The Scent of Accomplishment

"You can never win or lose if you don't run the race."- The Psychedelic Furs

I did it and I feel like Dora after she solves the puzzle...all giddy and ready to dance and sing some stupid, but catchy, victory song. At least now I am, because it took a few days for my legs to just want to wear pants, never mind dance in them.

If I didn't say it in the beginning of this blog, running a full marathon was my goal, but not one I was all gung-ho about. I was terrified of failure. I was convinced I would drop out mid-way or worse, get cold feet and not even show up. This is why training was so crucial. Those long runs (specifically the 16, 18, and 20 milers) built up not just my physical stamina, but my confidence. Quite honestly the WORST part of my TCS New York City Marathon experience was the port-o-potty I was forced to use before the race. Ladies and gents, don't ever be the winner of a port-o-san duel. The woman who relented as we both advanced to the same john clearly won. She had to hold it in maybe another minute while I was greeted by some other runner's fresh diarrhea. The smell nearly made me pass out and I practically choked to death as I dry heaved my way out of there, retching so hard I ended up on the ground outside, warning those in line not to go in there between gags. This was the first time I probably looked crazy to those around me.

The race went a lot smoother than my bathroom trip. Ugh, I should never use the word smooth when referring to that "bathroom". I started pretty strong.The weather was perfect. Fifties or so with a light drizzle. My 20 miler was in the rain so I was well prepared for this. I ditched my gloves somewhere within the first two miles on the Verrazano Bridge, which connects Staten Island to Brooklyn. Mile 2 was all downhill and I finished that one in 7 minutes and 43 seconds, buying me much needed time for the end of the race. The crowds in Brooklyn were amazing...they were in all of the boroughs. 

I had decided early on that I wouldn't brake for anything, something a runner in front of me learned when he dropped a spoon in Brooklyn, bent down to get it, and I went crashing into him. Folks, if you drop something during a crowded race like NY, unless it's your phone, KEEP ON GOING!  Nothing was going to stop me, not that dude's spoon, not my scrunched up sock which started bothering me at the starting line, and not my bladder. Fortunately I never once had to pee. I think the port-o-potty experience scared my bladder into compliance. I wasn't stopping for water either. I carried two small frozen bottles in my sports bra and one defrosted in my hand. If you ever see a woman running and pulling waters from her cleavage wave and say hi, it's probably me.

On the way I saw a few friends who came to cheer me on, even in the rain. I did stop a few seconds to say hello to them. I'm competitive and determined, but I'm also grateful to anybody willing to spend four hours in the city waiting to see me for 5 seconds. One even had a water for me, which was great because my bra supply was near finished by that point.

All was fantastic and I was ten minutes ahead of my training pace...and then it happened. That proverbial wall we always hear about. It's real and it sucks and it happens around mile 21. This triple sucks in New York City, where the rest of the race from that point on is all uphill. My legs don't have middle fingers, but if I could've seen my blistering feet through my shoes, I'd bet my Asics that my middle toes were aimed at me. This was when I realized it was a good thing that I listened to my coach about not putting my name on my shirt. I'm sure anybody who shouted "Go Tara" from miles 21 to 26.2 might not have been answered back nicely. My favorite bystander sign, and there were many good ones, read "Running is a mental sport and you are all insane," and at this stage of the game I felt no truer words had ever been written.

Pulling myself to the finish I saw the most beautiful sight at mile 25 in Central Park. My three boys, my husband and sons. They were wet, cold, tired, and probably hating me for guilting them into being there, but for a few moments they forgot that and started calling to me. I stopped and went over for some hugs and kisses. It was like I was in the Indy 500 and this was my pit crew giving me the final tune up for the last leg of my journey. If I wasn't going to do this for me, well then I had to do it for them. I found out later I had come to a full stop for 30 seconds to see them. I know this now because my mother, who was tracking me on the app (yes there is one!) thought I had either given up or dropped dead.

After that it was straight through to that finish line. I had set three time goals that day based on my training. 4:30 if I was having a tough race, 4:20 as my most likely, and 4:15 as my miracle push time. I crossed the line at 4:13:20, nearly 2 minutes ahead of my most lofty goal. I started running at 10:15 and wanted done at 2:30...and I did it. Was it that pesky sock I refused to fix, the rain, the worry I would need another port-o-potty? I'll never know. What I do know is that I didn't get home until 5 because it took another hour and a half to get back to my family who found me swearing into my cellphone at them in the middle of a Manhattan sidewalk while once again onlookers looked at me like I was nuts. Or maybe it was admiration for this poor filthy, TCS foil wrapped  woman who just conquered a 20 year goal in her forties. I like to think it was the latter. Will I run another 26.2? Do port-o-potties stink?

*Miles ran this week 37.2. Days post marathon 7.

Running Down A Dream

"Why is the last mile the hardest mile?" - The Smiths

I have not posted in eons...and that is because I've been running...hard core my friends...4 days a week plus an extra day to incline walk. I have conquered distances as long as 20 miles...without even a bathroom break, well a legitimate one. One truly knows they have reached the pinnacle of running when they shamelessly wet their pants in lieu of screwing with their finish time. I have learned to eat on the run, plant waters on my route, and boldly show myself in public with a third breast like protrusion...aka my small bottle of water that I carry in my sports bra. I have learned to tape my knees and foam roll my ass. I now strap a Garmin to my wrist and have my miles measured accurately. I have learned that my former mileage of 12 per week is for sissies, and can now do that on one day without even a second thought. My yearly half marathon is now a regular Sunday morning. I have arrived running world and I am ready...I think.

Since my 20 miler three weeks ago it's been all downhill. It's called tapering. The distances shorten and with that so is my patience. I'm anxious for the big day to be here, yet kind of don't want it to come. I feel aches in my body that I can't decipher between training pains or something serious that maybe I should be referring to a doctor. Every dang acorn and branch on the ground threatens to trip me and destroy 4 months of diligent training. Heck I told a woman on the treadmill next to me to remove her barbell from her treadmill before it could fall in my direction. This is what dreams about to come true are made of...pure panic!

I have wanted to run this race for the last 20 years and the feelings I have now I can only liken to getting married and birthing babies. Months of planning about to culminate, marinated in the fear that it's going to get screwed up, and seasoned with the anxiety that once it's over you'll not even know what to do with yourself, having planned for so long. At least with childbirth I knew my physique would improve. This rigorous running schedule has pushed my body to the leanest it's been in recent memory. When this is over will I still be able to keep myself going like this? There were 64 runs scheduled on my plan...and I've only missed one...one measly 5 mile run because I was writhing in bed like the Exorcist with a 103 degree fever. I demanded antibiotics so that just two days later I'd be back on the road running 10 miles...and I was. Is that determination and will all going to fade now into a puddle of fatigue with a capital FAT?

Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe and get through next Sunday. Wait, no, that's not right...enjoy next Sunday. I have earned the right to enjoy this. I have worked harder for this than I've worked for just about anything and I deserve to savor every minute. So here I go folks. I'd like to say I will write before it, but I don't think I will. All the running has replaced my need and energy for writing, so I will end with the musical quote I was saving for my last pre-race post. See you all on the other side of 26.2!

"Who can go the distance, we'll find out in the long run."- The Eagles

*Miles ran this week 24. Days until  marathon 8.

One Uneventful Summer

"Is there something to do, is there something to do?" - Depeche Mode

Perhaps I love running because it is the ideal activity. It's free; doesn't require hair, makeup, and restrictive clothing; you can do it anywhere, you don't end up feeling bloated or hungover after, and you get fresh air and sometimes the company of like-minded people (I'll explore running friendships in a future post).

Yes, running fulfills every need on my activity checklist. You know what doesn't? Finding stuff to do with my kids. We are now on the tenth day of summer vacation and I feel like aside from half day camp my kids haven't done much and it's all...my...fault. Sure there were a couple of pool days, a swim lesson, and their track clinic (yes I have the littles on the road to running in my footsteps!)...but those three things pretty much happened all in one day. One really long, hot, swamp-crotch level humid day. Yes we did two days of picnics and fireworks...but holidays don't count because, well, you always do something on holidays.

So here I am on a Saturday morning asking myself, "Is there something to do?"  When I don't find something to do my kids spend another day (gasp) using their imaginations by inventing games to play in the house that swallows nearly 50 percent of our income, that we shouldn't be spending too much time in. I'm only being half sarcastic there, because I actually feel terrible when I don't find some place to take them. Social media has me under the impression that my friends have boundless energy and bottomless bank accounts and therefore their kids ALWAYS have something to do.

Here's what happens when I try to find something to do...if it's not too expensive then it's too far, or too early, or too rainy, or NOBODY wants to do it! The first event litmus test is always the price. Since I stopped using credit cards (another thing to be explored in a future post) we have to adhere to a monthly budget. Going anywhere these days as a family is really costly. I splurged on family tickets for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on Broadway for our wedding anniversary. If I tell you how many hours of over time I had to put in to pay for those tickets. Trust me if my family doesn't love that show you may see me on a future Dateline episode. I know, so romantic taking your kids to a show...for your anniversary...with no room left in the budget to hire a babysitter after to go out to dinner.

If the activity can fit in the budget the next hurdle is energy. As stated in my previous post the pool is always a great option, but by the time it takes to prepare and slather everybody in sunscreen I'm exhausted. Being I'm extra sensitive to temperatures I usually don't swim with my kids. I want to, believe me, but the water is usually too cold for me and it literally makes my skin hurt. I end up sitting under a tree trying not to fall asleep. The pool is also weather dependent and it has been one rainy summer. 

If there's enough money and muscle for the activity the last hurdle is mileage. More miles in a run, good, more miles to an activity, bad. The farther away the fatter the chance I'll go on my own or get my husband (the ultimate homebody) to go. I checked the local mommy page and found a hot air balloon festival this weekend...but it's so NOT local. I take it that since it's a town I've never even heard of, that it's so not local that I will spend 1/4 of my day trying to sell the idea to my husband, 1/2 of it in the car, 1/8 finding parking, leaving only an 8th at the actual event. What's the point of a local mommy page if the events require bridges, tolls, and an overnight bag?

So forget it. I mean, why should I feel so pressured to find something to do? My kids have an active enough life. They go to camp, take swim lessons, play three sports a year, and spend a week at the beach every summer. They are even getting to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory because their two awesome, though often too tired to do something, parents are sacrificing their anniversary dinner. Hey, in this family we choose quality over quantity! Oh look the sun is out maybe we will go to the pool...or just to the mall to get ice cream...yeah ice-cream is always the answer.

*Miles ran this week  25. Days until  marathon 120 .

ETA: When I hit the publish button twin B walked into my office and said, "Mommy please can we go somewhere? I don't want to stay in the house."

Vacation???

"Vacation, all I ever wanted..." - The Go-Go's

Teachers...we do it for the love of children, for the hope of a better future, for the sake of humankind...and for summer vacation. Any teacher that tells you any different is a martyristic liar (or a masochist). Seriously, if you see an abnormally large amount of happy adults in the next 6-10 weeks, it's not the latest descendent of Prozac...it's just a bunch of teachers on summer vacation.

Then there are those teachers who just trade in our Smartboard pens for Smart Mops. I'm talking about those of us that are in for a summer of being  SAHMS (stay-at-home-moms)...without the luxury of a six hour school day to keep the wolves...I mean our kids...at bay. Sure there's summer camp, but how many teacher moms have 6k-12k per camper to spend? Those women aren't teachers...they are either high powered execs, doctors, lawyers, or married to one and have the glorious choice of not going to work.

Alas, there's always town camp. I've been a (partially) free woman for a little over 48 hours now and thanks to town camp I have time to myself to marathon train (of course) and grocery shop and get the car serviced. Add to that list an after camp hours trip to the dentist and the vet and we are really partying hard. I may have looked kind of bad ass (or insane) pulling into camp pick up blasting the Beastie Boys, but so far this summer vacation has been catching up on all the crap that gets swept under the carpet from September to June. We haven't even gotten to the pool yet. 

And speaking of the pool, going to the pool is like birthing babies. There's a dude in every woman's brain that erases all memories of child birth so that two years later she decides that doing it all over again is a splendid idea. This is the same schmuck who controls the pool memories. All year long I dream of the pool...forgetting that with kids it's more of a nightmare. Getting dressed for the pool is as exhausting as getting ready to make a snowman...I'm looking at you sunscreen. Then there's the chairs, blanket, towels, dry clothes, toys and snacks you have to pack. Pack enough snacks or you will be bankrupted by the overpriced pool snack-shack. By the time we get there I'm spent and all that effort doesn't feel worth it for an afternoon of, "Hey mom watch me do this." Anybody who has taken a kid 12 or under to the pool knows exactly what I'm talking about...and they know if you aren't truly watching.

But, then there are those moments.The ones where the receptionist at the vet isn't giving you the stink eye because your children ignore your pleas to step off the dog scale. When you aren't 10 minutes late to camp drop off because getting dressed takes an extra 20 minutes because they have to play "naked show." (Why do kids like running around naked anyway?) The moments when you are all  in the car singing Love Shack at the top of your lungs...eating cereal for lunch because they asked for that...sharing a mid afternoon ice cream...and catching a minute or two between "Hey mom watch this" to actually read something more than a children's picture book.  The moments I really reconnect with my kids and develop all these inside jokes and memories that are just ours. Those are the moments that make it all worth it. It is the most wonderful time of the year if you ask me. Sunscreen and all. 

*Miles ran (so far) this week 13. Days until marathon 127 .

Grad It's Over...

"Children get older, and I'm getting older too." - Fleetwood Mac

Today my most recent fifth grade class graduated elementary school. It was an emotionally charged morning; a blend of triumph, anticipation, and relief. When I look at all that has been accomplished since September I could say that it was the longest school year ever. Then, again, when I think of how long that journey seemed ten months ago, I can say it really wasn't. Trust me nobody appreciates a good summer respite more than I do...but at the same time I'm just...not...ready.

I have a love-hate relationship with graduations. I love the excitement, the formality, the hope in the eyes of the young...the pride in the eyes of their parents, but I so hate the finality. I'm not one for emotion..but I'm huge on nostalgia...and the nostalgia gets me. Just ask the father in front of me last year when my twins graduated pre-K. I finally stopped trying to hide my rare wave of emotion and blubbered like a pathetic sap. "Why are you crying?", he turned around and inquired. "Think of all the money we will be saving! This is the best day of my life!"

One year, and a lot less financial burden later, I see his point and laugh at just how the site of pint sized graduates in teeny caps and gowns drove me to become a sobbing mess...until Kindergarten moving up day. Once again there I was trying to make sure that nobody could see me welling up during "The Garden Song." This time I was able to keep more of a handle on myself...perhaps it was the absence of the teeny caps and gowns...or it could be that I was busy trying to silently will twin A to sing and stand still from my seat way back in the rear of the audience. Fortunately I have another 5 years before I have to hide my graduation tears again...but at 41 I realize 5 years is really not much time.

Tonight the high schoolers in my home district are having their graduation. I know this because the district has exercised every form of modern communication to let both my husband and I know this. "Our kids just finished your K program...stop freaking me out," I feel like emailing, texting, and calling back.  And so on a much needed run this evening to get my emotions out, I passed all the balloon festooned mailboxes of homes where high school seniors are getting ready to spread their wings and make that first jump from their pristine suburban nests. Nests feathered just "yesterday" when their parents, like myself, moved into a neighborhood where they could raise them. Nests where just "yesterday" they were singing "The Garden Song" in preparation for Kindergarten moving up day. They, like me, were not ready for it all to move so fast.

Maybe this is why I love running so much. Life moves so fast...but ask any runner and they will tell you...nothing slows down time like a run. Ticking clocks are no match for ticking mileage. As my children move to first grade, and my students move to middle school, and the class of 2017 moves beyond the shelter of the local school system the only thing I can do is let go and try to treasure and savor the miles in my life the way I savor the miles out on the road. 

Many years separate the class of 2017 from the class of 2029...but in the blink of an eye it will be my mailbox that boasts those shiny badges of the ending of their first chapter...and my most treasured one. It's going to come quicker than I want and I won't be ready...and I'll once again be blubbering in some poor dad's ear...and with the knowledge of the cost of college...he will probably be crying too. 

*Miles ran this week 12. Days until marathon 134 .

Terms of Encouragement

"Seasons change with the scenery...weaving time in a tapestry...won't you stop and remember me?" - Simon and Garfunkel

So it's been a minute since I've written. I know, I know...but I told you all in that very first post that this would be a stop/start endeavor. What took my gas from TBB Reality was that constant pressure to produce. These days I'm working harder than ever professionally and on the home front. The gas tank is consistently hovering on empty.

Fortunately there's just enough to keep me running in the literal sense. Last Sunday I completed my annual half marathon and took second place in my division. With six months remaining until game day it was the encouragement I needed that my training is going in the right direction. Encouragement is so important in all the things we do. It was encouragement that brought me back to my Ipad to write today.

The last few months have been crazy busy for me. I've been working 6 days a week..and though God got to rest on day 7, everybody knows that moms don't. My only form of rest comes watching Open House TV  on Sunday mornings with a pile of laundry in my lap. Why is it that most men I know spend their days off on the couch with a hand on a beer and another in their waistband, while women spend ours at the grocery store? Hell yes I am stereotyping...but this one holds a supermarket cart load of truth. 

Being a professional and a momager...it's no wonder that this blog is the last thing on my to-do list. My life is a blizzard of moments crammed between Starbucks and merlot (hmm perhaps the title for my next neglected blog?), most times I can't even find my to-do list. If nobody is asking or expecting me to write...well then I don't. It's fine...but when I get encouragement in the form of appreciation, well then I don't have to write, I WANT to write. That is what happened today.

In January I wrote about being booted out of a large Anthropologie BST page on Facebook. This weekend the post surfaced in a couple of Anthropologie pages and people were enjoying it. That made me feel valued, it made me feel good, it made me see the worth in my words. My words bringing joy to others? What better encouragement is there? So here I am, catching you up on what has been a pretty usual few months.

Work, run, sleep repeat. There's not much more going on than that. I wish I had more to tell you. I fear boring other people...and when I don't write that is the predominant reason why (aside from the whole lost in caffeine and reds thing). What I will tell you today is to encourage others. We are all on our own treadmill, so to speak. Keep running my friends, whatever your marathon is. You're doing great!

* Miles logged this week 21. Days until Marathon 182.

Whose Homework Is It Anyway?

"Teach your children well..." Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Earlier this school year I got lectured by my sons' teachers. "We know this isn't THEIR homework," I was told as one held up a set of sheets that displayed my husband's poorly faked kindergarten handwriting. I was mortified, yet not shocked. I knew it had been happening, and I had tried to curb it at home. It was a very busy month. I had been grading essays and writing report cards for my own class. You can say as a mother I was pretty embarrassed...as a teacher it was double mortification. Even though the faux pas was daddy's doing, I felt fully responsible. Let's face it, no matter how much we march forward, the minute details (failures) of parenting are always going to fall on the mommy in the house.

Immediately I began to defend both my husband for taking the easy way out, and myself for not supervising more. I think as teacher-moms themselves they forgave me, but they made it clear that from that day forward if it wasn't in the twins' own handwritings, it wouldn't be accepted. Fair enough. I walked out with my tail between my legs and a self promise to be more involved in the boys' homework.

Since then kindergarten homework has become the bane of my existence. The last ball tossed up in the air of a day spent juggling a dozen different tasks and wearing as many different hats. My friend sent me a dishtowel for my birthday that says "Which wine pairs best with homework?" My answer to that would be all of them...simultaneously...through an IV. When did kindergarten homework get so complicated? Several times a week these kids come home with three pages of words to read, write, and cut. Numbers to add, draw, and also cut. As an educator I get it, homework is essential to reinforce and practice the skills of the day. But these kids JUST TURNED 6! They barely have the attention span to sit through dinner, the same dinner I'm trying to cook while I'm helping them with their homework, and longingly staring at that dishtowel wishing it was Friday so I could drink (I only drink on the weekends).

This month marks the 100th day of school in New York. With that comes the task of a 100 days of school project. Being I don't have the patience or dexterity to glue 100 Cheerios into a mosaic worthy of Michaelangelo, I decided a survey project would suffice. The boys, who are car enthusiasts, decided they wanted me to ask 100 people what make of car they drive. Full disclosure a Facebook friend had recently done a similar project on favorite foods with her son, so please don't praise me for originality. We easily got 100 answers and over the weekend headed to Starbucks to sip hot chocolates and compile our data. 

The idea was for the kids to write tally marks down for each make we came across. I was going to chart the makes beforehand, but then thought about how they need to write things themselves. They took turns writing the cars. By the time Twin B finished writing Honda, I was already getting impatient. I reminded myself it was fine if it took time, just let them do what they need to. All was going ok until we came to Mercedes. How many letters is that? Oh hell no. Immediately the pencil was in my hand. We had now been tally marking for about a half hour. Pontiac? Nuh-uh. Oldsmobile? Wait, those still exist? By now the kids were only doing the tallies...wavy, diagonal, misplaced tallies making the data nearly impossible to read. 

Then Twin B decides he has a tummy ache. This wouldn't have been so alarming had he not had diarrhea the night before. "You're kidding right?" "Oh mommy, I'm fine. I just farted!" Yes, he said that, really loud, in the middle of Starbucks. The people behind us laughed as I "quietly" reprimanded my son for making such an announcement and told him where he needs to ask to go the next time he has to do such a thing. While this was going on Twin A decided he was done. Done with his drink, done with his snack, done with his project, and done behaving. He told me this by rolling around on the floor...again in Starbucks. It was at that moment that B shouted, "I have to poop!" "Here? Now? You can wait until we get home, right?" "It's starting to come out." By this time I felt we had an audience (thankfully none of which was indulging in any overpriced brownies). Now I had to literally pull A up from the floor while running B to the bathroom. While trying to get a seat cover on in time for B, I also had to stop A from activating the wind tunnel volume hand dryer which was making his brother cry. Try doing all that while still making sure NOBODY touches anything.

We survived the bathroom debacle, I came out and finished the data sheets (screw any self promises I had made regarding kindergarten homework), and got out of there while a nice elderly man smiled at us and our mischief. There's always that one experienced person at Starbucks to put things into perspective. The rest of them are usually millennials who shoot eye daggers at us until we are safely in our car and can no longer spoil their latte break. 

The moral of the story is this. Sometimes we are tired and it's just all too much. When these things occur it is ok to stop. It is ok to ask for help. If no help is available it's ok to walk away. I don't want my children to grow up to take the easy way out, but I also don't want them to burn out. If they become too focused on always getting the job done...well then they become me...and that has its own trappings. I'd say if the man in Oval Office can hang up on Australia when his day is long, well then surely the hubs and I can jump in and help our 6 year old sons when their homework is. Boy was I excited when I found pre-graphed poster board at the store. My, I mean their, 100 Cars to School project is going to rock!

*Miles run last week 12.75 Days until marathon 271.

Picture It...DC, January 21st 2017

"It's a world gone crazy keeps woman in chains..." -Tears For Fears

This is NOT a political post. This is simply a first hand account for those who want to know the whole story. This is for those who wanted to join the Women's March but couldn't. This is for those who joined a sister march and want to know about the mother of them. This is for those who didn't support the marches, but are curious. Most importantly, this post is for those who try to distort the marches with alternative facts.

3:30 am: We pull into a packed parking lot at our local mall. We see many women carrying bags and pillows. Some are already wearing their pink pussy hats. I deliver some hats made by Michele of 144stitches.com to one of my friends designated for another bus and then line up for bus number three. I'm pleasantly surprised to see a couple of men have joined us. I meet up with another friend who has brought both her mother and her daughter. I've never seen so many sleep deprived happy people. One woman asks us if we can photograph the back of her jacket. It says "I am the daughter of Muslim immigrants."

4:00 am: We are on our way. Our bus leader welcomes us. She's wearing a pink sweater. She hands out contact cards so we all have her information. She runs through some general information and then urges us all to sleep. It will take us 5 hours to get to the train station in Greenbelt Md.

6:15 am: We are woken to take a quick break. I run to make the giant bathroom line as all we have is 15 minutes. I sadly pass up the Starbucks I desperately need. I talk to two women in line who are my mom's age. I get back on the bus. One of the women from the bathroom suddenly knows my name. She's an old friend of my mother's who recognized me despite not having seen me in 30 years. Two women my age  in front of me get on with Starbucks. I'm jealous and joke with them about my envy. Later on they become our new friends and spend the whole day with us. 

9:00 am: We arrive in Greenbelt. The line for the DC Metro wraps around the parking lot four times. A sea of women and men in pink hats carrying signs, some gently stating their resistance, some with curses. Some depict the earth begging for protection from climate change, some with vaginas begging for "tiny orange hands" to keep off. No matter how "vulgar"the sign, the person attached is friendly
and upbeat. It takes us an hour to get onto the train. I see a trans teenager get on with a sign in defense of her rights. An interracial group of gay men board and stand with me. We start to talk. They tell me how important it is for them to stand with women today. So selfless, as I know they have their own issues to fight for. 

11:50 am: We finally get off the train. The station is packed. Signs are displayed and people chant. A nice man starts to talk to me. The mood is positive. Any anxiety I've had during preparation for this day begins to fade. Nobody is here to fight. Everyone is here to have their voice heard and to be one with their fellow Americans. It's overwhelming. I'm overcome with emotion. It's a feeling that will wash over me again and again during this experience. Out on the street people are walking in every direction. We aren't sure where to go so we just start following the crowds. We lose our multigenerational group of friends when they get stopped for pictures with their signs. We make a pact to stay with our new Starbucks drinking friends. One man is shouting into megaphones. We can't tell if he's with or against the cause, but he's harmless. I see a group of women wearing Planned Parenthood hats and wearing matching aprons. I wish I could remember what they had painted on them. Young girls have perched themselves high on a wall. Their signs beg for freedom of choice and power over their bodies. I realize the threats to these things affect them more than I, since my childbearing years are pretty much behind me. I mentally vow to not let them down. We suddenly realize we've been walking in the wrong direction. We turn around and try to find the main event.


1:00 pm: Time is flying.There's so much energy around us that we don't even realize we've been wandering for an hour. We find the rally which is already in full swing.The area in the gates are packed and with one of our new friends expecting, we decide to stay on the fringe of the crowd. We stand atop a bench and can see the event via a television in the middle of the street. I can't tell who is speaking. There's an entire family next to me...parents, children...males and females. An elderly couple passes. The man is wearing a Make America Great Again hat. People notice, but nobody bothers him. We decide to get a closer look at the rally. We end up at a glass and metal divider next to a wall. We climb it and then jump down and wade through some bushes. We are laughing. It's the first laugh I've had since before the inauguration. We now have a clear view of the television. Randy Weingarten of the AFT takes the stage and talks about public education. I'm cheering.  Then Alicia Keys takes the stage. She gets the crowd going with a short rendition of  "This Girl is on Fire." The crowd is ready to march. We are lucky enough to be one of the first to break free from the rally. I hear Maryum Ali talking about her father as we make our way through the gate.  We head towards Washington Monument. I've never seen so many people. We join in several chants; "My body, My choice", "Black Lives Matter", "Love Trumps Hate", and "This is what democracy looks like." So many signs, so many people. Every race, religion, and walk of life represented. THIS is the most American thing I have ever witnessed.


3:45 pm: We need to head back to the Metro if we want ample enough time to meet our bus. We decide to stop at the Smithsonian Museum of American History for some food. I pass pictures depicting African American History. I wonder out loud if any of these photos will be replaced by an administration that seems hell bent on everything being white. I feel sad. We get food and make a bathroom stop before we go. I meet two women outside the bathroom. One is a teacher from Seattle. I give her a hug. I want to give out more hugs. I'd never felt so much love in one place. At the station we see two women draped in patriotic scarves. They are wearing winter hats with TRUMP embroidered on the front. People notice, but, again, nobody bothers them. We make it back to the trains. Two Muslim women in Hijabs board with us. We talk and laugh together until our stop. On our next train I'm next to a woman in a wheel chair. She is also a teacher. A seven year old girl stands next to me. Her mother lovingly asks her what she learned today.

4:45 pm: We are back at our bus. We are tired, but energized all at once. We've shared this experience that is so much greater than us. I call my 91 year old grandmother who tells me just how worldwide this demonstration was. She's beaming with pride. I know she would have marched if she could have.


I never saw malice. I never saw looting. I never saw anybody arguing. I never saw disrespect for the police. I saw hope, I saw love, I saw concern, and I saw America. I was there. I saw. I heard. I won't let anybody else pervert that or twist it for their own benefit. I marched.

*Miles ran this week 8. Days until marathon 286.

What Our Children See...Or Don't

"Children waiting for the day they feel good...Happy birthday, happy birthday." - Tears for Fears

Aside from the physiological benefits, I love running because my mind wanders as freely as my feet when I'm hitting the pavement. I come to my best realizations and rationalizations when I'm out on the road. It's no surprise that many of my blogpost ideas begin to take shape as I'm logging miles.

This post started forming yesterday morning as I spent 46 minutes weaving through the streets of my neighborhood, up and down hills past quaint homes built in the 1960s and 1970s. The streets here are peaceful, quiet, and very long. It's the perfect place to train.

This particular day I was trying to get in some miles before I was to open my door to 40 plus guests for the twins' first elementary school birthday party. Some of the parents I had met in passing, one or two I had managed to forge friendships with, but the rest were basically strangers to me, only familiar by the names of their children whom I'd heard random stories about from my sons. 

While my neighborhood could be more diverse, the surrounding areas do not lack diversity at all. My children go to school with children of many different races. Our district office has options for Spanish and Creole on their phone system. This was a conscious choice I made when choosing where to buy a home. You see, I was raised in a diverse school district and I wanted the same for my children.

My husband was not raised with the same level of diversity...heck he didn't even have girls in his high school.  I saw the difference that made in us as people when we were getting to know one another. When you grow up one way, you just don't know anything about the other way. Amazing he married me when I'm of a different religion. Of course by now his mind is wide open...he's a good guy, it never took much prying. 

President Obama gave his farewell speech last week, and he made it a point to talk about race in America, and just how much work we need to do.  How sad it is that I sit here on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday sharing that sentiment. Though I grew up not seeing, or feeling, that I or any of my friends were different, I painfully see and feel it now more than ever. What's transpired in the last few years is something I never thought I'd see. Growing up in the area surrounding New York City, you tend to imagine the whole world is a melting pot of acceptance, but as this country becomes further divided, especially in the wake of the 2016 election, it's getting harder to pretend that it is. My heart hurts over it. It really, really hurts.

Growing up I never felt "white". I never thought I was any different from my friends who weren't white. We were just friends. We were kids, we were teenagers, we were music fans, we were silly, we were serious...but we weren't white or black or Asian, or hispanic...or maybe we just didn't talk about it. Maybe we didn't have to then.

But now, now we have to talk, because things have been moving backwards, or maybe they were never as forwards as I believed they were. For the first time in my life I am hyper aware of my whiteness...and it doesn't feel good. It feels like shame. White privilege has been added to my vocabulary. I never realized just how much privilege being white has attached to it. I feel extremely guilty about it. It's not my fault that I have this...and I just don't know what to do with that.

Race relations are such a fine line to walk. A white person cannot pretend that she knows the struggles faced by a person of color. I've seen arguments break out on this issue on Pantsuit Nation groups...the very groups supposed to be the place of peace, love, and Kumbaya. But really, how can you not get inflamed when you've spent your life with the hyper awareness of your skin color (because society sucks) and then some white chick in yoga pants decides she can sympathize? She can't, we can't, I can't. So I ask my friends of color...what can I do? How can I defend you and walk beside you, without pretending that I know what you're going through? Without feeling that I have to constantly apologize for the actions of others in my race? 

That brings me back to the birthday party. Twenty two beautiful children and their parents. All different colors and religions. All a culmination of different experiences and traditions...all sharing this  Kindergarten journey together. I saw the faces that matched the names and the stories...but none of those stories ever involved anybody's color. That's the America I thought I lived in, and that's the one I want to work for.

Our school has Peace Prizes they award in each class. The children vote for their classmates (one boy, one girl) who they feel exemplify peace and kindness. One of my boys was voted the winner by his class, the other one said he voted for his friend who won for his class. Many say it starts with the children...but it starts with what they learn from us...I couldn't be more proud.

*Miles logged this week 13.75. Days until Marathon 293.

Bought, Sold, Terminated

"What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?"-The Pet Shop Boys

There's a growing trend on Facebook where women of all ages gather to Buy, Sell, and Trade their gently used clothing items. By utilizing social media, Paypal, and the USPS, closets across America have become stock rooms...halfway houses for clothing purchased to wear a handful of times and pass on. Some coveted items from collectible brands like Anthropologie can command big bucks in resale (I had an embroidered cape purchased on clearance in 2010 for $39.99 that resold recently for $130+).  Smart women with disposable income (what is that?) have even made little businesses of buying things up during clearance on clearance and turning them for profit when the items become sold out.

When I first discovered the BST trend, I was elated. The money made on a sale was all for me (minus shipping and a small Paypal fee). Making $10 - $40 on an item was so much better than collecting pennies (really I'm serious) from the local consignor store. Even better was finding all this classic merchandise and at a steal of the price. Retail be damned! I became pretty good at the BST game, so good, in fact, that friends routinely come to me for help when placing ads. Speaking of friends, I made some new ones through the pages as well...we sometimes will even trade items with eachother in lieu of selling to others. It's fun, it's thrifty, it's environmentally sound...but there's a dark side.

No it's not the urge to buy crap you don't need and spend money you don't have (though that is a problem), it's the fact that these pages have become a space for women to wield power...think Mean Girls version 40.0. We are talking a new generation of Fashion Police, my friends, and it's a lot nastier than anything said by the late Joan Rivers.

Recently I was the recipient of one of these cruel and unusual cyber attacks. It happened on a 30K plus member page of items from my favorite store...which I may or may not have mentioned above. One woman, looking for dresses to wear to bridal showers in New York City asked what we had for sale that might be appropriate, so I did what any helpful (and longing to unload her bulging closet and fill her empy wallet) girl would do. I showed her a dress I had posted a while back that was still sitting in my closet...and on the page. Before I could say Gucci, there was a buzz in my inbox. A moderator...we will call her Stephen King's Carrie...because it in no way resembles her name...sent me a message that I had broken the rules:

 "Hi Tara! Admin here...We are very clear in the rules that we don't allow selling to these kinds of posts, and it is grounds for removal without warning as selling in the comments creates all kinds of issues-so please don't let it happen again. Thanks!

Now if you have ever joined one of these BSTs and seen these rules you will agree that the rules are lengthy, intimidating, and often ridiculous. If I tell you, the by-laws to the condo I once owned were less detailed and confusing, I wouldn't be exaggerating. Whatever happened to ,"Don't post porn, don't rip anybody off, and if anybody rips you off...don't hold us responsible." ? However, as silly as Stephen King's Carrie's scolding was, it wasn't said nastily and never being the rule-breaker girl (I'm sure my life would have been tons more fun if I was) I hung my head and admitted that with so many pages I belong to (and an actual LIFE to live) I often forgot which rules were with which group and that I wouldn't let it happen again. Phew, disaster averted...or so I thought, because several minutes later I got pinged...this time right in the sweet spot:

"We noticed you haven't commented on the Pinned Post that you've read the rules- which is another strike, sad to say. We also have you commenting with interest on an item from TJ Maxx as well,which is not a valid sale post and should have been reported rather than encouraging it by looking to buy.

This is more than enough to remove you, so I'm sure you can see that it is important to remember which group you're in. Sorry!"

Ok lady, that's it, gloves are OFF! I told SKC that "it's sad how ridiculous these rules have gotten." I asked her if the other posters in the "offensive" posts had been virtually executed and pointed out that  she just deprived sellers of a very good customer as over the course of 2016 I had purchased many items. I should have pointed out that I was a collector and over the year had also offered others many hard to find pieces at great prices, but I was so stark raving mad that I didn't think of that part.

Anyway, once the dust settled in my mind I tried to reflect on the positives. The money I would save when things I never knew I needed were no longer flying across my TL, and the fact that there were other groups on which I could just as easily...in fact more easily...sell the same merchandise. I also tried to see things through SKC's eyes.

I began to feel for SKC...who reminds me of the condescending overly academic girls in high school who treated others like they were insignificant as a defense mechanism because in reality they lacked the social skills to try and be friends with them...henceforth why they became overly academic. And despite the fact that SKC looks like she spent far too much time at Lilith Fair and I may not ever covet her fashion sense, I do envy her life. You see, Carrie...may I call you that?...you must have so much free time in order to even have the desire to look up what you deem as infractions on your silly little Facebook page. Last I knew nobody gets paid to run those pages. So basically, while wielding your imaginary power...you're a chump.

I want to let you in on a little secret Carrie...most of us are working real jobs and wrangling families. We are kicking so much ass personally and professionally, that we don't have to hide behind a screen and be the clothing warden. So the next time you want to smack a fellow woman on the wrist for trying to  help out another, who may also be too busy or financially strapped to go to the store, and not wanting to be a tattle tale (did you know that nobody likes a tattle tale Carrie?) please think of me. Think of how I was so busy working full time, raising two thoughtful and kind  humans, and trying to be a good citizen that I didn't have time to memorize your laundry list of rules and read your bible length pinned post. Think of me, and then stop yourself from excommunicating another fellow woman who is just trying to do the best she can and save or earn a buck or two on the side.

*Miles logged this week 7. Days until Marathon 301.