Spencer Runs a Mile (And Why I Cried About It)
I KNOW this is going to sound dramatic. Especially if you’ve been around Spencer recently. He’s fast. He bolts around. Especially if he hears the back door by the garage open. One minute he’s sitting at the table, (click) the next second he’s already out the door approximating the word “outside.”
But listen, I went through a short time when I didn’t know if Spencer would ever be able to crawl or walk on his own. He was so late in doing both these things, that when they finally happened, it felt like a bonafide miracle. I never doubted him, I just never wanted to get my hopes up about something that I didn’t even know he could do. I never wanted my son to feel an ounce of disappointment from me about any of his abilities. Dis, or otherwise. I imagined him walking on his own, but I also planned to have some kind of walking device too. It’s a weird world to be in as a parent.
This was 2 years ago and our first year at the Motif #1 race. He was totally content to have snacks and juice with dad on the sidelines.
And he has been walking and running so well for so long that I didn’t really think too much about it when I signed him up for a one mile fun run in our town celebration, the Motif #1 Day. My older kids love to run the 5K and it just felt right and fun to sign Spencer up to run a mile. I joked about me chasing him around enough to know he was ready for a mile run.
The day of the race came, and the 5K was first. He had a nice, comfy ride in his jogging stroller while I ran pushing him. He asked to get out a few times (ow, ow) but mostly seemed to enjoy the cheers and claps we got along the way.
Some friends and neighbors post 5k! (Spence was OVER being in his stroller.)
Then, it was his turn. We were late getting to the starting line, so we started about a minute after everyone else had taken off up the hill. Even with the late start, we still got plenty of cheers and accolades as we began. Spencer would run a few seconds, then stop and walk. His running gate is my favorite. He puts his head down, swings one arm and stomps those little feet like his only purpose in life is to move. As we round the first corner, the cheering crowd is already gone. The majority of the pack is several hundred feet in front of us, so it’s just me and Spence. I hold his hand and tell him he is doing an amazing job in his race. When he has a burst of running, I say with surprise, “Whoa! You are fast! How did you get to be so fast!?” That line always gets a smile. I don’t know if he’s smiling because he’s too smart, and on to my mom praise, or he feels like the fastest thing on two legs. Either way, I keep it up nearly the entire race.
About a third of way in, with a face already flushed and pink, he reaches his arms up to me. He wants me to pick him up. The other runners are out of sight, just beyond the crest of a hill we are currently struggling up. Man it would be so much easier if I picked you up right now, I thought to myself. Maybe just up this hill. Just the hard part, then I’ll put you down and you can run the downhill. I played this out in my head. It would be so much easier.
I want to pick him up. I want to pick him up.
Instead I smile and say, “No Spence! I’m not going to pick you up! This is your race buddy! You’re going to do the whole thing.”
So we keep walking and running along. Walk for a few minutes. Run for a few seconds.
“You’re so fast dude! I can’t believe how fast you can run!” A smile and small, out of breath giggle is what I get in response. He turns to me a second time.
A little more resolve in my voice I say, “Dude. You are amazing and I know you can finish this race! We’re almost there!” (We weren’t. Still had half-way to go.)
He doesn’t ask me to pick him up the rest of the race. I keep up my praise and encouragement. He keeps up his walk/run stride. We get to a point where there is a band of volunteers whose only job is to cheer on runners with music and funny costumes. (God bless our little town.) Spencer slows a little to look and I can tell that if he wasn’t so tired from running, he would’ve wanted to stop and dance. They clap for him and we keep on keeping on.
Determined. We were almost there! Photo by Joe Wrinn.
Our amazing PE teacher, Mrs. Caniff, who organized the race, had been riding her bike all day up and down the course during the 5K, cheering for runners and yelling names of kids. She’s the perpetual encourager, a town favorite. But she didn’t yell at Spencer, she talked quietly, but we could both hear her. She told Spencer how amazing he was and that he was almost there. He picked up his gate again, and we rounded the corner towards the finish line.
I’m not sure when the runners in front of us finished, but I do know we were dead last. When we crossed the finish line, I remember seeing 21:25 on the clock. We crested that hill towards the end of the race and the street erupted. There were still people lining the street. I couldn’t believe it. I thought for sure the only people who would be at the end would be my husband and older kids. But there were so many people who saw us. Who saw Spencer. Who cheered for him and were so happy he was about to finish this big thing.
The tears rolled freely down my cheeks as we passed neighbors and friends and a handful of strangers caught up in the moment. We ran past the claps, his little arm swinging, his gallop of stomping feet, and crossed that finish line.
Chris was right there and wrapped his arms around me. The quiet tears behind my sunglasses turned to a small, sob in his arms. I could tell he was emotional too. “He did it baby,” was all he said. I nodded my head and cried some more.
The finish line embrace. Photo by Joe Wrinn.
A photographer was right there and took a few pictures of us at the end. He told me later he was going to turn to leave, but noticed our embrace at the finish line and decided to stick around to see what our story was. He captured a pretty golden moment for our family. I’m so grateful he stayed.
Smothered with accolades from Mom and Dad! Photo by Joe Wrinn.
When I got pregnant with Spencer, it was a surprise. When I learned of his developmental delays at 6 months old, another surprise. When he finally walked at 3 years old, only months before he was supposed to start preschool (that’s another story), I was once again, surprised.
So you would think that I know the deal by now. When we rounded that corner and we felt all that love and support and electricity in the air, in part created by Spencer himself, I should not have been surprised. Because this kid does nothing but exceed my expectations. Even when I have my proverbial blindfold on, and have no idea how hard to push him, or what line to draw, or how much he can rise to any given obstacle or challenge placed in front of him.
I should not be surprised that people were waiting for us. I should not be surprised Mrs. Caniff knew exactly how to talk to Spencer in that moment. I should not be surprised I didn’t give in and carry him half the way. I should not have been surprised that he finished. This 20 minute race was a bigger snapshot of our life together. We have been crossing finish lines for years now.
The best part? This is only the beginning. He will cross a million more.
