|Graphic from here.|
It is after midnight.
I am sitting in my quiet house, at my laptop, because this is when I have time to do that.
Baby is sitting in her bouncer, laughing to herself in her sleep. (Please let it be in her sleep...)
I'm running 2 miles now. Can you believe it?! Two whole miles. And you know what? It is hard. Super-duper hard. Agonizing physical work. But I'm really grateful for it, especially lately.
My oldest daughter is in third grade, and she's pretty much failing. Can't focus. Can't complete assignments. Fails tests. Takes hours and hours to do homework. I'm e-mailing furiously back and forth with her teacher. I'm playing phone tag with the school guidance counselor, and savagely researching every possible option and solution. Do we pull her back a grade? Do I bring her back home to homeschool? Do I coach her through this day, this week, this month, this year--only to have her struggle through next year, too?
So my heart wrestles and aches as I sit by her side at the table and watch her self worth take hit after hit after hit, and I think "This is hard." Then I love on her and I give her hugs and I pack her lunch and prepare to send her off for another day tomorrow.
It feels brutal.
Last week, I took one evening to take her to the Disney Store, just the two of us. We dreamed and laughed and she chose her Halloween costume: Merida from "Brave." We had such a good time, drowning our sorrows in pixie dust. She is so much braver than I, really. She is doing hard things--really hard things--every single day.
So I run. I run like I'm trying to escape her demons for her. I run to drive my feet into the pavement and try to carry some of the hurt. I run because I can be stronger, for her.
Because I can be brave, too.