Two Different Reasons To Cry On A Beautiful Spring Day

It is Saturday morning. It’s sunny and about 60 degrees out, absolutely beautiful. I’m driving slowly through my quaint little town in Westchester, past beautiful houses with lovely lawns, and all the colors of Spring popping up: pale pinks, sharp yellows, crisp whites, and lots of green. My 7 year old daughter Olivia, and my 4 year old son Benjamin, are in the car with me, singing to whatever top 40 hit is playing on the radio. And I am so sad that I silently have a tear rolling down my face.

I know, you want to know what the hell there is to cry about in this Norman Rockwell picture I have painted for you. Let me explain. I’m taking Olivia and Ben to our high school track, so that Olivia can run. Olivia wants to do a 5K in a few weeks that I found a little while ago. She ran a 5K fun run with me back in October, and absolutely loved it and wants to do it again. She even told her teacher at school about it.

“Again, Alison, why are you crying?” you ask. It’s simple. I’m taking Liv to the track so she can run. I can’t. I chose the track because it’s flat and soft, but also so that I can stand in the middle and be able to see her at all times. But I can’t run with her. My physical therapist originally said I could go back to running in another week, but I haven’t been progressing as well as she’d like, so when I last saw her, she told me not to get my hopes up just yet. So, I will watch my daughter run, and in the back of my mind hope that I am ready to run 5K with her by the time of the event on May 6^th (the same day as the NJ marathon that I had been training for when I got hurt. Open wound, insert salt, rub hard).

As I drive to the track, I pass several other people running on this absolutely glorious day. I even see a few people bike by, which reminds me that I have only recently started on a spin bike again, and frankly, it hurts like hell. I know that anything can be a symbol, and a symbol can be interpreted any way we want. And in my self-pitying moment, I see all these outdoor enthusiasts as a symbol of defeat. They can do this stuff, and I can’t.

We reach the track and momentarily hit a SNAFU. There is a high school meet going on, so the track is closed to the public. As I’m about to give up completely, Olivia tugs on my hand. “Mom? The track is closed, but there’s nobody on the baseball field. Can we run there?” Liv is right, the adjoining baseball field is completely deserted, with its gate wide open, inviting us to run around and play. The kids and I walk over there.

Liv stares at the field, and tells me she wants to run the bases 20 times, and off she goes. Ben joins her. I quickly do the math in my head and realize that Liv has just set herself up to run about 1 and 1/3 miles in one fell swoop (and yes, I really did figure it out almost immediately. Hey, they don’t just let anyone join Mensa).

My kids are very different from each other. Olivia thinks through everything, all the time (wonder where she gets that from :-), so she knows to go slow and steady to accomplish her task. Ben jumps into everything 100%, so he takes off at a sprint after his big sister. I stand on the pitcher’s mound and watch them both, momentarily still feeling sorry for myself. I do notice, though, that they both seem to be having a blast.

After a couple of laps, Ben is done running, so he picks up the soccer ball we brought and asks if my foot is OK enough to kick with him. I tell him it is, and we kick back and forth. As the sun warms me up, I start feeling better, and I take a more realistic look around at my surroundings. My son and I are playing soccer in the infield, and my daughter is running the bases with an ENORMOUS smile on her face. And it dawns on me that even though I can’t run and haven’t for a while, I have taught my children such an important life lesson. To them, activity is normal. Running bases or playing soccer on a nice Saturday morning is just something healthy families do.

Every few laps I ask Liv how she’s doing, and with each one her smile gets broader and she yells out, “I’m great!” Finally, she’s done and I show the kids how to stretch. While we’re stretching, I ask Olivia how many laps she did. She looks at me kind of funny before saying, “Well, 20. I told you I was going to do 20 when I started.” I smile as I realize another thing that I’ve passed on to my kids: set up a plan so you know what you’re going to do, then simply just go do it. And that’s just what my 7 year old did.

The three of us pile back into the car and head home. The sun is higher, and it’s a little warmer now. My little town is just as beautiful on the way home. We pass a few more runners, and some kids playing basketball in their driveway. My kids are singing to the radio again. I couldn’t run today, and my foot hurts a bit from playing soccer with my 4 year old child. My racing season is still slowly unraveling. And I’m so happy that I silently have a tear rolling down my face.