Boston…

I originally had another post scheduled for today.  A light and fluffy one.

But it will have to wait.

In the hours since the tragedy in Boston occurred, there have been many things written.  Poignant things.  Things that make me less angry.  Things that make me more confused and scared.  Things that have made me cry.  And things about courageous and compassionate acts.

All read via my phone as I took potty breaks or peeks at baseball practice.  I never really got the full story until my kids were snuggly tucked in bed.

Yesterday I was grateful to my children for giving me a reason not to be glued to the television or internet.  For giving me responsibilities that needed to be done instead of pouring over horrid details.  For shaking me out of my worried state and forcing me to be present in their world of Tent Cities and LEGO construction.

Without them, my mind would have spiraled in to such paranoia that I wouldn’t have been able to leave my house today.

My heart breaks for the city of Boston, for the families who have been affected by such a heinous action, and for those that are fighting to survive and recover.

When I first met my husband, he was training for the Boston Marathon.  An injury prevented him from running that year, and his deferment brought us to Boston the following spring, only to get in the car before the start of the race and head home due to yet another injury.

Still, the Boston Marathon seems to be the Holy Grail to the runners I know.

We walked around the race route and the finish line before we left Boston, not yet littered with folks as the race had only begun.  The energy around the city was electrifying, inspiring.  It made me want to get out and jog.  Instead, I think I ate my weight in Dunkin Donuts.

But I digress.

My husband is a runner.  While his marathon days might be over, he’s completed quite a few half-marathons.  And I brought my kids to the finish line to cheer him on.  Not quite right at the finish, but maybe .1 of a mile back.

Standing with their heads poking through the barricades, their eyes darted furiously in search of their Daddy as the blur of runners sprinted by.

And suddenly, there he was!  Looking strong, running well, there was Jon, coming up the street towards the finish, looking for his pep squad.

In every race I’ve been to, whether my husband was running or someone else we knew was participating, that moment when you see your runner is magical and exhilarating.  As a spectator and cheerleader, you go in to hyper-drive.  For me, it was wild yelling, flailing arms, and encouraging phrases like “Finish STRONG!” and “You’re looking GREAT!”  and “You’re almost there!”

For the kids, it was a lot of jumping up and down, cheering and waving madly.

There was nothing but pride on their faces.

And on my husband’s face?  Relief that he was close, graciousness that we were there, and then the extra boost of energy as our presence pushed him towards the finish line.

The very thing that amazes me about people who can run a marathon is their perseverance.  Stamina or not, a lot of that torture is mind over matter.  That you can do anything you set your mind to.   And then to experience achieving that goal?  It must feel amazing.

To have that taken away for so many and replaced with something tragic and terrifying feels more raw than just a bombing.  Excuse my ignorance, but to my knowledge there is no political or religious agenda to a marathon.  It is man against himself.  Sure, maybe against other runners for the elite few, but in general, it is runner versus pavement.

I still can’t flush out all of my thoughts about yesterday.  It doesn’t make sense.  It never makes sense.

Yes, I get it.  Whatever sick fuckers that did this knew it would be televised, that the timing would occur during the most average finish time of a marathon.  That something like this would cut right to the heart of the American Dream.

But I also refuse to let this get to me.  To let it filter and weave its way in to what I teach my children.  I don’t want them to be afraid to race after their goals, whatever they may be.  I don’t want them to shy away from supporting those that do the same.

And I want to see them cross the finish line.