Coming Home

Last night marked my return to the running world. Butterflies danced around my stomach with the thought of running again after a near 3 year hiatus. Any thoughts of self-doubt quickly dissapated the moment I laced up my too-new-looking shoes. Slipping into those shoes was like being enveloped in the familiar embrace of an old friend.

The class consisted of a diverse bunch ranging from non-runners to those who had a marathon or two under their belt. Most of us, though, were runners who, for various reasons, had fallen out of touch with running. The class was an opportunity to become reacquainted with the sport, a promise of new beginnings. Once a runner, always a runner.

My feet hit the pavement, surprisingly quick and light. I found my pace, lulled into a zone by the rhythmic cadence of my steps and breathing. 2 breaths in, 2 breaths out.

I can. Do this.
I can. Do this.
I can. Do this.

It was, in a word, exhilarating. Like coming home. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was not running away from the demons that were chasing me, desperately trying to escape. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was running toward something.

The Things I See

She bursts into the dance studio and sings at the top of her lungs, "Hi, Miss Teresa!" She only hears Miss Teresa's words, "Hi, Kate. Put your bag down and get in line." What she doesn't hear is the less-than-enthused tone of the reply, the annoyance in her voice.

But I do.

She needs to be reminded several times to pay attention, follow directions, stay with the group. She doesn't see the exasperated look on the teacher's face.

But I do.

She shows a coveted toy to the group during sharing time. Her words come out disjointed, fragmented. The teacher feigns interest and asks her a question she does not know how to answer. She doesn't see the look of disdain on the teacher's face.

But I do.

She patiently waits her turn to try a new step across the floor. She does it wrong, the entire way. She doesn't notice that the teacher doesn't bother to help her.

But I do.

She is the last one to emerge from the room, no doubt because the contents of her bag must be arranged in a particular order. She doesn't see the impatience in the teacher's hurried movements as she quickly brushes past her.

But I do.

And I wish I didn't.

Quarantine

You do not want to come within a 5-mile radius of my house. It's not pretty, folks. Right now my best friend is a bottle of Lysol that I have obsessively sprayed on virtually every surface in this place in hopes that the vapors will kill off any stray viruses that might have seeped into my body after being vomited on 4 times between 3 children. It's only a matter of time before one of us big people joins the others. Wish us luck.

Snow Day

I watch her from my position in the front door. She is a pile of pink punctuating the white blanket covering the ground. She lay motionless, on her back, eyes turned toward the heavens, arms and legs splayed from her body in neat 45 degree angles. She maintains her position for a minute or so before standing up to inspect her handiwork. Pleased with her creation, she dances several steps to the side and flops down again. This routine continues, unchanged. Eventually she spies me, waves, and calls out, "I makedid 25 snow angels!" Sure enough, 25 small body prints lined the yard, side-by-side. 25 snow angels created by my little angel.

A Goal

I have been out of sorts lately, adrift. My days are filled with the rather mundane tasks of motherhood. Shuttling the kids to and from school, endless piles of laundry and dishes, cooking, wiping up crumbs, picking up toys, sitting in the waiting room at the dance studio. I am bored. I am restless. I pick up a book or a magazine, only to put it down again. I tackle a project around the house, only to stop in the middle, leaving it incomplete. Unfinished. I am treading water, going nowhere. Each day I am simply marking time, just trying to make it through the day without drowning.

This is no way to live a full, rich life. I need goals, things to accomplish. On my calendar is the date May 24th circled in red. It is the date I will run my first 5K. It is a goal, something that I will inch closer and closer to one baby step at a time. We all need goals. Something to set our sight on. Something to keep us moving. Something to give us strength.

The Wandering of the Three Year Old Mind

Annie: Hey, Dad. I'm a smart cookie.

Gonzo: Yes, you are.

Annie: Hey, Dad. I like cookies.

Gonzo: Me too.

Annie: I don't like chocolate chip cookies though.

Gonzo: Oh, I do.

Annie: I like chocolate though. I like Hershey kisses.

Gonzo: So do I.

Annie: Hey, Dad. Maybe we could go to Hershey Park again.

She pops her thumb into her mouth and turns her eyes expectantly toward Gonzo, awaiting his answer.

Gonzo: Maybe we will go this summer.

Annie: Okay!

And with that she happily gallops off toward bed.

Watch Your Mouth

Thoroughly frustrated with our ongoing bathroom struggles I vented to Gonzo, "I am so tired of wiping that five year old A-S-S!"


From the next room comes a tiny monotone voice, "Five year old A-S-S. Five year old A-S-S. Five year old A-S-S."


Moral of the story: Be careful what you say, or spell, in the presence of an echolalic child.