A Poorly Planned Personality Test (aka My Sunday Run)

I had a rubbish run last Sunday and I haven’t had one of those for a long time. I’m taking this as a good sign, surely this means I’m fully rehabbed if I’m no longer in the “grateful for absolutely EVERY run” phase.

Yes, the run las Sunday was genuinely unpleasant, and not just because of the weather.

So I’m back running with my eldest daughter Poppie who has now surpassed my speed and endurance. I knew it would happen, admittedly it’s happened a bit sooner than I would have liked but the broken ankle sped up mother nature’s job.

For me, us running together again is amazing, although I do wonder if she feels a certain obligation; I’m not sure if it’s care in the community or guilt because I supported her running post-partum. Either way, I understand that she’s only got a finite amount of time to fit her runs in, and every run “needs” to have purpose.

Anyway, we were both looking forward to our run. Our messages the night before were light-hearted as we agreed time and distance, “are we secretly training for a half marathon?” she sent with a laughing emoji.

The weather was awful on Sunday; shock. It was dark, wet, cold and windy, I wasn’t feeling too much love but, still in the grateful I can run phase, I turned up at Poppie’s house on time. She was faffing around, couldn’t find this, couldn’t find that, before she eventually appeared from upstairs in her running attire.

Now I’ve made it my life’s work to never comment on either of my adult daughter’s choice of clothing, although at times, especially in the teenage years, this has been challenging, but I genuinely feel I’ve mastered the art of telling them both that they look amazing, regardless of what I really think.

There’s no handbook for parenting adults, it seems counter intuitive doesn’t it? Adults don’t need parenting because well, they’re adults. But over the course of the last decade or so, I’ve often thought someone should write the final book in the parenting series, you know, one that comes after Toddler Taming and Get the F** Out of My Life (But Can You Take Me to the Disco First?) because I’ve owned them all, the well-thumbed, well-used, occasionally hurled-across-the-room parenting self-help manuals that promise clarity in the middle of chaos.

Yet the series stopped, there isn’t, as far as I’m aware, a Beyond Voting Age (But Can You Still Pay For Dinner) and at times, it feels like there’s a massive piece of the jigsaw missing, like JK Rowling forgetting to tell us the truth about Severus Snape; a whole layer of the story hovering just out of reach, shaping everything, yet never quite fully explained.

Anyway, back to my very competent, very adult daughter coming down the stairs in… SHORTS!!

Don’t get me wrong, I love that we’re all inspired to “wear the damn shorts”, and these shorts were so short it would make a 1970’s footballer blush… But it wasn’t the length of the shorts, it was the fact that it was blowing a gale outside and she’d quite obviously get cold!

You see, we never actually stop parenting, it just changes shape.

And then it dawned on me, oh no, has she fallen for the internet telling her she’s not a runner if she wears leggings; whatever the weather! I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my own executive function.

But I kept quiet, I zipped it, I thought no, keep your thoughts to yourself, she must go through her own pain, I can’t make everything nice for her, she’s not my responsibility anymore, she has children of her own. Let’s just go. But let’s just say as we finally left I had a vague idea of how this run was going to pan out.

Of course she was straight off, no gentle warm up, and me asking which route we were taking just got carried away on the wind. With a heavy heart I knew I’d set off too fast, I struggled to keep my breathing under control, it felt horrible. The rain was cutting into my skin with razor sharp precision; I had to keep my head otherwise I knew I’d turn around and go home. I know difficult runs are part of the deal. Progress doesn’t come wrapped in comfort, and I know that not every outing can be effortless, inspiring or vaguely Instagrammable. But this one felt less like character-building and more like a poorly planned personality test.

I followed her gazelle-like strides as she powered up the first hill, slow down I said to myself, get your breathing under control, just let her go. I’ve long got over those negative thoughts of feeling old and elephant like; I know what works for me, slow start, finish strong. When she paused at the top, out of breath, I said “I’ve set off too fast, we either need to slow it down or you go on if you like, I’ll be ok”. She replied, “what’s the point of us running together if I go on?”

She had a point. We carried on together. We chatted away, me trying to find things to say whilst simultaneously telling my brain to shut the fuck up, and that, no, it wasn’t appropriate to lose my shit with my own daughter.

By mile 3 I was exhausted. As we approached another hill, she stopped and said, “I’m hating this, this is awful, I’m cold and wet”. I looked at her and said, “me too and I’m just about to lose my shit with you! Not only are we running too quickly, but you also want me to be the entertainment by chatting shit to you!”

She laughed like a slightly demented cartoon character, the kind of laugh that shouldn’t be contagious but absolutely is. It shattered the awkwardness in a second, and suddenly we were a team, bonded in the shared absurdity of it all.

And honestly, making my children laugh still feels like winning something rare and glittering, like a prize I never quite outgrow wanting.

We finished the run together, soaked, a bit grumpy and both slightly humbled. She was still in her shorts, and I was still parenting.

I gave her a slow side eye and said, “you do know Sweaty Betty do water-resistant leggings?”

And if this is what “fully rehabbed” normality feels like, I’ll take it.