There's a lot to be said for the training it requires to run a marathon (something I've never even thought remotely possible for me to do). But if I were to try and do it, my uneducated stab at a training ritual would be to start small with good running shoes, and then slowly build up endurance and strength with each passing day, week. Perhaps even towards the end, run a few extra miles, or extra hills, so that when the big race actually begins it seems a bit easier than the week of training before.
That's how the last few weeks have felt around here. And last night was no different. I hit some hills that I know won't be in that final race, and my only hope is that by putting in this good work for quite awhile now that the final push (unfortunate pun) will not be too bad. That's what I say to myself at least in the wee hours of the morning when I'm ticking off the minutes and debating the call to my doctor. I know this work is occurring when I'm up and about as well, in the miles and endless miles of walking that I do everyday. I feel them at work, in the car, in the library, on the couch, but there's something about the way they feel when I'm dead asleep in my bed that makes me realize why laboring women should not be on their backs. The one and only drawback to this kind of early work is the tiny little fear in the back of my mind that I've put in more laps than I think I have, and that final lap will be a quick sprint to the finish line, and I'll be somewhere, oh, like Target, or worse yet, my office, when it comes. Thankfully we have a doctor's report to look forward to this afternoon, and we'll either get an invitation to stick around and birth a baby, or a nice reassuring nod to keep doing what we're doing, slow and steady, winning the race.
Only this baby knows who he / she is, and when he / she will come. Enjoy that secret a bit longer, little one. We're all here at the finish line waiting whenever you're ready.
