Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did – that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that – a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.
― Debra Ginsberg
In 2007 I trained for a marathon with the express goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon. I knew I had to run a sub 3:45:59 for my age, so I trained and plotted for this eventuality. One never knows how the marathon distance will go – latent injuries may crop up, a nutritional issue, dehydration, unanticipated weather. So one may train to a tee but race day will deliver it’s own set of circumstances. Sometimes overcoming is an option and other times not. I hit the race in Fort Collins with a hefty set of nerves, but I knew I was prepared and strong. I was well tapered, the weather cold and perfect, my nutrition and hydration were dialed in, and my body felt as good as it was gonna feel.
As the miles clicked along I stuck to the presumed pace, keeping tabs on my heart rate and breath. I knew I could do quite well, that a qualification was possible but it would be close. This particular marathon began twenty-six miles out of the town of Fort Collins in the foothills. It is a solid qualifier because the first fifteen miles are comprised of a hefty downhill grade through the river canyon. In early May as the fresh snowmelt raged below, the scenery invited relief through beauty, to offset the growing and gnawing aches. My primed legs turned over at a generous clip on the asphalt roads, allowing the downhill to do its work.
Things turned at mile sixteen, as they often do in a marathon. The roads went flat exiting the canyon, and by mile 20 – the final 10k – the race meandered along low-populated bike paths. Absolute boredom was mixed with absolute pain and willpower. Each mile, at this point, a slog. The race was small, so few people provided company along the concrete, barren path. I closed my eyes and counted to 100 over and over and over again, ticking down the final miles. I knew I was still on track to qualify but it was tight. I had no room for margin.
The final mile into downtown was a gift. People lining the roads with enthusiastic cheering, music blaring, my family. I crossed the finish line at 3:44 – a handful of seconds to spare.
I qualified for Boston!
I qualified and I cried. The effort exhausted me. The desire overwhelmed me. The weight of it all overtook me. I cried. Eric was at the finish and held me in my sweaty mess as I wept.
And the pace of parenting continues on, marching to the end of the road. And all the sleepless nights, and miles and miles of pacing across floors with sick baby, and plodding through stores, and to and from school, and hiking mountain peaks, and learning how to ride a bike, and back and forth to the potty and timeouts and kitchen for snacks – the pace of parenting adds up. Teenagers exerting their will. Toddlers exerting their will. All of it takes a toll, but yet we still slog – through the beautiful vistas and the boring bike paths – all of it adds up, the measure of each day determined by full bellies and clean diapers and too many screens.
The relief of it all intermixed with the grief of it all. The end of a life as we know it with the child is real and imminent and altogether remarkable.
And grief is never wrong. Grief is total, demanding attention, demanding release, demanding our entire being. Rarely is grief invited, she just shows up, ushering us into the memories and the truth of the new realities of both loss and change and new.
Grieving in May is a cruel joke, in my opinion. It just doesn’t make sense. Finally spring after the long winter, burgeoning color in abundance, a season of gratitude and wonder and new beginnings…and yet, grief. Change demands grief. New beginnings demand grief. Always.
And so I do. I grieve. I cry at a moment’s notice. The tears spring forth without invitation and I am relegated to weeping my way through middle school orchestra concerts and hikes in the mountains and random conversations at the gym. My tears know no appropriateness, they just flow, and I am ushered by their journey, through the canyons of snowmelt, plodding along, carried.
My child is ready and so am I. We have paced well and the end is near. And while it’s all good and the qualifications have been met, the celebration of our life together, the accomplishment of his journey and mine requires too many feels for any given day. And so I let it happen, for the marking of the next chapter as a mother is usually done with tears.
Parenting can sometimes be downhill – some of us get easy moments or easy kids – but those miles catch up to us afterwards. And sometimes parenting is uphill, the kids that challenge us at every turn, we have strong muscles from all the fight and press. And sometimes parenting is just plain boring – distractions and willpower employed to maintain sanity and internal peace. It’s all there.
And now the finish line for us is near. And the tears flow.
Find me, I’ll give you a hug. We can weep together, for the weirdness and the wonder and the beauty of it all.