The Post-baby shower

Not a baby shower in the all-American sense, I managed to bypass that, I've never been to one, and I'm not really sure I get them...if I'm buying something for a baby I think I'd at least like to meet it. Not necessarily hold it, though that might have changed since having my own one, up until about 3 days after she was born I was still quite scared of babies, so maybe I will be a baby holder now, having been a conscientious objector previously. I'll happily look at your baby and buy it (I now realise) quite impractical presents, but I'd rather not touch it if it's all the same to you - they can smell my distress and anxiety and it'll almost certainly cry which'll be unpleasant for everyone. So baby showers - I'm not sure heavily pregnant women are that exciting, but I suppose it is maybe meant to be a special treat for the and a penance for their nearest and dearest.

I'm talking about the actual shower. After the lovely induction experience I could not wait to have a shower, I really felt pretty disgusting. I managed to block the mingingness from my mind as I lay in theatre fully aware of the young Irish anaesthetist running ice cubes up and down my large pregnant, unshaven, not washed for quite a few hours, apparently rapidly overheating, but now numbing body, while my husband sat beside me, and I pretended not to be able to see myself reflected in the theatre light. I'm very, very hot right now, I told myself. Everyone keeps telling me so, I'm really hot, a really, really, medically diagnosed, hot naked lady, what's not to feel good about there?

We'd done that bit, baby was here, we had some nice recovery room cuddles, I finally persuaded the midwife to take the catheter out, please, please, I can move my legs look, please let me pee...my persuasion hadn't worked quite so well trying to dissuade them from putting it in. Challenging a mildly competitive, in labour, person to pee with the threat of a catheter if they can't apparently just results in the same couple of litres of rapidly downed water coming right back up in a sick bowl. Apparently fluid going i and coming back out again doesn't cut it, it really has to come out in the horrible little pee catcher cardboard seat thing. Such a relaxing pee experience, I'm not sure why I struggled.

So, catheterless I begged to go for a shower. You'll have to take someone with you. Ok, we've done the other man running ice cubes over the naked body together, why not let you observe the horror of the post-birth shower. But...uhh...what do we do with the baby? We can't leave her alone can we...? The auxiliaries were indulgent of our new parent fears and promised to keep an eye on hour totally out for the count newborn. 

To his credit D did a splendid job handing me things and making sure I didn't die or keel over in the shower, he managed to boak or look disgusted, it wasn't exactly the couples showering experience Hollywood has us believe awaits us if we're in a relationship, but we've run into that lie before, as, having recently moved into our first home, which came with a bath (I'm not a big fan of baths, it's altogether a bit of a too hot and sweaty experience, but you know...the novelty) I went for a  bath.

My real plan was to dye my hair, and do some mild deforestation while the dye took, then a rinse and then maybe a soak. So all in all quite a lengthy and laborious undertaking. So, 20 minutes in, D, I imagine expecting something like the Galaxy adverts, a sexy lady (not sure who he thought he was living with) can-can-ing her smooth hairless leg out of the mountain of bubbles, with a perfect messy bun, those wee bits escaped around her face to save her hair getting wet, maybe reading a book and sipping on some champagne, candles lit in an all round luxurious, spa-like situation, tried to open the door.

On the other side, he wasn't to know, was not a Galaxy advert. Instead a post-Psycho like shower scene  awaited him. Red brown dye had run on to my face and shoulders from my hair, piled on my head in a cone like a soggy troll, as I stood trying to shave my legs before the dye proving time was up, trying not to touch anything else with my dyed head, with an impromptu green facemask, now nicely cracking, on (why waste 20 minutes of waiting around in the bathroom time?). So I slammed the door in his face. He tried to persuade me to let him in, obviously thinking I was being coy, not realising I was protecting him from facing the semi-decapitated looking soggy troll with half shaved legs and an untouched bikini area. He left. I'm not sure the spontaneous sexy bath scene can be a real thing. We'll not even get started on the fact we can't both fit in a  normal sized bath and get in and out without some contorsion and quite a high risk of injury. That is for another day.

So the post-baby shower made me feel better, but wasn't a particularly pleasant experience. The newly emerging nose of suspicion (which, by the way, has a new challenge to contend with since little britches has started puking a bit) could settle to sniff another day as I knew, objectively, that I was clean, and anything I smelled of must have been an inevitable side effect of being attached to a little limpet that's just emerged from your insides.

The Nose of Suspicion and Deja Poo

3 poopy nappies into the day and my nostrils of suspicion are working overtime. Especially on a toddlers day - who wants to be the one with the stinky kid? I don't remember being scarred by stinking as a child but maybe I was. Breastfed poops aren't even that bad but I do find myself still trying to sniff them out. I wasn't especially afflicted with cravings or aversions in pregnancy, but seem to have developed the super sensitive nose since the munchkin arrived. I spent the first few weeks trying to work out if my section scar smelled, and unless you're some kind of yogi I'm not sure smelling your own belly is possible, then last week it was the boobs, and I have a regular fear about the house and go around sniffing like a bloodhound, and my nose is telling me fatherhood has made el papa smell worse. But I think it is just the super nose. Which by the way is a crap superpower, unless I could get employment as a sniffer human, I'm not sure I'd outperform the canine candidates though.

And then, 3 poops in, or a thousand poops inn, if we're going from the beginning of mum time, they stop standing out. Like in the beginning there were the horrifyingly fascinating ones the black green gunky lava, the sticky ones, the day they turned yellowy, the seedy ones, we've checked them all off from the "how often should my baby poop?" google image list, and while everyone else seems to be worrying about not enough poop ours is coming thick and fast. That worry when you catch a live action one, and thank God that you got laminate floor in the bedroom instead of carpet, the assault missile fart-poop that's like an angry little baby warning to hurry the f**k up or the literal shitis going to hit, well, everything.

I was pretty impressed the day I was changing her and the fart poop travelled as far as my knee, a good 12", and have nearly ducked for cover at the first sign of a sneeze or a fart when the nappy is off ever since (the mum sense of needing to hold on to the baby on the high changing mat only just overrides the reflex to get out of the way of proot propelled poop). Then one day as I side stepped a particularly angry, mid change tantrummy fart, out flew the poops and travelled well over a metre - to be fair with the benefit of being at about waist height on the changing mat, with a decent trajectory and maybe a little extra firepower with me holding her legs up, but holy crap, is that kind of fire power normal?!

And as they all kind of mingle into one big endless poopy bum change I start to be struck by deja poo...the assault missile situation described above has taught me to wait - poops don't often come in a singular event, there might be two or three in quick succession, so we sit it out for a moment. But then sometimes in the midst of something else I fear I've been distracted. I remember a poo...did I deal with that poop? When was it even? Minutes ago? Hours ago? Is the one I'm remembering actually one that happened yesterday...are we in an ongoing poop situation? I think it's maybe the baby-brain dementia, the sad side-effect of the fun bits of getting to stay at home. When your life is reduced to a series of poops interspersed with a bit of smiling, chatting, cooing and singing made up nursery rhymes (to get the rhyme and rhythm they inevitably go a bit off course, a bit of rudeness peppered with swears and gore, that doesn't have to stop till she's speaking right?) it becomes hard to tell them apart, in the monotony of the baby poo world deja poo has me nearly constantly on edge.

My new life, leak proofing myself

She was waking up, but it seems to have just been a sleep-roar, so I might aswell crack on while I'm on a roll.

Now this is really an early weeks one, thankfully not so applicable now. Also thankfully, for me, the hideousness of NHS issue maternity pads did not last long, and I graduated out of those nappy-like ensembles pretty quickly. They were almost more traumatic than anything else in the having a kid process.

Now, I am not one to let things go to waste, I'm a bit of a hoarder, I don't really like throwing things out and I love a bargain, so when I asked my gallant knight in shining armour to get rid of the government issue maternity pads I got in my baby box, he was immediately suspicious. Obviously once he had dealt with the hilarity of being involved in some way with "fanny pads", I mean at only 37 years old who can blame him, what's not hilarious about all feminine hygiene products? So after putting the whole pack between his legs in a not too far from the truth impression of me in the hospital, "Is it not a bit of a waste? Can't you like...use them for something else..?" he says.

Something else? Like what? Dressing gunshot wounds, stemming the blood flow after a mortar attack in a makeshift field hospital? Beyond that I'm not sure I can put them to use (I'm sure my mother will come up with a million handy uses, and give me trouble for chucking them...watch this space).

But I did have to replace them, because it turns out when you have a baby you can't just have a shower and get dressed like anyone else. Having washed like a relatively normal person (provided someone else is on hand to see to the miniature person, otherwise you have to wash like you are in some kind of frenzied supermarket sweep style bathroom competition - go high value first, prioritise! Body wash! Shampoo! You can take or leave conditioner, come on, the baby might cry, you can wash your face anytime damnit, and who needs to be fully dry, hurry!) so having washed, and dried, at a relatively luxurious mildly hurried pace, only to find out you are still dripping, thanks boobies, you have to get entirely leakproofed and dressed before you can do anything. And inevitably the first thing you will do is get the boobies out again. The never ending cycle continues.

Thankfully it is far, far from that bad now, I can almost laugh at the misery, looking back. And that's after a c-section, I'm sure it could have been a whole lot worse. Still spring the occassional leak in the bra dept, but thankfully I've usually got that covered.

Telling the nips to relax because you're so used to narrating your entire life

Looking over my list of possible topics stored in notes on my phone I'm afraid throws up some impenetrable rambling titles that I'm sure made sense at the time. They might have to be ditched..."Google poops sleep holding your breath" ? "The starving night and pee covered day" ?

Inadvertently telling the nips to relax out loud hasn't, unfortunately, been an isolated incident. Having negotiated the indecent nip-nops of pregnancy, carrying my basket through the meat and cheese aisles of Tesco like a cartoon old lady, clutched high under my chin to hide the offending articles, I thought I had whatever the boobies could throw at me covered. I could not have been more wrong. 

I really wanted to breastfeed, for all the well documented reasons of goodness, but also for the convenience, surely whipping a boobie out is easier than sterilising, mixing, reheating and all that palaver. So I was glad when the munchkin took to it like some kind of champion speed eater - she was a total pro, which made me look pretty good, even when I didn't have much clue. All well and good for the first couple of days, as Google joyfully told me the breasts may swell to 3 times the size, I smugly thought to myself, not I, with my professional eater of a child, she is super-efficient, my boobies, purely a fashion accessory for so long, have stepped up to the plate and it turns out they were (literally, apparently...) made for this. 

And then day 4. We got home, and my God they hurt. They appeared to have corners. Rounded corners, but corners none the less. Bring in the super-efficient hungry monkey and drain those bad boys. So that took a while to settle down. 

And then there's the nips, and the bras, which are now so large they have to be segregated from the equally ginormous post-section pants, two who readily shared a drawer before, now have to be separated, a neither shall thrive while the other survives type scenario. I did some "nice" feeding bras shopping to make myself feel better one day, I felt marginally better until they arrived. You peruse the online stores, where ladies seductively unclip their cups, or lift the wee flap of their discreet peephole top, like some kind of socially accessible flasher, gazing with come-to-boob eyes at the camera. So I negotiated the various options, trying not to look the models in the eye, and picked one with some kind of lacy ensemble, you know, to make the three sizes too big, occasionally angular udders look more enticing, but, as is the case with nearly all bras,  they are made for the smaller chested among us. Unless I thrust my chest aggressively forward, which to be honest, in the current circumstances, could be interpreted as threatening behaviour, or maybe even attempted assault, then the lace sits alone, peeking out of my top, then a wee bit of a gap till the easy access cup. Not appealing, but practical. Which could maybe be my new tagline.

We've been doing fairly well really, she eats like a trooper, it's generally felt ok, until this last week when I think she's gnawed one nip-nop which is now in a state of near constant vigilance, its pal over in the other cup seems to be acting out in sympathy, and there isn't just the fear of offending someone, like the pregnancy Tesco days, because I'm not sure I care if anyone's offended by them, but they are like adamantly resistant to being contained, and super sensitive, which is not a helpful superpower. Like cat whiskers on your boobs or something, by the time they tell me I've walked into something I'll already have a broken nose (I have a proportionally massive head to match). So I'm slathering on the lanolin, I'm not exactly sure how it's meant to work, but I'm trusting in the advice of the internet at large. 

So I've been knocked a little off my super-booby-lady pedestal, but I think I have the situation under control. Mean time I'm going to get expressing, which is a bizarre new skill to have learned. I couldn't quite bring myself to try milking by hand, that just felt a bit too close to being a fairytale friesian. I'm still not 100% comfortable with the idea of milking myself by any means, but the hand pump does the trick, and may give the one nip currently on the injury list a wee bit of time to get match fit, without losing her edge.

That's a thing about motherhood - they do say you lower your boundaries of socially acceptable conversation to include poops and boobs. So here we are, and the beast awakes, so I'm off.

2 and a half years later she woke up, married, with a baby. That was a surprise.

9 weeks in to motherhood I'm not sure if it still counts as new, but I definitely wouldn't enter myself into any pro-mum/mum of the year competitions just yet. I can do many more things with one hand than ever before, I can use a spoon with my left hand with minimal spillage. I don't care much about said spillage. I have harnessed the power of boobies, a magical,baby calming super power (haven't tested it on any other babies, and have no intention to. I'm a very limited scope superhero.). I can change a nappy, I've negotiated poop explosions without contaminating anything beyond the immediate vicinity of the nappy,not dropping the baby in the process. I'm a semi-accomplished milkmaid. I've learned to appreciate food at any temperature, and no longer eat at the speed of a ravenous savage. I can hold in a pee for way longer than is probably healthy. I've mastered an almost inescapable swaddle. I can (sometimes) make my baby smile, proper big smiles-with-the-eyes,dimples-in-the-chubby-cheeks smiles (it is still quite confidence crushing when she looks unconvinced at my efforts...). There are lots of things I can't do...but we don't want to dwell too much on those...my changing bag packing isn't just brilliant, public singing still petrifies me, even when chiming in with toddlers, I find trying to match outfits unusually stressful, my patience muscle is still strengthening, I can't imagine ever being able to have any kind of routine given I failed at it as an adult. I have a tendency towards being a semi-hermit. I'm sure I can work on those and the many other inevitable failings.

So now we have a two day trend of long lunchtime naps in the sling I thought I could revisit the blog. I have been storing up ideas as we've gone along learning the art of keeping a tiny human alive, most of it is probably fairly obvious to any even semi-accomplished parent...but I had to learn them in real life. Funny how they imagine you'll know how to be a parent because you don't have any particularly significant social problems, up until 9 weeks ago I had no idea. Now I suppose I have mastered some of the practicalities.

And as I master them I feel more and more grateful for being able to stay at home for a good while, I gain more and more respect for those who stay at home longer term (it is really pretty f**king hard being in constant demand), appreciate more and more having an involved el papa for the little person so I can have a little bit of time in less demand, and feel more and more sorry that he misses out on the daytime bits, that he doesn't get the chance to get to know her as well as I do, that he probably thinks I'm better at it than he is when really I'm just getting to practice all day every day. And I have the boobies - the ultimate trump card (I think we need a new word for that, I don't really want to think of my boobies in trump terms...).

Race day...

Well this has been 3 weeks in the writing - turns out when I don't have training to avoid it's not so easy to ramble on here.

I survived, I am most definitely still alive. I haven't run since I got back. I'm still amazed by how generous everyone has been. I have learned a few things, about geography - mostly how far 13 miles is - about running - hard, but enjoyable - about myself, well, no, I think I knew most of those things already, and about Edinburgh - mostly how pretty it can be.

So my trip to Edinburgh began with locating and "rescuing" my wayward brother. Not wayward in a criminal sense...a good story, for another day. 

My race day began at 5.30am, which, in case you haven't tried it, is not a reasonable time to be up in the morning. Not being a morning person, 5.30am starts do not appeal. I'm not particularly a night time person either, so legitimately being able to go to bed at 9pm without an extensive battery of excuses lessened the blow a little. 

Except obviously I couldn't sleep. I can sleep almost anywhere, at any time. I love a nap. I really believe in the curative power of sleeping. When I got stuck in my higher maths revision, the night before the exam, I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning I could do whatever really hard maths-with-letters mumbo-jumbo I couldn't fathom the night before. Sleep is magical. So long as you can get there.

So I slept on and off, I had all my kit piled up, got up and dressed, plastered my feet, vaselined my bingo wings (what a beautiful picture to paint), ate my porridge, packed my Soreen, located all necessary items, packed my emergency binliner jacket and headed off to the shuttle bus, where assorted other lycra'd lovelies were gathering. These included some full make up girls, and one girl with a fashion fringe, the kind of side sweep thing that isn't a real fringe, just hair pinned across. It is quite a feat of construction and, I imagine, not best suited to a sweaty run fest due to take place under a weather warning of wind and rain. Then I realised how old before my time I am, and tried to stop thinking about her inappropriate hair (that was an awful lot prettier than mine).

I found the starting pens, accidentally made friends with an American marathoner-in-training and a maths teacher and began to think about toilets. I'd studied the route map, I knew where to find them, I thought I should just get one last pee out of the way before the start. Lots of other people were thinking the same, so I queued. As I got the front a full make up, pretty hair girl, burst out of one of the 3 portaloos not 10 seconds after she'd gone in.

"I'm sorry, but I can't! I can't do it. It's making me boak! You might be able to, but I certainly can't..."

Was this a challenge? I had a moment of panic - if I go does it make me some kind of stink monster, like she is obviously disgusting if she likes going in stinky toilets, or I walk out and they'd all point and laugh at the girl who used the stinky mink loo, if I don't I'm essentially depriving the whole queue of a loo...and how bad can it be? And how much do I really care? (Not much, it turns out)

And then my training kicked in - I hadn't been running up and down that Toab Road breathing in slurry and poo particles for nothing - this was my moment, I was totally going to nail the portapotty. (as long as there's no actual poo on the floor or seat, was my one clause). I held my breath and emerged triumphant. The girl was still waiting and looked on in admiration. 

All this excitement to distract me from the actual race. The run was busy, I was in my pen, in my binbag chic, we headed off and I had my first pang of guilt as I threw the binbag away, even sanctioned littering tugs my Catholic-guilt-moral-strings, so throwing away bottles at every water stop really pained me. I hadn't warmed up, I thought 13 miles was more than enough, and I wasn't going to be spanging about anyway, so I started slow, and got a little bit annoyed by having so many people around, but we got going and it thinned out.

The weather warning weather never came to anything (forecast of storms gusting at 40mph weren't really tickling my weathervane anyway - that's surely just a summer's day?), I missed the 2 mile marker so was pleasantly surprised to find myself 3 miles in and feeling fresh. We wound our way through some park, and along streets where people shouted, some other Lucy had a support crew with banners, so I lapped up some of their love (they looked like they had plenty to go round). I did a lot of overtaking/undertaking/dropping back and fore and didn't ever quite join up with anyone the same pace, I'm not sure I was trying to...but I think I will next time so I can be more settled. As we wound through the park I was overtaken by a lanky middle-aged couple, who sounded a little bit like they were going to take over the world (they were German I think, the accent really helps, so read it out loud), as they sped past:

"Zees condeeshons, zay are optimal, no?"

"Ja...Ja, vee could not 'ave planned eet better..."

So that brightened my day for a while.

There were more Lucy banners later as we went through Portobello (?) then onward to Mussleburgh where the actual Lucy support team were waiting. I did have a toilet pit stop which I regretted almost immediately as I seemed to adopt a queue friend who talked incessantly at me (I'm getting the sense I'm not a sociable runner) and it was a long queue, so nearly 10 minutes of talking, and it's such an exciting, joyous, charitable occassion it is just not socially acceptable to be mean to fellow runners, so I pee'd fast and got on my way before she could find me for the remaining 6 miles.

I found my Lucy support team lounging on a tree, and as I went for my jelly babies and water a chirpy man sneaked up behind me, "Ahh! Sweeties!" and helped himself to my jelly babies...which was fine, there were spare, but unexpected...I took a couple of handfuls and got on my way. A mile or so later a lovely lady offered me more, and in trying to show her I already had some I realised that sweaty paws and jelly babies do not necessarily mix well. I scraped off the goo, ate a bit, and perked up a bit. 

The final stretch has a double back section, so as you run out maybe mile 9-11, you pass everyone coming back along towards the finish line. Which is maybe meant to be rousing and give you hope. Mostly it made me hate them, all these happy people with only half a mile to go...but eventually I made the turn around and I was those happy people (happy ish, I was still doing some walk/run/walk interpretation of running), until I saw the elite marathoners (closely pursued by a man in a full Batman costume) speeding by, and realised what I was doing was most definitely not running in the sense that they run. But it was too close to the end to stop so I powered on. And I made it.

To be honest I found it pretty hard, in a funny way...for future reference running 6 miles twice is not the same as running 12 miles, whatever the maths tells you. It's a strange kind of tired, not puffed out particularly, but heavy legged. I didn't like not having a sense of where I was and what was to come. I think I'd like to do the same race again, and maybe have a few months of just running for fun before I get into actual training, I found that I really started to enjoy the last few weeks of training (says she who hasn't run since finishing) - I'd like to get to that stage again. That is the plan for the next year.

Next time - I will practice running with people, I might even find myself a race buddy (said wayward brother shook on a bet for next year, though it was in the aftermath of his adventure/mishap so I'm not sure he was in a fit state to consent to anything), I think I'll run the full distance, maybe with a bit extra, between now and then and I'll find something to wear with jelly baby pockets.

I think I'll get some more accurate kind of running measurer thing - mine told me I'd only run 11 miles, so I think something went a bit wrong somewhere.Maybe a Tomtom or Garmin one, not too expensive, not too fancy...any advice welcome, no urgency, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.

I have signed up for the Mind Your Head fun run in August, to get me back out and at it. 

I don't quite have a fundraising total yet - still to count up my cash contributions, but safe to say it is a heck of a more than I was expecting, so thank you to everyone who donated, or who had a look at any of the Mental Health websites, or who looked out for themselves or someone else a little bit more over the last few months. Every little helps so they say!

I'll be back with more non-run funs soon.

Anxious legs, nighttime zoo, final prep...

Tomorrow it'll all be over. A bit more than 24 hours from now, unless I finish it in an ambulance having collapsed along the way. Sitting on the back-steps in the sunshine in Edinburgh, with a cup of normal(ish) tea. Finding a normal cup of tea in my sister's house is like sourcing a plain black vest-top in a vintage clothes boutique. I know what I want, I know exactly what it'll go with, it will make me happy and comfortable. No I don't want a shift dress with a mesmerising magic eye pattern, or a real crocodile handbag, or a tie-dyed halter neck, or a bandage wrap top, or any of these other things instead. 

I just want a cup of tea dammit. I'm not averse to fancy tea now and again, but not for breakfast. You can keep your fancy schmancy coloured boxes, and flavours and smells. There are too many variables already in this run, so many things could go wrong...I've already cut my finger this morning without even realising, I don't need any more negativity...now give me a cup of tea.

What are these tea bags in the suspicious unmarked tub?

Rwandan.

Rwandan?! I'm not a tea racist. I don't need to know it's ethnic origin...I just need to know if it's normal. (In so much as any of us are normal...I know. But you know what I mean...)

Rwandan it is then. It tastes mostly normal.

I think I might be a bit highly strung.

I did my last run yesterday morning, along a part of the route - out of Musselburgh, towards Prestonpans - and found a little street called Hope Place about mile 9, which, depending on your state of mind, could be a welcome, comforting sign from the world that all will be well, or a snide laugh in your face from the planners as you drag your failing carcass by...

I'm going to go for welcome and comforting. Which is how I took the aggressive toot from a pimped up Polo yesterday, and the big fake sneeze from the white van men I passed...what a super way to show support. I've been completely amazed, surprised and delighted by everyone's interest, generosity and kindness of thought, advice, support and cash over this last couple of months.

I have been stuck in a bit of a rut this last couple of years, and thought having a goal might be a good way to turbo-power my way out of it. And I thought entering a half marathon might not be enough, but if I was to run for charity...that would utilise my innate (?Catholic) guilt for good and ensure I actually did it. There are loads of great charities around, and you can't support them all, so I picked one for a cause important to me (like a sob story on X-factor, there's nothing like a personal cause to help people part with their cash. I'm sure Patrick would have been royally mortified that people were giving so much in his name, but there we are...). 

The great thing about supporting a Mental Health charity is that the non-money bit of fund-raising, putting the idea out there and getting people talking is as, if not more, important as the money bit - being part of the change in attitude towards mental health, being part of the conversation, being the person who saw this cause, spoke to their friend and realised they had worries in common, or became a support to someone who thought they were alone. 

So I am enormously grateful for all the donation, and actually properly astounded, and I hope that a few people have started a difficult conversation, or looked after themselves or others a bit. Take some time to recharge, do things you enjoy, and be kind to yourself. Maybe avoid the company of highly strung, grumpy runners, for the moment, they might only bring you down...  

As far as prep goes I'm off out on a hunt for a pocket, which seems a bit like going to buy a bit of emptiness, but I just need a home for some jelly babies. Either that or they'll be strategically placed with my "crew"...imagining my mother lobbing jelly babies at me from Hope Place is really intensifying the hunt. As I cantered (I may have done a small whinny) past Mussleburgh racecourse I wondered if I should have had someone rub linement into my legs before now, but too late if I should have. I'm startign to worry about changing anything, or going anywhere in case I get too tired. Another pointless trip up the stairs - why did I run? Why can I not just walk like a normal person, or maybe crawl to share the load, I must conserve my energy...as if I'm going to run out of steps mid race (hopefully not). 

Among my ongoing worries - 

I walked too much at nighttime zoo and my legs are tired (I've never been so acutely aware of my legs before), I also went dressed in running clothes and anorak, and the first person I met was a girl reapplying make-up in the toilets. One of us has missed a memo, I thought. The ticket did say not to come in animal costume...but beyond that appropriate attire was open to interpretation. I think the rhino was my favourite. 

I have not tried the pants/leggings combination I've decided on, and I really don't think I can fix that midrace. Mother - meet me at Hope Place with inappropriate pants, 3 jelly babies and an oversized trenchcoat to hide the change.

My feet are tired. I think. 

I haven't decided what to eat today yet.

I have to catch a bus at 6am. If it starts with 5 then you should not be awake, in my opinion. a 6am bus is hideous. I'm not even going to be awake until mile 5.

I'll sleep in. 

I won't be able to sleep.

I've lost my race number (I've checked a few times a day, it is still there).

I'll fall over. Or I'll make someone else fall over. In my head I imagine us running along to the Benny Hill tune, so many people, we have to run exactly in step, and then I fall over, or elbow someone and cause a pile up.

I'll need the toilet when there is not toilet.

I'll go to the toilet and there'll be no toilet paper. If I bring my own the only place I could keep it is in my sports bra, it'll get sweat soaked and I'll end up with a papier-mache cast of my chest.

I'll get lost finding the start line.

I'll accidentally sprint off and not be able to stop myself. Or I'll forget how to run.

I'll be too cold, or too hot.

My outfit doesn't match. I know this isn't very important...but I'm still a little bit worried about it.

There are probably more, but that's keeping me going for the moment.

It's meant to rain tomorrow. Which I'd rather, if the choice is that or big heat, but I hope it's not just too soggy.

Some other great places to go for info Scottish Association for Mental Health, Mind, MHF. Or I had a Black Dog is worth a watch.