One night recently it was unusually cool outside. It really felt more like spring than summertime. As I walked outside to put all of our bikes and miscellaneous toys back in the garage, I decided it was the perfect night for a walk. There was practically zero humidity and a light breeze was blowing.

Hey, mind if I g-o for a w-a-l-k?” I asked my husband, Zeb. I was careful to spell out my intentions lest one of my children realize what I was doing and ask to go with me. Not that I don’t enjoy an occasional walk around the neighborhood with my kids.  But it is darn near impossible to get your heart rate up if you have one or more toddlers with you whom insist on “walking” but refuse to take more than one step every 30 seconds because every rock, blade of grass and insect they pass are so terribly interesting.

My husband gave me the go ahead and I quickly heated up a bottle for the baby, and snuck out the door while my husband was entertaining the big girls.

I carried my running shoes outside with me because I knew if they saw me wearing running shoes they would sniff out my plan and demand to go with me. Putting my shoes on outside would have been a great plan, had I realized before I snuck out the door that someone (read Emma) had peed in my right shoe. But I could not to be dissuaded. I decided in a split-second that a squishy shoe was a fair price to pay for exercise and alone time in perfect weather.

As I walked back down my street after making my rounds around the neighborhood, I saw a couple of my neighbors visiting in the driveway next door to my house.

“Heard any blood-curdling screams coming from my house?” I jokingly asked.

We all laughed, but mine was a nervous laughter as it was getting close to bedtime and the big girls had not had naps on this particular day. As soon as my squishy feet hit my own driveway I heard the screams — screams of toddlers being wrangled by the bedtime bandit.

I walked into the house and was immediately rushed by Aubrey and Emma, my 3-year- old and 4-year-old daughters.

“Mommy! Mommy! We missed you! We didn’t know where you were!”

For all of 30 minutes. Oh, the trauma I have caused them. Oh, the therapy they’ll need as they get older.

“Where were you, mommy?” Emma, my 3-year old asked.

“I went to exercise, Honey. I just took a quick walk.”

“But I wanted to go wif you!” She whined.

Yes, I know. This is why I snuck out of the house like I did when I was 16 right out the front door. (I mean, oops…just kidding, I uh, yeah…I never really did that.)

Zeb looked as though he was going to fall asleep standing upright, so I rallied my troops and marched them to the bedroom. They calmed down quickly as I read Good Night Moon, but still had a few fake sobs left in them as I tucked them in and turned out the lights.

“Mommy, I was so scared,” my 4-year-old, Aubrey pretended to cry. “I thought you were in jail…”

A girl can only dream.