Who Run the World?

If you're familiar with Beyonce's 2011 hit, you answered the question in this post's title with a loud cry of "Girls!" This Sunday morning, at 8:59am, it was those words that carried me across the finish line of my second 10K, which was also my first since "Crossing the Bay" nearly two years ago.

I am tremendously, phenomenally, incredibly proud of this accomplishment. Back in 2017, when I ran my first 10K, I trained hard to get myself ready for the 6.2 miles required. While I was pleased that I finished running, it was a huge blow to finish at 1 hour, 10 seconds. I had come so close to beating my one hour goal, yet fallen so short.

This time, I signed up for the race just 5 weeks ahead of time, knowing that I hadn't run more than 4 miles in nearly 18 months. Though I still work out early each morning, I wasn't exactly sure what it would take to get me back up to 6.2 miles, and I wasn't remotely certain that I could even come close to touching that 1 hour goal. But, just like 2 years ago, I woke up each morning at 5am, pulled on workout clothes in the darkness, laced up my sneakers, and made the drive to work in pre-dawn light. I set a simple enough goal: put 15 miles on my legs each week. Usually, that looked like 3-4 well-paced miles on the treadmill or road on Mondays and Wednesdays, 2 speedy miles on the treadmill on Tuesdays and Thursdays (followed by some cross-training on the elliptical), and a 5-6 mile run on the road at some point over the weekend. I tried not to focus on my time, but that goal still loomed large.

When I woke up Sunday morning, it was to the same sore throat and congestion I'd been battling all week. Lily implored me to "just have fun!" and Jeff reminded me that I needed to cut myself some slack, but I still had expectations for myself.

Miles 1, 2, and 3 went well enough: I kept my pace at 9-9:30 miles, and I kept the dream of that sub-hour 10K alive.

And then came mile 4.

Mile 4 was nothing but a hill. Really, when you look at the elevation graph on my fitness tracker, it's just uphill. My pace fell off to a 10-minute mile, and not even Eminem could get my feet moving any faster.

Mile 5 was better in terms of the terrain (there were less uphills and more flat stretches), but my legs were becoming useless. I berated myself for starting out too fast but was pleased when my pace dropped back below 9:30 again.

And then came mile 6.

Everyone started to pass me. I knew my feet were dragging, but there was nothing I could do about it. I started wondering if I might end up as one of those runners who collapses in the final half mile, unable to go on. (This thought was particularly embarrassing as there were runners on the same course completing a 10-mile race, and the leaders of that path were starting to pass me.)

At last, the entrance to the final stretch appeared ahead of me. As I banked to the right and pushed up a final hill, there was Lily, proudly wearing her "GRL PWR" shirt and cheering with her fists raised over her head, with Jeff right alongside her, equally enthusiastic. Though this vision is what usually pulls me through my toughest workouts, it did little on Sunday; I just had no gas left. As Lily ran a few steps by my side, the most I could muster was a weary thumbs up. (Jeff would later tell me that he had to tell a confused Lily, "Mommy is working really, really hard. She's just so tired.")

And then came the final turn. We ended on a high school track, so I made myself a deal: if I had to run a lap before the finish line, I could give up on my goal; if it was under a lap, I wasn't allowed.

It was less than a quarter lap. And the moment my feet hit that track, I remembered every interval workout, pushing to sprint when I was at my weakest, and I pushed with all I had left.

And it was enough.

58:59.

You know who runs the world?

This woman, who came in in the top 25% of runners overall.
This mom, who came in 21st of 188 women running that day.
This wife, who came in 5th of 32 women in her age bracket.

And you know who knows that?

My daughter. Because she saw a mom who was past the point of exhaustion, who was nearly in tears, who needed someone else to get her a bottle of water and help her regain her breath. And who still ran with all she had in her to meet her goals.

That's right, Lil. Girls run this world.*






* Lily has requested that we check with Beyonce to see if she might amend her lyrics to include "dads of girls also run this world." Because she's pretty sure daughters help make the best dads. I have to agree.

Dear Dad,

I've written about and to many people on this blog, and they are all important parts of my story and our journey and Lily's family. However, I fear one may be more absent than I ever intended, and so comes this note.

Dear Dad,

Late each July, I don't know how to say goodbye. Each year becomes a bit harder than the last, and perhaps that's because I see the breathtaking and belly-laugh-inducing and joyful-beyond-all-belief moments expanding with each year of our daughter's life.

Before we go forward, perhaps it's helpful to go back. This summer marked Lily's sixth on "The Hill" (where my parents live in Connecticut). Here's a brief retrospective:

July 2014 - 6 months old, on my saddle

July 2015 - 1.5 years old, on my horse, Rocky

July 2016 - 2.5 years old, on her very own pony, Mallie

July 2017 - 3.5 years old, on Mallie

July 2018 - 4.5 years old, on Mallie

July 2019 - 5.5 years old, on Mallie

Dad, I don't have words to explain how it feels to watch you care for my daughter in the exact ways I know you cared for me. Yes, perhaps our tradition was hopscotching our way into NCCS's lower school classrooms each morning, my hand firmly ensconced in yours, and perhaps Lily's is hopping into her pink Jeep, riding down to the barn with you in tow for a morning of feeding and watering and mucking and riding.

But the outcome is the same: it's a girl, confident that she is loved, confident that she can conquer the world, confident that--on the days when maybe the world conquers her--there's someone in her corner, telling her to get on her feet, put on her boots, and face the next day that's to come.

Dad, Lily loves you so much. I know this in the way that I now know only a parent can: in the cadence of her giggle, in the confidence in how she mounts Mallie, in the exasperated tone when I ask if I might be allowed to accompany the two of you to the barn. She loves animals because you love animals--because I love animals in the way that you taught me to. She loves Red Steagall and Willy Nelson (and requests them on her Amazon playlists) because you love them--in the same way that I can't hear "On the Road Again" without smiling at memories of our Starcraft van, circa 1983. 

And, Dad, I am so thankful for how much you love this little girl. How you indulge her requests for stories of our childhood barn cats, how you allow her an extra bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, how you always put rainbow sprinkles on top of her ice cream cone at Fudgies. Watching you love Lily is a rare gift, for it is my opportunity to remember that the ways you loved me are not merely reconstructions of my memories but actual reality. 

Recently, I asked Jeff if he thought your memory might be fading. He was perplexed by my query and asked why I'd posed it. I explained that, quite a bit recently, I'd heard you call Lily by my name. Exasperated, he replied, "it's because you're her--and she's you!"

How blessed we are to be so loved by the same (Ganny)daddy.

All my heart, 

Tory

Who knew painted walls could grow?

Over five years ago, I wrote this post in celebration of Lily's nursery coming to life. In November 2013, I couldn't think beyond the next three months, couldn't imagine what it would be like to have Lily at home with us, couldn't imagine what it would be like to enter, as Brandi Carlile sings, "the end of being alone inside your mind / You're tethered to another and you're worried all the time."

But, darn, if I didn't love her nursery.

Those bubbly sea creatures, the joyful knowledge that they were conceived of and painted by someone who loves us so much, the creativity of a muraled nursery--I looked at them daily and never even asked how they might grow with this tiny person inside my belly.

And then that not-so-tiny person turned five.

For a while, we'd been promising Lily we'd flip her big-girl bed when she was five in order to give her a little loft space underneath, but I think we were hedging our bets a bit that she might forget.

Not our kid. The questions started coming fast and furious about when, precisely, we'd get around to The Change. And so we arrived at an increasingly frustrating weekend morning, researching the Best Under Loft Bed Spaces for Preschoolers of All Time Ever. Because, of course, we weren't going to fall short of The Best.

It definitely had to involve fairy lights. And some sort of elaborate treehouse construction. Likely stairs instead of a ladder. Some secret hidden door. And pink. Lots of pink.

And then we saw that octopus on our wall, and we suddenly thought, "well, of course. Under the sea."

So, maybe it's not The Best Space Ever, but Lily thinks it's pretty darn fantastic. It does involve fairy lights (and a hot glue gun and Jeff dodging blobs of hot glue), and it will eventually have curtains to make it feel a bit more of a hideaway. We quickly learned Lily wanted nothing to do with stairs--ladders are what all the Big Girls are using these days.

And it's got love.

A whole lotta love.

Just like we've got for our Big Girl.

Dear Mum: Sometimes...

Dear Mum,

Tonight, I'm watching (and listening to) Lily sleep. She fell asleep with four of her fingers wrapped around my hand, the other fist clasped tightly to her face. (She still sucks her thumb, you know, in spite of promising us, "I'll stop when I'm five!") She's absolutely, resolutely exhausted: it's her birthday weekend, and she's been enveloped in love (and presents and sweets) from not only us and you but also her extended god-family and a plethora of school friends. As I watch her sleep now, her breathing is deep (in spite of a congested nose) and her dreams (I pray) are peaceful.

Mum, how many nights did you watch me sleep like this? How many moments did you marvel at the rise and fall of my chest, at my interactions with my friends, at my trust in everything I knew and loved? How many times did you count the minutes until I was asleep, then spend the hours I was asleep recounting who I was with Dad?

She'll only be 5 for another 364 days, and she'll be a preschooler for less than that. And as much as I hope (and can't wait!) for her to be a Panther like her mom, I'm not ready for her to be in full-day school, 5 days a week; for her to relish the time with friends and be embarrassed by the moments Mom steps in, ready to drive her home (or to practice or lessons or whatever occupies her passion).

Little Lil', I used to watch the top of your head sleep. You rested on my lap, content to rock the night away in our glider. Tonight you sleep soundly, full of the love of your very best (and most wonderful--you've chosen well) friends, content that you'll see the remaining godparents in the morning to celebrate your birthday weekend.

My heart is full tonight, Mum--not just of the love I have for my daughter but also of the love you have for your daughter. Thank you for teaching me what it is to be a Mom--not only the joy of each moment but also the heartache of knowing each moment that passes will never be what it was again.

Little Lil', you are part of a legacy of moms who love their daughters, who allow them to be who they want to be even if that doesn't make perfect sense in the grander scheme of the world. I am so blessed that Ganny and Gannydaddy let me spend my days with high school students, that they believe--with all their hearts--that no calling is greater than the one that asks you to invest in children.

Mum, thank you for believing in the little girl who fell asleep with a stuffy nose and hopes of no more than jelly doughnuts on Sunday morning before church.

Lil, want to start a new tradition and get a jelly doughnut with me tomorrow?

Wth all my heart...