Today is the first day of National Blog Posting Month. What does that mean? That means I’m going to try and write every single day in the month of November. I tried to do this once before (right after Emory was born) and I completed all but one day. This year I’m shooting for all 30. Wish me luck.
Today also marks an amazing international event: The ING New York City Marathon. I get really emotional during large gatherings of people and the marathon is no exception. I weep during live sporting events, political speeches, protests, marathons–you name it. I love the marathon. Every year it’s the same, I stand near mile 12; I weep, cheer, scream and clap. By the end of the day my hands feel like runner’s feet. It’s a fantastic feeling.
This year we took Emory along with us. He loved it. He sat in his stroller and watched in awe, clapping a bit. Then it was nap time and it showed on his face—the sheer exhaustion of it all, like he ran it himself.
And now he asks if we’ll take him back outside to see the runners.
“Where the runners go, Mama?”
And we try to explain to him that the race is now over—the runners have all gone home—they are eating, sleeping, celebrating and that they’ll be back next year. And I see it in his eyes as he tries to process this information and I wonder if he’s thinking that the runners aren’t 40,000 individuals running in unison, but are instead a singular entity that exists in that exact form and returns once a year like a comet or a tide of hope and human integrity.
I kicked off NaBloPoMo with a very similar post. I also cheered the runners (at mile 9) with a young friend not much older than Emory. He was wary but fascinated.
Happy NaBloPoMo! I know you can do it.
Ah, lovely story. We used to go and watch the London marathon when we lived there. I loved it. As a runner myself, it is something I can only aspire to (I can hear my doctor and my dodgy knees groan at the thought…).
I just wanted to say that I too get really emotional at large gatherings. I never really understood why, but apparently I have always been that way. It brings something out in me. It is great that you got to share all this with Emory.
I find myself wanting to know what Aiman is thinking, how he’s processing information.
If only we could see and know the world from their perspective.
But I think it would be easier if Aiman wasn’t 1o months old and more of Emory’s (who is the just a cutie-patuti face!) age.
those are some skinny strong women! Love the tired Emory face…not pouting or whining, just tired…and what beautifully sculpted kissable lips he has!