Running

Luca is sick. He has a fever and a fairly strong case of malaise. But for Luca, that means occasionally sighing. Then quickly apologizing for being a bother. And then going to sleep for seven hours.

Sick babies need sleep. Which is difficult when your brother’s volume has two settings: scream and shriek.

So yesterday after Elijah woke Luca up for the umpteenth time, I suggested we take Grover to the church to throw the ball.

It was a gorgeous day. Sunny. Warm. The one of maybe 10 days in Evanston that remind you why you shovel 3.5 tons of snow every winter.

Rather than cause massive casualties on a nearby anthill as Elijah wanted, I suggested he try to outrun Grover as he chased the ball. It wasn’t a fair fight. Besides the fact that Grover had thousands of years of ball chasing genetics on his side, Eli’s running technique isn’t what you’d call ready for the Summer Olympics.

First off, he runs on his tiptoes. Unless Baryshnikov is waiting at the end of the stage to catch you, tiptoes aren’t the most efficient way to travel.

Then there are the arms. Splayed.

At the end of every run, Eli falls down. I think it’s the only way he can stop. Crashing to the ground in a heap. Laughing his head off.

I feverously took mental notes for the blog. “Oh, man,” I thought. Just the description of his floppy hairdo will have ‘em rolling in the aisles.”

“Wait a minute,” I thought. “You’re spending so much time thinking about how to make fun of your kid on the internet, you’re missing out on of the best moments of your life.”

So I put down my mental notebook and chased after him. On my tiptoes. With my arms splayed.

p.s. This is HamannEgg’s 500th post. Thanks for reading. I love writing this thing. In honor of this milestone, I am posting the most embarrassing photo of myself ever. Take particular note of my growing breasts. Diana is taking out later to buy my first training bra.