Confessions of a Non-Runner

This may come as a shock to some of you but I am not a runner. I may have given the impression or outright lied that I was. I may have even told myself that I was and I may have signed up for races, but you won't see me out there pounding the pavement until about two weeks prior to the race date. So, in the current spirit of truth I confess: I am not a runner.

But you've been running since you were 11, you say. That may be true but I only started because as one of seven children it meant that was the only "Dad & Me Time" I was going to get all day. Dad would come in at 4 or 5 something in the morning and shake me saying, "We're going in 10." I'd begrudgingly pull on my athletic duds, secretly excited I had Dad all to myself but annoyed that we were running and at the crack of dawn. I rarely complained out loud but I'm sure Dad got the message when he'd have to re-wake me up two or three more times before I was fully dressed and out the door. One time he handed me a glass of water on his first wake-up call hoping to speed the process. I fell back to sleep with it resting on my chest, jerking awake when I heard my dad re-approaching, this time splashing the full glass of water on my face and soaking my pillow and pajamas. I was wide awake after that.

The running tradition started when we moved to Canada. I had no way to measure the cold other than by how fast it took to freeze the snot in my nose or how my chilled breath seemed to blur my vision. Regular runs with dad continued on through high-school in Oklahoma, where the wind gusts would try to blow me off the road, and up until I left for college in Missouri. I would run with Dad when I'd come home on Holiday and I would run, more sporadically, at college. I'd run mostly when I was frustrated or feeling chubby or out of excuses for my best friend (who was a jog-a-holic) or when, like most co-eds, I was trying to impress the opposite sex, especially since part of the trail went passed the back half of the baseball field during practice. The fact that my jogs were during practice was merely coincidental. I always ran though, when I missed my dad. I'd imagine he was there beside me, our footsteps and breath in sync, less about the conversation and more about the rhythm.

I don't go home as often, and when I do, its sometimes too short a trip to squeeze in a run with Dad, who is still in better shape than I am. I also care less about giving the impression that I'm a runner. People may think I'm in shape, but if I am, its only because I spend 40+ hours a week chasing 3-year-olds and because I bike to work but only if the weather's nice, if I get up in time and if Paul doesn't need the car that day.

I'm not sure what got me out the door today. I certainly had my list of excuses. I was not particularly missing my dad, not feeling especially frustrated or chubby, Bolder Boulder is still nearly two months away and I'm definitely not trying to impress the opposite sex, since mine's finishing up a 12-hour shift at the hospital. I mindlessly pulled on my athletic duds. I could have stopped when I failed to find the other half of my favorite running socks. I could have stalled to re-charge my deceased ipod. I could have gone back inside when I stepped out and realized it was both freezing cold and windy. But I didn't. I have no idea why I ran, because, like I said before, I am not a runner.

Potty Talk and Where To Go Potty

I'm not quite sure where it all went wrong. The day started out like every other day. Kids and lunch-boxes were dropped off with bids of see-you-laters and just-one-more-kiss and, for the most part, even though we were 4 kids over the limit and 1 teacher short, it promised to be somewhat smooth sailing. My co-teacher and I talked about our plan of attack for the day over the wails of sirens that only 3 year old boys can perfect, sirens that still make me wonder where the fire is. It was decided that my co would take a small group of four to the Light and Shadow room for some investigations while I stayed in the classroom with the remaining children to work on some bigger projects. About five minutes into our work I changed course and chose to get everyone outside where they had more space in which to kill each other, since they seemed bent on doing so anyway. After about 30 more minutes of “I need help with my coat” and “I have to go pee again” we were finally in the fresh air where I started to do some deep breathing exercises to bring my blood pressure back down. We decided to walk to the garden situated at the back of our school through a gate at the end of our playground. Sixty-five percent of the kids stuck to the plan while the rest thought it would be hilarious to run the other direction. After some more cat-herding negotiations we were finally in the same area at the same time. I took this moment to take another deep breath. We're all here. We're safe. We're alive. Good.

Mounds of snow and ice were scattered throughout the garden and most of the children used this opportunity to either jump in it or eat it. I usually try to discourage the eating of it because God knows whats in it but after I've reach my nagging limit for the day I just say, "Whatever, its your stomach." One little girl, whom I'll call Tina, seems to have an unquenchable oral fixation even though she should clearly be over the I-put-everything-in-my-mouth infant discovery phase.

I turned my back on the snow munchers for a second to remind another 3 foot tall friend that hopping down icy stone steps was a great way to get hurt. I swung back around to see another friend, naked from the waist to his knees, now struggling to get his undies back up. I was truly confused for a second. What on earth could he be doing? My first thought was that maybe he was all bunched up or something was itchy or a bug got in there? Trying to maintain as much calmness as possible I asked, “What's going on Hunter?” He looked up with the biggest smile of accomplishment since Phelps and his Olympic Golds and answered, “I's peein' on the snow.” Slightly stunned from this brazen display and too frazzled by this point to immediately handle the situation with some Dr. Phil psycho-babble I caught yet another development out of the corner of my eye. Apparently Tina had noticed Hunter pointing and saying “snow”. Thinking he was pointing out another icy cold buffet , her tiny pink tongue was now inches from where he had proudly relieved himself. I yelped and reached out just in time to catch her coat and pull her back from certain disaster. She, of course, thought I was just physically enforcing the anti-snow-eating policy and threw herself into a full body display of stubbornness and anger. I hugged her and tried to slowly explain why I'd stopped her but she would hear none of it. Hunter, still struggling to pull up his pants and loudly touting his accomplishment was pulled into the impromptu conference as I explained, while buttoning his britches, that eating snow and peeing on snow were things we should probably NOT do at school.

Just when I thought the day could not possibly be any more exciting a fellow 3 year old from another class, I'll call Mason, threw down an object and enjoying the noise it made yelled out, “That's bullshit!” Fortunately another teacher immediately swooped in with a list of school-approved fun words like “Shaboom” or “Shabang” to say. Unfortunately the damage had already been done and just as I was helping Hunter go pee in the school-approved potty he happily yelled out, “Bullshit! that's a great word, Mason, Bullshit!”