The vicarious leap!

In that elusive rulebook of parenting, were often told not to live vicariously through our children. Here’s the truth. That’s the biggest load of hog wash I have ever heard. There isn’t one parent that sits emotionless on their child’s life journey. No matter how big or small the leap your child takes, a parent feels its every nuance. When Peter asked (I mean begged) to race 13.1 miles on one of New England  toughest courses this weekend, my eyebrows furled high. My rule, not to let my son race any distance longer than his age was in serious jeopardy.  There are steadfast rules about kids racing longer distances and for many a good reason. Peter had never raced further than a 10k. His grandma a runner herself, peered strait into the eyes of the race director and said, “Trust me, he’ll be ok”. She raised a boy just like him and she knew where this was going. With a promise that we would run with him, the decision was made. The boy leaped from side to side with his official race bib in his hands as if he had just found Wonka’s golden ticket. “Mom!!! I’m doing my first half-marathon!” The night was spent warning him of the hills that lay ahead, but any experienced runner knows that no one can tell another runner what it really feels like to race. 5 AM came quickly. We had all slept restlessly dreaming of bizarre prerace scenarios of being unable to find the starting line or forgetting our running shoes. The house, full of Schultens, was a busy hive of activity in the dawn hour. Cheerios were being consumed, race numbers were pinned, energy gels were being situated, all with a constant background noise of flushing toilets (yes, better than race-site Porto lets). We would soon stand on Main Street in Waitsfield, Vermont listening to our nation’s anthem. Rather than having his family watch from the sidelines, they would surround him among the many runners. His aunties, grandma, grandpa, mom and dad would be there to see him through. He watched the starter reach a pistol to the sky and the last thing I would hear him say would be, “Mom, is it going to shoot a real bullet?” And then he was gone, I mean really gone. I furled my brow again thinking, “Oh no, he’s out too fast”. The fantastic rural scenery passed by, with a constant imaginary photo shutter releasing in my mind.  I would catch a fleeting glimpse of the boy at the 5 mile turn-around. I was sure the monstrous hill at 8 miles would be his demise sending him running back to me. At the 9 mile water station, I asked the volunteer if he had seen a little kid running in a blue shirt. His reply, “Good luck catching him, he’s got 5 minutes on you.” It had never felt so good to be beaten. With every passing stride, I beamed a huge smile knowing that just ahead, a boy’s life was being lived to the absolute fullest. Call it vicarious. Hell, call it pure unadulterated joy, it's all good to me. Two hours and seven minutes later, it would be done. The race organizer would turn to Peter’s grandma with a stern look and say, “You were supposed to run with him.” Then she smiled and finished her thought, “But he smoked you.” She laughed, as she would tousle his hair playfully.

And that was it. We are afforded many moments in our lives to be with our children during their growing up years. They are not all perfect. The moments where we see them realize their own potential are undoubtedly the very best moments of our adult lives. So when your daughter writes an amazing book, or your son plays the perfect solo, celebrate with them to the fullest, because in turn, you are getting the most out of your life.