A morning of strange comments

Today, as I was picking the kids up from the childcare at my gym, a young African-American girl (probably about 6-7 years old) stared in disbelief as Eleanor yelled, "Mommy!" and ran up and hugged me.

She said, "THAT's your daughter?"

I said, "yep!"

And again, "THAT can't be your daughter!"

Again, I reply, "Well, but she IS my daughter!"

She tries once more: "HOW can YOU have a BLACK daughter???!!!"

I'm tired and not in the mood for a long discussion, so I summarize: "She is my adopted daughter! So she is black and I am white, and we don't look the same, but she is still my daughter."

The girl didn't seem mean-spirited; she was just apparently old enough to have a clue that biologically, Eleanor and I didn't line up, and not experienced enough to have ever met other families like ours, I'm guessing. Anyway, chalk one up for new adoption-comment experiences for me!

On the walk home from the gym, we see a dog. After a comment from Miles that the dog looks like Elmer, and where is Elmer now? Living with David and Gina still, I answer. And where is OUR dog now? Oh, honey, she died when you were still little, before Eleanor was even born.

But he has to push the issue. "So is she up in the sky with Jesus now?" I hedge: well, not in the sky; Jesus is everywhere. He's not satisfied. "Is Dagmar in heaven now?"

Sigh. I try to give the truth, as I understand it, as gently as possible: "I don't know where Dagmar is now, but I know that God made all the animals, including Dagmar and all the other dogs and cats, and that he loves them all and he will take care of them."

Eleanor cheerfully concludes, "So when I die, I can go be with her!" OK, we'll table this discussion for another time; we don't have any pets so it shouldn't come up anytime soon, right?

Finally, when we're almost home, we walk by a total stranger, an African-American woman who comments over her shoulder to us, "Hey, I have three more at home if you want 'em!"

Um? .....OK, I didn't have to respond; she was going the other way. I did have to explain to the kids that it was a joke, and we didn't really have three more brothers and sisters waiting for them. At least, not soon...

my first 10k...almost

Gratuitous bragging and self-aggrandizement ahead; be warned!

OK, it was actually a 9k. But who runs a 9k? Now I feel slightly guilty, though, as if I need to run a REAL 10k in order to validate myself saying I ran one. But I doubt I feel guilty enough to actually sign up for one, since it's getting colder and mornings are almost too dark for running. Wait, will going off Daylight Savings Time help there, or not...think think think...fall BACK...so yes, that means I will have more morning daylight! Bummer. It was a good excuse.

For the race planners, I note: it's discouraging to be told that there will be pace markers set up to get us organized at the start line, and then to discover that the markers are for 6, 8, and 10 minute mile pace, and anyone slower than 10 minutes per miles is relegated to the baby jogger section. Couldn't you have stuck in an 11 or 12 minute pace marker, just to make me feel like a real runner?

On the plus side: our race times came out today, and while I am definitely in the slower 50% of the "racers", only ONE woman over age 70 finished before me! Actually, I am wondering if their timer was a bit off, because it says I ran, on average, a 10:38 mile. People, for me, that's FAST; compare that to the previous weekend's 5k where I ran about a 11:20 mile (which actually was fast for me, too; I tend to estimate a 12:00 mile). And I didn't feel fast; I felt like I could barely shuffle my Sudafed-and-Mucinex-laden body along. So my theory is that their timer is off, rather like my iPod pedometer which insists that I actually ran 8 miles or so. I know there's a way to calibrate the darn thing, but I followed the instructions and ended up with it still thinking I'm running 6-7 minute miles. Heh.

The best part of this race? I actually remembered to bring a wad of Kleenex with me. Being able to blow my nose every kilometer or so was pure heaven, compared to just trying to sniff and dab ineffectually at the corners of my nose with my race T-shirt.