These Days

Life chugs along at my house.  Friends call and ask, "What's new?" and I can't think of a single thing to tell them.  This, despite days so full and busy that I fall into bed, exhausted, as early as I possibly can.  I know I will be awakened again at 5:00 sharp when Lucia blinks herself awake and, within a millisecond, demands her morning milk.  It's all a blur, the last ten months.

Something is shifting.  Perhaps it is the weaning, the decline in my milk shifting the ebb and flow of hormones back to a state I haven't known for over a year -- back to normal.  Perhaps it is the season, day giving way to night, leaves blushing scarlet and flame as their chlorophyll trickles away for the winter.  Perhaps it is the little bit of space that preschool has cleared in my day and in my mind.

Whatever the reason, I'm full of pipe-dreams and nervous energy.  One day, I'm ready to go back to teaching.  The next, I decide I should stay home and write a book.  Day 3, and I'm ready to gut my house with my own bare hands.  Start my own farm-school.  No!  Biotech company.  I have an idea all ready to go!

The fact of the matter is that I have a lot of ideas -- great ideas -- and not a lot of free time to execute them.  I fear that exactly zero of these flights of fancy will come to pass.

***

I started running again.  For the first time ever, I am finding it easy to stick with it.  Every morning, after I've nursed Lucia and taken her to the toilet, I thrust her across the bed into Hub's barely-conscious arms, tie on my running shoes and go.  Just go.

The secret to my consistency is this: I'm not just running, I'm running away. 

Hub is an amazing and competent father when I'm not around, yet, somehow, when I'm there, he never knows where anything is.  He stands, helpless, in the kitchen we've owned for six years, throws up his hands and adds his voice to the noisy choir already demanding my help.  When I'm gone, it's a different story.  He clearly knows what he's doing.  If he can't find something, he looks harder or improvises.  The girls are fed and sometimes even dressed when I return.  Maybe the dishes are cleaned up.  Maybe Elsie's lunch is packed.  Maybe I only have to bathe and feed myself.

It's a no-brainer.  I run.  Every morning, I run.  I run away from my exhaustion and suffocation, run off my anxiety, run like crazy up the hill just in time to see the sunrise. Let Hub play the super-dad for a while.  By the time I turn back towards home, I am fresh and happy, ready to greet my family with the love and gratitude they deserve.