Sometimes - and I am not bragging here; or maybe I am - The Daughter knocks the breath out of my lungs. I suppose, if we are to look at the lungs on a purely physical level, their capacity is somewhat diminished by lack of exercise. And smoking. And really enjoying the taste of foods that are comprised mainly of carbs and fats. And not the good kind. But rather the good bad kind.
Yup, I was never much of an athlete. In fact, if I'm to be entirely honest with myself, the fittest I've ever been was when I was pregnant with The Daughter. So afraid was I of gaining weight (I know, it's ludicrous) that I spent the majority of the nine months of my pregnancy in a pool or at the gym "trimming down". Honestly, I was so fit by the time the little angel decided to make an appearance, that my body decided a two hour labour was all it needed to get the sprog out there. And I still gained a whopping 20 kgs.
But that's all gone downhill. Not for lack of trying, though. Well, it is because of a lack of trying that I've stopped exercising. Though I do say to The BF all the time, "I really do need to tone up," while tugging at fleshy bits of stomach and back fat.
But The Daughter - as I was saying - does surprise me sometimes. And she makes me so proud that I'm sure this pride is possibly nauseating for those who have to bear witness to it.
It was Sports' Day the other day.
The Pant: Do you really want to go to sports' day, my love? Why don't you and I lie in bed for an extra hour, have a late brekkie out and tell each other that we love each repeatedly?
The Daughter: No, Mom. I want to go to sports' day.
TP: Ah... but your running shoes are at Granny's. Can't do sports' day in pumps. Or Uggs.
TD: I'll do it barefoot.
TP: You'll do no such thing. No daughter of mine does anything barefoot, do you understand me?
And no sooner was I on the phone to The Incubator.
TP: The Daughter insists on participating in sports' day.
The Incubator: Lord Almighty. What is wrong with the child? Why don't you just sleep in a little extra and go out for a big fried brekkie together?
TP: I've suggested it. But she's having none of it. And I need you to come watch because you've got her running shoes.
TI: Oh Lord. Why? I'm in bed. Can't she just do it barefoot?
TP: Absolutely not. No daughter of mine does anything barefoot.
TI: You do know you sound like me?
TP: Oh crikey. Please bring the running shoes and a large dose of rat poison.
TI: I'm not that bad am I?
TP: Can you bring a plate of eats?
TP: Then you're not that bad.
So, a little while later, I had The Daughter warming up prior to said sports' day. I say, "I had The Daughter warming up," - but that's not strictly true. I was sitting ever-so-quietly on an exceptionally small chair (what is it with going to Pre-Primary schools? I get worse knee to head injuries than I have ever received doing far more dirty things) day dreaming about my up-coming leave. And it's not that I'm not interested in The Daughter. I am. I love her. But I just can't get excited about sport.
Or so I thought.
She took her marks. She got set. She went. And she picked up wooden blocks and put them into a tin pail with such alacrity that she cruised across the finish line with minutes to spare.
TP: (nudging seedy looking father next to me) That's my girl.
Seedy Looking Man: Congratulations.
TP: I know! She's amazing, isn't she?
SLM: She is four.
TP: I know. And she won. She must definitely be an athlete. Should probably start procrastinating about getting her into American universities now. Did you see how she creamed the other kids?
SLM: What? Like my daughter?
TP: Oh. Which one is yours?
SLM: That one. Crossing the line now.
TP: Oh. Well, I'm sure you can train her.
And that's the trait of the leopard mum right there: proud as punch and puts absolutely no pressure (because of laziness) into forcing child to achieve greatness.
Sometimes I am overwhelmed by my luck. The raddest little chick in the whole world. And she's my daughter.