As a young mom, I devoured parenting magazines and, had they been invented yet, with certainty I would have been addicted to Mommy Blogs.  Tease me with headlines promising ways to  “find time” or “sanity and time-saving tips for crazed-moms-on-the-go” and that was all it took to lure me in to devour every bit of advice.  What the articles should have told me (if they were honest) is that there would be no (as in zero, zippo) uninterrupted, unaccounted for, free time until the kids crossed the threshold toward independence, and even then the odds of having free time on any given day would be slim to none. 

It’s a fact of life that most of us can pretty well pinpoint when we hit “bottom” – whether that be emotional, physical, mental, or a combination of all three.  The bottom can be deeper and darker for some as compared to others, but no matter the distance to get back to the surface and into the sunshine, we all have this in common: if you want to get out, you have to take the first step.  If you’re lucky, you have family, friends, or faith to throw you a rope or to reach out a hand – but the key is you have to grab on and also put your own effort into climbing out.  

It is a generally accepted fact that I am going to be a hot mess when we drop off our oldest at college in the fall, and I’m pretty sure that my family already is developing contingency plans to wrest me away from her dorm room before I embarrass her. We’ve had a number of mini-milestones already: last first day of school, last school dance, college tours, signing a letter of intent, and a hundred other moments each of which ended with my daughter looking at me, rolling her eyes, and asking “are you starting to cry AGAIN?” 

The parents in our town are notoriously, how shall I put this kindly, opinionated.  I usually try to stay out of the fray, but there have been times when I’ve found myself right in the middle of it.  Case in point: the 2007 debate over whether my son’s 6-and-under AYSO team should get trophies or should make tie-dyed t-shirts at the end-of-year party to commemorate the soccer season.  It was Civil War between the moms.  I don’t exaggerate.

It has been a physically transformative year for my husband, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed (by anyone).  His hours of training and focus have paid off, big time, and I couldn’t be more proud.  But here’s the deal, he now looks like a runner.  Me, not so much. 

The best contract I ever wrote was entered into with my then five and nine year old children (and, yes, I am very aware that it was not legally enforceable, but it served its purpose well).  At the time, a conversation common to many families was playing out in our house: our kids desperately wanted a puppy and we, the parents, were afraid of being solely responsible for the health and well being of one more living thing. 

When I talk with elite runners that I know (or, more accurately, with the parents of elite runners that I know), they make a convincing case that distance running is a team sport.  However, for the rest of us mere mortals, race day is mostly an individual endeavor with a primary objective of getting between point A and point B with our dignity in tact.

This one requires a bit of background and a throwback to 2001 when I was eight months pregnant with our second child and four weeks into modified bed rest.  What began as a welcome, princess and the pea opportunity to be catered to while I put my feet up to ensure the full gestation of our son, became pure, unadulterated boredom.  And so, when my brother came for a visit I seized the opportunity to complain to a new set of ears, and in so doing I declared that as soon as this whole pregnancy thing was over I was going to run a marathon.  (Side note: my longest race up to that point was a 5k). Dear brother's response: "let's do it. I'm in."