When I was little, and not so little, I was terrified of the monster under my bed. Of course, in my day the monster usually took the form of Jason from 'Friday the 13th' or Michael from 'Halloween'. Every night I would take a running start and leap to my bed, just barely able to whisk by the hands grabbing for my ankles. I worked up great courage every time I had to reach across to my bedside light, and on more than one occasion Jason, or Michael, I can't say for sure which one it was, narrowly missed latching onto my arm and dragging me down into the abyss with him. I never really talked about that monster until he was gone. Although I'm not completely convinced he isn't lurking down there from time to time. But somewhere, in the recesses of my young irrational mind, I knew he wasn't real. I knew there was no monster under my bed, or in my closet, or waiting behind the door for me. And that's why it breaks my heart to learn about my eight year old daughter's monster, which is far more real than mine could ever have been.
It wasn't until yesterday, about two weeks after my most recent marathon, that I learned about this monster, and it wasn't from my troubled daughter. It was her twin sister who reluctantly shared the news with me. Her best friend, her confidant, the one she entrusted with this secret, and whispered to in the dark when the monsters come out and invade your thoughts. When I told her sister I was racing the Montgomery Marathon in a month to once again fight for that ever elusive Boston Marathon qualifying time, she finally spilled the beans.
"Mommy," she said. "Vidya was hoping you wouldn't qualify for Boston. She was really happy when you missed it in New Orleans."
Why? Why would my daughter who cheered for me every step of the way, and showed me astounding sympathy when I missed my goal by three minutes, not want me to succeed?
Because her monster lives in Boston.
Her thoughts at night revolve around the bomb that she is certain waits for me in Boston. How do I convince an eight year old that her monsters are not real when they are? How can I explain to her that we must live our lives without fear of monsters when I still feel fear myself. And while I treasure having my family by my side when I race, I can't help but wonder about the soundness of that decision.
I laid in bed last night thinking about the monsters under my daughter's bed, and made a decision that I thought would be more painful. It turns out giving up my dream of Boston was easier than I had anticipated. I have big goals this year, with an upcoming Ironman that causes no distress to either of my children, and I'll still take on the Montgomery race next month, just half the distance.
Who knows, maybe one day when she's a bit older she'll be ready to squash that monster under her bed, or at least be willing to confront it, and when that day comes maybe we can run Boston together.
