Run

I love to run.  I've always loved to run.  I loved it when I was running on the dirt path between the creek and the orange groves behind my house when I was in elementary school, I loved it on the streets of NYC when I was in grad school and I love it now, even though I'm sometimes pushing 100lbs of kid in my bright orange double BOB.  Even though I have less time to myself now then ever before, being a mom of three little boys makes running more of a priority, not less of one.  I'm a better mom when I run.  After an hour (or 2, or 3) of just me and the rhythmic sound of my own breathing all the crazy little things my kids bust out seem hilarious instead of annoying.  Well, stopping 600 times in 200 yards to re-buckle F into his car seat is still pretty annoying, but it's also insanely entertaining that he keeps trying just to see if I'll crack and let him roam the car like a baboon on attempt 601 (obviously I never do, which is the beauty of being more stubborn than your stubborn 2 year old).

Now, I'm not fast.  And I'm actually a lot slower now than I've ever been.  I'm definitely not as fast as my dog.  He runs for the pure joy of it and he's quick.  We've clocked him running 20mph.   He's the absolute best running partner EVER.  When I'm out to run just because it's on my training schedule but I'm slogging through mile 6, or 10 (or even 2) all I have to do is glance down at him and he always looks back at me (yeah, he's always leading) with a huge grin on his face and does a little bunny hop like he's saying "wow! Isn't this just the most fun we've ever had? EVER!"  Well, he also seems to be saying "why the hell are you so freakin SLOW!  Seriously, I'm only trotting to make you feel better about yourself, but this is usually how fast I WALK", but whatever.  He runs because he loves it, and he reminds me how much fun it is to just get outside and put one muddy foot in front of the other.

So when I start to get frustrated and my kids say "Mama, I think you need to go for a run", I do just that.  By the time my hubby walks in the front door from work, my running shoes are laced up and I'm ready to hit the open road (OK, it's a suburban sidewalk or the track at the middle school).  No one in my family ever tries to stop me, because they all know a mama who runs is a happy mama.  And who doesn't want to live with a happy mama?  Certainly a happy mama can be nothing but an asset if you're planning to go for your 602nd car seat escape attempt.