Sweat saves the cheese from falling off

“Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-O to a tree.”
The anonymous person out there who penned this revelation no doubt was a parent—and mostly likely the mother of a teenage girl.
I am still retained by the forces of good over evil as a mother parent of a teenage girl—the last of three such entities to pass over this donkey trail called motherhood.
And I don’t mind admitting that even though this mother’s path is well-educated, worn, and patchy in places, I’m still learning there is a right way and a wrong way to delegate the chores to my kid that I don’t want to do around the house.
Furthermore, no matter how hard I try, the fruit of my womb still doesn’t believe I know more than she does—like the fact that “No” is a complete sentence.
Granted, I haven’t asked the editor of this newspaper if this is so, but if my teenager argues otherwise, chances are pretty good I am right.
“Do you think it ever occurs to teenagers that the day will come when they’ll know as little as their parents?” (read online during a recent chat session with other disgruntled mothers) made me laugh. It also reminded me of that day in the future when our children’s children give them occasional payback for all our hard work as parents.
I’ll try my best to remember that her day will come, when even after I freeze the Jell-O, find the longest nail, the biggest hammer, and the tallest tree, I still stumble in the quagmire of raising a teenager.
I expect, however, there is no restitution for the “mother” of a certain canine who, at 11 months of age, still manages to eviscerate his doggie quilt of its stuffing while I am out of the room for less than 60 seconds.
Nor is there any anticipation of a future genius in the one mutt who attempts to swallow all the snow flying off the shovel while the sidewalk to the house is being cleared.
While evidence of my black mood rising over the hatchlings in my care is apparent, there is something to smile about after nearly eight weeks of cardio and weights at the gym.
The road to fruition of my fitness goal still is being paved and I swear the clock stands still each day when I’m trying to get through those 50 minutes. Some days I rate a workout as one on a scale of 10 , but I do it anyway.
Besides, comfort isn’t always the best thing.
Other days I have more endurance than the super power persuasion and I use it all up.
Even on a bad day, stepping up the heart rate on a daily basis rules—and it’s saved the cheese from falling off my cracker more than once. I’m almost ready to run (if I can just get past the image of Fred Flintstone revolving flat like a pancake on a speeding treadmill).
There’s equity in sweat, folks. What was once the upper body of a chicken and the lower body of two cougars in a gunny sack is shifting. Now, if I could just get my mind off that Snickers bar.

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