While the mommy went for her first run in more than two years (please don’t ask the distance – it’s shameful), the missy had a rolling good time waiting for me. She bounced off the rubbery red tracks in her new pumps (very inappropriate footwear, I know, but we’re still on the hunt for something less girly), chased the birds off the velvety green, sat and squealed on daddy’s shoulders, and ran amok in the vast field. It’s the kind of run only children do – hands midway up in the air, wild waves, gleeful-faced. I watched her sprint off in her missy way in the distance, and felt immediately ashamed of how I tried to maintain poise and posture. I wasn’t enjoying my run, she was. I run because I have to lose the mommy-fat that hangs around my entire body, she runs because she wants to, she loves to. No qualms and fears about falling, about the loose strap that slides off her fleshy shoulder every second a-ticking.
That child-like free spirit is so inspiring. One day, I hope I’ll run like her (for once in my adult lifetime at least) – two arms swinging, smiling, squealing, beatific.
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