12 minutes when I’m not a mother. There are no little voices telling me that they are building the Reaper’s house on the Sims. Or that they can’t find any underwear. Or just shouting mumumumumuMUM.
12 minutes of almost silence. When all I hear is pounding footsteps and pounding heartbeat. Where I count strides in patterns of 8 and try to keep my breathing steady.
12 minutes when I can forget that I’m nearly *significant age* old and pretend that I’m 19, 20, 21 again, pretend that all I’ve to run to or from is a bar or a lecture, pretend that running isn’t a laborious exercise it’s just my prefered method of getting places because it’s faster than walking.
12 minutes without interruptions. When my time is my own, it’s just me, my body, the road and the weather. When the wind can be my only foe, when I get to admire the sunset or the rainbow but without having to feel I should point it out to an offspring.
Oh and the 8 seconds? That would be the time wasted when I have to stop to tie up my shoelace. Bah.




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