When I ran the Big Sur Marathon, I was tired. My legs hurt, my lungs hurt, my eyelashes hurt, my fingernails tingled. It's 26.2 miles and a whole mess of hill climbing. I almost cried because I really, really wanted a Snickers bar, and could think of nothing else. In the middle, I wondered why I was running a marathon, and whose crazy idea this had all been and exactly what I needed to prove by running a second marathon and why I'd willingly gotten out of a perfectly fine bed at 4 in the morning - and it's quite possible I cursed my husband, who was running with me. And then, I looked out at the blue gray of the Pacific Ocean, at the water crashing against the winding cliffs, at the way the earth fell off into the sea, and it was worth it. My lungs filled with deliciously cool air, my legs no longer ached, and I felt blessed to be in such an awe-inspiring place, running into the wind. I remembered how much I love Sean. And I almost forgot about the Snickers bar.
That's what my life is like again, except without the aid of orange Sport Beans and cheering volunteers handing out cups of water. I am tired. My feet hurt. My back has been thrown off by a combination of excessive Baby Bjorn use and hunching over a computer and pushing a double jogging stroller and picking tumbleweeds of dog hair off the kitchen floor. I can't remember when I ate a meal. I'm rough and cranky and have lost 90% of my perspective after a succession of broken plates and skipped naps and dog poop and tantrums. I wonder what I'm doing and why I'm doing and what's the purpose of it all, and where's my Snickers bar, anyway.
And then, in the middle of my funk, moments like this:
Anxiously trying to get both boys read for bed, I prop up Jonas in the chair in Axel's room while I wrestle Axel into his pajamas. Jonas grabs at the buttons on his footed sleeper, lets out an excited ooh, thrilled by the existence of metal snaps. Axel climbs up in the chair next to him, gripping hold of the soft yellow blanket my mother made him, and says, "Book! Book!" I sit on the floor in front my pajama-wearing boys, and open up a Curious George book. As I flip through the pages, Jonas grins and coos. Axel curls up in front of his brother and gives me a kiss. I shiver at the sight of them. I think of getting the camera, but don't because leaving them for a moment may ruin it, and I may return to one brother smothering the other instead of the two of them sitting peacefully together. Instead, I recite what I can remember of the story, keeping my eyes on their round cheeks and cotton-covered feet, on Axel's hair still damp from the bath and the little spot of drool bubbling out as Jonas does his wide open gummy smile.
This, this is what I am supposed to be doing, feeling love and gratitude in these moments, aching to etch them in our memories
Afterward, when both boys are asleep, I return too quickly to the bone-deep exhaustion, to thinking about grocery lists and email and bills.
