I was placing Tate in his car seat on an early, early (way earlier than school day) Monday morning, and he looks at me with his sleepy-eyed self and says, "Mommy running?" Well, yes, I just about died at his ability to be precious at 5:30 in the morning, AND this was July 4th and Mommy's favorite race was just hours away. Apparently, Tucker had taught Tate how to say running and race the night before, and to say I was delighted would be like saying I kind of like a Coke now and then. I was over the moon!
I've been running for years, at the track, through the city streets, on the treadmill. I have my favorites, but when one won't do the others are just as good and I leave each place with that awesome sense of accomplishment that keeps me coming back for more. I can't really describe the feeling I get when I'm running, or why, despite the aches and pains that develop after too many long runs, I wrap, ice, elevate, take Tylenol, change shoes, whatever it takes to get back at it the next day. I can't explain why I set the alarm for the crack of dawn just so I can log a few miles before the craziness of the day sets in. I can't pinpoint what it is that makes me leave a warm bed and bundle EVERY body part before the sun even starts rising to huff and puff with the other "addicts" who understand me so well.
I do know that despite the lack of running camaraderie at my house (Coach said he did his running in college), this whole house, right down to the littlest supporter, lets me do my thing. Coach is more than willing to take the boys out on a Saturday morning and piddle around town (aka breakfast at Waffle House) while I train for whatever is next on the calendar. Shoot, he'll even watch film with the little man running around the office while I plead for just 12 laps around the track and 30 minutes of Mommy time (not sure what the other coaches think of that but we'll worry about that later). Tucker (during football season when Daddy is catching much-needed z's) plays the role of big brother at its best, trucks, Disney channel, monster under the blanket. Even Tate became one of the best stroller babies I could ask for, challenging me to run, push, and TALK all while picking up errant matchbox cars as we were logging our afternoon miles. And Tanner, well, Tanner is patient enough to wait on his cinnamon toasts until Mommy makes it back from the track.
Truth be told, I feel so good every day once I've gotten my run in that I know I'm a better wife, friend, mom, homework helper, organizer, kitchen cleaner, player chauffeur because of it, and I think they know it too! Blood-free brawls don't bother me, kool-aid spills don't affect me, lost shoes not a problem, 4th grade math a breeze. It all works itself out when the sweat has been spilled. Maybe I CAN pinpoint why I do it; maybe the feeling I get is confidence; maybe it's so self-explanatory that it requires no words, just the smile on my face when I finish a 6.2 or a 13.1 and I see all my guys cheering for me at the finish line. And maybe that's why when every day feels like a race (and some days an uphill race), I lie down at night, feeling like a winner in my age group who just clocked a personal best!
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