PrintI’ve been a jogger for years, a horse show mom for just a few. On many a long run, I’ve hit what’s known as “the wall.” It’s not the same thing that you might encounter in the horse show world.
In the horse show world, “the wall” is real. I’ve certainly hit that wall too. Mostly, I hit it solo, at a horse show, after burying my OTTB to the base of jump that I ended up going over sans mare. Of course that left some bruises, but I would quickly get back on before my trainer could make it into the ring to whisper-yell at me. I was always much more afraid of her that I was of smashing, face first, through a picket fence.
The runner’s “wall” is different. It’s when you lovingly look at the asphalt and think what a really comfortable place it would be to lie down, just for a few minutes. It’s when your legs feel like Redwood tree trunks. It’s when that vanilla goo you just ate decides it would really like to come back up, thank-you-very-much. Let’s just say, it’s not my happy place.
But I digress…
Hitting the horse show mom wall is much more painful. You don’t see it coming, and it’s a wallop. I hit it on Sunday afternoon after spending a day and a half like this. Please forgive this stream of consciousness retelling. It’s not that I fancy myself a Faulkner wanna-be, it’s just really the only way to recount the 36 hours.
Wake up a 6 a.m. and quickly take a shower before going to the boy’s hockey game one-hour-away with visiting parents in tow. But wait, first I have to drop the girl off at the barn, even though its only 5 degrees, she REALLY doesn’t want to go to her brother’s hockey game. OK, now we’re all smushed in the truck on the way to hockey. Freeze butt off in ice-rink. Yay, the snack bar is open and the coffee is ready. Bless you hockey moms who work in the snack bar. Yay, Warriors win again. Rush home. Girl already home. Eat lunch. Put on very attractive one-piece-suit that husband used to wear when he worked at airport de-icing jets. Go to the barn to do chores. Girl doesn’t accompany me because she’s going to spend the afternoon in a lakefront hotel room, pretty-fying herself for tonight’s Vermont Hunter Jumper Association (VHJA) banquet. Husband and parents depart to take boy to hockey game No. 2, which is (blessedly) close to home but in a much colder rink. Parents vow not to return to visit until children participate in warmer activities.
Boy, it’s really rather cold in the barn today. Do chores. Bring in horses. FALL on the ice SO HARD that my head BOUNCES off the ice a few times. MY TEETH REALLY, REALLY HURT. Don’t get up. Lie there for a few minutes, thinking that this ice wouldn’t really be that bad of a place to take a nap. Not kidding. Toto, a 5-year-old palomino Quarter Horse, who I was bringing in at the time, thankfully doesn’t step on my head. She puts her nose down to me to check for a pulse. (Her mom’s a nurse and must have taught her how to do that. Toto can also recycle.) Kind mare gives me a minute to collect my thoughts—she’s mistaken to think that I have any.
Finish chores. Go home and quickly try to pretty-fy self in 30 minutes. Mission unsuccessful. Boy and husband come home from hockey and get ready for banquet. Strategic error: bring boy to banquet rather than leave him home with visiting parents. Arrive at banquet. Attempt to find daughter. STOP. Look at how adorable all of the barn girls look dressed up in their black and white (our barn colors) dresses. Oh, how precious.
