Updated: Dec. 18, 2023
Originally Published: June 6, 2023
On October 13, 2002, I found myself on the brink of my first marathon. Under different circumstances, the absence of my usual menstrual cycle may have caused concern, yet I felt a sense of relief knowing I wouldn’t have to manage it while running 26.2 miles through Chicago. Besides, I wasn’t technically late. However, deep down, I sensed something was amiss.
A week later, when the delay became undeniable, a pregnancy test confirmed my intuition: I had completed my first marathon while expecting my first son. I crossed the finish line with him in mind.
Having experienced my inaugural pregnancy in tandem with my first marathon, friends often inquired if I planned to invest in a jogging stroller after my son was born. I did, and I soon became one of those moms. When my second son arrived two years later, I upgraded to a double jogging stroller.
The primary reason for the jogging stroller was to maintain my sanity. The days spent at home with babies and toddlers felt long. My eldest stopped napping at age two, and an afternoon run—often followed by a trip to the park—provided a much-needed break and allowed me to continue training for marathons. More importantly, I hoped to instill in my sons an appreciation for nature and a love for physical activity. I wanted them to see their mother as strong and resilient. Perhaps they would even become runners themselves; only time would tell.
Preparing for a run was certainly a challenge. Sometimes, the time it took to get everyone ready exceeded the actual running time, especially in winter and spring when I had to bundle them in jackets, hats, and mittens. Water bottles needed filling, snacks prepared, and toys stashed in the stroller. Yet, those moments were also precious. We chatted about the pets we encountered, debated the merits of delivery trucks, and discussed our favorite television characters. Occasionally, I’d listen to their conversations or manage my frustration when squabbles erupted or when a water cup flew out of the stroller for the third time. Yet, these minor annoyances paled in comparison to the frustration of not being able to run. I took pride in being known as “the woman with the jogging stroller” around the neighborhood.
On weekends, when my husband was home, I ran solo. I had found an online community of fellow runners, all navigating the challenges of raising young children and balancing work, who also struggled to find time to run. Many of us utilized strollers. We joked that running alone was our way of escaping our family responsibilities, even if only temporarily. It wasn’t possible to truly run away—one child relied on my breast milk—but for a brief hour or two, it felt liberating. Without the added weight of the stroller and my children, I could almost fly down the streets, returning home refreshed and more at ease.
I eventually retired the jogging stroller when my elder son turned six and the younger was nearly four. By then, we had relocated to a new state and a house on top of a hill. I valiantly ran down daily, pushing my younger son to pick up his brother from kindergarten, but the steep hill became too much to manage.
Parting with the jogging stroller was bittersweet, marking the conclusion of a unique chapter in my journey as a runner and parent, one that only fellow moms who have pushed their children in strollers might truly understand. While I felt relief and freedom in letting it go, there was also a sense of loss knowing those days were behind us, that my boys would never again be small enough to sit side by side while I pushed them for miles.
The following years brought more solo runs, more escapes. I squeezed in runs while the kids were at school or hopped on the treadmill while they entertained themselves at home. I ran late at night after my husband returned from work or on weekend evenings before dinner.
Now, my sons are 9 and 11, and a few years ago, they began joining my husband and me at our favorite 10k, the Wharf to Wharf race from Santa Cruz to Capitola, California. Our intention wasn’t to compete but simply to enjoy time together as a family.
My older son discovered a talent for running and joined his school’s cross-country and track teams. Last year, at age 10, he partnered with me at a local Mother’s Day run, where we won the mother-son title in the two-mile race. My younger son, who had never shown much interest in running, surprised us by joining the cross-country and track teams as a third grader and even qualified for the city championships.
This year, my older son and I aimed to defend our Mother’s Day two-mile title. Surprisingly, my younger son expressed his desire to participate as well. As I navigated the logistics of who would team up with me—mothers could only race with one child—I ultimately chose my eldest once more, promising my younger son that if we won and he beat his brother’s time, he could keep the trophy in his room.
On race day, we arrived at the park as a family, and my boys, donning neon pink tube socks, insisted they were prepared. My 9-year-old expressed anxiety about being separated, to which we reassured them to stay on the trail and remember that the race was about doing their best.
As we lined up, something unexpected happened when the starting gun fired: my boys surged ahead of me, not looking back. Feeling the effects of allergy season, I decided to let them run on, accepting that we might not win the mother-son competition. That was okay; I would focus on finishing the race instead. Two miles was manageable.
Ahead, I spotted my sons running confidently—my younger son just behind his brother. In their strides, I no longer saw the toddlers they once were, but rather young men on the cusp of their own identities. Even when they turned a corner and I lost sight of them, flashes of their pink socks propelled me forward. I shifted my focus to the sky, trees, and my music, as contemplating those four pink legs—now distanced from the days of them sitting side by side in the stroller—was too emotional.
Years ago, upon learning I was having a second boy, I cried—not from disappointment, but from the realization that this would likely be my last child and that I would never experience raising a daughter. As I wiped away tears, I remembered the opening credits of Jack & Bobby, a show about two brothers running together. I came to realize that my life would be filled with the joys and challenges of raising two sons, and it would be a great journey.
This Mother’s Day weekend, my sons outpaced me for the first time in a race. I was no longer running alongside them or escaping from them; I was trailing behind. My older son and I did win the mother-son team trophy, and we all earned age group awards, but the true victory belonged to my children, as they had bested me.
As they transition into their teenage years, their running potential is just beginning. I’ve maintained some speed thanks to supportive coaching and a running community, but I know my times won’t improve dramatically. Soon, they will effortlessly finish races ahead of me. While my ego might feel bruised, I find joy in their accomplishments. In both racing and life, they are running ahead of me. I hope I’ve equipped them with the skills and confidence to continue forging their own paths.
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In summary, this narrative reflects the journey of motherhood intertwined with running, highlighting the evolution of my relationship with my sons as they grow and become their own individuals. As they race ahead, I embrace their achievements while cherishing the lessons learned along the way.