Good morning.

It’s quiet.  In a neighborhood often besieged with barking dogs (mine), local traffic and kids heading to the park, there’s no noise right now save for the nearby freeway.  Yes, it’s only 5:30am but this is Los Angeles.  Someone is always going somewhere.

Years ago, before I met my husband, before we had children, I lived by myself.  I’d recently been through a personal and prolonged rough patch and come out the other side – not entirely unscathed but ridiculously hopeful.  I’m not completely sure what possessed me at the time but I set my alarm for 5am every morning and, get this, actually got out of bed. Coffee was, and always is, the first order of business, followed shortly by the newspaper.  Back then, when no one was asking me for anything, I’d read the news pretty much cover to cover, although I’d usually skip the business section.  I assumed those pages were strictly for business people.  I was working in television movies at the time.  What did I care what the stock market was doing or who the latest CEO under indictment was?  Dang.  Wish I’d paid more attention back then and bought some Apple shares.  I digress.

What I recall more than anything from those mornings was the sense of possibility I had for the coming day.  Even if something heavy were weighing on my mind, I’d go out for a run after reading through the front page, and undoubtedly come home with a clear head and a feeling of perspective.  By the time I was in my car headed off to work, the day was well under way.  The morning had been mine and more often than not I’d managed to point myself in a direction I was comfortable with.

Oh my, how things have changed.  Keep in mind that I hail from a family of champion sleepers.  You know those creepy individuals who thrive on no more than 4-5 hours of shuteye a night?  Who sweat on a cold day because they’re so full of energy after a seven-minute nap?  Yeah, they’re not Egans, and I’ve been recovering from “new mother sleep deprivation” for years now.  My youngest is seven, and she and her sisters are champion sleepers also, so I sense the “I was up with the baby” excuse disappeared awhile ago but, well, hmmm…

And so here’s what’s happened.  As my friend Ann so aptly described it, I’ve been chasing “me” time throughout each day and failing miserably to find it.  Instead, I wait until the girls are in bed and then stay up too late reading and watching television, wake up groggy the next morning at the same time my daughters start wiggling their toes, and generally begin the day five minutes to an hour behind.  I never, ever catch up.  About now, with accumulation, I’d say I’m about four and a half years late on everything.  My life has not been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Last week, I decided to try and change the picture, and the week before that and the week before that.  Hell, I’ve been trying to turn this channel for years now.  Except for reasons unknown, last week it actually worked.  I hit the snooze button a few times, but was generally up, reading and writing and drinking coffee, by 5:40am.  I owned a little part of my world, quietly, for about ninety minutes.  By Friday afternoon, I was tired but it was a good tired.  I realized the girls and I had been getting along better because I wasn’t constantly telling them “wait a sec,” while I finished up something I needed to do.  Oh I’m still behind.  The to-do list is preposterous, but I was able to chip away at it ever so slightly, I believe, simply because I hadn’t started out each day behind.  I felt hopeful again that the days weren’t going to get away from me like they’ve been doing for the past ten years.

This morning, I managed to have coffee in hand and started the day by 5:30.  The dog is confused.  The husband is curious.  The girls don’t know what’s going on except that their mother suddenly has found time to hit the volleyball with them a few afternoons even though the dishwasher has to be emptied.  You see, I’m feeling better about my prospects.  I’m confident the chores will get done, eventually, because I’m not so anxious about finding that time, searching for that moment, when I can just be quiet, and fool myself into thinking things are okay, that everything will be all right.  Even if they’re not, I’ve already taken my breath and crept into the day, gently.  It feels good.

That leads me to a bit of Monday morning quarterbacking – second guessing some decisions I, and others, made over the weekend.

Let’s start with Friday evening and agree that not all Beatles songs are created equal.  The sixth, seventh and eighth graders where my daughters attend school held a concert and sang songs by the Fab Four.  They did an outstanding job but I was a little distracted listening to some of the kids singing lyrics that were clearly written under the influence of mind-altering substances.  Do we really need to hear “Octopus’s Garden” and “Yellow Submarine” ever again?  Just asking.

My husband is usually the one who takes our daughters to the movies, but I sensed he wasn’t wildly interested in sitting through “Letters to Juliet”.  Since I have a crush on Gael Garcia Bernal, Amanda Seyfried and Franco Nero, and think Vanessa Redgrave is a living legend, I took the girls.  It’s a charming little movie, absurdly predictable, but the filmmakers waited much too long to bring Franco Nero out.  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve believed him to be the most handsome man on earth (besides my husband, of course).  He doesn’t make a lot of movies that I want to see and how many times can one watch “Camelot”?  So I was disappointed that he only appeared in the last quarter of the movie.  Forget about plot structure.  I just wanted to look at his eyes longer than I was allowed on Saturday afternoon.

I would’ve finished folding all of the laundry on Sunday BEFORE Bowie the dog came over to see whether we were worthy of him or not.  We’re looking for another “friend” to love, and with whom Shelby can play.  I think Bowie is perfect for us but he lulled me into a kind of somnolence with his different colored eyes and old-soul disposition.  I barely got anything else accomplished the rest of the day after he left.  Maybe I was just tired from getting up early all week.

I never said it was easy.

I'm happy. Oh wait, I'm not.

…and, hopefully, the last.

The need for financial reform is dire.  Republicans in the Senate last week finally allowed for debate to begin on the issue, which continues today and will likely carry on until next Friday.  You can see much of it on C-SPAN (yawn) or read about it at WhiteHouse.gov.

Essential Wall Street reform is tied into BP’s oil spill off the Louisiana coast last week.  Hear me out.  After 29 miners died in West Virginia two weeks ago and now, most certainly, creatures great and small will perish from 500 barrels of slimy gunk pulsing into the Gulf waters, there can be nothing less than an enthusiastic renewed interest in alternative ways to heat our homes and get us from one place to the next.

When George W. Bush insisted on invading Iraq in 2003, cynics viewed it as a grab for oil.  I thought it had more to do with W’s indignation that, during the first Gulf War, Saddam Hussein tried to kill Bushie’s “daddy” – but I couldn’t deny the fact that Iraq had oil we wanted to get our hands on and North Korea did not.  How else to explain our lack of interest in liberating the starving, oppressed North Koreans from their madcap Dear Leader, in favor of Iraqis and Saddam Hussein; of being in bed with Saudi Arabia, a country with questionable human rights; of defending itty-bitty Kuwait in Operation Desert Storm?

The Middle East has oil.  We need it so bad, we’ll die for it.  Wait.  That’s not entirely true.  We’ll send our young men and women to do that for us; also, our Kentucky coal miners.  We’ll sacrifice the waters off our shores and the wildlife that sustains and inhabits them.  The shrimp boats may sit idle and crawfish etouffée may temporarily disappear from menus, but dammit, let me drive my too big car the three blocks to the grocery store to buy avocados flown in on big jet planes from Chile.

I’m as guilty as the next person.  Sure, I’ve replaced many of my incandescents with fluorescents, but not all.  I drive a minivan, occasionally filled with three or more children.  More often than not, though, the only cargo I’ve got is the pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey I forgot to pick up on my earlier trip to the store.  I rarely carpool.  Instead of wearing an extra sweater during the cooler morning hours in my house, I crank the heat.  I may not be as blatantly piggish as the diminutive, childless reality show host who drives a V8 Cadillac Escalade 8-seater, but I’m not proud of my carbon footprint.

Renewable and sustainable energy is the next big thing.  It has to be.  We have to force ourselves to use less and seek out innovations that don’t require more offshore drilling, continued dependence on the Middle East, and persistent demands for men to risk their lives mining coal.  Sunlight, wind, rain, the ocean tides – they’re all available and China has leaped ahead of America in tapping these resources.  What the hell is wrong with us?!  Isn’t this the land of Ben Franklin, Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, Alexander Graham Bell, Jonas Salk, Bill Gates?  Aren’t we supposed to be super-duper good at inventing things?  Yes, in fact, we are, which is why we need Wall Street reform.

I’ll leave my Ed Begley inspired rant for tomorrow’s Tuesday Tidbits.  For now, let me share with you my theory on the next bubble, unless we take measures to prevent it.

In the 1990s, it was the dot-com boom and bust.  This past decade we saw the real estate bubble expand and burst before our very eyes.  This next ten years, we’ll have a “green” bubble if we don’t keep careful watch over the complicated shenanigans of the financial sector.

Remember when we didn’t have personal computers in our homes?  Most of you can.  Then they became ever-present, as did the familiar dial tone we’d hear as we connected to the World Wide Web.  Subsequently, DSL made us impatient for anything less than immediate connection and now we’re miffed if there isn’t wireless wherever we go.  Technology has raced past us at the speed of sound and Wall Street took notice.  They’ll do the same when windmills become the new backyard must-have, and individual compost makers automatically feed the soil in our private vegetable gardens.  Rain barrels will be a requirement in new construction and lower emissions will become standard.  Corporations will rise up in the name of Euell Gibbons, and investment managers, bankers and Bernie Madoffs will rear their ugly heads and create gobbledygook financial products based on the success and failure of saving the earth, powering the automobile, and lighting up our flat screen TVs.  Some rich will get richer.  Some poor may become middle-class.  And others will lose everything, including the house they managed to stay in, despite it losing all its equity in the real estate bubble year 2008.

Have I bummed you out?  Not my intention.  I’m clearly just still worked up over the global economic meltdown.  It’s nothing compared to the agita I’ll feel if we all let it happen again.  Seriously, check out the debate for a few minutes.  If nothing else, you’ll realize quickly that you’re probably as smart, if not smarter, or at least more interesting, than a lot of the politicians who represent us.  Contacting any one of them to register your concerns and desires is playing the squeaky wheel, and the let’s not forget that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, or that stuff floating in the waters off New Orleans.

Okay, ‘nuf said, for now.

During my Saturday run with Wendy and friends, there was talk of commitment and infidelity, which then carried over to my weekend in Balboa Island to celebrate the final, single days for my cousin getting married in June.  My sisters forced me to watch Oprah’s interview with Rielle Hunter from last Thursday (what a fine woman, so authentic), and she and Miss T will be included in a future post about “happiness”.  (Wow, Jo, I can’t wait!)

When evening chit-chat over glasses of wine (them) and cups of coffee (me) turned to Mary Kay’s dog and the labiaplasty she received (the dog) to combat persistent bladder infections, I tuned out and ate another Scotchmallow, despite recent studies that indicate chocolate only elevates our mood for about three minutes after eating.  Guess I’ll just have to get more.  I’m off to See’s.

I only hope your weekend was as enlightening.

Tears flowed this past weekend all over the world.  In West Virginia and Warsaw, they mourned the death of loved ones and leaders.  In Augusta, Georgia, Phil Mickelson embraced his cancer stricken wife and let flow tears of joy and relief.

From far away, on different levels, many of us cried with them because we’re human.  We empathize or sympathize.  I got riled this morning and over the weekend because I was reminded that not everyone finds the capacity to do so, spontaneously or otherwise.

Saturday morning on NPR, I listened as a report was given regarding the Massey Energy Company and their obligation to shareholders.  Massey owns the Upper Big Branch Mine in West Virginia where an explosion last week killed 29 coal miners.  The SEC requires that public companies such as Massey inform shareholders of “big events” that could affect their finances.  Massey is already planning to move miners from Big Branch to other sites in order to increase coal production and make up for lost revenue resulting from the tragedy.  From an intellectual and fiscal standpoint, I understand.  I’m not a businesswoman, but I understand the basic structure of how a public company operates. What I don’t understand is why Massey couldn’t have waited until today to inform stockholders of their plan going forward.  I’m sure it doesn’t much matter to the families of the 29 who died.  They’re too busy grieving and coming to terms with their greatest fears being realized.  But from a karmic perspective, from a compassionate place of human decency, couldn’t someone at Massey have told the SEC to wait a sec?  “We’d rather not speak of profit and production while families are burying their dead and others are still holding out hope,” they might have offered.  (Massey issued their statement to the SEC Friday, before the last five miners were found.)

Over and over, Massey and other energy corporations put off addressing safety violations by contesting allegations made by the Mine Safety and Health Administration.  They essentially dragged their feet in order to delay paying fines, but they couldn’t wait five minutes before telling shareholders “Don’t worry.  We’ll keep the stock price up.  We’re on it.”  I’m not naïve.  I’m appalled.

I made the mistake of reading the recent Vanity Fair piece on Tiger Woods and his swine-like behavior while I was watching The Masters this weekend.  By the time I finished the article, I wanted to find my daughter’s pom-poms to enhance the cheers I was directing toward Phil Mickelson.  You could not have written more contrast into the present lives of these two men: Tiger, who left his family occasionally for Vegas trips involving hookers, gambling and booze; Mickelson, who struggled with his golf game while tending to his wife and mother, both afflicted with breast cancer, and his three children, one of whom broke her wrist Saturday.  Tiger tied for fourth and reiterated that anything less than a win for him was basically unacceptable.  He entered the clubhouse alone.  Phil Mickelson won and held his wife for nearly two minutes while tears rolled down his cheeks.  When he let go, his three children gathered for a group hug before he headed into the clubhouse for his green jacket.

I don’t know these men so everything I believe is merely assumption – Mickelson gave a damn about his marriage and the example he sets for his children.  As a public figure, that example is displayed on a larger scale, which is why it matters.  It’s why Tiger and John Edwards matter as well.

This morning in the Los Angeles Times, in reaction to Virginia Democratic Congressman Tom Perriello’s vote for the health care bill, one of his constituents was quoted as saying, regarding the reform package, “I have to see how it affects me.  I don’t care about anybody else…”  Whaaaaaaat?  Really?  And here’s where I often am naïve.  I think compassion is innate and it’s not.  We learn how to care for others and show comfort by what we’ve been taught, what we’ve experienced and how we’ve reacted to it.  And more good comes from thinking of needs beyond our own than living as if we were the center of the universe.  There are reasons to care about whether your neighbor has access to health care or not.  There is value to stopping and helping someone in need even if it’s not convenient.  It can even be for selfish reasons.  What goes around comes around.

I don’t necessarily believe that divine intervention had anything to do with Mickelson’s brilliant 6-iron shot yesterday through the trees on the 13^th hole, no more than I think a higher power plays a role in 3-pointers at the buzzer or a baseball slipping through Bill Buckner’s legs.  But I do believe in the power of compassion and the role it plays in karma.  (And yes, this is a far cry from yesterday’s tongue-in-cheek post.)  When we see John Edwards’ life ruined by egoistic behavior, or Tiger’s fall from grace, we witness comeuppance.  I won’t revel in it.  I’d rather revel in Mickelson’s victory, both in his personal life and watching him golf.  I’d rather stop for a moment and hold a silent thought in my heart for the people of Poland, the same way they did for us after 9/11.  I’d rather put my stock portfolio aside and give the West Virginia families some time to grieve.  I’d rather see the uninsured finally insured, even if it means changes for me down the road.

I’m not a saint, not even close.  Most of my friends do far more than cry for those in pain.  But if it’s the least we do, so be it.  If we collectively give a damn, it matters in the end.

Tomorrow: some frivolous tidbit to get you through the day

…for myriad countless reasons.  The last time I took a spontaneous trip to surprise someone, I flew from New York to Los Angeles for my mother’s 60^th birthday.  I wore a flowered dress and, while I did arrive under cover of darkness, emerging from a backroom in my sister’s house, there were no photographers and no fanfare other than my mom’s smile.  Saturday night in Washington, Obama donned a bomber jacket and flew to Afghanistan to surprise the troops.  Nice gesture but how fun is that?  Although it appears the reception he got was more than my mother’s “I knew you were coming” look.  Obama met with Karzai, told him to knock off the graft, watched some NCAA with the troops and left.  Yesterday, I was home folding laundry…

…because that’s what I do.  I fold laundry.  For some reason, this last month, I have had more socks to match up, more tiny underpants to sort and more fitted sheets to roll up in a ball than any other period in the life of this family.  I hate folding fitted sheets.  Oh, I know how.  I just don’t like it.  The last time President Obama folded a pair of boxers or asked Sasha and Malia whom the pig pajama bottoms belonged to was, hmmm…let me think…NEVER.  All right, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be President.

It’s 2016 and I’m stumping in Iowa.  A reporter asks, “Why now?  What made you want to become the leader of the free world?”

I put on my thoughtful face and answer, “Because I just didn’t want to do laundry anymore.”

Had I a do-over, I would’ve sucked up more to my friends with vacation homes so I wouldn’t now be facing fourteen days of spring break with nowhere to go.  Wow, that sounded so pathetic.  I pity the children who have to hang out with me over the next two weeks.  Actually, all joking aside, I live in a city where there is no shortage of activities to engage the kids.  Today, we’re heading to Descanso Gardens because I can’t get enough of these springtime smells and Bun-Bun has to do some research for a class project.  Check out gocitykids.parentsconnect.com for a comprehensive list of all there is to do in your area.  Under “your neighborhood”, click on “choose a city” and then go and have some fun.

One could say Baylor should’ve played better, but up until the last three minutes, they looked pretty good.  They were ahead more than once, but Duke finished strong.  The Final Four – West Virginia vs. Duke and Michigan St. vs. Butler – will play Saturday in Indianapolis.  And I would be remiss, seeing as I have three daughters, to neglect to mention the Women’s NCAA.  Among the Elite Eight, Stanford takes on Xavier tonight.  Also this evening, the Baylor women can redeem their school by beating Duke.  Tuesday night, it’s UConn vs. Florida St. and Kentucky vs. Oklahoma.  Watch the ladies on ESPN.

The question that the Rev. Maryetta Anschutz asked the congregation yesterday during her sermon was, “Have you been a bystander?”  You could have heard a pin drop.  I discovered later that even my girls heard the question.  Who says kids don’t listen?  Clearly, she hit a note with all of us.  After admitting to her own shortcomings in the area of standing-by, we couldn’t help question our individual decisions throughout life to look the other way, pass the buck or shrug our shoulders when we should have, in too many situations, been getting out hands dirty and advocating.  At the dinner table last night, I asked Miss T if she would be a bystander during a perceived injustice and she quickly replied, “No.  That’s a bad thing.”  At school, they’re learning the terms associated with bullying and I’m happy to see some of it is sinking in.

Ten days and counting until Tiger Woods is back on the links at The Masters in Augusta, Georgia.  Do you think Elin will be home folding laundry?

Quick movie review from the weekend: “Hot Tub Time Machine” was silly and funny, though I thought it easily could’ve been sillier and funnier.  That dragon movie raked in the dough and got great reviews, so I’ll be taking the girls sometime this week.  Who wants to join me?  Unless you have a vacation home, in which case…

Yeah, I smoked him.

So yeah, I finished the marathon and I beat Shia LaBeouf.  More later.  I must talk about history being made yesterday.

The initial paragraph I wrote had to do with uninformed protesters and misguided Republican lawmakers.  What the moment really deserves, however, is a big Atta Boy for President Obama and every Democratic congressional representative who voted for the bill, including Earl Pomeroy (D-North Dakota), John Boccieri (D-Ohio), Betsy Markey (D-Colorado), Suzanne Kosmas (D- Florida) and Harry E. Mitchell (D-Arizona), politicians who will face increasingly tough challenges come November.  In the end, it really became about progress and change despite politics, about doing what’s right in the “it takes a village” spirit of America and not doing only what’s right for me.  I’m an optimist and I believe yesterday’s vote will ultimately benefit those with tough races in the fall, but I’m also someone who believed that Gore and then Kerry couldn’t possibly lose to W so… If you feel so compelled, email the above congressmen and women (just click on their names and you’ll get to their websites) and say “thanks”.

Eventually, if you don’t have a story already, you’ll hear the one about the single dad denied coverage on an essential procedure (because it’s the job of insurers to deny coverage) that eventually puts him out of work for a time, leaving him unable to care for his children properly.  Or you’ll hear something much worse and much closer to home.  Over the next ten years, you’ll hear those stories less and less.  If you get sick, you won’t finagle a “covered” diagnosis from your doctor because what legitimately ails you will be covered.  There will be less nonsense concerning healthcare in this country – because up until now, it’s been stunningly nonsensical.  Enough already.  And to the protestor holding the sign outside the Capitol yesterday that read: Hands Off My Health Care, I say exactly.  No one will touch your healthcare if it makes you happy.  To another protester holding the placard displaying a picture of President Obama with the words Undocumented Worker, I ask: do you know what year Hawaii became a state?

Honestly, crossing the finishing line at Ocean Avenue yesterday was nothing compared to what happened in Washington.  Nothing.  And yet…

There were over 25,000 participants running in yesterday’s marathon.  The announcer came on occasionally in the early hours at Dodger Stadium yesterday to tell us fun facts about the course, how much longer the race would be delayed, and what celebrities were running.  Chef Gordon Ramsay and Shia LeBeouf were mentioned.  Not three minutes later, as I was twisting and stretching among the other sardines packed in the chutes, I turned to my left to see Shia standing next to me, completely unbothered and alone.  I leaned over and asked him if anyone knew he was right there and he replied, “No, not really,” so I snapped a quick picture.  He had ear buds in so I didn’t get to ask him if Carey would be on the course and whether or not she’d run with me for a time.  But looking at his skinny legs and realizing he was young enough to be my son (no, no, not really), I knew he’d be flying past me and that was okay.

Other than the delays (we eventually started 22 minutes late), the start went well after we heard Allison Iraheta sing a rousing rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.  I was disappointed at how sweaty I was at mile 5 coming out of downtown but, I figured, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about the weather.  I drank plenty of water when necessary and tried to enjoy my surroundings.  What makes a marathon easier, to me, are the spectators.  (And the downhills are nice, also.)  Even in Big Sur, arguably one of the most beautiful marathons in this country, it’s nice after several miles of aloneness to see and hear people cheering you on.  Yesterday, there was little silence.  So many had come out in the different neighborhoods to either look for a loved one or simply yell for the rest of us.  The thought bubble above most of their heads said, “I’m so glad you’re doing this and not me.”  My bib read Jo Neil, and so strangers called out my name as if they knew me.  I pretended they did.

The best downhill for me came at Mile 14 when we charged from Sunset down San Vicente in West Hollywood.  It was at about this point that a man dressed as a nun, in full habit, passed me.  Heading toward Beverly Hills, I was impressed at how many had gathered along Rodeo Drive and then around the corner on Wilshire.  Outside the Nike Store, Team Nike had dressed in bright green unitards and handed out Gatorade.  Someone cranked the music and Beyonce’s “All the Single Ladies” blared from the speakers, putting a much-needed spring to my step.  I believe it was the last one I had until I saw my family at Mile 25 ½.

On Santa Monica Boulevard, heading toward Sepulveda, volunteers in facemasks sprayed pain reliever/Ben Gay over cramping muscles.  I stopped by and pointed at my right calf, was attended to and then pushed on toward the 20-mile mark where my dear friend, Wendy, would join me for the final six.  I was so happy to see her, I wanted to just stop and go have coffee (after a good cry).  Instead, I grabbed a pretzel to help with my nausea and the two of us continued on.

As I wrote in my Examiner.com article on Saturday, runners usually hit a wall around 21 miles when the remaining distance becomes a test of sheer will.  Physically, nothing feels good and you want every step to be your last.  But the idea of not finishing becomes more abhorrent than the pain one experiences during these last few miles.  For example, my neighbor explained it this way: “I was afraid to look down at my legs because I was sure one of the bones was sticking out of my skin.”  It’s not pretty.  Something else happens, at least to most of those attempting the distance.  Even back in ’92, at Mile 24, when I was determined to break 3:30 in New York, I could only do what I had in me.  3:33 became totally acceptable, even as I knew I’d probably never come close to that time again.  Yesterday, I was hoping to come in around 4:15, when the prospect of finishing without vomiting became my only goal.  I came in at 4:33, an hour and five minutes after my husband and two minutes ahead of Shia LeBeouf.

There are three reasons I haven’t run a marathon in twelve years.  Their names are Goldie, Bun Bun and Miss T.  As much as I’d like to think they’re proud of their mom and dad, I’ve discovered over the years that young kids aren’t proud of their parents.  It really isn’t the order of things.  My girls were happy to see us finish, but happier to go to CPK afterwards and take turns wearing our medals.  When we got home, Goldie made a lovely dress out of my mylar blanket.

She's so talented.

After the husband napped and I took a hot bath, he headed for the gym and the Jacuzzi while I sat in a chair throwing the ball with Miss T and Bun Bun, guessing numbers, colors and days of the week in French.  When I told them I was tired, they didn’t hear me.

I called my neighbor this morning to find out how she was and the first thing I heard was, “Tell me again why people run marathons!  And more than once?!”  We run them for the challenge, for the bragging rights of finishing, to prove to ourselves that we can set goals and achieve them.  Running them more than once is a harder question to answer.  I can only relate it to having babies.  If mothers were able to physically recall the pain of childbirth, no one would have a sibling.  At Mile 22, I do what I’ve always done at that distance.  I vow to never run another.  About twenty minutes after the finish line, sitting down and no longer feeling nauseous, I was thinking about the next one, but only when the girls are a little older and need me a little less.  I’ll push the training up a notch, try and break four hours again, then go home and sleep for two days.  Right now, I have to fold laundry, empty the dishwasher, shop for dinner and then go and pick them up from school.  Maybe we can play that French game again.

Bon lundi.