There were a lot of things I wanted to write about today - our great day yesterday with Edward’s first baseball game, our annual burning of brush and downed branches last weekend, plans for the summer - but the only thing on my mind now is how irked I am at the local road race organizers. Before the 10K and 5K races, there is a fun kid’s event. We first took Edward when he was 11 months old and have gone almost every year since. Given how popular the whole event is, I do think the organizers do a good job keeping things running smoothly, from registration to parking. I was looking forward to taking all four kids this year, and I’d even registered to run the 2K with Edward for the first time (and I am NOT a runner, but I thought it was something we could have fun with together, even if we walked most of the way).

We busted our butts to get there on time, knowing the crowds we’d face. Dex dropped off me and kids, and we hustled to pick up our race packets, including our t-shirts and race numbers. I carried Davey while Edward pushed the girls as fast as we could go to the kid’s event area, knowing we were cutting it close.

Just as we reached the grassy track for the wee ones, I hear the announcer over the loud speaker say “Great job by the one-year olds. And now we have the two-year olds lined up and eager to go.” WHAT?! I flip open my phone. It’s 11:01… yes folks, it’s a full SIXTY SECONDS past the 11:00 a.m start time and two age brackets are already done and gone. The girls are out of luck.

I bite back a stream of epithets, clench my jaw, and we push through the crowds until we run into Dex, who scored an amazingly close parking space. Dex is convinced that they are running the kids in descending age brackets, despite what I think I heard, we shove t-shirts on the girls and he trots off to find the starting line. I put Davey’s shirt and number on him, we press forward to the sideline of the makeshift track and hear “Now for the five-year olds!” And a stream of children fly past us on their way to race day glory… or at least the goodie bag waiting at the finish line.

We find Dex, who is as disgusted as I am. “We’re not doing this again,” he says, through clenched teeth, voicing my exact thoughts. I insist on grabbing the finish line goodie bags - juice and a granola bar - for the kids on our way to the car. Edward doesn’t want to run the 2K anyway, and I am so pissed that I wouldn’t do it - even if I didn’t hate to run and even if my ankle weren’t killing me. I am ticked. It’s a lot of work to get four kids ready, in the car, unloaded, dragged across the field, and in position. It was supposed to be a fun thing we were doing all together, as a family. Instead, it was an exercise in frustration and futility.

As we trudged back to the car (thanking our one bit of luck for the parking space - if we’d have had to ride the shuttle bus to the regular event parking after that…. whooo doggies!), I realized that maybe my ire was fueled by more than just missing the race. It’s not like the kids cared. No one was crying because they didn’t get to run. So why does it needle me so?

New England and I… we have a long history together. Over two decades now. And our relationship, it has not been on the best terms for a while now. We’re at the point now where the slightest irritation is blown out of proportion. We’ve been in a decline for a long while, New England and I, and I won’t pretend we haven’t. But somehow, there was enough affection or shared history to carry us through. Now.. now, all those quirks that seemed cute and endearing, or that I at least could overlook in the first years, are prickles under my skin. My ability to forgive New England its foibles and faults has vanished. An early start time on race day? I can’t just let it go, New England. Because we both know it’s not about the start time. It’s about the weather and the cost of living and the culture I’ll never quite fit into. It’s over, New England. I’m sorry. And really, it’s not you - it’s me.

(p.s. When we got home, I took pictures of Jules and Mae running up and down the driveway in their race t-shirts. A staged recreation - and I’m not ashamed!)