He's a runner. And a climber. And a swimmer.
And a jumper. A daredevil. A complete crazeball.
He has been most of these since before he could actually walk. So it should come as no surprise to me or anyone else that he is built like a mini tank. A brick shithouse, if you will. He has definition that grown men envy. He is cut. CUT. His little body carries not an ounce of fat. You could bounce a quarter off of his calves. And he's strong. Unnaturally strong. He's a three year old Atlas. It is possible he was bitten by a radioactive grasshopper.
But don't take my word for it. See for yourself. He finally did some running with actual clothing on and when I had my phone to document it.
Exhibit A. The leg. Aka: Spiderman's leg.
This post really has no other point than to say, see? See what's going on here? He's got superpowers. There is a reason I must use The Force when I'm alone with him. It's because I have no other choice. If a foot race breaks out, I'm finished. I'd have to resort to begging passersby to trip my own son or I'd have to start throwing things at him to slow him down. He runs. He needs to. And it fills him with a happiness reserved only for running. He's just so damn happy. And since I cannot take that from him, I have to start being able to keep pace with him. Otherwise I'm screwed. Consider yourself warned, Mr. Pants.
Mama started excercising today and it's all your fault.