let it be true.

(Note: If you’ve come here looking for my usual reflection on running, you need not read past the end of the next two sentences. So long as running brings you joy, I urge you to keep at it. Life being precious and short, if running is a chore or little more than a way to measure yourself against others, I plead with you to seek out new avenues for spending the days you’re given.)

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Eight years ago, my firstborn daughter, Lily, slipped from my grasp and fell flat on her back in the grass at my feet. Instinct kicked in the moment she hit the ground and I swooped her up, rushed her inside, and then shuttled her off to the hospital before whatever emotions I might have felt had time to record as memory.

I cannot recall now how I felt then though the memories of the fear and trepidation of the hours and days that followed are vivid.

I cannot recall now how I felt then, but I will never forget how I felt last evening, eight years after, when Lily, having listened to a retelling of that story at her bedtime, assured me that I hadn’t dropped her, but had “saved her life.”

----------

Preliminary results of a CT Scan at the time of Lil’s fall suggested a brain bleed, but careful scrutiny in the days immediately after and follow-up testing weeks later confirmed that the smudge in the films wasn’t bruising, but my initial relief at not being to blame quickly gave way to the understanding that the abnormality was far more disconcerting than a temporary wound.

That abnormality, situated in Lil’s left temporal lobe, an area of the brain employed in the comprehension of language and vision, has been the subject of monitoring ever since.

That abnormality has never stopped being disconcerting.

Mostly, though, it just was. It didn’t grow. It didn’t diminish. It didn’t cause any ill effects. It just was and its menace consisted solely of being there.

In time, twice annual scans were relaxed to annual scans and, as the results of those sessions remained consistently unchanged, time between scans was eventually stretched to two years.  And, with assurance from the surgeons that more time could pass between scans, that abnormality quietly, almost imperceptibly relinquished its menace. We never fully forgot it was there, but it ceased to be the sole cloud carrying potential for rain in an otherwise blue sky.

Those sunny skies encouraged us to close our eyes and bask in the warmth and we did, but when we opened our eyes the forecast had changed.

This past winter, in the midst of her 3^rd grade school year, Lily began to complain about her eyesight and, just like that, we had a symptom for which we’d been cautioned to remain vigilant. Lindsay and I immediately realized that another two years had passed and Lil was again due for an MRI.

Lily had been seen at Johns Hopkins since she was two, but circumstance merited a move to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) and she immediately felt more comfortable in this youth-centric facility.

By the time we visited for Lil’s initial MRI, she had already seen an optometrist and had been prescribed corrective lenses.  Her need for glasses wasn’t proof alone that there was great reason for concern, but we looked forward to verification that the old familiar abnormality still simply was.

It wasn’t.

There were signs indicating both structural changes and growth. A visit with an ophthalmologist corroborated the likelihood that the tumor was cause of the rapid deterioration of Lil's vision. Allowing for the fact that orientation from machine to machine can differ and it had been some time since the last scan, a follow-up MRI was slated for 30 days later. If it showed additional growth, we would need to consider what immediate action could and should be taken.  If it showed additional growth.

It didn’t.

We returned to watch-and-wait mode, heartened for the moment, but the wake-up call of that first sign of growth coupled with additional input from Lily suggesting that she was also having some cognitive issues, failing from time to time to be able to formulate the words that she had at the ready in her mind, kept us on edge. She told us she knew that it was growing, knew that something needed to be done. She asked, earnestly, if she would die. As parents, we’d been asked that question before and it’s a painful question to answer even when it’s brought on by the death of a pet, the passing of an elderly relative, or simply the developing youthful mind. It’s exponentially more difficult a question to answer when it stems from your child facing that very real possibility.

Lindsay and I were forced to discuss surgery and its implications, something we really hadn’t had to do since the first discovery of the tumor all those years prior.

This time there was a third voice in that discussion and, as it belonged to the person carrying the reason for the conversation, the voice was the most important of the three. Lily didn’t want to wait, she wanted to take action. She wanted to take IT out. She desperately wanted the surgery and didn’t understand why we didn’t just do it.

The surgeon we had first seen all the way back in 2008 recommended at that time that we move forward with surgery, remove as much of the tumor as possible, and biopsy it. Second and third opinions advised caution and ultimately convinced us to wait, primarily because of a lack of symptoms on Lily’s part and the imminent threat, based on the location and structure of the tumor, that healthy brain tissue could be compromised and survival was not guaranteed.

That threat remained imminent and was the very reason why we didn’t just schedule surgery.

September arrived and with it yet another appointment with CHOP’s Radiology department.

This time the results were unambiguous, the need to take action inarguable, and, in a cruel twist, at least for her parents, Lily would have her wish.

----------

Our oncologist and surgeon have made it clear that while we should take steps to address the situation with surgery, the immediate risk is not so great that we can’t schedule the procedure at a time over the next 6-9 months that would be least disruptive for Lily and for our family, including her doting, adoring little sister, Piper Bea.

My daughter loves to dance. She loves to swim. Both of these activities are her most direct connection to life as it is and how she wants it to continue to be.  She does not want this…this thing in her body or its ominous shadow hanging over her any longer than it must. She wants it out and the sooner the better. The sooner it is out, the sooner she can dance, the sooner she can swim.

Yes, there are risks and, yes, there is potential that the procedure will not be effective, will not fully alleviate the issue, or could even cause other issues.  There is that potential.  That potential is not nearly so great as the absolute guarantee that doing nothing will ensure issues that neither Lily or her parents care to sit idly by and watch manifest.

Better to think of dancing, to dream of swimming. Best to dance and swim now, in the meantime, and as soon as possible after.

Endless have been the conversations that Lindsay and I have had over the years about that foreign castaway inside of our daughter. We’ve cursed its constant, silent presence and the way in which it so often made us second guess every odd gesture or peculiar mannerism that Lily had at any given moment, little happenings that other parents would have paid little mind, likely no mind whatsoever. Knowing that it was there was a strange chronic punishment but for what we weren’t sure.

It was a constant guilt I was resigned to shouldering for the remainder of my lifetime.

A nine year old knew better.

Without knowledge of its being there, that foreign body would have grown unwatched and by the time it made its presence fully known, we would likely be looking not at a tricky surgical procedure but faced with an inoperable tumor with a grip on Lily’s central nervous system that could not be loosened, a grip that would have put her very existence in jeopardy.

Eight years ago, I dropped my daughter and couldn’t possibly have imagined that, in doing so, I might have saved her life.

Please, please let it be true.

----------

If everything falls into place, Lily will undergo laser interstitial thermal therapy in mid-to-late November. This neurosurgical technique will create a dime-sized hole in the top of her skull and allow a laser probe, steered by real-time computer guidance and informed by MRI-monitoring, to reach the tumor and then destroy the foreign cells by super-heating them. By employing this technique, we hope to minimize the damage to healthy tissue and lessen the potential for infection that comes with a traditional and more invasive craniotomy. It will not immediately remove the tumor or what portions of it would have been possible to cut away without too great a risk to healthy portions of the brain, but it is expected that the destroyed tissue will diminish with time and perhaps be eliminated entirely, something that subsequent MRI scans will need to confirm.

The greatest risks are the likelihood of visual deficits (think blindspots, not blindness) and potential for language deficits.  The fact that the tumor is surrounded by healthy tissue and in relatively close proximity to the brain stem brings graver concerns, but we have every confidence in CHOP and the precision of our surgical team.

----------

We know our friends and family will have numerous questions and, as much as we’d love to answer all of them, Lindsay and I ask for your patience and understanding as we need to focus our energies on supporting Lily, reassuring Piper, leaning on each other, and attending to all of the logistics necessary to balance life alongside the preparations ahead of surgery and whatever our situation proves to be afterwards.

You can help us best by simply loving Lily as we know many of you do and sending her positivity by whatever means you believe most effective. The means of transmission isn’t important. She’s a sensitive child, always has been, and she’ll feel it, I can assure you.

If you feel compelled to pass word directly to Lily or should happen to run into her in the days ahead, all I ask is that you respect the gravity of what she’s facing and the immensity of processing that at any age much less at nine. She has been privy to every conversation with the oncologist and the surgeon and has been given the opportunity to raise concerns directly. No punches have been pulled by anyone in speaking to those concerns. Tears and heartfelt apologies, genuine as they surely would be, are not helpful and Lily will not respond well to them.

Trust me.

My daughter does not aspire to be extraordinary, even if her mother and father already believe her to be. Lily loves being "just a regular kid" and cherishes the moments that make her feel like she is just that. In that, she mirrors her father. She is sufficiently frightened about what lies ahead, healthily so, and doesn’t need the well-wishing but too-evident worries of others to make her that much more scared. She remains just a kid and when this is in the rearview, she still will be. Treat her that way and I promise that you’ll have helped. Remember that our Piper Bea could use a little love and attention too and I promise that you'll have helped.

Thanks, in advance, to all of you from all of us. Thank you for caring about us and for sending us positive energy.

It means much to us, as do all of you.

sins of the father.

Today we buried my father's father.

Ten years ago we'd laid his youngest son, my father, to rest.

Much as I did while seated at my dad's memorial service, I found myself pondering unasked questions and wondering why emotions run so strong and so near the surface only when there no longer exists the opportunity to share them with the source.

I listened as my uncle shared touching and heartfelt recollections of my grandfather's sacrifices, his humor and his love for people.  He was right.

While I listened, though, I wondered why grandchildren and great-grandchildren had had so little opportunity to experience these attributes first-hand.  As kids, we hadn't had any say in the matter and embraced the little time granted without further consideration.  But as adults and, eventually, parents ourselves, we hadn't made any greater effort to seek out the company of a man from whom we'd accepted a certain degree of detachment.  We bemoaned the lack of closeness and loved the man in spite of it.  I did, at least.  But proactive steps to diminish the gap were not taken.

And now the chance to take those steps is gone.

I hope that Lily and Piper are decades removed from having to give account of how their parents provided for them and of the lives their parents led. When reporting that their father loved to run and immensely enjoyed hiking and camping with his friends, may they not believe those activities to have been pursued at the expense of the time and attention owed them.

May they never question if they were loved or that they mattered most of all to their mother and father.

They are and they do.

twas the day before christmas.

Realizing I was the only thing stirring, I threw off the blankets and groped in the dark for my running shoes.  Santa was scheduled to appear that night, but I had things to attend to prior to his arrival.  I'd consulted the USATF website two days prior and mapped out a 13.1 mile course that led from my doorstep to my place of work via a long arcing loop.  Considering it a present to myself, I'd created the Crack of Christmas Eve Dawn Half Marathon.

The preceding weekend had brought with it 9 inches of snow that hadn't budged in the chilly days after.  Though the roads were clear, ice and hard pitted ground lurked just to either side of the pavement.  The sun hadn't yet crept above the horizon when I left the house, so I had on a headlamp and a Petzl Signal safety beacon.  I'm pretty sure they don't actually do much in the way of alerting motorists to my presence, but I appreciate the sense of security they perhaps falsely provide.  As race director, I knew that there were no water stations to be had, so I grabbed my Osprey Raptor 6 hydration pack (coming to retail stores in Spring '10).  I topped off my ensemble with my beloved windshirt, an Outdoor Research balaclava and a newly purchased Santa hat.  I may have looked ridiculous, but I was as "geare up" as I get and feeling great.

With less traffic than I'm used to in the morning thanks to my early start, I enjoyed confident footing as I rarely needed to venture off of the road.  It was extremely cold, but the effort of the run kept me from feeling the effects...at least during the run.  The only disappointment was finding that my failing to insulate the hydration pack led to a completely frozen drinking tube and no way to access the 2 liters of water that I was toting on my back.  Thankfully Osprey has built a pack that fits well enough that I didn't really mind the extra weight.

Upon reaching the historic town of Lititz, I paused to snap a few pics to confirm that I'd made it that far before picking up my feet again and turning back towards Manheim.

It wasn't until arriving at work that I realized just how cold and thirsty I'd become.  Despite the cold and the dawdling in Lititz, I'd covered the 13.1 miles in under 2 hours without really feeling like I'd pushed very hard.  I'd enjoyed the sun coming up on a cold and beautiful December morning that was brimming with the exuberant holiday expectations of my two little girls. I'd grinned like a lunatic and felt truly blessed to be gifted with a beautiful, healthy family and the luxury of my own health and happiness.  All I needed was for my beard and toes to thaw.

Santa was free to pass me by entirely as I didn't need any more gifts than I'd already received.

the snowy day.

If I concentrate really hard I can remember a time (I think) when it snowed in the Susquehanna Valley. Even then though, a pre-winter snowfall of any significance was a rarity. Forecasts call for snow several times a year, but some slight shift in the weather pattern or uncooperative temperatures usually turn promises into wintery mixes, sleet or cold, cold rains.

Tired of the boy crying wolf, when the weathermen were projecting 8"-12" of the white stuff on December 19, I turned a deaf ear. But, sure enough, they got it right this time. Snow it was without a single drop of anything else.

My day began with a quick dash to work to pick up a pair of snowshoes before ducking into the grocery store for supplies other than milk and bread. Snow was already falling, but the roads were in decent condition. At least they were when I left the house. By the time I left Manheim behind me and started the drive "up" into Sporting Hill, conditions had changed dramatically.

Getting home via Mt. Joy Road was out of the question as a jack-knifed feed truck had gobbled up both lanes of traffic and cars were standing in line in both directions. I hung a quick-thinking left hand turn, dropped across the covered bridge on Sunhill Road, crossed over the railroad tracks and...failed to make the inclined turn onto Junction Road. After spinning wheels for a moment, I eased off the gas, put the car in reverse and backed up enough to hopefully get the momentum required to make it up the hill. It sounded great in my head but it didn't work. By my second attempt, other cars had caught onto my brilliant detour and were crowding me from the rear. I-own-an-SUV impatience convinced one driver to pull around me while I backed up and I inched over to the right to create a bit of space between our cars. The end result was the passenger’s side rear tire of my Ford Focus becoming pathetically ensnared between a railroad tie and the actual rail. There I sat directly on the railroad tracks going nowhere.

But I digress. My escape is a story unto itself, but is not the story of my snowy day. Suffice to say, friendly roving snow Samaritans and eventually AAA combined to deliver both me and the vehicle to the safety of my driveway and garage. And, believe it or not, I was grinning the entire time. Snow in December brings with it boundless hope.

Paragraph 2 of this post contains a lie. I tried to turn a deaf ear to the prognosticators but I didn't succeed entirely. On Friday night I found myself wandering into the local hardware store in search of a sled. I left with two. I was fully prepared to hang them in the garage for some later date, but I really, really hoped that they'd get some use the next day. And they did.

After being bundled up by her mother to the point that her arms were suspended straight out at her sides as though her coat was still on its hanger, Lily offered me her mittened hand and we headed for the backyard. Our deep is on a downhill slope that butts up against a decommissioned elementary school playground. The playground also slopes away before joining a farmer's field. Lil and I had a couple of acres all to ourselves though we needed little of that expanse.

Eight inches of powder was enough for the two of us to "wahoo!" and "yay!" maniacally. I'd daydreamed about this day long before actually becoming a father and it was as joyous and magical as I'd imagined. Sub-freezing temperatures, however, cut our festivities short as Lily's sensitive skin was beginning to light up like Rudolph's nose. Whether because she's a trooper or because she sensed Daddy's enthusiasm for sledding, Lil never said a word but there was no hiding the fact that she was frigid. I delivered her to the safety of the house, Lindsay's shared blanket and a steaming cup of cocoa.

Snowblowing blows, but having a long driveway and a short attention span for chores, I ignored the shovel and blew snow. My run was calling.

I own a pair of Crescent Moon Gold 12 running snowshoes, but they've been little more than decorations on my garage wall for the last couple of years. I blew the dust off of them (literally) and adjusted the bindings to accommodate my Mountain Masochists. I had a vague notion of covering the two miles of farmer's fields between my backyard and the nearby section of converted rails-to-trails but was happy enough just to be on snowshoes after a long hiatus.

Running snowshoes are much more compact than traditional snowshoes so that the wearer isn't tripping all over himself or herself. The tradeoff is that these "shoes" don't have the surface area needed to effectively keep wearers up on top of the snow in deep powder. In other words, I and my Gold 12s needed a packed trail or a compressed, icy snow pack of which we had neither. Three-quarters of a mile into my "run", I knew it was time to turn and make this a short "out-and-back".

Except for stopping to snap a quick photo, I ran the whole mile and a half, but I ended up feeling like I ran 10 miles. By the time I got back to the house, I realized that I was absolutely exhausted. I also realized that I still had the same ridiculous grin on my face that had been there since the first flakes began to fall that morning.

To be completely honest, I think that grin had made its way onto my face the very first time I heard mention that it might snow. Deaf ear? What can I say? Snow hope spring eternal.

pacifier perch.

Though Lily is an unapologetic creator of messes, she has little patience for the clutter of others. While determining where to settle in for optimal Baby Einstein viewing, she was agitated by the stray nuk that had tumbled from Piper Bea's mouth earlier in the evening and now lay in the middle of the living room. Measuring 3" x 2" at most, it shouldn't have been much of a bother, but Lil was not going to accept it dwelling anywhere near her chosen resting place.  Of all the potential relocations sites, she quietly decided that Daddy's Pearl Izumi would make the perfect pacifier perch.  And for some reason I just can't bring myself to move it.

the bills were piling up.

I shut down my computer and tucked my chair under my desk. Despite another hard day’s work, I’d barely put a dent in all that I’d set out to do when I walked through the door in the morning. Christmas shopping weighed heavily on my mind and there seemed to be no end to the clamoring for the few remaining dollars in my wallet. A Lungfish lyric rattled around in my head: “The bills were piling up.”

The temptation to just get home and retire to the couch was drowned out by my body’s want to shed the burdens of the day. Clothes and shoes were swapped for running attire. With the sun long since set and an ice storm looming, I pulled on gloves and donned a hat and headlamp.

Tumbling out into the dark, my first few strides were overshadowed by the mental replaying of the missteps of the last few days.

Monday had marked a hectic and short-handed start to a busy week of attending to disgruntled customers and scrambling to address inventory and shipping issues. The “joy” of the holiday season has apparently been lost on all shoppers amidst the preparations for the big day and they are in a combative state. Though I’ve been “blessed” with an ability to mitigate it doesn’t mean I actually enjoy putting that talent to the test over and over again. Christmas seemed a long way off and the need to devote more hours to the workplace between now and then made me feel the guilt of thieving that time from loved ones at home.

As my heart rate quickened and my lungs started to warm to the task, I continued to wrestle with the budget-balancing act of a newly increased mortgage payment, the rising cost of electric in my beloved Keystone State and the general strain of keeping up with what often feels like a never-ending parade of arriving invoices. The bills were piling up.

My legs fell into a steady rhythm that subtly encouraged my mind to let off the worrying and come along for the ride. A quick sidelong glance at a passing gas station revealed that fuel prices were on the way up, up, up and my thoughts momentarily tilted back towards more fretting.

The gas pumps faded into past tense and the tunnel of light thrown from my headlamp drew me fully into the run. A few sparse, swirling snowflakes reminded how much I enjoy being out in the elements freed from the confines of the four walls of buildings and vehicles. I couldn’t see through the dark windows of passing cars, but I knew that I wouldn’t trade places with those inside.

A grin grew as my legs involuntarily picked up the pace and propelled me along the otherwise deserted sidewalks. My heart beat happily in my chest and embraced the task at hand. Christmas lights cheered my efforts, blinking and twinkling in support.

I climbed a brief but steep section of hill that left town and its ambient light behind me. Traffic dwindled and the sound of brakes and motors was replaced by footfalls and steady breathing. With each progressive step, the stresses of the day seeped further and further away.

In the few moments that my mind wandered from my run it found its way only to the expectation of once again seeing the wonder of Christmas through Lily’s eyes and watching Piper Bea take in the spectacle for the very first time…and the grin grew.

Having rounded the final corner and reached the driveway, I stepped up onto our front porch and remembered a later line in that same Lungfish song: “The world vanished in a gentle breeze.”

Indeed.

Bills? What bills?

bibs.

The Free Dictionary offers three definitions for the word bib.  I find two of the definitions to be of particular interest.  The first reads as a piece of cloth or plastic secured under the chin and worn, especially by small children, to protect the clothing while eating and I'm certain this is the most common use of the word.

In the world of runners, however, the word brings to mind a slightly different image.  To return to the Free Dictionary for a moment, a runner's bib is a piece of cloth or plastic bearing a number, usually worn over the chest or back, identifying a competitor in a race. Most every bib I've ever worn at a running event is made of paper, but let's not split hairs.  The rest of the definition is apt.

I'm not much of a packrat and even if I were, changes in places of residence, failed relationships and the overall evolution of living situations has led to many misplaced, discarded or forgotten mementos.  Now and then I do lament not having a bib stashed away to confirm my having taken part in such-and-such a race.  I wouldn't mind being able to pull out the number from the wonderful 10-miler in Ocean City, Maryland or the one from the midnight 5K in Central Park at the stroke of a new year.  Might be nice to still have the bibs from the few (very few) races in which I placed in my age group or even the number from my very first Red Rose 5 Mile run in which my in-shape-but-not-in-running-shape body learned a lesson in humility and finished in a tortoise-like 44 minutes and 44 seconds, a time that even my poor memory can't seem to forget.

In the end, however, they're really all just little squares of paper with random numbers printed on them.  I've got the memories and that's certainly what's important.  I've held onto a few and will make a point to do so in the future when it really does seem important, but I expect the collection will never be very sprawling.

Our other bib collection, however, has grown to epic proportions. Between Lily and Piper Bea, we've amassed enough bibs to present a fresh one at every meal the girls partake in for the next 6 months.  Much like ironic t-shirts, there are bibs in every gift shop and clothing store emblazoned with clever graphics and text.  Some of them, I must admit, are absolute treasures.  Others are, well, simply pieces of cloth or plastic secured under the chin and worn to protect clothing while eating.  Still, I have some favorites.

Here, then, is a very condensed look at some of the standout Lutz family bibs:

a.  "If you think I'm cute you should see my Dad!" is one of the bibs we've had the longest and despite the fact that Lily and mealtimes have put a hurting on it, it remains in circulation for obvious reasons.

b.  The Wasatch Wobble is a Montrail sponsored race held in Red Butte Gardens above Salt Lake City each summer to coincide with the large Outdoor Retailer trade show.  The course changes each year and I'm not sure how precisely the distance is ever determined, but it works out roughly to a 5K and usually involves some quirky plot twists along the way.  Last year, to launch Montrail's Mountain Masochists (see my earlier posting), the twisted folks at Montrail basically ran us straight up a mountain for a mile-and-a-half before dumping us straight down the other side in a hamstring burning suffer fest.  Asking a flatlander to start at an altitude of 5,000+ feet and tackle 900+ feet of gain in just over a mile is indeed masochistic.

c.  Piper Bea's "Tuesday" bib is just one in a collection of 7, I suppose intended for a far more organized household than our own.  The idea of using the Monday bib, depositing it in the laundry basket at the end of the day and then laying out the Tuesday bib for tomorrow is an adorable and preposterous concept.

d.  I was handed number 79 before the start of this year's New York City Beard and Moustache Championships, never suspecting that it would lead to my crowning as the winner of the Sideburns Category and the runner-up for the overall winner.  AND, I certainly didn't suspect that it would lead to my face appearing in The New York Times, The Onion, Time Out NY or prompt a visit to Live With Regis and Kelly (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=doJyLysW4_A).  Sometimes life just works out that way.

e.  The Amos K. Herr 5K Honey Run is a local favorite.  I've probably participated in this run more than any other organized event.  I believe I've run my fastest time at this event and, more memorably, this was the first race that I ran with Lily and then, just this past summer, it was the first event that Lindsay and I ran in together.  With any luck, August 2010 will find all four of us crossing the line as a family of four.

f.  This cute little bib was knitted for us by a friend as a maternity gift.  It's such a wonderful, thoughtful gift and we cherish it.  Because of the handful that Lily proved to be in the high chair, it unfortunately didn't provide the coverage necessary to be a functional day-to-day bib.  Somewhere along the line, I got it in my head that it would make a great, though airy, loin cloth.  If I'm not mistaken (and I might be), it deserves some of the credit for Lily having a big sister.

Having said too much, I believe it's time to put the bibs away.

keys, celery and a toy drill.

Poor Piper Bea is nearing the end of her rope with the whole teething thing.  She'll gnaw on anything within arm's reach in a thus far failed attempt to relieve the four small sources of her aggravation.

A couple of weeks ago she tried to devour a set of plastic keys.  Last Sunday at our pre-Thanksgiving family get together she discovered the cool, solid vegetable that is celery.  That seemed to work for a short time, but eventually she sent a telepathic message to my stepfather who obliged her wish by running a toy drill along her gums.  For a short time, she seemed to have found solace.

Today brought more of the same frustration and though she was putting up a good fight, the teeth were once again winning the day.  Piper gnashed her teeth and eyeballed every toy in the house, the kitchen appliances even the salespersons at the hardware store.

Unfortunately, that toy drill does not dwell in our home (though I plan on rectifying that).  Yesterday's run, however, seemed to be a decent substitute and I decided to give it another go.

Piper napped fitfully until 4:30 and I knew we were pressing our luck.  I decided to wake her up, quickly ushered her into her car seat and fed her a bottle on the drive over to the rails-to-trail.  By the time we pulled up to the trailhead, Pipe had downed most of the bottle and gave little resistance when I removed it from her mouth.  She didn't argue as I buckled her into the jogging stroller.  Another good sign.  I threw a headlamp into the stroller's pocket and away we went.

I'd decided to be content with whatever distance we were able to cover, but hoped we'd at least manage a 5K.  Light was fading as we neared an intersection that serves as a just-over-a-mile-and-a-half turnaround.  Piper's early cooing (adorable) had quieted and I wasn't surprised to peek under the weather shield to find her sleeping soundly.

Daddy's "drill" had worked its magic.

Breaking out the headlamp, I pushed past the intersection and continued on to the true turnaround, pleased to have stretched the mileage a little further.  Pipe slept the rest of the way and then serenaded me with sweet little infant songs on the drive home.  I felt rewarded.

Of course the pain returned and before we'd made it the whole way through Piper Bea's entree of organic sweet potatoes, she'd turned her attention away from the food and focused on the spoon itself.

But, Monday will bring with it the possibility of another comforting run. Lily comes home tomorrow and she'll find a little sister, mother and father who are thrilled to have her back.

It's definitely time to track down a double jogging stroller.

piper's inaugural run.

And so today it became official:  my daughters run.

Or, at the very least, they've both been taken for runs by their father.  And, thankfully, they seem to enjoy it.  At two-and-a-half, Lily Harper has been out with me in Pennsylvania's unpredictable spring, the all too predictable heat and humidity of summer and the cold chill of autumn and winter.  She's accompanied me on empty and crowded paths.  Even raced (if you checked my times, you'd challenge my right to use the term) in a 5K that began with an after-the-gun-had-fired-dash-from-the-men's-room start (a candidate for its own post).

This afternoon, (almost) eight month old Piper Bea experienced her first run on a cold and breezy November day.  I'm actually disappointed and slightly embarrassed that this is the first I've gotten Piper into the jogging stroller and out on the trail.  Lil and I used to get out frequently and today served as a reminder to not allow Piper Bea to miss out on special experiences now that my home and schedule have become even fuller.

I've had Lily laugh and chatter throughout a full run, but often early enthusiasm fades to a rhythm-induced nap.  Such was the case today for Piper and it was a blessing for us both.

 Poor Pipe has had (count 'em) one, two, three, four baby teeth pokily creeping toward poking through for what's now going on three weeks.  In the last day or two Piper's discomfort has increased tremendously and she'd struggled with a restlessness that has taken a toll on her, Lindsay (her mother) and myself. She hadn't gotten the uninterrupted naps that she craves and requires at this age.  Between a busy week of pre-holiday work, Thanksgiving engagements and attending to Piper, I hadn't been in running shoes since last weekend and both my mind and body were all too aware of that fact. With big sister Lily away for the weekend on a trip to the mountains with her Memma (my mother) and Lindsay putting in a rare weekend shift at the hospital, Piper and I had the afternoon all to ourselves.

All to ourselves and the teeth.

And that's when the solution became obvious.  A quick trip to the local gas station and its "free air" reinvigorated the tires on our lovely jogging stroller.  While Piper wasn't exactly laughing and chattering, she had stopped crying and was watching quietly and curiously as I hung up the air hose and lifted the stroller back up into the van.

A few moments later we arrived at the Lancaster Junction Rails-to-Trail to find a nearly deserted trailhead.  With a stiff breeze making mid-40's temperatures feel closer to freezing, I tucked a blanket around Piper (which initially made her angry), affixed the transparent weather shield to the stroller and off we went.  Settling into a comfortable pace and paying close attention to the path which fluctuates seasonally from a muddy track to a pitted, hard stroller-bumpfest, I attuned my ears for the sound of crying that thankfully never came.

We put in a slow but steady 4-and-a-half miles, cheerfully (and in my case, proudly) accepting the "isn't she adorable" compliment from the sole dogwalker braving the wind.  After a bit, traffic thinned out entirely and we had the path all to ourselves.  I heard barely a peep out of Pipe and suspected that she'd been lulled to sleep somewhere along the way.

I reveled in the fact that much like Lily and Daddy, Piper seemed to find her own brand of escapism in logging a few miles.  There's certainly a chance that neither one of them will have any interest in running as they get older and perhaps its being "Dad's thing" makes that likely, but I hope they'll at least have warm (even if foggy) memories of our time together.

I know I will.