My in-laws just returned from a fantastic trip and gifted our girls with a beautiful set of handmade Russian nesting dolls. I was thrilled to receive them, as my sister and I grew up playing with our own set. I always found the doll within a doll-within-a-doll arrangement fascinating and strangely comforting. No matter how many dolls I opened, there were always more waiting for me; that final, solid doll, small, smooth and smiling in my hand, seemed like the perfect reward for my unscrewing efforts. Though the surrounding dolls were bigger and more vivid, she, the core doll, held everything together.
I thought of them tonight as I plodded sweatily through my run, thumb flicking through ipod song choices in a rather desperate search for inspiration. Somehow, I hoped, the right rhythm would move my feet, the right words would still my thoughts, the right tone would let me just let go.
Those first few minutes of my runs are the worse, as my 17-year-old self offers 33-year-old me snarky reminders of what "used to be," inevitably locking me in a stupid, stubborn battle over pace and distance. On a good day, I can quiet the competitive voices and lose myself in the run, luxuriating in the amazing space of time where I am responsible only for myself. On others, I have to fight my way through every step, knowing that, at the very (unpretty) least, I gained a small victory by even running in the first place.
You would think that my love for running - or, more importantly, my need to run - would ensure that I would be a regular runner all of my life. And yet, that hasn't been the case. Life has intruded along the way, with unspoken insecurities and fears often causing my running shoes to collect more dust than dirt. Any former athlete will tell you that the one of the hardest hurdles is getting back on track once you have stopped competing and working. It is a humbling, humbling process...
In the past year, my husband has lost a significant amount of weight. His transformation has been amazing to witness and I've met, for the first time in my life, the athlete he was in college. He rises early in the morning to swim, bike or run and has faced the challenge of reshaping his body, his mind and his self-image head on. He's been inspired and inspiring - and a complete wake up call for me. In the 10 years that I have known him, I have been the fit (or at least fitter) one. All of a sudden, my reality was redefined. I needed to find my inner athlete. And no one was going to unearth her but me.
As a new mom of two, I've learned a great deal in the past six months. I love my girls and have actually settled more naturally into motherhood than I did as a mom only to Claire. I have found my footing and love what life has become but in doing so, there are some parts of me that I've let slide into the background.
I think any mom will tell you that she keeps (the occasional?) score in her head. No matter how balanced a parenting partnership is, Mom is going to feel like she bears the bulk of the load and that Dad doesn't (quite) know what her day/heart/life/mind is all about. I'll admit it: I envied my husband's freedom to focus on his health and fitness. I was jealous of his time on his feet, on his bike, in the pool. I would sometimes grow irrationally frustrated with his fitness "ah-ha" moments and new running path discoveries, thinking that I had "been there, done that," so why was he an expert?
And yet, even in my crabbiness, I knew the truth: no one was going to get me back out there again but me. And no one would be a bigger cheerleader for me in that pursuit than my husband.
So, I've laced my shoes up again, purposefully carved out time during naps or bedtime and forced myself out the door. I even signed up again for a half-marathon. Who the hell knows how I'll actually do (racing makes me so nervous!) but I'm out there trying.
The other day, I went for my longest run since before Claire was born, finally letting go of my battle with pace and relaxing into the experience of the run. Crossing the driveway's finish line, I found my husband chattering at our youngest, her pajama-ed feet kicking away in the stroller as she oversaw Dad's garage organization. It was one of those scenes you capture with your heart's camera.
"How did it go?" he asked, taking in my panting form. Jenna blinked at me, curious and smiling.
"Actually, pretty great," I grinned.
And somewhere, deep inside, under all those other life layers, my little inner athlete smiled too.
