Saturday was the kind of weekend day runners dream of having every week. It was sunny but not too warm, breezy but not too windy, and quiet but not too dull. If there was anything wrong with Saturday, it would be the same problem as every beautiful Saturday that is filled with projects, chores, places to go or be or having a spouse with places to go or be thus limiting a runner’s time to run free. Still, a runner never complains about a 30 minute run on a beautiful day. We might wish for more but we never complain
Yet, I wasn’t quite ready to surrender to the couch when I returned home for my turn at monitoring the kids thus allowing the hubs to fulfill his weekend obligations. I didn’t have the freedom to roam the streets but there was indubitably no reason why I couldn’t go a few rounds with the punching bag in the garage.
Murphy’s Law for Mothers states: Whenever a mother is at home and decides to do something for herself, her children will find a legitimate reason to interfere Note: most children will attempt every illegitimate reason prior to resorting to an actual legitimate reason.
I had only just grabbed the boxing gloves when I heard the door to the family room open. Without much surprise and as much disappointment, I watched Mikel bound into the garage. Rightly, I then tossed my disappointment into the trash and got over myself. As a mother, I realize the importance of encouraging my son to ‘exercise’ and build strength. He’s not the kind of kid that participates in organized sports. He’s more like the scrawny, wants-to-watch-tv-or-read type. So, I conceded control of the gloves and let him pound it out while I kept my heart rate up with a series of moves like kicks and shadow punches.
In good time, my hands filled the gloves allowing me a spell to work the bag over. Mikel climbed onto the treadmill in his bare feet. (I’m so proud!) Ironically, I quickly grew bored with the boxing. Apparently, I didn’t have much of a reason to be disappointed when my workout was interrupted by my son. That should teach me to be a little less selfish. All the same, I toiled on, counting out the punches and combinations while Mikel walked on the treadmill. As it went, I grew weary of the task.
Here’s where I bow to the genius of Mikel.
It took me a moment to recognize the sounds. Mikel was on the treadmill saying Who-ha-ha-he-he-ha-ho as though he was punching the bag or, more likely, training me from the treadmill. Willingly, I followed the path of my trainer, my son. With every punch, I let out a forceful hee or ha or ho. Before I knew it, my heart rate was up, I was throwing punches like Mohammad Ali’s middle-aged, distant cousin who ate too many fun-size snickers and to top it all off, IT WAS FUN. Somehow the noises disconnected the thinking part of my brain. I don’t know how long we who-ha-he-ha-ha-ho’d but I’m certain it was at least fifteen minutes longer than I would have endured if not for Mikel.
I presented him with a sweaty hug after he clinched his mile. Then, I graciously thanked him for assisting me in my workout but mostly for evoking a boisterous one. Who-ha-he knew?