Soccer Boys and Moms

"Why do you work out?"
"To strengthen my core."
"Why are you doing it with me?"
"Because you are good."
"Are you committed?"
"Yes."
I can only reply in short bursts because I haven't much oxygen in my lungs. And my 14-yr-old is glowering at me from up above while I lie spent on the ground, taking a rest break.
I raise myself and turn over like a very floppy pancake, trying to align all the parts which he said should be in a straight line. He positions himself next to me and begins counting.
"I will work with you so you will be motivated," he says, and does eight push-ups without watching me, before he notices. And roars.
"Do you know what you have been doing? Raising and lowering your head and butt! No wonder you are fat, woman. Now bring just your nose to my palm while you flex your elbows."
Here I must protest. "I'm 106 pounds!"
"But you're my mom and I want you toned," he proclaims.
I pretend to get my nose somewhere near his palm but the palm seems to get further and further away. By the count of three, Maria Sharapova would be proud of me, but my boy is not moved despite the tears that accompany my soul-filled whimpers.
"You have to make 20 counts. I'm having you do five push-ups with two-minute rest breaks. Do you know that we guys have to do 40, and if one of us makes a mistake, Coach has us all run round the track and start over."
"I've never done push-ups before," I protest. "By tomorrow, perhaps? Let me learn how to balance on my elbows today."
My son begins a monologue that makes me wonder if he has self-help essays pre-written in his brain. If only I could remember what he said, but my head had stopped working and I couldn't feel any organs.
But hey, I did rise to his exhortations and touch his palm to my nose without cheating, in counts of three till I got to 20. Three was my mortal limit.
There were the Ranger jumps I passed fairly and some well-mangled acrobatics, done balancing on my side. All of them involved very little air, many sermons, and my despair.
At last, I bring out a trump card I did not know I had. "I haven't had breakfast."
Hand to his forehead, he shoos me out and away with more rants on how people should have early breakfasts or they'd have saggy arms.
And then, the revelation: "Oh yeah. I wouldn't be caught dead doing this, but papa's paying me for a month to train you, and a bonus if I'm 100% successful."
Cue 50 deep breaths to prevent manslaughter.