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Running and Dancing

Last Sunday morning I had a 6k trail race just over the New Hampshire border in a nature preserve, and since the start time was a leisurely 10am, Mr. P and A. came along for the fun. When we arrived, the friendly, casual atmosphere of the race prompted Mr. P to impulsively enter A. (at age 3, by far the youngest “runner”) with complete understanding that Daddy would be carrying him for the bulk of the race. A. was beyond excited when we pinned the number to his chest — all the times he saw Mommy and Daddy with numbers, finally, he had his own! Which was all that really mattered to him… never mind the running part.

Post-race, still looking apprehensive

Now, I know that this blog has fully transitioned from glorifying myself to glorifying my perfect adopted son, but if I may switch back to Braggart Mode for a second… the race went extremely well for me. I finished second out of 14 in my age group and 11th out of 60 overall. This is not exactly a testament to my prowess as a trail runner, although all those years hiking the cranky trails of the White Mountains certainly confer a technical advantage. Instead, it speaks to the inexperience of this race’s field, which was comprised mainly of road runners who proved so lackadaisical on the trails that my husband, who “ran” the entire race while coaxing or carrying a 3 year-old boy, didn’t even finish last. By far.

Both Mommy and A. won pint glasses for placing in our respective age groups. Since Mr. P carried a whining A. across the finish line, people were duly impressed with Mr. P’s performance above all. Even though A. ran only about 1K out of the 6K, when he finished, he promptly refueled with a Nutella-smeared bagel. (Add “Nutella” onto the list of new foods that have won his effusive approval! We tried to give it to him the first week he was home and, to Daddy’s secret greedy relief, he refused).

After all the morning’s exertions, we went home to relax over the completely non-relaxing Women’s World Cup Finals, and then headed to Harvard Square for their belated Bastille Day street celebration. We were a family in heaven: Sparkling rosé and friendly Francophones for Mommy and Daddy, balloons and smoke machines for A., and super-smoked salmon and chunky paté-smeared baguette bits for us all! (A. ate more salmon and paté than the two of us combined.)

The balloon man constructed an elephant and a giraffe for A., only the giraffe unraveled into something that Mr. P probably should not have been holding within the vicinity of a camera…

Proof that Mr. P is losing his Frenchness: he goes to a Bastille Day party wearing a green t-shirt from a trail race. Mon dieu.

It took some coaxing and a lot of lights and machine-generated smoke to get A. out on the dance floor. With regards to public dancing, for a 3 year old, he’s pretty inhabited, but after we left, all he talked about was “dancing.”

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