I Blame it on Silent Night

While I prepared lunch for my son today, he patiently drew pictures at the kitchen table. He also provided the entertainment by performing his one-man show where he tells me a great story, often impressing me with his vocabulary and unique retelling of a classic tale with his little tike twist.

Today's narrative was very loosely based on Little Red Riding Hood. As I slathered peanut butter on bread listening to the lengthy monologue, I nearly choked on the knife I was licking when my son said something about "a different virgin."

"What was that?" my voice squeaked.

"I'm doing a different virgin," he said.

As I forced back initial laughter and then a fainting spell, I asked my sweet just-turned-four-year-old, "You're doing a different (gulp) virgin?" My head raced. . . WHERE IN THE WORLD DID HE HEAR THAT WORD?!? WHAT DID MY HUSBAND LET THE KIDS WATCH?!? OH, NO! WILL I HAVE TO EXPLAIN WHAT IT IS RIGHT NOW?!?

"Yes, I'm telling a different virgin about the wolf," he piped up with a duh-mom look.

"Oooooohhhhhhh. Okay. (I am now breathing again.) You are telling a different v-e-r-s-i-o-n of the story," I sounded out.

"Yeah, veeeeeersion," he repeated.

"Oh, great. I love your veeeerrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiioooooooonnnnnnnnssssssssss of stories. Please tell me the rest." I paused for a huge sigh of relief.

I turned away to finish making lunch and listen intently to the rest of the story, very thankful that both the wolf and my son's innocence remained--at least until Cinderella shows up. And by then, I am hopeful that we will have told enough stories between us that he will pick the right version.

One Reflecting Running Mother

I can hardly believe it. Our youngest is four years old today. To absorb that hard-to-believe fact (and to work off one of the four slices of double chocolate football birthday cake I devoured this weekend), I decided to go on a four-mile run--the longest my aging ankle has allowed in awhile. Hey, I figured it couldn't have hurt any worse than the five days of labor the docs were trying to hold off to keep my son from arriving too early exactly four years ago. A notion a bit funny in hindsight . . . a pack of health professionals and a tractor trailer full of drugs, both trying to tell 6.1 pounds of fury to wait a few more weeks, or c'mon, at least a couple of days, before making his official appearance. And I was stuck in the middle only to ref the futile fiasco. (Guess you know who won that uphill battle, huh?)

One of the thoughts I had while schlepping up the hill and dodging pickups was how similar the birthing process and the act of jogging can be. Both involve pain--obviously. Whether they use that large can opener to pop out your little cherub or you get the good fortune to push the little nipper out "down there," the pain is very present.

And when running if you choose to crank out your miles on the treadmill to avoid angry drivers or you select an outdoor route, the bubbling blisters, chafed nipples, torqued knees, and brutal butt sweat will always be your chummiest exercise buddies. Again with the pain.

But thankfully, as in most things in life where there is labor, there is reward. Of course, there's the initial look from your little one, precious cuddles, the smile, the cute yellow poop, all of those glorious firsts. The list of payoffs is way too long for one blog entry.

While the running benefits can't quite compare to the joy of your new child, there is something simply amazing, truly beautiful, completely incredible, absolutely awesome about getting to eat virtually as many Little Debbies as you want when you are on a regular running regimen.

So happy birthday, my sweet baby boy. This cupcake's for you!