That’s what Buster, my son, said when I walked in the door Wednesday night. He’s never said “run” before, I don’t think. And he’s not even two yet, so you have to fill in the blanks with him.
I believe what he meant was, “Mommy, aren’t you glad I puked my tomato/strawberry/beets/pizza lunch all over Grandma’s new rug so you would have to leave work to come get me and take me home, realizing upon arrival that I seem fine and it was just a random puke session and it was okay if you just went for a run?”
Sure, it could have meant, “Mommy, how was your run?” or “Mommy, where have you been- can you take me out for a run?” or even just “Mommy, isn’t it cool that I learned that the word for when you come back all sweaty and smelly and can’t talk very well is run?
But I’m going to stick with the first one. It makes the times he thinks it’s funny to play under my planks and lay on my crunches during my Jillian Michaels Shred workouts, and the times he escapes his car seat before I can buckle him in, and the times he finds any open door (at the library, a store, someone’s home) and dashes towards the most dangerous thing outside (the highway, a stray dog, a pricker bush), and the times he pulls my hair because he wants something I have, and all those other times he behaves like a terrible two-year-old that much more tolerable.
I so needed that run. It was just three miles but it made me feel a little bit human again. (The “just” is hilarious because of where I was even just six months ago, panting my way through one minute intervals. I only use “just” this time because it’s a pretty short run compared to the 13.1 I have looming ahead on June 1st.)
Actually, I didn’t even want to run but didn’t give myself the chance to think about it. Like always, I was glad I did. Thanks, Buster! You’re an exhausting little delight.