Catch Me if You Can

It’s funny how some things are more impressive the older we get.  When I was eleven, my Dad ran the Boston Marathon.  To my nearly 40-year-old self, that’s pretty impressive. 

To my eleven-year-old self, it was a trip to Boston with a side of race.

Why this recent admiration? 

Because a few months ago, I started to jog.  I’ve tried and failed before.  In middle school, I joined the track team for two days, but decided to quit after my sides began to cramp and my lungs began to burn.

My excuse has always been I’m just not built to run.  I’m too top heavy. I don’t like to sweat.  I’m athletically deficient.

Turns out, all I really needed was a decent sport bra. 

Though not quite under the cloak of darkness, and not by jumping behind the occasional telephone pole like my Dad did when he started, I run my course from Morgan Street to Westwood Cemetery and back home again. 

My internal GPS knows that if I wind up dying, at least I’ll be in a convenient spot.

Often on my runs, I think about my Dad when he was my age.  Without the assistance of Couch-to-Five K on his iPhone, he began running the back roads of Pittsfield with little more than a stick to beat away the occasional dog and a crappy pair of Converse tennis shoes.  He didn’t need the encouragement of his Facebook friends to keep him at it.  In fact, I’m guessing for him it was quite the opposite.  My Dad was an enigma.  Why run if no one is chasing you?

As impressed as I am today with his physical endurance, I am almost more impressed by the do-it-yourself therapy that he discovered while running.  Without fanfare, he kept at it, training both body and mind.

For thirty minutes, I leave the chaos of my home life behind, as well as many of the anxieties that pull at the hem of my shirt throughout the day.  Like a toddler learning to walk (and looking nearly as graceful), I sometimes think of little more than that daily run that somehow frees me.  No longer do I run because I should, I run because I have to.

And whenever I doubt that I can make it just two more minutes, I think of my Dad, and suddenly my feet sprout wings.

Happy Mother’s Day, To Me

I really never gave much thought to Mother’s Day--until I became a mother.

After 20 years playing this gig, I can say without remorse that being a Mom is mostly a miserable job.

The mental and physical strain is relentless.   One Sunday a year hardly negates the psychological damage that goes along with the coveted title of Mom.

Being a Mom is like running a marathon.

Middle of the night feedings may be the only training you’ll receive to prepare you for when your sixteen-year-old daughter breaks curfew.

And the tiny infant who hasn’t learned to smile almost prepares you for the teenager who’s lost that ability to oblige you. 

I’ve learned that Mother’s Day is what you make it.  There’s no point getting your feelings hurt.  I took charge and celebrated it myself the day before. 

It was great.

On Sunday, I woke to John pawing at me from his side of the bed.  

I didn’t need to look at the time to know it was way too early for that.

Without opening my eyes, I grumbled, “It’s my day, not yours.”

When I woke the second time, it was from the bacon-scented alarm clock beckoning from the kitchen below.  Sitting at the head of the table--in obvious anticipation of morning deliciousness--was Kenny.  Looking much different than he had the night before. 

His eyes were a mosaic of green slime and yellow crustaceans, and were almost entirely swollen shut.

“Morning, Mommy,” he said with the faraway look of Helen Keller.

As I poured myself a cup of coffee, John made exaggerated motions to step around me, obviously insulted by my block at his Mother’s Day pass. 

Maybe my family repressed the day, because I hadn’t yet heard a single Mother’s Day salutation.

When I prompted Kenny to retrieve my gift from his backpack, uninterested he said,

“Maybe later, Mommy."

And when Stancey sat down for breakfast, I prompted her as well.

“I’ll make you a card or something later,” she replied before finishing off the last of the coffee and pushing her chair away from the table.

And when Madison came down, I reminded him as well.

“That’s today? “ he mumbled.  “I thought it was next weekend.”

Later that day as Kenny's pink eyes and I waited in the doctor’s examining room (yes, our pediatrician really does have Sunday hours), I thought it was pretty fitting that of all the places I could be spending Mother’s Day, it was no accident that I was spending it there, doing what I do almost every other day.

All those promptings, however, were not in vain.  Stancey did, in fact, make me a card.  Kenny, once the cloud of snot cleared from his eyes, gave me the poem and picture he made at school.  Sam reminded me of the geranium he gave me on Friday, and Mayle, my underage daughter, somehow managed to come up with a great bottle of wine.

And Madison? I’ll assume he’ll catch up with me next Sunday, when Mother’s Day fits better into his schedule.