On y go
Sort of randomly, I have re-taken up running. Man alive, does it feel good. Good to work up a salty sweat, flushed skin, float on the endorphin high. My re-entry was born of a spontaneous itch at a park with the kids one morning, and not motivated by a resolution for the New Year, or a miserable experience in a changing room, and I sense that this is making my experience of hard exercise more of a gratifying revelation, and less like a punishment, or a chore.
It had been years -- years -- since I'd put on running shoes and picked up my feet high enough and fast enough to make my heart pound from the challenge of it. After Jacques was born, I made the excuse that with all of the carrying, stroller-pushing, chasing after baby boy I was doing, I didn't need to add to the commotion by running. I can actually remember the one time I ran post-partum; a month after that momentous occasion, I was pregnant with Léon.
But we live near the Canal du Midi now, and along it are decent stretches of dirt paths, and so the excuse of not wanting to ruin my knee by pounding pavement is nullified, as is the worry that I need to build up stamina after years of not really exerting myself. It's surprising how easy it was to just lace up my Asics and... go. Just like that. For an hour. No cramps, no blisters, no nausea. Yes!
It looks like I'm not the only one anxious to move. Léon is keeping me on my toes these days because he wants to be on his own toes all the time. All the livelong day. This boy is mobile. Yes, he enjoys crawling -- from one high object to the next, so that he can pull himself up and start cruising its perimeters. I wouldn't be so nervous about this normal development if it weren't for the fact that we have tile floors. Ça ne pardonne pas, as JB says. When Léon decides to release his hold on the coffee table to swing around to the couch, half the time he makes the connection... the other half, his face connects with the cold, hard tile floor unless one of us is there to spot or catch him. I am already biting my nails over his six little teeth chipping, imagining his nose getting broken if I turn away for a split second.
The faster Léon can get closer to Jacques, the better, it seems. Adoration is a great motivator.
It had been years -- years -- since I'd put on running shoes and picked up my feet high enough and fast enough to make my heart pound from the challenge of it. After Jacques was born, I made the excuse that with all of the carrying, stroller-pushing, chasing after baby boy I was doing, I didn't need to add to the commotion by running. I can actually remember the one time I ran post-partum; a month after that momentous occasion, I was pregnant with Léon.
But we live near the Canal du Midi now, and along it are decent stretches of dirt paths, and so the excuse of not wanting to ruin my knee by pounding pavement is nullified, as is the worry that I need to build up stamina after years of not really exerting myself. It's surprising how easy it was to just lace up my Asics and... go. Just like that. For an hour. No cramps, no blisters, no nausea. Yes!
It looks like I'm not the only one anxious to move. Léon is keeping me on my toes these days because he wants to be on his own toes all the time. All the livelong day. This boy is mobile. Yes, he enjoys crawling -- from one high object to the next, so that he can pull himself up and start cruising its perimeters. I wouldn't be so nervous about this normal development if it weren't for the fact that we have tile floors. Ça ne pardonne pas, as JB says. When Léon decides to release his hold on the coffee table to swing around to the couch, half the time he makes the connection... the other half, his face connects with the cold, hard tile floor unless one of us is there to spot or catch him. I am already biting my nails over his six little teeth chipping, imagining his nose getting broken if I turn away for a split second.
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