Small Slice

So, I was all hyped up, laced up and ready to roll this morning.  In fact, I loaded my three-year-old into the stroller, grabbed the other two kids and looped the dog's leash around my wrist.  I held the gate open with a foot as I struggled through.  About four steps into my planned walk, the dog ran a figure eight between my legs.  The kid in the stroller started caterwauling about juice boxes, and my oldest two took off ahead, feigning deafness.

I threw a temper tantrum, right then and there.  Two steps from my own driveway, I called it quits.  I untangled my feet and hauled the stroller up the walk to the gate.  Rather than actually chase down my fleeing children, I hollered over my shoulder something to the effect of "get your happy asses up here right now!"  I am subtle, and leave much to the imagination, huh?

So, I probably burned a few calories, or at least blew a few gaskets, but I still had exercising to do.  I went back to the drawing board.

"Hey kids!  Look! Spongebob!"  Once they were sufficiently engaged, I dragged the mini-trampoline into the living room and set the kitchen timer for 31 minutes. 

I walked for thirty seconds.  I jogged for thirty seconds.  I walked.  I jogged.  I walked.  I jogged.  I walked.  I jogged.  I sent a kid into the kitchen to see how much time was left.  25 minutes.  Sheesh. 

"Mommy!  I want a turn!"
"No, honey, you have to wait.  I have to do this for 30 minutes."
"Mommy, I can do it with you!"
"No.  Uh, you can do it afterwards."
"Oh.  Waaaaaa!"
"Ooh!  Look!  Dora the Explorer!"

More walking.  More jogging.  Over and over.  I sent a kid to check the time, huffing and puffing.  "Go...and...see...what...time...it...say...puff...puff..." 

"Four two three!"' 

"Okay, great"!  That's not at all helpful.  Jogging.  Walking. Jogging.  Walking. 

My youngest watched me with sad eyes for a while, and then her little face lit up.  She raced to her bedroom, and returned with her whoopee-doopee.  This is like a long ribbon on a stick, like a rhythmic gymnast would use.  She handed it to me, all smiles.

So there I was, chugging along, clutching this beribboned stick.  She watched thoughtfully, and then mimed that I should swing it around my head and make swooping arm gestures with it.

Well, why not.  I walked-jogged and flipped the ribbon around.  At first I was sort of half-hearted about the whole thing, but then I got all fancy with it.  I wrote her name in the air.  I wrote my name in the air.  Then I got the idea to jog in a circle and do twirly things with it.

Wahoo!  The timer finally went off, and I sadly handed over the whoopie-doopee to my three-year-old, who mounted the trampoline and put me to shame with her artistic moves.  I'd like to say she gets it from me, but in this case, I think it's the other way around.