The other night, for the first time since being a parent, I could not catch any of my three children in a friendly game of tag.

Stupid Crocs.

It had to have been my shoes. Although they were feeling, as Crocs do, perfectly spongy, airy and supportive in every way. Still, it had to be the shoes.

So I smartened up the next day and put on an old pair of running shoes while we chose, through a series of ill-timed sing-a-long chants, who would be “it” somehow landing on me each and every time and we began our races across the yard, while I continued to hum, “black shoe, black shoe, change your black shoe” (odd given all of our shoes were made up of bright colours.)

Is it because I’m wearing these things without socks? How is it that my four year old continues to beat me?

I was, am a fast runner! I can outrun little children!

Nope.

Also my knee starts to spasm when I take those corners too fast. Corners in Crocs? Forget it.

Oh and Chloe (my four year old) has this amazing, magician’s-assistant move where she runs in a straight line and then pops her neck to the right and instantly changes direction. She should probably have her own show in Vegas or at the very least headline for someone incredibly famous. Nonetheless, I can’t catch her.

She’s four years old.

Rotten Crocs. Sockless runners.

Then Hanna (my 10 year old) asked me to go for a light jog with her and I was wearing all the right things.

“Hey wait up! You call that a light jog?”

Is it my shorts?

This is getting out of control.