Or, to put it more precisely, the Mom of a Runner.
Last year I described my deplorable lack of enthusiasm at watching my kids participate in sporting events. You can't really blame me. I was never a star at anything that could remotely be described as a sport, unless you count 1970s-sitcom-theme-song-memorization, in which I would have been a medal winner. I'll never forget one gym class when I was in seventh grade, on a day when we had a substitute teacher. We did whatever activity we were doing at the time and at the end of the class the teacher gathered everyone into a circle, pointed at me and commanded: "You. Do what you were doing before." So I did whatever it was, and then she turned to the class and warned: "Did everyone see what she just did? Don't anybody do that." Consequently, although this was by no means the only incident (merely the most memorable and insulting), I hate exercise, and will do it only under the most perfect of circumstances.
In addition, I don't care if my kids are good at it, although I encourage them to do something to keep themselves healthy. Robespierre has tried basketball, soccer, baseball, wrestling, cross country and Tae Kwon Doe, with varying levels of success but a reliably high level of enthusiasm. Cupcake has tried a similar selection of sports, frequently exhibiting a less stellar level of enthusiasm.
But this spring she discovered running, through a national program called "Girls on the Run," which is:
Most of the girls in her school, grades 1 through 6, participated this spring, training twice a week with a group of teachers, moms and running buddies, culminating in a 5K run about three weeks ago. Not only did she complete the run, but she liked it, and then expressed interest in doing another. Saturday she did it again -- a 5K run sponsored by our city's indisputably spectacular science center. She completed the run with a big smile on her face, and expressed interest in doing more.
I'd suspected she'd enjoy running, since it's the kind of activity where you mostly compete against yourself. There's no concern about who gets more passes, or who makes more baskets or goals. At nine years old, as long as you do better than, or come close to, your previous time, you're in a good place.
Maybe I'll even consider running with her.
Nah.
