I like to run.

Don’t get the wrong idea, I am not an athlete. I don’t run long distance races or have anything that remotely resembles a runner’s body. I have been away from running for many months and I look more like a blob than something long and lean. I want to get back to it.

But, in recent years I have dealt with a lot of pain in my feet when I take to the streets (or the treadmill, for that matter). I have spent many mornings hobbling out of bed, reaching for my dresser to lean on so I can stretch my calf to alleviate some of the tightness.

The best solution was to ice it, but if you have never rolled a frozen water bottle around under the arch of your foot, you don’t know what uncomfortable really is.

A couple of months ago I read an article in the newspaper about running barefoot. It intrigued me. The proponents of barefoot running say that it’s how humans were meant to run, which makes perfect sense to me.

When you run barefoot, you are forced to stop slamming your heel into the pavement because it hurts too much. You compensate for the pain and shift your landing to the forefoot. While researching it further, I read that the technology in today’s running shoes simply hides the pain of a shoe-wearer’s heel-strike.

I thought about it more. All of my friends who are distance runners have had injuries. Plantar Fasciitis, Achilles pain and aching knees are the norm. I even know someone who lost all of his toenails. Back in the 70’s, when shoes were minimal, I never heard of those things happening.

So, I tried it. Not on the open road, but on my treadmill. My foot fell at a completely different spot, my stride was altered and I had a lot more endurance. After a while I began to feel blisters forming on the balls of my feet, so I stopped and put shoes on. And with shoes on feet, just like that, I went back to firmly landing on my heel.

After my barefoot run I was sore…in a totally good way. My calves hurt because I actually used them, but other than the blisters, my feet were in pretty good shape.

Now my husband would probably rather die than look like a barefoot hippie running down the road, but I don’t care about what people think if it means I won’t be in pain anymore. Unfortunately, I can’t imagine running without shoes on outside. It’s not the rocks that scare me, it’s the roadkill. For real.

So I started looking into barefoot, or minimalist, running shoes. Something without the shock absorbing heel so I will be forced to land the way a human should. From what I read, the best shoe for this is called the Vibram Five Finger.

Only, it’s not five fingers, it’s five toes. Remember how I said that I don’t care what I look like? Yeah. Scratch that. I just don’t know if I have enough self-confidence for these.

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Dear Gram,

Although you have been gone for almost twelve years, I think about you every day. I really miss you.

I miss the way you closed your eyes and threw your head back when you laughed. I do that too.

I miss how you welcomed the chaos that was a house full of grandchildren. I miss the taste of your spaghetti sauce and the way you would roll out and cut your own noodles.

I marvel at how you cooked huge, Sunday suppers in that tiny kitchen, with no counter space, no air conditioning and no dishwasher. I can barely get a meal made for four.

I miss you yelling at me and my cousins to get out of the trees before we break our necks, to quit jumping around in a house with old wiring because we might start a fire and I miss you giving us a grocery list and sending us on our way. We took so long to get back from the store because we stopped to pick mulberries along the way. I suppose you always knew that when we came back with stained fingers.

I loved how you would say, “Everyone needs to be quiet because my story is coming on!” and within five minutes of As the World Turns starting you would be sound asleep. I miss you glaring at us in church when we had the giggles.

I miss you letting us go through your makeup drawer and use your little, Avon lipstick samples. I miss the smell of the roses in your back yard. I miss playing kickball and using your azalea bush as home plate.

I miss watching you take care of Kevin with strength and grace. I am still amazed at the way you would wrap your arms around his chest and “walk” him from room to room. It was the closest thing he had to doing it on his own.

I hate that I was pregnant with my daughter when you died. I wish she had known you. I can’t think of a better role-model, mentor, relative or human being than you. I am so proud to be your grand-daughter.

I know it was a gift to have you around as long as we did, but that doesn’t mean I will ever stop wishing that you were still here.

Love,

Diane

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My son was sitting on my lap yesterday afternoon when he reached up and cupped his hands around my face. He said, “I love you super much.”

I replied, “You mean so much. Now, why do you love me so much?”

He smiled a ridiculously ornery smile and said, “Because you are the best mommy in the world.”

Looking to see if he could defend this statement I prodded him, “But, why do you think I’m the best mommy in the world?”

He rolled his eyes and answered, “Duh. Because, it’s your birthday.”

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I often refer to my eleven year old daughter as a “freak of nature”. I mean that in the best possible way.

Let me start by saying that if I had stopped having kids after she was born, I would think the rest of you were horrible parents. I remember taking her to toddler storytime at the library only to be surrounded by children who didn’t look as much like small people as they did drunken vagrants. Stumbling about, picking their noses, their shirts covered with a mixture of snot, chocolate milk and popsicle stains.

Some would put their fingers in the floor outlets, others would dump their crayons and some would run completely out of the room. Not my kid. If she had been wearing a halo she couldn’t have appeared any more angelic.

Her pacifier, which had been an extension of her lips, was taken away when she turned two and she never asked for it after that. There were no tears or drama. She was potty trained in three days and never had an accident. If I told her not to do something, she never did it again.

So, I’m sure you will understand that I believed I was the best parent IN THE WORLD and the rest of you were a bunch of schmucks. Just sayin’.

Then my son was born. Someone got set straight. That someone was me.

Through all of my son’s trials and tribulations and health problems and odd behavior, my daughter has never strayed from her original path of being a darn good kid. Sure she rolls her eyes at me. She talks back and fights with her brother too. I’m glad she does those things so I know she’s human.

Despite having a brother with a lot of issues and despite being involved with Girl Scouts and playing soccer, basketball, softball and track this school year, she has managed to be on the honor roll every quarter. I never have to tell her to do her homework or study for a test. As a matter of fact, I have actually insisted she “put down her book” and “stop taking so many math practice tests”.

She is a great kid and if she would start picking up her socks I would say she is extremely responsible. Also, I wouldn’t mind if she cleaned under her bed. Maybe she’s saving the old magic kit, the ripped-up foam hopscotch set and the single Barbie shoe stuffed with dust bunnies. I wouldn’t be surprised if she put it all together and made something that puts MacGyver to shame. She’s that smart.

Tomorrow is my daughter’s last day of elementary school. She is growing up. Fast. I can’t bear to think that someday she won’t be around every day.

I kind of like being surrounded by such goodness.

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