Mother’s Day 2013

Sometimes I come out of a weekend thinking, wow. Just wow. And I can scarcely begin to describe how I arrived at this point. But I will make an attempt anyhow, because, well, what else will I be doing here? Sing?

On Saturday, I left the house at 7:30 AM for a five-mile run (my first morning run in a long time, and since we’re doing a play-by-play here, I might as well admit that it felt pretty wonderful too), and came home for a quick swig of coffee while the girls got ready to leave for their soccer class. Then we left together so I could go to my yoga class for 90 minutes while their dad watched the girls during soccer.

The funny thing is, there is a wall of windows that overlooks the soccer field from my yoga class, and every now and then, I could see Little Miss with the ball and her sister trailing behind her. I know we’re expected to disconnect from the outside world during yoga, but I couldn’t help myself. It was highly entertaining, albeit a little distracting.

By the time I was done, we were all ready for a hearty brunch at a neighborhood restaurant, where Little Miss, who was usually full of interruptions, sat quietly as she drew me this lovely picture and wrote the words all by herself. (Had she not run out of space, it would have said "Mommy” since we’re not quite at the “Mom” stage yet. Thankfully.)

I have to say, having a full conversation with My Guy as we ate was as delicious as the plate of asparagus and brie omelet and crispy house potatoes I had in front of me.

After an active morning, the girls napped soundly while the grownups did some work on the computer. We rested just enough for our next round of adventure: Family Swim!

The girls, who haven’t been in the pool since our vacation in Puerto Rico, were absolutely delighted. That’s also when Thumper confirmed our suspicions: she was fearless in the water. Just put a foam noodle under her armpits, and she’s off! My Guy would stand Thumper up above the pool and ask her to jump at the count of three, except, that never really happened. Sometimes it’s onetwothreefourfiveSIX! before jumping, and sometimes, it would go up to 11. Very random. Very funny. But she never once hesitated to dive in.

Little Miss had her own moves in the water too.  The foam noodle was also new to her, but it didn’t take her long to figure out how to float and glide across the water with relative ease, insisting that we only helped upon her request.

Being in the water is such a joy for me as some of my favorite childhood memories happened at the pool. The fact that my family was equally enchanted by the water was a colossal bonus. We decided to become members of the YMCA just so we could make the Family Swim time a regular thing. It’s our happy place, it would seem.

As with after every trip to the pool, we were all famished by the time we were done, and we picked a nearby restaurant, devoured some noodles, and because we decided to fudge the girls’ bedtime a little that evening, ventured into World Market, where I went crazy at the candy aisle. I’ve never been known to resist temptation, so why start now? On our way home, we each had a Happy Hippo from one of my favorite chocolate brands, Kinder, and called it a day.

And oh, what a day. Exhausting yet energizing. Busy but relaxing. Who knew all that physical activity would feel so satisfying?

In the car, on our way home, I said to My Guy, “You know, you could call this our Mother’s Day celebration, and I would be perfectly happy.”

Because it was true. I had an amazing day.

But he wouldn’t have it.

True to his nature, he already had the next day planned, from the time I woke to the time I went to bed.

Mother’s Day started with our first meal at my favorite breakfast restaurant, where I feasted on divine sour-cherry-chocolate French toast. Then we took a scenic drive to the Chicago Botanic Gardens and spent the morning ooh-ing and aah-ing over tulips, rhododendrons, and lilies. This was Thumper’s year at the Gardens it would seem because purple, her favorite, was everywhere. Luckily for Little Miss, they weren’t short on pink either.

Both pictures show the Japanese Garden, my favorite part.

Naturally, with two little ones, we had to break the day in two to squeeze in the all-important nap. On this day, I skipped my usual Sunday run and chose to nap instead. (Gasp!!!) But then again, Mother’s Day comes but once a year. I had to take advantage of the license to take advantage.

I also had to conserve my energy because after our rest came more celebrating! Our third stop of the day was for dinner at our favorite Ethiopian restaurant, where everyone in my family has a favorite dish and no one leaves hungry. Ever.

After copious amounts of “Meat!”, as my toddler would demand, I dropped Thumper and My Guy off at home and drove Little Miss and me to a little theater in the suburbs for a live performance of one of her favorite stories, Beauty & the Beast. It was a big-girl-and-mama date night, and the fact that it was special was not lost on her as I fielded her barrage of questions and comments about the show and our night at the theater.

When we arrived home after the show, My Guy excitedly announced to me that Thumper was asleep in Little Miss’ big-girl bed, instead of her own crib. It was completely unexpected as she hadn’t shown any real interest up to this point, and I made him give me the play-by-play of how it all went down.

It was a milestone after all! And I couldn’t believe I wasn’t there for it! My soon-to-be two-year-old (in exactly two weeks, but who’s counting) was finally in a big-girl bed! Little Miss went to sleep in our guest bed that night - a spot with which she’s now familiar since we separate them on nights we hear a party in their bedroom, instead of quietly going to bed - and we ended the night with a couple of episodes of “The Game of Thrones” and a bottle of sumptuous Tripel Karmeliet beer.

Before turning in ourselves, we looked in on Thumper, who woke from sleep, got on her feet on the bed with a stuffed animal in each hand and asked to be put back in her crib: “Seep in my kib daddy...seep in my kib...”

Ah. All’s well with the world again. I can continue to pretend she’s still my baby, and not the toddler that she really is.

For Mother’s Day, I only had two requests of My Guy. 1) That I was not asked to think about a single meal that day, so whether he decided to cook or take us out, I didn’t want to have to make a choice because I do that five times a day, every day; and  2) That he made the bed in the morning (something that I made a point to do myself every day because it made me feel good).

He did all of that, of course. And much, much more. Because he’s awesome like that.

The pampering was nice, but that’s not why I loved the weekend.

I loved it because on Saturday, we were just going about our business as usual and playing by ear with most of what we ended up doing that day, yet everything came together so perfectly that we couldn’t have planned it better.

I also loved it because on Sunday, despite several glitches, My Guy still managed to pull off an amazing Mother’s Day celebration for me.  We almost had to wait 30 minutes for a table at breakfast, but we avoided the long wait because he offered to hold Thumper on his lap while we ate at the restaurant counter (no waiting!). It was Little Miss’ first time on a swiveling high stool, so it actually turned out to be a fun experience for her.

When Little Miss pitched a fit later that day because she couldn’t wear the dress of her choice for dinner (in our defense, it was a sleeveless number, and it was a rather chilly day), My Guy swooped in and averted the crisis just by talking her out of it. And as you know, trying to reason with an unreasonable preschooler can be a monumental task, so props to him, who usually has less patience for insolence than I do, for even trying.

And the best part? The house was as I would’ve kept it - the bed was made, the kitchen and dining room table were clean, and the toys were put away. It was a very good day, no, weekend, for me.

A heartfelt gratitude goes out to My Guy for making this Mother’s Day so very special, and to my family for making even the most ordinary day feel that way sometimes.

 

Once in awhile, we get it right

A dandelion bouquet, from my sweet girls

7:30 PM. The babysitter showed up right on time. My Guy had just tucked the girls in bed, but they weren’t asleep. We chose to put them in separate rooms tonight so they wouldn’t have a giggle-chat fest in their room, throwing the new sitter off, making her wonder, on her first encounter with them, if the occasional high-pitched cackle or the fussing because one sister was trying to disturb the other was normal.

It’s all normal. But she didn’t know that. And it was too soon to acquaint her with the antics of my boisterous girls. I’d like her to come back, so I was all about making it easier for the sitter.

After introductions - her name was Mary - we brought her to the girls so they could meet her. I was a little hesitant initially, wondering if Thumper, who was always blissfully asleep before we left for all of our date nights previously, would react negatively to an unfamiliar face. But she’s experienced a few sitters during the day; perhaps this wouldn’t faze her.

My Guy first walked Mary into Thumper’s room. It was shrouded in darkness except for the glowing blue night light from the corner closest to her crib. Our little 23-month-old sat up, curious about the stranger. He then picked her up and said, “Hey, Thumper, this is Mary.”

But before he could continue, she said in a quiet voice, “Hi Mayee” and, to everyone’s surprise, puckered her lips and leaned in for a kiss, which Mary reciprocated.

“She’s your babysitter tonight,” My Guy explained. “Mommy and daddy are going out, and she’ll be here to take care of you, okay?”

“Otay,” said the little love.

After a few more exchanges, Thumper hugged her daddy goodbye and bid them both goodnight before they closed the door behind them.

One down. One more to go.

With Little Miss, it was more of the same. Minus the kiss. Our four-year-old, who’s seasoned at this whole babysitter business, greeted Mary politely before snuggling in for the rest of the night, and called out to her daddy, “See you in the morning!”

Mary uttered her delight at their warm reception of her. I smiled. I was surprised myself, but, at the same time, I wasn’t.

In the car, on the way to our night of debauchery - well, I suppose it depends on how you define that; ours involved poussin, sweetbreads, snails, mussels, and ale - I couldn’t help but feel incredibly proud, not just of my girls, but of us, as parents.

All these years of worrying and fretting, decisions and indecisions, wondering and hoping, agreeing and disagreeing - it felt like all of that arrived at this moment to tell us that yes, this is what we wanted. And, holy shit, this is what we have!

Beautiful, wonderful little girls who say goodnight when it’s time to sleep, and let us turn out the lights and walk away. Who are polite and unafraid when meeting a stranger. Who trust us to leave them in good hands. Who are comfortable with the idea of us leaving, knowing we will come back. (Because we always do.) Who allow us the time and the ability to enjoy our relationship with each other apart from them, and the space to be who we need to be individually as well. (Because those are important too.)

Who know that, in the end, it’s all about them.

Yes, even the part about making ourselves happy as a couple, and as a person. That’s about them too, because when it feels like we are each nurtured, in our own way, in this family, we have so much more to give to others, to each other, in return.

As any parent, we work hard to “get it right”, but no matter what, there are no guarantees. We constantly battle our own doubts and insecurities - is this the right thing to do? will they be okay? what if it’s the wrong decision? - and we hope that, in the end, something works.

And right now, something is working. Something feels right.

When we walked in through our door after midnight, Mary reported that she spent her time watching “The Game of Thrones” with no interruptions while the girls slumbered soundly. We had expected it, because once they were down, they rarely ever woke from sleep. Even then, I heaved a sigh of relief, as I do every time I hear that after an evening out.

That night, I also threw a wave of gratitude to the stars, feeling extremely lucky that we have it so easy as parents, but knowing, at the same time, that luck had little to do with it.

 

* * *

If you’ve ever had an a-ha moment that made you feel like you’re doing something right as a parent (because goodness knows there are plenty of things that make us feel like we’re doing something wrong), please share. I’d love to hear it.

 

It’s not always glamorous and romantic

 
This picture was taken after I completed my half marathon this past Saturday. You’re probably thinking, aww, look at the little one admiring her medal. Uhm, actually, she was looking for the quickest route to her milk supply.

I left at 6:15 that morning to make the 7 AM start time, before the girls were even awake, which means Thumper didn’t get her usual morning nourishment. When she saw me approaching after I crossed the finish line that day, she was thrilled to see me, not so much for my accomplishment, but for the milk she saw walking towards her.

Nonetheless, I was incredibly happy to see them at the end of my 13.1-mile run. They were, after all, the reason I ran. And on that sunny April morning, they were also the reason I finished the race.

You see, I’d like to say that, because of my training, it was an easy course for me, but I would be lying. Months of running in frigid weather left me ill-prepared for the 50-degree sunshine that the cheering spectators welcomed. I was sweltering in my two-layer outfit, and, on more than one occasion, I was tempted to just stop and walk away from it.

But I didn’t. I was determined to share a proud moment with my family at the end, even if it meant crawling to the finish line, and that was pretty much the only thing that kept me going.

Here’s the progression of my thoughts as my feet pounded the road for two hours:

- Ooh, I need to check out this restaurant later. Looks pretty good.

- Aww, what a lovely tree-lined street.

- Sunny day...glad I wore my hat.

- Wait, is that a hill? That looks like a hill.

- Okay what happened to the breeze?

- Prairie land! Nice.

- Oops, I’m hunching. Shoulders back, midfoot strike, breathe breathe in, breathe breathe out

- What does her shirt say?

- Look at those two older ladies in their chair giving high five’s. I should give them one too.

- A bridge over a creek! How romantic. But where are the trees? Some shade from the sun would be nice.

- Uh-oh, another hill.

- Sheesh, is this sun ever going to let up?

- Water. Water. Water.

- Trees!!!

- Where are the %#*&@#* leaves?!

- Why the hell did I sign up for this again?

- Photographer. Should I smile? Don’t be ridiculous. Concentrate.

- Shoulders back, midfoot strike, breathe breathe in, breathe breathe out

- What the heck is he wearing?

- Yay! Half way!

- This hat needs to come off. I’d rather be blinded than melted by the sun.

- Is that guy grilling? Right by a marathon? Now that’s just cruel.

- 10 miles should be coming soon. Come on 10 miles. Come on!

- Oh my god, it’s only been eight miles???

- Water. Water. Water.

- Where the @*$# are you 10 miles?

- Hill? Again?! (It was a small incline, but it felt like Kilimanjaro at that point)

- This heat is killing me. Look at that smart woman in her tank top. I feel like an idiot in my outfit.

- Note to self: Dress better next time. Next time? What next time? $@&# that.

- Oh look, another one in her tank top. Bitch.

- Hey isn’t that the same guy holding the same sign from Mile 1?

- Am I starting to hallucinate?

- Focus! Shoulders back, midfoot strike, breathe breathe in, breathe breathe out

- Yes! 10 miles! I made it. Last leg!

- Wait, didn’t I already hear this song in the beginning?

- Are we there yet? Where the #@^& is the next mile marker?

- This sucks. Why am I doing this again?

- Oh right, the girls. Couldn’t I just take up knitting? What’s wrong with me?? #$^@*&$!

- I see Mile 12. That’s 12 miles right? Please tell me that’s 12. Please please please…

- TWELVE!!! Oh my god, the end is near.

- Come on feet, let’s go. Hello? Feet? You there?

- Forget my time goal. I just want to finish. And see my babies. And never run another race again!

- Are #%&^@ we %@* there #%*#% yet??

- Hey people, stop saying “you’re almost there” - you’ve been saying that for the last 15 minutes!!! Where the #$)@*&@ is “there”?!

- Where the $*@# is this path leading us? Where is the #%$^%@ finish line?

- Another turn??? Come ON!

- Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! FINISH LINE!!!

2 hours, 9 minutes and 2 seconds after I started, I finally reached the end. I made it just under my goal time of 2:10. Since it was my first half marathon (and perhaps my only), I wasn’t very ambitious; I was just aiming to finish. And that (insert big sigh of relief) I did.

I spied my friend, who ran the race with me (“with” as in she was way ahead, and I didn’t even bother trying to catch up) cheering for me at the end, but I didn’t see my family. Blocked by a million others and prohibited from the stadium field, where the finish line was, they couldn’t see me from the bleachers either.

So much for the grand finale.

I received my medal but skipped the water and refueling stations and went to look for them. When I spotted my favorite faces in the crowd, I was breathless with gratitude - they’re here!!! And the smiles I received in return were priceless. Almost made the grueling two hours worth it to me. Almost.

I handed Little Miss the medal so she would do the honors of placing it around my neck. She probably had little clue as to the significance of this moment, and both girls will most likely not remember this race, but it didn’t matter. I will remember it.

13.1 miles. I did it. I accomplished what I had set out to do. And the best part was that my girls were there. Along with the man who made all of this possible for me.

As someone who only started running seven months ago, completing a half marathon was a big accomplishment for me. It’s my way of saying to my girls, look what you can achieve with hard work and determination. 

But knowing how little that moment meant to them at that time, it’s also my way of saying, in the grand scheme of things, you may not always be remembered for all the things you’ve done, but it doesn’t mean they’re not worth doing.

Just like parenting.

As parents, we are familiar with the unglamorous life of planning meals, scrubbing vomit, making doctor’s appointments, and researching summer camps, but we all do it because we hope that someday, all this will add up in helping our kids achieve the life we think they deserve.

After my friend and I took our official marathon pictures, she, who’s also the mom of two girls, got in her car to take her 10-year-old to her violin lesson, and I carried my fussy toddler, who was demanding milk, all the way up the bleachers on Jell-O legs.

While other runners and supporters crowded the Illini stadium to cheer and celebrate, we rushed to the car so I could nurse Thumper. The medal I just earned - something that took months of training to acquire - only got in the way of what she needed, so she pushed it aside. Oh, the irony.

On our drive back, “Wonderwall” by Oasis, a song that My Guy and I sang together during karaoke once (and if you knew him, you’d know how rare that was), came on the radio, and I turned to my girls and belted it out to them, much to their utter delight and amusement.

Watching them giggle, I realized that there may not be pomp and ceremony for this mama, but my spirits were high and my heart was so full of love for this family that I couldn’t possibly want for anything more.

Well, other than the celebratory monstrous burger with bacon, fried egg, cheese, grilled pineapple, and caramelized onions. With fries. I’ve certainly earned it, that’s for sure.

* * *

My Oscar-speech moment:

Thank you to my dearest friend, R, who ran with me, who got me to sign up in the first place, who was the first person, nearly 20 years ago, to get me to work out so I could lose my freshmen 20 (and I did!). I thought it was only appropriate to run with someone who has not only inspired me in fitness, but also in motherhood. She is a wonderful woman, and an even more amazing friend.

Thank you to my girls for being exactly who they are, inspiring me to become who I’d like to be.

And, saving the best for last, thank you, My Guy, for believing in me even when I doubt myself, for bringing me everything out of my arm’s reach as I was nursing and elevating my sore legs, and for letting me go as far as I can - sometimes even pushing me to get there - but always being right here when I get back.

How solo parenting is like running a half marathon

A full moon over Lake Michigan

I took this picture on my way home from yoga this evening. I couldn’t help taking the little detour as I was in awe of the reflection on the water. This is the sixth and last night of My Guy’s work trip, and what a night on which to end this surprisingly wonderful week.

I know. I said the “w” word. I also said surprising, because I really wasn’t expecting that. Sure, we had a meltdown or two (or maaaaybe three), but for the most part, solo parenting for the past six days has been relatively easy. And yes, even that “w” word.

But of course I use the term solo loosely, as my best friend, their favorite Auntie, was here the first day,  when she helped wrangle my girls at soccer while I was finding my peace at my yoga class on Saturday. And My Guy’s best friend, their favorite Uncle, came by this evening so I could go to my Wednesday-night class while he read them stories and put them to bed. 

The babysitter watched Thumper while I worked and ran a few hours this week, and my neighbors were able to help by taking Little Miss to school and watching both girls while I ran my last few miles in preparation for my first half-marathon race this weekend.

Speaking of the race, I realize from my training that solo parenting is very much like running a half marathon. No, seriously, hear me out. 

PACE

Per training recommendations, we start at a slow, comfortable pace, then we pick it up a third of a way through and steadily build our speed, finally surging the last few miles from the energy we’ve been conserving throughout the run. This sounds a lot like my days at home.

I begin our morning by offering the girls cereal, toast, or bagel for breakfast because that’s pretty much all my bleary-eyed self is capable of after being reluctantly dragged out of bed. (That’s also why homemade pancakes and waffles only happen when daddy is around.)

Little Miss then dresses herself, which explains the clash of colors, stripes, and patterns in her outfit du jour, before she runs downstairs to walk with our neighbor and her son to preschool, while her sister gets busy being creative as I sit next to her with my coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.

 When I compliment her work, this girl says, “thank you,” with pride

Throughout the day, when I’m home with Thumper, I attempt to juggle playtime and housework, naptime and freelance writing, maintaining a steady pace, until I pick my four-year-old up from preschool. That’s when we play a little before I start the sprint towards bedtime with dinner, bath (which tends to become optional when My Guy isn’t around), and stories.

This is also when I need my energy the most as the the girls are more likely to retaliate, negotiate, and throw a tantrum when things don’t go their way. But when I cross the finish line, which, in our case, means closing their bedroom door behind me at around 7:30 PM, the entire evening is mine. Thus begins the recovery process.

RECOVERY

In running, I stretch, ice my legs, and drink chocolate milk to restore my energy and repair my muscles. In parenting, when I’m not trying to meet project deadlines, I’m cleaning the girls’ mess or I’m parked in front of the TV, entranced by hours and hours of “Veronica Mars” - my latest retro TV series of choice - with some ice cream in hand.

I feel a little guilty that I’m not writing or reading more (and about the copious amounts of ice cream), but honestly, I have no mental capacity for much else after constantly negotiating with two little tyrants at the end of the day. The bedtime sprint is actually My Guy’s specialty since he’s the one who plays with them, then does bath, stories, and bedtime.

With him away, I find that I’m completely drained by the time the sun and the kids go down, and what little brain power I have left, I use for work, and if I’m completely out, mindless TV is my only option. 

MIX IT UP

In training for the race, we’re also advised to mix things up and include speed work, hills, and long runs to build speed, strength, and stamina. Again, I find this advice useful in solo parenting.

 

Brunch

In the nearly full week that My Guy is away, the girls and I have brunched at our favorite spot with their Auntie, attended a birthday party, hosted two play dates, visited the playground, and shopped for running gear (for me) and groceries.  I’ve also invited my mama friends over for an evening together. Tomorrow, we’ll have a breakfast date with a neighbor and her daughter, followed by a trip to the library for story hour.

Truthfully, just writing that exhausts me. As an introvert, I’m a fan of alone time, and I could go for days without immersing myself in social situations. In fact, I prefer it. But I realize that, in order for the six days to work, I’m going to have to get out of my comfort zone and do that which is necessary, not just easy.

PUSH HARDER

That’s an aspect of the training I dread and love at the same time – pushing ourselves past our own limits. Because that’s when improvement happens. With that in mind, I keep our social calendar busy, and it keeps us all equally distracted from the countdown clock. Introversion be damned; I have my sanity to protect.

So there you have it. A half marathon training that prepares me for the finish line on race day and every day. Who knew? Until my race this Saturday (*gulp*), I can’t tell you just how well I will do, but I have to say, judging from the girls’ easy-going manner, willingness to cooperate, and ready smiles this week, it has certainly taught me to be a better solo parent.

As far as the girls are concerned, it’s a win, regardless of what happens at the race.

My name is Justine, and I am a...

When I gave birth to Little Miss over four years ago, I started to belong to a new community of parents. More specifically, mothers. Friendships formed because of our need to find others like us - we can’t be the only ones with circles under our eyes and baby socks in our work bag.

About 11 months later, I started this blog to write about this experience - I did it for me, so I could write, and especially for my daughter, now daughters, so they could have these memories. I became their memory keeper. 

It didn’t take me long to find a robust group of bloggers in this virtual space, specifically mothers who blog, doing more or less the same thing I was, and again, I found myself immersed in a new community. This is where we commiserate about our adventures in parenthood, laugh with one another about our follies and our children’s escapades, and figure it all out, one day - and sometimes, one word - at a time.

Seven months ago, on a crisp September morning, I started running for the first time in my life. The plan was to run three times a week, for health. And apart from being sidelined by an injury back in January, I have done just that. Rain or shine, snow, sleet, bitter cold, or hail. I ran through it all. While the moment my daughter took her first breath I became a mother and when I hit publish on my first post I became a blogger (although calling myself a writer came years later), I didn’t become a runner with my first steps. Or my first mile. Or my first 5K race on Thanksgiving Day.

I wasn’t a runner even on that sunny January day when I completed my first 10-mile run in 30-degree weather. Or at least I wouldn’t allow myself that label. It felt like I hadn’t earned it. At least not yet. So in the weeks that followed, I would continue to run three days a week consistently and heal my injuries or discomfort with foam rollers, compression socks, and ice packs for the days that I didn’t.

Thumper, my 22-month-old, would run ahead of us sometimes and yell, ‘Yuck me! ‘m wunning. Exercise!” I don’t think her four-year-old sister learned the term exercise until she had to do it herself at preschool, well past the age of two. She might have been pushing three, and she certainly didn’t learn it by watching me.

When I’m not running, I would see runners on the street or by the lakefront and I’d feel jealous - I wanted to be the one running. As the weather showed signs of winter’s end, the first spring outfit I bought was a running skirt. With my first big paycheck from my freelance work this year, I bought myself a spring running jacket and Little Miss a pair of running shoes.

And I registered for a half-marathon. Gulp.

Even with all of that, I wasn’t ready to call myself a runner. I’d toy with the term using hashtags on my workouts that also publish to Twitter - #runner, #runnersview - but I had never directly referred to myself as one. I couldn’t. The term seemed to imply so much more than just lacing up and hitting the pavement, which was what I’d been doing. More or less.

Then tragedy struck at the Boston Marathon this past Monday. Two explosions. Three dead, one of them an eight-year-old boy who was there to cheer for his dad. Over a hundred others wounded. My heart went out to everyone affected by this tragedy. The dead, the grieving, the injured, the stranded, the lost, the runners.

The runners. For some reason, that hit me the hardest. They’ve worked so hard to get there. Months, even years, of hard work and sacrifice culminating on a day like that. Triumphant in their accomplishment, but robbed of their moment of glory because of a heinous act.

I ran 12 miles on Sunday against a relentless wind. It felt really tough, and many times, I wanted to give up, wondering why I was putting myself through all that when I could be in the comfort of my home with my family. When I think of that training run, I realized that, as difficult as it felt for me, it was a mere fraction of what the marathoners had to go through to get to Boston.

They’ve had to work through pain, gruelling hills, extreme temperatures, and whatever it took to qualify and then run in Boston. And just like that, a day that should have been theirs, that should have been rife with smiles and celebrations, was taken away from them.

As a mother, I can’t get past the image of the eight-year-old who lost his life in the explosion. As a blogger, I’m writing to process my feelings, as most writers do, hoping that these words would reach someone who would, in turn, reach back out to me so we can talk and feel together, and try to make sense of that which is senseless.

And on a day where runners wore their previous race shirts or ran to show their solidarity for Boston, I did too.

My Facebook stream, where I receive much of my running inspiration from groups like Run Hard - Always Finish and Distant Runners, exploded with show of support by and for the running community. Many of whom participated in the Boston Marathon, but many more who were just in awe of those who did.

This community of runners is comprised of all types of people, and as such, it embraces us all. Two miles or five. 26.2 or 50. Eight-minute or 16-minute mile. They say that we are all runners. And I'm starting to believe them.

I no longer feel like I need to run a marathon or log several more miles or races to belong. Or more importantly, after witnessing the incredible spirit of this group in light of this tragedy, I want to belong.

And to do so, I will first have to own this: I am a runner. 

Today, I ran five miles in honor of Boston.  In 10 days, I will run 13.1 for me.

I am a runner.
I am a runner. I am a runner.

Justine - mother, writer, runner...

I love the sound of that.

image source: Run by Fey IIyas.