No, not THAT kind...I "ran" across this article the other day and thought it spoke perfectly to how I feel about running. Although, these past few months I have gotten away from my scheduled runs, and I hate it. But, I've promised myself that, with these words, I won't feel guilty and I won't let
much stop me from accomplishing something that makes me feel so good.
The Kids: Why Do You Have to Run, Mommy?
By Dimity McDowell
There are two ways my kids relate to my running.
Way one: They hate it. **My note - Lola isn't old enough to hate my running, but I'm sure she'll get there eventually. Maybe we'll just let Max be one of those kids in this article...**
When I change into my running clothes, Ben, who is looking at a machine book on the bed, says, "Mom? Are you going running?" I whisper, "Yes," and he goes back to examining street sweepers. Meanwhile, Amelia, who was happily chatting to her dolls in her room five seconds ago, suddenly streaks into the bedroom. "MOM! DON'T GO!" she screams as she leeches onto my quad and forces tears from her eyes. Never mind she might have spent the next 45 minutes—the amount of time I'm planning to run—in her room, oblivious to my absence. Never mind we spent 12 full hours together yesterday, and today, we've got another full day planned. Never mind I've gone for a run at least 1,000 times in her six years, and every single time, I return. Doesn't matter. She acts like I'm going on a six-month trip to Turkmenistan. Her histrionics usually tip Ben over the edge, too, and he crawls off the bed and commands the other leg. "Grant, can you help me please?" I yell to my absent husband, unaware that he's parked in the bathroom. His lack of response sets off my impatience, so I extricate my legs from the octopus arms, cruise down the stairs, and focus my eyes on the prize: the front door. I open it a crack, slip out to the wails of, "Mom! MOM-MA!" and don't look back. I'm surprised my neighbors haven't called Child Protective Services on me yet.
It goes without saying that when I finish, the pair, perched in front of the tube, doesn't even acknowledge my return. Way two: They want to be like me. When she was 4 years old, Amelia ran one race, the Scream Scram, around Halloween. Dressed as a butterfly, she ran the 100 meters as fast as she could, her antennae bobbing along. Afterward, she couldn't stop talking about it—and the gift bag. She hung her race number on her door. The following Monday, Ms. Jenny, her preschool teacher, told me she'd never seen Amelia so proud as when she recounted the race. **My note - I absolutely cannot wait for something like this for Lola!**
The Jekyll/Hyde scenarios strike signature feelings of parenthood: guilt and pride. The former is easy to summon. Just think of that training adage, "Somewhere out there, somebody is working harder than you are," and you pretty much have parenting in the uberambitious 21st century in a sentence. Somewhere out there, a mom spends Saturday morning hovering over her first-grader doing addition tables, schlepping her kid to tae kwon do lessons, organizing a playdate for five kids at her house, or patiently making blueberry muffins with him and not losing it when the new bag of flour spills all over the floor.
Somewhere out there, a mom is not running. That mom is not me. I typically don't feel like I should be reading Frog and Toad All Year for the fifth time in two days instead of doing a tempo run. But I'm not immune to maternal guilt. As relief fills my body when I run down the block, out of my kids' formidable vocal ranges, I do wonder: Will their early memories of me be dominated by an image of my back, heading out the door, as they scream bloody murder? It's a possibility. Memories are so random. I remember things vividly from my childhood—things that have shaped the person I am, I believe—that my two sisters can't even recall, and vice versa. There's no guarantee which of my actions will stick to their souls and which will bounce off. **My Note: Well, until I reach the point of real training, I don't think this will be a problem.**
Then Amelia busts out a race like the Scream Scram, and guilt is replaced by a ridiculous amount of pride. Rosy cheeked, she held my hand, swinging it as we walked to the car. I'd trade mastering silent "e" any day for a moment like that.
Maternal guilt seems to be inversely proportionate to the child's age. The younger the kid is, the guiltier you feel for leaving him. When you walk out the door, unsure if your wailing 2-month-old will take a bottle of freshly pumped milk, your heart weighs heavy. When you walk out the door, certain your 6- and 3-year-olds will stop their dramatics in approximately 15 seconds, your heart kind of laughs. And when you walk out the door, leaving behind a moody, monosyllabic 13-year-old who is driving you crazy, I'm guessing your heart wonders if it's fit enough to run for three hours instead of one.
I also think guilt subsides when you accept that the time you spend alone running—time spent strengthening your spirit, confidence, and spunk—is far more valuable than simple face time. Plus, running is a practical thing to do for a mother who is interested in keeping an even-keeled house.
The miles defuse frustrations, create mental order, instill calmness, and reignite flames barely flickering. Delicious memories of my kids and husband often come to me during a run, and they help me remember why I am where I am in life.
My mom wasn't a runner, but she did have her own outlet: horses. During my childhood, we boarded up to five horses in our battered red barn. She stacked their hay, cleaned their tack, and chopped out their water buckets when the Minnesota winters turned them to ice. At various points in her life, she coowned The Horse Habit, an equipment store; ran multiday horse shows; and, when my parents divorced, got a full-time office job at the local track. I don't think I ever screamed, "Don't go!" when she went off to ride, but I never enjoyed throwing my leg over a thousand-pound beast. But with her love of horses, my mom demonstrated how to be passionate about something, how to delicately weave an activity into your life so that it marks you but doesn't define you. She showed me you can be a mother, have another job, and still carve out time for yourself.
As every parent learns, "force" is not a verb that works well with kids. Still, I'm going to, um, strongly encourage them to find their own version of running, something that challenges and calms them, makes them feel alive and proud, and surrounds them with lifelong friends.
When this strategy inevitably fails, I'll turn to the other two signature emotions of parenthood: hope and faith. I'll hope they stumble into their version of running, as I did into mine. In the meantime, I'll have faith in the all-too-accurate message from a magnet my mom surreptitiously stuck on my fridge: "Sooner or later, every daughter becomes her mother."
I just really love the message in that snippet. It makes me feel better about having something that is mine, and that enables me to fall into a moment of clarity, serenity and peace.
Max recently told me that he would be starting some part time work on Saturday mornings, which lead well into the afternoon. We don't necessarily need the money. I was upset. Saturdays are race days. Participating in races motivates me to continue running. I told him that he could work, but allow me at least one weekend a month for me to run a race. It's days like that when I NEED to run, when I need to go out and have those 45 minutes to myself. And it's articles like these that remind me to never give up.
