<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448</id><updated>2011-09-06T11:06:03.406-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Red-Headed Running Mama</title><subtitle type='html'>Tales from a running now Pregnant mama!</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>25</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-754999745320019502</id><published>2010-12-09T12:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-09T13:52:02.203-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Introdution to Running While PREGO</title><content type='html'>With my first son I was completely paranoid and didn't run at all in the first trimester of my pregnancy.  I tried to find some sort of &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;guidance&lt;/span&gt;  on running while pregnant, I searched the &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;Internet&lt;/span&gt;, Amazon, for something titled "Running while pregnant."  Turns out, research was limited and running while pregnant to some was still considered a taboo.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So with a heavy heart I hung up my running shoes until the second trimester, thinking I would never forgive myself if something happened.  Once I was in the second trimester and I was cleared by my &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;dr&lt;/span&gt;. that I would not be a high risk pregnancy, I started to run again.  Although I was slow, I felt amazing. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It seems that running while pregnant has often been frowned upon by those in the medical community, particularly those with the "old school" mentality that you are week and frail when you are pregnant, and you should do nothing to over exert yourself.  Now I am not saying if you have never been a runner the minute you see the two pink lines you should lace up and run a marathon.  My personal belief is that when you are pregnant, if you were a runner before, running is still a possibility.  The good news is more evidence is coming out as time goes on to &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;suport&lt;/span&gt; this theory.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two months prior to finding out I was pregnant Running Magazine published an article on Paula Radcliffe and Kara &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;Goucher&lt;/span&gt;  and how they both trained through their &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;pregnancies&lt;/span&gt;.  The article was very candid and explored the challenges they faced while continuing to train while pregnant.  They both talked about how they just listened to their &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;bodies&lt;/span&gt; and how they tailored their training program to the way they felt. They also expressed the freedom they felt no longer running to be &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;competitive&lt;/span&gt;, but to maintain their fitness levels.  I was ecstatic to read about these female athletes publicly speaking about their experiences openly and both had healthy babies.  It let people know that running while &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;pregnant&lt;/span&gt; can actually be done.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I know I am no &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;Olympic&lt;/span&gt; athlete, and I don't have an underwater treadmill, but I wanted to BLOG about this &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;pregnancy&lt;/span&gt; and running while pregnant to let other runners know that becoming &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;pregnant&lt;/span&gt; is not a nine month death sentence.  I am not a &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;dr&lt;/span&gt;., so none of this should be taken as medical advice.  I am just your &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;average&lt;/span&gt; runner, &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;addicted&lt;/span&gt; to the sport and looking to prove that I can run through this &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;pregnancy&lt;/span&gt; and have a healthy beautiful baby!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-754999745320019502?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/754999745320019502/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2010/12/introdution-to-running-while-prego.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/754999745320019502'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/754999745320019502'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2010/12/introdution-to-running-while-prego.html' title='Introdution to Running While PREGO'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-4919052360540941124</id><published>2010-08-11T15:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-08-12T14:50:14.727-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Where did I go?</title><content type='html'>I was out for my daily run and saw a car drive by with plates that read "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;BRADSMOM&lt;/span&gt;," and I thought to myself... really? As if we wouldn't get the picture when your son comes barrelling out of your car and screams "Mom, where's my soccer bag?" It's as if we as mothers trade in our old identity with a new one &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;pre-approved&lt;/span&gt; with a stamp that says MOTHER, in case the Mini van and ponytail, didn't give it away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Although the license plate annoyed me....... it made me think. This year my little man turned two, and I had a revelation. After two years of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;pouring&lt;/span&gt; my devoted new found motherhood into him, I stopped and wondered.........&lt;strong&gt;where did I go?&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Looking in the mirror I still see traces of me, maybe a frazzled less stylish me, but something inside me did start to wonder, &lt;strong&gt;where did I go?&lt;/strong&gt; It was as if all the pieces that made up who I was were scattered about waiting...... calling to be put back together.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's funny how I used to focus on the milestones of my own life, college, marriage, children. Now my milestones are focus more on the when to take the bottle away, graduating from the crib and potty training. It's as if time has transformed into something different for me, a portal of self-sacrifice and apathy for the person I used to be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Since my son has developed new independence, he even brushes his own teeth( with strawbeery flavored toothpaste of course), suddenly have a little more free time. Now, don't get me wrong chasing after a toddler after an eight hour work day can still be relentless, but the other day I realized I have spent the last two years loving every &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;ounce&lt;/span&gt; of this little person, and being "Brody's Mommy, " &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;worrying&lt;/span&gt; about his ears, his &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;sippy&lt;/span&gt; cups, his blanket, his potty, and whether I was being a good mother. I realized I forgot that although I am a mom, I'm also &lt;strong&gt;me.&lt;/strong&gt; I realized my soul needed &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;feeding&lt;/span&gt;, reawakening and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;nurturing&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back in the day I don't remember telling my husband.........not now honey I am trying to brush Brody's teeth, or no we can't go there because there is no potty. I'm pretty sure my reply was usually "That sounds lovely, lets pack, and oh grab a bottle of wine." I painted, I baked, I even wrote thank you cards. Now I am lucky if I get fifteen minutes to read prior to passing out before bed, that way I might have something more interesting and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;intellectual&lt;/span&gt; to talk about, other then what my kid ate for breakfast.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's amazing how your individuality can slowly &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;disintegrate&lt;/span&gt; leaving you wondering what you did before you had a child. I know now, I'm still me, it's just some of my personality traits needed to be revived and allowed to resurface. I realize now I can still be me and an even better me because I am " Brody's Mommy,"and that piece of the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;puzzle&lt;/span&gt; only compliments the other pieces.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-4919052360540941124?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/4919052360540941124/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2010/08/where-did-i-go.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4919052360540941124'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4919052360540941124'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2010/08/where-did-i-go.html' title='Where did I go?'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-6630099238841859644</id><published>2010-03-08T14:50:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T15:52:00.648-08:00</updated><title type='text'>MY Little Black Hole</title><content type='html'>I used to wonder why my friends with small children suddenly turned into hermits. It was like as soon as their child became a toddler they entered the world of social leprosy and fell down a little black hole. I thought to myself, really how bad could it be, and why &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;couldn't&lt;/span&gt;’t you just teach your children to behave?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After having a toddler of my own I realized quickly why people with two year &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;olds&lt;/span&gt;, took a “time out,” from the social scene they used to frequent. Taking a teething, nap deprived, off schedule, hungry toddler any where is enough cause even the most patient parents to immerse themselves into hiding watching &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;DVR&lt;/span&gt; repeats of Sesame Street. Now I’m not talking about the grocery store, my child can usually stand a trip there, with the help of a small bribe in the form of animal crackers. I am talking about social events, dinners, public functions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember when my son was an infant I would take him to public functions, parade him around and everyone would stop and coo over him, and I would smile back at them as the proud new mama. There is something unappealing about stopping to coo over a toddler, covered in dirt, shirt stained, holding a germ infested coke can he found on the ground, licked and is now trying to hand you, and is squirming to be free of his mother as swiftly as possible. Toddlers are no longer babies, but they &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;aren&lt;/span&gt;’t children. They are little people with big ideas swirling around in their head, released only in the form of a temper tantrum.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After taking my toddler on a trip anywhere, especially after he has been in a car seat for a long time (which I firmly believe he thinks is a straight jacket,) he is ready to run. In fact he often runs to the first sign of danger, moving objects, or anything that could potentially take him out. My son often reminds me of that dog you see on the side of the road, trying to cross the road with no concept of the fact there is a vehicle moving toward them at 70 mph. A toddler is much the same, a mobile menace, running toward danger at steadfast pace ignoring you and your; don’t, come back, be careful, slow down, stay here, you can’t, MOMMY SAID NO!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I come home from a trip I am spent! Not only from packing and unpacking a loot of what looks like a car full of things for 20 children, but from trying to keep up with my toddler. We pull into our driveway and he squeals with excitement, as if devil child has freed the fun loving happy toddler who is the child I have come to know. I grab him and take him into our child proof home and I sigh in relief, letting him run free, where I know there is no danger. We curl up, watch a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;DVR&lt;/span&gt; episode of Sesame Street and I realize we are comfortable, familiar and happy in that little black hole we call home.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-6630099238841859644?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6630099238841859644/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-little-black-hole.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6630099238841859644'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6630099238841859644'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-little-black-hole.html' title='MY Little Black Hole'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-1270741276769872751</id><published>2009-09-21T15:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-23T08:12:04.966-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Day Care</title><content type='html'>Daycare. For a mother this word can have so many meanings. To some it is a taboo, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;to&lt;/span&gt; others it is a chance to go back to work and help out with the family income.  Regardless of how you might feel about day care, the truth is more women are taking their children to day care just to make ends meet.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For women like me it isn't a choice to take my child to day care.  Of course I would love to stay home with him.  I want to be there to wipe his nose, band aid his cuts, clean cheerios off the floor.  Unfortunately, it just isn't &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;feasible&lt;/span&gt; for me.  I am not one of those people who lives a lavish life style, I 'm not going to work so I can drive an &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Escalade&lt;/span&gt;, I'm working to help pay the power bill.  A&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;lthough&lt;/span&gt; I know this &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;every time&lt;/span&gt; I leave him, I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;know&lt;/span&gt; he doesn't know this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Before taking Brody to day care I spent an hour at the facility checking every crack, step and toy for suspicious culprits.  Deep down I knew her house was just like my house.  Like a CIA investigator I spoke with the Babysitter and asked her a million questions, trying &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;desperately&lt;/span&gt; not to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;interrogate&lt;/span&gt; her.   After leaving the place, I felt good.  The children there seemed happy and content.  I came away feeling as good as I could after leaving a daycare.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Still I dreaded the first day of daycare.  I couldn't sleep for days.   I had his bag packed two days in &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;advance&lt;/span&gt; with all his emergency phone numbers, and his special food, just in case he wouldn't eat anything else. Before I knew it the day had come.  We drove to the day care , I took a deep breath and walked inside.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I plopped Brody down on the floor and another child &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;greeted&lt;/span&gt; him with a "Hi Brody."  He &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;shied&lt;/span&gt; away for the first few minutes and before I knew it he was in the corner pulling every toy off the shelf, tossing blocks, and pressing his face up against the large fish tank with a little swimming turtle.  I kissed him goodbye dreading the classic cling to the leg, mommy don't leave me behavior.  I was shocked to discover he ignored me, and I walked out with ease.  No heart wrenching goodbye, no heavy guilt weighting on my shoulders as I walked out.  Still I stepped into my car and began to cry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was amazed at how well Brody adapted in just a short amount of time.  I asked myself are we as mothers really worried about them, and if they will survive.  Is there some secret voice lurking with in us that says "My baby, needs me, and once goes to day care, or school , he won't need me anymore, not the way he needed me before. "   Gone were the days of him as  a helpless breastfeeding infant.  I realized Brody was becoming a wonderful little boy and he was already learning to be social, friendly and to share with others. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the end of the day, when it was time to pick Brody up I walked through the door.  The minute he heard my voice my eyes met his and he smiled.  He ran over to me and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;squealed&lt;/span&gt; in excitement.  I scooped him up into my arms as he pointed at the fish tank and began to babble on.  I like to think he was trying to tell me about his day.  I like to think it really didn't matter.  I had my little man back in my arms and we would go home where he would once again be my baby.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-1270741276769872751?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/1270741276769872751/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/day-care.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/1270741276769872751'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/1270741276769872751'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/day-care.html' title='Day Care'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-4159926973049794300</id><published>2009-09-21T15:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-21T15:41:41.909-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Neglected my blog.</title><content type='html'>I have been neglecting you dear Blog... please accept my appology.  Brody has started walking, been to day care and I haven't documented any of it.  I promise dear blog to be good to you!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-4159926973049794300?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/4159926973049794300/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/neglected-my-blog.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4159926973049794300'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4159926973049794300'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/neglected-my-blog.html' title='Neglected my blog.'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-3691945890245093747</id><published>2009-07-29T12:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-29T12:41:34.134-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dealing With my Injury</title><content type='html'>Having a running injury can bring down the spirit of a runner.   An injury that knocks you down for a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;significant&lt;/span&gt; amount of time can make you feel "off," for weeks.  Most &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;competitive&lt;/span&gt; runners are addicts, in need of an escape, in need of a high.  When facing an injury you are struggling to find a replacement for your high, only I have come to find there is no replacement.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Much of the behavior of struggling with an injury is &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;similar&lt;/span&gt; to what a recovering addict struggles to overcome.  You are in love with your drug of choice only you can't do it, and you can't do it for a significant amount of time. You start out in the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;first&lt;/span&gt; phase of denial............ it will go away, I'll run it out, it's all in my head, I'm not injured.   Then you try to stop for a little while thinking you might just give it a day or two, let it's &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;persistence&lt;/span&gt; die down.  After a few days you wake up, craving your morning run and longing to get back out on the road.  Basically, you fall off the wagon. You ignore the signs.  You lace up, get  moving,  and your injury robs your mental state of readiness and throws you a fat reality check.  You will be out of commission for a while.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just like an addict you loose contact with your old friends, because they are all still addicts.  They are planning there next races and improving their times.  You &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;separate&lt;/span&gt; yourself because with each mention of the "next race," your yearning grows steadfast and you begin to think again "Maybe it is all in my head," then you remember the sharp pain you felt ten minutes out into your last run.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just like a smoker turns to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;nicorette&lt;/span&gt;, you try and find a replacement for your addiction such as swimming or riding a bike.   Just like a smoker chews massive amounts of gum only to realize the buzz is weak, cycling and swimming for me just don't make the cut.  I am lost, I can't find my &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;rhythm&lt;/span&gt;.  These &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;actives&lt;/span&gt; were great on my "off days," sometimes they even helped to loosen up my legs.  When doing these activities I never quiet reach that euphoric state, somehow I remain just bellow the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;threshold&lt;/span&gt; of bliss, a steady pace, going nowhere.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Treating a running injury is different from a regular addict in one way.  Usually a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;regular&lt;/span&gt; addict, such as a alcoholic wants to quit their drug of choice forever.  They realize in order to quit, they must quit hole &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;hearted&lt;/span&gt; and completely.  With a running injury you must quit, and for a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;significant&lt;/span&gt; amount of time so you can become an addict &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;again&lt;/span&gt;.  Your mental drive remains the same, with no desire to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"&gt;subdue&lt;/span&gt;. You realize you must submit to your injury, listen to your body, turn off your drive and know in order to start again you must quit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't have all the answers on how to retain &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"&gt;perseverance&lt;/span&gt;.  Right now I am struggling to feel right, not running.  I know with time I will heal and once again feed my hunger to stride across another finish line.  In my heart I can only believe this to be true.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-3691945890245093747?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/3691945890245093747/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/dealing-with-my-injury.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3691945890245093747'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3691945890245093747'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/dealing-with-my-injury.html' title='Dealing With my Injury'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-9217968879721734561</id><published>2009-06-11T15:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-13T10:09:41.834-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I owe you an apology</title><content type='html'>I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;remember&lt;/span&gt; seeing her in the grocery store thinking, "She could have at least left the house in something other then sweat pants." I never said it,but I thought it. Then she approached me as her snotty nosed one year old reached out to touch me with his &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;gram&lt;/span&gt; cracker encrusted grin. Damn I thought, she always wants to chat forever, and I need to get my shopping done and get the heck out of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Walmart&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I didn't know is that in between bottles and chasing her infant around, she was lucky to have had a shower. What I didn't know is that more then likely she had been at home all day with only a one year old vocabulary to entertain her, and a chat with me would feed her need to be &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;recognized&lt;/span&gt; as someone other then mommy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There were so many times I made the comment "I mean honestly, she doesn't work, she just stays at home and plays with her kids all day." The truth is, I am busier now then I ever have been.  When I was at work I could come in clear off my desk and feel a sense of accomplishment. Then I would sigh, my work for the day was done, heck, I might even have time to surf the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;internet&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;, check my &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Facebook&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;. At home, my work was never done. There was always a project, always someone needing me, always something else that could be done.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah nap time, when I must choose. Take a shower or clean the house? Mow the lawn or run on the treadmill...? Hardly what I envisioned. I thought I would run my house like my work office. Everything would be organized, we would stay on task. My kids would be Baby Gap &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;model look &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;alikes&lt;/span&gt; with freshly combed hair and clean faces &lt;/span&gt;. I would be that peppy fun mom, we'd make cookies and do art projects every day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I realized I was that lady in &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Walmart&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;. I was a sweatpants worshiper. I might even have a stain down my shirt, and my child was the one reaching out to strangers with an animal cracker stuck to his forehead. I now considered &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Walmart&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; an "outing," and I enjoyed talking to anyone who might stop and chat, because frankly I'd been watching Baby &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;Einstein&lt;/span&gt; all day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To all the mothers I judged I owe you an &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;apology&lt;/span&gt;. I never knew. I never knew how precious time would become. I never knew that frankly I wouldn't give a damn if my hair wasn't done and I smelled like sweet potatoes and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;desitin&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;. I didn't give a damn because I was at home enjoying every moment with my son. I never knew that I would surrender my vanity to experience the &lt;span style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffff00"&gt;pleasure &lt;/span&gt;of motherhood.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-9217968879721734561?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/9217968879721734561/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-owe-you-apology.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/9217968879721734561'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/9217968879721734561'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-owe-you-apology.html' title='I owe you an apology'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-3516421739750915159</id><published>2009-05-27T19:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-27T20:27:55.041-07:00</updated><title type='text'>leave your stop watch behind</title><content type='html'>Today I left my stop watch at home. I'll admit it,  as I suited up for my run I saw it sitting there, calling out to me, longing to hold me to my standard mile time.  But something inside me longed for the days when I didn't know what my average mile time was, and I ran to seek freedom. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;These were the days when I used running as an escape. It was a way to hit cruise control in the mind and leave my worries in the fading distance as I traveled.  It was simply me and the road woven together to provide a place to release.  I never came away from a run with displeasure.  I never looked down at my wrist and felt &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;disappointment&lt;/span&gt; because I was slow that day.  Running had become just another thing in my life in which I was &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;expected&lt;/span&gt; to succeed and no one expected success except my worst &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;critic&lt;/span&gt;...........ME.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I  traveled down the road free of any expectations.  I ran simply to clear the mind.  Instead of consistently looking down, I looked at the road ahead and I focused on what was to come.  I left my troubles there in the dirt.  I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;restled &lt;/span&gt;with my inner thoughts and came to terms with all the issues that had been nagging me weighing me down.   When I was done there was no little voice to tell me I could have been faster. Instead there was a voice of liberation, acceptance and peace.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, my fellow runners, I must tell you it won't kill you to leave your watch at home for a day.  I challenge you to leave you mile time behind and rediscover yourself. You might just find You like You, no matter how fast you run.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-3516421739750915159?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/3516421739750915159/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/leave-your-stop-watch-behind.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3516421739750915159'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3516421739750915159'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/leave-your-stop-watch-behind.html' title='leave your stop watch behind'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-7910460720617537018</id><published>2009-05-21T15:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-22T20:22:11.614-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ode to the Single Mother</title><content type='html'>"I'm just so embarrassed, " she told me, her eyes welling up with tears. "You shouldn't be embarrased, you're beautiful, and you are going to have a beautiful baby girl," I told her. As if pregnancy wasn't hard enough, my heart went out to her. I know in this moment my friend was feeling the "Oh, so the dad isn't in the picture, huh?" comments. She was feeling all the pitty stares from the pretencious woman who claimed to have perfect lives and flawless husbands.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I began to think what it would be like to be pregnant without a husband and how I would dread being asked "Where is the father?" As a married woman I felt so alone when I was pregnant, I can't imagine what it would be like to stare down at your belly and feel abandonement radiating from with in.  To feel the weight of responsibility and know you would be carrying it in solitude. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; I looked at my friend and felt guilty for all the times I had complained about how hard it was being pregnant and how hard it was to have a baby.  The truth is a married woman can learn a few things from the single mother.  If I was single there would be no breaks, no hold him wile I pee, watch him while I shower, no can you put him to bed tonight I am tierd.  &lt;strong&gt; I&lt;/strong&gt; would be the only influence in my child's life.&lt;strong&gt; I&lt;/strong&gt; would not only be a parent,  I would be &lt;strong&gt;two.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realized single mothers don't know their own stregnth.  They are women who were often delt an unforseen circumstance and are making a choice to bring life into this world.  So I told my friend what my mother told me when I was having one of those rough pregnant days.   "Don't worry, once you have this baby, you'll never be alone......in this life, you'll never be alone again."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-7910460720617537018?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/7910460720617537018/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/ode-to-single-mother.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/7910460720617537018'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/7910460720617537018'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/ode-to-single-mother.html' title='Ode to the Single Mother'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-6303049999915665901</id><published>2009-05-19T11:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-20T11:45:08.139-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Post Half Marathon Depression</title><content type='html'>So after the Half Marathon I am finding it hard to be inspired to:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;a) get out and run in the heat&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;b) get out in run because my body hurts&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;c) get up and get motivated in the morning&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I thought that I would feel great after the Half, truth is I feel a little low. I have this sense of..now what? All that build up and now it's over. I'm thinking I am allowed a little break, thinking I'm allowed to drink a glass of wine and sleep in a little :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Supposed to be training for the Duathlon  and I am dragging.  I forgot what it is like to transition from the bike to the run.  It's as if I have bricks tied to my feet.  The race only includes a four mile run, but I have to train to run fast  again.  I think I am suffering from Post Half Marathon Depression............if there is such a condition.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-6303049999915665901?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6303049999915665901/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/post-half-marathon-depression.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6303049999915665901'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6303049999915665901'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/post-half-marathon-depression.html' title='Post Half Marathon Depression'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-1291562260209729194</id><published>2009-05-19T11:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-19T11:05:31.927-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Thanks</title><content type='html'>Thank you to everyone for your kind words of encouragement and response :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-1291562260209729194?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/1291562260209729194/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/thanks.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/1291562260209729194'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/1291562260209729194'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/thanks.html' title='Thanks'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-1890260533550429984</id><published>2009-05-14T15:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-21T15:39:58.475-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Good Intentions</title><content type='html'>I have been blessed with several different types of friends in my life. Some who run and some who don't, &lt;strong&gt;not that this is in any way a determining factor of criteria of friendship&lt;/strong&gt;. Some of my best friends are amazing women, some are mamas, some aren't. They are all beautiful individuls; and they all have inspired me to be a better person in so many diferent ways. I am even lucky eough to have a bond so deep that I would consider some of my friends sisters.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It has been brought to my &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;attention&lt;/span&gt; that some of the things I have been writing in this Blog have unintentionally hurt others. This was never my plan, or my thought when I set out to write. My intention was to share my thoughts about running and to try and keep track of what was going on in my life. I thought I could keep it and one day when I was old, my husband might read it to me and I could have a small moment of "Remember When." I never meant to seperate myself from the friends I have who don't run or who aren't mamas.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought I might just write about my experiences as a runner and how it has changed since I have been a mom. I was scared I would never run again and I wanted to shed light to other women who had babies and let them know they could do the same. But now I will &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;forever worry and wonder&lt;/span&gt; how or &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;if&lt;/span&gt; what I am writing will hurt a third party, it will &lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;ALWAYS &lt;/span&gt;be in the back of my mind every time I hit the Publish Post Button.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is with deep regret that I am retiring this blog for now.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-1890260533550429984?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/1890260533550429984/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/unintentional.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/1890260533550429984'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/1890260533550429984'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/unintentional.html' title='Good Intentions'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-7124706027085008066</id><published>2009-05-10T13:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-10T14:37:25.755-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Why Running Mama's Need their Mamas, a tribute to Mother's Day.</title><content type='html'>"I think you are just really tired," my mom said to me. I thought to myself, no this half crazed state of mind I am in is not just being tired. I had just described to my mother that Brody was sick, he had been all week, and I swear he might be dying. Never mind the fact that I ran a half marathon this week, got the flu, worked, stayed up with &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Brody&lt;/span&gt; teething, stayed up with &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Brody&lt;/span&gt; and his multiple dirty diapers, got sick again, and then &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Brody&lt;/span&gt; got sick again 'Tired? Tired had never crossed my mind " No mom I'm not tired, I'm worried, and he could He might be dehydrated, getting worse, he needs more sleep, and my husband thinks I am crazy...........and uh...yeah &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;ok&lt;/span&gt; I might be tired."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; Running Mamas&lt;/span&gt; often tend to be the typical "A type," energizer bunny, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;everything&lt;/span&gt; needs to get done, heaven forbid I should have one second of time to just do &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;NOTHING&lt;/span&gt;. We fill our busy schedules with errands, work, a good run, housework, and the list goes on. When we do take a moment the "i should really be......and I could be......... sets in. Most days life is just a balancing act and we often forget to take time out to heal. Heal the soul and the mind. When I get overwhelmed there is one person I can call and I know she will always listen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like a new mother who is in tune &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;with&lt;/span&gt; her infants patterns, it's amazing after all this time my mother is still in tune with all my patterns. Somehow you can't hide anything from your mother, because they know, like it or not, they know. Because they know, you can always rely on them to keep you grounded, to tell you the truth and to comfort you. The love of a mother is unconditional, there are no expectations, and chances are sometimes you stare at yourself in the mirror and you can see her reflection starting back at you. It is amazing the older I get the more I realize..........I am just like her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is my first year as a mother. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;&lt;/span&gt; I have learned more then I ever have. My life has new meaning, new resonance. I have been given a gift and now I know how much my mom loves me. I knew before, but now I know what it is like to have a piece of you directly connected to your soul. This year I learned &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Running Mamas &lt;/span&gt;need their Mamas and  now that I am a Mama, i realized  I need her even more.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-7124706027085008066?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/7124706027085008066/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-running-mamas-need-their-mamas.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/7124706027085008066'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/7124706027085008066'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-running-mamas-need-their-mamas.html' title='Why Running Mama&apos;s Need their Mamas, a tribute to Mother&apos;s Day.'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-540698196557767891</id><published>2009-05-04T21:15:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-04T21:18:08.871-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Half Marathon Rockin River</title><content type='html'>8:19 mile, finished 1:48:57&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-540698196557767891?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/540698196557767891/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/half-marathon-rockin-river.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/540698196557767891'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/540698196557767891'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/half-marathon-rockin-river.html' title='Half Marathon Rockin River'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-8189883043420486876</id><published>2009-05-04T16:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-16T05:50:46.178-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Why Running Mamas Need Other Running Mamas</title><content type='html'>"So how fast do you run, what are your times?" she asked me. I was dumbfounded, didn't really know the answer. I just got on the treadmill and ran and the next day I might try and run a little further. "Have you ever ran a race?" she proceeded to ask. "No," I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;answered&lt;/span&gt; and in my mind I never intended to. In my mind I wasn't good enough.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I met Dianna she never made me feel less then her. Although she spouted off a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;lengthy&lt;/span&gt; resume of races she had accomplished, she &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;wasn't&lt;/span&gt; a running &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;snubber&lt;/span&gt;. You know the type, if you haven't run 16 marathons, don't know what a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Garmin&lt;/span&gt; watch is, and your diet doesn't consist of GU, you are pond &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;scum&lt;/span&gt;. Heaven forbid they should provide any bit of encouragement and share their &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;knowledge&lt;/span&gt;. We have all met them. (&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;another blog, one day&lt;/span&gt;.) Dianna was different, she exuded confidence, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;competitiveness&lt;/span&gt; and determination and it was contagious.  I longed to be a part of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had always run alone, it was my time to just zone out. I figured meeting with Dianna would be an occasional thing to change things up a bit. I immediately noticed a difference after just a few weeks. She taught me the basics, "You should only do one long run a week," and "Lets do sprints." Sprints? What the heck is a Sprint? She shared her stories of motherhood and how she became a better runner after she had her son. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;She&lt;/span&gt; told me about how she threw out her back trying to run to quickly after childbirth. I had entered a completely different world, one that included times, and distance. it was unfamiliar, yet challenging. Eventually she convinced me to do my first race. I crossed the finish line and I felt euphoria, and she had helped me, she had pushed me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Meeting up with Dianna wasn't always about running. Although we got down to business, silently pounding the pavement until we reached our distance, we always took time to cool down, debrief, walk it out. "How's your job? When is the baby due? I'm just having an off day. I hate my husband. I hate my job. Is it ever going to stop snowing? Am I a bad mother for leaving him? Sometimes I just feel alone." I found myself needing this time, counting the hours until this time, and I never would have taken this time ALONE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have a lot of friends.  Friends I have shared a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;lengthy&lt;/span&gt; history, but when it comes to running, i think some of my other friends might call me crazy.  &lt;span&gt;Lets face it running alone is boring and sometimes you need the motivation&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Running Mamas&lt;/span&gt; are the types of friends you can call when it is 20 degrees outside and you need to get in a run and they will text you "where, what time, " instead of "you're crazy, it's freezing." These are the types of friends &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;who&lt;/span&gt; will support you as you continue to run six months into your pregnancy.  &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Running Mamas&lt;/span&gt; don't fear &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;childbirth&lt;/span&gt;, they fear that they might &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;not&lt;/span&gt; be running for a few months, and they fear they won't bounce back to their &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;pre&lt;/span&gt;-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"&gt;prego&lt;/span&gt; mile time shape.  I knew I could always count on Dianna to support my addiction to running, because we are both &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"&gt;avid&lt;/span&gt; users.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so one simple 5k with Dianna lead me to the Half marathon. "I don't know if I am going to make it, my ankle is acting up," Dianna told me just moments before the start. I felt my heart sink, although most of the time during a race we would break off into our own pace out of site, I knew she was out there. She was my silent cheerleader, and we were in this together. I hated the thought of running in a lonely sea of runners. " I'll know by mile four," she told me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;During the race we started out together then broke away to find our &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"&gt;comfortable&lt;/span&gt; race pace. As I passed mile three and then fourIi began to wonder if my partner was out there? I began to struggle with in myself thinking it wouldn't be the same if she wasn't there to cross the finish line. Suddenly the course lead us through a round about where we would cross paths with the runners behind us. I knew if she was still going, I would see her. I looked, and I looked........and just when I was struck with discontent she was there. I felt a surge of relief and excitement. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"&gt;I was&lt;/span&gt; recharged with energy&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;. It was at that moment I realized &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Running Mamas&lt;/span&gt; truly need other &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Running Mamas&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Although there are times I seek solitude on a good long run, the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"&gt;camaraderie&lt;/span&gt; I have found in my friendship has pushed me to accomplish things I never would have had I not met Dianna. It is in her acts of encouragement and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"&gt;determination&lt;/span&gt; that I find the need to encourage and inspire other&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; Running Mamas&lt;/span&gt; to be the &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Running Mamas&lt;/span&gt; they never knew they could be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;~&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;Thank you Dianna&lt;/span&gt;~&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-8189883043420486876?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/8189883043420486876/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-running-mamas-need-other-running.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/8189883043420486876'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/8189883043420486876'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-running-mamas-need-other-running.html' title='Why Running Mamas Need Other Running Mamas'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-8389989304865432501</id><published>2009-04-30T14:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-30T20:02:15.617-07:00</updated><title type='text'>US</title><content type='html'>Just another morning on the treadmill, my husband walks out the door for work. My headphones are on and I'm in the zone. He walks by and gives me the same wave I get everyday, and I wave back. It is the silent language we have come to know after the baby, and the stress oflife has seasoned our marriage.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I run I think back to a time when a silent wave wasn't the norm. When we used to sit on our front porch after work, enjoy a glass of wine and discuss our day together. When time used to pass by so slowly and when the night came to a close &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;intimacy&lt;/span&gt; was inevitable. When we used to laugh, cuddle and share the little moments of our day, anticipating the weekend.  So when did we loose sight of those people and who had we become?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Somehow the strain of life slowly creeps in steals the passionate, innovative, adoring individuals you used to be. It's not that you aren't attracted to your spouse, or you don't desire them. It's just when you finally get that moment of solitude, where no one is crying, hungry, needing &lt;strong&gt;you&lt;/strong&gt;.......a good book, a hot bath, and pure solitude is what you want more then anything.  And so you both retreat to your silent moments of solitude basking in your own time.....alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You don't realize it right away because it happens slowly, and it happens to even the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;strongest&lt;/span&gt; of relationships. I can remember counting the days that it was okay to go with out being intimate with my husband. I had a magic number in my head and I knew as long as we didn't go past this number, in my mind we were "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;ok&lt;/span&gt;." Over time the number grew and I had to ask myself, am I okay with this number? Are we normal, what is normal, what is wrong with us, How do we get back to &lt;strong&gt;US??? &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It has been my experience that to become an &lt;strong&gt;US&lt;/strong&gt; again you must escape, take a mini vacation, even for a day. When you come home every day, you pull in the driveway, and you walk through the door, you immediately take on the role of &lt;strong&gt;MOM&lt;/strong&gt;. You can't escape it. The dishes need to be done, there is a stack of bills on the table, and your kids are needing you &lt;strong&gt;NOW&lt;/strong&gt;! &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Because&lt;/span&gt; you are a responsible &lt;strong&gt;Running Mama&lt;/strong&gt; you will not be able to escape your responsibilities and by the time you can even think about doing so, you are just too tierd to converse with yor husband and the silence continues.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So my husband and I took a night off, we escaped. It was amazing, once we were removed from our surroundings, we had no choice but to rediscover&lt;strong&gt; US.&lt;/strong&gt; It wasn't anything fancy, it was just a night away, to escape from the role of mommy and daddy&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;. Do this, you owe it to yourself and when your night away is over you will realize under that stack of bills, dirty dishes, diapers and the laundry........ there is always an &lt;strong&gt;US &lt;/strong&gt;............you just have to take time out to find it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-8389989304865432501?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/8389989304865432501/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/us.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/8389989304865432501'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/8389989304865432501'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/us.html' title='US'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-5635598878832346014</id><published>2009-04-27T15:56:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-27T16:28:41.099-07:00</updated><title type='text'>ACCEPT</title><content type='html'>This weekend is the big race, the half marathon....am I nervous?  Of course!  I'm not nervous &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;because&lt;/span&gt; I think I can't do it, I know I can, but like all other Fit Mamas I want to do it well, I want to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;secede&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I always thought that running was the one place where I could let go, and don't get me &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;wrong&lt;/span&gt; it is, but there is still that part of me that wants to do it well.  I keep telling myself just finish this race to finish, it's not about your time, but I realized I'm not afraid of finishing, I'm afraid of not finishing.  Like any woman I am afraid to fail.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I started to think when will I be satisfied? Isn't it enough that I have gotten this far?  Why do we as women push and push to be the best wife, mom, friend, sister, PTA member, soccer coach, taxi driver, cook, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Gardener&lt;/span&gt;, and athlete?  When do we finally take a step back and say, "wow," look what I have accomplished, and look what did it take to get me here?  When do we reach &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;the&lt;/span&gt; point of self recognition and actually take credit for it? When do we &lt;strong&gt;accept&lt;/strong&gt; the outcome!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Going into this race I have decided I need to refocus and look back on the history of what it took to get here.  When I hit that steady pace and I am on mile six, needing inspiration, I need to remember why  I stayed determined:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;started out walking and pushing the stroller after Brody........still determined &lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;ran on treadmill while Brody was in the swing, sleep &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;deprived&lt;/span&gt;, full of milk .....tired but still determined &lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;ran 5k 8 &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;Weeks&lt;/span&gt; after Brody, saw his little face at the finish line.....determined to do better&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;met with my running partner ran slower then &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;pre&lt;/span&gt;-Brody time after time........still determined&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Up at 4:30 am on the treadmill running while Brody sleeps.........tired, but determined. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;ran 10k for the first time.......felt on top of the world..still determined&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;ran another 10k........got first in my age group........INSPIRED TO RUN FARTHER! &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;So here I am.  Everything I have trained for has lead me to this point, time away from Brody and Buddy.   I am torn between panic and determination, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;excitement&lt;/span&gt; and fear, and anticipation and apprehension.   Despite my mixed feelings, I know the time I have spent will only lead to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;success&lt;/span&gt;. Either way I am ready to take on the challenge of this run and the challenge &lt;strong&gt;accept &lt;/strong&gt;the outcome. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-5635598878832346014?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/5635598878832346014/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/accept.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/5635598878832346014'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/5635598878832346014'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/accept.html' title='ACCEPT'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-8184666020523145042</id><published>2009-04-21T06:20:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-21T06:20:50.688-07:00</updated><title type='text'>10 miles</title><content type='html'>Ran 10 miles for the first time!  Took me 1:31 .slow ug.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-8184666020523145042?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/8184666020523145042/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/10-miles.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/8184666020523145042'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/8184666020523145042'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/10-miles.html' title='10 miles'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-3420267640516700602</id><published>2009-04-14T13:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-14T14:52:31.537-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Don't judge a girl by her playlist</title><content type='html'>Recently someone asked me to share my running &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;playlists&lt;/span&gt; with them, and I was surprised to find that I was a little &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;embarrassed&lt;/span&gt; to post a few of my favorites. So lets just say there is music on my running &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;playlist&lt;/span&gt; that I would not be caught listening to otherwise.  Lets face it running, especially long runs and training can get boring.  The music I pick for my running &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;playlists&lt;/span&gt; range from rap, 80's, country and just &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;miscellaneous&lt;/span&gt;...are you kidding me tracks.  The thing is it isn't always about the music, most of the tracks are about small moments in time that make me smile or take my for a trip down memory road.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are a few songs that take me back to college where I would dance till the wee hours of the night, full of life and energy.  There are a few artists such as &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Areosmith&lt;/span&gt;, who take me back to the music video era,  where music videos were you and your friends would actually have to schedule Alicia &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;Silverstone's&lt;/span&gt; next premier.  &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;Then&lt;/span&gt; there are just the classic running songs that get everyone going &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;ACDC&lt;/span&gt;, DAFT PUNK, PINK, CAKE , you'll see them on every runner's &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;playlist&lt;/span&gt;. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess I need to get over my &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;embarrassment&lt;/span&gt; and just post a few of my favorites.  Just know that for me these songs help me in several different ways.  They represent recovering from a bad break-ups, cruising in the back of a pick-up in the summer time, over coming a challenge, how many stride per minute, keep your pace, don't quit now, climb, faster, slow down, I had a bad day, you're on the homestretch, leave it all behind, and believe in yourself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here are a few of my favorites.....remember.no judgements.enjoy!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. I run to you - Lady Antebellum&lt;br /&gt;2. Under Pressure- David Bowie and Queen&lt;br /&gt;3.  Run- Collective Soul&lt;br /&gt;4. Brown Sugar- Rolling Stones&lt;br /&gt;5. Bad Moon Rising- Credence &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;Clearwater&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. Copperhead Road- Steve Earle&lt;br /&gt;7. Little Bird-Annie &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;Lennox&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;Nothin&lt;/span&gt;' Better to do &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"&gt;LeAnn&lt;/span&gt; Rimes&lt;br /&gt;9. Got Me Under Pressure-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"&gt;ZZ&lt;/span&gt; Top&lt;br /&gt;10. SOS- &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"&gt;Rihanna&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. Sweet Dreams-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"&gt;Eurythmics&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. Push it- Salt and Pepper&lt;br /&gt;13. Take a Picture-Filter&lt;br /&gt;14. Glamorous- &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"&gt;Fergie&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15.  All Summer Long- Kid Rock&lt;br /&gt;16. Thunderstruck-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"&gt;ACDC&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;17. Shoot to Thrill- &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20"&gt;ACDC&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;18.Red Neck Girl ( remix) The Bellamy Brothers&lt;br /&gt;19. A Little Less Conversation- Elvis ( remix)&lt;br /&gt;20. Ray of Light- Madonna&lt;br /&gt;21. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"&gt;Rockstar&lt;/span&gt; - &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"&gt;Nicleback&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;22. Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger- Daft Punk&lt;br /&gt;23. Another One Bites the Dust- Queen&lt;br /&gt;24.  The Man Comes Around- &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23"&gt;Jonny&lt;/span&gt; Cash&lt;br /&gt;25- Free and Easy Down the Road I go-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24"&gt;Dierks&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25"&gt;Bently&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;26- The Distance-CAKE&lt;br /&gt;27. The Climb- &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26"&gt;Miley&lt;/span&gt; Cyrus&lt;br /&gt;28. Cotton eyed Jo-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27"&gt;Rednex&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;29. Pour Some Sugar on Me- Def Leopard&lt;br /&gt;30. The Long Way- Dixie Chicks&lt;br /&gt;31. Suddenly I see -KT &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28"&gt;Tunstall&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;32. Ice Ice Baby- Vanilla Ice&lt;br /&gt;33. Slim Shady- the real Slim Shady ( don't ask)&lt;br /&gt;34. Jessie's Girl-Rick &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29"&gt;Springfiel&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;35. Barbie Girl ( Aqua) yes I know....but it has a good beat.&lt;br /&gt;36. Intergalactic-Beastie Boys&lt;br /&gt;37. Girls-Beastie Boys&lt;br /&gt;38. California Love-2pac&lt;br /&gt;39. Proud -Heather Small - makes me thing of Jillian &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30"&gt;Michaels&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;40. Pump it up-Elvis Costello&lt;br /&gt;41. Eye of the Tiger -Rocky Soundtrack&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There you have it :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-3420267640516700602?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/3420267640516700602/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/dont-judge-girl-by-her-playlist.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3420267640516700602'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3420267640516700602'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/dont-judge-girl-by-her-playlist.html' title='Don&apos;t judge a girl by her playlist'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-6323939009484670744</id><published>2009-04-14T12:56:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-14T12:57:10.582-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Bye Bye</title><content type='html'>BRODY WAIVED GOODBYE TO ME FOR THE FIRST TIME TODAY!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-6323939009484670744?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6323939009484670744/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/bye-bye.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6323939009484670744'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6323939009484670744'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/bye-bye.html' title='Bye Bye'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-672230334134975134</id><published>2009-04-12T19:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-12T19:24:48.368-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Whole Wheat Sugar Free Carrot Cake</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/SeKiVk8EuCI/AAAAAAAAABY/9WTiAux1El4/s1600-h/carrot-cake.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/SeKiVk8EuCI/AAAAAAAAABY/9WTiAux1El4/s320/carrot-cake.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323996201081944098" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;So I tried a new somewhat healthy carrot cake for Easter.  Less calories then the traditional stuff. Seemed to be a hit, so for those of you who wanted the recipe, here you go.  This recipe is for a 9x9 pan, I doubled and it fit in a 9x13 cake pan just fine...&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1/2 cup Honey&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1/2 Cup Splenda &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1/2 cup canola oil &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2 eggs or two egg whites and one egg if you prefer&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1/2 tsp. salt&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 tsp. of cinnamon&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 cup whole wheat flour&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 Cup grated carrots&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1/4 cup chopped walnuts &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;3/4 tsp. baking soda&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 tsp. baking powder&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 can (8 oz.) of crushed pineapple ( UNSWEETENED) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Mix together all wet ingredients and then all dry.  Put wet in a mixer and slowly add dry while mixing slowly.  Pour into greased pan and cook at 350 for 40 minutes or longer ( until toothpick comes out clean. ) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Frosting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;After cake cools frost cake&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 package of 1/3 less fat cream cheese &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 (8 oz.) container of sugar free- low fat whipped topping ( cool whip) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1/3 cup splenda &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 tsp. vanilla &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Mix all together in mixer and frost cake! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-672230334134975134?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/672230334134975134/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/whole-wheat-sugar-free-carrot-cake.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/672230334134975134'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/672230334134975134'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/whole-wheat-sugar-free-carrot-cake.html' title='Whole Wheat Sugar Free Carrot Cake'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/SeKiVk8EuCI/AAAAAAAAABY/9WTiAux1El4/s72-c/carrot-cake.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-3785766751002335872</id><published>2009-04-08T14:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-08T17:04:15.816-07:00</updated><title type='text'>FIT MAMAS</title><content type='html'>Today I am in the suburbs visiting the folks.  Usually I love to run here where the air isn't so thin and there is actually dew on the ground.  I live in a desert climate where I am constantly gasping for air while I train.  Today I was with out a sitter, so I had to once again pound the treadmill...ugggg.  Little did I know the scenery I would uncover at the local 24 Hour Fitness, just scenery of a different kind. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Now I live out in the country, small town where you go to the local gym and you are lucky to find a treadmill that works or doesn't have a hole in it. I figured I had better inspect the child care facility prior to blindly dropping off my 8 month old son.  I walked into the pristine palace and realized this there was clearly no need to worry.  I mean this place actually had those little spray bottles you use to wipe down the exercise equipment post work out... and people were using them.  The child care room was just short of a McDonalds play area, only more magnificent and clean. I plopped Brody down and watched him scoot away grabbing for the nearest toy. I knew he would have no troubles. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; I scoped out the treadmills and tried to get myself phyched for a six miler.  As I began picking up my pace I took in the scenery.  I wasn't the only mom there by any means, but suddenly I began to feel like I was a part of that famous sesame street tune "One of these things is not like the other,"  I began to notice all the other moms dressed in strategically planned work out get-up, full make-up and you could actually see the definition in there arms, legs and booty.   My idea of gym attire is a ratty old race shirt, shorts and an old sports bra that more then likely should have been replaced a year ago ( possibly why my boos aren't as perky as theirs either.)  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I began to realize how much work it must be just to stay that thin, that defined, that beautiful.  Running for me is a place to let go, it's the challenge, it's beating my last time, it's struggling with mind over matter during that last mile.  I began to wonder what going to the gym was about for these mom's and I came to one conclusion, it's about the pressure's of being beautiful.  I call these women "&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mamas&lt;/span&gt;." &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mamas&lt;/span&gt; are different from Running Mamas.  You will always see them in the suburbs, and you start looking for Ken because you are staring at an exact replica of Barbie.  They strive to be fit because for them it's about how many hours they logged at the gym that week, and now I can fit into my size two pants ONE week after giving birth.  It's not about the sense of accomplishment or the desire to be an athlete.  "&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mamas&lt;/span&gt;," are the true housewives of America and I was in their territory. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Now I have no problem with "&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mamas,&lt;/span&gt;" usually they take one look at me notice I didn't get the memo it was hot pink sports bra day and they leave me be.  After my run I picked up Brody from the day care where he was laughing and playing with one of the &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mama's&lt;/span&gt; children.    I looked at Brody with his rugged little camo pants and worn in Robeez and then I looked at the &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mam's&lt;/span&gt; child with her brand new pink pants and freshly combed hair.  Immediately the Sesame street song stated to play in my head once again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We were off to the market to pick up a few necessities and I noticed there were several&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; Fit Mamas&lt;/span&gt; in the Market doing the same.  Brody and I cased the isles for baby food and I gave Brody a plastic grocery bag to play with.  He squealed with excitement and waved it around as it made a crinkling noise.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; I found the baby food and turned my back to Brody to grab a jar, and I felt the &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;F&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;it Mama's &lt;/span&gt;disapproving glare burn into the back of my head.  I turned to find a &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mama&lt;/span&gt; staring at me, bright eyed and in disbelief.  Her child was well dressed, slightly older then Brody and had his hands were engulfed her her Coach Diaper Bag.  "Are you going to let him swallow that?" she asked me pointing to the plastic bag my son had now started to suck on.  She glared at me, not only for thinking I was the worst mother in the world, but my hair was matted to the side of my face from sweat, my nails were rough and unpolished, and Brody may have even had a touch of leftover lunch on his shirt.  I could tell she was reliving the nightmare she had read in one of her Parent's Magazines, "Child dies after swallowing grocery bag."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; This was the moment where I knew I would forever be a Running Mama because I choose to let my child take a chance, and his hair isn't always combed or just right, I think he might have even ingested a few pieces of kibble a time or two.  But because he'll learn to take chances and experience life, my hope is that his road to run will be that much more interesting.  He will have life experiences, real ones, and hopefully he won't have to worry about the superficial pressures in life.  I stared back at the &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Fit Mama&lt;/span&gt; and replied with a non chalet flip of my hand, "Yes I am, don't worry he swallows entire grocery bags all the time," and even thought I ran six miles that day I felt like I had accomplished so much more. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-3785766751002335872?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/3785766751002335872/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/fit-mamas.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3785766751002335872'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/3785766751002335872'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/fit-mamas.html' title='FIT MAMAS'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-4636374881095782814</id><published>2009-04-06T12:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-06T12:59:44.074-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My 10K victory...I never would have guessed!</title><content type='html'>My fist 10k run was nothing to write home to mom about.  I was planning to do the 5k and in the car on the way there, I decided to do the 10k instead.  I had run 4 miles the weekend before and thought what is two more miles?  I had my running partner with me and knew I could keep up with her pace, so I did my first 10k on a whim and finished. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I decided I would train for my next 10k,  try and beat my last time.  Brody is getting older now, so I can  actually do a long run on the treadmill while he naps.    Sometimes I even stick him in the bouncy chair while I run, this way we can talk and have a conversation.  In my mind I envision him thinking, " go mom, go," when really he is thinking, "What the heck is my mom doing?"  Doesn't matter to me, he is my moral support, infant and all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Race Day came up on me faster then I had planned, but this time I felt ready.  I did look at the course and realized there were more hills then my last race, and it was a trail run,  so the odds of beating my prior 10k time, wasn't looking good.  At any rate, I was excited and had the classic race day jitters.  I figured it was just another stab at proving myself as a runner, and knowing I was capable of more then just the 5k.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That morning I awoke to find a little note by the coffee pot "Good luck, sweetie, love you," I smiled.  Then went through the standard series of events:&lt;br /&gt;               Feed Brody, kiss him goodbye, grab sunscreen, grab hat, grab i-pod, drink a cup of coffee, drink water, use restroom, grab checkbook, lace-up, feel guilty for leaving Brody, thank good he has great grandparents who love to babysit, drink more coffee.........Time to go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I peeked at the course a little, praying there wasn't a steep hill right off the bat.  Lined up at the start line and then it was START TIME. I started off the run with a great pace.  I felt good, and the first hill didn't even bother me, even though it was steep.  I babied the downhill part of the course, due to my knees, but it was around mile 4 when things got a little painful.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had read about people having to use the restroom during a race, but fortunately this had never happened to me, even while I was training.  Suddenly, I heard my tummy gurglgle and twinge of panic started.  I needed to go, and I needed to go bad.  As I was traveling down the dusty trail, every rock I hit jarred my belly.  I looked to my right to see if I could duck off the road with out getting too noticed, but there was nothing but a steep climb, which would surely be miserable.  To my left was an open meadow and there was just no way. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The last two miles were not what I would call my fondest race memory.  I kept looking for the mile markers that just weren't coming fast enough.  I even slowed my pace a little, it was mind over matter at this point and the sooner I made it to the finish line, the sooner I could use the restroom.  I crossed the finish line avoiding disaster, but only by a small margin :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I arrived at home to tell my hubby that I didn't do so well, and I told him why.  Of course to him  everyone else this situation is comical and looking back it is comical to me too.................at the time it wasn't so comical. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Looked up my time this morning, got first in my age group, even with my unfortunate condition. Was it miserable? ..............yes!  Will I do it again?...............you bet! It's on to train for the 10k in May!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-4636374881095782814?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/4636374881095782814/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-10k-victoryi-never-would-have.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4636374881095782814'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4636374881095782814'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-10k-victoryi-never-would-have.html' title='My 10K victory...I never would have guessed!'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-6102181449634310427</id><published>2009-04-06T12:15:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-06T12:16:30.167-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Before Brody</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;I signed up for my first 5k because I wanted to just do it, just to say I had. I knew from high school track that running took a gene I didn't have. I fell in love with the whole race atmosphere. What is not to love about a race?  There are fit, fun, positive people, free bagels, and this happy euphoric energy you can't explain. I couldn’t wait to sign up for another race right away.&lt;br /&gt;Before I had Brody finding time to train was easy.  Like any other woman with out children I could come and go as I pleased.  I could even fit a run in before and after work. It wasn’t really something I had to schedule. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I got pregnant, and I watched the horrific look on several peoples faces as I ran through six months of my pregnancy.  My biggest fear wasn’t child birth, but not being able to run for another three months.  How long would it take me to get back where I was, if I ever did, or could?  After I was too big to run I bought every work out DVD for PREGOS known and I walked. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then came Brody.  Brody has forever changed my life in ways all mothers don’t know are possible until you have a child.  I struggled the first three months, battling with fatigue and loose joints, breastfeeding.  I craved getting back in the game.  My motherly guilt set in every time I left Brody to go on a run.  What a terrible mother I am for leaving my baby and for wanting to escape motherhood only after three months.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I realized, running made me a better mom.  Cruising down the road, ipod in hand gave me peace.  It gave me that time to re-group, think about my upcoming goals and make conscious decisions to accomplish them.  When I got home there was never a time where I wasn’t happy to see my Brody. &lt;br /&gt; I ran my first 5k seven weeks after Brody was born.  Looking back this might have been a little too soon, but it gave me the confidence to know that I could do it again.  I am now challenging myself to all new levels, and I am actually a better runner now then before I had Brody.  I realized running is just like life, you do what you think you can’t.  I hope I will inspire other moms to know they can run again and to believe in the beauty of themselves.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-6102181449634310427?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6102181449634310427/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/before-brody.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6102181449634310427'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/6102181449634310427'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/before-brody.html' title='Before Brody'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170072385599192448.post-4882670934391395691</id><published>2009-04-06T11:40:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-06T11:46:34.155-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Why I decided to start a blog</title><content type='html'>These are the tales of a mom who though she would never be able to run like she used to after giving birth.  I want to be able to run around the living room and chase my children with confidence.  I want to live a long life and see them grow.  Even if it means I run at 4:30 am on my treadmill and the whole world thinks I am crazy.  I want other women to know they can set a goal for themselves, make time for themselves and still be a great mom!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9170072385599192448-4882670934391395691?l=redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/feeds/4882670934391395691/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/why-i-decided-to-start-blog.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4882670934391395691'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9170072385599192448/posts/default/4882670934391395691'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://redheadedrunningmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/why-i-decided-to-start-blog.html' title='Why I decided to start a blog'/><author><name>Melissa Blosser</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00057959443575772359</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pG4hT3V7Cfg/TP7IfTtzkgI/AAAAAAAAACI/OEbEj8j6jjw/S220/Red%2B2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
