My Head's Getting Sore, What with all the Bashing It into Walls I'm Doing these Days
"I'm tired. We're walking too fast."
"I don't think so, Arthur. Look, the other boys are running. Why don't you go run with them?" We are in fact proceeding down the street at standard toddler pace, an erratic shuffle: occasional full stops to check out specks of dirt and peed-on snow lumps alternating with sudden darts up the sidewalk. On average, we amble. The boy is not being force-marched.
"No. My legs are tired. They don't want to run."
"Well, there's no other way to get home but by walking. You can walk with me, or you can run with them. It's up to you."
"But we're walking too fast for my legs."
"Arthur. Walk with me, or run with George and Darcy. No complaining."
"But my le--"
The rest of the ten-minute walk is accomplished with Arthur, holding on to the stroller as he mutters non-stop under his breath. Well, what passes for Arthur as under his breath, and I opt to ignore it. "...too fast...tired legs...heavy boots...don't want to run...tired...walk too far...walk too much...tired...don't like walking...sore feet...tired..."
The litany ends when we reach our front porch. Arthur is the first one in, and the second one out of his winter gear. Freed of snowsuit, he bounds into the livingroom.
"Hey, Darcy!! Let's RUN!!!!"