These days, my runs take place along the Hudson River. It goes like this. I wake up to an insistent little girl's "Mommy, get UP!" and put some oatmeal on the stove (or lately, rice pudding!), and brush my teeth and put on my running clothes. I take Meeks out to do his business and buy myself an espresso at the little Cuban coffee hut downstairs. Then I drink it while doing a puzzle or playing with legos on the floor with Catherine. Once sufficiently awake, I give Catherine her breakfast and let Chris know I'm leaving, and what they do while I'm gone, is their business (but I'm pretty sure it involves Catherine watching Mickey Mouse on Chris's phone while he sneaks in a few more Zs and showers in relative peace).
These runs are just about the only time that is all mine. I step out the door of our apartment building in the early mornings and run three blocks west, past construction sites and coffee shops, dog walkers and high-heeled professionals, cobblestone streets and stinking bags of trash until the shadowy streets and fire-escaped brick buildings part and the sun comes bursting forth, reflected on the rippled water (that sounds a little dramatic but it really does appear like that). I have two Pandora stations and I alternate between them. One is called Mos Def. The other is called Counting Crows. I feel decidedly different depending on which one I'm listening to. When I listen to the Mos Def station, I am a bit of a badass, just so you know. But my Counting Crows station, which plays a wide variety of emotionally charged and poetic songs from the 90s, is the best. When I run to Counting Crows, I feel open. I'm sure my running posture says so. Eyes fixed on the Statue of Liberty, the breeze cold and sharp on my face, the water-smell of the river, and Adam Duritz and all his feelings, and I literally feel like I'm about to take off like one of the fat pigeons that won't get out of my way until the last minute, except more graceful-like, much more graceful-like (of course).
I think while I run. Often about Catherine and whether or not I'm being a good mom and what she needs more of or less of and what I can do with her to delight her or what new thing I can teach her or, on a bad day, how I can distract her. Other times about myself, how free I feel in that moment, how starting today I'm not eating any sugar and surely I can make it until bedtime, this time, and how I want to be a writer but I don't know when.
I come home with flushed cheeks and a surge of optimism. The time is short, like this nap during which time I've shirked my other duties in order to write this blog post.
"Mommy petty. Mommy petty bond hair. Wike pincess." Touches my unwashed hair which is still in the shape of the sweaty ponytail I've just removed. Then suddenly, "I gotta pee!" and jumps up and runs to the bathroom where I hear her do just that. This time is short, too.
Well, I wrote something. And that feels good. And when Catherine wakes up (any minute!) we're going to make m&m cookies (her choice!) and that will feel good too. And as for not eating any sugar? There's always tomorrow.