I ran 4 miles yesterday in 46 minutes. that was slightly faster than a turtle trudging through peanut butter, sure, but I also didn’t stop and walk. I did it on a treadmill in an air-conditioned gym while reading “Everything I Needed to Know about Parenting I learned in Prison”. I’ve started and stopped almost as many parenting books as I have training plans for marathons. Somewhere in the middle I decide the authors of both can’t possibly understand what it means to be me, so I toss their plan aside for my own half-baked ideas, letting them wither on the vine. I still haven’t run a marathon, nor has my parenting research or skills left me feeling qualified to etch words of wisdom on a scenic photo to share on Facebook.
Twinkle is 7 and Ninja is 5. I have 11 more years until my oldest is out of the house, probably only four or so before my place as the holder of knowledge is challenged by hormones and peer pressure. I haven’t even started college funds yet and suddenly the inevitability of them running away from me to start their own lives, probably at a pace much faster than the 11 minute mile I pulled out last night, is creating a picture on our horizon I am not quite ready to see.
I need to remember my follow-through. I had it once, I can have it again. I am running again, slowly but with conviction. I am going to replace the books on parenting with hours of parenting with conviction. Perhaps I will finally jump my long run hurdle and run for more than 8 miles at a time, perhaps not. It’s not like racing towards finish lines of my choosing will keep the scary finish lines, the ones where growing up is involved, any farther away.