There was a 5K fundraiser near our house on Saturday and when I saw that they had a 1K kids’ run I decided to sign us up as a family. I wasn’t sure how Riley would do, since he’s prone to going boneless two blocks into our neighborhood walks and announcing how TIRED he is, are we THERE yet, his LEGS are SO TIRED, etc, but I figured if nothing else we could walk the route together.

He was super excited about it ahead of time and was enthusiastic for the first half of the run but I could tell when it started to feel less fun and more tiring. He got a sort of grim expression and by the last stretch he was breathing hard and looking more than a little miserable, but he never stopped and walked. I ran with him, shouting encouragement, and there were a ton of young volunteers—bless their hearts—standing on the sidelines cheering and telling the kids they were doing great. My boy crossed that finish line panting and gasping, slugged a plastic bottle of water, then uttered the same words I’ve thought a thousand times after a race: “Hey, where’s my medal?”

Seriously, I was so proud of him. I was proud that he kept going even when it became hard work, I was happy that we could do something like that together.

Later, he used sidewalk chalk to draw arrows like they had on the 1K route on our driveway, and he and Dylan play-raced for most of the afternoon. I thought that was pretty cool too.




I sometimes get into this foolish mode of wishing the kids were older (because things would be more accessible/easier) or missing their younger stages (because things were sweeter/simpler). I forget it’s not about where we’re going or where we’ve been, it’s about right now. Nothing is more important than right now. Parenthood is this amazing rolling horizon, we move across a landscape and things are always receding because that’s what happens when you move forward. And that’s okay. There are always new things coming into view.

This weekend my boy and I ran together. Maybe running will become a positive, shared part of our lives. Maybe we’ll never do it again. Right now, it doesn’t matter.


I do stupid things all the time. I microwaved a metal cup once, generating foul rolling waves of acrid smoke and ruining our oven. I absentmindedly kissed my kid on the cheek after I’d applied “Lip Venom” lip plumper, giving him a smooch-shaped facewelt. My bathroom mirror is constantly spattered with toothpaste because I always forget to turn the Sonicare off before I remove it from my mouth.

I have to say, though—I think eating an entire bag of dried apricots this Saturday evening has to be worthy of some kind of Lifetime Achievement award.

I don’t know what I was thinking, really. They were sweet and chewy and aside from their creepy resemblance to a severed human ear they just tasted so good and I gnawed my way through the whole pack, feeling virtuous, even, for not choosing ice cream. Later, when I went to bed, my brain tried to warn me—heyyyy, don’t I remember something about dried fruit and fiber?—but I thought, nahh, that’s prunes.

Then at 2 AM, I woke up . . . with an IED in my midsection. And O, I did suffer the Wrath of the Apricots, friends. For a full 24 hours afterwards, a fierce and relentless battle raged, with heavy artillery and startling explosions. There were base ejection payloads, rocket assisted projectiles, and devastating air bursts. It was so bad I actually went back and dug the bag out of the trash, positive I’d missed a label that said “WARNING: CONTENTS MAY TURN ASSHOLE INTO EYE OF SAURON.”

Anyway, I share this unsavory tale only to warn others: the only circumstances in which you should attempt to consume a large amount of dried apricots is if you haven’t shit in a week and all other methods have failed, and even then? You might want to just consider death as a more comfortable option.

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