Mike is next to me, watching the slide show that Ann put together again. He has his headphones on, so I can just barely hear the music. Every time I glance over, though, there is Roger, with that irrepressible grin and those knowing eyes. I don’t think we will ever be done missing him. Ever.

Yesterday, we lost Roger’s dad, Zach. I haven’t even been brave enough yet to write about losing Roger, and now we have another funeral, another hole in our lives.

It started with Aunt Mary, in May, and I haven’t really been brave enough to write about that yet, either. My mother’s only sister.

Then Roger, in August.

Mike’s friend Dennis, this last January. I never met Dennis, but I went with Mike to his wake, because that is what you do, and watched him let another piece of his past slip away.

Now Zach. And all I can think of is all the things I never had time to learn about him, all the facets of Zach I never had the chance to know.

We’ve cried so much over Roger these last six months, and we’re nowhere near done.  Now we grieve again, for Zach.  The only small comfort I can draw from this is that now Zach is with Roger. Maybe they’re fishing, or flying, or singing, or down here for a bit, whispering in our ears to be strong, to laugh again.

If I don’t start varying my route, I’ll be able to cover these log posts with “ran the usual”. Probably around a 9 minute pace today, which will hopefully come down if my weight ever does… I have not been working very hard at that. On Tuesday, I made albondigas for dinner, which naturally called for sopapilla cheesecake, which I can not stay out of. I have definitely reached that point where my workouts can no longer offset my love of food.

Anyway - ran just before noon today, and it was a VAST improvement over Wednesday. I have to run again tomorrow, to make up for blowing off yesterday. Need to check the weather to see if this weather is going to break or not - I’ll happily run in the rain, but NOT when it is 40 degrees. Katie has been home from college on spring break, so I’ve been able to get some midday runs in. Next week it will be back to the dinnertime shuffle.

Usually, I fix dinner, get it on the table, and gather the troops. Then I take off and let Mike get them to actually eat. THAT is a topic for another post! Suffice it to say that there is no aspect of mothering more agonizing to me than getting those hooligans to EAT.

My oldest son found out yesterday that he will be playing college football next year.

That is such a calm looking sentence to convey the shrieking and jumping around that followed the call from the coach! Cody wrapped up the phone call, which I was trying desperately to eavesdrop on, and came into the kitchen wearing a small smile. He said, “They offered me a preferred walk-on position.” And my mind went blank.

Understand that I was on the razors edge between sharing his elation and “oh, honeying” him through despair. “Is that GOOD??” I managed, and he grinned, full-blown. Then there was the yelling and the hugging and the jumping around and the jubilation - is there ANYTHING quite like seeing one of your kids achieve something they have worked so hard for?

He has so much to learn, that boy of mine, about football, and hard work, and life. Every day he steps a little farther away from my guiding hands, just as he has done every day since his birth. This is as it should be, and what every mother hopes for. But it breaks your heart a little, too.

I have found myself unable to write intimately about my worries for my children, or the struggles they each face as they grow. Those are not my stories to tell, and I do not have the right to reveal them. But today, I will share his elation, his pure joy in the chance to go on with the sport he loves for a few more glorious years.

My Husky will become a Bulldog. And my “Big Dog Football” t-shirt will still work!

From the bottom of my heart, congratulations, Cody Brennan. I am so proud of you!

My Big Dog

Picture courtesy of Jeff Broughton, sports photographer extraordinaire.

I sold a TriathaMom t-shirt!!

OK, it might have been my Mom that bought it, don’t know yet. But still, SOMEONE out there actually found it, and bought it, and the RIDICULOUS amount of time I spent fiddling around with the design is still… ridiculous.

Now if I would just get a paying gig, I could buy one for MYSELF! Kidding. Kind of. Here is one of my shirts (or part of it anyway):

I’m getting this out of the way first, because I don’t like thinking about it. After nearly a week off for NO GOOD REASON, I went out again this afternoon. Without question, that was one of the suckiest runs EVER. It was so bad I did not even get that virtuous little surge of relief you get when you are in the home stretch. Now, hours later, my legs ache like a mother, and my voice is still raspy.

So, P! U! Tomorrow is another day, I guess.

My cousin Renee, who is also a runner, called me today, singing.

“Bu dum baaaaa, bu dum baaaaaa, bu dum baaaaaa, budubadum baaaaaa….”

In case it loses something in the translation, that is the theme from “Rocky”. Renee and I have both been in a slump, both fighting bad cases of the winter blues, and struggling to get the running done when the prevalent attitude is “WHO CARES?!” When she called, I was out in the yard, pooper-scooping, because it felt more productive than sitting and staring at my computer, waiting for an email to come in that says, in essence, “Time to make some money!”

She said she was just back from her run, and it was the hardest one she’d ever done. She fought herself every step to keep going, and her determination is actually what got me out the door tonight, no doubt about it. I hummed “Rocky” for the first mile, no kidding. And then, for some bizarre reason, I could hear it in my head, but in the voice of Peter from “The Family Guy”. I giggled off and on for the next mile, which did not do anything to up my sanity stock with the neighbors.

But I WENT. No watch, so no time, but it actually felt pretty fast. Did 6.4, in the neighborhood, with absolutely dry roads. Temp around 35, with a bitter wind. And I’ll be out there tomorrow, too, by God.

Sometimes I have to run so I remember how to breathe.

This post is dedicated to my husband, who has at long last learned the fine art of the push.

I am a writer. Rejection is part of my life, and for the most part I don’t take it personally. But sometimes, I hit a slump. Sometimes the long dry spell stretches out, an endless wasteland of opportunities that shimmer away into vapor when I try to approach them.

My skin stretches thin. My armor dissolves. And every “thanks but no thanks” cuts a little bit deeper than the last.

Tonight, when Mike got home from work, I was in the kitchen making dinner. He did his usual Mr. Rogers routine, then came in to ask me if I had called that guy.

I didn’t need to ask which guy. I know which guy. At the moment, he is The Guy, the one with the opportunity that might just be more than vapor this time. The ball is definitely in his court, but enough time has passed that I know I should call. I MUST call. I can’t NOT call.

 I am paralyzed by fear at the thought of calling him, absolutely frozen.

After the long barren months, it just feels like too much. It is one thing to accept rejection, and another to have to step into it, leading with your chin. I swear, if one more gig falls through I’m going back to waiting tables, and THIS TIME I MEAN IT.

Mike listens to me rant, and fuss, and bemoan, and then he hits exactly the right note. “Just call him, ” he says. “Then you’ll know, then you can move on.”

And….?? you may be wondering? That’s it? What you must appreciate is the precision of the artist at work here. This man has lived with me for quite some time now, and BELIEVE ME, he has hit many, many clinkers in his day. Tonight, though, he walked that fine line with the skill of a master, and I know myself well enough to be deeply grateful that I have a husband that loves me, that understands me so well sometimes.

Sometimes, I need that push. I get stuck, and I need someone to kick me out of the nest, over the cliff, into motion. But I need them to do it with love, and gentleness, and matter-of-factness, and not too much “oh, honey”, and so many other nuances that I barely understand myself.

And he did. So thanks, honey. I called him, and it was OK. I’m still not making any money, but I’m not still stuck.

I don’t have a lot invested in Valentines’ Day. If I am feeling REALLY fancy, I might make heart shaped pancakes for breakfast, or homemade cards for the kids, but most often I just give them an extra smooch and call it good. So, much as I wanted to with snow back on the streets and winter back in the air, I couldn’t use it as an excuse to blow off my run.

Went the neighborhood route to go 6.4 miles, right around noon. Roads were slick, so it was slow going, and even though the sun was out I kept the mask on for almost the whole run. It is certainly not as cold as it has been, but is definitely not the 65 degrees we enjoyed on Tuesday! Back under the layers we go.

I was close to the end of my run when the song “Gathering the Clans” (Braveheart soundtrack) came on my Ipod - and suddenly I was not a middle-aged Mom slogging through snow and ice in the heart of Suburbia. My feet were not in wet running shoes with duct tape on the heels, but bare, and hard as the rock I ran upon. My body was not smothered in fleece and cotton poly blends, but flowing unencumbered through frigid highland air. I could feel the heather scratching at my calves, and my legs eating up the miles with efficient exhuberance, and I was running not to fit in my jeans, or to set a good example, or to do well in some meaningless race - I was running to survive.

Ran at 8:00 tonight, in the rain - I am a mudder. Love to run in the rain. Finally ran 9 minute miles tonight! Felt pretty good, but I have GOT to dump the extra weight. That extra (mumble) pounds is like lugging around a damn bowling ball, and it is slowing me down. Ran 6.4, in the neighborhood, which is probably going to be the case for the next little while.

I think we’ll be back to the snow tomorrow, if the weather man is right. When I left for my run it was 54 degrees, and when I got back it was 45, with a windchill of 36. I believe it!

Tobin’s birthday! I coerced Cody into watching the kids right after school for me, so I could get a run in during the daylight. It was 63 degrees! Unheard of for this time of year. On this day last year, we were completely snowed in and it was bitter, bitter cold. I started out in my sweats and a long-sleeve shirt, but had to ditch the shirt 3 miles in and run in my tank. Left the watch at home so I have no idea on times, but just running with skin to the wind was decadent.

It WILL snow again, no doubt about it.