It's the Little Things

Last week, while running my usual 2.7 mile route around my neighborhood, I was able to shave one minute and 30 seconds off of my mile time, and about four minutes off of my total time. I was pumped!  (But resisted the urge to tweet my success when I realized that most runners would not be proud of an 11-minute mile). 

Still, whatever the numbers, it was a success for me.  So what made the difference?  For the first time I told myself to run as if I had long legs (which I don't), and to take larger strides.

One of my best friends back in Tennessee recently got into running. She's run in three 5K's this fall and is already faster than me, even though I've been running, off and on, for more than three years now.  She has been very dedicated, yes.  But she also has reeeallly loooong legs -- Heidi Klum-length legs -- and I'm guessing that helps her, too.

So, as an experiment I decided to pretend that I also had model-length legs, force myself to take longer strides, and see if it made any difference.  It did!

I was actually quite surprised that a simple mental trick could improve my speed and time as much as it did.  As I contemplate my goals for this new year, I have to ask myself if small, simple things could also make a difference in other areas of my life.

You Know You're Married to a Baseball Coach When...

This one is for you Coach. 

1. You can tell the difference between an 82 MPH fastball and an 86 MPH fastball.  No seriously, I can.  Once after a baseball game Joe asked me what I thought of the team.  I responded, "Honestly honey, I thought our guy didn't seem to be throwing very hard."  "Well, yeah." Joe replied.  "He was only throwing about 82-84.  You're used to seeing 86-88."  Seriously?  I surprised even myself on that one.

2. Your four year-old son who is just learning how to play basketball says, "Mom, I just scored a run!" every time the basketball makes it into the goal.

Dependents

This morning, while dark shadows from the magnolia trees behind our house still shook and shivered across my bedroom window, I heard the soft shuffling of little feet in my room.  In the quietness of the early morning hours I heard a “flump.” Four year-old fingers, I figured, flipping on the bathroom light.  Then another “flump,” followed by the steady whirr of the bathroom fan. 

I went right back to sleep.

It is not unusual for Christian to wake up in the wee hours of the morning to, well, wee-wee.  And lately he has preferred to use our bathroom, rather than his own. Ours is a few steps closer.  But I suspect there is also another reason.

Separation

I never know what will trigger it.  The pain attacks me without warning at least once a week.   It’s not a pain that can be felt in my bones or in my body.  It is a pain that strikes at the center of my being.  Today the pain was prompted by a perfectly pleasant conversation with the college switchboard operator, a petite older woman named Nancy.  I was leaving some outgoing mail on her desk and we began chatting.  Nancy is one of the friendliest people on campus.  She greets everyone who walks in the front door of the administration building with a “Hello, how are you today?” and the sincerest of smiles.  And yet I walked away from our conversation struggling to hold back tears.  (The tears are coming again now, as I write this.)

Nancy was telling me about watching her four year-old grandson’s soccer games this fall, and all of the funny things he does – how he gives his dad a thumbs-up whenever he does something he thinks is good; how the entire team stops in mid-action to ogle at a small airplane as it files overhead; how her grandson’s teammate paused one time at the sideline to ask his mom when the game was going to be over because he was getting hungry, all the while eyeing the post-game snacks.