So I accidentally got myself into a 2K race. How in the world do you “accidentally” enter a race you might be asking? To which I respond — I’m a mom. We do silly things like that all the time. See, I have a really girly girl and this really girly girl is already talking with her hands and rolling her neck and sounding like a teenager and saying things like, “It’s not really my thing,” which is what she told me when she said she wasn’t going to run in the EcoRace our school was organizing.
I let it go for the day, hoping she’d be overcome with excitement when Husband and Son entered. And I would, as I usually do, photograph it all. Truth be told, unless a bear is chasing me, I hate running. I had no intention or interest in running this. In the words of the She-Babe, “It’s not really my thing” either.
A thought I’ve had before, resurfaced — our kids only know who we are …not who we were. My kids don’t know that as a kid I played tag like a boss or that I wanted to win. At everything. Against everyone. They don’t know that I was a dancer for 13 years, most of those competitive. Or that when I got older, I played in town volleyball leagues and started a volleyball club at our school in the Dominican Republic. Heck, I played volleyball through most of my pregnancy with the He-Babe. My girlfriend and I kicked Husband and his friend’s butt on the beach volleyball court when they were legitimately trying and I took down an oak tree of a man when we both went up to the net. “Kicking ass” is my middle name.
But none of that counts for the mom my kids know. And if I wanted to change her mindset, I’d have to start here. With me.
When the boys came home registered without her, I just couldn’t let it stand. “Yeeeeaaah,” I said, not convinced by her arsenal of not-my-things, “We’re gonna run in the race.”
Her head shot back. Bewildered (and because she’s smart) she called my bluff, “You’re going to do it?” She said pointing at me — half like a dare, half like an agreement.
“I am… now,” I resolved, trying to exude confidence and enthusiasm through my inner critic.
Husband’s reaction later as excited as it was shocked, “Really?! You’re running with us?”
“It’s the only way she’ll do it,” I said, confirming what he already also knew. I rolled my eyes in jest, “I guess I have to be an ‘example’ now.”
I joked but I was understanding that her idea of girly was grounded in the sense of dressing up and her eye shadow being on point. And I needed her to know that girly also means strong and capable and competitive and, in general, B-a-d A-s-s. I needed her to know that she could be both and then she could decide when something wasn’t really her thing.
Son was so excited the day of that he prepared by doing sprints outside… he pulled his back. Daughter rolled her eyes and grunted only a couple times and only slightly dragged her little feet. She was slightly more excited when she saw there was a shirt and race-number accessory that went along with her outfit. (As she says, “Fashion is passion.”)
Husband and I talked in motivational memes that morning:
Remember that this is not about winning. It’s about finishing.
The race is about starting something and seeing it through — no matter how long it takes.
When the whistle blew we held their hands and continued our motivational chatter. I don’t know about Husband but I was trying to motivate myself as much as our kids.
You’re doing great.
I’m so proud of you.
Remember that the important thing is to finish.
We switched kids; sometimes I ran with her and then alternate. There were friends along the way, cheering for us and ready with high-fives. Our son was struggling with his back so we would occasionally slow to a walk. Nearing the end, I was nervous he was going to injure himself, so I picked him up and ran with him, as moms do.
In that moment, as someone who hasn’t run in years, that has never ran an official race, I felt like no one could touch me. I understood why kids everywhere, but especially daughters, need to see their moms in beast mode. Because to see us be bad ass is to give them permission to be so also.
I put our son down for our last stretch uphill. He took off like he had new batteries installed, leaving me, his dad, and his sister behind and crossed the finish line “first”. I let him have it because I had already won.
Looking at daughter’s smile, I saw she felt like I did — that starting and finishing a race with our people had nothing to do with the place we came in. I told her how proud I was and asked if she was proud of herself. I knew her answer but I wanted her to say it, to hear herself say it. And recognize that maybe, this is her thing.
Have you ever done something just to set the example for your kids?
P.S. Redefining failure by choosing to fail and is ugly crying ok?
