That's Going in the Blog!

We sat in the bleachers at CU's Folsom Field on Memorial Day, watching elite female runners stream into the stadium to finish their 10K race. Around us, "citizen's race" athletes—Rob, Aden, William, and I among them—leaped to our feet, clapping and stomping on the metal stands until the roar became a thunderous roll of applause that seemed to lift the runners across the finish line. They waved to the crowd, moving impossibly fast—so much faster than we'd just jogged the 10K course of the Boulder Bolder. I told my kids I had chills, and William grinned. "That's going in the blog!"

I've been writing "Wild Specific Tangent" since 2009, when Aden was eight, William six, and Daniel three The kids read my posts occasionally, sometimes offering feedback when I send a link requesting it, but mostly they maintain that typical child distance from a parent's work. When I told William I'd write about both the moment at Folsom Field and his comment, he simply grinned. "You should," he said.

The kids have an intuitive feel for what will strike me as worth keeping. They sense it faster than I do as I process and discard ideas throughout the week—some too personal, some too obvious, many too political. They know what matters. They know what should stay.

I'm toying with compiling a second book of my favorite entries. The first volume spanned seven years (2009-2017). We're nine years down the road now, and I'm either overdue or the interest in rewriting and sorting has simply expired. Would it matter if I put my musings on paper, or should they just live in the wilds of the internet, accumulating like digital dust? The short accounts might matter to my kids someday when I can no longer tell them our family stories, when my memory fails and I can't retrieve the odd congratulatory moment. (My days of jogging a 10K are coming to an end sooner rather than later.)

But this day deserves capturing. Memorial Day with all of us moving together—William bobbing and weaving out of our walk-jog rhythm to finish in 8:30 miles while Rob led the way for Aden and me, breaking into a jog each time my hips, knees, and ankles persuaded me we could manage it. Watching the elite runners consume the course in a third of our time, then the sounds of "Star Spangled Banner" drifting across the field, the military flyover sharp and precise overhead, the salute that made my eyes wet as I thought of Dad. A day heavy with meaning—Rob recovering from his surgery, all of us fit enough to run six miles together, free snacks and a jot of patriotism to complete the afternoon.

A day that shouldn't dissolve into the endless parade of ordinary days. William was right. It belongs in the blog—not because it's momentous, but because it's real. Because someday when the details fade, I'll want to remember the exact cadence of our running together, the sound of that metal bleacher roar, the way grief and gratitude tangled together on a field honoring the dead. Because my children will want to remember what it felt like to move through the world with their parents, to stop for a moment and say this matters, capture this, don't let it disappear.

Perhaps that's what these seventeen years of writing have become—not a record of accomplishments or epiphanies, but evidence of a life lived, witnessed, held. Permission to say: this moment, this day, this conversation with my son—it all counts.

Golden Hours and Goodbye Hugs

Roasting marshmallows over flickering campfire flames, the satisfying thud of corn hole bags finding their mark by headlight beams, dancing barefoot by the pool as sunset melted into dusk... we've savored countless twilight hours with our neighborhood families over the years. Monday evening, we seized another such golden moment from our relentless schedules to celebrate five college graduates—boys who marked their COVID-disrupted high school graduation together just four short yet transformative years ago. Now they stood before us as polished young men, diplomas in hand, headed for careers in far-flung cities stretching from coast to coast and beyond.

The logistics defied reason: two had flown in the previous night on late flights and multiple graduates would catch early morning departures the next day. Yet for three precious hours, we had them all gathered together under our familiar shade tarps. The rhythmic thump of corn hole punctuated bursts of laughter and soft melodies drifting from the bluetooth speaker. We blessed our fortune when cool breezes arrived to chase away the week's oppressive heat wave, bringing partly cloudy skies in place of the threatened thunderstorms. Hanging porch lights twinkled as summer flowers glowed in vibrant clusters of pink, yellow, and orange.

After demolishing Chipotle bowls and sweet watermelon slices, we pulled the boys from their competitive corn hole tournament. My friend Heidi had orchestrated the evening's surprise: photo books chronicling twenty years of shared memories. Basketball tournaments and baseball diamonds, water polo matches and swim team victories arranged alongside countless afternoons at Caterpillar Park's weathered benches and camping adventures on mountain peaks and beside rushing streams. The books concluded with recent graduation photos and family portraits contributed by every household.

We hadn't choreographed the presentation or prepared speeches—simply placed the five books around our wrought-iron porch table while Heidi gestured to them, saying "Now you can take your friends with you wherever you go." As each young man settled into his chair and opened their copy they began turning pages in unconscious unison, voices rising in delighted recognition over forgotten memories and cameo appearances by old friends. Parents and siblings instinctively gathered around the table, leaning over shoulders to join the chorus of "remember whens" and good-natured groans over questionable haircuts and experimental bleach jobs. The motion sensor light flooded our circle in bright illumination each time someone shifted, creating a spotlight for this impromptu ceremony as they patiently waited for everyone to finish examining each page before advancing together.

My heart swelled until it physically ached, overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, the serendipity that had woven our lives together, and the approaching pain of separation. We mothers shared a quiet moment on the porch steps, pledging to support each other as we navigate this next phase of life. These young people—our sons and their siblings—who now prepare to leave us and sculpt their independent adult lives, shine more precious than gold. Their boundless potential, infectious optimism, open-hearted generosity, relentless drive, soaring ambition, and earnest yearning to craft meaningful lives—we will feel their absence while knowing they need fresh horizons, and our fractured country desperately needs their visionary energy.

As political leaders across the globe contemplate warfare as acceptable means to dubious ends, I find it impossible to fathom the tragedy of sacrificing young people like ours (like any!) to hollow displays of force. We owe them the painstaking work required to nurture peace, to cultivate thriving communities rich with opportunities for genuine connection. This extended family that helped raise our children and document their journey shouldn't be such a rarity. We all crave these moments of authentic togetherness to flourish and thrive, and I hope that our graduates will seek to create their own chosen families as they spread their wings and soar into whatever future awaits.

Funny the Way It Is

 "Funny the way it is, not right or wrong. . ."

- Dave Matthews Band "Funny the Way It Is," Lyrics by Dave Matthews

After a 14-hour Saturday that encompassed my final race in US Masters Nationals, a plane flight from Orange County to Denver and a few hours of unpacking and cleaning, my husband looked at me with dismay when I showed him our tickets to Dave Matthews. But we rallied - we had good seats at a venue only ten minutes from our house - and though we were the stereotypical older people that had to sit during a slow song, we let the fabulous music carry us into some dancing by the end.

Though the set list only included one song from my favorite album (Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King, 2009), I rediscovered the band through the soaring trumpet, saxophone and keyboard medleys, as well as the surprisingly elegant vocals of the lead singer. After sleeping for ten hours, I went through my playlists and unearthed treasures of memory - the favorite melodies I played on repeat when Daniel was little and struggling, and workouts with music my only therapy.

"Funny the Way It Is" hits my reflex reaction hardest, bringing back visceral memories of a cold morning in the mountains near Glenwood Springs, prepping for a spring triathlon while my husband and children slept. I must have played it twenty times as I psyched myself up for the effort, shivering and trying to keep down instant oatmeal. What a gift to find the song again.

Funny also to compete at age 53, still striving for competitive times in a long course (50 meter) pool after 16 years away. I trained hard this summer, mainly with William and Aden, incorporating weights, resistance training in the water, and lots of sprints, but that long course pool is looooong, and by the third day I had trouble reaching the wall. My times are slower than they were 16 years ago, but I had some wins and I learned a few things that will help my swimmers when I start coaching next week. 

Aden swam well, youngster that she is, despite having Covid the week before and being out of the water for most of the previous ten days. That's not a usual method of resting for a big meet, but she made it work, and made me think I actually needed to rest a little more. My watch was yelling at me for "changing my workout schedule" and not hitting my move goal, which didn't help my already-paranoid mind, a mind that functions better when the body moves frequently. Resting is harder than training.

The more things change, the more they remain the same. Now I need revenge (on myself) for that botched final race but have an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the grand build of the weekend and family to share it with.