Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star.
My last marathon—in the sense of most recent—was 10 years ago. My last marathon—in the sense of “Yeah, I’m never doing that again,” coincided exactly. To be fair, everyone to whom I’ve ever spoken about running marathons affirmed unequivocally that each and every marathon they ever ran was the absolute last. Until the next one. But this time it turned out to be true. I will never again line up with several thousand of my closest friends at oh dark hundred, obsessively re-tying my shoes, hurling myself into the unknown.
I don’t particularly miss the five-a.m. alarm, the muggy three-hour training runs, the high-intensity sweating, the stiff legs. Running two or three miles a day a few times a week is fine. Same camaraderie, different distance. Thirty years ago, I ran 70 miles in a week. Last week I ran a total of ten miles. Ages and stages. My 30-something-year-old self was faster and more motivated than the current almost 70-something-year-old body I seem to be inhabiting.
Indeed, every person my age frequently thinks back to being 12 years old and wonders what the hell just happened.
But it got me thinking. About not knowing when the last time you do something is.
There will come a time when you will read a bedtime story to your child for the last time. There you were one day cuddled up on the couch with Tigger, Piglet, and Eeyore and then the kids wanted to read Harry Potter by themselves and before you blinked there they were going off to grad school or something. You didn’t know it was the last time you were going to read out loud, but it was. At some point between the kids being toddlers and then all of a sudden borrowing the car, something transpired.
It may even come to pass that there will be a last time that you toss a ball with your kid. The inevitability of death and taxes are synonyms for the passage of time.
Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town
And they tell him take your time it won’t be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down
Frank Shorter won the Olympic marathon in 1972 and earned a silver medal in 1976. Some years later, a star-struck fan saw Shorter and mumbled, “oh, my goodness, are you Frank Shorter?”
“No,” Shorter replied. “But I was.”
The evocative power of Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game” is not just how connected we feel to a youngster looking forward to increased autonomy and authority. The command of these lyrics resides in our looking backward, knowing that anticipating the freedom of having a driver’s license is superior to being stuck in traffic commuting to work. Awaiting beats having by three touchdowns.
Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like when you’re older must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams.
Listeners are reminded, like a bullet to the brain, that the days are long but the years fly. Or as Will put it “youth’s a stuff will not endure.” Your children’s youngster-hood is fleeting. Which means your opportunities to be a good enough parent are equally ephemeral.
So if we can’t know when the last bedtime story or game of catch or family game night is, shouldn’t we bring our best selves to every interaction with our kids. Can you read me one more chapter? Sure. Can we take the dog for a long walk and talk about nothing? Of course. Can we go camping and forget half the gear and lose the rest? Yeah. Can we toss the ball a few more times? Yes. Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There’ll be new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through.
Because once it goes, it’s gone. And those sparking, effervescent parenting days—like marathons, like snuggles, like expectations—will not come again.
