Born to Run

My two year old doesn’t walk; she runs.

She runs from anything to anywhere at all times. 

And following her can be futile and exhausting. 

Imagine those little grabby hands of furry uncapping every marker in the art cart one minute, then running outside to test her balance on the concrete steps the next. Do you cap the markers or chase her outside to make sure she avoids a somersault of doom? Life with the nugget feels like unending reruns of those superhero dilemmas: the police commissioner or the girl, the choice is yours. 

These decisions exhaust me, mentally. And chasing her around our house and property exhausts me, physically. I timed her one afternoon when we were home together. She is very ‘feat’ oriented. She sets a goal and stops at nothing to accomplish it. On this particular afternoon, her goal was to open the back door and then run to open the front door as fast as possible. She must have just learned how to open doors. 

Had I known this was her intention, I would have sat down at the dining room table and watched the race as a spectator. But, at first, all I knew was that the nugget — whose persona inspired Curious George — was out one door and then out the other. When I heard the back door open, I worried she’d fall off the cellar storm doors she loves  to climb. When I heard the front door open, I worried she’d take an epic fall off those aforementioned concrete front steps. After tiring of running between the front yard and the backyard, I realized that she wasn’t trying to leave the house at all. She was only testing her new skill as an opener of doors.

So I timed her. 

Eight seconds. Eight seconds from the closing of one door to the opening of the other. I’m not sure how her time compares on the international leader board, but I can certainly say that it has crushed the sibling race in our home. I can’t remember either other child ever running around the house with the same unbridled enthusiasm. 

It has made this last parenting go around the most challenging and rewarding experience of a very challenging and rewarding calling. It is a challenge because our home has Sharpie all over it, our cars’ batteries die when the nugget sneaks in to play chauffeur, and small but important items like keys, screws and tools go missing for days before they are discovered underneath her crib. What is rewarding is witnessing a young soul so glad to be alive. It is fundamentally inspiring to see her light up. All we can do is watch her leave us in the dust as we chant, “Go nugget, go!”

We all want to think of ourselves as “born to run.”

The idea that nothing will slow us down is particularly appealing. Displaying unchecked energy is sublime. 

In fact, it’s that free and inhibited feeling that made drinking so appealing to me. I understand this is true for others, as well. Alcohol blocks all the inhibitors that make us second guess what we say and do. 

Long before I took my first drink, I remember feeling pretty stymied, in general. Some sort of inner-voice acted like a grand inquisitor, questioning my every thought and action. It was exhausting. Drinking provided an immense release. It silenced the critics. 

But it didn’t eliminate that voice. It could only temporarily alleviate the pressure of it all. And, interestingly enough, drinking and drugging, in the long run, only increased both my anxiety and my self-doubt. Alcohol is a sneaky foe, providing the temporary illusion of confidence while whittling away at your self-esteem. 

Perhaps I feel especially close to this little ball of energy I call my daughter because she is my sober spirit animal. 

The theme of my sober life, in fact, is running without pause. I have been re-born to run. And I re-visit that fact each time my daughter starts picking up those little heels of hers in an exuberant outpour of chubby thighs churning at full steam ahead. 

Keeping things moving is important. And nothing keeps me moving like our nugget.