So we’re enjoying one of those pre-bedtime evening walks I’ve been dreaming about in our new neighborhood. It’s a humid evening. I’m pushing a double stroller holding two little girls who don’t feel so little in this hilly place. I used to sprint up hills, no problem. But I find myself getting a wee bit winded as I scale a monstrous mountain of a hill. My butt is on fire. Everything is burning, actually.
Madeline is asking questions non-stop. I don’t mean to squash her perpetual wonderment but when she asks me some silly question and I don’t respond right away, she asks again. And I sigh (wheeze and pant) and answer her with a breathy response and she says, “Mommy, you need to start running again.” (We have this little game called “childhood” where I share tales from my past, and I’ve mentioned I used to be in better shape and could run great distances.)
“A leg injury.”
“Does your leg hurt now?”
PANT. “Yes.” PUFF.
“Well, if you let me out of this stroller, I bet I could run up this hill and still breathe.”
Man, if sweating like a hog and gasping for breath wasn’t bad enough, my 5-year-old starts trash talking.
So much for a relaxing, peaceful evening walk. It was more like boot camp.
To bruise my pride further, when we returned home, my husband looked at me and asked, “Did it rain?”
“No, my dear, this is called sweat.”