Boston

I won't lie.
I've been entertaining thoughts this week of running the 118th Boston Marathon next year.
I hate running, I really do, but *obviously*, it's not about that.

It's about the fact that I stood on Boylston St so many times, too.
That I spent 5 years in Boston and I feel the personal connection, too.
That I want to show my solidarity like all the other gritty New Englanders who have shown their non-gritty true selves, too.

I went to sleep on Monday night and all I could think was, "Just don't let it be children".

"Just don't let it be children."

And it was children.

And for the past three months (or 2 years really), I've been awoken at night and felt so irritated, angry, exhausted, and about to burst into tears because of sleep deprivation brought on by typical newborns/infants/toddlers. And when I was awoken 2 hours, 3 hours, 5 hours and 8 hours after I went to sleep on Monday, by my own child, I didn't feel angry. Yes, I was still tired. Exhausted. Sleep deprived.

But I thought, "At least he's here to wake me up". "He's here."
Cause now the moms of those three can't say that anymore. Ever again.
And I'm dying inside grieving for those moms, for all the moms.

We put our babies to sleep, and as much as we don't want to be woken up, we don't want to NOT be woken up.
Being a mother is terrifically hard. But I think that no longer being one, must be the most devastating shock.
It hits me at the core.

So I want to pound out that ugly, crushing pain by running the Marathon. For all of the mothers who will carry this burden *forever*, maybe just for one day I can shoulder your pain so you don't have to.