A month ago I made a decision. “Enough” I thought; “It’s time.” In the past three years I have undergone two pregnancies, two births, cared for two babies and experienced a bonkers amount of nocturnal activity (NOT the fun kind). “It’s time”, I thought; “Time to get ME back to ME.” Genetics have been fairly kind to me in terms of weight gain during pregnancy, and so far my bottomless pit of a breastfeeding baby has worked hard to minimise the impact of my nightly tub of ice-cream. But although the outwards appearance may be different by a mere dress size, that’s not really the point. I feel different; things have shifted, bulged, sagged and the huge box of just-too-tight pre-pregnancy everything leers at me from the back of my wardrobe every time I open the door to select another oversized button-down shirt. Despite developing unseemly arm muscles from holding the toddler steady on the toilet to do the world’s longest poo whilst trying not to wake up the baby who is strapped to my chest, I don’t feel fit. My body is weak, my stamina is gone. “It’s time.” I thought. And I went for a run.
Now, the build up to My Run (capitals fully intended) was intense. I nursed the idea for a few days. Then I casually mentioned it to my husband who was unflatteringly enthusiastic very supportive about my tentative return to exercise. Then the baby partied all night and I lost the will to live for three days. Then I spent a whole evening turning the house upside down in search of my trainers. Then I booked in Run Night with the hubbie (i.e. please be home on time to take on full parenting responsibility for the duration of The Run, and for at least an hour after I return so that I can recover). I even pumped a bottle of milk for the little one (cos, y’know, he goes at least three hours between feeds now, but you never know how far these weedy legs might take me).
I found my running gear at the very bottom of the Feel-Bad-Box, languishing alongside my decent underwear, heels and bikini. The leggings went on alright, although I had to spend a few minutes trying to figure out whether the waist band would be more comfortable over or under the muffin top. The sports bra was a different story, mainly because its two contents were somewhat, um, lopsided at that point on the feeding schedule. A lot of jiggling and manhandling eventually secured them into their bulging container with not a whisker of space to spare, and a frightening amount of over-spilling cleavage. Breast pads were the next problem. While I was attempting to wedge these in, my husband walked past the bedroom door, did a double take, quickly disguised his horrified expression and then offered me his large cycling t-shirt to wear instead of my skin-tight fitted running top. Cos, it’s all, like, breathable and stuff, babe. Rapidly running out of motivation, I scraped my fringe back behind an ancient headband that makes me look like a startled convict, turned on my Nike App (which instantly made me feel like a Pro Runner) and bounced out of the door.
The run itself went OK. I had to check my App seven times to make sure that the distance-tracker was working (it was, I just hadn’t reached a mentionable distance the first six times I checked). I had decided on a short circuit around the town, just a few miles to break me in easily. I slogged and I slogged, but I managed to make it round the whole circuit. As I triumphantly limped down my road on the homeward stretch, the App tracker announced that I had just surmounted Half A Mile, instantly vanquishing my sweaty daydream of smugly cracking out a quick half-marathon before breakfast tomorrow. I got home, dragged myself onto the sofa, and hyperventilated quietly for a few minutes before being able to slowly sip the sweet nectar of a chilled bottle of water. I think my toddler was actually a bit scared of the dripping scarlet mess that flung herself into the room, and then alternated between groaning, panting and softly swearing for 45 minutes. She did finally recognise me after I took the headband off.
So that was that. My return to exercise, one month ago. I managed another, almost identical run that week, and then the four month sleep regression hit us hard, and I haven’t run since. And I have felt terrible about it, truly experiencing that awful pressure on mums to bounce back to their pre-pregnancy selves as quickly as possible, but somehow amplified because I had managed to make a start which had then faltered. It is a twisted world where celebrities make news for their method of achieving a flat stomach post-baby, with no consideration for the physical and mental strain that this puts on the mother, and ultimately, the baby. Because, if a new mum is all strung out about losing those few extra pounds, or squeezing into those jeans, or running that 10km, then she is not really focusing on her true well-being.
Today I made a decision. “Enough” I thought; “It’s time. Time to get ME back to ME.” Time to give myself a break. To accept that self-care might on some days involve struggling into an ill-fitting sports bra, but on other days it will be watching Bake Off without sharing any of my family sized bag of giant chocolate buttons. To know that my body is wonderful, powerful, fruitful; so what if it isn’t as strong as it once was – those days will come again, there is no rush. Sure, there might be a bit more of me to love these days, but if anyone has a problem with that, they are not worthy of my time, or love. To slow down, live in the moment, and feel proud instead of guilty of an un-busy day. To take the pressure off by turning a common commandment on its head and affording myself the same expectations, patience and forgiveness that I try to afford others. To invest in some sports gear that actually fits. For when I am really ready to go running again. And ONLY then.
Life Of The Bear's Wife 