What my kids taught me about a mother’s beauty…

The Familiar Stranger

The kids and I stared at the computer, watching the download bar creep across the screen. It was the middle of winter and we were waiting to relive our summer at the lake by finally scrolling through the hundreds of pictures that had been stored on my camera. We talked of warm, sunny days, their dad grilling, me driving the boat and pulling them on a tube for hours on end. Then the computer chirped and we started to scroll. We clicked through photo after photo of the kids, family and friends. About 100 pictures in, a close-up flashed onscreen.

“There you are mom!” my son said with surprise, since I am usually taking the photos, not appearing in them.

Who is this?

That can’t be me.

This isn’t the person I’d imagined as we shared summer stories.

I surveyed the image of this familiar stranger, sitting on the boat, hair blowing wildly in all directions, smiling and squinting in the sun.

What I saw was uneven skin tone, lack of makeup, and wrinkles – LOTS of them.

The lyrics from Rod Stewart’s Maggie May, popped into my head, “The morning sun, when it’s in your face really shows your age.”  The person in the photo looked a lot older than I did, by at least 20 years.

I muttered something about it being an awful picture and moved the cursor to delete.

My preteen and teen daughters both shouted in unison, “Mom no!!!”

“Mom, don’t delete that,” my 14-year-old son said with a surprising adult-like sternness.

My finger hovered over the mouse, ready to click.  

“Why would you delete it?” my oldest daughter asked.

I looked again at myself on that bright, high resolution, mega-pixel screen.

What should I say? That this wasn’t the 30-year-old I had trapped in my mind staring back at us so I needed to delete her? That everything I lectured to them about beauty on the inside and photoshop frenzied images was just not true? That beauty IS only skin deep? That I needed a photoshop session? (Yes, I really needed one)

“I just don’t like it,” was all I could muster.

“It’s a great picture of you though!” she said.

My finger twitched –
And I was pulled into a moment when I was 9 or 10 years old, looking through a stack of pictures with my mom. I had found a black and white photo of mom, standing with her sisters. Mom was hugely pregnant. She took one look and said, “Oh God, that is simply awful! I look terrible!”

I didn’t understand. It was just a picture of mom with my aunts – and she was pregnant. Mom picked up the picture and promptly tore it up.

“Why did you do that?” my voice shocked into a shout.

“Because it’s just a bad picture of me.”
I looked at myself on the screen and I started to see. I was focusing on the wrong details. The wind is blowing my hair, I am not posed. The sunlight means it was a beautiful summer day and I look – well – relaxed and happy. I am smiling. I thought of the photograph of mom, torn to pieces. There were probably a dozen “awful” details she saw in that photo. But I remember the important one. It couldn’t have been a bad picture, because I remember, she was smiling too.

The essay first aired on May 9, 2014, 89.7 WUWM Lake Effect – Milwaukee Public Radio
46:24 when the essay begins
Share Button

Gorillas, Gosling and GU

Imagine running a race with nary a person, no clapping, no selective sounds, no finish line cheers. You’ve trained for months for that 5k, half marathon or full marathon and on race day, the only noises are feet hitting the pavement among the din of everyday life.

Now imagine running that same route among throngs of people – all wishing – all hoping – for one thing – your success. The hum of excitement and distant cheers on race day are the collective sounds formed by runners’ biggest supporters – the spectators.

Runners usually receive a medal for their efforts. Spectators take home no bling.  If asked, a spectator wants no recognition. They are in attendance simply to share in the excitement of the day and pay it forward to someone else.

So I want to tell you, spectator, how you and your actions have helped me and continue to inspire. Read on. You’ll know who you are.

The Family/Friend Spectator: You are the person that comes to see me on race day, even though it’s likely we will only see each other for a few seconds. You stand there, rain or shine, cold or hot, waiting for the moment. What you may not know is I am thinking about you long before you cheer my name. “If I can just make it to mile 3, 10 or 20” I think. Just knowing YOU will be there gives me a sense of hope, excitement and relief. You are my silent partner. Then the moment arrives and I see you in the crowd. You are the person I can smile at knowingly, the friend I can bitch to if I’m feeling awful, and the one whom I know will be shouting my name with gusto, encouraging me no matter what.

The Clever Sign Maker: Your sign makes me LOL. It gives me a smile when I least expect it. You remind me that there is a finish line and good things await such as beer, bacon, Ryan Gosling and puppies. Your sign mocks bodily functions which sometimes betray runners during a race, “Keep Calm and Don’t Poop.” Your words tell me that scary clowns and zombies are chasing me so I should pick up my pace. Your poster wryly admonishes: “You’re not the Pope so you can’t quit.” I never tire of your humor and wit. Your sign inspires me and sums up how much I love being a part of the “Worst Parade Ever.”

The Awww Factor: You are in preschool or grade school. You are wearing an oversized homemade shirt that is sharpied with the words “Go Mommy.” Your cuteness factor goes up when you hold out your little hand for a high (or a low) five for runners. Your little sister or brother is sitting in a stroller with a sign attached that says “I love you Mommy” or “I love you Daddy” complete with handprint and stick people wearing medals. Your chubby cheeked charm gets me all choked up – even if your signs aren’t for me.

Spectators with Big Heads: Nothing makes a runner smile or cringe more when spectators have an enlarged photo of a person’s head for all to see. A funny photo or multiple big heads help me to forget my aching quads. If it happens to be my head, I will spot you more quickly than you spot me. Yes, I love seeing spectators with big heads, which in this case, are a good thing.

The Surprise Spectator: You are the spectator that decides you will surprise or shock your runner along the route on race day. Perhaps you decided that morning over a cup of coffee, or you planned your attendance months in advance. In either case, your unexpected appearance (whether it’s a shock or a surprise) is welcome and appreciated when I need an extra boost to the finish.

More Cowbell: You are the spectator that brings a noisemaker (usually a cowbell or vuvuzela) . You jump up and down shaking or blowing said noisemaker. Or maybe you’re that guy who put his clock radio at the end of his driveway and blared music to runners (yes, I witnessed this in the iPhone age). While your spectator friends standing nearby probably loathe you, I enjoy the “music” you make coupled with your cheers. Maybe it’s because I know I will be soon be running away from the sound if I pick up my pace. Whatever the reason, it works for me.

Pom Pon shakers: You are the spectator that brings pom pons and becomes a cheerleader for the day. Sometimes you are a real cheerleader. Either way, I love your pep especially when I’m tiring in a run and lacking energy.

The Free Hugger: You are the guy or girl that stands with a sign that says “Free Hugs.” Sometimes I don’t feel like stopping and getting a hug. I do forget about the blister on my baby toe because I am grinning with the knowledge that someone is willing to hug a sweaty stranger for no particular reason.

Costumed Spectator: You dig through your Halloween costumes and pull out a doozy for race day. Seeing a tutu clad gorilla clapping on the side of the road is a delightful distraction for my brain which has been focused on my achy IT band for the past few miles. Yes, you are a welcome diversion.

Costumed Runner: (not an official spectator but you help me anyway). You dig through your Halloween costumes and pull out a doozy for race day. You decide to go Hawaiian theme and slip on a hula outfit complete with coconut bra for your marathon run. I smile as you pass me but I soon frown at the realization that even though I’m wearing a ridiculously expensive wicking techno bra and run skirt, I can’t catch up to your grassy one. But I still try.

The Other Costumed Runner: Squeezing into a Superman onesie with a cape is always a winner. You are running the same race as me so I think I must be Super too. It’s okay if you pass me and can’t catch up, because duh, you’re Superman – you’re supposed to beat me.

The Foodie: You are the spectator that cooks up pounds of bacon and offers slices on a plate at mile 19 along with a paper cup beer chaser to any interested runner. You are the non-race affiliated person that quarters dozens of oranges, slices strawberries or bananas and hands them out on the race route — just because. While I may have a GU packet to replenish myself, sometimes it’s not enough. Your gifts of unexpected flavors and sweetness give me a new focus and propel me through my low sugar doldrums.

Just seeing you, dear spectator, whether you are a clapping gorilla, serving a GU sidecar, or promising Gosling at the finish, reassures me that my race day is worthy.

Otherwise, it would be just another run on just another day.

 

Share Button

False Starts

I was soaked in sweat, out of breath, and I felt like puking my guts out.  Day one of high school track was not going well and I was asking myself what I thought I was trying to accomplish. The answer?

I had no idea.

I joined the team for what I thought was a very important reason:  my friends were doing it.  I laced up my new track shoes and started running as fast as I could – trying to  keep up with the track stars of our high school. When we stopped running, I was hunched over swallowing bile and they were casually sipping from their water bottles. The high school coach figured (correctly) that sprinting wasn’t my “thing” and sent me off to try hurdles.

As I rubbed my bruising elbow and scratched leg after my fourth hurdle tumble, she looked at me and said, “You’ll do the 400 meter at the next track meet.”

A few weeks later, I finished in 5th place and I, once again, felt like puking my guts out.  That didn’t stop me. Friend time was way more important than feeling awful, so I continued to run. But when school ended in June, I hung up my track shoes and said, “I am so done. I am not a runner.”

And yet, in college, the sport called to me again. I spotted a bright yellow flyer tacked to the student union bulletin board. A running turkey was trailed by the words “3-mile golf course run- for charity!”  With a burst of amnesia I thought, “I ran track in high school. I should run this!”

I tried to persuade several college friends to join me, but they kept asking, “Why are you doing this again?”

“I just think it will be fun.”

I drove alone into the golf course parking lot on race day reminiscing about how much “fun” I’d had in high school. I warmed up by walking across the dewy grass toward clusters of people standing in the morning fog of that mild November day. Three miles didn’t seem very far.  One-hundred yards into the run and cresting my first hill, a stray thought crept into my brain, “This might have been a bad idea.“

After running down the middle of three more fairways, a crown of sweat ringed my hairline and drips continually trickled toward my left eye. I rubbed at them with my shoulder sleeve. My heart was another matter. The pumping sensation had expanded into my head, beating at the sides of my skull. My heart felt huge and my lungs felt tiny. These sensations were soon followed by another familiar feeling.  I felt like puking my guts out.

How far had I run? How far did I have to go?

I had NO IDEA.

I kept on. Cresting the next hill, I could no longer see anyone in front of me. Grateful for a reason to stop a sec, I did a full 360 degree turn and saw NO ONE. Bent over with chest heaving and gut roiling, I looked toward the only way I knew – back the way I came.

I was not going to finish this race.

I turned and walked back along the side of the fairway. The starting line ghosted through the mist a lot sooner than I expected. Glancing around for my escape, I spied a shortcut to the parking lot. I ambled through some shrubs thankful for the foggy cloak hiding my walk of shame. I unlocked my car, slunked down in the driver seat and slammed the door. Did I even run 400 meters? I wasn’t sure.  I sat, waiting for my nausea to pass and my heart to get out of my brain.  When normal beats resumed and my nausea clicked its tongue at me, I eased my car out of the parking lot thinking, once again, “I am not a runner.”

Four years later, the phone rang.

My fiancé said, “Honey, it’s for you.”

It was my Dad. He happily announced that he just signed up to run a marathon.

“A marathon?” I asked. “How far of a run is that?”

The phone call got me thinking about running again. Seeing my Dad accomplish what I thought impossible was (and still is) incredibly inspiring.

In a race, a runner is only allowed one false start. Thankfully, in this race, I have been allowed more than a few.  I’ve been running fairly consistently for nearly 20 years since that phone call and yes, I still sometimes feel like puking my guts out. But just like in high school and on that misty golf course, something always brings me back to it.

How far will I run?

How far do I have to go?

I’m still running and I have NO IDEA.

Share Button

Welcome to Runnermomma!

I am a mother, a runner and I like to write about these topics. I figured someone out there (besides my wonderful parents) might enjoy reading some of these stories, so I started this blog. If you are looking for quirky stories about running or momming (yes I just made that word up), or stuff that makes you go “hmmmm…” I think you are in the right place.

Share Button