And, no I don’t mean that as an allusion to Disney’s lighthearted take on the Jamaican bobsled team, though I can see Doug E. Doug’s goofy grin right now.
There is a movement in motherhood right now to run. It seems to be the mode of fitness that’s all the rage. And not only do they run, but they write about it. Blogs on mothering and running are popping up all over the place.
Always one to eschew trend (or at least be snarky enough about it to try), it irritated me at first. Let’s all run and share our times and trials and how we balance that with motherhood. Woo hoo. Jump on the bandwagon.
What’s with all these fit people!? And what the hell does it have to do with mothering?
Then, I met a mother, who for all intents and purposes, was single for the next six months. Her husband was deployed, leaving the task of moving cross-country to her and their three children. I wanted to collapse just thinking about it. She did have some family support and a great sense of humor, but it still was a trying task to say the least.
She told me how one day she asked their eldest to watch the other two so she could go for a run. ‘I just had to get out,’ she said.
Suddenly, I got it.
Mothers run so they won’t run away.
I’ve mentioned before how my favorite scene in The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is Ashley Judd escaping to a motel room. Maybe running – even if only around the block – provides enough of a catharsis to make coming back around the bend possible. Enough of the venom sweats out the pores and steams out the ears to return to stasis. The legs know they can propel us forward if needed, the pistons fire. We can move of our own volition.
Muscles atrophied from marathons of criss-cross applesauce; pelvises pushed out of whack from babies on hips; Lungs exhausted with wasted breath. When it runs, the body remembers another purpose. It remembers its former master and serves her for at least a little while.
I am not a runner.
I am the girl who, upon reaching junior high and meeting the kids from the other feeder elementary schools, was remembered by my performance in the sixth grade Olympics – as in “aren’t you the girl who puked after the 800?” Pacing? What’s that?
I am the woman who hates being reminded of that fact that her butt is not what is used to be by the jiggling that follows her down the hill when she does run.
But I have noticed the feeling of exhilaration when I stretch my legs and pump my arms and fill my lungs. Even if it’s only chasing my toddler down the street to the bus stop, I feel the strength and feel as if it can carry me even further. And not away – but to push my limits, see how much I’m capable of, feel some sort of strength when in all other ways I’m beat down. To shift the pain from my head and heart to the burning in my thighs, the constriction in my lungs, the stitch in my side.
Don’t worry. I’m not going to start sharing my best times and workout routines. It would just depress us all anyway. But let me just say to all the mother-runners out there, I get you. Even if I can’t be you – I get you.