Living the Dream
When my kids were babies, I dreamed of the day at least one of them would be my jogging partner. Sometimes I'd see a parent and child running the Peachtree Roadrace together and wipe a little tear from my eye. I was 14 when I started jogging regularly, about the same age Georgia was when she finally joined me.
So far she's been the only one. Trying to get Jack to jog--or even walk--with me is like trying to coax Larry Flynt out of his wheelchair with an issue of the Watchtower. And Lo won't do anything physical unless it requires wearing a full-face helmet or pulling a trigger. But I was happy with Georgia. Until our jog on Friday. Evidently, those crack-of-dawn drills she did for crew improved her swiftness and endurance, but they sure didn't make her any nicer:
George: Oh my god. We might as well be walking.
TR: My knees feel like somebody screwed them on too tight.
George: Stop being a baby.
TR: This is the same pace we always go.
George: It is NOT the same pace. C'mon! I'm going to have to run again later today if you don't pick up the speed.
TR: You burn the same amount of calories whether you run or walk the distance.
George: Right, and the tooth fairy sometimes leaves the money in Mommy's purse.
TR: I don't know how you can go so fast, anyway, carrying all those grudges. Sprint ahead if you want.
George: I can't run by myself; I didn't bring my iPod.