"You seriously call that running? I can walk faster than that." The voice came out of nowhere, I hadn't even seen the-down-on his-luck looking guy sitting on the bench overlooking the track. He was a bit set back, hoodie on, drinking something from a paper cup. I continued running, kind of chuckled and thought to myself, was I just heckled? There were other people on the track as well, but each was in their own zone and no one else seemed to notice. As I came up to the bend again, I wasn't sure what to expect, was it a fluke? But as I rounded the turn I hear "why don't you just stop? you can not call yourself a runner when you look like that". Yep, it was happening, I was being heckled, but I didn't chuckle this time. I felt anger rise up inside and I thought of all the witty, unkind remarks I could throw his way my next time around. Not a runner, he has no idea! I steeled myself as I hit the turn again and sure enough, "you look like you're in pain. do yourself a favor and just stop. stop already." I kept my comments to myself but decided I had enough. His voice didn't carry kindness, it was mean-spirited and directed at me. I ran the last lap and exited out the opposite side of the track. I made my way through the park, and decided to head home. Shortly as the park was behind me I stopped and literally broke down in tears, hands on my knees, sobbing like a baby.

​On any other day I might have had a good laugh, may have even egged him on a bit with a funny reply or smile and wave but today was not that day. You see, not even half a mile into my run, I had already titled it UGH. I wasn't feeling it. My legs felt heavy, and my spirit was anything but light. I felt discouraged in every sense of the term. A half mile in and I decided five miles would be enough, I didn't need to go six. A half mile in I was ready to quit - tired of running the same streets, tired of running all together.

​When I reached the track around mile three I was ready to just zone out. Run in circles, appreciate the different surface under my feet. I admired the colors of the leaves against the red-ish track. Then The Heckler made himself heard.

​Through my tears I had a sad realization. You see, that heckler said out loud everything that I had been feeling the previous miles. I didn't feel fast. I didn't feel like I looked like a runner. I was in pain and I'm sure it showed. He spoke all my negative self-talk and it hurt. It hurt my heart and as my tears fell all I could do was pray. The enemy wasn't sitting on the bench, it had taken up a cozy spot in my head.

​I wiped my face, blew a couple snot-rockets and chose a route home that included a tough hill. I cheered myself up it, pushed harder than I had all morning and complimented myself on my strength and determination. As I huffed and puffed at the top, I said to myself, or anyone else that was listening, you are not welcome here Heckler. Move along, because you can bet your ass I can run faster than you can walk.

I don't remember what day of the week it was, nor do I remember what color scrubs the doctor was wearing. I do know he walked into the small, private waiting room with a touch of weariness on his face. I was sitting on the far end of the couch, and my mom was in a chair to my left, our dear friend next to her. My sister and best friend were next to me on the couch, to my right. As the doctor began to tell us about the complications my father had been through, and how it was not likely he would survive, that machines were keeping him alive, a million thoughts went through my head. One of which was, "Why am I smelling Red Vines? Who is eating Red Vines?" Don't think me callous, just know that in that moment, with all the heartbreak my world has ever known, I had an association with Red Vines. We had been in the waiting room for hours so chances are they, along with Fritos, were most likely our snack of choice. It has been nearly 16 years since that day but the smell of Red Vines always takes me back to the ache I felt upon hearing the doctors words, there will be choices to make, decisions to be made, begin your goodbyes. My dad beat the odds and went on to live another 11 years. I can probably count on one hand the number of Red Vines I have eaten in that same amount of time. I just can't do it.

Last week I spent 12 hours in the hospital for heart palpitations and chest heaviness. Upon arriving in the ER at 2:00am, I was whisked into a room, placed on a monitor and had blood drawn. I was given baby aspirin as a precaution, a chest x-ray and warm blankets to cover my feet. I was cared for, asked questions of, and did my best to be the patient patient. I soon learned that my potassium and magnesium levels were extremely low, and this was most likely the reason for feeling the way I was. There was no indication of a heart attack. However, when you are a woman in your late 40's, and you go to the ER in the middle of night with these type of complaints, they put you on lock down so to speak.

Aside from giving birth, being the one in a hospital bed was a new experience for me. I spent weeks at the bedside of my father, after his stroke, then heart attack. I sat next to my mom as she recovered from a compound ankle fracture. I can do the bedside, I can be the advocate, ask the questions, grab magazines, make phone calls, update friends. I have become quite good at that caregiver role. But being on the other end was difficult for me. Resting in the bed was the easy part actually, and once I inadvertently called it my hotel room instead of my hospital room. The emotional strength was the hard part. Throughout the years after his stroke my dad didn't do anything by the book. It was never "just" a seizure, or "just" a cold, or "just" an infected toe. My dad threw curve balls. It was never just as it appeared. So the majority of hospital experiences tended to have a urgent, anxious feel to them.
I reclined in my dark room in the Critical Decision Unit and couldn't help but wonder (fear?!) will I throw curve balls too? I mean, I just ran a marathon in November and am in the midst of training again, yet here I am, hooked up to a heart monitor and waiting out more tests. It's hard not to go to that place, so I prayed and kept bringing myself back to the moment. To the warm blankets covering my feet.

After a second round of labs and EKG, and a stress test with the cardiologist, I was cleared to go. However, they were sending me home wearing a heart monitor for 48 hours. Leads taped to my chest, and a small pouch to carry the device, I left the hospital on my own two feet, cold glass of water in hand, into the passenger seat of my husbands car. We drove together to pick our son up from summer camp and I breathed in the fresh air and breeze on my face.

Once we were home my son looked at me and with wild surprise said, "what the? what is that on you Mom?" (the tank top I was wearing did little to cover the leads and tapes). Without too much detail I explained that the doctor was keeping an eye on my heart, that he was getting a really clear picture of how my heart worked. He stared, curious and then in all seriousness asked "are you a Robot Mom?!" It felt good to finally laugh and play along to his perspective. (Domo Arigato was on repeat in my head!)

The next day I found myself releasing all the tears that I'd unknowingly been holding in. They were tears of praise, sadness, relief, fear, and hope.

At the end of my 48 hour heart watch, my son AB and I went back to the hospital to return the monitor and daily log. It was a Friday, it was the last day of summer camp and AB was full of excitement and enthusiasm and ideas. We can all remember the camp high experience and he was still basking in it. I too was feeling a bit of a high, no longer hooked up, tape removed, no bulky belt around my waist. It was refreshing. He asked questions as we maneuvered through the parking garage and found the right building. Monitor turned in, we began to retrace our steps, this time taking notice of a vending machine in the hall. AB stopped, looked at me and asked if he could please get something. Sure, anything you want. He took survey of all the items and I wondered to myself, is it a Cheetos or M&M's afternoon? I began to gather up a dollar bill and some coins and he said, "Ok, I'm ready. I want the Red Vines." Tears filled my eyes, "are you sure?" "Yep, Red Vines." He fed the machine the money, pushed the proper buttons and happily grabbed them from the tray. He continued on with his re-cap of the day, not yet pausing to have a treat. We got outside into the sunshine and he opened up the package. "Here Mom, you can have the first one." I looked down at his sweet face, the hospital further and further behind me and I accepted it. I took a bite and smiled my thanks. "Good aren't they?" as he devoured his in nearly one bite.

Indeed son, good for a fresh start and a different ending.

Hey you -

I had heard so much about you from friends but I'd never met your acquaintance. Its true you know, what they say, the way you show up when least expected, and not always with the best timing. But you made your way to me. I'm still wondering where and how. Was it random? You knew we'd never met. Were you looking for someone new? Someone fresh? Was it my thick curls that lured you in?

I can't believe how swiftly you turned my life upside down. You were all consuming. You made my heart beat fast and flushed my cheeks the perfect shade of pink. Everything I did was with you in the forefront of my mind. It was like some strange sort of obsession came over me. You disrupted my sleep, had me checking the mirror frequently and feeling as though everyone who looked at me knew.

I fell hard and fast and you were all I could think about. I felt special at first. You chose me. You hung around, you wouldn't leave once you got attached. You clung to me. You couldn't breathe without me. I was your lifeline.

But you know what? I realized I didn't really like all the attention you were getting. The money I spent on you was outrageous. Ridiculous. Necessary, yes, but ridiculous. The way I looked at others around me, wondering, were you seeing them too? Were there others? I figured you had to be connected to one or more of the moms in AB's class. It made my stomach hurt. I began to question and doubt and withdraw into myself. I suddenly didn't feel so special. I was actually over it. I was over you. I was done cleaning, done doing laundry, all just for you. Because of you. I'm done being afraid to hug others because of what you might think. Or heavens knows, what you might do. I'm not really the high maintenance type and you are clearly are.

So, dear Lice, I am breaking up with you. It's not you, it's me. I'm just done. It was brief, and we gave it a shot. We aren't really meant for each other and I don't have the time or energy for this kind of relationship right now. I'm going to kindly ask you to refrain from contacting me, or any of my family members again. I've put restrictions in place, please honor them. I need my space.

Goodbye. Its time for a new lease on lice.

Truth be told, when I first signed on as part of Team Every Mother Counts, I saw it as a way to fulfill MY goal of running the New York City marathon. However, with each mile I logged it became clear to me that my journey was leading me to something greater.

Running feeds my soul. It clears my head and strengthens my body.  It makes me a better mom, wife, friend and person. I do my best thinking and processing while running. I've created weeks worth of menus, come up with games and decorations for a Ninja themed birthday party, figured out the right words to respond to the difficult email awaiting me in my inbox. I have conversations with myself, God, and sometimes even my Dad. As a morning runner, it is what prepares me for the day.

Through my marathon training I got a sense for what my running can do for others. I raised funds - $5,264 to be exact, and I raised awareness. Friends and family were moved not just by my story, but by the work that EMC is doing. I had friends who graciously made donations with heartfelt thanks, sharing that the birth of their child was one that required extra medical attention. I received a donation from a dear friend whose mother passed away earlier in the year. Her mother had been a nurse and early in her career, 40+ years ago, fought for good maternal health care. Everyone has a story, and sometimes we don't know with who, when or how, our stories come together with others. It's when stories collide that things happen.

I am thrilled that my story with Every Mother Counts continues as a running Ambassador - to assist and grow the running community, organize teams, train, fund raise, educate and support. And run. Did I mention I get to run?!

Join me. So that more stories can be told. More healthy, happy, successful birth stories.

6 quarters, 30 dimes, 13 nickels, 125 pennies and 3 dollar bills.

Shortly after I started this blog I got an email from my Aunt Mary, my mom's younger sister.  She shared with me that my beloved grandpa, lovingly referred to as Poppy, always stopped to pick up a penny on the pavement with the comment that  people are lazy if they wouldn't bend over to pick up a penny. She said there may have been more to the story but it was her childhood memory, so every time she spied a penny, she would pick it up and think of Poppy, and if she didn't pick it up, she'd apologize to him.

I didn't know this about my Poppy when I started to pick up loose change while out running but I thought about it often as I would bend down mid-run to grab a coin. It wasn't always effortless either. On my long training runs stopping at mile 16 to pick up a coin usually involved a grunt, moan, or other such verbal resistance. It wasn't always easy on the body, but it was harder to let it pass by.

At the beginning of 2015 I decided it would be the year to actually keep track of all the found change and add it up once the year was done. Little by little the baggie marked 2015 found change filled up.

6 quarters, 30 dimes, 13 nickels, 125 pennies and 3 dollar bills equals $9.40.

In 186 runs, covering 984.53 miles I found $9.40.

I also found strength I didn't know I had, I found healing, I found a competitive side of myself that is so very new to me, I found courage, I found a sense of pride, and connection, and I found hope. I found change.

Mile by mile, penny by penny, dime after nickel. It all adds up and eventually, it will make a difference.

You just can't be lazy.

 Its been two weeks since I ran my first marathon in New York City. I have sat down more times than I can count to write a race recap. Words have failed me. I've written a sentence or two then I stop. So many friends and parents in the school hallway have stopped to ask, how was it? It was awesome, I loved it, can't wait to go back again next year, I reply. Even as I say it, it doesn't do the experience justice. To be honest, it feels like a really lame response.

Just over four years ago when my dad died I struggled to write his eulogy. The first words I wrote, and actually ended up reading to the full church were...It feels too big. How do I sum up Huck Hagenbuch? Then it came to me, the words he would say if I was taking a photo standing too far back from my subject; tighten up your shot kid, bring it in.

As I was meandering around upstairs last night, putting away remaining items from my still unpacked suitcase it came to me, tighten up your shot kid, bring it in. There is no way that I can convey the overwhelming experience of the NYC marathon. There are so many components to it and it feels so grand and vast. It feels too big. I cannot give you a mile by mile report because they all blend together. I can tell you I found a dollar bill, my first ever, and while I know it was early on in the race, I don't know if it was mile 3 or mile 4. The woman, standing outside her church, hollering into a microphone, hallelujah, hallelujah, bless these runners Jesus, I know she was there, she was to my left, and her voice and enthusiasm and uplifting energy is so vivid in my mind, but again, it could have been mile 4 or mile 6. There was a guy wearing a Portland Timbers sweatshirt and I screamed at him, I'm from Portland, and he screamed back, Goooo Portland. Maybe that was mile 7. A woman, holding a cup of coffee in her hand looked me straight on and said yes, thank you, we love Every Mother Counts, that could have been mile 17. It was the moments, not the miles. 26.2 miles worth of moments.

The crowds in Brooklyn were off the charts. The people were three deep, crowding in on both sides of the street, holding out hands for high fives, screaming while drinking from red solo cups. They held signs, jumped up and down and looked me in the eye. There was a brief moment as I ran along that my heart ached knowing that no one would be familiar, no one was waiting for me. But they held signs,some generic, some for a specific person. I soon began to insert my name when a name was written - run Krista run, You got this Krista, Go Krista we are proud of you, You sweat sexy Krista. You get the idea. It felt personal and it got me through the miles. My smile grew. Somewhere along the way, I rounded a bend, still in Brooklyn, a band was playing My Hero by Foo Fighters. I sang along; there goes my hero, watch him as he goes. there goes my hero, he's ordinary. It was the second time since crossing the start line that I choked up on tears. I was no hero, but I didn't quite feel ordinary.

Volunteers, and police officers lined the course. People filled the streets and they continued to energize me. My sister Kira and I ran along together, but each in our own space. We had decided that we were going to do what we could do to stay present, stay in the mile we were in. We knew the other was there, we ran along side by side, yet alone, each of us taking in our experience. The miles clicked by quickly, almost too quickly, we said to each other at one point.

Soon enough the Queensboro Bridge was in front of us. I knew the energy would change. The crowds would be gone and the cheering would be replaced by the sound of footsteps. Heavy, tired, footsteps, and deep, exhausting breaths. Grunts, moans, cursing. Forward motion though, always forward motion.

The bridge dropped us down onto First Avenue around mile 16 and we had a three mile stretch ahead of us before my team's cheering section. The street was wide, I ran in the middle, trying to take in the energy from both sides. My body was tired but my spirit was strong. My sister's quads started to cramp prior to the bridge and I could see she was focused on staying tough. We kept each other in sight, checked in, gave encouragement, forward motion.

Kira and I had settled into a groove where I entered the aid station first and waited on the other end for her to come through. With 50,000 other runners, it was easy to lose track of each other. For all the previous miles our flow had worked, but as I held back, watching for her to come through this aid station, she didn't. I waited longer, still no sign. I figured she must have passed so I started to run slowly, all the while searching. I felt a little like Jack Bauer, scanning the crowds for the face that stood out. Tears again. This wasn't the plan. Our plan was to cross the finish line hand in hand. For the first time in nearly 19 miles, I felt like I couldn't go on. I didn't want to go on without my sister. Reason set in and I knew that the Every Mother Counts cheering section was up ahead. My cousin Eric planned to be there too. If she arrived before me, she'd learn that I hadn't been there yet. I started running at a faster pace, anxious to see what awaited me. Soon enough I saw a Seattle Seahawks 12th man flag flying, and my sister hugging my cousin along the curb. Tears yet again. I thought I lost you, I said, which didn't feel so urgent as I spoke the words with her at my side. I hugged her, my cousin, and my cousins daughter that I hadn't seen in 20+ years and we were off. Side by side. I was afraid to let her out of my sight again. 

Ahead I saw the TEAM EMC sign and it felt like an oasis in a hot desert. My singlet read Every Mother Counts and that is what people called out to me - we love Every Mother Counts, go Every Mother Counts, Every Mother DOES Count. While I didn't hear my own name, I heard the name of something that I have come to believe in and support and be a part of. It brought unexpected meaning and purpose to the race and got me to dig deep when my training got tough. Kristen, team leader who along the way provided me unlimited support and encouragement and answered every ridiculous question, wrapped her arms around me and I soaked it all in. Christy Turlington, the woman and force behind Every Mother Counts had the biggest smile on her face, she reached out and squeezed my hands. While I really wanted to stop and talk skin care with her (she is STUNNING!) I moved forward, feeling energized and renewed. Mile 20. Only a 10k left. The finish line waited.

I knew my sister wasn't feeling her strongest but her determination and resolve showed through. Keep going, she told me, I'm right here, I'll catch you. We started up into the Bronx, people were fading. Kristen had sent an email from a friend of hers who as a running coach had run the marathon numerous times. He laid out the emotional components to the race and I read it many times prior to that Sunday morning. One thing that stuck out was that as we worked our way through the Bronx we'd see people losing it. His exact words, you will start to see the strangest things. People walking, lying down, frozen from cramps.  Do not look at them. Look ahead and run. A woman to my left vomited. I kept running, eyes up. I looked ahead and ran. I was suddenly really, really tired. I didn't want to stop, quitting never even entered my mind, but my legs were tired. I was surprised to see we were on Rider Avenue. Tears again. I thought of my husband and son at home and I knew they were cheering, tracking me and sending me all their love and strength. I reached into my pocket and touched the stone my 6 year old son AB had given me. For two days prior to my departure he held it tight, gave it some of his energy. I drew on that.

Then, there we were, running down Fifth Avenue. I kept envisioning my mom and Aunt Mary in the grandstands at the finish line and I kept moving forward. I continued to focus on the cheers, every, Every Mother DOES count. I could hear the shouts for my sister, go She Will (her shirt read She Will Endure All Things, but her bib covered up the last three words so all people could see was She Will. It was perfect.) Suddenly, out of nowhere, that old familiar IT pain in my right leg screamed at me. I stopped, stretched, shook it out, but it wasn't going away. I had a 5K left, I could do it. We were running through Central Park and I breathed in the trees and the colors and the beauty. I got into a pattern, run, stop, shake-out, run, stop, shake-out. I just need to remain on my own two feet. Look ahead and run.

We turned onto 59th, the Plaza Hotel to our left and my sister and I grabbed hands. We ran together, pulling each other forward, knowing the finish line was within reach. Look ahead and run. We turned once more into the park and as we passed the flags representing all the countries I knew we were almost there. I spied my mom and Aunt first and the tears came yet again. My dear mom held her camera proudly and hollered at us to stop so she could snap a photo. We weren't quite across the finish line so we smiled but ran on. Did I hear my name announced over the loud speaker? I may have, I don't know. I do know that I flung my arms out to the side, tilted my head back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath - I did it. I crossed the finish line of the New York City Marathon.

The dollar bill wasn't the only #foundchange along the way.

I woke that Sunday morning a runner, I went to bed a marathoner.




to be continued......

My first recollection of the Portland Marathon was in 2006, the weekend of my wedding. My sister and her family were staying close enough to the route so they wandered down to try to catch a glimpse of Dean Karnazes, who was running 50 marathons in 50 days. I was clearly wrapped up in my own bridal bliss to respond with anything more than cool, wow, that would be tough. Several years passed without much thought to the annual marathon, other than noting traffic delays and detours.

It wasn't until I became a "serious" runner that I started to pay closer attention to the marathon, and took up a spot as cheerleader along the sidelines. I would gather up my young son and head downtown, usually just staying for a few minutes, just enough to get a few cheers in.  As I became more involved in my local mama running communities I became more invested as women I knew were taking on the challenge.  My favorite spot to cheer was right past mile 24, when runners come up a small hill before crossing the Broadway Bridge and begin the downhill stretch to the finish line. Runners look tired, worn, yet determined and strong. I've seen runners limp, lean on a friend, dry-heave, stop running all together. I hugged friends who were soaked with sweat and tried to encourage them by running along side for a few feet. I took in their faces, their bodies and always said to myself, yeah, I really have no interest in doing this.

However, last year, it all changed. As I watched and cheered and saw all those people so close to finishing something extraordinary, a little flutter started inside me, a little whisper, maybe, maybe, maybe it can be you too.

As I took up my regular cheering spot last weekend it all felt so different. I could hardly cheer or clap or yell keep going without getting choked up. NYC Marathon is twenty three days out.  In exactly four weeks from that moment I would be running my first marathon. Gulp. Thanks to it being printed on their bibs, I called people by name, told them they were strong, that they could do this. One gal was walking and I shouted, you've got this, you are going to end this day a marathoner! She looked back at me, smiled, and she began running again. My friend Kimberly showed up and we upped our cheering power and high-fives.  Kimberly is running NYC as well and we have run many miles together, swapped training plans, shared encouragements, and disappointments. As we cheered we talked about what awaits us in New York City. You can go into a race totally prepared, mentally and physically, yet you just never know what the day holds.

My friend Joe was running the marathon and thanks to text updates from his wife Hau I had a general idea of when to expect him. Joe and I committed to our marathons around the same time and talked plans and training early on. Joe was the one who carried me through the early miles of my first 20 miler, and I was a strong push for us the last half of it. I had my sign and music blaring and erupted with screams when I saw him start up the hill. I knew he wasn't having the race he wanted, or planned, but he was still smiling. He looked strong and he was still smiling.

I watched Joe continue toward the finish line and it struck me, I am next. I am the next one who will be out there pushing myself to my limit and striving to reach my goal. I will have my sister beside me and we will put forth our plan we have been so diligently following for months.

The only downside that I see to running the New York City Marathon is that my friends won't be present to cheer me on. Fortunately my Mom, Aunt and a few cousins will be there though, cheering their hearts out. They won't be sprinkled throughout the course though. I won't see my BRF's at mile 18, then again at 24, their familiar faces shouting their encouragement, the hands I know reaching out for hugs and high fives. Mostly I will see strangers who have given up a Sunday morning to line the streets of all five boroughs and cheer for runners. To them, I will be the stranger, a stranger who is doing something extraordinary and perhaps the one who creates a flutter, who starts the whisper maybe, maybe, maybe it can be you.

If that is the case, I hope everything about my being reflects, yes, yes yes you can.

It's been just over three weeks since the days start with walking my son AB to school. It's a delightful time, one spent talking about current Lego creations, reflecting on the thorny rose bushes, or him asking me if I am in fact really Wonder Woman where do I hide my suit. We also have a routine in which when he is ready, he reaches up, takes my hand and I squeeze wishes into his hand. I declare my wishes out loud - to find a new friend and be a friend, to sing loud and beautifully in music, to learn a new word, to laugh, and to know that no matter what, he is loved. Wishes change day to day depending on what his schedule holds, but always end with me squeezing all my love into his hand.

Last Friday as we set off for school I was decked out in my running gear, new hydration belt around my waist. Once the bell rang, I was going to be hitting the major milestone in marathon training and running 20 miles. 20 long miles. My longest to date had been 18 so I told myself, just two more, it's not that big of a stretch. But for anyone who has trained, its a big mental hurdle.

None of my BRF's (best running friends) were available to run with me, but as it happens, one of my BRF's husband, Joe, is also training for a marathon and he was due for 20 miles. We met at the school, chatted briefly about the route then ran off. We settled into a nice groove and the miles moved on.

Earlier that morning I posted a Facebook status that I would be running 20 miles and linking my Nike app so that friends could cheer me along as we went. Due to technical difficulties, the link didn't work and so I didn't receive any cheers. Every so often though I glanced at my phone and saw that comments were made on my Facebook status so I knew good thoughts were coming our way regardless.

We ran along and I appreciated Joe leading the conversation. Each mile that chimed on my Garmin, I told myself, only 17 more, only 12 more, only 10 more. I tried to stay in the present mile and not look ahead. Focus on the mile I am running, the next one will be there no matter what. It truly becomes a mental game. Enjoy each mile.

Walk breaks happened, pauses at the crosswalks were appreciated but we kept moving forward. Forward is a pace. We were close to the school a few miles shy of 20 so we ran out a mile then back again. My Garmin chimed, I let out a yahooo, we high-fived and took a deep breath. Done. 20 miles done. I felt good, tired but strong and happy. We stretched and chatted then I made the walk back up the ridge home. My husband was there and quickly got me a glass of water and prepared a snack for me. I sat and took another deep breath. I did it.

After an ice cold bath and beer, I read through my Facebook comments. Plenty of likes and many comments assuring me I could do it. There was one from George, who in addition to my Dad is one of the wisest, and finest men I know. I've known George forever and he always has the perfect thing to say. Enjoy the journey, he wrote. I got horizontal, feet up on pillows, compression socks on my legs and thought about just that, my journey of 20 miles, and I really did enjoy it.

I enjoyed the two bluebirds who flew across our path causing me to sing Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah over and over in my head; I enjoyed running over Tilikum Crossing, Portland's new pedestrian/bicycle/public transportation only bridge; I enjoyed the rare glance north, up the river of my beautiful city; I enjoyed the sun's reflection on Big Pink, the towering building inside of which I knew my hubs was working away; I enjoyed the tree lined streets of my neighborhood, and the lone penny that caught my eye at mile 19. I enjoyed pushing my body farther than ever and discovering the strength that comes with it.

20 miles was just one small part of this journey that I sometimes shake my head in disbelief that I am on. I never set out to run a marathon. I never expected to push my body, or my mind to this point. But I truly am enjoying it. I'm enjoying the opportunity to learn about myself, to share something so extraordinary with my sister, to accept the setbacks with the accomplishments. I am in awe of friends who have stepped up to support me with encouraging words and financial donations to Every Mother Counts; who text me messages with simple statements or inspirational scripture. I am enjoying this journey. Each mile of it, as it brings me closer to the finish line.

That Friday morning as we walked to school I reminded AB that I would be going on my longest run ever,  When you sit down for lunch, I will still be running, I told him to try to help him get a sense for the time and distance. His response caught me off guard Mom, give me your hand, I am going to squeeze something into you. I have 100 gallons of energy, what is half of that, 50? ok, then I am giving you half my energy, 50 gallons of my energy.  I need to keep some because I like to run outside and I need it. You can do it with my energy.

Yes I can son, and yes I did, all while enjoying the 20 mile long journey, and the many miles still ahead.

Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-A. My oh my what a wonderful day, plenty of sunshine heading my way. Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-A Wonderful feeling, what a wonderful day.

My son AB started Kindergarten at our neighborhood school last week and it's been a delight to see him bound down the stairs each morning, dressed and raring to go. Today, day eight, was a different story. He came down quietly, sat at the table and let out a sigh, I don't want to go to school. My body isn't feeling so well I don't think. We ate breakfast together, chatted a bit and he continued with his pleas to stay home; there are so many kids there. I don't think my legs are strong enough today. As we sat together I tried to steer the conversation away from school, and commented on how stained his shirt was, not a criticism, just an observation. I reminded him it was the shirt he wore this summer when he worked in Grandma's garden, and dug in the dirt and gravel. I guess my stain remover didn't work so well! I teased. We decided to change his shirt and keep this dirty one as his worker-guy shirt when he helps my husband with projects, because every worker-guy has a worker-shirt. I got the slightest smile from him, but his enthusiasm was still amiss.

Upstairs in his room he continued to let out sighs, as he moved about. I spied the hand-me-down shirt from his cousin who he loves dearly and we just spent a fun filled weekend with. This was one of Brody's favorite shirts, would you like to wear this today? His face lit up, OK!  He put it on and let out a sigh, different from earlier ones - sigh of release, of relaxation, one that says, its going to be all right. This feels cozy, as a smile spread across his face.

The morning continued on with laughs and a renewed sense of energy. When I gave him the five minute heads-up that we'd be leaving soon he announced he'd be right down. We walked to school and he talked about what the day held, a trip to the computer lab and new friends he might sit next to at lunch. There was no mention of tired legs or crowded rooms. Once inside the building, he stood in line outside his classroom. He held his backpack in his hand and I noticed that he straightened his shirt, pulling it down in front and giving it a slight smoothing gesture. We hugged, kissed and I said goodbye, just as we have done all the previous days.

I left the building, headed out for my run and I couldn't help but reflect on the morning - it wasn't his favorite cooked apple slices that I prepared for breakfast that turned his morning around, it was a shirt; a cozy, colorful, hand-me-down shirt that did it.

I remember that feeling though, of putting on one of my sisters dresses or tops as a little girl, loving finally being able to wear her things, the knowing that it belonged to her and was worn by her. Something in that history made it more comfortable. Its for those same reasons that I love holding Grandma Archer's Bible in my hands, touching the pages her hands touched, running my fingers across the scriptures she underlined. It is why when I am missing my Dad I put on his favorite NYPD ball cap, or drape his thick flannel shirt over my shoulders. It's a comforting weight.

The dictionary states synonyms of hand-me-down as secondhand, worn, old, used, shabby, castoff. Not flattering by any means. Look a little further though and you find the word preloved.

I have no idea if pulling Brody's hand-me-down shirt over his head is what in fact turned AB's spirit around. I do know that he loves his cousin tremendously and looks up to him so I have to think wearing something that belonged to him felt good and right and uplifting. Maybe in the wearing of something preloved, AB himself felt a little more secure, a little more ready to face the day, a little more connected.

In addition to the regular peppering of questions I lay on AB after school, I asked, how did it feel wearing Brody's shirt today? With a smile he replied, I loved it.

I know the feeling son. 

In mid-July my six year old son AB and I packed our car full and headed south to California. We spent three weeks at my mom's. It is the home where I grew up, on six acres of beautiful land. It is made of the stuff of little boys dreams, and big girls respite.  We walked Mom's dog Butler nearly every day and watched the birds bathe and wild turkeys cross the pasture.

AB loved to open the gate to Mom's garden and wander in to pick green beans, or hunt for lizards and grasshoppers. He swatted at the bees enjoying the zinnias and learned to step carefully so as not to disrupt the new plants just beginning to pop. He knew to secure the gate with the bungee cords so no deer made themselves at home in the middle of the night. He dug in the dirt, the gravel, found nature treasures and went to bed many nights with the scent of dirt still in his hair.

I loved to sip my morning coffee while the sun peeked up over the hill, and the birds gathered food. My morning runs along the country road brought peace and clarity, and beauty that I don't get to see as much as I would like. I loved being present in my Mom's days; meeting her friends at her water aerobics class, hearing her proudly introduce me as her baby from Portland.

Almost every evening was spent eating dinner around the kitchen table, the same table where I sat growing up. Instead of Dad at the head, AB proudly took his spot. Our meals were fresh and light, and usually made by mom. I pitched in a bit, but not often. Not often enough. I love to watch her cook. She has always been fabulous, and we rarely ate out when I was young. Most of what we ate was from her garden. I can remember as a child telling her I was hungry, then go outside and pick something to eat, she'd say. My favorite was a bell pepper sandwich - bell pepper still warm from the sun, light mayo on white bread and a bit of salt. The warm, soft, crunchy, combination is still so clear in my mind.

I love to watch my mom chop, toss, barbecue. She's become quite the grill master in the past few years. She makes it all look easy, the way she brings it together. The meals were simple, but delicious, flavorful and fresh. I enjoyed being on the receiving end once again. In her kitchen, her way, her one last bit of basil sprinkled on top.

The second week into our stay AB and I rode the train to Sacramento for a baseball game with friends. It was his first train ride and he sat and watched the world go by. On the return trip home we pulled out our coloring books and spent time coloring, he in his, me in mine. We shared a bit, and commented on each others work. At one point AB reached out and touched my hand and said, your skin is turning crinkly like Grandmas.

He is right. My hands are turning crinkly. They have been for some time. Shortly after my 30th birthday some years ago, I can remember being on a train, writing in my journal on my morning commute to work. I traced my hand, drew in all the wrinkles I saw. I wrote about not feeling 30, but seeing age in my hands.

As I have sat with AB's observation of my hands, I keep coming back to this -  I should be so lucky. Crinkles hold stories. I hope my hands are not only crinkly like my Moms but also have the same ability to love, nurture, feed, comfort, and do half as much good as her hands have done. Her hands are those of a hospice nurse who held families in final goodbyes; hands that sewed dresses, Halloween costumes, and lost buttons. Her hands draw and sketch and write lovely birthday, anniversary and just because cards. Her hands grow, tend and cook food that filled the bellies of her family for years. Her hands hold and comfort, rub tired feet at night and backs when achey. Hands that provided loving care for my Dad until he passed peacefully in his sleep, with her by his side, with her hands stroking his forehead I am sure.

On our last night in California I had gone to town to enjoy a farewell beer with dear friends. I headed home after dark and called to let Mom and AB know I was on my way. Thunder and lightening were in the distance, she reminded me to drive carefully. I pulled into the dark driveway and my headlights caught my mom and AB sitting on the tailgate of my Dads truck. As I turned off the headlights, lightening filled the sky and the sight of them sitting together, eyes wide, mouths open is astonishment, I caught my own breath. My son and my mom, creating memories, delighting in each other and the wonder of nature. It was a moment where my Mama heart and daughter heart collided, and I was filled peace. Stories were being written.

In five days I send AB off to Kindergarten. I am not the first or the last mom to do so, but he is my first, and my last. You can imagine where my heart is. In addition to the sun-kissed highlights in his hair, the farmer tan on his arms, I know he is full of summer memories. My hope is that as he goes out on this new adventure, without me beside him, that he remembers my hands - hands that love, guide, soothe, comfort and tend. Hands that hold stories, that say I love you and I believe in you and I am here for you. Always. Mom hands. Crinkles and all