Intentional Reading

One of our cherished summer rituals is the boys’ and my weekly trip to the public library. They get their reading logs stamped for a new prize. Ethan quickly gathers an armload of books whose heavy weight challenges his walk back to the car. Not wanting to struggle in the same way, Connor only grabs a short stack. I dutifully supplement with a handful of my own choices for him and maybe one for his brother that covers subject matter other than Star Wars and dinosaurs.

This summer I have been much more intentional about what I choose for them. Last year it came to my attention that only 6 percent of children’s books published in 2012 featured diverse characters. For our first trip to the library this summer, I went equipped with a list from NPR’s Mind Shift blog post: “25 Books That Diversify Kids’ Reading Lists This Summer.” Ever since then, I have found myself following the same pattern almost without thought. I really did not need to have a proposed list in hand. The books are there; I just needed to be a little intentional in my search.

Over the past month and a half, the boys and I have enjoyed numerous books that have broadened our horizons in subtle but sure ways. The kids may not recognize it, but I sense the widening of our minds in the stories that are authored by marginalized voices or feature characters that are less represented in mainstream society. It is especially heart-warming to be able to read a story that resonates into our personal experience. When we read Dumpling Soup by Jama Kim Rattigan, we could think about making mandoo with Grandma Kim and hear Korean words in the landscape of that activity. What may seem strange and awkward to the many peers around them was validated and normalized by virtue of the printed words and illustrations on their laps.

We do not just get books by or about Koreans. First of all, we would have probably been finished by now in terms of how many are out there and readily available. More importantly, I want the boys to read about ALL cultures and perspectives. It’s the world we live in and the one I want them to be able to navigate with comfort, familiarity, and understanding.

When Ethan was born, we lived in a high-rise condo in downtown Chicago. Living there for his first two years of life definitely shaped him. He could sleep peacefully undisturbed in the constant cacophony of sirens and nearby L train tracks. He did not know how to climb stairs when visiting friends in the suburbs because he rode an elevator every day to go up and down. When we visited his grandparents in Michigan while he was finally walking on his own, he froze on their grassy lawn. The boy was freaked out by the texture and unsure of how to navigate on such an unfamiliar surface when he was usually surrounded by concrete. Adjustments came through our move out of downtown and natural exposure to other settings. Had he remained strictly in the confines of the urban jungle 24-7, his life experiences would have been limited. We love that he had that start for many reasons, but we also love that here he can see the stars on a clear, dark night and find countless creatures in the yard to observe. Books are just one means to expand the boys’ minds to life outside of their own somewhat broad but still limited experience. I feel a deep commitment to expose them to the beautiful stars and interesting creatures outside their current realm.

The same goes for their mama. I have also gone searching for my summer reading along the library shelves with intention. Anyone who looks for reading in public libraries or used book stores knows that finding something may not come easily. It can be like combing through the clothing racks at Marshalls. Many days you may leave empty-handed, but once in a while you find a gem. This summer the library has been a treasure trove for me. I started with Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth written when women were expected to play hostess not win Pulitzer Prizes in literature. Then came Susan Choi’s American Woman whose Asian American authorship and main character resulted in a refreshing voice with whom I felt a kinship. Today I just finished Sharon Robinson’s Stealing Home. She shares the story of Jackie Robinson not just as the baseball legend but as her father in the intimacy of family. After personally encouraging the nine Little Rock teens who were being integrated into previously segregated high schools amidst harsh opposition, he explained this to his children.

“I suppose we all fear the unknown–the strange, the different. The natural fears of parents are made worse by ignorance, and unfortunately they pass them down to their children. In the process, the stories get more and more distorted and eventually become fact in the minds of the storyteller. The sad part for everyone is that prejudice prevents people from sharing their talents which could benefit the whole community. The only way racial discrimination can have a hope of being erased is through exposure. The more people understand each other the less they will fear the differences.”

It has been a pleasure exposing my kids to the relatively unknown and making it less different and strange in terms of their own contexts and the contexts of many others. Alone it may not bring complete understanding but joined with varied sources of exposure I hope my children will not only have that precious understanding but be the bridges to understanding for every community of which they are part. Tomorrow is library day. We are so excited to discover the treasures awaiting us.

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Neurotic Thoughts at the Amusement Park

What NOT to think about when spending the day at Cliff’s (Albuquerque’s local amusement park) with your family:

- Do you think they use clean water or recycle used water at the splash park aka Watermania? How many kids have peed going down the slide?

- Do you think they ever clean or sanitize the rides or slides? Wow, look at all the hundreds of hot, sweaty people with a wide variety of personal hygiene habits getting off and on the rides.

- Why can’t they get the ride Mike and the boys rode repeatedly last year open today? For some reason, try as they might for hours, they cannot get it to work the proper way. Just meditate on that for a minute.

- Why does the teenaged ride operator look very puzzled while trying to start the ride in which we are sitting? Should I feel worried that she has come over and unsuccessfully leaned into the main contraption that connects Connor and me to a drop of death? When her final lean of many somehow gets the ride in motion, should I be happy we are finally off or sad that we are now closer to death? Will my fake smile and forced, “WOOO!”‘s be convincing enough to keep my 6 year old from noticing his mother is scared out of her mind?

- Since Ethan got motion sickness on his very first ride and subsequently refused to ride most others out of grave fear of queasiness, does this mean he will live his entire life missing out on fun because he is paralyzed by the fearful negativity of one quick moment? Will he be a teenager still hanging on tightly and teased by a toddler whose hands are raised up because his cautious spirit never finds release? Where does he get this paranoia from, really? ;)

- Are the guaranteed prizes even worth the extra price we paid to play the games? By playing a game without a guaranteed prize, are we like those who spend the night in the casinos deceived by the hopes of winning that one in a zillion jackpot? Are the chances better at the slot machines than this elusive ring toss? Even the game operator looked genuinely surprised when one extremely lucky person actually ringed a bottle and perpetuated the draw of the impossible for all passersby.

- How safe are these rickety rides anyway? Is this considered high-risk behavior? Fortunately this day was BEFORE a roller coaster jumped the track in California. Thanks to CNN’s report on that incident, I now know that from 1990 to 2010 there were 92,000 children injured on amusement park rides. Lovely.

- Did this slow train just go around the entire park in a short 15 minutes? Is that really the entire park? Did we just pay $25 for a park smaller than the super Wal-Mart? No, thankfully, we did not. There are always discount coupons out there, and we used one to get 50% off. But I do think the local Lowe’s is slightly bigger. Maybe the kids can just ride a forklift there for free next time.

Rather than dwell on the 4,000 ride-related injuries a year and risk fulfilling the worries I have about my older son missing out on fun due to living in fear, I will most likely go back with another discounted ticket next year. Maybe Ethan’s queasiness fears will have subsided by then. Maybe the image of blackened water when I washed my hands and feet after we got home will have faded away. Maybe I will recall that the chances of ride-related serious injury are really 1 in 24 million. In other words, I have more chances of winning an oversized unicorn at the ring toss than falling to my death at the hands of a teenager-operated ride. Plus, in the end, we enjoyed quality family time having fun together with all the other hot, sweaty germ-infested people there. I (think I) was glad that I decided to spend the day with my Beckett crew instead of shopping or going to the spa or reading in my cozy (safe) chair. Everyone should engage in something that makes them slightly queasy, shouting “Woooo!” and taking a one in a million chance. Everyone should live a little, especially with the people they love the most. I can guarantee I will again but probably not for another 11 months from now. :)

Their joy is healing and contagious (in a good way).

Their joy is healing and contagious (in a good way).

 

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Summertime Soup

For the kids and I, summer means sweating at tennis, cooling off at swim, drinking fruit smoothies, extending imaginative play time, and eating naengmyun. Naengmyun is a Korean cold noodle soup that I grew up loving. I could eat it every day. Unlike some Korean dishes, it is relatively simple to make. Boil the noodles for 3 minutes, rinse them with ice and cold water and place in bowls. Make a soup base either by boiling beef beforehand for broth which you refrigerate and thinly slice the meat for the soup or using the powdered packet that comes with many noodle bags. I often do the latter because it is easier (I LOVE EASY PREP), and I can live without beef. With the base, I add some rice vinegar and a touch of sesame seed oil plus ice water. Slice up some cucumbers, Asian pear and hard-boiled eggs and a refreshingly light summer meal is ready.

Since we’ve lived in Albuquerque, I have had a hard time finding Asian pears. These pears are usually bigger, crunchier, and less sweet then the regular pear. The texture allows for it to hold up nicely in soup. When I was little, I remember my folks planted two pear trees on the top of our hill. They somehow got real Korean pear tree branches that they grafted into these trees so they could enjoy fruit from the Motherland. Years later, we also ended up burying our beloved Springer Spaniel near those trees, where the hybrid pears grow (oh, dearest Madam). Last time I made the soup with regular pears (maybe Bosc?). This week I checked out Sprouts for the first time and found some Asian pears! YAY! Check out the sticker:

"ASIAN PEARS - Produce of Chile" ;)

“ASIAN PEARS – Produce of Chile” ;)

In my carelessness of buying the cheapest option, I realized yesterday that I had bought the noodle bag without the soup base packets. No big deal since I still had old packets saved up when I had used beef broth in the past. However, it also meant that the bag of noodles was without the little hot oil packets you can add to your soup for some delicious heat. Even as a little girl, I would want a few drops and now as an adult I want more than one packet. A brilliant friend suggested I use some green chile. Does this make me a bona fide New Mexican now? I not only had the beloved state product readily available, but I added it AND I liked it. I liked it a lot.

Korean - New Mexican fusion: green chile in naengmyun

Korean-New Mexican fusion? Green chile on naengmyun

And what’s dinner with kids without some fun? We noticed that Ethan’s bowl inadvertently looked like a smiley face.

Happy soup

Happy soup

So then Connor decided to make his an angry Darth Maul face.

Angry Darth Maul soup

Angry Darth Maul soup

It still makes me happy to see my boys gobble down Korean food. I made myself kimchi fried rice for lunch. Connor asked to eat it as well instead of the almond butter and jelly sandwich I made for his brother. That boy ate his SPICY bowlful and only needed an extra half-glass of milk. What a champ! This Korean Food Thursday was extra Korean today. :)

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Carrot Cake Catastrophe

When we lived in Chicago, we were spoiled. Our dear friend Sarah faithfully provided us beautiful, delicious professional cakes on every birthday. She still works at the Lincoln Park staple for old fashioned desserts, Sweet Mandy B’s. Now that we live in Albuquerque, we have had to fend for ourselves. For Connor’s birthday in May, I ordered a dozen baseball cupcakes for his T-ball team but was astonished that I had to shell out big money for them like normal people without bakery connections. After that shock, I attempted to bake a cake myself for his actual birthday. His big present was a basketball hoop and ball since he had been using his little kickball for a never-ending NBA game. He even named his ball, “Bally” and probably put it in his will. I dedicated my entire Friday night to that project foregoing my usual exciting night life of painting the town red (aka handing out snacks to the downtrodden on the streets or watching “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” on the couch). Thanks to Pillsbury making it manageable, it turned out great!

Connor's basketball cake

Connor’s basketball cake

After that encouraging victory, I got the idea that maybe I could do it again for my husband’s birthday yesterday. Mike’s favorite cake would probably be one with foie gras and shaved truffles but seeing that he maxed out on those in Paris two weeks ago, I decided to go with his usual flavor of choice, carrot cake. My present to him was going to be a delicious dinner using the squid ink pasta we brought back from Rome and a made-entirely-from-scratch carrot cake. It was going to be scrumptiously fantastic!

I dedicated the entire day to this ambitious project. Plus, my boys wanted to help me with the cake. I love having them help in the kitchen for so many reasons (see Kids Can Cook). However, at the rate they were grating each carrot, I thought we might have the needed 3 cups by Mike’s next birthday. Fortunately, two carrots each and one hour later, they decided pretending to be wrestling ninjas was much more fun.

I faithfully followed the recipe I had written down 15 years ago from a talented baking roommate in St. Louis. I have a feeling this recipe had not seen the light of day since that very moment. It was for a 3-layer cake but having only 2 pans I poured the batter twice and added extra baking time. I guess I didn’t add enough or my paranoid opening the oven door to check translated into two sunken cakes. No worries, I was not fully panicking…yet. I found cake-saving tips online and returned the cakes for more baking time. That might have raised one center a half a millimeter. Then I decided that I could always add more frosting or try cutting the cakes level. Frosting can help hide many things and who doesn’t like more frosting?!

Then after letting them cool slightly, I tried getting them out of their pans to begin planning the frosting repair work. Those bad boys were stuck. Although I had greased the pans, they were seriously stuck. PANIC.

Not your typical Pinterest picture

Not your typical Pinterest picture

What to do besides affirm that fact that I will never have a Pinterest account? My perfectionist side wanted to throw it all away and spend the boys’ inheritance on a last minute bakery-made dessert. However, it felt criminal to throw away cake! Never! I found biscuit cutters that have probably been as neglected as my cake recipes and found the 2 inches of non-ruined cake in the center. At least the birthday boy would get something that sort of resembled a carrot cake.

Mini-cake is better than no cake.

Mini-cake is better than no cake.

That still left a lot of ruined cake. I was able to make two even smaller mini-cakes for the boys and the rest became a pseudo-trifle dessert.

Deconstructed carrot cake, the fancy way to say, ruined.

Deconstructed carrot cake, the fancy way to say, ruined.

Fortunately, there was only one snafu with dinner. While getting fresh basil out to rinse for the caprese salad, I deafened the boys by my shrieks when a fat green worm fell out. There was a split second when I thought I might still use the basil because fresh is SO much better than dried. I thought a good rinsing could suffice until the boys pointed out what looked like worm poop everywhere. What’s up with your package of fresh basil, Trader Joe’s?! The cause of my cardiac arrest was also the source of the boys’ great pleasure until I flushed their new friend down the sink. Dried basil it is.

Prosciutto & melon, squid ink pasta with shrimp and truffle oil, and caprese salad. Viva la Italia!

Viva l’Italia birthday dinner: Prosciutto & melon, squid ink pasta with shrimp and truffle oil, and caprese salad.

The ruined cake results were still graciously accepted by birthday boy. After all, it is the thought that counts. Or at least it usually is for those of us who often face disasters in spite of our best intentions. I have no doubt that Mike enjoyed both homemade cards from the boys. Ethan’s was an impressive 3-D pop-up city card telling Mike that he is the best dad in the world. Connor’s was a basic folded card with “Haqqy Birt day” and “I hoqe you have a grat Birthday.” Not perfect but no less heartfelt and appreciated. I learned not only to try to flour after greasing my pans, but to focus on the love behind my presents even when the presents themselves look like Pinterest rejects. I will keep that in mind next time I make that carrot cake recipe another 15 years from now.

Happy birthday, husband!

Happy birthday, husband!

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Testing

Ethan caught a stomach bug Wednesday night that had him miss his last day of 2nd grade Thursday. “It’s the worst day to miss school!” He had been looking forward to the intense learning that takes place every last week of school in the form of root beer floats and watching the movie Frozen. 

My independent 8 year old has been wanting his mommy. He loves his own comfortable bed like crazy but has been asking to sleep in ours. As much as I enjoy these rare moments of needing me, I would trade them in a heart beat to have him healthy and forgetting my existence again.

Ethan is a little guy who prays often. It is not just his bedtime routine but his default mode in any time of trouble. When we took the boys to the dollar theater to see Mr. Peabody & Sherman, I looked over during a climactic scene in the film to see Ethan with his hands clasped, head bowed and lips moving. No doubt he was asking God to intervene for these fictional characters on the prerecorded screen.

There has been some earnest praying in this house these past 36 hours. Ethan is constantly asking God to heal his hurting belly. He has been asking me to pray over him every time a bout of cramping hits. While I love that he is fervent and faithful, these prayers have also been difficult to hear. In moments of desperately not wanting to hurl, Ethan has pleaded with God in ways that breaks my heart.

“Please God help me feel better! Please don’t let me throw up! I know You can do it because You’re the best. Please, please make me better. Please, Lord, I’m begging you to make my stomach feel better. Please, Lord, don’t let me throw up at all today or tomorrow or the rest of this year. Please, God, PLEASE!!!”

His voice is loud enough to cause his sleeping brother to stir at 3am and have me imagine the dirty looks of future fellow travelers on our long flight later today.

In these moments of his physical pain, emotional anguish and spiritual plight, I am weak. As I pray alongside him in obedient response to his impassioned pleas, I sometimes find my words lacking the faith he has. Rather than empowered, I feel helpless. Rather than at peace, I question. I see my son’s tense face and wonder why God does not seem to answer quickly.  It reminds me of when Ethan was an infant with the worst diaper rash in the world. It was the first time I remembered wondering how God could witness pain in His own son, how His love could possibly dictate such sacrificial suffering. I could barely witness my baby with a sore bottom.

I am reminded of how limited I am in my understanding of Him with whom I have been walking for decades. I hear the soft trickle of welcome rain watering the desert outside. He waters the parched land; will He not also care for Ethan? I listen to my son’s steady breathing of blessed sleep after the cramping has mercifully subsided for now. My prayers transform from desperate requests for healing to a quieted desire for my child to know Him more deeply, more maturely, and more powerfully than his mother can even describe. It does not relieve the ache in my heart at all, but there is something that whispers to me that this is holy ground.

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Embracing the ‘Burque

Ethan said it felt like we were going on an airplane. Unlike most mornings where the sun shines through the windows to help awaken sleepy bodies, today it was completely overcast giving the illusion of an earlier, darker hour. It did seem reminiscent of those winter dawns we greet in order to fly to Chicago. Consistent with that feeling, the sky littered tiny snowflakes on our way to school. Snow….in May….in Albuquerque! For a second, I wondered if we had taken a plane to Chicago. Many Albuquerqueans shivered, complained, and thought they had been unfairly banished with the abominable snowman.

I loved it. My morning coffee tasted even yummier steaming from my mug. No worries, the sun STILL shone its way through parts of the (relatively) chilly day. Rest assured, the 80 degree weather is due back in a couple of days. Keep calm, there will be months of hot sweaty sunshine shortly. I savored the chill. Snowflakes in spring is exactly the kind of quirky weather befitting quirky Albuquerque. I love when things are uncharacteristic and unexpected and challenge all my preconceived notions.

Albuquerque has definitely been eliciting the unpredictable in us. As already mentioned, I now like to run…for fun…for exercise…not because I’m escaping a mugger. Mike now readily agrees to go to art venues on his Friday’s off. He may still occasionally go see a movie where they blow up things, but I now can suggest any ARTISTIC venue and he AGREES. Stop and savor that unusual fact. It’s better than Baileys in your coffee. At first I thought he had worse ear wax build up than the boys and really could not hear all that he was agreeing to, like the Fun Friday events I wrote about here. Yet it has become consistent enough that I am as confident of his hearing as I am of his willingness to go where no typical male has gone before, where nothing gets blown up except my assumptions about my previously very predictable husband.

Me (6 weeks ago): “How about the International Folk Art Museum in Santa Fe?”
Mike: “Sure!”

Opera doll from China. Don't mess with sister and her sword.

Opera doll from China. Don’t mess with sister and her sword.

Besides the usual display, the Folk Art Museum had two special exhibits I wanted to see. One was the Japanese kite collection.

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The other was in the Gallery of Conscience, the museum’s experimental space where we were invited to be participants in the conversation on art and social change. This destination feature was on immigration. I marked our family’s trek from Chicago to Albuquerque on the large map showing where many visitors have settled to new homes. There were various stories in different mediums offering a doorway into the vast experiences behind each piece.

IMG_4658 IMG_4659 IMG_4662 IMG_4663 IMG_4664 IMG_4665

I am drawn into and often get lost in exhibits like these. Meanwhile, Mike has forged way ahead of me having already completed his visit while I am stuck somewhere in the middle. Still, he is there of his own free will.

Me (last week): “How about a photography exhibit called ‘Sanctuary’ at some cultural center downtown?”
Mike: “Sure!”

Joan Fenicle's Seasons series

Joan Fenicle’s Seasons series

No art visit with Mike is complete without him loudly questioning something whether it be the (obscene) price of a piece for sale or the (assumed) possibility that he could have created the exact same masterpiece. Like with my boys, I encourage him to whisper those questions out of ear shot of a could-be artist and ask him to choose his favorite to keep him occupied while I engage. He chose the above photos as his favorite last week. I agreed and had we $1000 to spare we might have purchased them for our foyer. Well, let’s not get too carried away with our uncharacteristic behavior. Unless those four are marked on clearance at Home Goods, they will not be gracing our walls any time soon.

We are embracing quirky Albuquerque to the extent that it has made us more adventurous towards the unusual and slightly less predictable. Ok, we are still pretty darn predictable but do not be surprised if we surprise ourselves much more than usual in our new state. Before you know it, we will be planting a garden in our black thumb backyard! I HATE yard work and can never understand how people think it to be therapeutic. I kill every green thing to enter my presence except for resilient weeds which seem to multiply like rabbits in my neglected yard.

Enlisted the boys to help me tackle my Amazon jungle of weeds. I could not have done it without them.

Enlisted the boys to help me tackle my Amazon jungle of weeds. I could not have done it without them.

We are not totally ready to kill off so much nature but the thought of trying to garden has crossed my mind and being here in Albuquerque that shocking fact is a little less shocking. Still shocking but just a little less. Being here, who knows? Mike may become a pottery-making vegan, and I may be a gardening triathlete. Stranger things have happened…like snow in May in Albuquerque.

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How to Survive Your Very First 10K

Are you new to racing? Is your body still in shock that you went from couch potato to regular runner? Did you run your first 5K last year and want to take it up a notch to a 10K this year? If so, sign up for a 10K in a moment of temporary insanity. (In my case it was Albuquerque’s Run for the Zoo that took place Sunday, May 4th.) After realizing with dread what you have done, follow these steps to completion.

First, make sure you get sick two weeks prior to the race. Then you will not run for over a week. When you do start up again, you will feel nauseous for the first time while running. You have often felt tired, out-of-breath, and out-of-your-mind but never before nauseous which is a wonderful feeling less than a week before racing.

Have the run right before your race be the worst EVER run in the history of your long, illustrious career (all 18 months of it). Two days before the race, set out to do the total mileage. Before you are half way done, be in such bad shape that you have to stop and walk because your body is telling you that you must or call 911 for the first time ever. Once you stop and walk at that point, it is no big deal to stop and walk again towards the end of your now-shortened run/walk. This kind of pre-race run is spectacular for the mental aspects of your race. You are already mostly defeated and wondering if you should call your registration fee a purchase of goods without pursuing the product.

The night before the race do NOT eat a sensible meal of healthy pasta or other lean energy-producing foods like you originally planned. Instead, realize that you only have 45 minutes from Saturday church ending to the (supposed) beginning of your friends’ fashion show. Pick up your co-attending friend and whip by the nearest McDonald’s drive-through. Wolf down in record time a value meal of bottom-of-the-basket squishy fries (if I’m going to splurge on McD’s, can’t I at least get some good fries?!) and (loosely defined) filet-o-fish sandwich. Think of how Subway’s fresh bread ingredients are also in yoga mats which means the buns you inhaled probably have fiberglass for making aircrafts and will therefore indirectly give you speed tomorrow or more likely indigestion. (YES, I watched Super Size Me and yes, after abstaining for maybe a few weeks post-viewing, I presently still eat McD’s. I do have two children who have sold their souls to the successful marketing of happy meal toys, and I am a bad enough mother to keep their supply steady.)

Wear shoes that are probably too worn out to adequately support your feet. The first signs of this are that you had worrisome shin pain after that most horrific run of your life. Before your 18 month illustrious running career, you were the type to buy whatever pair of $29 sneakers in stock at Marshalls. Worn minimally, they would still be in pristine condition years later. This is your first year of buying legitimate running shoes that you paid an ungodly amount for because the specialty store went to the trouble of having you run on a treadmill to examine your gait and match you with the shoes that are your feet’s God-given destiny. (Props to Heart & Sole for their outstanding customer service.) These expensive shoes in your mind should not be replaced just 7 months later because the math does not compute. According to your old sedentary self’s mentality, these destined shoes should last at least 10 times longer.

Because your worst run in history left you fearful about being the first to crawl across the finish line, you try to pace yourself very slowly in the beginning. Then later you overhear someone next to you say out loud the turtle pace you’ve been collectively running and you realize that is why you were not dying like usual. You try to choose other pacers but none can compete with turtle’s fine physique and you frustratingly get lost in the crowd of 1,000+ runners.

Finally you pass the mile 5 marker. Enthusiastic volunteers and bystanders are cheering you on and encouraging you that you are almost done. However, you start to feel lied to by those friendly folks when that last 1.2 miles expands to the length of the Saharan desert. You feel pain on the ball of your right foot that you later discover to be a fat blister making you wonder if this is what leprosy feels like. When you finally catch sight of the finish line, the first thought that comes to your head in absolute clarity and deep solemnity is ‘I WILL NEVER DO THIS EVER AGAIN IN MY LIFE. EVER.’

Miraculously you cross the finish line. Instead of the glorious burst of speed you imagined it would be, it was more like painfully willing yourself not to pass out before you make it across. Your husband and kids are there to greet your sweaty self, and you think the free popsicle you eat afterwards might be the tastiest gourmet fare you have eaten in all of your culinary adventures. As your breath finally evens and the sweat diminishes from downpour to trickle, you tell yourself that your time may not have been as impressive as you hoped it would be but that can be a goal for next time. NEXT TIME?!?! You realize with even greater understanding that there is truly something sadistic about runners. You remind yourself that like many other ventures requiring pain in the process running teaches you invaluable lessons like perseverance, goal accomplishment, empathy for fellow masochists and training through the difficulty to bring you to a better place than before.

Proof that it actually DID happen in case fat blister of the year is not evidence enough

Proof that it actually DID happen in case fat blister of the year is not evidence enough

Me and my cheering crew after I survived my first 10K

Me and my cheering crew after I survived. I’m smiling because it is OVER.

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