I'm supposed to be baking.

Or wrapping. Or at the very least, sleeping.

Because in addition to the general holiday kitchen mayhem scheduled for tomorrow, I'm running seven miles.  In an entirely unexpected turn of events, it will not be happening because I'm being chased by something with four legs and a lot of teeth.  Turns out, bad as I am, I actually like it.

We rolled into Austin from San Antonio, secure in our love of chips and a good salsa but realizing that we needed to set a better example for the girls.  Two things, however, would not happen.  I would not, under any circumstances, eat kale.  Nor would I run.

(cough)

Kale's not that bad.

I resolved to run a 5K before I turned 40, and that 5K would be the Color Run.  I started with C25K, and it was probably just as painful to watch as it was to execute.  But I managed.  I eked out a few more races, and then my sister-in-law called with a challenge of the Barney Stinson variety.  A half marathon in Florida, possibly wearing a tutu.  So now I and my college roommate, who I secretly suspect loves the fact that I am no longer effortlessly thin but is far too gracious to ever let that thought so much as skitter across her face, run every weekend.  I'm supposed to run during the week as well, but I loathe the treadmill and our neighborhood is carved into the side of a hill.  Next week.  I promise.

The long runs are painful, and often the only thing that gets me through is a litany of "van Staverens run".  So I run for my father, who was denied the chance first in high school and then again after an injury, and of course after his heart attack.  I run for my mom, whose ankles and knees survived pointe, but would never run.  I run for my grandmother who never exercised because it wasn't ladylike.  I run for my girls, and two weeks ago, in the biting cold, they ran for me. 

My time was horrible as I was shepherding them through crowds, trying to keep them to the right of the cones, re-pinning bibs, removing jackets, getting gloves back on, and it was worth every second.  Those red cheeks and noses were superceded by huge smiles of accomplishment.  It was 32 misty degrees with a wind chill in the low 20s  - and we ran.

Greetings from ATX

A lot can happen in the few months (cough, over a year) that one steps away from blogging. Like accepting a job with a team of people always held in high esteem, selling a house, moving, living in an apartment for a year and then finally buying another house. We're going to skip over the whole apartment bit because it was just that awful. I look around, and frankly, wait for the cameras to come out and tell me the show's over. Rob and I have always dreamed of living on the greenbelt and spend our Saturdays listening to the shrieks of happy kids as they charge through the underbrush with foam swords. Of course, there's cactus. And snakes. And coyotes. They're learning, and Santa will be dropping off some walkie talkies to give momma a little more peace of mind. I'll be the first to know when Wile E. is on the move. So much happened in the eight years we spent in San Antonio, and yet in many ways, so much in Austin is exactly as we left it in 2004. It's been surreal, and beyond my capacity to communicate. So much easier to explore and pick apart the mundanity of everyday life. Which, if I can grab a quiet moment here and there, I'll try to do. We're firmly ensconced in elementary, staring middle school in the face, and all too aware that Ashton has less time before college than she has behind her with us. It's a sobering thought, and one that takes my breath away if I dwell. Her chubby little arms and round face are gone, replaced by slender, pensive gorgeousness that I can hardly believe. We can see the "teen" in her face now, and hear it in her voice. There is door slamming, and the requisite litany of angst (who cares, you don't understand, I hate it here) and in the next breath "will you snuggle and tuck me in". She is a master of argument and can turn any discussion on a dime, choosing at every turn to pounce on the minutiae. My mother, predictably, takes no small amount of glee in watching this. Sage is still "little" and of course secure in her role as the baby. Except don't say baby, or cute, or sweet, or cuddly. Or buy anything pink, refer to princesses or ask if she'll wear a dress. She has taken to heart her size (small) and age in class (close to youngest) and decided to prove the world wrong in every way. Marissa Mayer should start looking over her shoulder. So. House new. Children older. Time shorter.