense of empathy that goes beyond his own family. He truly cares about what is going on with other people, and he has an uncanny ability to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. This is one of the things that makes being around him such a magical experience.

3. He has a great imagination. His mind travels to places that would be beyond my wildest dreams. He creates stories about dragons and princesses, about magic toucans on faraway worlds, about unicorns that glitter and shimmer in the dark and fly to the tops of mountains. If you ever want to escape for a while, all you have to do is ask James to tell you a story.

4. He likes running. This interest may or may not stay with him, but for now, I am really enjoying the fact that he likes to go out for little jogs with me. Running was an interest that I shared with my dad, and to be able to share it with my son as well is tremendously special. It is a lot of fun, and it gives us a bit of time together, just the two of us.

5. He is passionate about what he believes in. OK, sometimes the passion comes across as a drama queen kind of attitude that drives me insane, but I love that James speaks his mind. I love the fact that he has strong opinions and a willingness to express them.

A few of my favourite things about George

1. Many people think that children with autism are not capable of affection, but George definitely is. He has a heart full of love and an endless supply of hugs for those dear to his heart. He is tall and gangly, but he is still just about able to clamber onto my lap for a hug. When he outgrows that ability, I will be truly sad.

2. He is a very funny kid. He finds humour in the oddest places and is so enthusiastic about it that we cannot help finding it absolutely hilarious. The humour is handily packaged with the most infectious laugh you ever heard. Once George gets going with his laughter, that’s it. You may as well cancel whatever plans you had because you’ll be too busy rolling around on the floor.

3. He’s a technogeek. Some people just have a knack for figuring out how things work, and George is one of them. When he was about five, I was trying to get the DVD player to work. George watched me wrestle with the thing for a while, and then he clicked his tongue impatiently, elbowed me out of the way, and pressed one button to get the movie going. It is useful to have a built-in tech support person.

4. He is determined. George has definitely inherited a stubborn streak that is in both me and in his dad. If he wants something, he will find a way to get it. There is no problem that he gives up on, and he can be very resourceful in how he goes about finding a solution. Sometimes this is not great from a parent’s point of view, but I love the fact that George just does not give up. On anything.

5. He has a fantastic memory. He only has to go somewhere once in order to know its location, what there is en route, and how long it should take to get there. It can be a little awkward when we’re trying to get from Point A to Point B and George knows where every single donut shop in between is, but if we’re ever in doubt we can just ask him for directions. Who needs a GPS when you have a child with autism in the car?

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Brothers, Determination, Empathy, Humour, Imagination, Laughter, Love, Memory, Passion, running, Technology, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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A Portrait of Two Brothers

August 21, 2012 By

For the next week, I will be participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” blog carnival. As I talk about the joys and challenges of raising a child with autism, I also recognize the contributions – of which there are so many – of my younger son James. All of the posts that I publish here this week are dedicated to him.

Today’s prompt: Portrait Post – Write a descriptive portrait of your child/ren. Share qualities that make them, them – and include an image!

They lie curled up together on the bed, their identical-coloured curls tangled together on a single pillow bedecked in a Thomas the Train pillowcase. The larger of the two boys has his arm thrown casually but protectively over his little brother. These boys are both amazing individuals in their own right, but at times like this, it seems that one would not be complete without the other.

Although only one of the children has a diagnosis, I am an advocate for both of them.

On the left is George, almost nine years old. He is tall for his age: one of those long lanky kids who somehow manages to stay skinny despite eating startling quantities of food. He bears a strong physical resemblance to me: our noses are the same shape, our eyes are the same shade of blue, and when we’re tired, both of our left eyes droop ever so slightly in the corner.

George has autism. He has profound delays in speech and social communication, and he gets anxious – almost panicky – when an established routine is deviated from. He has trouble regulating his emotions, and will bang his head in frustration when he is unable to make us understand what it is that’s bothering him. There are times when I look into his eyes and see the depth of his frustration, his sadness, his desperation to communicate in ways that he is not able to. It’s as if he wishes he could emerge from his world, even if just for a moment.

There are times, though, when his world is a wonderful place. He can see patterns where the rest of don’t even know one exists. He sees beauty in numbers: he is comforted by their consistency and their power, and he has always outperformed typical kids of his age in math. If there’s a problem to be solved, he will solve it, albeit by a somewhat unconventional method. He has a quirky sense of humour along with the most infectious laugh you ever heard. When George laughs, the whole world really does laugh with him.

And he has the most beautiful, pure heart that is just bursting with love. I treasure the moments when he says in his sweet lyrical voice, “Go give Mommy a hug”, and then clambers onto my lap, drapes his gangly arms around my neck and buries his face in my hair.

On the right of the bed is James, who is six going on twenty-seven. He came flying into the world like a cannonball one cold Christmas afternoon, and he hasn’t stopped since. He is a bundle of dynamite who zings his way around life with a seemingly endless supply of energy. His face is bright and vibrant, brought to life by shiny blue eyes that view the world with wonder and curiosity.

It is hard for him, being the sibling of a child with autism. Things happen that he perceives to be unfair, but in spite of this, his love for his brother does not waver. He tells me that he loves George more than he loves me – and I am completely fine with that. When George is having a meltdown, James treats him with concern and compassion. Many times, he will be the first one to know what George is trying to say and what he needs. We sometimes see George seeking out the comfort of his brother – comfort that James is always ready to give.

James shows wisdom and empathy beyond his years. But when he wakes in the morning and sleepily climbs into my lap, his little body melts against mine and I am reminded that he is just a baby. He may be a little brother with a big brother’s role, but he needs to be nurtured, cared for, protected. We need to be make sure that as he grows up, his role as George’s brother is balanced by his identity as James, as an individual with his own hopes and dreams.

I worry about the future for both of my boys. They will each have their challenges to deal with, and their battles to fight.

But now, as they lie sleeping, they don’t have a care in the world. And that’s just the way it should be.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Advocating for Another, autism, Brothers, Children, family, life, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Midsummer Night’s Run: Conquering the Monster

August 20, 2012 By

I run for many reasons, one of which is to raise funds for autism services. This is to benefit children like my son George, who was diagnosed with autism just over five years ago. But it is also to benefit kids like my younger son James – the siblings, the people who are born into a highly responsible position, regardless of birth order. If there is funding for autism services, everyone benefits, and maybe – just maybe – more resources become available for sibling programs and services.

All of my posts here this week – including this race report – are dedicated to the amazing sibling in my family, my son James.

Anyone on my Facebook friends list will be able to tell you how much I was dreading this weekend’s Midsummer Night’s Run. I was dreading it to the point of wondering if I should even bother to pick up the race kit. I had run two races on this course, including last year’s Midsummer Night’s Run, and I had performed dismally in both of them. This 15K route, which had endless monotonous stretches and virtually no spectator support, seemed to be my personal nemesis.

I signed up for the race thinking it would be my opportunity to set things straight, to defeat this course once and for all. And for a while I was optimistic. I have been having a phenomenal racing season – by far my best since my return to running in 2009.

But as the race drew near, my anxiety levels started to increase. Memories of last year’s Midsummer Night’s Disaster kept plaguing me, I had several rough training runs in a row, and I had some stressful things happening in the non-running areas of my life. Instead of the usual pre-race jitters that I usually get a bit of a kick out of, all I felt was pure dread. A sense of doom.

Chaos at home on the morning of the race did not help my cause. The kids were awake and at war with each other by eight in the morning, resulting in me having to spend much of the day in a peacekeeping kind of role (seriously, when the United Nations needs ambassadors, they should seek out mothers). Before I knew it, it was almost time to leave for the race and I had nothing ready. I didn’t even know where my running clothes were. I scrambled around and dug up clean running clothes and threw them on. I packed a backpack with fuel belt, water, a frantically made peanut butter sandwich, and my race bib (which I remembered at the last minute). I panicked when I couldn’t locate my hat, and ended up leaving without it.

I got to the start area with plenty of time to spare, and I started to relax a little. There was a lady in a booth selling hats, so I bought one and then sat on the grass, letting the pre-race energy work its magic on me. By the time I lined up at the start, I wasn’t exactly feeling optimistic, but the sense of dread was at least lifting.

Let me pause my account for a moment to describe the route. From the start, you run east along a stretch of road for about 2K. Then you turn right onto a path called the Leslie Street Spit and run all the way to the end of a man-made peninsula. You go around a lighthouse and then back to the start.

The stretch along the Leslie Street Spit is very picturesque in places, but it is very desolate, and it feels as if it will never end. If you’re looking for crowd support, you’re not getting it there. No-one lives down there and at night it’s kind of off the beaten path.

When I ran this race last year, I was already exhausted when I turned onto the Leslie Street Spit, a mere 2K into the race. By the time I went around the lighthouse, I was huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, and wondering how on earth I would make it all the way back to the start.

This time round, I checked off the first 2K with ease. I was aiming to beat 1:40 and had a moment of anxiety when I found myself alongside the 1:45 pace bunny in the second kilometre. I soon left her behind though: I have a feeling the bunny started out too quickly and adjusted her pace accordingly.

At the 3K mark there was an aid station. I chugged a cup of Gatorade and continued on my way. I was watching my pace closely, sticking to 6:30 min/km as well as I could. I resisted the temptation to break away, and instead used the runners around me as pace bunnies.

The kilometres ticked over one by one. I kept waiting for the fatigue of last year to set in, but to my amazement, it just didn’t happen. I breezed my way around the lighthouse and even managed a smile for the photographer lurking in the grass (who looked a bit like Hagar the Horrible minus the horns and the Viking d0g). I coasted along a gravelly section that I distinctly remember wanting to throw up on last year.

Throughout, my pace barely wavered from 6:30 min/km. With about 5K to go, I decided that it would be worth kicking it up a notch. Just one notch, though. I wasn’t ready for an all-out sprint just yet.

When I passed the final aid station, I knew that I was about a minute from turning off the Leslie Street Spit and re-entering civilization. I thoroughly enjoyed the last 2K, smiling and waving at spectators who were kind enough to cheer as I passed.

With 1K to go, I started to hear the noises of the finish line. Now I was ready for all-out sprint, and I had plenty of energy to put into my finishing kick. I rounded the final corner, sprinted down the home stretch and made it over the finish line with energy left in the tank and the clock reading 1:36:25 – an improvement of 13 minutes over last year’s time.

I think I can safely say that I have defeated the monster. My personal nemesis is no more.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Midsummer Nights Run, pacing, Race, running, Victories, Worry Tagged With: , , , , ,
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