Walking is this wonderful thing that we spend the first year of our lives trying to learn to do. Holding our heads up, rolling over, sitting, getting on to our hands and knees, crawling, cruising, walking while holding someone's hands, and finally all on our own. It's a big moment. But it seems that as soon as we've learned to walk, we're trying to figure out how to do less of it. Putting little ones in strollers and car seats. Getting kids on bikes and skateboards and scooters. I have no issue with any of these things, except that we often stop valuing walking as soon as it's accomplished. In these past months of walking, I've been noticing how few people walk, and how much I love my times out propelling my own body around on my own two feet.
I found the school, and then found the gym inside the maze that is that school. I couldn't sit on the bleachers for long, and found myself sitting on the floor, much to my daughter's surprise. I was squatting, and side-sitting, and sitting cross-legged, changing my position every once in a while. She shouldn't really be surprised by me and my movement habits at this point, I figured. My daughter's team lost, but they played well. And she opened the third game with four amazing serves in a row (I'm a proud mama). I'm glad that I was there, and I'm grateful that I was able to get there by taking a walk.