I did me some sprint training this morning.
No, I’m not mad.
Essentially, I was left, alone, again with three children who refused, on principal, to agree with any of the fun and exciting things I suggested.
Fucked if I was going to be stuck in the house with them all morning, so I made them get dressed and ride their bikes to the local playground.
Not the closest local one. One a long way away, that meant we were outdoors for longer and it would take some considerable time, thus preventing me from being stuck at home, indoors, alone, again with them, and they would hopefully be tired and worn out and incapable of getting up to too much mischief or being too argumentative.
As predicted, all manner of things went wrong. The pedal was on the wrong angle, the sky was the wrong colour blue, there were not clouds in the shape of a chicken, but that one looks like a dog that’s been run over by a truck and I hate you, you make us do boring stuff and you’re the worst mother in the world.
With one child miles ahead and the other in a whingy state some miles behind, I managed to cajole some number two into catching up. Pretty much by ignoring his complaints and either pretending I couldn’t hear, or pretending I didnt’ care. Well, the second bit wasn’t really pretend.
Him finally in action, I was able to embark on some Mums-Style Sprint Training.
This involves the two eldest kids racing ahead because it is the Law of Siblings that one must be better/faster/taller than the other. Off they race, and Mum (ie me) is forced to race after them, pushing the pram and holding onto extra bouncy boobs as it appears one child has managed to stop in the middle of oncoming traffic. This is an illusion that is only seen by mums when children are a sizeable distance away.
The Sprint Training also consists of slow jogs, whereby, after racing ahead and causing maternal figure to panic, they then go really slowly just as she gets into a rhythm, and wobble all over the path thus preventing her form passing and maintaining comfortable stride.
After some Panic Sprints and Frustrated Jogs, mum is then afforded some rest periods where she can take some deep breaths and scream “For fuck’s sake! Will you hurry up!!!! Get out of his way and stop being an ARSE!” etc.
Then it is time for a latte whilst the kids refuse to play on the play ground you took them too and will instead walk into the largest puddle available, eat tan bark and sit on a bench and sulk.
Repeat post-latte sprint session on way home.