(A Pot Hole) In The Long Road Back

Parenthood is less about "which values will I pass along to my child" and more about "How much birthday cake can I eat in a 24 hr. period?". Answer: a lot, if you wash it down with enough beer.

Saturday, Ella and I had a date with sugar. Two birthday parties in one day. Our little pal Seaborne was kicking off the big 3 at a morning bash, while our friend Destine would be ringing in Cinco De Birthday at 4pm.

It was a day that would require Zen-like patience, the hand-eye coordination of a neurosurgeon and the carb-loading intake capacity of Lance Armstrong.

First up, Seaborne's bash. Or as Ella calls him, 'lil Sea. Let's get right to it. I love Sea's parents--they're grounded, sane, kind, funny, interesting, compassionate, but maybe most importantly, they serve champagne and cake before noon.

So by 12:15pm I had a cake and bubbly buzz. I felt euphoric, heady. Decided to design a new hybrid bio-fuel and end dependence on foreign oil. Maybe volunteer at a clinic for kids. Cure cancer. Life was good.

Being the connoisseur of fine things that I am, it somehow seemed like a good idea to then start drinking beer. Ice cold beer. Hey, I was the guy who ended America's addiction to oil, didn't I deserve a brew?

Besides, 'lil Sea's dad said "Hey, want a beer?".

I'm Irish and Navajo, which means I have a full-fledged alcoholics lust for booze combined with the tolerance of a four year old. So by now I was flying.

Before I could finish the first one, I was already finishing my speech to the U.N., urging it's members to see beyond the politics of greed and do all they could to pass my charter for a worldwide "Beer 'N Cake Blowout!". I could picture my esteemed colleagues nod in respectful admiration as they stood to applaud.

It occurred to me that anyone standing on the threshold of winning the Nobel Prize should enjoy himself. Which is just about the same time Sea's dad said, "Get you another one?".

Serve on my good man, serve on.

As I chatted amiably with the other parents about the virtues of cutting chicken nuggets into smaller, more easily digestible pieces someone said "What are you guys up to after this?".

And then, it hit me. Hit me hard. Hit me 'bout as hard as the second helping of Mac 'n cheese I'd just wolfed down. Today was Saturday. I was supposed to run four miles. On my feet. Carrying the entire weight of my own body.

I just stood there, staring at the empty beer bottle in my hands. And the also very empty bowl from which I'd eaten Mac and cheese.

Not to mention the slab (or three) of chocolate cake I'd inhaled. There may have been some ice cream on that cake. There may have actually been a separate bowl of ice cream, in addition to the two giant spoonfuls I'd slapped on top of my choco slabs o' love.

Sorry, was there icing on the cake? No it was dry. Didn't you hear? All the 3 year olds in America banded together in coalition to put a stop to cakes being iced.

Right.

There was more icing on that cake than mascara on Tammy Faye. You could actually eat for two or three minutes before you even hit cake there was so much icing.

So basically I'd had champagne, beer, mac and cheese, ice cream a foot of cake and six inches of sugar. In about an hour. If I'd been swimming off the Atlantic Coast a whaler would've harpooned me and sold my fat to Japan for cosmetics.

But a fate far more cruel awaited me than that.

I squirmed in place.

"Um, actually I was going to go for a run....".

The other parents kept eating cake. Then slowly, one by one, they each turned and walked away.

The herd had deserted me. I was alone. Four miles. Seriously, I could die. Macaroni could float into my bloodstream and clog a heart valve. I think I read about that happening in People.

Ella and I made our way home later, though I was very quiet as we walked.

When we got home, I gently patted her head as I laced on my sneakers.

"Goodbye little one..." I thought, "Tell your mother I loved her".

Running's a funny thing. It's always hardest when you first start.

But after a while, the endorphins hit, you find your stride and you feel really alive.

I'd run about forty feet and could feel my spleen inflating. There would be no endorphins. No runner's high. No big finish. There would be me, in a too small tee shirt bent over counting mac chunks.

"Breathe..." I thought.

"No, don't...". A little voice sounded. "Fill your lungs with air and trap it there so the macaroni won't clog your airway".

I tried it for ten feet. Not sound medical advice. I farted, then gasped for air.

Two petite blondes jogging in my direction crossed the street.

I decided the smart thing to do was slow my pace, run smart. I slowed down a few paces. An old lady with a portable oxygen tank walked past me. Okay, too slow.

I tried to hum "Rocky", but I was having problems breathing. I picked up the pace. "Okay, start passing people. Have a goal".

Good. Competition always fires me up. That's how I managed three pieces of chocolate cake when I saw the other parents gagging after their second.

I kicked it into gear. Could feel my legs pumping.

Up ahead I saw a woman with her dog in tow. One of those pesky Chihuahuas. He was in one of those little ass-wheelbarrows, getting towed. Guess he didn't have full use of his hindquarters.

Hey, he should've thought about that before he threw down the gauntlet. Because now, it was on my friend. I headed towards them. Couldn't wait to see the look on their faces when I blew by them like a jungle feline.

Whew. It was 88 degrees out. Grueling NYC humidity made my skin feel like wet leather. I could feel cake hunks bobbing up and down in an ocean of gut-beer.

The little Chihuahua pulled away. I coughed. Someday soon, he'd be dead. That made me feel a little better. Now I had a bigger problem. I could feel the humidity had worn out the cartilage in my knees. I was running bone on knee bone.

I was furious, but who to blame? Nike!!!! My shoes had let me down. I'd sue them. Phil Knight would be my pool-boy. With the lawsuit money I'd get titanium knees. Then I'd buy a stealth bomber. And destroy all the rubber trees in Central America, grinding North American running shoe production to a halt.

No one would have appropriate running shoes. People would have to run in their work shoes--loafers, sling backs, casual summer sandals.

But I'd have Titanium knees. I would be unstoppable. Ha. Maybe this run wasn't such a bad idea, I was thinking pretty clearly now. I wondered which other challenges I could overcome with my titanium knees.

Marathon polka dancing. Outswimming sharks. Kicking soccer balls over the top of the Chrysler building. I would be a god. I almost couldn’t wait for my knees to give out so I could start my lawsuit.

Then I head a tiny "beep". My watch. I looked down, my time was up. I'd made the four miles. I sat on a bench, took my shoes off. Looked at my regular knees. They were okay, I guess. I could always sue later. After tomorrow's run.

I felt the sun on my face. Felt relieved. And a little proud. I'd done it. Hung in there. Four miles.

Then I remembered, when I left the party they wrapped up the last of the cake. Put it in the fridge to keep it from the heat.

Their apartment was only four blocks from here. I put my shoes back on and laced 'em up.

This time would be different.

This time, I'd have the cake in a bowl, so when the ice cream melted I could eat it with a spoon.