"I don't want to go"

Rachel paused part way out of bed, looked at me, and said "I don't want to go." Then she waited to see if I would insist. It almost worked. She so seldom makes requests, it was really tempting to let her go back to bed, but I know she enjoys school and I've got enough things to do that staying home with me wouldn't be much fun. She seemed a bit unhappy most of the morning, but not angry. "It's not my birthday. I can't do it. I don't think so, it's not my clothes. I died." That last one always gets to me, but as I posted earlier, I don't think she understands the meaning of a lot of words, just that they're negative. When she was getting ready to eat breakfast she heard Daddy singing a song that involved color (I can't remember now what it was) and she leaned toward me and quietly said "no, it's green." It sounded like she heard him say something wrong and wanted to tell me the correct answer, but didn't want him to hear. She even smiled a little. Awesome.

So, I guess I'd better go get my running in for the day. I really like running after I get started (or sometimes after I'm finished). Some days I have a really hard time getting myself out the door, though. One of the motivating factors is that I feel very responsible to take care of my daughter for as long as I can, and I need to be healthy enough that I can do it well. (That sounds like I'm on my death bed. I'm really not.) So on days like today when I'm right there with Rachel's first comment, "I don't want to go," a sense of duty to her gets me going when I don't care so much what size jeans I wear or if my arms are getting flabby. After my exercising I get to do the laundry, tackle the pile of mending that is building up in my sewing room, clean the kitchen, and pay some bills. I don't really mind doing these things, they're just not that fun. Maybe I should have let Rachel stay home today and we could have played with clay and read books and danced to silly music. What was I thinking.