Kid Amnesiac

Born to Run

Who would have thought that after so many months of not walking that controlled falling would hold such appeal? Simon just loves to run.

He likes to run down long hallways, opposite any direction we ask him to move in, and down any ramp or incline. We’ve at last gotten running into the street and in parking lots under control, and that’s a huge relief to my psyche. It’s been replaced, however, with a love of social running, which is whipping my cardiovascular system into better shape.

Simon looks up at me, screams “Go, Mommy, Go!” and bounces up and down while I run. Then he runs to follow me, and we meet up at our destination. No sooner have I drawn to a complete stop than Simon is shouting out again, “Go, Mommy, Go!”

The first five times I run across my kitchen or basement or down the length of my driveway, I am charmed. The next five times, I am slightly less charmed. By the twentieth trip, Simon is still in the thrall of running, and I am getting tired of it. To say nothing of just plain tired!

But the joy on his face when he screams “Go, Mommy, Go!” demands that I run. The sound of him yelling “Go, Simon, Go!” and the sight of his hair flying and arms flailing as he pursues me propel me forward. I can’t quit on him.

Nor, really, can anyone else. Last Friday Molly ran a dozen or so laps in our basement. She tried to get Simon to move on to Ring-around-the-Rosie or basketball, but he ignored all that and called out “Go, Molly, Go!” endlessly. He’s also run my poor mother until I’ve heard her explain that Bubbie can’t run any more and seen her come upstairs looking flushed.

Yesterday all this running further escalated. We were at Seneca Park, which is encircled by a running track. Once Simon saw it, he was on it and there was no turning back. Literally there was no turning back. We tried to get Simon to run back to the middle of the track or to turn around and run back towards our car, but he insisted on running forward around the track and through various groups of serious runners—always with me a few yards ahead. He’d periodically approach to give me a hug, but once he broke off our embrace he met whatever suggestion I had with the same reply: “Go, Mommy, Go!”

This is how I found myself with an excited but tired little boy over a half mile from our car. Having Gone, Mommy, Gone! that far, it was time for me to Go, Mommy, Go! all the way back to car—as fast as possible—so I could retrieve Simon and Matt.

There are worse things I could do than run a mile. It was probably even good for me. But next time, I’m thinking it might be nice if I wear something other than jeans, a hoodie, and Mary Janes while I’m at it. Then again, I’m just grateful I wasn’t wearing three-inch heels. It could have been A LOT worse.