Kids love to be chased.  I think it taps into a primal memory of living in the wild and running from ravenous animals ready to devour your tender flesh.  That cellular recollection is implanted into our psyches, and The Munch seems to crave the unique rush of being chased.  Because even if there is no real danger, that feeling of running away from something running after you still provides a blast of adrenalin.  And if you don’t believe me, next time someone is walking up the stairs in front of you, start chasing them.  I guarantee they will run faster away from you and giggle like a schoolgirl!

Every time The Munch and I are outside, which is a fuck of a lot, she wants me to chase her around.  So I do what any normal person would do.  I run after her at a moderate pace and eventually catch up… But I let her think she is running fast enough so I can’t actually get her.  I do this because I am a good human.  I am not going to run my fastest after my 3-year old so I catch her in a few feet.  That would be psychotic.

But I guess The Munch started to really believe that I could actually only run as fast as I was displaying to her.

Munch: “Get me Mamma! Get me!”

Toni: “Okay… I am going to get you.  I am coming to get you.”

Munch: “You can’t run very fast can you Mamma?”

Toni: “What? Are you kidding me?”

Munch: “You run really slow.  You can’t run fast at all can you?

Toni: “Listen Missy. I am an athlete.  I ran a marathon when I was 18.  Not only can I run fast, but I can run a hell of a lot faster than you!”

Munch: “I don’t think you can.”

So what did I do? I could have choked down my pride and continue to act like she was faster than me to maintain this façade of “chasing” so she could enjoy the rest of her childhood.  There is no reason for me to feel competitive because of a 3-year olds taunts.  I could have been the bigger person.  Or I could run fast as fuck and let The Munch know just how fast I am compared to her.  Because fuck you kid… nobody tells me I am not fast and I will crush you in a race.