By: Emily Harper
Updated: Dec. 18, 2023
Originally Published: June 6, 2023
On October 13, 2002, I found myself standing at the starting line of my very first marathon. Under typical circumstances, the absence of my monthly visitor would have raised some eyebrows, but I was actually relieved not to have to deal with it while tackling 26.2 miles through Chicago. After all, I wasn’t even that late.
Still, deep down, I had a hunch. A week later, a pregnancy test confirmed my suspicions: I had run my first marathon while pregnant. I crossed the finish line with my little one already on board.
Because my first pregnancy coincided with my marathon debut, friends and family started asking if I planned to buy a jogging stroller once the baby arrived. I did, embracing my new identity as “that mom.” Fast forward two years, and when my second son arrived, I upgraded to a double jogging stroller.
The jogging stroller served a vital purpose: it kept my sanity intact. Days spent at home with babies, then toddlers, felt endless. When my oldest stopped napping at age 2, I turned our afternoon runs into a delightful routine. It was a chance to break up the day, train for marathons, and, hopefully, instill in my sons an appreciation for nature and an active lifestyle. I wanted them to know their mom was strong—to see that women can be powerful, fast, and determined. Maybe one day, they’d lace up their own running shoes.
Of course, preparing for a run was a bit of a production. Sometimes, getting everyone ready took longer than the actual run itself, especially in the winter when bundling them up in jackets, hats, and mittens was like preparing for an Arctic expedition. I’d fill water bottles, pack snacks, and grab toys and books to entertain them while I pushed the stroller. But those chaotic moments also held sweetness. We chatted about everything from the animals we spotted to their favorite TV characters, and I often found joy in simply listening to their chatter. Sure, there were moments of frustration—like when a water cup was tossed out for the third time—but those annoyances paled in comparison to the joy of running. I wore my title of “That Lady With the Jogging Stroller” with pride.
On weekends, when my husband was home, I relished the opportunity to run solo. I discovered a supportive online community of fellow moms who juggled running with parenting. We joked about how running alone felt like a mini escape from our daily responsibilities, even if just for an hour or two. Without the weight of the stroller and my kids, I felt free, cruising through my neighborhood. Those rare moments of solitude were my lifeline.
I eventually retired the jogging stroller when my older son turned 6 and my younger one was nearly 4. We had moved to a new state, and our home sat atop a steep hill. I could manage the downhill runs to pick up my eldest from kindergarten, but hauling 70 pounds of kids uphill was a feat I could no longer tackle.
Parting with that stroller was bittersweet. It marked the end of an era that only fellow stroller-pushing moms could truly understand. I felt a mix of relief and sadness, knowing that those days of pushing my little ones through the streets were over and that they would never again be so small.
In the years that followed, my runs became solitary pursuits. I squeezed them in while the boys were at school or distracted by TV. During summer, I’d hop on the treadmill while they watched their favorite shows, drowning out the noise with my music. My boys are now 9 and 11, and a few years back, they joined my husband and me in our beloved Wharf to Wharf race from Santa Cruz to Capitola. We ran for fun, not time, savoring the experience as a family.
My oldest son discovered a talent for running and joined the cross-country and track teams after we moved to a new school district. Last year, at just 10, he helped me snag the mother-son title at a local Mother’s Day run. Surprisingly, my younger son, who had never shown much interest in running, also joined cross-country and made it to the city championships as a third grader.
This year, eager to defend our title at the Mother’s Day run, my older son and I geared up for the race. My younger son, who initially sat out, decided he wanted to join too, prompting negotiations over who would be on my team. Ultimately, I teamed up with my older son, but promised my younger one that if we won, he could keep the trophy if he had a faster time than his brother. Fair is fair!
On race day, we arrived at the park, and my boys, decked out in neon pink socks to honor Mother’s Day, were ready to go. As the starting gun fired, something unexpected happened: they took off, leaving me in the dust! Despite my allergy-induced discomfort, I let them run ahead. I shifted my focus to finishing rather than winning. Two miles was no big deal.
As I watched my sons run confidently ahead, I felt a wave of emotion. They were no longer the wobbly toddlers I once pushed in the stroller but were now young men in their own right. Even as they turned a corner, disappearing from sight, I caught glimpses of their bright pink socks flying ahead. It was a reminder of how far they’ve come, and I couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and nostalgia.
Years ago, when I found out I was having a second boy, I cried—not because I didn’t want him, but because I realized I would never experience raising a daughter. I quickly wiped away the tears, remembering a TV show about two brothers running together. It hit me then that my life would be filled with the joys and challenges of raising boys, and I embraced it wholeheartedly.
This Mother’s Day, I found myself trailing behind my sons for the first time in a race—not running with them, nor escaping from them. They crossed the finish line before me. We did win the mother-son trophy, and they also earned age group awards, but the real victory belonged to them, as they left their mom in the dust.
As they approach their teenage years, I know their running prowess will only improve. Thanks to strong coaching and a supportive running community, I’m keeping up, but I’m also aware that soon, they’ll be finishing races minutes ahead of me. While my ego might take a hit, I couldn’t be more thrilled. This is how it should be; they’re running ahead, and in life and racing, I hope I’ve equipped them with the skills to do so with confidence.
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In summary, watching my boys grow and thrive both in running and life has been one of my greatest joys. From the days of pushing them in a stroller to seeing them take off ahead of me, it’s a journey filled with pride, nostalgia, and anticipation for what’s to come.