Cyclists who talk about cross training must not have children. Or at least not young children. Or at least not my young children.
There’s probably no more commonly used word in our house than “again.” OK, perhaps “mommy,” “daddy,” “no,” and “iwannahave,” but other than those, the top word is “again.” And that little word is why, after riding 26 miles yesterday, I was running sprints across our pool, alternately pulling Jewel or carrying her on my back. Of course, when I was pulling her, she was spreading herself out like a parachute “because it’s fun!” Yes, and because it makes daddy pump his legs twice as hard.
Again. Again. Again.
And on Saturday, which was Mama and 3B’s birthday, after I rode 50 miles, Jewel and I went out to the playground and to do some shopping while the birthday kids stayed at home to play. She chose the “choo choo playground,” which is a good playground for her age. It has a great train play structure complete with a train whistle, some swings and two seesaws.
I’m sorry, did I write “seesaws”? I meant to write “deep knee bend torture devices.” My bad.
Seriously, no two two-year-olds are organized or coordinated enough to seesaw, so why do playground designers put these things on their playgrounds? To torture parents. That can be the only reason. Every time I try to get out of it, by placing my foot on the seat on my end and pumping it up and down while still standing. After 20 minutes, this is still a thigh-burner, but nothing quite like what the kids always force me to do, which is to sit on the seat and push them up and down.
This seat is about eight inches off the ground at its highest, and it’s just about on the ground at its lowest, so after riding 50 miles, I spent the better part of half an hour in a deep squat. Actually, flexing slightly up and down in a deep squat.
Again. Again. Again.
And while 3B will sometimes bust out “again,” he’s of an age where he’s more likely to get stuck on a topic and keep returning to it. Recently, it’s been his own death and burial.
So…that’s not freaky at all.
Periodically, he expresses his desire to be buried with his lovies, all his friends (stuffed animals, not the live human ones) and so forth. I chalk this up to his being stuck on the topic of Egypt for the last, oh, two years or more. During that time, we’ve learned more than I ever thought there was to know about how ancient Egyptians were buried, which involves the placing of many objects in their tombs.
However, this weekend, one of these sessions was a bit beyond the others. It helps to bear in mind that 3B delivers these instructions in line with, and in the same tone as, his conversations with us about watching TV shows, going to the pool, and asking for candy. So, we’re walking down the hall toward our front door, having a family conversation when 3B busts out, “At the end of time, can you bury me in a tree house?”
At the end of time? What sort of apocalyptic Magic Treehouse book did you check out from the library? Or was this Berenstain Bears and the Four Horsemen?
How do you even know that time ends?
What about all our talk of infinity recently? And cutting M0bius strips? And peering to the edges of the known universe in the Hubble IMAX movie?
What have you figured out about time that you’re not telling us?
Or, have you read between the lines in all the texts and put together what the Book of Revelations really means? …that is, without ever having read it.
Or, do you just like the idea of treehouses based on reading all the Magic Treehouse books you can get your hands on? Yeah, that’s probably it.