For my family, a walk in the park is not exactly a walk in the park. It includes prayers to God, torrential rains, veiled threats of child abandonment and, most recently, an old-fashioned blood letting.

It was Monday night, the first outing of our summer-long, family-fitness blitz. Yes, it was my idea. All our family's "bright ideas" seem to come from me.

It was supposed to be a nice walk/jog through the neighborhood. Six-year-old Sammy wasn't convinced.

He sprawled spread-eagle on the sidewalk and proclaimed, for all the neighbors to hear, that he was too tired to tie his shoes. Then he added: "Oh. I know what this is. You're trying to get rid of me. You want to replace me!"

Oh, the joys of a mother's bright ideas.

We started with a nice, easy jog. Easy in the sense that if my husband or I ever got two steps in front of Sammy, he cried that we were running away and trying to leave him. (After six blocks of this, I may or may not have considered it. But only briefly, mind you.)

I tried to brighten Sammy the Sourpuss during our frequent walk breaks. "Isn't this fun? Doesn't the breeze feel good? Exercise will make you stronger, healthier and smarter. Did you know that?"

"Yeah. I know," Sammy would answer. "You want to kill me."

OK. Time to run again. Nothing like a little physical exhaustion to beat the sass out of him. But he never got too tired to whine, it turned out. He was hot. He was so so thirsty. Where, oh where, were the water fountains, he asked.

"Look," his dad said, trying to lighten the doom. "A sprinkler. Get a drink out of that."

And Sammy did. Like 10 times. He ran from sprinkler to sprinkler for the next four blocks, sticking his face to the grass and slurping up a few high-velocity drops. His shirt and head ended up getting more drops than his mouth, but what the heck? We were making good time.

Until he fell. And scraped his knee.

"Mom! Am I going to die?" he wailed.

"No Sammy. It's just a scrape. It's not even bleeding."

"But I even see a lot of red stuff! Ohhhhhh!"

Finally, the park! The only thing that could make a 6-year-old's mother's death march worth the effort.

He saw all the metal bars, chains and poles as obstacles for his quest to become the ultimate Ninja Warrior. (That's for another column altogether.) I saw them, and the menacing clouds forming overhead, as an electrocution risk.

So after a few minutes, and a few lightning strikes, I announced it was time to go.

"But the lightning only stays in the sky. It only comes down if you live in Nevada," Sammy protested. Nevada? I began to ask, but there was no time. A large crack of thunder shook the skies overhead. Sammy started running home.

He clasped his hands together under his chest: "Oh God," he prayed. "Can you just stop doing that thunder and lightning? OK, God? Please. OK? OK."

And all at once, we again were making killer time. We'd be home in no time - healthier, fitter and bonded as a family unit.

And then the rains came. And came. A man, stuck in his truck, actually laughed at us as we ran passed.

"Oh God, why did you make it worser?" Sammy prayed and ran, prayed and ran.

Finally, there it was: Our house. It never looked so good. Soaking wet, we piled into the door and peeled off our shoes and socks. Sammy ended our first run in the family-fitness blitz with one more prayer: "Oh God. Even after all that work, we're home now. I should have wished you to float us back home in the first place. Or poofed us. You know, like poof! OK, God? OK. Bye."

Reach features editor Kristy Gray at (307) 266-0586 or kristy.gray@trib.com