"Tarzan" has been sick with a sinus infection.

He's been cranky and taking it out on me, which isn't surprising, since I'm the one home with him.

His sour mood makes me want to escape, though, and go for a run. Usually I can't. I have to wait until he goes to school or when my husband gets home from work.

I was a runner LONG before I had children, but now I run for different reasons.

I run to blow off steam and to be a calmer, better person around my family and friends.

I run to take good care of myself, physically and mentally, as I age.

I run because it's often the only time I get to myself, by myself, with no one wanting something from me.

I run because I love it. It's allows me to feel free. It always has.

I run to make peace with the person I aspire to be — the one with infinite patience, energy and wisdom — and person I am in reality — someone who's human and makes mistakes, and isn't quite there yet. 

Most of all, I run, because over time, I've morphed into: "Mother, Keeper of All of Shit."

I'm not saying this to be bitter, or mean, simply to acknowledge what is.

In our household I am the glue holding IT altogether, all the minutia of our lives, for everyone and everything.

This shouldn't surprise you. I know I'm not alone in this role. This happens to a lot of women — wives and mothers — out there. The nurturer becomes the one taking care of ALL the details.

I remember seeing Barack and Michelle Obama on Oprah years ago. Michelle talked about planning a birthday party for one of their girls. Barack said he could help, and she told him, no way. He couldn't even handle getting the goodie bags. The choices would make his head explode. I'm sure she was right.

Now HE IS the leader of the "free world."  It makes you wonder ...

I digress ... but my point is, there are worse problems than being Mother, Keeper of All Shit.

Once in awhile, however, the scales tip and I could use a break.

The other day was a great example. I called a friend of mine after a particularly trying morning with Tarzan. I needed someone else to ground me — my friend has a grown son so she knows the challenges of raising a boy child.

I told my friend I felt like failure. Just minutes earlier I lost my cool with Tarzan and was yelling at him, and I wasn't proud of this.

I also told her I was grateful I was a runner because if I wasn't, I'm sure I'd take out my stress in a bad way, like pounding a bottle of wine before noon or something stupid like that.

It remind of me of "Mad Men" and the character, Betty Draper. I can see why frustrated, 1960s housewives got blottoed on martini lunches back when running wasn't socially accepted for women yet.

Thank God that's not me and I don't live in that era.

I also want to make this clear, especially because Tarzan might read this some day: I adore him.

When I say I'm "Mother, Keeper of All Shit," I mean that I'm the primary parent in the household staying on top of it — my kids' homework, after-school activities, getting them to and from places on time, signed up for activities, making sure the laundry is clean, meals are the table, the refrigerator isn't empty, and ...

Well, frankly the list of minutia goes on and on and on ...

I'm also not suggesting the Dude doesn't pinch-hit occasionally. He does, but the majority of that stuff falls on me.

Disciplining and guiding Tarzan falls into that category, too.

Tarzan, who's 5 years old, is a Gemini, and he's a true Gemini in the sense of the twin aspects to his personality.

He's either all spitfire, finding new, creative ways to test my mettle, or he's the biggest lover in the world. Truly he's a wonderful, kind, gentle and affectionate soul.

His energy takes a lot out of me. My challenge as his mother is reconciling his two sides in a peaceful, constructive way. My goal and hope is to turn him into a responsible, respectable young man ... some day. It's the good fight worth fighting.

The other night I gave him a bath and when he stepped out of the tub to towel off he saw the top of my head.

"Mom, what's that white stuff  in your hair?" he asked, pointing at my roots.

"That's my gray hair starting to show. I have to color it soon to cover them up," I answered.

"What makes them gray, mom?"

"YOU!" I joked.

We both laughed.

It's true.

Yes, I'm graying because I'm getting old and from stress, but I'm also graying for good reasons.

My gray hair is proof of how devoted I am to him and how hard I'm willing to work to be his mother.

It's proof there's something better than being Mother, Keeper of All Shit.

It's proof that some running does go a long way. (I'm not ALL gray yet!!)

It's proof I love him.

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Aging is inevitable, but growing old is a choice. Lace up your shoes, and let's go!

Mileage today: 3.1; Mileage for 2012: 125.