Hi! <Waves>

Funny and honest tales from a made-to-work Dad of three, wobbling, graying, and laughing his way through parenthood. Armed to the teeth with Nerf guns, full of pie, fighting a chocolate addiction, but genuinely honoured to be at least half of Team Parents (yay!).

21 March 2016

I Am Not Late...

I've started running.
I am fed up with having a bigger rack than Mrs. Amazing.

Actually that's a lie. I love the rack.
I am not running. I'm jogging. Ew.
Running would be good. Running is what I am striving for.
I want to be able to just run, fast and ideally in a sexy way, without having to warm up. That fit.
I don't want to become a K(ilometer) monster and endlessly discuss distances. I just want to be able to chase (my) children and play at their speed, without becoming a big sweaty mess that needs gas and air, and a sit.
Running is what I picture myself doing...

[17:29:22 at work]
<Is doing calf stretches>
Boss: 'So we need that super important work in the next five minutes'
I am all over it like a fatty on a cake
<Does lunges>
Boss: 'What?'
I'm doing it right now
It will definitely be done on time
Boss: 'Well, it certainly needs to b...'
<Runs off like the roadrunner leaving me shaped hole in the wall>
Beep Beep!

(I was wearing my coyote ears at work today… I also work within sandstone…)

Really, I am currently jogging.
Sometimes limping to be truthful. Sometimes leaning against stuff and taking deep breaths. Sometimes wondering why I can see fairies everywhere, and then realising they are normally called 'spots before the eyes'.
Sometimes I feel quite healthy and good about myself.
Yes really.
<Eats earn't pie>

When Boy8 was a mere Boy4.
We met a nice OtherBoy4 and his Dad. I got on really well with the Dad.
We agreed on lots of things...

'Awesome. LOTR?'
Life defining. Star Wars?
'Life defining. Board games?'
You mean Un-board games!
'Oh nice. Cheese?'
As essential as oxygen. Pie?
<Shows pie t-shirt>

The only issue was his size. He was a big fella.
Not in bones, or height or anything. He clearly liked to eat.
In a wrestling match I would lose, always. If we played see-saw it would be crap, I would get cold up that high. We could not lend each other clothes, except when I was attending clown school and he wanted tourniquets for his fingers.
Fitness wise he was doing bad. It was his choice. Not medical.
Obviously I cared not about his size. Boy4 cared not too. OtherBoy4 cared not obv...
... Except when we played, physically.

We were all at soft play together.
I chased the boys and smashed my knees through the UN-padded tunnels, I climbed, I leaped, I dived into the ball pit and got told off, I let the boys knock me over etc. All fun stuff. I got hot and sweaty and had a right laugh.
OtherDad sat drinking coke. 
He would not fit through tunnels. He could not run. He could not, physically, play like that.
That sucked for everyone.

But that was years ago.
They moved away. And I now I have Boy8, Miss4 and BabyBoy1 who all need their Dad to chase them, run with them, carry them and teach them the finer points of crick-ball (cricket played with a soft football)...

Boy8: 'Nice hit Dad'
<Starts running between wickets>
<Miss5 Runs after football crick-ball>
Boy8: 'Reckon you'll get at least six for that...'
Cheers man... <Gasps> ... I agree <Pants>
<Miss5 stops running to poke something>
Four! <Gasps for air>
Boy8: 'Yeah... you'll make six easy'
Five! <Gasps more>
Boy8: 'Come on, run man RUNNNNNN!!!'
<Uses last of breath up...> S....i....x!
Boy8: 'Well done Dad, right next ball, hope you're ready...' <Bowls next ball>
What?... <Gasps>... Wait...
<Is clean bowled>
<Miss5 and Boy8 high five>
<Hangs exhausted head>

Many years ago, before children. (B.C.)
I had a very lovely boss who ran at work.
And no I don't mean he went to the gym, or left at lunch time to exercise.
He ran in the office. There were long corridors, and rather than walk down them. He ran.
In a suit. No matter who was watching. He care-ethed not.
I always thought that was very cool.

And now I do it.
Well not in my office, it's too small for that. But when I get about. You know to buy comics buy cake and pie do important Dad stuff.
I run.
I don't wear exercise clothes, or optimum sports equipment. It's just the clothes I am in. Work clothes, home clothes, bat clothes. It doesn't matter.
I have become a chancer exerciser. 
If I am alone and walking, I jog run. I do wait until I am a fair distance from Miss5's school before start though. And of course out of sight at work before I gasp off and then have to lie down.
But I still do it.

(Run!! RUN!! There a fashion designer loose and they are attacking everyone with colour and non-symmetric patterns! ARGHHGHGHGG!!!)

I get a lot of funny looks.
I think it's because I am dressed incorrectly for what I am doing. It's like turning up for golf in normal tasteful reasonably priced clothes. You stick out like a sore thumb.
The uniform for running is stretchy, skin tight, luminescent, patterns, urgh, clothing.
Anyone know why? Lumo for night, right got that. But the rest?
Are the colours meant to scare people off?
I tend to be running in jeans and jumper, and big coat, and hat, and gloves (it is UK March).
I get funny looks because I look late.

Kids run and no one notices.
They run all the smegging time...

He doesn't ever walk, unless he is made to.
BabyBoy1 either stands and wobbles about or... HE RUNS, with arms flailing about, as though David Cameron the boogie man himself is chasing him. 
Although with a lot more joy.

She currently has two speeds. Awful, painful, mind numbing, dragging, eye ball cleaning, slowness. Being lapped by snails and BabyBoy1. URGHGHHG
Or RUUUUN! I need some glue RUUUUN! I need a cup RUUUNNN! Upstairs RUN! Downstairs RUN! I need a wee...

Weirdly he seems to have slowed down at home. He moves around the house like a ghost barely breaking a sweat. Flopping from room to room.
Especially when he has a job to do. The need to run in him is fading.
Except when he's outside or the whiff of competition in the air. Then he runs.
He runs like they're giving out free Lego, sweets, plastic noisy crap, and rubbers (erasers).
He's quick too. But no stamina.
Heh heh.

They all run like loonies...
Without a costume change. Or fuss, or loser special designer water bottles.
They do it because it's fun. It gets them places quicker.
That's what I want.
I want to run for fun...


So if you do see a 30-Lots man limping running past you.
In full work clothes. Don't mock. Don't try and trip him. That’s mean.
Cheer! Pass him pie and a cup of tea. And Chocolate.
Try not to stare too much.
He may be doing this for his kids, so he can keep up with kids.
He may also be late for work.

<Runs past gawpers>
Gawper1: 'That oldish, yet still handsome, idiot man limps jogs slowly past here every morning...'
Gawper2: 'Does he? Ohhhh...'
<Time passes>
Gawper2: '... wonder what he's late for?'
<More time passes>
Gawper1: 'Well... Not a haircut!'
<Both piss themselves laughing>