Second Time Around, This Time with the Lights On

If Wednesdays are for writing, Saturdays are for long runs.

When we lived in the desert, long runs meant a large loop of base or miles of desert dunes. The base where we were making our home had nearly endless trails, and most of the time if you felt like running on roads, you could avoid close brushes with death-by-dumb-drivers on the weekends.

Here, my runs include a water view, but not quite so many course options, so I’ve taken to looping the base twice on Saturdays so that I get in the mileage I’m aiming for. (Those of you who are about to give up on this post because of all the running talk—hang in there, I’m taking this somewhere. Promise promise.)

During the winter, when Twinkles has a 9am basketball game, that first loop of base is done in the pitch black. Sure, there are street lights, and sometimes I run with my phone flashlight on, but on the whole, I’m just getting to sunrise by the time I complete those first miles, and I’ve done it all in a black-gray variant. So that second loop is very exciting for me. All the things I wasn’t seeing clearly are suddenly recognized for what they really are.

That thing I knew couldn’t possibly be a snake (because it’s still too cold): a discarded piece of rope.

The possible pothole: someone’s lost t-shirt.

The clump of grass I luckily hurdled over: a road kill squirrel (seriously).

It makes the second loop more entertaining. Or, at least, it keeps me relatively engaged until those last few miles when I’m so tired that I fail to be amused by even the discovery that what I thought was a rotten banana peel is, in reality, a discarded work glove.

Anyway, I’ve been having a lot of metaphorical thoughts about doing things the second time around and how we see things differently (especially once we’ve got a little more ambient light to work with). Sometimes it’s the second kid or the second year of homeschooling or the second week at a new job (or a second command—no comments on command number three). Not only do you know that you’ve survived it once, so you can survive it again, but you have the perspective and knowledge and hard won wisdom to hopefully help you do it better on this second round.

It’s a place of hope and strength and, ideally, confidence.

…Until the novelty of it all starts to wear out and your exhaustion kicks in.

Sure, with baby 2, you’ve mastered the diapering and burping and feeding; sure, you’re unsurprised by the sleepless nights and spit up; but you’re also worn through by handling a baby and a toddler.

Sure, that second year of teaching, you’ve worked out the curriculum kinks and settled into some kind of routine; but the novelty factor has also worn off, all your educational standards and mores are crumbling in the face of bad attitudes, and public school is sounding pretty appealing.

Sure, as you’re settling into your job, muscle memory is kicking in and you aren’t feeling quite so overwhelmed by all the new; but you’re also realizing that the parts of the job you were super excited about may not actually be all they were cracked up to be and the new experience isn’t quite so bright and shiny after all.

And I admit, sometimes, on that second lap, I'd rather not see the roadkill squirrel.

So what do we say to those of us flagging on the second lap, even with all our newly gained hope and strength and confidence (and ideally, wisdom)?

There’s a reason you laced up your running shoes or had that second baby or made that educational choice or switched to that new job. Keep it in mind—and then just keep putting one foot in front of the other and looking for the way the rays of sunshine burst through the clouds, even as your muscles are screaming at you to cut them some slack.

You’re exhausted, but that baby is freaking adorable (and so is the toddler).

Your job makes you want to pull your hair out, but who can measure the impact you might have?

Homeschooling is for crazy people, but you have the opportunity to truly master pre-Algebra at 37 and justifying listening to the William Tell Overture as schoolwork was a total win.

Basically: there’s roadkill out there, but look at that sunrise.

And those are some seriously good looking legs you’ve got there now.