On Wednesday night, it was a pretty evening.  A little hot, but otherwise perfect weather for a jog outside.

Coaxing the boys into joining me, we embarked on a three mile jaunt.  After a bit, we settled into a pace, where our oldest son took a healthy lead, our youngest son tried to stay close behind, and our middle son, 10-year-old Sam, joined me in the back.

Approaching Mile 2, you could see that Sam and my conversational style of exercise was using precious breath.  As we panted along, Sam let out a tired expression about his remaining strength, “My legs our dead, it’s just my feet carrying me now.”

Yes, it’s hot, but “dead legs?”  Seems like a bit of an exaggeration to me.  Not sure where he gets that from.  So types the Father, who manages to find something epic to write about each day.  Classic case of the Daddy Pot calling his Son the Kettle black.