I saw my running doctor again this week. While I’ve picked up my cadence, he’s not so thrilled with my foot strike. And that’s all the boring running lingo you’ll hear from me.
After I ran on the treadmill for what seemed like an eternity, he said he wanted to check out my hip mobility, and after a series of exercises he looked down (I was lying flat on a table), and declared to me, and just about everyone else in the large room, that I have weak hips.
Weak hips? They certainly don’t look weak. In fact, my hips are the only really substantial part of me. If he said I had a weak chest I’d get it, ditto for weak arms, or even weak ankles. But my hips? These hips supported the weight of five babies and I’ve always assumed that they were therefore what some would refer to as child bearing hips. But when he declared their weakness I felt almost as good as I did when the OB who delivered Sid told me that like many other mothers of multiple kids, I had what was commonly known as a floppy cervix.
Fabulous.
Don’t get me wrong, I like this guy. He seems to know what he’s talking about (even though I doubt everything he says and have to come home first to fact check it on my own) and he lets me say horrid, nasty things about the attire of just about everyone who walks in (like the woman who walked in wearing the world’s ugliest orange raincoat, only to bask in the astonishing adoration of everyone in the room). He’s also manly, in an effortless sort of way, with the glaring exception of his unfortunate tattoo. Now yes, you’d be correct to think that I believe all tattoos to be unfortunate, but this one really is. It’s a ring around his arm of a mountain range against the backdrop of a … Smurfette blue sky. It would only be more girly if a Lisa Frank unicorn were floating above it.

But I digress. Weak hips. Now I have those, in addition to a floppy cervix, pronating ankles and a knee varus.
Given how strong I thought I was, it’s amazing how often I can be wrong about things. I was clearly wrong about the kinds of kids I’d have. When I was in NY, spending time with my old friends, many of them were describing their kids. And they all had at least one of the kids that I thought I’d have: chess playing, obedient, thoughtful, cautious, completely uninterested in team sports. I remember watching Frasier in high school, or college, and dreaming of two sons like Niles and Frasier. They’d wear matching vests, engage in word play for fun, and would never ever pee in a Croc, let alone a corner.
Mine play chess alright, but like all their activities, it quickly devolves into a contact sport — tackle chess.
Oh, and I clearly misread those coffee grounds earlier in the week. What I thought I saw: sunshine and sleep. What a got: a toddler with hand, foot, and mouth, or as we call it here, hand, foot, and yuck. I’m almost done with today’s cup.. I’ll definitely get it right this time. Mark my words.