It was October 13, 2002—a day etched in my memory as I prepared for my very first marathon. Under typical circumstances, the absence of my expected period would have raised alarms, but on that particular morning, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Navigating 26.2 miles through Chicago without the burden of menstruation was a small victory. Besides, I wasn’t even late—yet.
A week later, when I realized I was truly late, a pregnancy test confirmed my suspicions: I had completed my first marathon while expecting. I crossed the finish line with my son already in my heart.
Given the close connection between my inaugural pregnancy and that marathon, friends often asked if I planned to buy a jogging stroller once my baby arrived. I did, and I quickly became one of those moms. Two years later, when my second son was born, I upgraded to a double jogging stroller.
The jogging stroller served a crucial purpose: it was my lifeline to sanity. Days spent at home with babies and toddlers felt endless. My eldest stopped napping at two, and those mid-afternoon runs—often followed by a park visit—helped break the monotony and kept me training for marathons. More importantly, I wanted my sons to grow up understanding the joy of nature and the value of staying active. I hoped they would see their mother as strong and determined, perhaps even growing into runners themselves. But who could say for certain?
Preparing for a run was, at times, a Herculean task. There were days when getting everybody ready took longer than the run itself—especially in winter, when I had to bundle them in jackets, hats, and mittens. Water bottles, snacks, stuffed animals, and board books all needed to be gathered and stashed beneath the stroller. Yet, those moments were also filled with sweetness. We discussed everything from the animals we spotted to our favorite TV shows, and sometimes I simply listened to their endless chatter. Of course, there were moments of frustration: the bickering, the lost water cups. Still, these annoyances paled in comparison to the joy of running, and I relished being known around the neighborhood as “that lady with the jogging stroller.”
On weekends, I relished the chance to run solo while my husband was home. I found an online community of fellow runners—all navigating the challenges of parenthood. Many of us pushed strollers, joking that running alone was a way to escape from our responsibilities, even if just for a short time. Without the weight of the stroller and kids, I felt like I was flying through my neighborhood. Those solitary runs allowed me moments of peace amidst the chaos of motherhood.
I eventually retired the jogging stroller when my older son turned six and my younger one nearly four. By then, we had relocated to a home on a hill. I would run down to pick up my older son from kindergarten, but pushing both boys plus a stroller uphill was a workout beyond my capabilities.
Parting with that stroller was bittersweet. It marked the close of a unique chapter in my life—one that only moms who have pushed strollers can fully understand. As relieved as I felt to say goodbye to it, I also mourned the loss of those small moments, of my boys sitting side by side as I pushed them along.
In the years that followed, I found myself running solo more often. I squeezed in runs while they were at school or during summer breaks when I’d set them up with a show in one room while I hopped on the treadmill. I ran late in the evenings after my husband returned from work.
Now, my sons are 9 and 11 and have started joining us for family events, like our favorite local 10K race. We don’t focus on speed but rather on enjoying the experience together. My older son found his stride and joined the cross-country and track teams after we moved to a new school. Last year, he and I won the mother-son title at a local two-mile race. My younger son, who wasn’t as enthusiastic about running, surprisingly made it to the city championships in track this year.
This year, we decided to defend our title at the Mother’s Day race. My younger son, initially reluctant, expressed interest in joining us, sparking negotiations about team dynamics. Ultimately, I teamed up with my older son again, but promised the younger one that if he beat his brother’s time, he could keep the trophy in his room—an incentive that seemed fair.
On race day, we all arrived at the park, my sons decked out in neon pink tube socks to celebrate Mother’s Day. As the race began, something unexpected happened: they surged ahead and didn’t look back.
I was struggling with allergy season, trying to catch my breath as I let them run on. I shifted my focus to simply finishing rather than winning, knowing they had a chance to earn age-group awards. As I ran, I caught glimpses of my boys—strong and confident—running together, no longer the unsteady toddlers I once pushed along. Their pink socks were a blur ahead, and I marveled at how far they had come.
Years ago, when I learned I was having a second son, I shed tears—not out of disappointment, but because I realized I would likely never experience raising a daughter. Yet, as I reflected on my life, I remembered a scene from a show I loved about two brothers running together. I knew this would be my life, and I felt a sense of joy.
That Mother’s Day, for the first time, my sons outran me. I was now the one chasing after them. As I crossed the finish line, my older son and I claimed the mother-son trophy, but the real triumph belonged to my children, who had outpaced me.
As they approach their teenage years, I see their potential as runners. My own speed may be fading, but I take delight in knowing I’ve instilled in them the confidence to run ahead. In both racing and life, they are forging their own paths.
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In summary, watching my sons grow into their own identities as they race ahead of me has been a remarkable journey. Their strides remind me of the values I’ve tried to instill in them—strength, confidence, and the joy of running freely.