The runner

At the airport, a family with four small kids—probably all under six or seven—was waiting at the same gate as us. The mom had positioned herself carefully at the edge of the bench seats, using her body like a barrier to protect the littlest one, maybe seven or eight months old, who was clearly just getting the hang of sitting up. The oldest, a girl around six or seven, sat next to her baby brother, quietly keeping herself busy. The dad seemed in charge of the two middle boys. The younger of the two, probably about two or three, was nonstop—desperate for his dad’s attention.

“Daddy!” he called, “Let’s play Simon Says!”
“Okay,” his dad said. “Simon says touch your nose.”
The boy giggled, spun away, and shouted, “No, Simon says RUN!”—and off he went, darting between grown-ups twice his size.

His dad called his name and ran after the boy. You could see the exhaustion, the mental calculation it took to keep going after this child without letting the frustration take over. He finally caught him, scooped him up onto his back, and the boy was all smiles—completely thrilled with himself, totally unfazed by the whole pursuit and capture.

Over and over, the little one took off. While the two older kids waited in line to check their animal-shaped, hard, plastic luggage at the gate, he suddenly dropped the handle of his bright blue shark suitcase and bolted into a nearby bank of seats. His dad hesitated—glancing at the two older kids, then at the luggage—and then took off after the sprinter.

An older woman nearby struck up a conversation with the two siblings left behind, probably trying to keep them calm while their dad disappeared in pursuit of the escapee. I wondered how many times they had been left in parks, in lines, waiting while their parent dashed after their little brother. A minute later, the father returned, the runner now perched on his shoulders, gripping his dad’s head like nothing had happened.

I smiled, watching the antics of this boy, the seemingly endless energy, the little twinkle in his eye—his tell right before he was about to dash away—the brazenness and complete lack of fear. The assuredness that his father would chase after him, put his strong arms around him, and bring him back to the family. Not a doubt in his little head that he would be followed, intercepted, and encircled in love. Not a thought about the exhaustion of his father, the necessity of his siblings’ being left behind because of his bolting, not a worry about the possibility of ill-intentioned strangers or falls or injuries of any kind. Just a need to expend energy, push the limits, test the boundaries, and laugh as he was pursued. That laughter, mischievous and rascally, oh how well I remembered the rapsy little laugh of my own runner, my middle child.

I watched the father again and again, going after this boy. I saw the tiredness in his movements, the drawn look on his face as he realized the boy had taken off. Again. And the mother, her eyes somehow always on each child, knowing at all times where each one was. Knowing that her husband was constantly in pursuit of their little sprinter. The fatigue in both of their faces, the slight worry, and the steely front to keep frustration and anger from their voices and meet these small humans with playfulness and love. I could almost feel it in my body, as if it was only a few months ago that we had been juggling three under five, the middle one our little dasher. And as happens when the distance between you and that phase of parenting grows long, I felt a pang of longing, of yearning to see the sparkling mischief in L’s green eyes; hear his cheeky, effervescent laugh; smell the fresh cleaness of his soft, silky blonde hair; to hold his chubby, dimpled little hand in mine; see that little face look up and know that he felt nothing but love for me.

We decided to take a short trip to New Orleans at the start of the younger two boys’ April break. I’d had to request time off more than a month in advance, and originally, the plan was to head north to Montreal, stopping at a few colleges along the way. But L made it clear he didn’t want to go anywhere cold, and M requested New Orleans so we could catch some live jazz. None of us had ever been, so we decided we’d make the trip.

L, of course, protested. Loudly. He had reason after reason why the trip wouldn’t work for him. He had plans with friends to visit local colleges. He had lifeguard training. He couldn’t find anyone to cover his shifts at work. His friends didn’t want him to go. It’s nothing new—L has complained about every vacation we’ve taken since COVID. It doesn’t seem to matter how exciting the destination is or how thoughtful the plans are; he finds a reason to express his dislike of the plans. And he makes sure we know just how much he doesn't want to be there before, during, and after the trip.

Most of the time, I try to let it roll off my back. I make light of it when I can. Sometimes I try to engage him, ask for suggestions, see if there’s anything he might enjoy planning himself. Those efforts never land. And yes, there are moments when his constant negativity wears me down and I snap back. It’s hard—exhausting, really—to keep putting time, energy, and love into creating a meaningful trip, only to have it dismissed or criticized over and over again.

I’ve learned to let it go—to ignore the negativity and push forward with plans that the rest of us will enjoy. I wanted a break: time away from work, time away from the usual rhythm of life. M wanted to hear live jazz, and since he’s the least likely to ask for anything specific, D and I were more than happy to make that happen.

After a few years of traveling with teens, we’ve figured out a few key strategies: plan at least one meal a day in advance to avoid the hangry spiral, build in one or two structured activities, and leave room for downtime so everyone can recharge in their own way. I’ve also learned the importance of getting input from the boys—not because I expect enthusiastic responses, but because it helps them feel more in the loop, even if their feedback is mostly eye rolls and shrugs.

And despite the running commentary—how he learned absolutely nothing on the bike tour, how I should know by now that he hates tapas, how the jazz was too loud and not even good—he still has these moments where a little joy slips through. His pure delight at the seafood boil. That iced coffee he had on the deathly boring bike tour—some of the best he’s ever tasted, apparently.

These small, shining moments are what I hold onto. They’re what give me hope that, years from now, when he looks back on the trips we took as a family, he’ll remember something softer. That somehow, the feeling of those good moments will linger louder than the complaints he shared with us at the time.

Because I know that the day when he actually doesn’t join us on the family vacations are not far away. We have already taken two short trips that don’t work with Z’s schedule. And L will be heading off to college in just over a year. I know that the time when it is three of us traveling, and then just D and me is coming quicker than I can manage. And I know that this protest, this rejection of everything I plan is all part of the work of running. But unlike the running L did as a toddler and a little boy, this running is his own. We are no longer in pursuit of him. One of us is no longer going to overtake him in short time. There is no swooping up of the small child, holding him tight to our chests, and returning him, giggly and delighted in his antics, to the fold.

These sprints are getting longer.

Farther and farther away.

He is now charting his course into adulthood.

The choice to turn around and run back belongs more and more to him.

Of course, wherever he runs, how ever far away, we will always be here, arms open, ready to fold him back in.

And that sweet, rascally laugh will continue to melt my heart.

Because he will always be my little sprinter.

And I will always be fighting the impulse to chase him, scoop him up, and lift him on high onto my shoulders, where I know he will be safe.

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please share it with friends!