Tonight I did my fifth jog. I am feeling sore, out of shape, beat up, and fantastic. I hate exercising, with a bloody passion, and the entire time I'm doing it, I am just miserable. But the feeling at the end of a workout, the feeling of accomplishment, the sore muscles and fatigue, it's a great thing. I've been doing an interval program to break me into jogging - I am sorely out of shape. I'm on the second week, and the jogging intervals are only up to 90 seconds. Doesn't sound like much, I know, but it is definitely getting the job done. I'm amazed at how the human body works, how it adapts and changes to what you throw its way. I've never been a big fan of my body, but I'm learning to trust it more, be happy with what it can do, and accept the changes I need to make. After all, it's delivered three gorgeous, healthy babies with no problems whatsoever, and I am really grateful for that. It hasn't failed me yet! I'm slowly, slowly breaking myself into this exercise thing, and I hate it as much as I love it. So far.
A couple of nights ago, the boys were horsing around in the living room. It wasn't long before we heard a crash, and Owen came running into the kitchen to tell us that Ari fell off the couch, into the wall, and was hurt. I didn't really believe him, because we didn't hear any crying, and Ari will always scream his head off if he's hurt. So Keith and I walked into the living room, and sure enough, there between the couch and the wall lay Ari, crumpled into a ball, completely silent and completely still. So I did what any normal person would do - I started screaming. I ran over and grabbed him, and Keith was all cool and collected, and asked, "Haven't you seen anyone knocked out before?" So, I mean, A) NO I HAVEN'T and B) THIS IS MY 4-YEAR OLD SON. Screaming is in order. About this time, I've got my arms around Ari, and my heart is pounding out of my body, and adrenaline is rushing, and I'm internally listing injuries he could have, steps we should take next, when I get a look at his face. A good look at his face. His SMILING face. His FAKE HURT, CLOSED EYES, GRINNING little face. This apparently was a good idea he had, to "play dead" as he called it. Or, alternatively titled, Send Mama To An Early Grave. So we had a nice talk about not pretending we are hurt if we are really not hurt, and how scared I was, and why he should never do this to Mama again. And then all my hair turned gray and fell out. This kid, this kid. Always something with Ari, never nothing. Gotta love him.