Our Daily Constitutional

At the table this morning, Emilia and I sat eating our breakfast and staring at the grey drizzly day outside our window, when she said, 'It is almost about to get dark outside, mama! But we're awake!' So you see, all my complaints about grey days are not figments of my imagination. Our own daughter was convinced that at roughly 9:30 this morning (yes, we eat late, alright? -- what of it?) it was almost dark enough outside to be considered night time.

Yet, she still went on to say, 'Maybe we should go for a quick run!' 'But, Emilia, look outside! It's dark and it's raining!' She then countered with, 'But I have my cover, mama!' Fine. She makes a good point. And besides, I told her yesterday (same time, same place) that there was not a chance we were going running in that weather -- cover or no cover. Supposedly we got three inches of rain yesterday, and I'm no nit-wit. I can handle a little rain, but not the bouncing off the roads kind-of rain. It makes for very wet running shoes, don't you know? Or, rather, very muddy running shoes when we make our way up the path by the horses. And we always have to go that way -- it is a nice little hill to nearly knock me flat, with loads of bumps and branches and such (a bit like off-roading, I suppose), and we usually stop for a second at the top so she can get a nice view and we practice our Spanish:
'How do you say horse in Spanish again?'
'I dunno.'
'Yes, you do!'
'I dunno.'
'Caballo! For pete's sake, it's CABALLO! Say hola caballo.'
'Hola caballo. Adios caballo.'
'Now, how do you say horse in Spanish?'
'I dunno.'
And we are off again. To see the chickens and the goat, but we don't stop then unless she really begs, because we ain't out for no nature walk. We are out for a run.

It is fabulous, though, having just discovered the beauty of a cover on the jogger. (It's actually called a Weather Shield for the Bob joggers -- I ordered it on-line while in Oregon with my mom and David before Emilia was even a year old -- and officially just pulled it out of the wrap last week.  Ahem, moving on.)  Typically I get the girl bundled up to the high heavens, because it gets cold out there.  You know, hat, gloves, coat, sweater, blanket, snack, drink, St. Gerard, Mary Magdalene, garage door opener, and anything else we can possibly squeeze into the thing.  We're like an armoire on wheels.  But accoutrements aside, I am officially pushing a third of my body weight in the thing.  I find this is an excellent way to justify my rather slow pace.  Or maybe the slow pace is on account of the fact that I let my husband load up my i-pod with songs he claimed would be great for running. (I've created a play-list for you.  It's all ready to go!')  Here I am running down the street, all excited to have new songs to add to my list of tiresome songs that really need to be replaced, and what I get is -- er, well, not exactly running songs.  I've been referring to them as sex jams, but you can call them what you will.  I called him on the carpet for it, all the while doing a demonstration of the ridiculous running one would likely have to do while listening to them, and all he says it, 'I'm no idiot.'  So I guess it will be back to Eminem for me.  Oh, and Michael is no longer allowed to touch my i-pod.

And so, right when we get home, and the chance that there is nary a raindrop in sight, we quickly take Governor on a walk.  (He, rather annoyingly, refuses to take one step outside if it is raining.)  The jogger goes back in the garage, along with all its trappings, and we head out.  Governor pulling this way and that, and Emilia either running as fast as she can in front of me saying, 'Now I'm going for a quick run, too!'; or, trailing after Governor and lifting her leg in a very rude manner, pretending to be said dog, laughing so hard she nearly falls over.  But there it is, the daily constitutional.  And if not daily, I suppose it should be.