Oh...hi there.

My children haven't killed me yet.

Unless you count trying to run me literally into the ground with activities and questions and arguments.

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel: My husband says that this long turnaround nightmare should be over tomorrow night. I mean, it's not really over, but the working 50,000 days/nights in a row without a break will be over. He will return to his usual day shift and will have two days off a week!

That's what he's telling me, anyway. I will believe it when I see it, y'all.

In between the drop-offs/pick-ups at summer Tech Apps, the never-ending recital rehearsals, the camp drop-offs/pick-ups, the "Mom-can-x, y, and z-spend the night" questions, the house cleaning, the laundry (OMG, it seems like it has doubled in size and intensity -- summer sweat + two pubescent children = Me. Dead.), the cooking meals, and the $1,000 repair on the car a/c, I have still been running.

Oh yes, I have.

How do you think I've lasted this long without running away/drinking heavily/ending up in the loony bin?

I'm running 8 miles a day, five days a week, and then a long run of 10-12 miles on Saturday (that will be bumped up to 15-20 soon with a marathon looming in November). With Russ working so much, that 90 minutes is pretty much the only alone time I have (I can't even escape questions/arguments when I go to the bathroom; someone inevitably needs me right that second and knocks on the door) and I treasure it.

I need it.

I love the ache in my calves. I love the sweat that gathers between my collarbones. I take pride in the very definite tan line where my ankles meet my socks.

It's easy to run when our routine is rocking along, when there's not a lot going on. I enjoy those runs.

But the runs I have to plan? The runs that I have to grab when I can? The runs I knock out in between a drop-off and a pick-up?

Priceless and worth every ounce of planning to get there.