When they both wake up from their naps and their lids and limbs are still heavy with sleep, they crawl onto my lap and we rock until the world comes into focus.
To all the moms who protect us when we’re at our most vulnerable, and when we’re ready, send us out freely to tackle whatever project we have our sights set on, all the while waiting if we need to climb back into their protection once again.
This casting of love and faith sends our kids out a little further each time, but, fingers crossed, they will know they can always come back, that we will always be waiting, and eventually they will come back not because they need us—they will have learned to navigate the world on their own—but because they simply want to be with us.
Are we planting seeds of compassion and kindness? Of patience and perseverance? Of confidence and work ethic? Of love and inclusion?
They will grow into what they’re surrounded by and nurtured with now. We’re doing our best to model love and light. And not mess them up too badly.
I hope they get my love of books and their Dad’s dance skills. I hope they look for beauty but also learn to sit with sadness. I hope they’re quick to share a laugh. I hope they chase whatever makes them happy and are kind along the way. I hope they always know our family is home, that there will always be a place for them, and that they are deeply, irrevocably, and unconditionally loved.
Last month I had an op-ed featured in the Cleveland Plain Dealer.
Three weeks ago, I finished writing a new op-ed.
Today, that document continues to sit on my desktop.
I haven’t submitted it anywhere. And while I know the subject is important and needs to be discussed, it is no longer a priority.
The world has turned upside down. In jarring ways, perspectives have been opened. Routines, careers, passions, relationships and ideas have been put on hold. Shelved, to shift energies and efforts toward survival. Rightfully so.
But that does not mean those routines, careers, passions, relationships and ideas are not meaningful, worthwhile or valuable.
I hope, dearly, that we can see it through to the other side of this unthinkable with as little loss of life as possible.
That is priority number one.
And I also hope that the routines, careers, passions, relationships and ideas that have been paused can re-emerge more thoughtful and powerful than before.
Raising a two-year-old and three-year-old, we talk a lot about patience in our house. Usually hourly. They want a juice box, the toy the other one is playing with, to watch a show. It’s not the commonplace things they have trouble waiting for, but those that are special, exciting. A treat.
We talk about waiting our turn: “you will get it, but not yet.” We talk about asking nicely and not whining. And we expect that one day this will all click and we will no longer need to have these conversations.
But last night I realized I probably need to be having these conversations with myself.
Why do we expect toddlers to wait patiently when we still haven’t seemed to have mastered this skill as adults?
Sure, by the time we’re adults we’ve learned to wait for our food at restaurants, for our turn in line at the BMV, and even for the weekend–all of which are commonplace things. But what about the bigger items? Those that are special, exciting. A treat.
An essay I wrote was accepted for publication last month. Which was exciting at first but the longer I’ve had to wait to see it in print, the more restless I’ve become.
This kind of impatience isn’t just contained to career. Some of us could be waiting on friendships, test results, perceived milestones for ourselves or our children, a home.
In the face of rejection and silence it can be easy to believe that this is how it will always be—especially when the disappointments stack up. We forget, just because something isn’t happening right now, doesn’t mean it will never happen.
It’s usually the things that are special, the ones we want the most, that are the hardest to wait for.
So, when the weight of another let down, missed opportunity, or heartbreak hits, do not be fooled. This is not how it will always be. Not now doesn’t mean not ever. There are more tomorrows ahead. Plenty will be filled with disappointments and rejections but plenty will also be filled with victories.
Our turn is coming. It may not look how we initially thought it would, it may not come when we want it to. But it will come. We just have to be patient.
I’ve run races where I had a time in mind I wanted to finish in and I’ve run races where I simply wanted to finish. And it seems like when it comes to running, these personal records (PRs) are the two most common goals. Since running my first half marathon nine years ago, I’ve discovered there are other kinds of goals. They may not come with the same outward glory, but in a funny way, they can have a bigger pay-off.
The 2019 Akron Marathon marked my fifth half marathon and it was big for a couple reasons. First, it was the first half marathon I’ve ran since having two kids. Second, it was the first half marathon my husband, Levi, has ever ran.
Over the past ten years Levi has joined me on countless long runs—on his bike. He is an athletic guy but long-distance running was something he simply wasn’t drawn to. He did, however, know running was important to me. So, he kept me company and gave me peace of mind as I logged early morning runs, cheered me on at every race, and wrapped ice around my legs afterward.
We’re not entirely sure how we ended up registered for the Akron half. Levi swears I asked him to run it and I swear he asked me to run it—funny how that happens. Somehow, we said we were going to do it and spent the next three months training.
As I was training, I knew I wasn’t likely to come close to my half marathon PR time. When I hit my PR of a sub-two hour half I trained hard, had a goal time, and running was a high priority in my life.
But, a few years and kids later, my priorities shifted.
Levi and I jammed training runs into odd hours of the day—in the dark, in the heat, pushing our one-year-old and three-year-old in strollers—wherever and however we could squeeze miles in around caring for our kids, working, and summer travel.
I was happy to be running long distances again, happy my body could run long distances after having two kids in less than two years, and it didn’t bother me that I wasn’t going to PR. Run your race I’d tell myself when starting out on a long run, and I let my body and how I felt guide how fast I ran.
As summer stretched on Levi and I were able to do a few of our long training runs together. For the first two, I ran faster than him. On the last one he was running faster than me, but at mile 10 he looped around to finish the final mile alongside me. When I saw him sweep around and start back toward me, I was both relieved and happy. I can do this. I thought. I’m not in this alone.
Race day came and we tiptoed out of our house at 5:45 a.m. to not wake our sleeping babies or my parents, who graciously volunteered to babysit. It was unseasonably warm and humid for late September but we were glad race day was finally here and we were both looking forward to crossing the finish line.
As we waited with thousands of other runners in the start corrals we agreed if we were within sight of each other toward the end of the race, we’d finish together.
We were separated early on but the crowd support and constant hills kept me distracted and propelled me forward. At mile seven I heard a voice behind me. “Where have youbeen?” Levi flashed a smile and fell in stride alongside me.
By mile eight Levi and I were both struggling more than we had on any of our training runs—the hills and weather were taking a toll. At mile nine we came to the biggest hill of the course and as we crested it we agreed we’d finish out the last four miles together.
With the biggest hill behind me and only four miles ahead of me, I felt good. I was hitting my stride again. And at the same time, Levi hit a wall.
So, I slowed down to stay with him.
He repeatedly told me to run ahead, but to me, a 10-minute difference in my finish time wasn’t as important as finishing a half marathon alongside him. If you had floated the idea to me a few years ago to intentionally run slower in a race, I wouldn’t have considered it. But, at this race, where I didn’t have a goal time and I already knew I was going to be crossing the finish line, staying with Levi was easy. My goal was to stick with him like he stuck with me on that last training run.
People passed me and I didn’t care. I read spectator signs, drank a Dixie cup of warm beer from a block party at mile 11, and when Levi’s quad cramped up and he had to walk some more I walked with him and offered up my best pep talk.
When I think of the younger version of myself—the one who would have never considered slowing down her pace in a race—I know I had more to learn. I didn’t get a personal record in this race but in a lot of ways I am more appreciative of the outcome. My goal wasn’t about my finish time or whether or not I’d cross the finish line, but about the people I love. It was about running this race with Levi after we spent the summer training together and caring for our young family.
Sometimes, it’s not about the miles, minutes, or medals, but who you are running with. And that rings true on and off the course.