Neale turns one

Three years ago Stevie and I took a trip to Germany.  Because she had never been there, I felt compelled to show her as much as I could of the country in the 10 days alloted.  We rented a car and took in the cities of Berlin, Hannover, Munich and Cologne, as well as smaller towns and villages that showcased Germany's charm.

Close to the middle of the country, we stopped in my ancestral village of Partenheim, a mere hamlet of a thousand inhabitants in Germany's wine region that makes some seriously astounding wine.  We stayed above one of the two bars in town and had dinner and drinks below.  We quickly befriended the locals, and after three hours of conversation, we were gifted three bottles of Partenheimer wine and two wine glasses.  Because the wine bottles bear my surname and because it is all but impossible to procure outside of Partenheim, my family tends to save them for special occasions.

We drank the first bottle on the night after our wedding in 2013, and opened the second bottle tonight, the night of our son's first birthday.  Neale already had a party in Florida a few weeks ago, and another in our backyard last weekend, so tonight was about Stevie and me.  It was about celebrating our first year as parents; the joyous highs and the maddening lows, the endless laughter and the endless crying, everything we have gained and everything we have sacrificed in the name of raising our son.

A year ago today we were in the hospital, exhausted and exhilarated from the previous 24 hours, amazed at what we (but mostly Stevie, of course) had just accomplished, and humbled by all that was to come.  And tonight, a year later, we sat on the porch of our bed and breakfast here in Ithaca to take it all in and reflect.

At the end of the day I can still say I love being a father to Neale and husband to Stevie.  To all those who have played a role in Neale's first year of life, big or small, I offer you my most sincere thanks.  And here's to the next year of parenthood, and many more, whatever they may hold.

Stroller running

I love the Haddonfield Running Company for many reasons, one of which is that they offer group stroller runs on Thursday mornings for stay-at-home moms and dads.  Now that I'm off for the summer, I had the chance to join them this morning.

It was me and several moms and their toddlers (and one dad) this morning.  We met outside the store and ran 3 miles, roughly the same 3 miles that starts the usual Wednesday night run that I do.  Afterwards we hung out in the store before it opened so the parents could drink water and chat while the kids ran around.  I let Neale crawl around for a bit and just hoped the older kids wouldn't trample him before scooping him up for the group shot.

I often wonder what goes through Neale's little baby brain when we run (or any time he sticks something in his mouth, for that matter).  He seems to enjoy it, I guess, at least the wind and the ever-changing scenery.  I've only actually run with him a handful of times, and I don't know if I should feel guilty about that.  I like getting him into the outdoors and modeling a running lifestyle, even if he won't remember any of this, but I also like going out on my own and negotiating curbs and trails without the heavy bulk of a stroller in front of me.

Neale still naps frequently, and trying to match up his nap schedule with the weather and my eating schedule is like trying to get the planets to align correctly.

At any rate, I can't wait for the day when he first joins me for a run without the stroller.

My first Father's Day

Three generations of Partenheimers

Father's Day was today, and it was a special one for me because it was my first as a father. Stevie made me waffles for breakfast, I took myself to the movies to see Jurassic World, and then we all headed to my dad's place to grill in the backyard.  Grilling, beer, and family - is there any better way to celebrate Father's Day?

It should go without saying that fatherhood is hard.  There have been some incredible highs over the past ten months, but some equally paralyzing lows in which I truly struggled.  But I feel good that I can sit here today and honestly say that I love being a father.  I am addicted to my son's laughter.  I am inspired by his curious explorations.  And I love the tiny nuances of his nascent personality.

While on Christmas break, Stevie and I hung out with friends who had a two-and-a-half year old boy.  The father told me how, as his son grows older, so too does the fun, and that has stuck with me ever since.  It's true; the fun grows exponentially, but so does the happiness. Each day brings some new found skill, obsession or joy that my son discovers, and with each new day, I discover happiness anew.

The meaning of running

Running is a simple sport, so I've often wondered about the tendency of runners to assign so much meaning to it in comparison to other sports.  Maybe I just don't read enough Sports Illustrated or ESPN Magazine, but it seems like there is an incessant amount of YouTube videos, articles and blog posts equating a Sunday morning long run to the meaning of life.

I am guilty of this myself.  Take the time I wrote about passion, or the time I compared my current self to my 16-year-old self.  Or the entire videos page of this blog.  And just a few months ago I wrote, "But when I push myself to my breaking point to see what I am made of, I experience a visceral connection to my natural surroundings, to the athletic world, and to my own being."  It seems there is always some life lesson to be learned on the road, no matter how tangentially related to running, and more than enough people willing to write about them.

When I qualified for Boston for the first time at the age of 29, there was the temptation to describe this event as The Most Meaningful Event of My Life, which made not getting to run Boston all the more heartbreaking.  The sequel came last year when I replicated this feat while bringing my PR down by 6 minutes.  The Most Meaningful Event of My Life Part II.

In short, running has meant a lot to me over the years.  It has given me strength, both literal and figurative, and at no other time do I feel as spiritual as when I am running in nature.  

All this to say I've been coming to a slow realization this fall: running doesn't matter like I thought it once did.  My runs have been slow and forced, my mileage has drooped, and I haven't learned a single life lesson in months.  This is all related to becoming a father at the end of August.  Because when you witness the miracle of birth and all of the raw emotion that surrounds it, nothing else seems to matter.

You want to talk about pride?  Pride is no longer running some distance faster than I ever have before.  Pride is making my son smile for the first time.  It's rocking him to sleep when he's been crying.  It's standing next to my wife, looking down at him as he sleeps, and thinking, "we made that."

You want to talk about heartbreaking?  Heartbreaking is no longer not getting to run some race.  It's looking into the confused, teary eyes of my son when he's been crying for an hour, and this time not being able to do anything to comfort him.

Maybe I'm simply in a rut caused by fatigue, the frustrations of parenthood and giving up the Philly Marathon this fall.  Maybe things will pick up with training in the winter and Boston will be The Most Meaningful Event of My Life Part III.  But right now in this moment, this face is more meaningful than any race I have ever done, and any I am likely to do:

August mileage

January: 65
February: 131
March: 173
April: 201
May: 237
June: 146
July: 170

And August:

144.2 miles for August.  In light of recent events, I've only kept the streak alive by the skin of my teeth. In other news, I'm completely derailing in my attempt to run 2,014 miles this year.

Spoiler alert: fatherhood is hard.