It was the kind of day in which I went to a new class at the Y, composed of two-thirds senior citizens.
The Silver Sneakers put me to shame.
Toward the end (and me, pink and breathless), the fifty-something teacher said to grab mats. I thought it was the cool down.
It was not. Sweet merciful Jesus, I will be sore tomorrow.
On the way out, my toddler went barreling toward the street. STOP! STOP! I implored.
He hung a left, as if flicking one defiant tiny middle finger, and high tailed it off the curb across the street.
I am not a runner, but Lord, did I RUN. My strides! If the circumstances has been different, you would have been proud.
I'm fairly certain that none of the witnesses were.
Next stop: library!
Quiet voices, please. Please stay together. Quiet voices. Feet on the floor. Those step stools are for grownups. Feet on the floor, please. No running. No yelling. Stay together. Together! Quiet voices.
DO NOT EAT FRUIT SNACKS OFF THE BATHROOM FLOOR!!!
Time to check out now. We can't leave 'til we check out. Away from the door, please. Come here, please. James. Stay together, James. James Edward. CLOSE THAT DOOR. JAMES! COME BAAAAAACK!!!
[Drops purse, books, and library card. Exits building in hot pursuit of toddler, second full sprint of the morning.]
It had to be done. There was no other way.
After naps, we loaded the car and drove two towns over to the Big Box Discount Store with one singular item on our shopping list:
I am That Mom.
The one with her kid on a plush lion toddler leash.
It was That Kind Of Day.