Zones and Comfort Zones

I had a lot of help rearing my daughter. I needed it. I cannot be everything to anyone. During my pregnancy, I developed Amber's education plan. I had no doubt hers would be an intellect worth developing. Her third parent, Irma (our early life family day care provider), taught her about mud pies. A good thing, because that's out of my comfort zone. Her father bought a large rug with red and black squares and some checkers the size of saucers. At 3, she could play a pretty credible game of checkers, the two of them lying on their bellies on the floor and the checkers an appropriate size for toddler hands. A good thing, because that's out of my comfort zone, too. I was in charge of education, elaborate Halloween costumes I made from the ground up (sometime I'll blog about Pocahontas - I made the moccasins and beaded the dress I made from suede), and themed birthday parties. Those were in my comfort zone. All of us loved her in the best ways we knew how to love. And all of us occasionally had to step out of our comfort zones to do the best we could for a child who deserved to be well supported.

On the day she turned 3 1/2, I delivered my child to the door of a carefully selected Montessori Academy. It was the earliest age she was allowed to start - 3 1/2. I did this with trepidation. It happened that I was seeing a counselor at the time, for every reason. I agonized that Amber would collapse under the burden of "why did my mother bring me to school and desert me?" Paul was good enough to not snicker at me. He said, "No, we think they struggle more with where to hang up their sweaters, where the bathroom is, and which activity they want to try out next at school." Oh! OK. Enough ego, stability and security at age 3 1/2 to know that Mom would return for her that evening, and now, let's get on with all this new stuff.

I had been searching for some new things in life that were just mine. I needed a creative outlet, so I started the blog. I was afraid that my Seinfeldian approach (a blog about noting in particular) would render me a wallflower ~ no one would want to dance with me. But I've learned that the blog (and I) are actually about nothing and everything, and that people pop in and relate about things they have in common or things they want to learn about. I am enjoying it tremendously. Now I've landed on the marathon and I'm dreaming of something else that will be just mine. I am taking better care of my"self" than I had been previously.

I am feeling a bit Amber-like now and I'm not 3 1/2. Aside from all of the 1 million questions about myself and my physical ability to walk a marathon, my resolve, my discipline, I was distressed about the logistics of it. How could I carry enough water? What if I wanted to strip off some layers or add some? What about going to the bathroom? What if I need to eat something? What if I decide I need medical attention? What is the exact route? Nothing about this endeavor is in my comfort zone.

But I'm making progress! I've learned from the Badger's races that you start gathering information by going to the event flyers and website. Now I know where the port-a-potties are located! I know where the neutral water stations are, and they occur frequently enough that I don't have to stress it. At the Start Village at the Mandalay Bay, I can leave my backpack. UPS, one of the big sponsors of the event, will deliver the packs to whichever water station I choose. As long as I have my ID, I can get into the backpack and designate the next place I want it to be waiting for me, including the Finish Line. OK, the light has come on: I'm not in this alone or without support. And I haven't even met my TeamPrevention buds, yet. Maybe some of us can partner up to ease the way for one another!

One shocking visual was the course route - the full marathon. Las Vegas streets are laid out like a checkerboard, with major boulevards being 1 mile apart. When I looked at the route, I could picture the landmarks at the major intersections. It's paralyzing. Coincidentally, at different times during the marathon, I will be walking near my home and walking near the salon where I have my hair cut. So what? That's not news. Except that I am known to say every 4-5 weeks, "I hate driving all the way over to the Hair Attic - it's practically all the way across the valley and back. But I do it for the best razor cut on the planet." Well, folks, I'll be covering that distance and more. On foot.

In my ears right now and I wish it were not: David giving hell to a young home dude who does his job very well, but just can't get a handle on "get up, go to work, get up, do it again".

Something that charmed me today: An item that might bring all of you cyclists and all of us walkers together in peace, harmony, fraternity and community.