Schoolless

Count your blessings, son.

Room service!
Instead of making him get up, make his bed, get dressed, brush teeth, stand up straight and shape up, I indulged him. After all, we don't have anywhere to be this morning.
Did the young man desire a bowl of cereal? Or perhaps some piping hot cream of wheat?

Scrambled eggs with cheese and an English muffin!

Oh yes, that'll do nicely, thank you. And give me my book.

I did draw the line at hot chocolate in bed, but only for the very prosaic reason of there being no place to put it next to Peter's captain-style bed. But the whole morning did make me marvel at the freedom we have to enjoy these unhurried, drawn out mornings, to read for hours at our leisure, to adjust the speed of our waking to the mood and the weather, and to decide together what we want to squeeze out of the day.

Routine comforts

After several amorphous months of aimless drifting, we have settled into a bit of a routine.

To be honest, those months did not seem aimless to me personally. They were full of anxious activity, frantic travel, and getting things done. But because the things getting done were largely on behalf of someone else -- my mother -- I spent a few of those months with the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that my own life was coming apart at the seams.

It wasn't, really. It was just that, while I was preoccupied, my husband went about his necessary business, as our children drifted around the house in pj's, or whatever clothes they had gone to bed in the night before, resorting far more often than I would like to the computer for learning and entertainment, erecting elaborate playhouses of books, legos, and odd pieces of bedding and furniture throughout the house. They subsisted seemingly on breakfast cereals, mac & cheese and ice cream, which they consumed whenever fancy struck, half-sitting, half-standing in the kitchen, or by the computer in our bedroom, or crouching on the basement floor.

Meanwhile, rehearsals for the play they were in demanded more and more time, and soon were virtually the only obligation we managed to keep. At the same time, the performance became for us the culmination, the turning point, after which, free from this monumental responsibility, we would resume a normal, ordered life.

Ahhh, the happy, unfettered life of unschoolers! How uneasy you made me feel during those months! How I longed for the comfort of some sort of predictability, some routine!...

I started dropping broad hints, that after the play was over, it would be time to put our noses to the grindstone, to get back on a schedule, to get things done, once and for all. My children glanced at me with doubt and mistrust, and slunk away to their own pursuits when they knew I wasn't looking.

But when the day finally arrived, to my infinite surprise and relief, the routine was warmly embraced. No, I didn't really make them put their noses to the grindstone. But I did insist on dedicating our mornings to more structured or planned activities. It seemed downright refreshing to wake up in the morning knowing that there will be something concrete to do.

That I was relieved came as absolutely no surprise. I craved some kind of ordered comfort after months of the ground slipping out from under me. The new routine energized and motivated me, and within a few short days the chaos that had begun to overwhelm my house was gradually pushed out as I cleaned, organized, sorted and mercilessly purged every corner, until I could gaze upon a surface and see not another project, but a place to rest my eyes.

What was surprising, was that my kids also appeared to welcome the new routine. And, although I involved them to some extent in planning what we were going to do, it was definitely a mom-led process. But instead of the expected protests, procrastination and downright avoidance, I got... cooperation. Math lessons were dispensed with in a matter of minutes. Handwriting, as long as satire was tolerated in the margins, was completed with relish. Writing, not the most popular subject with my son who prefers to express himself through visual arts, suddenly engrossed him, and he spent long periods covering the page with his elbow, and scribbling furiously, and, in the end, decided to start writing a family newsletter. Art and science never required much encouragement, and now began to be the juicy points of the day that we look forward to.

So, what happened?

I haven't the faintest idea. Let me just say that the follow-through on my part, and the cooperation on the part of my children, are far from perfect. They cannot be. We are fundamentally flawed, spontaneous, easily distracted free spirits, who abandon the comforts of a routine at the slightest provocation. But the thing is, that I think we all, my kids and I, deep down, need to know that the safety net exists. It's one thing to be going, Alice-like, down, down, down, with no predictable end in sight, and quite another to take delight in falling freely, knowing exactly where you're going to land.

Who? Me? Radical?

"A strong democratic sense of your being the world's equal lets you take what you will from the endless advice it offers, and then set blithely out."
(from Out of the Labyrinth by Ellen & Robert Kaplan)

A friend whom I otherwise admire enormously sometimes wears a t-shirt that makes me absolutely crazy. On the back it says: "I think, therefore I am vegetarian."
One of the reasons I admire my friend, is that although she clearly has her own convictions and principles, she has never made me feel that whatever convictions and principles I have are any less valid.
Her t-shirt has.
My friend allows for a diversity of views.
Her t-shirt does not.

Sometimes in life, we are called upon to defend our choices and beliefs. As homeschooling parents, we are accustomed to periodically coming up against criticisms, questions and doubts from the society at large, and we are fairly adept at countering its arguments and standing our ground. We've come to expect some criticism from those quarters, and we are not that surprised on those occasions when we are asked to justify ourselves. Do we resent being thus questioned? I suppose it depends on who is doing the questioning and how they go about it. An individual who has a preconceived notion of the type of person you might be, or starts from a misguided premise that you are a bad parent, is clearly a very different case than one who questions from a point of genuine curiosity or maybe mystification of disbelief.

As I said, I've gotten used to those questions coming from outside the homeschooling community, but I've never before had an experience of being taken to task for my choices from within it. I guess when I first started reading homeschooling blogs, I picked up on a bit of a dissonance between those of a Christian bent, and those of a more inclusive persuasion. But, although I've met many different homeschoolers,  I have never come into direct confrontation with anyone whose homeschooling principles were different than my own. For one thing, I assume that, as homeschooling families, we are always in pursuit, rather than in possession of answers. For another, I believe we have chosen the homeschooling lifestyle so that we could retain the flexibility to choose what is best for ourselves and our children, and that our choices might change over time, as needs change.

I am really happy that two years before, I joined a real community of unschoolers in Chicago. During these two years after I've taken my son from school and decided against sending my daughter there, I have gradually migrated in my approach and beliefs to the unschooling end of the homeschooling spectrum. It hasn't been a particularly harrowing journey, but it was one that I undertook with a lot of trepidation, commitment, self-questioning and eyes and ears wide open to the suggestions and experiences of others.

Throughout this process, I spent a lot of time reading in print and on the internet, and talking to more experienced homeschooling and unschooling parents. As I searched, the question foremost in my mind was "what is best for my children and for my family". After a couple of years into my search, I feel that I am by no means an expert, but that I certainly have valuable input to contribute to the discussion on the topic of educating children at home. These discussions are extremely useful to both new and seasoned homeschooling parents, because, as I have observed, we are perpetually in search of something that might solve an old problem better, help address a new problem, or validate something that we have undertaken with success. And, as generous and kind-hearted souls, we are eager to share our triumphs with other families.

In my experience, what we share are not prescriptions for doing things better. We understand that each family, each group of completely unique individuals comprising each family, is entirely unlike any other. Therefore, what we exchange with one another are merely suggestions: this has worked for us; try it, if you think it might help, and see how it goes. What was engaging and helpful about these discussions is that no one knew it all. New and experienced families were all on a journey of self-discovery, ready to to offer and hear new ideas. No one had found "the way". Everyone was still searching, still learning.

It was in this spirit that I joined an online discussion about video games on Radical Unschoolers Network, a virtual community. I felt I had something in common with the woman who began the discussion and was looking for help because she did not like what was happening to her 12 year old after he had played a lot of video games. After scanning the 80+ comments submitted, most of which more or less advised her to leave the kid alone a let him play as much as he desired, I thought I'd share the fact that we have had some positive results with simply having our son write down how much time he was spending on different activities, including video games. We, as parents, were also jotting down how we spent our time, because we were curious why it sometimes seemed that we had very little of it to spare. I also disclosed that I had purchased a book called "The Kids Are Alright" on the benefits of playing video games, and invited my son to read it.

You would have thought that I had locked him in a dank dungeon with a clay tablet around his neck, and a chisel in hand, and demanded he stay there until he not only produced a publishable book review, but also accounted for every second of the time he had spent there. My comment, offered in support to the parent who confessed to having a problem, generated an avalanche of questions from others about my  parenting skills, hidden agenda, putting undue stress on my son, and culminated in one reader saying her thirteen year old was "horrified" that I would make my son read such a book. I tried to clarify my position, but I wasn't making any headway. And I didn't like having to measure my choices against some abstract, ideal and perfect way to raise children.

How can a conversation had with people on the internet, whom I don't know, and who, truth be told, care as little about me as I about them, have such a profound effect on me, that it has awakened me at in the middle of the night on a couple of occasions?

It did. I was feeling so unsettled by this online exchange, that I asked my son how he really felt about jotting down how much time he spends doing stuff.

"Uh, it's no big deal. It's like, I just put a mark on a calendar"
"You don't feel stressed out?"
"Nuh-uh."
"And how about that book, about the computer games?"
"Oh, that was kinda interesting. How they made it all scientific."
"So you don't mind reading it?"
"Well, I don't get all of it. But there are a lot of interesting things in it. I'll keep on reading it when I feel like it."

Whew! Turns out I am still more in touch with my son than is the online community.

So, I'm a little bruised. But I still feel a world's equal. And, with my vegetarian friend, I will hold on to my principles. The most important of which is to let other people stand by theirs.

I quit.

Last week, I did something I've been wanting to do for a long time. I quit being a real estate agent.

I really haven't been practicing this occupation for some months now, but last week, I took two important steps to get me on a road toward recovery: I picked up my license from my broker and brought it home in the bottom of my bag, and I canceled my real estate e-mail account.
When I announced this news to some of my staff at the bike shop, one of them asked incredulously: "so, what are you gonna do now?"
"I guess I'm gonna work at the bike shop" I said brightly.
When Chris and I first opened Rapid Transit Cycleshop, we worked together day and night, and did everything that needed doing, from ordering inventory, pricing it, selling bikes, repairing them, to sweeping the floor, taking the trash out, and cleaning the toilet. Other people go to work, we joked; we go to fun!
And it was true. We loved the work, we loved the long hours, we loved the contact with our customers. In the past, when someone said "I love working with people", I thought they were nuts. Now, I really knew what that meant. I really got a kick out of that interaction with customers. They would come looking for a solution, a vision, a dream, and I would help them get to it.
Others often asked us how we can work together day in and day out. The truth is, we couldn't imagine it any other way. It mystified us how other couples can work separately for many hours each day, and then sit around the dinner table and find something to talk about. Chris and I rarely had the opportunity to sit around the dinner table. We worked well past that time of day. But when we were huddled around the teapot in the morning, or wolfed down pizza sitting on the shop floor, we were inextricably entwined in each other's lives.
As time went on, we hired some staff, and then some more, but for the first several years we still continued doing essentially the same work as everyone we hired to work for us. It was as if we simply needed more of us to handle the work. Eventually, we began to realize that in order to run the business more effectively, we would have to take on a more managerial role, and let our staff handle much of the daily operations and customer interactions. That wasn't easy, because we had always maintained a very collegial atmosphere at the shop. We had little use for hierarchy, and were uncomfortable with administering rules and regulations.
But it was becoming increasingly clear that our commitment to the enterprise was different from everyone else's, and therefore, our role needed to reflect that. For us, this was not a summer job. It wasn't something we would do for a couple of years until something more permanent came along. This was it. This was our livelihood. This was our nest egg. This was what caused us to lose sleep at night. This was our third, but by far the most demanding, child. This was our future. Moreover, this was where some people worked, and we began to feel a growing sense of responsibility for their future employment and welfare. We also felt a sense of responsibility toward the community that fostered us and allowed us to grow.
For a while, we concluded that the best way to serve the growing needs of this voracious business was for reduce our dependence on it and seek another source of income. This is why I ventured into the field of real estate sales. I really gave it an honest try. I even think that I was a pretty good real estate agent. The problem was, that it wasn't at all aligned with the path we were on as a family. I really felt that my husband, my family business, and my children were traveling one way, and I kept asking them to wait for me at rest areas while I attended to my clients.
One day, while on a bike ride through our neighborhood, my kids and I started chanting:
"What do we hate? Real estate!"
So I quit.
And now, I have to define my job anew. Interestingly, being away for a few years makes some things easier. I am no longer so close in age to my employees (sigh!...), nor am I so close to most of them personally. Most of them don't remember the days when I took out the trash and scrubbed the toilets, and so they don't expect me to do those things. In fact, many of them hardly know what to expect of me.
I hardly know what to expect myself.
But I sure am glad to be back.

43

I made it.
No, I didn't make it to an hour yet. But I did run 43 minutes on my 43rd birthday. I survived both.

Crossing the finish line (actually, my front stoop).

I would say that's not bad for someone who in February could not manage more than two minutes of continuous running. But, in case you're gasping in awe and disbelief, let me tell you, I am hardly marathon material. I ran significant portions of my distance today at the granny pace (no offense to some grannies who passed me along the way).
No matter. This is, in fact, the longest I have ever run in my life.
OK, I'm going to blow out my candles and figure out my new iPod.

Not-so-minimalist

As someone who has never gone on a self-supported bike tour, I harbor perhaps a somewhat distorted image of such an endeavor. I imagine a lone figure against the dusky horizon, with panniers holding only the barest of necessities: tent, sleeping bag, change of clothes, some cooking utensils. Spare, self-sufficient, autonomous, economical.
Add a spouse and two school-age kids, and the picture changes radically.

Two, count'em, two BikeFriday Family Tandems being readied in our garage.

I have done car camping with my family. We have all the stuff. Regardless of the duration of the particular camping trip, you just throw all the stuff into the car, and go. It doesn't matter that we're only going for two nights. The car always looks like we're going on a cross-country road trip. But we don't care, because the car doesn't care.
We have read about and admired families that travel together by bike. Ironically, even though (or is it because?) we own a bike shop, we have never tried this ourselves.
So now that our youngest child is seven, we had this idea that we would go on a camping vacation by bike. A short little trip, just to get our feet wet: bike the I&M Canal to Starved Rock, camp a couple of nights and come back. You wouldn't think we need much for a trip like this; just the essentials.
Unfortunately, most of our car-camping equipment is unsuitable for towing in a bike trailer, and our planned 4-day trip has resulted in a mountain of equipment that had to be bought, begged, found and borrowed.
I have a feeling that with all the stuff we need, our bike tours will be no different that our trips by car: even if we're only going overnight, we'll look like we're ready to go around the world.
Maybe one day, we will.

Secrets of the logbook

Last fall, I decided to keep a logbook of our homeschooling activities: what we planned, what we did, how it went, etc.
It is my understanding, that in the state of Illinois, I am not required to keep any such record of our activities. Pretty early in the game, I realized that the desire to keep a logbook stemmed from my own insecurity about the "success" or our homeschooling adventure. I needed concrete evidence of our accomplishments and progress, a tangible proof that we were accumulating a growing stack of knowledge.
Here it is:

In looking back over my logbook at the end of the traditional academic year, I realize this document reveals more about me than about any learning my children may have picked up along the way.
I am really extremely conflicted about how I see my role as a homeschooling parent. I am in awe of the mothers who can say with conviction: "It is not my job to make choices for my child. It is my job to present the options, but the choice is up to them." To those of you who have read some other entries on this blog, this may seem somewhat disingenuous of me. After all, I have written a condemnation of worksheets, a stern critique of punishments and consequences, and a heartfelt plea for letting our children follow their dreams. I've managed to convince you, didn't I?
Well, let me fill you in on a little secret, shall I? There is a fierce tug-of-war going on between my private logbook and my public blog.
But first, another tug-of-war is taking place within the pages of the logbook. Every few pages, the logbook presents evidence of my intense efforts toward controlling the learning process: lesson plans, lists of questions to explore, painstaking notes, in my own hand, on the process and outcome of experiments and activities.
Between my notes there are numerous clues that my children's learning is taking place on a bit of a tangent.
Math worksheets morph into karate master comic strips:

Book reports rely rather more heavily on illustration than on the written word:

Worksheets are abandoned in favor of projects created from scratch:

Pencil studies proliferate when a small guidebook is accidentally discovered:

As I flip through the entries in the logbook, I am struck by the interest my kids show in the visual and tactile arts, and anything that involves hands-on exploration and participation. Looking back at the year, I realize that our greatest successes were not the mastery of fractions, or adding multi-digit numbers, or composing a paragraph. The biggest successes were those things we did that did not involve a plan or an agenda, that grew out of a genuine curiosity, and maintained momentum from our own internal drive. Things like Peter's stop-motion films, Nadia's novels and learning how to read, playing survival of the fittest with legos, looking for and dissecting owl pellets, making recycled paper, making a vacation travelogue, creating a Tree of Life book and other nature books, building a clay undersea coral reef, filling a mailbox with popcorn, and, of course, going back 4,600 million years to understand the history of  our planet.

And this brings me, in a circuitous sort of way, back to the original tension I noted between the secrets of the logbook, and ideas voiced in the blog you are now reading.
The blog expresses my more rational ideas, considered and formulated at relative leisure, after I've had a chance to reflect on all the facets of a particular challenging event. At that leisure, and in a clear frame of mind, there seems little doubt to me, that we all -- children and adults -- learn and do our best, and become better, when we are free to follow our own choices and make our own decisions.
On the other hand, the logbook contains the tangle of mixed emotions, indecisions, questions and self-doubt, with which I react, as I try to balance the interests of my children and family against the demands and pressures of our society.
Maybe one day I will stand unequivocally with the moms I quoted earlier. But not yet. Not quite yet.

Limitedlessnessibility

"Time out!" I'd say, and as I walked out of the room, my son or daughter would follow me, with strong, persuasive arguments pouring out of their mouths. Tried as I might, I could never get my children to remain in a time-out. Back when I was still convinced about the efficacy of such methods, I consulted friends who successfully kept their children confined.
"Oh, at first he wouldn't stay. I'd just hold him down the first several times, while he struggled and writhed, but eventually, he learned that I wouldn't give up."
"So, how long would you hold him like that?"
"Oh, at least fifteen minutes."
I didn't last sixty seconds. Half way through the exercise, it dawned on me how ridiculous this was from every point of view. What was my child learning? What was I learning? What would anyone say if they saw us thus engaged?! I'd release the tiger from the cage and let him roar.
This brings me to the question of limits and parental authority. Thanks to Summer, I landed on a site where vigorous discussion about the pros and cons of placing limits on children was being waged. I have to admit that I did not have the patience to read through all 93 comments. But I wasn't really interested in coming down on one side or the other.
Here's why.
First of all, I don't believe that there is such a thing as parenting completely without limits, no matter what any authority says. You may not limit your children's video game playing, or what they eat for breakfast. But by virtue of living together as a family, limits, in some fundamental form, are inevitably placed: on how and when you move around town, when you sleep and wake, what faith you belong to, or what other guiding values you use in your life. We limit our children's access to materials and activities that are beyond their age. We shield them from images and information that are painful or damaging, and which they do not yet have the capacity to understand. We stop them from hurting other living creatures. Limits are imposed constantly by our society and our environment.
Secondly, I am less interested in establishing up front which particular things are off-limits, and which are permitted, than I am in having an ongoing discussion with my family members about what is appropriate at a particular time, and how it fits into with what others might have planned, or even what the weather is like. If it is the first 60 degree sunny day after a drearily long winter, I will place strict limits on video games, and toss everyone outside. This may be an unpopular decision, and I never resort to simply saying "because I said, so, that's why." Recently such a decision occasioned a family discussion that lasted close to an hour, but resulted in everyone being on board for the outing. We don't always have the luxury of time, but whenever possible, we don't enforce, we deliberate.
On the other hand, I have frequently bent previously imposed limits because I saw something really cool happening, or for purely selfish reasons, or because I have a soft heart. Sometimes I witness a moment in my kids' imaginative play that is pure magic, and, although I've made other plans, I put them on the back burner to let the magic continue. Other times, I need to get something done, and having my kids otherwise distracted is a win-win situation. This is no different than letting your toddler watch Teletubbies so that you can take a shower. And, yes, there are times when I am persuaded by the "Bambi eyes" and the fluttering eyelashes.
Perhaps with the exception of the very strongly principled few, who either support or disdain limits, I suspect most of us struggle with them on a daily basis. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. Though, in truth, it is not about winning and losing. If you treat your children as fully vested human beings, I believe you learn that flexibility is more important than limits. My children are not loud and demanding, but they are strong-willed, stubborn, outspoken, and increasingly able to construct a solid, unshakable argument. My job, as I see it, is to help them place their desires against the context of the needs of family and society, and learn when and how to compromise with grace, and when and how to stand up for themselves with conviction.

The bumpy road to commitment

The ranking, competition and rewards system inherent in Tae Kwon Do instruction are a bit at odds with our laissez faire approach to personal achievement, advancement and life in general. Yet, we like and respect our instructor, enjoy the challenge, and find that the structure provides a valuable counterpoint to our otherwise disorganized lives.

Peter, who was the first one in our family to take up the art, is on the verge of earning his black belt. And we are asking ourselves whether reaching that milestone is consistent with what he wants and who he is.

Lately, he's been avoiding Tae Kwon Do. I've asked him if he wants to continue with the practice, and he insists that he does, but his actions don't support that claim. "Oh, let's not go today, let's go tomorrow..." and tomorrow "can we go on Saturday?" I have also offered to discuss with his instructor the possibility of taking a break for a number of weeks to let him regroup, and come back to the practice for his own reasons, whatever they may be. Unlike many other kids, he's not motivated by the potential rewards of reaching a higher rank. He's not competitive. While he is physically agile, he doesn't have the perfectionist streak that would drive him toward achievement.

Last week, we were working on personal histories, pasting important milestones from our family life into a timeline. To my surprise, Peter took some photos of himself doing Tae Kwon Do, and put them on his personal timeline, alongside his Playstation, and getting his cat Freddy.

I bit my tongue. But if TKD ranks up there with PS2 and a kitten, then there's hope for us yet.

Secret life (sort of) meme

Unlike Lori of Chicagolo, I don't have a secret life. Which doesn't mean I don't have secrets. The secret I'm about to share is perhaps not so original. In fact, I suspect that many women my age share this secret. OK, here it is:

I want my body baaaack!

(at 25, with my dad)

Thing is, I never really had a body body. I'm descended from Polish peasant stock, "stock" being the operative word here. I've always had more width where I needed length, and extra curves in some places, but none to speak of in others. But there was one thing I had in droves: muscle. Quads enough for a few women my size, obliques, laterals, glutes, biceps, triceps, you name it. With the muscles came the assurance that I could do pretty much anything I wanted. I wasn't a daredevil by any stretch, but I never had any reason  to question my strength and stamina. I swam several hours a week, rode my bike to and from work, hiked mountain trails, paddled kayaks, and did charity bike tours with very little training or preparation.

The first child didn't stop me right away. In fact, my son-to-be accompanied me on the the Twin Cities to Chicago AIDS ride during our first trimester together, despite my doctor's hesitation. Since technically, I was still childless, I continued swimming right through my pregnancy. But somehow, between baby number one, and baby number two, and certainly after she came along, things started to slow down. I made faint stabs at keeping fit. I bemoaned the fact that I no longer had the leisure to disappear into the swimming pool for an hour and a half.

My body was never going to be the same again.

This stark realization came upon me one day while I was attempting to jump rope, and found that that the effort of propelling my body into the air and letting my knees gracefully absorb the shock turn after turn was something I was no longer capable of doing. Similarly, I found that I was terrified of hurling myself head over heels for the simple joy of turning a cartwheel. Was it the knee injury that knocked me off my feet one day in Tae Kwon Do a couple of years ago? Was it the babies? Age? Arthritis?

Was it inactivity?

I've always been an enthusiastic walker, often going on urban expeditions for several hours. On a trip to San Francisco last summer, I logged 17 miles in one day, just getting the lay of the land. But it never seemed like I was moving enough. Oh, I felt great after each walk: clearheaded and exhilarated. But it wasn't changing the way I felt in the long run. Maybe it was too familiar, or not regularly intense enough (I mean, I don't walk that kind of distance regularly!) to really make a difference.

After many months of feeling helpless, suffering the aches and pains, and mourning my loss of agility, I happened upon a book. The book was called Running and Walking for Women over 40 by Kathrine Switzer. I stood in a aisle at Borders eyeing it sheepishly, wondering if anyone would notice that I am, in fact, over 40, if I picked it up. Eventually, I reached for it and skimmed the table of contents. Oh, what's the use, I'll never do it! I thought as I replaced it on the shelf. After a few minutes of wandering through the store, I returned and picked up the book again. I read this passage:

Letting my mind free-float during a walk or run is therapeutic for me; it's another form of dreaming. The demons come out, the creative comes in.

I already knew that feeling from walking. If I could make that my motivation, I should be able to progress from walking to running. The book came home with me.

If you have never run (and, for all the physical activity I got in my earlier years, I never have), you can't do it for very long. This can be tremendously discouraging when starting a fitness program. The labored sound of your breath, and the pounding of your pulse reverberating in your ears often leads to the conclusion that you just can't do it. There isn't time enough in a lifetime to turn you from a sweating, heaving, out-of-breath heap of aches and fatigue into a runner!

Got ten weeks?

Switzer claims that's how long it takes. Oh, you won't run a marathon. But you may be able to sustain a comfortable 30-minute run. In another ten weeks, you may advance to 60 minutes if you choose.

I choose!

So, I made a commitment to take the baby steps recommended by the author. Because I'm already an accomplished walker, I began with the third week of her program, in which actual running is introduced. Actual running! Surely, no actual runner would be impressed by it: two lousy minutes, followed by three minutes of walking. Repeat five times. Those first two minutes of running were the longest two minutes of my life! But I knew that after those two minutes I could stop, and regain my breath (and dignity) during the walk portion of the drill. I survived the first week.

This was the first time in many years that I decided to go public with my athletic pursuits. I made up index cards for each week's routine, and posted them prominently on my refrigerator. After each completed workout, I made a big show of placing a checkmark next to it on the index card. And somehow, that was all the motivation I needed.

I am now five weeks into the program, and today I completed a sustained 16-minute continuous run, experimenting with a slightly faster pace. When I first started, I was only able to think about when the run will be over. Now, I am able to think about my breathing, modulate it, adjust my pace, or just let my thoughts wander. I find that I look forward to the run; it has become part of my routine. There are days when I come back tired and sore, but usually I feel energized, and my mind is alert. I am comfortable pushing the pace of the program a little bit, and I allow myself one or two days each week when I "accomplish" a little more than what is prescribed. My lungs have stopped hurting. So have my joints. I feel a tremendous sense of satisfaction, and more importantly, a renewed sense of faith in myself. My body may never be the same again. But when my 43th birthday rolls around in June, I will be able to run an hour.

Which is a heck of a lot more than I could do on my 34th. Or ever.