I have fifteen minutes to write this post. It’s 4:30am and in exactly 30 minutes I will be running mile repeats to see if anything is in fact, repeatable. I’ve not run a full marathon since April of 2014, I’ve not trained properly for this one, and I’ve not put myself through such draining tumult since at least yesterday, so we’ll see. Nothing is impossible as we all know and as the ever-helpful cliché goes.

Speaking of all things clichédly repeatable, I was reminded yesterday just how much I love being a Mom. Of all the things I am or cop to being or have been, nothing will ever trump that role for me.  It is pure joy when my phone rings and an image of her face pops up. All it takes is one little “Hi” uttered by that familiar voice for me to know how she is, how she’s feeling, and how to respond.

I had just arrived home with take-out in hand after a day I’d like not to ever repeat itself. I had just sat down. I had just breathed an exhale of breath so loudly that Pete Best could hear it all the way from London, his former drumming and Ring-o-ringing in his head from being pink-slipped notwithstanding.

“What is it, sweets?”


I knew immediately what that nothing was feeling like for her. I knew then, at that age, and I’ve known several times after. My only (fine, only-ish) advice to her was that no matter how she was feeling, it was allowed. Give yourself a break, I told her. There is no need to be so hard on yourself for trying to out-tough yourself and realizing you are actually not so tough after all.

Or at least in that moment.

And this moment will pass – trust me.

The slippery slope as a parent who loves their kid more than will ever be explainable, who has fought to stay alive to parent him or her both literally and metaphorically, and who has been through those same, repeatable life stages is this: how do you “allow” your kid to experience pain so they do not become some entitled little jerk who lives in your basement until they’re thirty and simultaneously assure them that this is not their fault?

How do you convey the guarantee that someday, that little putz and all the others who were too self-absorbed, too immature, and too weak to realize they had struck pure gold amidst the shallow and loose bedrock will end up either begging for your understanding or as a head clown riding trikes in circles and throwing candy in local parades?

Yeah, no idea what you do, but in my case it involves making pasta salad and blondies and bringing it to her on Saturday.

And also hanging up, smiling at cold take-out and the two-fold realization that, without even knowing it, she has once again made my life easier, better, more fulfilled – and Pete Best will tell you to this day that being dumped by John, Paul, and George was the best thing that ever happened to him.

It’s the disguise part of the blessings that’s always the hardest. Lucky for her, her Mom is like Nancy Drew over here.

…In fact, I think I should try to find someone who is not Kanye and is female to sing about gold diggers. Maybe that’d be a ‘lil more helpful to those poor, poor boys.

(Clearly I am not totally hating. His rendition coupled with thoughts like the above helped me to repeat miles in stellar fashion. While 100% NOT wearing Yeezy’s.)

Love Me Do.

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