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  Those red cheeks and noses were superceded by huge smiles of accomplishment.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.