Everything Hurts and I'm Dying- NYC Marathon Race Recap

When the idea of running a marathon first came up between my husband, Jason, and I, my first thought was “Nope, no way, not a chance.” But somehow, it came to our attention that the New York City Marathon happened to fall on our first anniversary and we have never been ones for letting something epic pass us by so...long story short we found ourselves signed up with the Miles for Miracles team, running to raise money for Boston Children’s Hospital.

Fast forward past months of training and fundraising and there we were, standing on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge in Staten Island surrounded by thousands of runners, listening to Frank Sinatra sing “New York, New York.” The gun went off to loud cheers and we moved towards the starting line as the rain began to fall. All I felt was a huge sense of disbelief that we were actually there.

The first 6 miles went by in a blur- it didn’t even feel like we were running. The crowds in Brooklyn were awesome- tons of cheering and lots of loud music. We had asked each of our kids to pick a mile that we would run for them. Sammy had picked mile 6-7, so it was an easy one to dedicate. We passed our friend Marc and his daughter right around mile 7. It was ridiculously energizing to see familiar faces in the crowd!

By mile 8 we were soaked. The water stops were crowded and slippery and hundreds of runners were walking by that point. We spent a lot of energy weaving around them, trying to get some momentum, but it was really difficult.

At mile 13 we crossed into Queens. The crowds here were just as excited as Brooklyn. We had our names on our shirts and people cheered for us from the sidelines. It’s impossible to feel like quitting when people are screaming your name.

At mile 16 we hit the Queensboro Bridge. It is a full mile uphill. It also happened to be the mile Roman picked for us to run for him. There are no spectators on the bridge, so all you hear is the pounding of feet on the road. The bridge felt like it went up forever. And we were tired. 10 more miles seemed a little excessive. We ate some pretzels and laughed about how fitting it was to have a snack during Roman’s mile. Smiling at that point was a big deal.

Finally, the bridge peaked and we started down the far side. Soon we could hear the crowds. We made the hard turn onto 1^st Avenue and I swear, every person in New York was waiting for us. The crowds were unbelievable, screaming and cheering, 10 deep on each side, stretching ahead of us as far as we could see, runners completely filling the road from side-to-side. It was a breath-taking, completely overwhelming experience- other than the finish, it is the one moment I will always remember.

Just before mile 18 we passed our coaches and Miles for Miracles organizers and they screamed their heads off for us. After that point, we still had a ways to go on 1st Avenue and it was tough. All of 1st is a long slow climb and we were feeling it by that point. Finally we crossed into the Bronx right before mile 20.

Twenty miles was the furthest we had gone in training and it was mentally tough knowing that everything beyond that point was completely untested. I tried telling myself that six more miles wasn’t very much, that I could easily last another hour. But my legs were tired. My shoes were soaked. It took a lot to shake those thoughts and keep moving forward. After mile 20 I had to retie my shoes. Crouching down was hard, and getting my fingers to work properly was even harder. It seems like a small thing, but just emphasized how much we were putting our bodies through.

At mile 21 we crossed back in to Manhattan and came up 5^th Ave. The crowds were still with us, calling our names and yelling for everyone to keep going. We pushed on for another mile, exhausted and in pain. My quads were burning. Both of us were having serious pain in our feet- a result of rain-soaked sneakers and many many miles. Around mile 22, a woman handed Jason an ice pop. A half-melted, neon green ice pop that we shared. It was cold and syrupy and pure heaven.

We finally turned into Central Park and hit mile 24. That was the mile we ran for my baby girl. The first thing we saw on the sidelines was someone holding a HUGE unicorn balloon- Evelyn’s self-proclaimed spirit animal. My eyes are filling with tears just thinking about the moment. I thought about how much she means to me and how I would do absolutely anything for her. I knew we could finish strong. 

Mile 25-26 was for Jason and I. We thought about everything we have gone through to find each other- every wrong turn and mistake, every year spent living a life less than what we deserved, every hour spent on the road that brought us together. Putting it in that perspective made one more mile seem like nothing.

In a moment it was over. The finish line came into view and we crossed, still surrounded by hundreds of runners and cheering spectators. We were too exhausted to cry. We hugged and kissed and took a few shaky, wet selfies and walked forward to get our medals. The reality of having finished was hard to process. We got mylar warming blankets and moved with the crowd through the park. Someone handed me an apple. It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. 

It took about a quarter of a mile of walking before we got to where they were handing out recovery bags with food and water. Water was the only thing I wanted. Another quarter of a mile and we made it to the bag check. Still another quarter mile and we were able to exit the park. We walked the 5 blocks back to our Air BnB, with people congratulating us the whole way. Then, coming towards us was the man with the unicorn balloon, so we asked for a picture!

So we did it- a thing I never thought I was capable of doing. The thing that struck me most, standing in that crowd of thousands of runners, was that marathon runners don’t look like marathon runners. They look like your neighbors or your aunt or the guys from your office. They are every shape and size, every color and age. There is nothing special about them. They don’t have a unique ability or skill that 99% of people lack. All they have is a determination to push themselves when their bodies tell them to stop, and to do more when their minds want to give up. They make a decision to do it, put in some training, and get out there and try. It was both inspiring and humbling- not the overwhelming athletic skill, but the enormous spirit. It may have wavered at moments. It may have been tested in the later miles. But it was there, find-able in so many people.

Everyone wants to know if I would do it again (totally unfair question 3 days out when everything hurts and I'm dying!). I spent Sunday night repeating over and over, “I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to do that again.” The blisters, the chaffing, the sore feet, the quads-of-fire, the hours and hours and hours of training, the long boring runs on the treadmill….Who would want that? But something inside of me knows we probably could have run faster, done a little better. The rain, the crowds of slower runners, the huge bridges….maybe we left something on the table. Finishing in a certain time wasn’t the point. Running the biggest race in the world on our first anniversary – and doing it together – that was the point and we did it. But….the Boston Marathon is only a few months away so….

Unfriending

I was pretty proud of myself for not unfriending people during the election season. Not a day went by when I wasn't outraged by the insane things people were saying- defending that a joke of a man, shaming an intelligent and well-qualified woman, highlighting their own short-sightedness, and so on. Fine, I thought. To each their own. And as strongly as I felt that Donald Trump was the LAST person I could possibly want as our president, I kept my own feelings to a minimum on Facebook and such, with only a few thoughts hear and there, mostly related to how the changing world was affecting my kids.

But it's time to draw a line.

I'm so incredibly proud to say that I'm one of the "crazy liberals" who would like nothing better than to take all of your guns away. Every single one. Handgun, hunting rifle, whatever. There is absolutely NO reason to own a gun. I firmly believe that.

And I've gotten to the point where anyone defending the ridiculously outdated 2nd Amendment is no longer someone I want to share space with- whether it be on social media, in person or otherwise. Anyone who can stand up right now after what recently happened in Las Vegas and say that we don't need sweeping gun control reform is dead on the inside. Those people went out to hear some music and 59 of them never came home, not to mention the ones who are still fighting for their lives or will live forever with a bullet inside of their bodies. Yet people continue to defend the right to own a weapon. It's ridiculous.

I've overheard some of the weakest, most nonsensical arguments coming from gun-advocates in the recent days. "Trucks were used in terrorist attacks, yet no one is calling for truck bans." Please. Trucks are made for driving, not for killing. 99.99% of trucks are used for the correct reasons. Guns are make for one reason and one reason only. And when someone uses them in an evil way, suddenly that person is crazy for using them correctly? And somehow it's not supposed to come back to the fact that they were able to obtain a gun in the first place? All logic has gone out the window

I know that I'm more extreme than most- that most people are ok with better background checks and
stricter laws- that weapons used for hunting are fine, or keeping a gun in your house for "protection" is fine. Tell that to the mothers who have lost children to gun accidents (because even the most carefully hidden and secured guns are findable. Children are nothing if not nosy and resourceful- a terrible combination when it comes to keeping them safe). Tell the parents and the children and the husbands and wives of the victims in Las Vegas. Tell it to the Columbine and Sandy Hook parents who lost their babies. Look them in the eye and tell them that we don't need to change things in a major way.

So my friend list is slightly smaller. Not because I don't want to engage with ideas that differ from mine. It's that I can't engage with people and ideas that are so far beyond logic. I can't engage with people who are blind to the suffering of others. Now, more than ever, is the time for compassion. We seem to have it in spades after the fact. I can only hope that we figure out how to put it first and let it drive us to overcome the opposition to common sense that has kept us in this dark place we find our country in.

The Parent Network (And Why I Cried in the School Gym)

I had an awesomely embarrassing moment not that long ago when, at a school event, another mom approached me to say how devastated her son was that we were moving out of town. And I started crying right there in the school gym (Sorry about that, Rachel!) thinking of 6-year-old broken hearts. She was very sweet and understanding and reiterated how much her son would miss mine. When I left I texted my husband to say, "Turns out someone is having a harder time with the move than we thought....me."

My 9-year-old daughter, Evelyn, hasn't hesitated to tell us how horrible we are for moving her away from the friends and school she has come to love. She can't imagine living without them, going to a new school, having to start over in the social structure of 4th grade this coming fall. And I certainly can't blame her. Three years ago when we moved to our little town, I worked hard to get the kids involved in sports and activities, encouraged their friendship, hosted playdates whenever we could and we slowly began to feel at home. And Evelyn has built a wonderful circle of kids around herself who make up her world. And now I'm taking her away from it.

My 6-year-old son, Roman, has moments of sadness too, but is more excited than his sister about the adventure of moving to a new house. He talks about missing his friends and cried when he realized he wouldn't be signing up for the local library's summer reading program like last year. "All my friends are doing it!!" he wailed, big tears streaming down his face. Ensuring him that our new town will have a program too didn't matter. He knows what he knows and it's hard for him to see beyond that.

But next week, after the last day of school, we will finishing packing up the house and head on out.   Both of the kids will be fine, I know. It will be a period of adjustment, but they are friendly and outgoing and brave. I have no doubt that they will fit in wherever they go. But me? I'm less sure.

We are moving back to my home town. I know where everything is. I know the shortcuts. I know the schools. I thought it would all be so easy. All of the focus has been on how the kids will adjust, not on how I will adjust. But I am leaving something behind that is more important than I realized, something that has taken some time to build and is invaluable to me: The Parent Network.

For the first two years that I lived in our current town, I was a single working mom. And without the help of so many other parents, I don't know how I would have survived. Even now, with my new husband in the picture, we often need help. I have had to lean on others to get the kids to and from their activities, to watch over them on field trips, to host playdates and outings, and so much more. It means the world to me that other parents look out for my kids when I can't be there, taking time out of their busy schedules to include us in their plans. And I couldn't be more grateful. I got stuck in traffic coming home the other day and wasn't going to make it in time to pick up Evelyn at soccer. I had six different moms I could call to get her a ride. And now, I will have to start over from scratch in our new town and it's pretty devastating.

We will all adjust.  And before long Evelyn and Roman will have new friends and be running around their new school like they've always belonged there and The Parent Network will be regrown over time. But we will also stay connected with those close friends we have found in our little town, and make the trip back to keep those connections alive. Kids are small for such a short, but intense, amount of time and parenting takes more resources than you possibly imagine it will. I'll never forget the moms and dads who stepped in a made a difference for my kids.

To the Parent Network of Merrimac: Thank you for the rides, the pick ups, the birthday parties, the looks of understanding, the love and concern, and all of the support. And thank you, especially, for the ones who shared glasses of wine and the laughter about just how insane parenthood can be. You know who you are.

To the town of Chelmsford: Ready or not....

May We All Let Them In

"What are they?" a woman asks me, pointing at my children. I still double-take when people ask. The answer, which is so obvious to me, is often a mystery to strangers in the street. Is it her black hair? His tan skin? Their deep brown eyes? What is clear to most people is that they are not completely mine- that is, they don't match my day-glo white skin, my pale blue eyes, my crop of freckles. They aren't 100% clearly Irish/Scottish/Russian, like me. They are different, as people often feel compelled to point out.

Regardless of the fact that I see them simply as my children, there is something mysterious enough about them that people feel the need to ask. I'm sure, most of the time, it is out of simple curiosity. Ancestry and heritage is a fascinating topic. It is something that people bond over, search for and wonder about.

But when people ask, I hesitate. In those few seconds my brain sends up warning signs- Wait! Why are they asking? Are they about to judge or criticize? Usually not. But still, it's possible. And I've seen enough doubt in people's eyes when they get the answer, that the Momma-bear in me wants to throw my body in front of those kids and make sure that it doesn't go beyond a curious or judgmental look.

See, my kids, my little angels, my babies who I gave birth to in the great state of New Hampshire, are first generation American-born on their father's side. Their father, his parents and so forth back through their family tree were not born in this country. Out of that extra bit of caution, I will refrain from saying where exactly they come from because, just in case, I don't want you - whoever you are and whatever you believe - to suddenly think anything less of an 8 year old and a 6 year old.

Let's face it, right now you are imaging that they come from Trump's list of banned countries. And maybe they do. But maybe they don't. And the question is, does that change this story? I would argue that, to some people, it does, especially right now.  If I said they were Italian, would you relax? If I said they were Middle Eastern, would you mentally go on guard? Many of you wouldn't. But some would. That's the world we are living in.

The 100%, undeniable reality is that children from those countries are no more likely to grow up to be terrorists than the kids in the "all-American" or "all-white" (or whatever distinction people feel safe with) house down the street. But in the same breath, if my children, and millions of other children in this country suddenly start hearing that people originating from those countries are unwanted or harmful or threatening, imagine the harm that will cause them. Image the self doubt. Image that fear when they hear people on the news shouting for them to go home or go back, when for so many of them, America is home. Regardless of their visa or green card or citizenship status. Image the seeds of pain that will be planted in those young hearts. Hatred breeds hatred, as we know, while kindness is what heals and cures. So we have the choice- plant those seeds of hatred and hope they don't manifest into something worse. Or extend the kindness and generosity that is human nature. And let those things be what we teach our children.

Racism and religious persecution are not new. We do remember that is how American became populated by "whites" and "Christians," right? Escaping religious persecution. How soon we forget. And we've fumbled human rights too many times. Immigrant quotas, Japanese internment camps during WWII, slavery... And every time, the nation eventually comes to their senses and regrets those harmful decisions. Yet here we are again, keeping families apart, telling law-abiding visa holders to go home, calling 5 year old children in airports a "threat" to national security. (On a separate note, good lord, just try to take my child away from me in a foreign airport. I would reach a level of lock-me-up-crazy in moments. God bless the woman who recently had to live through those terrible hours.)

So, just to be clear, except for those who have 100% Native American blood, WE ARE ALL IMMIGRANTS.

Coming back to the small slice of racism that I run into- should I worry when my kids go out with their father or grandparents? Should I be concerned that someone might hear them speak their native language - be it Farsi, or Urdu, or Arabic or Greek - and feel threatened enough to react? Thank goodness those kids don't know any of this yet. But that realization is probably not far off for them. Someday they will innocently tell somewhere where their ancestors came from and that person in their small-minded world will feel it necessary to assume and stereotype and hurt. It's unpreventable when the government, whose purpose it to protect and guide us, makes hatred and anger and racism an accepted governing practice.


What are they? people ask.
They are soccer players.
They are Star Wars fans.
They are a first and third grader.
They are the best readers in their classes.
They are wanna-be scientists and inventors.
They are a Girl Scout and a Boy Scout.
They are awesome knock-knock joke tellers.
They are brilliant and beautiful and imperfect and kind.
They are a niece and a nephew, a grandson and granddaughter, step-kids, friends, classmates, gigglers and teasers, snugglers and pouters. They are human.

I'll refrain from the one label you might be looking for. Because while yes, they are "Americans," that if far from the most important thing about them. They are not any more or any less human or deserving or loved than those people trying to get off airplanes in our country this past week who were met with orders and insults and rejection. They are no more or no less American than the original European settlers who came here and declared this country to be the land of the free. They are no better and no worse because of the color of their skin or their curl of their hair or their ability to understand their grandfather's thick accent. So in this time when the very founding values of this country are being laughed at and disregarded, let's remember who is being hurt the most. Mothers who want to keep their babies safe. Children who want to play and learn and grow. Fathers who know that America could be their only chance at a good life. Students who want the best shot at a good education. Humans. May we all let them in.