We do a lot of this lately.
He runs, I chase. Him laughing all the way to mortal peril, or at the very least bodily harm.
You wouldn't think that keeping up with a chubby cheeked, slightly sticky toddler would be that hard, I mean he's a fat little midget for pity's sake. I should be able to handle that. Except he's a fat little midget with lightning speed and evasion tactics worthy of a Bond film. You turn your attention away for a second before strapping him into his seat and he'll slither out of your grasp and make a bee line for the middle of the parking lot to do a chicken dance of death with oncoming traffic and shopping carts gone rouge. You streak after him only narrowly avoiding a confrontation with the cart rack yourself, just in time to scoop the boy up unharmed (and finding this all hilarious by the way) but not without winning the disapproving gaze of the old lady in a Buick staring you down with her judgmental cataracts and support hosed snobbery.
Ah the perils of toddler independence.
I'd be a lot more annoyed with this type of behavior if there wasn't something overwhelmingly fantastic about it. Watching him run away from me as fast as his chubby legs can move evokes this feeling of pride and accomplishment (aside from the panic) because holy freaking moly I MADE THOSE CHUBBY LEGS, and look at all of that perfection working in harmony together!
In my church, we are taught much about our purpose in this life and if ever I have felt closer to fulfilling the divine measure of my creation, it would be thanks to that crazy little boy.
He is a masterpiece if I do say so myself.
Now if only I can keep him away from traffic...
p.s. it is my birthday in 6 days, just so you know