Running Away
The mothering chronicle…
Staying at home with my children wasn’t a popular choice among my friends, so I had to find some outlets for the absolute need to get away from my sweet, crying, relentlessly needy child(ren). It’s funny how they multiply over time, since I started being a mom to just one kid and now I have three. How does that happen? That’s a discussion for another day, and it’s more philosophic than descriptive.
I think I took up running as a hobby just to get away from my kids for thirty minutes each day. It likely explains why I started going for five mile runs once I had two cherubs at home to enjoy. I’d tell my husband the only way I was going to get my pre-baby body back was if I had that time to run, and we didn’t have the cash for a gym membership. It worked, since I needed that time away from the unyielding constraints of home.
My husband did play a part in my being a mother, and he knew I needed those minutes to run away. I always came back sweaty and refreshed. I don’t think he believed I would turn into a mythic beauty just by running, but I thought I’d give him some hope that I’d morph into Salma Hayek. He started running around the same time I took it up. I thought his drive home was supposed to be “his” time to get away from it all, but rush hour traffic isn’t conducive for relaxation.
He would run after me most nights, as I would greet him with a smiling, drooling baby; kiss him hello and good-bye while the other child rolled around the kitchen screaming about how horrible green vegetables were. Well, she wasn’t quite that eloquent; and generally our oldest would be saying, “no, no, no, not, yech, blech, no”. I never had to teach her the word, no, and somehow she just knew how absolutely vile green beans were; especially when they sat long enough to be at room temperature. I’d have my running shoes on and be out the door within the first five minutes of my husband’s arrival home.
If the dear reader is worried about my poor husband, don’t. By the time I arrived back at our front door, he’d open it (no time for a post-run stretch), smile as he handed me the baby who was covered in some mysterious goo from his dinner, and he’d be gone for forty minutes. We timed our runs, but I think it was to prove we weren’t secretly stopping at a tavern for a cold one. Milwaukee is famous for having a bar on every street corner, but I never saw one on any run of mine. My husband did have some lovely person roll down their car window and chuck a thirty-two ounce beer bottle at his head. Sadly, it was empty.
I learned to run during soccer practice, but I hung around for the games. My husband decided to rise at five in the morning to enjoy the solitude of his runs. He later informed me his favorite part of running was finishing. I honestly enjoyed the feeling of running, of finding my breathing cadence that matched my steps. We started running in races around town, though we were happy to merely finish them. Running in races offered more purpose to our runs, and we began trying to beat our times. Running became more than an outlet and release for me; it offered me goals if I chose to go for it.
My husband and I had started running as a way to get away from the toy-strewn house, from the teething baby who cried for hours, from the meat-eating paleo diet our three year old demanded she follow, except she only ate carrots. And fruit. To this day we cannot get her to swallow a single green bean. Never mind that we forced her to eat a mouthful of cold, overcooked, limp green beans. Never mind that she threw them back up. See what we both ran away from back then?
As much as I joke about mothering, I loved it and would willingly stay at home again. Even though all our friends had much nicer houses and cars. Even though none of them had children on our camping trips, though they all somehow conceived their first babies on that very rainy camping trip. Me? I was busy playing games with our two year old, and my husband helped me all that long, rainy weekend. About a year later almost all of our friends became runners.
I honestly believe the art of running starts with the idea of running away. We could have the most well-mannered child, and still we’d want the time to oursleves. To think or not think. To marvel at the orange daylilies grouped at one lovely home along our route. To glimpse the larger homes just west of us, hoping someday we could move into one of them. To wonder what we’d heat up for dinner, or what funny thing I’d tell my fellow runner (my husband) that one of our brilliant children had said or done.
Parenting was an honor. It was warm and funny with many sweet moments peppered with tantrums and crossed boundaries or days of distrust. I think parents look back and remember the good days, but I know we had plenty of bad days or boring, humdrum days. Parenting is an ultramarathon with sprints thrown in for fun (sarcasm here). I’d wake up never knowing what kind of day my kids would hand me, so I’d lope into an easy pace while waiting for the times I’d have to run like crazy to keep up with one or all of them.
I think running out that front door helped immensely. I ran away, but I always came back. I wanted to. After fifteen minutes of putting space between me and our children, I was ready to turn around and find them again. I was ready to be a mom again.
