Romeo and Juliet...with a rabbit

My Casanova 5th-grade son brought home a note from a girl today--a neatly-written, politely-worded message that he had apparently tucked carelessly into his backpack for me to find, along with his Homework Folder and Patrol Belt. Now, at this point in his life, Derek would not likely notice a member of the opposite sex unless she: A) kicked a soccer ball at him or B) tried to steal his lunch. Thus the communique was actually addressed to Mom and Dad (smart young lady, go right for the Parentals). In it, Wendy* (names have been altered to protect the pre-pubescent) states her name and address (very practical), and describes her relationship with Derek (according to her, they "sit together at lunch" and "talk to each other often"--so far, so good, it sounds extremely...Elementary School). She goes on to invite him over to her house...to meet her family and her pet bunny. How. Freakin'. Cute. Is. That? (Maybe it's some kind of Tween Test--if the bunny decides it doesn't like him, it's a Dealbreaker for the friendship?)

I must confess, as I stood in the kitchen, clutching the paper in one hand, the other hand clapped over my mouth, I felt torn between horror (my baby is WAAAY too young for this!) and admiration for this little girl. I mean, what a brave 10-year old, to not only tackle (figuratively only, I pray) a clueless boy  and try to get his attention, but also to lay it out there for his mother and father? Wow. And maybe she does know Derek pretty well, because her postscript offered...hot chocolate. If she'd just mentioned mini-marshmallows, she would have had him absolutely wrapped up. Perhaps he can negotiate that detail with her, since she ended with: her email address. Like I said, Derek could not possibly be less aware of--or interested in--girls right now. And it's a good thing, because the second he starts appreciating them...I'm locking him in his room and grounding him indefinitely. Yeah, that should work, right?

Wardrobe Malfunction

As the mother of two boys, I am mercifully spared from having to deal with anything involving "Fashion".  Neither one of them is picky (yet) about what their clothes look like, or what logos they have; and when it comes time to get dressed in the morning, they just snatch something from the drawer (or the clean laundry pile) and throw it on. They don't accessorize; heck, they don't even MATCH most of the time. My Mom Filter has learned to tune out the nausea-inducing color combinations they choose (it's a defense mechanism, honed over years of Evolution, I'm sure. Cave Moms probably got tired of yelling, "for the love of Pteradactyl, how many times do I have to tell you, saber-toothed tiger print clashes with mastodon?!" But I digress...). My eyes do a quick head-to-toe scan, and as long as I register that the outfit-of-the-day includes both shirt and pants, I'm satisfied.

Here comes the big BUT. Both Derek and Riley seem to be especially warm-blooded creatures, with enviable Internal Heaters that keep them toasty despite such pesky nuisances as freezing temperatures, wind chill, etc. Thus, they prefer to wear as little clothing as Mom will allow them to get away with on a regular basis. In the Spring and Summer this is easy--as soon as I give the Official Parental Okay, it's shorts and t-shirts from April to October. And our weather generally cooperates, remaining on the warmish side until Halloween. However, shortly after that, we suddenly get overnight temperatures in the 30s, and morning frost. When that happens, I feel I must insist on...long pants when they leave the house (horrified gasp! Awful Mommy!) Derek, although he misses his shorts, and reminisces fondly about the warm days when he could let his knees hang out in the breeze, accepts this Seasonal Fashion Declaration with good grace. Then, there's Riley...who had a COLOSSAL meltdown (pun intended), punctuated by sobbing; stomping feet; exaggerated sighing; loud ranting about how hot he's going to be in his classroom; and finally, pulling up of the pant-legs to demonstrate how much more comfortable he would be in shorts...

At long last, he announced dramatically that he was going to bed--and by the way, there would be no need to tuck him in, thank you very much. And with a huffy Good Night, he swept from the room. Whew! Give the kid a Junior Oscar for that heartfelt performance! Now here's where "thank goodness for boys" comes into play. The next morning when he got up and emerged from his bedroom--without the storm clouds--he earnestly announced that he had come up with a solution to his problem. "Since I have to be warm at recess or they won't let me play outside, I'll wear long pants to school. Then when I get home, can I change into shorts to run around our own yard?" Oh sure, why not, honey? The risk of frostbitten shins seems such a small price to pay, to avoid an encore showing of the Terrible Trousers Tantrum!

The Daily Grind...

Some women seem to glide through their busy lives--juggling kids' activities, work commitments, and personal pursuits--displaying both infallible organization and unflappable calm, all while managing to appear attractively coiffed and fashionably accessorized. Although I envy them greatly, I am NOT one of these women. On a normal weekday, I'm lucky to tear out of the house with my hair brushed, wearing two matching socks (Bonus Points for remembering earrings, but only partial credit for skipping breakfast...again. Hey, coffee counts, right?). And why does this happen, you may wonder? Let's break down a typical morning at Casa WestEnders...

It begins at 7:45, the very latest Derek and Riley can be allowed to lounge in their beds and still have time to prepare for their school day. Husband does the first round, cheerfully calling "wakey, wakey!" as he opens the curtains to let in morning sunlight (which has absolutely no effect when the boys' heads are completely buried beneath their covers.) A few minutes later, I assume my first role of the day, Drill Sergeant, and threaten the kids with their worst nightmare (no time for breakfast--gasp!) if they don't get up right now. I then quickly switch to Short Order Cook/Waitress as the ravenous beasts demand their several-course morning repast. From there, I briefly play Meteorologist, reporting on the relevant weather news of the day: what the temperature is at the moment, what the "daily high" will be later, and whether any precipitation is expected. I also double as a Stylist during this segment, as the boys require advice as to appropriate clothing choices ("I don't care if you're not cold, it's November, put on some long pants" is a current recurring theme.)


At some point, I squeeze in a few moments as a Barista, making myself a crucial espresso (or two) and chugging it amidst the chaos. Then I hastily select and toss on an outfit from my own closet, apply enough makeup to look Reasonably Awake and Alert, brush my teeth, and rally the troops for the Big Exit. Of course, there's no time in the split-second itinerary to walk to the bus stop (it takes 3.5 minutes, and we haven't done it in the 6 years Derek has been in school so far), so we grab lunches, backpacks, jackets, etc. and pile into the car. Depending on how late we are, I may resemble the very craziest New York City Taxicab Driver--barreling down the street, scaring pedestrians onto the sidewalk, honking my horn--so desperate am I not to miss the bus. (Okay, before you call the police on me, this is a total exaggeration. Really, I'm only cursing like a taxicab driver...in my head, anyway...) Then, with Derek and Riley safely on their way to school, I can relax and become Professional Working Mom for a few hours.


Fast forward to when we all get home, and a new set of jobs awaits. First, there's Educational Support Staff: supervising homework, checking answers, signing papers, corralling assignments. Of course, the caged animals must be allowed to run free for a while after being stuck in a classroom all day, so they will require a Playground Monitor to mediate the inevitable backyard disagreements. All too soon, we must switch to Soccer Mode, in which they need a Trainer to help them gear up for practice--tying cleats, tightening shinguards, filling water bottles, finding balls. While they're gone, I go into Nutritionist Mode, using the time to throw dinner together and to plan what to serve for the rest of the week's hectic evening meals (hmm, will anyone notice if we eat pizza two nights this week?)


Finally, after all the hullabaloo winds down, the magical hour of the night arrives ("Almost-Made-It-To-Bedtime") when we all bring a book and climb into the King-sized bed in Mom and Dad's room, for Snuggle and Reading Time. Rest up, weary people, for tomorrow, the carousel starts spinning again at 7:45 sharp! (Tomorrow I will attempt: to eat breakfast; to leave the house calmly and make it to the bus stop with time to spare; and to actually grab the right shoes on my way out the door, so I don't spend the rest of the day worrying about how they clash with my pants. Lofty goals, I realize...Wish me luck!)

Boo! (now pass the chocolate, please!)

It's Halloween, the day that kids await with gleeful anticipation, dreaming of spooky decorations, creative costumes, and bags full of sweet treats. Except if you're my sons...who apparently have gotten over the whole Halloween hype at the tender ages of 10 and 7. I have to admit, I was kind of blindsided by their newfound indifference to this most chocolate-fueled of all holidays. True, Derek is a 5th-grade boy this year, but he's never given any indication that his upper-elementary-school dignity would be compromised by dressing up for a few hours. After all, this is the boy who has always been comfortable donning "special outfits"--one of my very favorite photos of him EVER, happened when he was 3 years old, and proudly wore a gauzy, pastel Fairy Dress to fit in with his little-girl-playgroup-friends (this picture will naturally be forever preserved in a place of honor, to show his future Prom Date). And for quite a while, Riley steadfastly clung to his precious Thomas the Tank Engine costume, happily trotting it out for three Halloweens in a row.

So the fact that neither of them wanted to participate in the Costume Drama came as something of a shock. (EVEN for the school parade, when everyone else was going to be all decked out! Don't get me wrong: I love that they possess the confidence and independent spirit not to follow the crowd...who knew that Halloween would give them a golden opportunity to practice Just Say No!) But then Derek made an offhand comment that triggered a crushing wave of Mom Guilt. He placidly remarked, "People give out junk anyway, and we're not allowed to eat most of it, so it's not really worth going out trick-or-treating." Oh no! He could not have sounded more like me if someone had paid him to imitate his mother. And his parental inspiration? Over the last several years, especially with Derek's braces, I've instituted a policy of: "only good-quality candy, preferably chocolate" when weeding out their Halloween haul (that means the Nerds, the Tootsie Rolls, the Laffy Taffy--anything that's the equivalent of rubbing unadulterated sugar on your teeth--goes straight into the garbage)  I had the best of intentions: trying to prevent cavities and sugar comas...but I inadvertently ruined Halloween! Bad Mommy!

Actually, upon calmer reflection, the boys have never been that into the rituals surrounding this particular celebration anyway. They used to enjoy visiting pumpkin patches every Fall, but after going every year since Derek was in preschool, they're waaaay over it. Being on the "easily frightened" end of the scale, they don't particularly care for scary movies or haunted houses. This year, they tell me they'd like to stay home, greet kids at the door, and pass out candy. And I promised that not only would I buy high-end sweets, I'd make sure to stock only our favorites, in greater quantity than we could possibly need to give away...thus we'll end up with our own stash....without needing to put on funny clothes, trudge around in the cold and dark, and beg at peoples' doors! Now that's a new Halloween tradition I can get behind!

Warning: that spoon may be a weapon (who knew?)

One of the myriad reasons that I (only sort-of) joke about being a Misplaced Californian is that I've been environmentally-conscious to some degree for quite awhile now. (Or, to put it another way, I was "green" when that was just another color in the Crayola box...) For example, when I drove cross-country in the mid-90s, I kept each and every one of my empty Diet Dr. Pepper bottles (and there were oh-so-many) in my trunk since I couldn't find any place to recycle them--until I reached California, of course. (Incidentally, while on the Left Coast I also discovered Power Bars and "wrap" sandwiches, two other brilliant inventions that had not yet spread across the nation, but which profoundly changed my life...a story for another time, perhaps.) And while I'm not about to join Greenpeace and chain myself to any whaling ships (which would be difficult to do in Maryland anyway), I do try to make responsible choices in my everyday life to lessen my impact on Mother Earth. And, as is my absolute right as a parent, I'm hauling my children along with me on the Tree-Hugging Mission.

Maybe because I introduced the Conservation Concept to them at such an early age, the boys barely bat an eye at many of the practices we follow on a day-to-day basis. Derek will nonchalantly ask me, "Can this be recycled or do I have to throw it away?" Riley will check to see if something can be put in the compost bin. Since the previous school year, they each have had a set of reusable PVC-free plastic bags to pack their snacks and lunch food. And recently, I went the final step to making their home-packed meals completely trash-free. I bought them each a cute, soccer-ball-patterned cloth napkin and a set of bamboo utensils for their lunchboxes. Bless their little Earth-loving hearts, they thought their new supplies were super-cool.

It was actually Husband who thought to ask them at dinner one day, "What do your friends think? Do you get teased?" Derek quickly replied, with a great deal of enthusiasm, "No, they think it's awesome!" Feeling suddenly warm and fuzzy toward 5th-grade boys, I chimed in, "Maybe they'll tell their Moms about it, and you'll start a trend!" I had just begun to see wild visions of an entire elementary school reducing its waste and utilizing sustainable resources...when he destroyed my fantasy by adding, "The guys think these bamboo spoons are excellent for having sword fights at the table!" Oh well. Maybe Al Gore started out as a Bamboo-Utensil-Waving Crusader, taking the message to his buddies, one stab at a time...or I'm going to get an interesting call from the Principal one day very soon...and have a Suspended (and "grounded", ha ha!) Environmentalist on my hands!

Boys Bursting their Bubble

On the broad spectrum of parenting, ranging from Laissez Faire (translated as "let the little monsters run amok") to Petunia Dursley (i.e. "locking the children in a closet under the stairs"), I think of myself as falling somewhere around Protective Mom (possibly leaning toward Overly-Sheltering, but I can live with that). I monitor what the kids are allowed to watch on TV; I limit them to G or PG movies; I curb my own language when they're around (darn it!); I even pay attention to the radio stations we choose, to try to avoid racy DJ commentary and such. But sometimes I wonder, as my boys leave me to venture out into the Big, Wide World...of Elementary School...just how in the heck they pick up some of the interesting and varied information that they bring back home and share at the end of each day.

I do know that on occasion they have a chance to experience school-sponsored Cultural Activities, with the intention of expanding their awareness of the Fine Arts. For example Derek and the rest of the 5th grade recently went to a performance of the National Philharmonic Orchestra at Strathmore Music Hall in Bethesda. They heard selections from Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky, including excerpts from the 1812 Overture, complete with cannon effects--a HUGE treat for 10-year old boys! When asked what else he remembered, Derek came up with "Ballet of the Hatching Chicks", which sounded so ridiculous that it reduced us all to hysterical laughter...until we looked it up on the program and discovered the piece really is called: "Ballet of the Chicks in their Shells." Um, unborn birds...dancing? What the? (Russian geniuses partaking of a little too much vodka while composing, maybe?) Nevertheless--at least for an hour--they're appreciating a kind of music that doesn't get played on Hot 99.5, with lyrics referring to "booties" and "hotties" and whatnot.

Then there are incidents for which I have absolutely no explanation. Case in point: Derek was playing Wii the other day, trash-talking the opposing soccer team as usual. Normally I tune out his constant stream of patter, but this time one comment caught my attention. Out of the blue, he vehemently exclaimed, "I like my sandwiches like I like my girls: CHUNKY!" Oh. My. Goodness. (still watching my tongue, you'll notice) Sitting in the office at the computer, I didn't even bother to ask him what that means or where he got it. In this case, I just don't think I want to know. However, in the natural order of things, I believe he has rubbed off on his younger brother, who could be heard to declare yesterday (also while playing Wii--maybe that's the problem. Blame it on the Rated-E-for-Everyone stinkin' video games!) "Lollipops are like girls: sweet...and colorful!" Sigh. I give up. Clearly they've broken free of my Parental Net and are absorbing Pop Culture...and stuff. Oh well, I guess as long as they don't adopt Kanye as their role model, it will all turn out okay, right?!

Drumroll, please!

Back when Derek--now aged 10 (and a half! gasp!)--was but a wee tot, he used to bang on absolutely everything, pretending it was a drum. Okay, I realize that every boy on Earth does that. But then he grew up a little, and while he still pounded on stuff, it actually sounded like he was attempting to make rhythms. Don't get me wrong, it continued to be quite loud, but somewhat more...organized, I guess. Then came the fateful day when he got old enough to start making cute little requests, such as "Mommy, I'd like to take Drum Lessons!" So as a supportive, encouraging Mom, what did I do? Signed him up for guitar lessons instead, of course! My rationalization at the time went something like this: he needs to learn to read music first, playing guitar will help him with his songwriting...Mom's ears and nerves just aren't ready for drum practice every night...

And being the cooperative, easygoing kid that he (generally) is, he accepted the Guitar Detour with good grace. In fact, he stuck with it for about a year and a half before telling me calmly that he was tired of it, and wanted to quit. (We had prolonged the enthusiasm by conceding to an electric guitar halfway through--evidently the boy needed more AC/DC, less Jimmy Buffett--but even the allure of the amp had worn off, it seems). Then he wisely let the issue drop for a few months...before returning to the topic of drum lessons again. (I guess that wasn't just a passing fancy, huh? Drat!) There was no dodging it this time, so we have scheduled the Instructional Percussion Mayhem to begin November 1st. Although my world is about to get potentially much noisier, I'm looking for Silver Linings...such as: the drum set is in the basement, which means if we close the door, and I retreat to the top floor of the house, I can feel vibrations, but not actually hear anything...while drums may have a "volume factor", at least we'll be spared the dying-animal-screeching of a beginning violin or trumpet player...and best of all, I have a week and a half to stock up on industrial-strength foam earplugs, herbal tea, and soothing aromatherapy candles to help me block out the auditory stress on Lesson Days!

(Grown-Up) Bathroom Talk

My life right now revolves around the Epic Bathroom Remodel. I suppose it really all started this summer, as Husband and I pondered and discussed going forward with the project. Then there was the hypothetical spending of money, (followed by the whimpering with pain as the Total Potential Investment climbed higher and higher...immediately after which came hysterical bargaining: we don't really NEED that many toilets in the house, right? The kids can just go to Community College, yes? And retirement is overrated, I'm sure!) Which is why we are undertaking the actual process months after it began, having done some realistic budgeting in the meantime.

Now, the real adventure begins. My week got underway in a hurry on Monday morning, when I was awakened by the melodic pealing of the doorbell...at 7:35 a.m. (Okay, I was technically awake, but still wrapped between the fuzzy flannel sheets in my darkened bedroom.) Blearily I rolled out of bed and greeted my beaming, almost-revoltingly-chipper Contractor at the door. "We didn't notice how early it was!" he apologized. "We can wait in the driveway until 8 if you want!" I mumbled something about getting dressed, and then let him in. While he and his guys hauled in their tools, set up their work area, and prepped for the day, I rousted the other hibernating creatures (aka: the boys) and fed them. Shortly thereafter the most goshawful racket commenced. There was banging on walls, shrieking of power tools, crashing of tiles...and every so often I'd look up to see a piece of my shower heading out the door on a Workman's back. (They never failed to smile at me politely as they went by...I couldn't help but wonder if they were thinking, "Hey, lady, we're having a BLAST wrecking your bathroom!")

Fortunately, I got to escape the madness by going to my own job that day. Even the Montgomery College campus, teeming with noisy, boisterous students, seemed so peaceful by comparison! When I returned home over 6 hours later, they seemed to have made a great deal of headway in the destructive process. (Um...nice going?) The only true inconvenience was that they had to turn the water off while they manipulated the pipes. And I was...so... parched! (amazing how much thirstier you feel when there's no possibility of having a cool drink of water...is it too early for a cocktail?) And the crashing, sawing, etc. continued, all overlaid by an acrid, smoky smell. Wait, is something burning? Is there supposed to be fire involved? Before I had time to fully panic, they rolled up their tarps, de-plastic-wrapped my bedroom, and quietly departed for the day (with the house still intact, apparently).

The next morning I was ready for them--up and presentable when the crew appeared at the much-more-decent hour of 8 a.m.  After shuffling the kids off to school, I prepared myself to storm Home Depot once more. My mission: an elusive Shower Curtain Rod. (Because, you know, I had already spent over a thousand dollars on "accessories" to outfit a 5x5 bathroom, so what's one more charge, right?) Oh, and the Medicine Cabinet that I had chosen was cracked already, in the box, so that had to be exchanged as well. (and perhaps I should take the opportunity to choose a better-made product, yes?) Okay, here I go! I've located the Shower Curtain Rods! They have white! And chrome! But each and every one of the fixtures I have already selected and purchased is: Brushed freakin' Nickel! And everything MUST match or it'll look totally stupid! I'm hyperventilating! So, a few deep, calming breaths later, I am able to move on. You'll be relieved to hear that the Medicine Cabinet decision was not nearly as traumatic. Now, with the exception of a few more very minor details, I just have to stay out of their way and let the magical Bathroom Transformation happen...

Whew, what a week! Oh no...it's...only...Tuesday! (Somebody get me that cocktail now, please...)

A Shower of Things to Ponder

Today at work--for some reason that I just can't put my finger on at the moment, but I'm sure it was completely appropriate and relevant at the time--I had an interesting discussion about: showering. Specifically, my colleague and I (let's call her "Natasha") marveled at the myriad differences between basic Male Hygiene and intricate Female Cleansing Rituals.

Now, as a card-carrying member of the Female Club, I can speak knowledgeably to the mysterious and complex nature of Girl Bathroom Behavior. Let me tell you that when we enter that private inner-domain, shut the door (to keep the kids from following), and turn on the water (after yelling the necessary reminder "no one flush until I get out!"), the many-faceted showering process has only just begun. First, a Girl Shower involves an array of products and tools. During any given shower, for example, there will certainly be application of a cleansing product (soap, body wash) to the skin (with washcloth, "scrubbie-thing", loofah). Of course, a separate cleanser goes on the delicate facial region (promising various anti-aging, wrinkle-reducing, skin-brightening effects). There may also be exfoliation of chosen parts of the body, using yet another type of cream (often containing helpful "microbeads"). Hair removal could very well occur, requiring a specially-designed gel to be slathered onto the targeted areas, followed by painstaking manipulation of a sharp object--with slippery hands. Finally, hair must be washed (using a shampoo designed for your exact hair type, length, texture, etc.), rinsed, and conditioned. And when the water finally goes off? (or runs out, depending) Don't even get me STARTED on the lotioning and whatnot that has to happen before donning one's pajamas and falling into bed (there's a reason I shower at night!)

Finally arriving at the point of my lunchtime rant: I live in a house with 3 male people of various sizes...they all sport short haircuts, and are generally non-product-using, low-maintenance kind-of-guys. So, you would THINK five-minute showers would be the norm. They simply need to jump in, lather up with the bar of soap I've left for them (okay, the boys' knees tend to be green and black from rolling around on the ground, so add a minute or two for those), rub a dot of shampoo through their hair, rinse everything off, and get out. Am I right? So how--in the name of all things wet and wild--can they possibly linger under the spray for 15 minutes? What the heck is going on in there? Do I really want to know? Maybe it's better not to get into the grimy details (so to speak), but all I can say is: I'd better not catch anybody using my super-special girly beauty supplies! And if you know what's good for you, leave some hot water for the Queen!

Run, Forrest--I mean Derek!

I took up running in the summer between Freshman and Sophomore years of High School, when I was 15. I remember this clearly for several reasons; first, I had been a relatively sedentary, bookish, slightly-pudgy child until sometime during Middle School, when I resolved to start getting some exercise and banish the no-longer-cute "baby fat" that was lingering into adolescence. So, I'd been riding my bike and taking walks for a couple of years, but for reasons that I cannot recall, I suddenly decided I was going to...play field hockey. (I would love to visit my teenage self and ask her: what the HECK? Field hockey? Because wearing a mouthguard and whacking other girls in the shins sounded like a rocking good time?) Anyway, a good friend of mine who had been on the team Freshman year advised me to start training during the summer, so "you won't throw up during the first week of practice." (And yet...rather than dropping the idea and bolting in the other direction like a sensible girl, I accepted her words of wisdom and started my butt on a running program immediately.)

I've been running ever since (although not continuously--boy would that suck!). In my crazy teens, I ran almost every day; like the post office, I was not deterred by precipitation, temperature, darkness, what have you. Then I reached the advanced age of--oh, let's say my mid-20s--and realized that I was, in fact, rather fond of my knees, and if I would prefer to continue using them, I should cut back on the pounding and mix in some gentler stuff (welcome back, biking, walking, dancing, and other cardio-pursuits). My point is (and I'm sure you've been wondering when I was going to stop babbling and just get to it already): exercise is a part of who I am. I do it because I must, to maintain my physical health and mental well-being. (Not to mention: so I can EAT chocolate and other goodies without becoming a blimp.)

Now, I have a two sons who are dizzyingly physical creatures. It's in their very nature to run and jump and tackle and throw and catch--and lots of other verbs as well--and they do it for the pure joy of motion. There is no "workout" to them, something to be scheduled and suffered through and checked off; it's more like...breathing...just as necessary, just as easy, and loads more enjoyable. Recently Derek (age 10) began campaigning for permission to come running with me. "Hmm", I considered, "71 pounds, 4-1/2 feet tall, can he actually be ready for this?" (Related Important Question: am I ready for this?) Last Friday night we gave it a try. I had planned to take him to the high school, so we could each go at our own pace around the flat track, but it was Homecoming, so we couldn't get near the place. Instead, we set out into our surrounding neighborhood to do one of my usual loops (including some short uphill stretches, but lacking bleachers to sit down and take a break!) And what do you know--the boy hung in there for 2.5 miles. He asked to slow down to a walk twice, for about 100-yards each time, but otherwise he chatted and jogged happily right next to me.

Here's the thing: he wanted to do this. No one was telling him to. No one was chasing him. He chose to run just for F-U-N. (And, I'm sure, so he could eat more afterwards--he IS my son, after all!) But you know something? It was fun for me as well. I'm sure at some point he'll want to listen to music rather than (ugh) talk to Mom while he runs. And soon after that he won't want to run with me anymore at all, since I'll just slow him down too much. So for now, I'm going to make the most of our sweaty bonding sessions, one mile (and Reward Cookie) at a time!