Slow and Steady

I finally did it this week.  I had been thinking about it for about two weeks, but decided to hold off for a bit. I really wanted to be smart about it. After giving birth to Charlie and Chanelle I started back too early and suffered the consequences. I was determined that this time I would do it right. 
Saturday was the day.  It had to be before the New Year so no one would have the false idea that it was a New Year’s Resolution. 

Saturday was the day I got back to running. 

Chad took Charlie and Chanelle to run some errands and I got Meadow down for a morning nap before tip-toeing back to the bedroom and grabbing  my running shoes.  As quickly as I could I crept down the basement stairs to the treadmill.  After stretching, I climbed on the familiar machine and pressed the start button.  As the belt began I felt a rush of excitement.  That feeling of getting back to something normal.   My plan was to start easy with one or two miles (since I was being smart about this and it had been about four months since my last run).  But I was feeling so good why not up, up, up my pace? And if one mile is good two must be better, right?  Or three?  Or four? 

My first run back after having Meadow was four miles at a pretty good pace. I was so surprised at how good I felt.  Seriously, I felt great.  I felt great, that is, until I woke up the next morning and could hardly walk.  Seriously, every muscle in my body ached and I started to wonder if I had contracted some serious illness overnight. 

Nope, no life-threatening illness, just stupidity on my part.  I’ve been a runner for more than 20 years. I should have known better.  Since Saturday I’ve been reprimanding myself and reminding myself, over and over, slow and steady wins the race. 

Why do I always think I can do it all?  Deep down, I know I can’t.   Just yesterday someone (who reads this blog) commented to me you make it look so easy.  She was referring to balance of everything.  I was quick to remind her the blog only tells about half 1/3 1/4 or maybe 1/10 of the story.  If you saw the “rest of the story” you would probably laugh or cry or encourage me to seek professional help. 

The rest of the story would show you the laundry basket with spilled clothes that resides daily in our living room.   All. Day.  Long.

On a really good day I actually get down and fold the laundry. . . usually with Meadow resting neatly in the Moby wrap.  And does it count as bonding time if Chanelle is folding laundry with me while Charlie is driving a remote control car through the clean laundry?

Yesterday, my in-laws invited Charlie and Chanelle over for an impromptu sleepover.  That left me home with Meadow and Chad and some extra time to actually make a decent meal.  I even had time to bake this super easy bread. 

It works great using half wheat flour.

I was excited to sit down today and serve a decent (not rushed) meal.  As I was getting everything ready for dinner, I was talking to my Dad on the phone.  As always, he tells me he can’t understand me because I’m talking too fast and/or my voice is muffled.  I explained that is because I’m usually doing about 300 things at a time. During our conversation I left the kitchen so I could hear him better and walked around the house with Meadow.  When I came back I could barely see the kitchen from the living room through the dense cloud of toxic smoke that filled the room. 

Um, note to self. . . do not put Tupparware on a hot stove-top that is “ON”.  While I hurriedly opened doors and windows to rid the room of smoke before Chad came home so as to not hear the “don’t-put- tuppareware-on-the-stove-top” lecture for the 50th time (yep, this has happened before) I burnt the rest of dinner. . .

Slow and steady, slow and steady, slow and steady. . .  

I can’t tell you how often things like this happen.  Really, this was just tonight’s events and it was a pretty good night.  Most often, the “rest of the story” is quite comical and messy.  My mistakes and bad decisions are endless.  On the other side of my lens?  There is burnt food and a smoky house with laundry littering the floor. 

I’ve slowed down my running and taking it one mile at a time now.  My body is healing and the lesson is learned. . . slow and steady, slow and steady.  I don’t think this is a lesson just for my running, it’s a lesson for life.  A lesson that keeps popping up.  Supermom, I am not. 

I want to learn so much about photography. . . slow and steady, Summer
I want to run another marathon. . . slow and steady, Summer.
I want to organize my house. . . slow and steady, Summer.
I want to finish that book. . . slow and steady, Summer
I want to write a great blog post. . . slow and steady, Summer. 
I want to not burn Tupparware on the stove. . . slow and steady, Summer.

I could go on and on. . .

When I really get down to it I know what is important.  I mean, really, truly important. 

These tiny little moments that make up our days.  These precious moments that reach deep into my soul and put my tank on full for days.

It’s silly to worry that my kids will remember or care that a laundry pile was a permanent fixture in our living room or every now and again the house filled with smoke from Tupparware burning on the stove. . . I don’t think these things will matter to them.  What they will remember is that I was there. 

That I was with them. . .

Yes, there are so many things that I want and I want now.  Now isn’t necessarily important, though.  What is important is that I take one day at a time and enjoy what I have now. . . however imperfect or messy or smoky it is. 

In time, slow and steady will win the race.