Join a fitness class? No thanks, I’ve got a toddler!

There was no gentle way to say it.
The guy setting up a new fitness program at the Villa Roma wanted me to join his class.
You can’t blame him.
It’s the end of the winter, and I look it.
My thighs are the consistency of curdled milk.
My arms look as though I’m ready to take flight.
Thank goodness I have a secret weapon.
She’s about 3 feet tall, and she can run like the wind.
I don’t need a personal trainer. I’ve got Jillian.
Like the very best of those trained to torture those of us with a little too much junk in the trunk, she starts by rousing me from my precious slumber at an unearthly hour of the morning.
And then she’s off.
After carrying her down the stairs – because, although she can do it herself any other time of the day, in the morning she requires I do the toting – we jet into the bathroom and then out of it.
She’s hungry, naturally, and after preparing a piece of cinnamon toast or bowl of cereal, I form the misguided notion that I’ll be allowed to get comfortable with a book on the couch or – at the very least – putter around the kitchen.
But now that she’s eaten exactly one bite of breakfast, Jillian is thirsty, and it’s up to me to fill the cup she’s already pulled from its drawer before she spills the bottle of Super Grover juice she’s managed to extricate from the fridge.
After watering down the juice to prevent the sugar rush that I can see coming, I head back to the bathroom to brush my own teeth only to be met by Jillian with a book (or movie, or puzzle, or toy teapot) in hand.
Her look says it all. Teeth later. Toys now.
“What do you say?” I ask.
“Please, please, please,” she replies, hopping from one foot to the other while she tries to hold on to the object in her hand and reach the cat’s tail swishing behind the toilet tank.
“Please, please, please!” she repeats.
I make a half-hearted swing with the brush around my mouth, spit, and head to the living room floor. The TV tuned to Noggin for background noise, I set up the Play-Doh on a cookie sheet and start making purple turtles and blue dogs.
With her involved in serious snake- and cake-making, glancing every once in awhile at the screen, I back out of the room.
It’s 7:45 a.m.
I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.
We’re just getting started.
She’ll want to color soon, or have a tea party or eat a box of raisins or pull all the books off of her shelf to find “Mind Your Manners Biscuit” so I can read it seven times in a row.
We’ll play “chase me” with the dog this afternoon, then dive bomb the cat sleeping under the dining room table.
No, I don’t need a fitness program. I don’t have the time!

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