Köszönöm szépen, Kincsem!
I have always thought that I would support any politician that initiated more support for the arts and culture in general. It is so rare that the most important aspects of life are given attention, space, time, and financial support. Yet, there are offers out there, that are available to us all. Cool. Me likes.
I dropped off Matthias at school today – my muscles hurt, especially when going downstairs, so I took the elevator, whimpering every time I had to take a step. When we arrived at his daycare, there were 3 steps we needed to walk down on, and when he heard me crying out in pain, he said:
“Mother, we could build a dragon elevator – the dragon would spit fire when you pushed the button, and he would fly downstairs. Then you’d push the other button, and it would spit water, and you would go upstairs very slowly. And your muscles wouldn’t hurt. Isn’t that a good idea, mother?”
“Yes, it is.” I replied, smiling back gratefully. My son, the architect. Saving me at the age of 4 and a half.
I had organized a play date for Matthias and his buddies from his old kindergarten – Vilhelm, Jens, Johannes and Jökull showed up after I had left and were gone by the time I got home. Kincsem had also managed to tidy up before I arrived home – apart from this picture, there wasn’t any sign of 4 youngsters having spent the afternoon together. By the look of it, everything went just fine.
Majken is my work colleague, but more than that, she is an extremely helpful and nice person, emanating peace and harmony and the sort of kindness we all wish the world had more of. We spent last Saturday together with both of our families – despite the age difference between Malte and Matthias, the boys turned out to enjoy each other’s company, with Izabel tagging along, hanging out in Majken’s arms most of the time. We spent the afternoon in Copenhagen Zoo – although it was Malte’s first and our third visit, we managed to see nearly everything on the map – considering we had a toddler and a rather tired 4 ear old in the group, it was most effective. Tusind tak for besøget og de smukke blomster!
I have just come home from BT’s Half Marathon in Lyngby – I came in 5 minutes short of 3 hours, not exactly proud of my performance on time, nonetheless content with having completed the run, albeit I shamelessly walked the last 4 kms. It reminded me in many ways of my first ever competitive 5km run – untrained, green to it all, maverick, I’ll-show-them-all kind of attitude. I did not have time to train up to the 22km distance, the longest I had run in my training was little under 13 kms… I clearly showed signs of fatigue at 14 kms, and by 15 kms I felt my muscles got bored with it all. I started jogging in a lower tempo, cursed myself for not having trained properly, admired the view and was determined to get past the finish line if I was to crawl over… By 16 kms I started walking and concluding this must be the same with hitting rock bottom for an elite runner, me far from being one. At the 18 km pole I powerwalked a bit, trying to regain dignity and hoping to get through it. I thought 3 kms never felt this long, except back in my mid-20s, when every weekend I would tip-toe home on high heels from someone’s party somewhere out by someone’s summer house with some people most of who probably don’t even remember having been at a party. At 19 kms I felt humble and started to regain confidence in myself, made a feeble attempt to start running again, Rocky style, the fallen hero rising from the ashes, with Katy Perry’s “Firework” in my ear phones, birds flying around in the blue sky above, a pleasant 18 degrees Celsius, breeze in my hair – at 7.5 kms/hour I concluded what deep in my heart and soul I had known all along: distances beyond 10 kms are a patience game I am simply not carved out to play or enjoy, for that matter. By 20 kms I could see the Danish flag, hear people cheer in the stadium, so I pulled myself together, made the last bit jogging through, looking somewhat like a duck on LSD, dangling feet and arms, keeping my eyes on the finish line. As I walked past gazelle-like elite runners who were enjying their second or third after-run snack, I tumbled to the Water station and made the biggest mistake of myself – I sat down on the grass. Whilst it was a gratifying moment, 20 minutes or so later, it was purgatorium – I couldn’t move, had to roll on my side in order to stand up – I remember thinking I had more power in my legs after giving birth – I crawled to the bus stop and sat down in a seat, knowing I would regret it half an hour later. A 10 minute walk and a half hour train ride later, I stumbled into Kincsem’s arms, glad to be home. The children had been having a play date and were both exhausted but Izabel, her usual Duracell rabbit-style, jumped on me the minute I walked past our threshold. As I type this, sitting upright in our bed, freshly showered, I can’t help but feel happy and content for having tried, despite the circumstances. As it looks now, this is the longest run I am willing to take part in voluntarily.