ever-fixed mark

Aitch and I ran our first race together today! I decided to enter at the spur of the moment, a decision that would have been seemingly contraindicated by the fact that I haven’t run in weeks. Aitch was a trouper, sitting quietly in his stroller and taking in the sights as we inched slowly toward the finish line. My right shoulder is aching from correcting my jogging stroller, which pulls to the left, but otherwise I feel pretty good for my first 5K in months.

People we beat:

An 83-year-old woman who runs the race every year. Eat my dust, grandma!

Three skinny teenage girls. I tried to encourage them as we passed: “Pick up the pace, ladies. I’m forty, I’m fat, and I’m pushing a baby carriage. You can do it!” They were all wearing iPods, though, so I don’t think they heard me.

A woman alternately pushing two school-age children in a stroller and then, after they clamored to get out, chasing them as they ran full-speed down the street. I lost track of her; I assume that either the mother or the children dropped of heat exhaustion midway through. I could barely keep up with the four-year-old, though, during the times he was running.

People we didn’t beat:

A friend, who claimed he had not run since last year’s race, pushing his 11-month twins in a double stroller.

Another friend helping to push her twin three-year-old nieces in a double stroller. (Do you see a theme emerging?)

Oprah Winfrey, but only because she wasn’t running this race. I’m extremely proud of the fact that I beat Oprah once in an 8K race in Chicago. Unfortunately, the on-line race results are lost to posterity; they’re not even available on theWayback Machine, which is a pretty cool site to check out for ancient web history.

Local luminaries spotted:

Jogging Jesus! Uncharacteristically, he was not jogging, but spectating, unless perhaps he finished so far ahead of me that he was able to rehydrate, dry off, and find a spot near the finish line before I crossed.

Two children from Aitch’s preschool class. (To Aitch, they’re luminaries.)

The city clerk who complained, “Your wife yelled at me,” when I objected to the improper punctuation on Aitch’s birth certificate. Hey, he’s running for mayor! Guess who I won’t be voting for?

Here’s a shot of Aitch relaxing with a cool drink at the starting line.

Last night, I was doing post-dinner kitchen cleanup when I stopped just short of swiping what looked like a little blob of red jelly. My eyesight is not that great–I am myopic and presbyopic, sometimes wearing glasses OVER contacts–so I peered at it for a little while.

Husband came into the room. “Is that…a ladybug?” he asked, laughing. He’s familiar with the adoption iconography.

It was indeed. We mused for a little while on what it might “mean”–maybe our future child had been conceived? If we move to the “either gender” list, the timing might be right. We speculated a bit about who has the cosmic job of dispatching ladybugs to adoptive families as good omens, and what a scheduling nightmare that must be. “The Smiths’ referral is about to come through! Schenectady ladybug colony, come in please! What do you mean no one’s available to head out to Main Street? No, 6 p.m. won’t do, you need to show up before the social worker calls. Wait, this just in…you say the Smiths are on a plane to Aruba? We don’t service Aruba!”

Husband put the ladybug outside, into a more hospitable environment, and I forgot all about it until the next day.

Then, I heard the mail carrier drop the mail into the box.

“Our fingerprint approval,” I thought. “Wouldn’t it be a fantastic coincidence if…?”

Well, it would have been a fantastic coincidence, but it’s not.

A little while later, though, the doorbell rang. I was upstairs on a call and thought little of it. When I came down seeking lunch, though, Husband was sitting their with a big smile on his face, and it was right in front of him.

My iBook, home at last. Ladybugs, I’ll never doubt you again.