Cameron and I invented a new way to exercise tonight: we hit the treadmill together with him strapped into the Baby Bjorn. I was long overdue for a mild aerobic workout, and I was feeling particularly blobbish after having lunch with a coworker who was training for a half marathon.
(In the “when it rains, it pours” department, just a few hours later, I was listening to stories about how a different set of coworkers participated in a triathlon together. Some of them are quite competitive: Matt Laird was on the top finishers in a recent triathlon called Escape From the Rock which includes an open water swim from Alcatraz Island.)
Treadmilling with the Baby Bjorn seem tame by comparison, though it’s definitely not the safest way to exercise—a spill would have been quite disastrous. But I took it slow, and it was fun watching the little guy’s facial expressions. I’m projecting, of course, but it seemed to me his expression said, “you have got to be kidding me.”
Predictably, Cameron fell asleep at about minute seven. No baby can resist the rhythmic bouncing, whether it’s on a washing machine, in a car or stroller—or, in this case, literally coming along for the ride on the treadmill.
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