I'M ASHAMED of YOU MOM

My son can no longer hurl fat jokes at me. Amy and I have gotten serious about our exercising. We're going two nights a week now to work out.
My son can't come in the kitchen anymore and call it the sweatshop. Now when I run through the house, he can't shout, "Hey Mom, that tremor just measured 7.2 on the Richter scale!
Someday soon we are going to burn our stretch pants with the elastic waistbands.
We'll be able to have a full-length mirror in the bathroom again. I should be able to see my thighs by summer.
It's pretty embarrassing when a seven-year-old can keep up with a ---well, her mother.
Amy doesn't miss a beat! That kid still has energy when we get home at night. The other night I was just trying to breathe. I looked over at Amy. She was moving her arms and keeping up with the instructor. In fact, she didn't look any different than she would have if she had been sitting on the couch beside me at home.
Amy could probably conduct an exercise class, but the only people who could keep up with her would be other first graders.
One night, just to throw her off the track, I slid over beside her in line. "Hey Amy, you wanna go to for some ice cream when we finish this work out?"
She put her hand on her hip and pointed with her finger. "Get back in line, Mom, you have to finish this work out." Then in a thoroughly disgusted little voice, she continued, "ice cream! I'm ashamed of you, Mom!"