My house in Texas has ONE step, on the front porch. My parents' house has, if you include the front, side, and back porch steps, 54 steps. We've been here for two weeks and I, my kids, and my calves have yet to adjust.
It's been 15 years since I lived (full-time) in this four-story tower, and now, after living for a year-and-a-half in a one-stair house, I'm kind of over my love affair with stories. I'm already going to the gym every day while I'm on "vacation" - I don't want to feel like I'm spending my free time on a stair master. Yesterday I decided not to moisturize my unbelievably dry lips just because my Chapstick was in the second floor bathroom and I was in the basement family room. The day before I bribed Will to go upstairs, find my purse, and throw it down the laundry chute to me.
|The look on his face says it |
all - he's so over the stairs.
Hallie, on the other hand, finds the stairs incredibly intriguing and not at all tiring. She purposely carries one item at a time up or down the stairs so that she'll have to make multiple trips, and whenever she uses the stairs she does so differently than the time before. Up on her feet, down on her butt. Up going backwards, down going sideways. Up on her knees, down with no hands. Up like a cat, down with her eyes closed. I have "9" and "1" pre-pressed on my cell phone. The kicker is that whenever Hallie has to pee she makes sure to use a bathroom on a different floor. She'll be yelling "I HAVE TO PEE SO BAD" and pulling off her pants while standing in front of a bathroom, but she insists on heading up or down to relieve herself.
The positive in all of this? When we return to Texas we're going to have calves of steel.
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