I Only Run When Chased

Spring has timidly sprung around here, and that means that we are infiltrated with swarms of two kinds—mosquitos and marathon runners. I am not sure which one gets under my skin more.

The other morning, I was awakened by one of my small minions in the throws of agony about the sudden pain that had invaded his ear. These evil bacteria apparently are only nocturnal and insist on pitch blackness and the presence of deep parental REM sleep to make their appearance. So, at 2 a.m., I load my son into our gigantic vehicle and creep my pajama-clad carcass to the 24-hour pediatric office. THERE WERE STILL JOGGERS EVERYWHERE! The owls and bats have even gone home to bed and these crazy people are out in the frost in their tiny, aerodynamic, reflective, moisture-wicking, outfits and jogging in the dark. It was like playing a sadistic game of Frogger (Do you remember the old video game where a desperate frog tries to avoid the obstacles while crossing a fast moving stream?) when I was driving to the highway.

Let my preface my sardonic tirade with a short story from my youth. I had a semi-annual appointment at our local hospital emergency room. Every August at the dawning of football season and every February at the closing of basketball season, sometimes with the precision of hitting the exact day, I somehow managed to injure one or the other, or both of my ankles. Whether I was over-rotating on the beam in gymnastics, rolling my ankle in ballet, or skipping the wrong direction in cheerleading, my lower extremities paid the price. At fourteen, I had to have both ankles reconstructed and if it weren’t for several screws and perhaps some chewing gum, I would be crawling around on my hands and knees to this day—well, if I hadn’t just had surgery on my hand last month, but still.

It seems like everybody has caught the running bug. My best cheer buddy, who towers over my ample 4’10” frame with her thin and statuesque 6” stature, sends jealousy pulsing through my veins each day when she posts her mileage achieved in the insanely cold weather conditions of the wee hours of morning. She gushes and glows about her races, she has even started a motivational blog to spur other mothers on to running excellence. Her energy is adorably and disgustingly boundless.

Another friend makes it a family affair. They are planning a trip to Disney World, not for the rides, but the running. I have been informed by her son that vomiting is a very normal part of running a big marathon—not what I would call the “happiest place on Earth.” I don’t know about anybody else out there, but I would do just about anything to keep myself from having a “protein spill.” I wouldn’t be welcoming an activity that encouraged it! I watched my marathon-crazed cousin run an Ironman last year. This is like a marathon for the over-achieving of the over-achievers. Dehydrated, sun stroked, vomiting and followed by several medics, he crossed the finish line. I question if that is sheer respectable willpower or insanity that should have him committed to a mental institution.

Anyway, here I sit on my rump, exhausted, and watching gravity do its worst. So, I have decided to comfort myself through marathon season with a list of informal exercise classes that I participate in on a daily basis as a part of mothering and homeschooling six maniacal children.

 

Toddler Taming—This is similar to lion taming, but with more growling and biting. If you have ever tried to dress a toddler, you understand that it is similar to trying to put pantyhose on an angry octopus. Once you acceptably dress your wild octopus and sent them to play in their bedroom, they instantly emerge in second later completely undressed. It is nearly a magical occurrence. The toddler taming exercise is repeated ad nauseam.

The Naked and the Nude 100 meter dash—I CAN run when properly motivated. This exercise generally requires a naked (often freshly bathed or covered in jam) child escaping out the front door while you are otherwise distracted and often not modestly clothed yourself. I had a friend once who was blessed with an aspiring Houdini. The child would sneak from the house like a mini ninja while she took care of her necessary bodily processes. She shared her repeated daily prayer with me one afternoon, “Please God, keep my child safe so I can pee.” I am a parental Olympian when it comes to the barefoot, bathrobed frantic 100 meter dash after a giggling naked child.

Death Defying Obstacle Course—My sweet husband has been thinking of training for a “Tough Mudder.” (I married him for his brains, but apparently not his common sense.) These are the adrenaline junkies of the over-achieving crowd. Apparently this involves running/dog paddling/swimming through mud with short spurts of sprinting. Some of these obstacles involve voluntarily getting zapped with electricity. Again I ask, “WHAT!?!” Didn’t your mother teach you not to stick your finger in a light socket? Anyway, in his evaluation of the training, he is amply prepared for the obstacle courses, merely by trying to navigate our children’s bedrooms. Tucking our children into bed and kissing them goodnight is a mortally dangerous task.

Laundry Mishap Hot Hula--I used to religiously attend a belly dancing class twice a week. It was a great way to burn calories and make a harrowed mommy feel a little bit sexy, but the calories burned pale in comparison to a full day of laundry mishap writhing.  Have I mentioned that I am the mother of five active boys? They LOVE to play in the weeds , bringing home feathers, burrs, thorns and leaves that then are laundered with my underclothing. It results in my spending what should be a nice night at the theater, trying with pulse-racing diligence to dislodge a cocklebur from the underarm of my blouse or from the soft squishy part behind my knee.(That is keeping it G-rated, because there are many more ominous places that have induced colorful words to accentuate my hot dance moves.)

Thumb Wars—Some people use little squeezy things to strength their hands and forearms. I just provide my toddler with a large selection of things that I really don’t want him to have and then try desperately to pry them from his sticky, dimpled fingers. Anybody who has attended this exercise class disputes the validity of the adage, “Like taking candy from a baby,” which is actually a really arduous task.

Steering Wheel Reps—I might not make it to the gym every day, but I do make it to every art class, ballet class, dance rehearsal, soccer practice, field trip, football game, boy scout activity, doctor’s appointment, emergency room run, that is scheduled (or not) weekly for eight people. No underarm flab on this soccer mom. My guns are well toned from all the left turns, right turns, turn signals, gear shifting, and occasional rude gestures coaxed during a long commute with incompetent drivers, not to mention the occasional flailing wildly in the backseats to attempt to break-up some seat belted brawl.

 

Well, after listing a short number of the exercises that I do every day, I feel slightly less panged with guilt while I watch the flock of runners taunting me from the sidewalk in front of my house. In fact, I have had such a workout this morning, I think I need to go and reward myself with some chocolate ice cream. Happy running!