I know it’s a couple weeks early for this kind of post, but I’m going on hiatus from the blog until Jan. 1. In keeping with my tradition to review my year in running by way of pictures, here’s how 2009 went down.

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My mom’s not really the type to hand out words of wisdom, but one thing she’s always said is, “You have to train a husband.” To me, this conjures images of newspaper all over the floor in case of who-knows-what and a collar that shocks a guy every time he leaves his clothes in a heap. The idea of using a Pavlovian stimulus-response system to get a grown man to fix a washing machine just seems nutty.

Yet not unreasonable.

Which makes it extra amusing to me is that I’m now, in fact, training my husband. As with her one other piece of advice about the importance of finding a good moisturizer, my mom would seem to be right.

While I was in PA for the summer, our washing machine broke. Brian’s brilliant fix was to carry 6 buckets of water from the tub to the washing machine every time he needed to do a load. Needless to say, I made it explicit that the machine should be functional by the time I returned from Australia.

His mother helped him fix it.

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I’m a recovering academic in psychology whose biggest contribution to the field of child development has been a little blond imp named Henry. When I feel conflicted over my chosen role, I go for a run.

I run a lot.

My previous blog chronicled my misadventures in training and parenting, both of which drive my third avocation: cocktail invention. Feel free to dig through my archives instead of reading that phone book tonight.

When I first started blogging, I had no idea just how deep the mother-runner field is. We run short and long, fast and slow. Often we win trophies and titles, but most of us don’t. We are fierce in our love of the sport and happily find ourselves choosing the pain of the lactic acid burn over the agony of folding another load of laundry. We bring irreverence to both our running and our mothering, preferring wit and endorphins to frustration and defeat. Running and family: we take both in strides.

So a marathon mama is a genus, not a rank or a crown. In fact, you don’t even have to be a woman or a parent to get me. If you’ve ever been in the company of a cranky young child and wanted to run the other way, welcome to my world. Won’t you run away with me?

Kristina

mother, writer, runner, coach (RRCA certified)

Email me: marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net