Spring is for Track

Spring has a way of filling up the calendar before you quite realize it. And this year, it's all track. 

My boys. Both runners. Both freshmen. Different seasons. 

Grant's season was a slow build from recovery. The end of the indoor season had him sidelined, managing a knee that wouldn't cooperate-- swelling, questions, and more rest than he wanted. For someone as competitive as Grant is, that's its own kind of challenge. But somewhere in that pause, he got curious. He realized he needed to adjust his run form to avoid knee problems. He started studying his gait, making small adjustments, repeated trips to the PT, paying attention to the slightest details. 

And when outdoor season ramped up, so did his return. Not tentative, but ready. He's been back on his feet, back in races, and putting together a really strong freshman season. There is something satisfying about watching hard-earned comebacks, especially the kind built on patience and self-awareness that Grant has shown. 

One of the clearest markers of that growth came at the Carolina Distance Festival. Last year, as an 8th grader running unattached, he lined up (for the first time, at a big meet like this), and ran a 5:05.98 in the 1600. This year, he came back and ran a 4:36.18 (converted from his 4:37.82 mile). 

That's nearly 30 seconds faster in a year. Same meet. Same distance. More experienced runner.

TJ's season has looked different. Less about PRs, more about figuring things out. His point of contention has been the 800- two laps that demand just the right mix of restraint and risk-- but that elusive sub-2:00 barrier has been just that. . . elusive. 

2:01.49, 2:00.67. . again and again. Close enough to taste, not quite close enough to claim. To me, it feels mental now, that last thin line between where he is and where he knows he can be. 

But instead of staying stuck there, he's done something I admire, he's expanded. Stepped into something new. 

The Steeplechase. 

3000 meters.

28 barriers.

7 water jumps. 

It's part race, part Cross Country on a track. Rhythm matters. So does courage. Fixed barriers don't move like hurdles-- they ask more of you. The water jump adds a layer of complication (and let's be honest, a little fun). And somehow, in between all of that, you still have to run far. . . and fast. 

It's one thing to describe it, and another to see it. Rich captured TJ's first Steeplechase on video, and it tells the story better than I can. (Good job, honey)!

It's an event TJ has always been curious about, and this season he had the opportunity to go for it. To learn something new. To be bad at first, but to gradually improve. There is a quiet bravery in that as a college athlete. He's raced the event once already and will line up again this weekend at conference-- each time getting a little more comfortable with the rhythm, the spacing, the feel of it all. 

And then there are the weekends. 

Long days at meets. Deciding which meet to go to and when. Learning the cadence of each environment, each new team, each set of parents in the stands. I've found myself working hard to build a new community-- track moms (and dads) in folding chairs, trading schedules, cheering for kids who aren't our own-- and meaning it, and slowly becoming familiar faces to each other. Working hard to find my footing again after TJ graduated from Willow Spring and Grant stepped into a new school. We're getting there.

It's been busy. Full. Sometimes a little chaotic. 

But mostly, it's been really, really good. 

Spring is for track. 

For comebacks and breakthroughs.

For near misses and new risks. 

For finding your stride, both on the track and alongside it. 

And for now, I wouldn't trade these weekends for anything.  

When They Call Each Other

There’s a part of parenting no one really prepares you for. It’s not the college drop-off, or the goodbye, or even the quiet house. It’s the not knowing.

TJ is knee deep into his second semester in college, and staying in touch is inconsistent at best. I’ve tried to keep my expectations low—a quick “I’m alive” text, maybe a phone call here and there. I don’t want to be the mom who hovers or nags, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still want to know everything. His highs and lows. Who his friends are. What’s stressing him out. If he’s eating well. If he’s sleeping at all.

I’ve had to get creative. I check his Strava to see when he runs and try to understand all the comments. I watch for the occasional Instagram reel he sends. Little glimpses into a life I’m no longer part of in the same way. And that’s been the hardest part—not being in the rhythm of his everyday life.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect.

What has brought me the most joy in this season isn’t when TJ calls me. It’s when he calls his brother.

Sometimes it happens when I’m in the car with Grant driving home from school. The phone rings, and it’s TJ. And I get to listen—not as the main character in the conversation, but as a quiet observer. A fly on the wall. Over time, I’ve learned to stay there, to not jump in or redirect, but to just listen.

Most of the time, it’s nonsense. Banter. Jokes. Running talk. Social media memes, things that a 55 year old just does not understand. But its the kind of back-and-forth that only brothers understand. And every once in a while, there’s something more. TJ asking Grant how his race went. Checking in on his year at a new school. Offering a quick piece of advice. And Grant, in his own way, receiving it—asking questions, letting his guard down just enough.

It’s subtle. Easy to miss if I'm not paying attention. But I see it. And it stops me every time.

Because calling your mom is expected. Calling your brother is a choice.

There’s something unfiltered about it. Something real. They aren’t performing or protecting. They’re just themselves. And in that space, I get to see who they are becoming—not just as individuals, but as brothers.

For a long time, I thought my role was to stay closely connected to them forever—to be the one they came to for everything. But I’m starting to see it differently. Maybe parenting success isn’t measured by how often they call me. Maybe it’s that they call each other.

I’m still figuring out what it looks like to be the mom of a college student. I’m still learning when to reach out and when to hold back, still adjusting to the space. But in the middle of all that, I get these glimpses—small, ordinary phone calls between brothers—and they remind me that even though things are changing, the most important things are holding steady.

Brothers aren’t just family; they’re a lifelong support system. And somehow, in the letting go, I get to watch that take shape.

Wet Shoes

A pile of wet, stinky, sometimes still snow covered shoes and boots is a staple of any home in the snow belt. It is the result of putting on boots to go shovel, shoes to go and run errands, and something else to run to the mailbox. For some inexplicable reason, each of these tasks seems to require a different set of footwear which then accumulates by the front door.  

Last week we anticipated the biggest snowstorm in two decades. By some atmospheric miracle, the storm almost completely missed us and dumped over a foot of snow in Charlotte and inches as far south as Myrtle Beach.  However, we still got enough to cover the roads, shutdown everything, and add to our collective Cabin Fever.  

Harking back to our New York days, we bundled up to take Lucie for a walk and assess the two inches we received for snowman making and sledding opportunities. Snow is pretty for a few minutes and then it's just a frigid nuisance. Nonetheless, we stayed out in it for an hour, swept and shoveled some out of the driveway, and played with the neighbors kids until everyone got cold.  

Grant? Grant hardly poked his head out the door and was not interested in making fun in the snow. He did go out to learn how to drive in it, but a Subaru sticks to the road in all kinds of conditions. TJ got a dusting at college and wished he had more. Snow is more fun when you are young there are many peers looking for something to do.  Lisa made a snowman and got plugged with a couple of snowballs for her effort. Me? I recalled days back when snow was a part of everyday life.   

Back when the snow I shoveled from the driveway was three feet deep in the yard and made for great snow forts. When you drove in snow squalls and it looked like flying in hyperspace. When snow was not a once a year "treat". When a pile of wet shoes was a constant reminder of winter.