You know about my Nutrisystem journey, right? After reaching this weight-loss plateau I knew it was time to consistently add some exercise.
I loathe exercise. I have a list as long as my arm of all the reasons not to do it. As ridiculous as it sounds, I need motivation to workout. Aside from the benefits of being in shape, I need a better reason to sweat that hard. To fight the dread that comes over me right before it is time to workout or exercise. So, we bought new running shoes. Now, I need to run.
We started our walking/running journey as a family. The shoes get me moderately excited. (I had Shera shoes in elementary school that made me run super fast. Got a ribbon on field day. For real.)
Last night we go to one of the high school tracks as a family. We’re all in this together.
I know I need to start out slow. After all, my endurance level is about as existent as global warming. Seriously. So I compromise with myself. I will jog the straights and walk the curves of the track. Sounds fair.
Four laps to go…. we’re doing a mile here.
Lap one I am dying. Can’t breathe. Trying hard to catch my breath. I press ahead, after all, the payoff will be amazing, right?
Two laps in and I KNOW I am dying. Who in their right mind enjoys running? Who? Crazy people that is who.
Three laps in and every time I pass my kids on the track they want to carry on a conversation. Hey Mom… blah, blah, blah, right?
I have no air. All I can do is motion to cut it out. Later, I pant. Later. If I live.
Lap four and I am like a rising star on American Idol. I am in it to win it! If I don’t croak over on my face. Dying with every step.
I made it. Four laps. My legs are jello. All I want to do is spread out on the track, on my back, who cares if someone runs over me. I will wait until my children come and find me.
Garrett finally convinces me to walk one more lap, with him. I oblige. I tell him all about how I am certain I am going to fall over dead and he will have to drive these kids home. (Not really. My suburban is not cool enough for him to drive.) As we walk this lap together, Garrett, the child who made me a mother and turned 12 years old just days ago, asks if he can hold my hand while we walk.
Of course you can.
I can tell he wants to talk.
It goes a little something like this…
You know Mom, I’ve only held one girls hand before.
Say what? Who’s hand did you hold and when? Hand holding is illegal, you know. Unless it is your mother’s hand.
Emily at school (name changed to protect the innocent).
When was this?
At school. It was on my birthday and we were watching a movie at school. She sat down next to me and put her hand out like this. I knew she wanted me to hold her hand for my birthday, so I did it.
At school? Where were the teachers? You know you’re not supposed to hold hands at school. You’re not supposed to hold any one’s hand until you’re 45.
The teachers don’t know. We would get in trouble.
Dear God, Garrett. Next year tell her to give you a birthday card instead. Do you know what holding hands leads to? Cooties. And you do not want cooties. They are worse than head lice. You’ll never get rid of them. Never.
Mom, you’re weird. And holding hands does not give you cooties.
Oh yes it does. Let’s load up these kids and go home….
Do our children really have to grow up? Should I just tell him holding handing leads to teenage pregnancy. I mean after all, holding hands leads to hugging, hugging leads to kissing, kissing leads to…. I just can not even think about it. Where is my mommy manual?
And the saga continued today.
Sweet little Nicky, who just turned 5, adamantly decided he wanted his training wheels taken off his bike. He convinced Anthony to remove them. I look outside and Garrett is helping Nicky peddle down the sidewalk.
Look Mom, no training wheels.
My heart breaks and smiles all at the same time. How is this even possible?
My kids are growing up.
And there is nothing I can do about it.