At twenty, a rest was a run of just six.

Wanted more miles to get my big fix.

Grooved in peace, gliding grace, quiet ten –

ran it weekly, again, again.

Triathlon craze – add bike, add swim.

Goal not to drown – did some with Tim.

Half ironman training, vivid ironman dreams.

Laps in the pool, Masters swim teams.

Tim ran Chicago after watching a bunch

Cramped, crossed finish – almost lost lunch.

Said, “No more. Running ‘aint for me.

Run all you want, Nance, just let me be.”

I ran San Francisco, still caught in the lure.

Got drenched for 26 in Nashville’s downpour.

Turn fifty. Aha! Yes! Less is more.

Pilates and yoga, dig life on the floor.

Hamstrings scream at forward fold.

Breathe, reach, stretch, beats getting old.

Poses pinch quads, but bit by bit,

it’s getting easier. Key not to quit.

Downward Dog, Crow’s Pose, try my best.

Thank God for Shavasana – deserved final rest.

Mind, body, spirit – all present on the mat,

Who knew such bliss just to lie flat?

Headstand, handstand, impossible feats

Would send on Twitter if I knew how to tweet.

This morn – happy – just to run three.

Finally learning I’m free just to be.

Today. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was as big as a house, and Tim was working in Glenview, IL – the other side of the city – and we lived on Maplewood in Chicago. I called my sister-in-law Pat about a bodily function question. Yes, even with child #4, there are surprises. Pat said to go to the hospital, and my borhter-in-law Vince showed up to take me. In spite of his kind prodding, I opted to wait for Tim because I could tell I had time.

Katie and Bethy (ages 6 and 5) went to play with their cousin Erin (age 7) two blocks away. I lived within two blocks of four siblings, Timmy, Bobby, Eileen, and Michael, as well as many old and new friends. A stroll down Maplewood was like a walk through the living room.

Brendan (age 3) and I settled on the basement couch to watch Dumbo, one of his favorites along with Sherry Lewis. Who knew? I’d breath through each contraction as he nestled into my belly until Tim arrived. I have no idea who watched Brendan when we left for St. Francis Hospital.

St. Francis was empty – probably the reason it’s closed now. Two nurses escorted us into an empty double room, took my vitals, and I resumed my chapter of John Jakes’ North and South. Tim watched tv and eventually turned on Cheers. Yes, it was a Thursday night. Those of us who were Cheers fans loved that early kick-off to the weekend.

Immersed in the drama of the Civil War, I kept reading. The nurses checked the heart rates (mine and the baby’s) and asked about our name for a boy because their superstitions indicated a heart rate of a boy. Kevin.  Kevin Francis.

Eventually, the contractions got closer and closer, and I was feeling great. The dozing during Dumbo had been an awesome fortifier. Brigid was born around 9:30pm with no drugs, shots, not even a Tylenol. Dr. Monglano handed Tim the scissors to cut the cord, and I thought he’d puke. Meanwhile the doctor saw a camera on the window ledge. What was Tim thinking when he brought that? Dr. Monglano took photo after photo of bloody Brigid connected and lifted, and he captured Tim’s green face as he handed the scissors back with a gentle, “No thank you. You can cut it.”

Brigid’s vitals were perfect, and when Dr. Monglano handed this amazing child to me, he said, “Nancy, you could have babies in the backyard.”

I said, “You weren’t around for the other three, Doc.”

We named this beautiful baby Brigid Kerry, so she would always have a part of Ireland with her. Brigid’s birth is indicative of how she is – natural, beautiful, peaceful, and present.

What if we moved the loveseat to the sunroom? What if we moved the bookcase to the basement? What if we moved the green couch to the living room?

Kevin, will you help me move this coffee table? Kevin, will you help me switch the kitchen and dining room tables? Kevin, will you help me move Brigid’s bed to Bethy’s room?

Katie shared a room with Bethy. Katie moved out and moved in with Brendan. Brendan moved created a room in the basement (until he got spooked).Brigid moved in with Katie. Kevin moved to the floor of the hall closet (just for a couple of nights as a toddler). Brendan moved back upstairs. Bethy moved to the basement, never to share a room with a sibling again.

Our kids grew up rearranging – furniture, books, rooms, toys, stuff. They switched bedrooms on a regular basis, swapping furniture and changing roommates. Each child has shared a room with someone else for some period of time.

I loved that rearranging kept them busy, and it helped them clean out their rooms. Each summer, they sold their wares at the annual neighborhood garage sale, and I loved to listen to them collaborate, negotiate, and create. To me, the constant change made perfect sense.

For Tim, it was insanity. He was never quite sure where his chair would be when he got home from work. He once said, “If I was Helen Keller, I’d be dead.”

 Visions of Dick Van Dyke flipping over his ottoman come to my mind.

I tried to explain to Tim that rearranging furniture is in my DNA. When I was a kid, I’d come home from school to discover – what was to me – a new house. My mom even managed to move our piano from room to room while we were at school – all by herself.  She’s my inspiration.

Two weeks before Kevin left for college, he entered the family room, looked around, and said, “Mom, you better figure this out before I leave for DePaul.”

Instead, we sold the house.

in his pre-school debut. Coming soon to theaters.

As a youngster, he got into everything. With unquenchable curiosity, he nosed everything in sight –  dirty dishwasher racks, trash, laundry, granola, stinky socks, Easter baskets, garbage cans, and toilet bowls. At eight weeks, his freedom was limited to a playful exploration  of a few backyards. At twelve weeks, he soared through a three-mile round trip jaunt with ease. Training books warned that his hips may not recover if over challenged as a little guy. Not true for this short-haired, rusty, muscle-bound Vizsla. Baby, he was born to run.

Like a prince – head high, muscles rippling, glistening auburn coat glistening, amber eyes alert, he waited patiently. Motionless and ready to romp, he knew,  She will get her running shoes. She always does. With barreled chest and sinewy arms, he watched my every move and sent ESP messages:  Get your shoes. Go on. I got your rhythm. Indeed, he did. With one small nod of my head toward the mudroom, he let loose plowing into my hips, shifting his body full-force into mine in an effort to be one with me in gleeful appreciation.  

Yes! I knew it! We’re going! Tail wagging furiously he’d nudge my hands and arms as he inadvertently sabotaged my daily efforts to put on my Brookes Adrenalines. I’d dodge into the bathroom, slam the door, and breathe  – grateful for the quiet reprieve of tying my shoes.

The regular routine.

I open the bathroom door.  Watson, in full play position with front legs extended, calculates which door will set him free – front or garage. I cross to the entryway. Watson vaults across the dining room table as he looks back at me to make sure he’s got the right door. As I reach for the doorknob, he glues his back-end to my thighs and strains his neck for eye contact. Struggling with the handle with this forty-five pound bundle of pure vitality pressed against me, I reach and twist. Watson sails across the porch in one swoop out-performing all images of super heroes. Leash in hand, scrutinizing my surroundings, I watch for unexpected walkers, school children, and the rare car that passed in front of our Chandana home. Neighbors knew him and marveled at his athleticism.  Faster than the speed of light, his grace put any deer to shame.

Free! Free! I love this! This is thee best! Oh, I love this smell! I love this bush! I love this mailbox! I love this light pole! I love this fire hydrant! Blurring tail, beautiful body, rollicking, curious soul, he delights in rain, snow, sleet, and sun. Everything is interesting. Everything is an adventure. Everything is the best.

We run the neighborhood, his magnificent poise wowing the middle-schoolers awaiting the bus. Front legs outstretched, hind legs straight back, body parallel to the green field, he sours. I, watchful for an unexpected walker or tempting discarded McDonald’s wrapper, follow in my slow, steady plod prepared to call him back should a stranger appear. Armed with poop bags, treats, and a flashlight, I watch for his pause and mark his pit-stops with the accuracy of a US Open golf caddy.

He races ahead, always cognizant of where I am. If I get too far behind, he stops, turns, and courteously watches for me to round the corner. Our eyes meet. Are you coming? What’s taking you so long? Are we all good? I’m worried about you. I laugh to myself and say out loud, “I’m coming, Watson. Thanks for waiting.”

When we sold our house, I sent out flyers to friends who run who might want a dog in the family. Emotions ran high last fall for many reasons, not the least of which was the giving away of Watson. When a rare husband-wife biology-psychology scholar team responded, the interview was quite rough. I bared all the facts. “He’s the coolest dog, but if you don’t run him, he eats socks.” I then described the multiple surgeries and emotional worries of the last six years. Rob and Jenny simply nodded. They had been looking for a family dog for their twins, Max and Momo, but all of the dogs at the shelter seemed too docile. Ha! I thought. This is a miracle!

And it was. Watson Atticus now resides with two college professors and two fourth graders. When friends ask us about Watson, we say he is away at school.  

Specifically 4th of July traffic in Chicagoland. I’m driving into the city today, not the norm for those of us from Chicago. We usually opt to stay off the highways on this special day. My kind sisters advised me to stay home, to avoid the traffic, to relax.

But my friend Shannon is having a picnic in her mother’s backyard, and I want to see Mrs. Murphy. Mary Jane Murphy is 96, and when she was 92, newspapers and major news programs covered her daily tennis matches. She was a Eucharistic minister through her early nineties at St. Cajetan, and we used to joke that at 92, she delivered Communion to the elderly in the old folks’ home.

Like my mom, Mary Jane raised ten children, and eight of the Murphys line up grade-wise with eight of the kids in my family. I lucked out by having Shannon in my grade. We’ve been great friends since elementary school.

Today, I’ll visit my ninety-year-old mom and then drive a few miles to Murphy Park, at least that’s what Brian Murphy spray painted on the back brick exterior of the Bell Avenue home when he was a boy. I wonder what Jerome Murphy thought of that when he returned home from his law office on Western Avenue.

Today, I’ll sit in traffic on I-80/94 and thank God for my family, for the Murphys, for swing sets, backyards, barbecues, Tostitos, and bean bag tournaments. I’ll thank God for the eye-hand coordination that sinks the bag in the hole for three points and for victory dances. I’ll thank God for the beautiful day, for picnic benches, basketball hoops, volleyball nets, fat-laden dips and Elvis. (The Murphys are big fans of the handsome rock star in the white jumpsuit.) I’ll thank God for line dances, funny stories, and shared memories. I’ll thank God for Shannon and her siblings who make me feel like part of the family. I’ll thank God for my old friends like Laura who show up – the ultimate key to enduring relationships. I’ll thank God for laughter and love.

And I’ll thank God for my car that runs, for NPR, and for the reliable brake lights on the semis in front of me. And I won’t mind one bit if it takes me a wee bit longer to get to Beverly than usual. It is so worth it.

Tim tells me I should write about our move. The move. Billions of people move – but when you are a hyper-sentimental, get ‘er done, obsessive saver of all things kid-related, moving creates havoc on the soul. Packing the house sent me into a frenzy of behaviors and emotions – score-keeping, tears, reflection, monkey brain to-do list making, gratefulness, sorting, sorting, and more sorting, and frustration at shit everywhere.

Last summer, we decided to sell our Chandana home in Valparaiso, Indiana. I loved that house. I loved that neighborhood, and I love those neighbors. We raised five kids there, but it was just too much house for us. We bought a house within walking distance to Lake Michigan and decided it was time to downsize in Valpo.

On Aug. 6th, the house went on the market. When the For Sale sign went up, Katie and Bethy  stopped by on their way to the lake. As each pulled up in the driveway, they wept. Not a good sign.

A month later, my friends at work gave me a birthday card with a sketch of St. Joseph to bury upside down in our backyard. I laughed and discarded it. I figured if St. Joseph wanted to help me, he’d help me. Plus there are so many things to pray about. I wasn’t about to bother the saints about the house. Cancer calls for prayer. Broken relationships lead to crawling on your knees. Difficult births call for reigning on the heavens. Selling a house means cleaning, giving stuff away, and tossing crap.

In October, one of Tim’s clients gave him a small box proclaiming “The Authentic St. Joseph” complete with statue, description of “The Way of St. Joseph,” and a petition to the beloved saint. Weeks later, Tim remembered to give it to me. I opened it and without a thought, shoved it in a kitchen drawer (quite ironic considering my fixation with emptying every crevice in the house).

On Nov. 6th  – with no offers on the house – as I was searching for reflectors for my pre-dawn run, I came across the St. Joseph box. After removing the three inch alabaster figurine from the cardboard contraption, I set St. Joe on the counter. The tiny brochure described “The Authentic Way” to call upon St. Joseph to help sell our house. In a nutshell, the steps were to ask, believe, trust, thank, move, and share. So I asked, believed, trusted, thanked, and moved St. Joseph to a prominent spot in the house as required in the “Authentic Way.” It made much more sense not to bury him upside down in the yard. In my gut, digging a head-first crypt in the lawn was nonsense, but perching St. Joe next to my computer was perfectly logical.

That day, we got a cash offer on our house. Honest to goodness.

The last step in “The Authentic Way” is to share your experience with others. This morning, July 3rd, I found the St. Joseph box as I was cleaning and procrastinating writing. I am now sharing –   finally.

“Did you see the photo today?”

“It’s a good one!”

“She is so so cute.”

“She’s amazing.”

“She looks like Katie.”

“Incredible. So animated.”

“She looks like Brendan.”

“And smart.”

“And so active!”

“And funny!”

Long-distance grandparenting bonds Tim and me. We often lie in bed at night viewing photos and videos of Eileen: tasting green beans for the first time, hunting for Easter eggs, singing happy birthday, marveling at the tigers at the zoo, talking care of her baby doll, reciting from her dolphin book,  and dancing at weddings. We’ve come to cherish the videos, not only because of Eileen’s vivacious personality, but because we hear Katie’s joyful voice as she parents from across the miles.

Now Eileen is two, and she moved from Seattle to Milwaukee last year. We see her more often, yet we still check daily for updates on Eileen’s private i-Cloud.  Katie, Bobby, and Eileen spent the night with us last night, and this morning, Tim, Eileen, and I looked for mama, papa, and baby deer. Wide-eyed and hushed in the early dawn hours, she watched the mama deer rest in the shade of a River Birch tree. She imitated middle school boys as they skipped flat stones across Lake Michigan’s spectacular shore. Sparkly rocks glistened as she gathered treasures in her tiny fists for her own mama.

Katie, Bobby, and Eileen just left to return to Milwaukee, and as the car pulled away, I did not grieve that they were leaving. Instead, I thank God for the visit.  Sometimes my heart aches for my kids, for Eileen, for the passage of time, but I know the kids have their own lives, and they trust that we have ours. They are doing what we did. They are focusing on providing for their families, building comminuty, learning and growing, establishing and maintaining relationships, navigating commitments, and developing their talents so they can better serve the world.

In the meantime, Eileen provides us with our own glimpse of heaven – pure, authentic love.

Anne Lamott says that the key to writing is to sit down and write. Imagine a little postage stamp of an image and capture it in words. In other words, put your butt in a chair and type.

Here’s what I want to ask this prolific, insightful writer:

Why is is easier to scrub tile grout with a toothbrush than it is to write?

And why is it while I scour, I write in my head?

Then when I sit at my laptop, I notice dishes in the sink.

So like Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh recommends, I mindfully wash each glass, plate, spoon, fork, and knife.

Then I spot streaks in the kitchen windows and reach for the Windex which leads to gentle dusting of the window frames with Murphy’s oil soap.

I’m living my own version of the children’s book If You Give a Mouse Cookie entitled If You Give Nancy a Writing Goal:

I sit at the computer and decide I need some background music. Feeling kind of crazy, I plug Helen Reddy into Pandora. Shot back in time, Tony Orlando and Dawn inspire me  to grab a broom and knock three times on the ceiling – twice on the pipes – and dance around the kitchen. Broom in hand, I sweep the floor, empty the dust pan which leads me to take out the garbage.  I replace the garbage bag and notice that the cabinet under the kitchen sink needs organizing. I reach for the stainless steel cleaner and wipte down the dishwasher, frig, and stove.

Back at my laptop, I pledge to post every day in July. I’m going to have one heck of a clean house.