Son of a runner!

Twice this week my son demonstrated very clearly that he is, indeed, a son of a runner.

1. My new Brooks arrived on Monday. I was busy and didn't have a chance to open the package right away so it sat inside the front door, waiting. And basically mocking my non-runningness. Every time Conal would walk past the package, he'd point and make some sort of questioning sound (no, he doesn't really have words yet. But he's working on it. I promise.).

Finally, on Wednesday, he'd had enough: he decided to take matters into his own hands.

I was in the kitchen. He dragged the package from the front door, stopped right in front of me and demanded that I open it (yes, demanded. No, not with words but with action. Tugging and pointing action. I'm fluent in todder-ese.) I submitted to his demands. As I was cutting open the bag, Conal began clapping his hands. Then twirling around and stopping quickly to squat and check things out. Once the bag was open, I pulled out the first box of shoes and he squealed. Stomped his feet and squealed. I pulled the other box out and, yep! More squealing. Baby likes it when mama gets a new pair of shoes.

He then tore open one of the boxes, pulled out my shiny new kicks and put them on his feet.

And then he tired of them and went to find his Thomas book.

2. The second demonstration came before my run on Wednesday. I was sitting on the stairs, re-lacing my new sneaks when Conal walked over to me and handed me The Stick. Without prompting. Mom in running gear = Mom using The Stick, I suppose. Smart little guy.

So, there you have it. My proof that young Conal is a son of a runner!

Enjoy the rest of the weekend, everyone!