Embarrassment of riches

Yesterday JBL and I finally cleaned out the remnants of Christmas from the house. It always makes me sad, as I think the rooms look so plain and lonely without the decorations. Or maybe I'm just plain and lonely without the Christmas season. In any event, it's a let-down, and I was determined to keep my perspective, and keep from dragging the family down with me. Only to fail miserably.

We started the day with a big waffle breakfast, then the denuding of the family room began. To keep J from breaking the more fragile decorations, and from making more of a mess than already existed, I gave her some reading practice whenever she hopped in with 'nothing to do'. (The purple Disney princess hippety-hop is still the clear gift winner from Santa. What 'princesses' have to do with a rubber ball you bounce on, I have no idea.) Now that she has the basic rules of phonics down, we have been working on letter combinations that make the same sounds as long vowels (ai, ay for the long a, or igh for the long i, etc.). I found myself snapping at her lack of attention. After all, she is smart enough to figure any of these letter combinations out if she would just LOOK at the page I'd made up for her, so clearly drawn out and explained. But, no, she would rather try to sound out the words in a sing-song voice while writhing on the big yellow chair and picking at her toe nails.

Even as I write that, I'm chagrined. Why am I such a hard ass all the time? Why is it so easy in retrospect to say, "She's FOUR for crying out loud."? Here we have yet another example of me squeezing the life out of the room by trying in vain to mold everyone's behavior with sheer force of will. At least I had the wherewithal to recognize my neurotic behavior, and did the best thing for everyone: As soon as I could, I left the house for a long run.

So after a leisurely cleaning session, a frustrating phonics lesson, and a light lunch (set against the minor-key backdrop of Faithless Street), I was able to put my Nike's to the pavement. I set out up the hill and out of the neighborhood, north onto 94. By the one mile mark I was feeling as I always do - weighed down and breathless, with thoughts of what was behind me still buzzing in my mind. The miracle tends to happen between miles 2 and 3, and yesterday was no exception.

Cars sped past, but my eyes swept slowly over the pastures and farmland on either side me. I imagined I was in the south of France, or in Wales. My mind drifted over the small houses crouched close to the road and I imagined the old couples that must be inside, perhaps watching TV in side-by-side easy chairs in a paneled den. The music pouring through my headphones turned my moods like those of the roller girl in Skateaway.

Should I turn around at mile 4? Nope, not today. I turned east on 26 and headed for the funeral home, also known as my 5 mile turnaround. Chapel Stile was the soundtrack for a hawk flapping vigorously in place about 40 feet above the ground, then diving to pounce on something hidden in a meadow across from the fire station. I spilled chily water over myself, not pausing to drink and walk.

By mile 8, Greg Dulli was urging me on, and I took flight. "This ain't about regret. It's when I tell the truth." That guy makes me so uneasy, but I find him so darkly attractive - even now in the more subdued Twilight Singers... anyway. I coasted down mile 10 to home, a better and calmer person.

As always, running saved me, and saved the day. Smiles were back. I was greeted at the door with crafts and laughter, no one the worse for wear. I really ought to be like Veronica, and run early before everyone even wakes up. If only I could be that much of a morning person. The rest of the day was calm and easy, even without the holiday trappings. Sometimes I feel overly fortunate, but then again, I will probably be paying for several rounds of the kids' therapy sessions a decade or so from now.