The part about the run isn't really the point

Yesterday morning I got up at about 5:00 a.m. (yes, on a Saturday) to get my run in. I wanted to do twelve miles and avoid the heat. I'd also had a thrilling Friday evening of watching Music and Lyrics (we thought it was just "eh") and going to bed early so I figured I was setting myself up for a great morning run. Aren't I mature.

Well, almost because for some very non-mature reason, my idea of carb loading on Friday night was cereal and popcorn. I know. So for miles 1-3, I felt great. It was easy. Just about that time when I started feeling that great I-could-run-forever euphoric feeling that never comes around often enough, my poor choices from the night before came back to haunt me. We'll just say it felt like someone was putting a citrus peeler under my ribs and stirring. And trust me, I could get much more graphic than that, but even the memory alone is far too painful.

And you'd think I would have stopped, but no because despite my upper abdominal muscles being in some sort of seizure, I was determined. Well that determination took me another five miles before I gave up and walked the remaining mile home. Nine miles felt like nineteen. I sat down on the couch and stared at the wall, asking myself why I'd ever gotten up to begin with.

But I'm not really telling the entire story, here. There was actually another reason I got up early yesterday. I wanted to get that run out of the way because I had somewhere to be.

Some friends of mine have a small ranch property in Eastern Colorado- you know, horses, cows, pastures- and I'd been invited out to ride. Yes, horses. I am not going to lie, I was Christmas morning excited about this all week.

I've been around horses on and off my entire life. I can't remember my first ride and I've never owned my own horse, but I've always had friends with horses and I've always known enough to get by. So when I pulled up yesterday after having driven down miles and miles of dirt road and my friend said "are ya ready?" I was. At this point, I still had no idea we were actually going to be doing anything with a purpose. Sometime during the whole "saddling up" process, my friend says we're going to move some cows. Wait, what?

I'll save the whole story of how I had an internal freak out and managed to stay calm and just tell you, this is some of the most fun I've ever had. And the most tired I've ever been. Some friends from up the road (or "over yonder" as I started calling it- I know, I'm hilarious) joined us and we herded and moved the cattle from one pasture to an adjacent pasture in less than an hour. I probably just used five words incorrectly and sounded like some ridiculous city girl, but that's fine.

It was hot, dirty, tiring, and so much fun. And when we were finished, and did some "fun" riding, we came back to the house, had a couple beers, watched an incredible rain storm blow across the prairie, followed by rainbows and a beautiful sunset.

I was told I am allowed to come back and help again. And I will, next time I'm over yonder.

.

I think I'm ready for my spurs now.

Shockingly, Not About Flip Flops

"You've got too many shoes. And look, half of them are flip flops. How many pairs of flip flops can you wear at once?"

"I'm not answering that."

"I bet you could wear one pair each day all summer and not repeat once."

"I bet not."


"I'm not sure I've seen you without them, actually. Do you sleep in flip flops?"

"No... but I'm not sure I sleep. I don't think I've slept all summer."

And just about all of me feels that.

I think it's important, with all this happiness talk lately, that I remind myself (if not, everyone else) how incredibly exhausted I am if I let myself stop long enough to think about it. Even when I try to sleep, I can't. There's so much to do, so much to worry about.

I know better than to think it's anything but a phase. A phase I've no doubt been in before. I think, apparently blinded by being happy and grateful, I've filled the plate a little too full. Maybe setting end of summer goals or already planning for next year has not served me well. Just because it seems like preparing doesn't mean you're prepared now. At least not prepared to deal with it.

A huge contributor to this feeling, I think, is having my nephew around. Not to say I'm with him constantly and not to say that his mother isn't infinitely better at washing the dishes, talking on the phone, and pulling his hands out of the electrical outlets all at once, because she is, but I feel like after a lifetime of no one ever having really tried, this kid is kicking my ass. (And mom, when you read that I typed "ass" on my blog, just remember it took you a year and a half to start reading this and if ass is the worse thing you see from here on out consider yourself lucky. Might I suggest you never go into the archives.) Since my sister and her child, The One Whom Shall Never Need Caffeine, arrived, I've been able to see them every day. Yes, this is odd in itself because there are other things I should be doing every day that I can't manage but when it comes to rolling around in the grass or throwing a metal bowl against the wall because it makes that hilarious noise EVERY TIME, well I have no problem finding time for that.

Sometimes my "auntily duties" consist of nothing more than turning on the radio (kid loves to dance and sing) while other times, they're decidedly more challenging like pushing fifty pounds of kid and jogger stroller up a hill. Or wiping his face, an act in which my jaw is usually on the floor because his head can turn 360 degrees without moving his body. The entire time, no matter what we're doing, I'm having a great time. Thrilled with the concept of being part of his life and him mine, all the while basking in the glow of the idea that I get to give him back.

Which I do. Usually.

Then I leave, drive home or wherever, and generally hit a wall. Suddenly, I feel like I've run a marathon and instead of being allowed to recover, rehydrate and celebrate, I have to go back to normal life. I have to walk the dog and fold laundry when all I really want to do is collapse. And drink. Each time, the same thought comes to mind: How do parents do it?

I honestly do not know. Perhaps you adapt? I've heard some mothers say "the energy just comes to you." I cannot imagine, and I have quite the imagination.

The best conclusion I've got, the nearest I can tell, is that you are motivated. Something, be it the cuteness or the automatic sense of parental responsibility, or nap time, must keep you going.
I might be biased, but I think that cuteness factor would be huge for me.