I wasn't born in November, and I have a birthday coming up but certainly one that didn't start in 1963. My mother didn't get high.
My daddy did teach me the only thing I need to carry on.
I'm certain it's not written this way, but it's my anthem to RUN. And I literally mean run. To grab my tennis shoes (that some of you call sneakers--knowledge attained for multiple accent vlogs!), pray my music device is charged, and burst down the street with no plan of where I'll end up or which route I'll take.
It's how I cope.
I need that feeling in my lung's that burns and lets me know I'm alive.
I crave that knowledge that I can push my body just a little bit harder and it responds.
After The Sheriff was born and I was all hormon-ey and whatnot, as soon as I was cleared, I told Cowboy that I had to go. Whatever it took, I had to get out of the house and down the street in my running shoes. I still remember my facebook post after that first oh-so-difficult dash out of the door. I was shot, and I loved it! Then that wonder of a husband got me a jogging stroller.
I feel a little stuck lately. Taking killer runs isn't exactly the best way to get pregnant (at least I don't think so right?), so I've been taking it easy. And now, well I'm restricted again. I'm here with thoughts and emotions and you name it, and unable to jet out to sweat it out.
But I can't wait. I'll be sure to let you know because once I get the clear, I'm going to
RUN BABY, RUN BABY, RUN!