If you've ever run a race of any distance, you've seen them: the photographers. These professional picture-takers of the anonymous amateur runner sit at various intervals of the race route and snap what I'd imagine to be an endless number of pictures portraying the "runner in action". This is their job, and they don't care that you've been running for the last two hours and your hair has escaped the bondage of its ponytail hold miles ago, your face is contorted into a perpetual grimace of pain, and thanks be to God that pictures can't pick up on your scent. They are bound to see you looking--and feeling--far less than your best.
I've noticed several different approaches people take when dealing with these photographic vultures. Some choose to simply ignore them. They pick a point in the distance and pretend to be studying it with the seriousness of someone studying for the bar exam, paying no attention to the person who is clicking away at their feet. Others fully acknowledge the camera. Upon spotting it, they immediately straighten up their posture, pick up the pace, and greet the camera like an old friend by flashing a toothy grin and a thumbs up or a wave.
I fall somewhere in between these two approaches. Unless the cameraman happened to snap my picture in the first mile, chances are that he is taking my picture at a time when I am not exactly enjoying myself, and it shows. If you observed me during a run, you'd most likely see a girl wearing mismatched clothes with a taut, pained-looking expression on her face, mouth agape, spit flying or perching contentedly from the corners of her mouth, and hair a mess. Generally when I approach a cameraman I have more important things to worry about than how I look, like whether I am actually going to finish this race without dying or where I can pee in private without losing a lot of time waiting in a line. At the same time, I'd rather not have my image posted on some website looking like I just escaped from prison and have been on the run for days. So when I see one of these nuisances, I generally try to pull myself together enough to replace my grimace with a more neutral, less frightening look and--in the case of the one and only marathon I ran--to not be seen crying.
Which, I'll be the first to admit, is silly. Most people realize that you don't run marathons for the fun of it. It goes to reason, then, that you shouldn't be expected to look like you are having fun, or even to look good. If ever you have an excuse to look bad, it's during this ridiculous distance event in which you run for four hours straight all the while constantly battling your mind to convince yourself (and your legs) that you are, in fact, going to make it and that quitting would render the last four months of training a large waste of time. Why, then, do we feel the need to constantly look like we have it all together?
I asked myself this question yesterday after a particularly painful experience at the library. Although the library technically constitutes as being a public place, I consider it more of a quasi-public place. By this I mean that I don't feel guilty if I'm not looking my best. The place is two miles from my house and the only people we see there are other snotty-nosed kids and moms who are in the same boat as me. Simply put, I am not aiming to impress anyone. And I feel like most moms adhere to this mentality.
There is one mom, however, who clearly does not. She is the quintessential perfect mom. For starters, she always looks flawless. I have never seen this lady in anything less than khakis, her hair and makeup are always impeccable, and she even wears lipstick, something I would consider doing only if I were going to, oh, I don't know, a ball. She always wears cute shoes. With heels. The other day I was reading the newspaper and saw her posing in an ad. No wonder she looks like a model. She is a model. Her two girls are following suit and appear to be perfect too. Just slightly older than my own kids, they always are dressed to the nine, with cute hairstyles and stainless outfits. They have never acted up, as far as I have seen. In short, this Supermom and her kids always put me on edge because of the aura of perfection they give off.
Imagine then, if you will, the seen that unfolded yesterday: feeling a little sick and run down, I put off taking a shower and doing the whole hair and makeup thing, and opted instead for a more natural look (read: I looked like death). I was wearing a sweat suit of sorts, not of the "I am about to go to/am returning from the gym" variety, but the "I intend to do as little as possible today and these are the closest things to pajamas that I can get away with in public" variety. We had just finished taking the dog for a walk and it had been raining; hence, my boys' clothes were muddy and had the usual breakfast remnants splattered on them. Our looks alone would give one reason to pause. But we were at the library, for heaven sakes! Anything goes!
Anything, that is, except for what happened next. Jack, upon realizing that I was unable to retrieve his favorite books (Amazing Airplanes and Tough Trucks which, by the way, are riveting reads if you are currently searching for a good novel), decided to throw one of his infamous tantrums. I have dealt with these tantrums far more times than I care to relate, both at home and in public, so the tantrum in itself was nothing new. Nor was the hysterical screaming, or the feet stomping or the head banging on the floor. What set this particular tantrum apart from the others was that Jack, who had decided from the get go that this was going to be a tantrum of the long and drawn out variety, would not leave. Which didn't leave me with a whole lot of options. I had a purse, a stack of books, a 14 month old who isn't exactly the definition of a good listener, and an almost three year old who was screaming bloody murder and none of these things was going to get to the car on their own.
Trying desperately to ignore the stares, I opted to grab Ben and the books and my purse with one hand (thank God Ben is little), put forty-pound Jack under my arm like a football, and somehow made my way to the elevator. I endured the world's longest elevator ride down to the first floor (seriously, there are only two floors. How can it take that thing five minutes?!) where I tried to get Jack to stop screaming so that I could check out my books. He responded by screaming louder and banging his head on the floor. Naturally, Supermom was right there with her two girls, who weren't making a sound. It was beyond obvious at this point that Jack was not about to cease with his antics, so I threw the books on a counter and again grabbed my boys and made our way to the car.
Fortunately, a lady from my church happened to have parked right next to us (a God-thing for sure) and offered to help. I asked if she would stand by and watch the boys who were screaming in the car as I ran back into the library to check out the books and she willingly agreed. As I ran into the library, I passed Supermom who I am sure thought that I had either left my children unattended out in the car or, even worse, left them out in the car with a complete stranger. Mortified, I checked out the books as fast as I could (again, it is a marvel that anything gets done in that place with the speed at which everything occurs) and managed to leave the parking lot before I, too, burst into tears.
Needless to say, it was a rough day. Any previous attempts on my part to look and act the role of a good mom, a mom who has it all together, had been obliterated by this one event. Which goes to show that looking and acting the part of a good mom is a complete waste of time. Anyone with kids--heck, anyone with a pulse--knows that when it comes to most anything in this life, especially kids, we don't have a clue. At best we arm ourselves with knowledge, throw up a prayer, make a decision and hope that by it we aren't going to ruin any body's life. At worst we end up on the kitchen floor, crying right along with our two kids after dragging them out of a public place under our arms.
Blessedly, we don't need to act like we have it all together when we don't. We don't have to smile when we don't feel like smiling, or pretend we know the answers when we don't have a clue. We don't have to do these things because we have someone who really does have it all together, who does have the answers, and who wants us to bring him our tears when we are having a rough day. Our God will supply all our needs according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19). Not only that, but through Christ we can do all things through the strength he gives us! (Philippians 4:13). When life brings us down, as it surely will, all we have to do is run to Jesus and he will accept us, regardless of what we look like, or what our child just did, or how we just reacted to what our child just did. Not only does he accept us, but he loves us. so. much. I don't know about you, but I would much rather have the very real love of an all-powerful and all-knowing Lord of Hosts to rely on than a supermom-like facade.
Although it would be really great to be able to look even a little like Supermom. And whether I'm feeling up to it or not, next week while running I will probably check to make sure that I don't have any snot on my face when I pass by those photographers.
