I didn't think I would get the chance to run today, but then Rick came home earlier than I thought he would and the baby was sound asleep in the sling and had been for quite some time. I thought that maybe I could slip the sling off, baby and all, into the crib, pull on some running clothes, go run, and maybe—just maybe—get back before she woke up.
It was fabulously cool (about 75°F) and overcast during the run. Throughout the run, my mind kept flipping back home, and all I could think was that I needed to hurry and get back because the baby was going to wake up. Chances were, in fact, that she was already awake. In the past, she has had a habit of waking up or going ballistic about five minutes after I walk out the door, no matter in what state I leave her: well fed, sound asleep, playing contentedly—it doesn't matter. When I leave, she tries to make her daddy's life miserable.
So today I raced the baby. I worked the hills. I pushed my stride. I rounded the corner in our neighborhood at a good clip and ran up to our mailbox and walked toward the front door, cautiously opening it a crack...then all the way...moving in the entry as if a fully armed commando-baby hid around the corner. It was strangely quiet. I went upstairs and straight down the hall to the baby's room, where the door was still pulled shut—just as I had left it. I looked in her room, and there lay baby Adrian, still sprawled out in her crib and breathing slow and deep—just as I had left her. I raced the baby, and I won!