the 400 meter dash...of motherhood.

During the spring of my junior year of high school, I ran track.  I was tired of all the politics and pressure that came with playing soccer, so I decided to rebel and try something new.  It was a way to stay in shape for field hockey season in the fall, which was my main sport, my true love.

I was mainly a sprinter.  100 meter dash, 200 meter dash.  In the rare event that someone was needed for the 400 meter dash, I would fill in, but only with reluctance and angst.  

400 meters equals one lap around the track.  It’s not that far, right?  Don’t let looks deceive you.  This is why this race is so treacherous.  It looks easy to outsiders, but those who run it and train for it know it requires a supernatural blend of speed and endurance.  Not for the faint of heart.  

In fact, I’ve recently been thinking that the dynamics of running the 400 aren’t so different from the daily race of mothering small children.  It goes a little something like this...

7 a.m.  The starting gun fires when my firstborn comes to my bedside.  My muscles are rested, poised, ready for the race.  I take off in a hurry, serving up breakfast to the children and the dog, getting everyone clothed and ready for the day.  I’ve sucked down my morning coffee and I’m feeling good as I go around that first curve.  No biggy, I’m in the lead!  Hey, this is easy, I could do a few more laps after this!  My energy and ambitions run high.  Bring it on.

9:30 a.m.  I’m nearing the end of the front curve and I’m starting down the back straight.  I’ve gained momentum and I’m keeping speed, still feeling good.  I drop my preschooler off at school and it’s just me and the toddler now.  Doin’ fine, running errands, getting things done.  Look at me!  Smokin’!  I check things off my to-do list.  The wind rushes through my hair.  My legs carry me quickly.  

12:00 noon.  I’m nearing the end of the back straight and my muscles aren’t as sharp and responsive.  My energy is starting to sag.  I feed the toddler lunch and change another diaper.  I clean up breakfast and lunch dishes.  I do some laundry.  I’m starting to break a sweat and I’m starting to smell of perspiration.  I need a shower.  My blood sugar starts to drop.  I put the toddler down for her nap.  I need some lunch.  I need some more caffeine.  I trudge onward, not quite as inspired, but still making ground.    

3:00 p.m.  I’m rounding the back curve and my muscles are feeling drained, tired.  They’ve exhausted the readily available glucose in my bloodstream but they still need more fuel to carry on.  I make a cup of coffee, looking for a pick-me-up.  The toddler is awake and is starting to run laps around me.  The afternoon sun streams in the kitchen windows, tired yet relentless.  The finish line is in sight, but it still seems so far away.  How can I still have so much distance to cover?  Dinnertime and bath-time routines still lie before me.  My speed wanes and I’m slowly losing feeling in my legs.  This isn’t the time to slow down though.  Maybe I should have paced myself...I still have to pick up the preschooler from school.

5:30 p.m.  The armpit of the day. I’m starting to feel desperate.  I finish the back curve and start down the home stretch.  There’s still 100 meters before me, the most crucial part of the race. I’m wondering where my endurance has gone.  It feels like the race should be over but I’ve got to keep going.  The runners children behind me threaten to overtake me. The preschooler is whining from hunger and fatigue, wondering where dinner is.  The toddler is in destruction mode, pulling books of the shelves and climbing over the family room furniture.  My brain is in a fog, my energy sapped.  I get dinner on the table.  I’m too tired to eat.  The cramps feel like knives in my side.  I need a strong drink.  Lord, help me.  

7:00 p.m.  There’s only 50 more meters between me and the finish line.  The children are bathed and ready for bed.  Just a little more ways to go...I can do it...I can do it!  I see the finish line clearly now.  I’m almost there.  I can no longer feel my legs.  They are numb from overexertion.  My vision blurs and my lungs sting.  I don’t know how I’m moving but I am.  Just a few more feet.  Bedtime stories and prayers are all that’s left.  Just a few more minutes...

8:00 p.m.  I made it!  I finished the race!  I fall into in a lifeless heap in the middle of the track, wondering what just happened to me, gasping for breath.  The lights are out and the doors are shut.  The children are asleep.  My muscles tingle and my head hurts.  I lie there for another thirty minutes before I feel the life start to come back into me.  I continue to breathe.  My entire body is weak.  I need to eat.  Rest has never felt so good. I relish the moments of quiet and stillness before I get to do it all over again tomorrow. 

***

Most days, I feel like I’m just running in a circle.  I can feel the exertion and the fatigue, but it’s hard to calculate progress when you run the same terrain over and over again.  This race is run every day, and every day it challenges me.  Every day I run this loop and sometimes I wish I ran cross country instead...I wish for a slower pace and a more scenic route.  But I know I’m building strength and endurance, even if it doesn’t always seem that way.  And in the end, the repetition and stability of this track is what helps my children mature and grow, so that one day, they can run the race too...