Running the Race

Yesterday afternoon, our family was preparing to sit down for our family dinner. Ryan had just gotten home from work, a place that presents the same monotonous dragons to slay with each new day and is filled with people who refuse to take accountability for their obligations. Cap that off with a 40 mile commute in the sweltering summer from one end of The Valley to the other, and he was understandably exhausted. The kids and I spent the day at the museum. It was a ton of fun, but I am not naturally a get-up-and-go kind of parent, and these outings with 4 children take every ounce of energy I can muster.

 

I put the finishing touches on our cashew chicken with rice, and was gathering the last few items to set the table. As our children gathered around, a simple question about parenting was returned with a tired retort, which in turn somehow instantly threw up a wall so high that Ryan and I could no longer see each other. The only thing we could see was the wall between us. In addition, the air itself had changed in temperature and thickness. I knew our kids could sense it right away.

 

I grew up in a home with parents who did their very best to parent my siblings and me. But when they had disagreements or fought with each other, their walls would stay up for hours, sometimes days, and as a child who didn't understand that parental arguments are about the parents and not about the kids, I internalized the tension and found it hard to function.

 

Now as an adult, I CANNOT handle these walls. I just can't. They make my skin crawl and fill me with so much anxiety that I can think of nothing else. I can't function until the wall is ripped down. With a sledge hammer. I am not sure how Ryan feels about this particular trait of mine. Anyway, we found ourselves immediately in the other room, seated on the couch so we could be comfortable as we peeled back layers and exchanged tears (Okay. there wasn't much exchanging. It was all me.) I am so grateful to be married to a man who has never hurled an insult at me during a disagreement. I hope I can say I offer him the same. Life is too short to treat the Greatest Gift God has given me with anything less than complete respect. I am far from perfect in this, and will always be a work in progress. I am grateful for his patience.  Our dinner grew cold and we turned curious children away several times.  But none of that mattered.

 

You see, family-life is really hard. And parenting in a blended family? Fuggedaboutit. It is gut-wrenchingly hard. If anyone tells you otherwise they are lying through their teeth. The vulnerability and consciousness it requires can leave me feeling so raw and tired that I want to curl up in a ball, lick my wounds and never come out. Every once in a while, I have to remind myself "You chose this". And I did. It was a conscious, joyful choice to bind myself with these particular people, and specifically to be a parent in a complex blended family. It often reminds me of another choice I made a few years back.....

 

About 5 years ago, I allowed a friend of mine to convince me to train and run a marathon. I am not a natural runner. It doesn't come easy to me, and with my exercised induced asthma, it can get pretty ugly. Despite these things, running a marathon was on my bucket list, and so I agreed hesitantly to the task. I am no fool. Unless you are a freak of nature, marathons are an amazing feat of physical strength and mental stamina. I knew this. I was under no delusions that this was going to be a walk in the park. That wasn't the point.  Actually, that WAS the point.  I chose this particular task for the very reason that it would be incredibly hard. It’s a funny thing, struggle and reward. They are directly related; the greater the struggle, the more magnificent the reward.

 

On race day, I gathered what I thought was all the necessary equipment for success. When the gun went off, I began running with what seemed was the larger portion of the free world. There were thousands and thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. It was really easy going too. It didn’t require a whole lot of concentration. The further I got into the race, the more I could feel the effort that was required of me.  It was a lot of physical effort.  I remember hitting a point, around about mile 14, when I thought “Oh.my.word. This is soooooooo hard. What was I thinking?”  Every time it seemed like I couldn’t go much further, a fellow runner would chime in with words of encouragement. “You are inspiring me”. Or “Keep up the good work!” A more experienced runner would say “Just breathe through it. Trust me, it’s worth it.” These words would be just enough motivation to get me through to the next beautiful vista.

 

There came a point, though, that the stunning views and the cheers of strangers were not going to cut it. This was the point when the effort changed from physical to mental.  I found myself in a port-a-potty, stationed mercifully at mile 19. My muscles and joints hurt so badly that I COULD NOT physically get myself to stand up. In addition to that, my intestines were attacking me with a vengeance so sharp, that for the life of me, I could not think of why they hated me so much. I had so much salty sweat running down my face and into my eyes, that I was unable to open them. Like, not at all. To top it all off, my ill-fitting clothes were chafing me. I had rubbed a spot so raw and bloody on my back, that it was now seeping through my clothing. I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS!!!!!!! Wait. Yes, I did.

 

I had a choice to make. I could quit. People do it all the time. They had vehicles trolling the course for just such a purpose, to pick up those who could not, or would not, finish. It would be as easy as hailing a cab. Oh, how I wanted to! Everything in me wanted to give up. But as I considered this option, I remembered why I had signed up for the race in the first place. It was a once in a lifetime experience, one that I couldn’t get in any other way. The growth that I knew would come from it was something I expected would shape me for the rest of my life, something I could draw on when other situations grew difficult.  Finally, I knew the satisfaction that would eventually come, if I could just hold out strong to the end. I would be able to look back on this accomplishment with the fondest of memories.  So, I made another choice. The choice every runner has to make when the going has gotten so tough that they feel they may be torn limb from limb. To keep going.  To do my best despite the pain.  And I did.

 

I was right about that race. It HAS taught me life lessons that I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. I think about it all the time as I navigate this awesome, exhilarating, maddening, blended family of mine. Being in a family is an endurance race.  The views along the way can be so stunning they almost take my breath away. Many times, I am so bored I could gouge my own eyes out. During these times I am just going through the motions, waiting for the next view to break. But sometimes, I find myself in the port-a-potty of life. You know the one.  This is when, no matter the move I make, it hurts.  My vision is clouded and I find it hard to even think clearly. The effort I have put in up to this point has completely depleted my tank, including my reserve. At this point, there is nothing more I can do than grit my teeth, say a prayer, and make a choice. To move.  Usually in increments so small it seems I am not moving at all. But I am moving forward, and that is progress. And progress is good.