Track Star in Training (Send Help and Knee Braces)

Anyone else have a runner? And I don’t just mean a kid who wanders—I mean a full-blown, toddler track star that could give Usain Bolt a run for his money? One that has people actually singing “She’s a runner, she’s a track star!” as she bolts toward the horizon?

If your child is the type to quietly stay put, content in their stroller or safely within arm’s reach, then I just want you to know—I envy you. Deeply. Because my tiny boss baby? She. Is. A. Runner. And not just any runner—she’s the kind of sprinter that makes other moms gasp and people at the park laugh until they cry. She runs with the speed of chaos and the spirit of rebellion. And unfortunately for me, I do not run with anything but regret and weak ankles.

Let me paint you a picture of my life lately. One day, we were at a splash pad for a birthday party. My middle daughter asked if she could take my youngest (a.k.a. my miniature hurricane) down the slide. I, in my infinite wisdom, said, “Sure—but stay where I can see you.” Oh, sweet naïve me.

Moments later, I see that little blur of rebellion booking it across the splash pad—headed straight for the road. I didn’t even have time to scream. Instinct took over. I launched into a full-blown sprint (and by "sprint" I mean flailing panic-jog), twisted my ankle, busted my knee on the concrete, and STILL managed to tackle her like an NFL linebacker. This child is cackling—like full belly laugh—while I’m gasping for breath, sweating like I’m in a sauna, and possibly going into cardiac arrest.

Meanwhile, one of my family members—nervous laughing—goes, “Dude, I didn’t even know you could run that fast.” SAME. I didn’t know I could either, but apparently, when your baby is charging toward traffic like it’s a finish line, your body does things you didn’t sign up for. I didn’t stretch. I didn’t train. But I ran like the wind—if the wind had weak knees and poor decision-making skills.

You’d think that would be enough for one month, but no. A couple weeks later, we were at my mom’s house, done swimming for the day, gathering our things. And guess what? The tiny tornado made a break for it again—this time toward the pool gate. My brother took off after her (bless him), and she actually laughed at him while sprinting away like a maniac. Luckily, she ran directly into the side of the pool deck and fell on her butt. She was fine (don’t worry), but I think she surprised herself more than anyone.

My brother turns to me, winded, confused, probably questioning life, and says, “How is someone that small that fast?”

Sir, I have no answers. Only trauma.

Let’s just say I unlocked a new parenting fear that day—and so did he. I told him, “Welcome to the club.” Between my two youngest, we’ve discovered fears I didn’t even know existed as a first-time parent. My oldest didn’t run. She sat. She painted. She journaled (probably). These two? They test every boundary, every nerve, and every ligament in my body.

And now, this is why both my kids wear leashes in public. Yup. I said it. Go ahead and laugh, but until you’ve been the one sprinting through a Chick-fil-A parking lot yelling “NOOOO!” like a scene from an action movie, don’t judge me.

Every kid is different. Some color inside the lines. Some eat the crayons. Some climb shelves like spider monkeys. Some sprint toward traffic like it’s recess. Our job isn’t to fit them in a box—it’s to survive and love them through the chaos. And maybe ice our knees afterward.

So if you see a parent in public looking like they’ve been hit by a truck while juggling five different kids with five very different personalities—don’t judge. Be kind. Offer a coffee. Or a brace. Because chances are, they just rolled an ankle chasing a 3-foot-tall fugitive of bedtime.