Fitness for Parents

Have you ever found that your idea of time with your child diverges from—well—time with your child?

In my imagination:

The sun sparkles on the river as my son and I arrive at the bike path. A gentle breeze stirs the morning air, which is slightly crisp. The conditions are perfect for being active. I look forward to exercise as an excellent form of stress relief.

I unload Scott’s bike, help him secure his helmet and we leave the parking lot. Scott rides and I run alongside him. We talk about the birds we hear, the butterflies we see and the flowers we smell. We laugh as the geese scatter from the path at our approach. Other runners and cyclists pass us and smile at the sweet scene of mom and son exercising together.

Thirty minutes fly by. We arrive back in the parking lot, smiling and slightly sweaty. We hug before we load his bike in my car and drive to get ourselves a delicious and well-deserved breakfast. 

In reality: 

The sun sparkles on the river as my son and I arrive at the bike path. A gentle breeze stirs the morning air, which is slightly crisp. The conditions are perfect for being active. I look forward to exercise as an excellent form of stress relief.    

I unload Scott’s bike, help him secure his helmet and we leave the parking lot. I talk about the birds I hear and the butterfly I saw. Four minutes into our exercise, my child—who contains more energy than the entire North American power grid—stops his bike in the middle of the path and cries, “I’m tired! I want to stop!”

“Just 26 minutes left!” I call cheerfully.

I keep running, smiling and calling encouraging words. I hear him approaching from behind and then he passes me, spinning his little legs at top speed. Yay! I think. My motivation worked!

But as he passes me, he screeches his bike to a halt sideways, blocking my path. “I want to go home!” he insists.

I run around him on the grass, smiling and telling him how much I love exercising with him. “And if you keep riding for 15 minutes,” I add, “I’ll let you watch TV when we get home!” We don’t watch much TV in our house but desperate times call for desperate bribery.

He gets back on his bike and trails me, screaming and moaning. The cyclists and runners who pass us eye us skeptically. 

We start heading back to the car. I’m forcing myself to smile and sound chipper. “Great job! Only 9 minutes until we get back! Then you get TV!”

Scott lags further behind me. He is calling me names and shouting that I’m a terrible mother who is making him suffer. The cyclists and runners who pass us look horrified. 

“Six more minutes until we get to the car!” I call.

Scott is now weeping while riding his bike. The passing exercisers glare at me. 

“Only one minute until we get there!”

I turn into the parking lot, relieved. After 26 minutes of him begging, pleading, crying and screaming to go home, finally we will.

I quickly unlock the car and open his door. 

But Scott isn’t behind me. I hear only silence.

I look back to the bike path.

I see an angel smiling up at me from the ground. The angel looks strikingly similar to the child who was just shouted every four-letter word he knows and then made up a few new ones.

“I found an earthworm!” he calls, enraptured with his discovery.

“But we finished our exercise. We can go home.”

“He likes me!”

“You have been BEGGING me to go home.”

“Look at the little cute guy!”

I look at my watch. We now need to get home in order to be on time for a Telehealth appointment.

But getting to the car takes 26 minutes of me begging, pleading, cajoling and finally screaming.

As I attempt to lure him into his booster seat, he jumps back on his bike and gleefully rides circles in the parking lot.

So now I have a new exercise strategy: we arrive at the bike path. I tell him to get back in the car because we are going home. And then I chase him for as long as I need until I’ve had my workout. 

But I definitely need to rethink my definition of “excellent stress relief.”