It was an unforgettable October morning in 2002—my first marathon day. Under normal circumstances, the absence of my period would have caused a stir, but that day, I felt a wave of relief. I wouldn’t have to deal with it while tackling 26.2 miles through the streets of Chicago. After all, I wasn’t even officially late. Yet, deep down, I sensed something was different.
A week later, my instincts proved correct. A pregnancy test confirmed my suspicions: I had run my inaugural marathon while pregnant, crossing the finish line with my soon-to-be son.
Given the connection between my marathon journey and my first pregnancy, friends often asked if I planned to buy a jogging stroller once the baby arrived. I did, and soon found myself among the ranks of “that mom” at the park. When my second son was born two years later, I upgraded to a double jogging stroller.
The stroller’s main purpose? To maintain my sanity. Days spent at home with infants and toddlers felt endless. My older son abandoned his naps at two, so mid-afternoon runs—often followed by park visits—became a highlight of our routine. I hoped to instill in my boys the importance of nature and staying active from an early age. I wanted them to grow up knowing that their mother was strong and that girls and women can be fierce, fast, and determined. Perhaps they would become runners themselves, I mused, but who really knew?
Preparing for a run was no small feat. Sometimes it took longer to get everyone ready than it did to actually run four or five miles—especially during winter, when jackets, hats, and mittens were a must. There were water bottles to fill, snacks to pack, and toys to gather. But those moments were precious. We chatted about the animals we encountered, discussed everything from delivery trucks to their favorite TV characters, and I often relished the boys’ chatter. Of course, there were times I had to stifle my frustration over their squabbles or retrace steps to retrieve a lost water cup. Yet, those nuisances paled in comparison to the joy of running, and I took pride in being recognized in the neighborhood as “the lady with the jogging stroller.”
On weekends, when my husband was available, I had the pleasure of running solo. I found an online group of fellow runners who were also balancing the demands of parenthood. Many of us pushed strollers during our runs. We joked that running alone felt like a brief escape from family responsibilities. While I could never truly run away, I relished those moments of solitude. Without the stroller or the kids, I felt like I was flying, returning home rejuvenated after those rare hours of alone time.
I retired the jogging stroller when my older son turned six and my younger son was nearly four. By then, we had relocated to a new state, where our home was perched atop a steep hill. I continued pushing the stroller down daily to fetch my older son from kindergarten, but the uphill trek with two kids and the stroller became overwhelming.
Bidding farewell to that stroller was bittersweet. It signified the end of a special chapter in my life that only fellow mom runners might truly understand. Letting go brought relief, but also a twinge of sadness—my boys would never again be small enough to sit together in the stroller for miles.
What followed were years of solo runs. I squeezed them in while the kids were in school or entertained themselves during the summer. I hopped on the treadmill during their TV time or ran late in the evening when my husband was home.
Now, my boys are 11 and 9. A few years ago, they began joining my husband and me for our favorite 10K race, the Wharf to Wharf, from Santa Cruz to Capitola, California. We didn’t focus on speed or pressure them to win; our aim was simply to enjoy family time together.
My eldest discovered a passion for running and joined the cross-country and track teams at his new school. Last year, he and I participated in a local Mother’s Day run, securing the mother-son title in the two-mile race. Surprisingly, my younger son, who had never shown much interest in running, also joined the teams this year and unexpectedly made it to the city championships.
This year, my older son and I were eager to defend our Mother’s Day title. Surprisingly, my younger son expressed interest in joining us. We had to negotiate team roles; after all, only one child could run with me. Ultimately, I chose to team up with my older son (titles are at stake!), but I promised my younger son that if we won the trophy and he beat his brother’s time, he could keep the trophy in his room—an equitable solution.
On race day, we arrived at the park as a family, our boys sporting neon pink tube socks as a nod to the Mother’s Day theme. They were excited yet nervous, especially my younger son, who asked what to do if we got separated. We reassured him to follow the leaders and stay on the trail and reminded them that the race was about doing their best.
As the race began, a surprising thing happened: my boys took off ahead of me and didn’t look back. Thanks to spring allergies, I was struggling, and I accepted that we might not win the mother-son competition. That was okay; I focused on finishing instead.
Ahead of me, I saw them running confidently—my younger son slightly trailing his brother. In their strides, I no longer saw the unsteady toddlers they once were but rather the young men they are becoming. Even when they turned a corner and vanished from view, I could still imagine their pink socks racing down the trail. I turned my attention to the sky and trees, letting the emotions wash over me. I realized how far we had come since they were nestled side by side in that jogging stroller.
Years ago, when I learned I was having a second son, I shed tears—not from disappointment, but from the realization that I would likely never have a daughter. In that vulnerable moment, I thought of a TV show we enjoyed, featuring two brothers running together. I understood that this would be my life, and I embraced it.
This Mother’s Day weekend marked a milestone: my sons outpaced me for the first time in a race. I was no longer running with them or away from them; I was simply running behind them. Though we claimed the mother-son trophy, the real victory belonged to my boys, who had officially surpassed me.
As they approach their teenage years, their running prowess is only going to improve. While my times may not change much, I take joy in knowing they’re racing ahead of me—both on the track and in life. I hope I’ve equipped them with the confidence and skills to run forward with strength and determination.
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Summary
This reflective piece captures the journey of a mother who balanced her passion for running with raising her two sons. From pushing a jogging stroller to seeing her boys outpace her in races, she celebrates the evolution of their relationship and the joy of motherhood. As they grow, she finds pride in their accomplishments and hopes to have instilled in them the values of strength and determination.
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