Slogging
Was it really less than a year ago that I ran 26.2 miles? I got the thumbs up from my O.B. to resume life as usual, or at least life as usual as it can be with this new alien parasite attached to my breast for 90% of her waking hours (the other 10 % of course spent screaming, pooping, and spitting up, frequently all at the same time) and asleep on my lap or chest for 100% of her sleeping hours (I type this with a child draped over my arm, fast asleep in her now-loose sling, so I'm propping her with the same arm I'm type with). After giving birth to Doodles, I waited a good four months (okay, six months! Leave me alone!) to get back to any form of exercising. This time, though, I wanted to get back into gear a little faster, so I've gone back to running.
I'm sorry, did I say running? That's not exactly the correct word. Slogging could be appropriate. Trudging, perhaps. Plodding works, too. Because what I've been doing in no way resembles running. Oy, has it been pathetic. But in all fairness, running is a completely different ball game now. And I halfway mean that literally because while there's no ball, it is a game.
Pre-Sweetie Pie, a run meant I kissed Doodles and Adam on their cheeks, strapped on my Garmin and my MP3 player, and I headed out the door. Now it means I coerce my son into thinking he wants nothing more than to go for a stroller ride while Mommy runs, load this 28-pound child into a jogging stroller, and head out for the hilly streets of my town while keeping up a constant patter. Because I've found when you say, "Hey, Doodles, want to go for a run with Mommy?" the answer is inevitably "No!" But if you ask, "Hey Doodles, want to go for a run with Mommy and look for pumpkins," I get a "Yeah!" What I'll do post-holidays is a worry, but one I won't think about until January, not that I think he's going to want to go out in winter time with me. Between not running for seven months, the hills, and my constant monologue, I was dead after less than two miles.
I could leave Doodles at home. Sure. Let poor Adam in his few hours home deal with a whirling dervish running circles around every piece of furniture in the house while also taming the screaming breast monger. Doesn't seem fair to the poor man that he must deal 40 hours a week with the corporate animals only to come home and have every waking moment dealing with our monkeys. So twice this past week, Doodles and I set out, with me chattering the entire way. "Did you see that pumpkin? Oh, look, there's a pumpkin in the window! How many pumpkins do you see?" while my child gives me a steady stream of "More pumpkins! What's that? Another witch? Scarecrow! More scarecrows?" I'd see other runners and just wish that I had a sign across my back that read, "Give me a break! I have a seven-week-old baby!"
My winning time? A whopping 16 1/2 minute mile. Whoo hoo! Call Paula Radcliffe, I'm ready to take her on! The best part about this? I have to choose: morning jog or shower. Yes, that's right folks. That funk you smell is me. Actually, given my slow pace, the mild weather, and the frequent rain, it's really not that bad. Just take a step back. I'll shower tonight, promise!
On Saturday, my in-laws came over to play with Doodles, so I took my opportunity to hand Sweetie Pie off to Adam and take off. It was pouring out, but I barely noticed. I strapped on my ipod, cranked the volume, and started to feel like my old self again. My time was still miserable--12 1/2 minute miles for a three-mile run--but it was enough to make me long for more solo runs. Solo running lets me lose myself. I work out problems I'm having in my writing, I reminisce when songs bring me back to different times, I fantasize about my next marathon (NYC 2006! Tavern on the Green or bust!).
My goal for the foreseeable future is two runs during the week with Doodles and one solo run on the weekends. When Sweetie Pie hits six months (or one year, depending on who you ask), she'll be old enough to go in the jogging stroller so perhaps I'll up my runs in the spring. I'll of course have to up them next summer if I get a lottery spot in the marathon.
So all you Boston folks, when you see a poor woman barely shuffling, hunched behind a chattering kid in a jogging stroller, take pity on her. Toss her a Gatorade. Let her have the right of way. She's doing the best she can.
I'm sorry, did I say running? That's not exactly the correct word. Slogging could be appropriate. Trudging, perhaps. Plodding works, too. Because what I've been doing in no way resembles running. Oy, has it been pathetic. But in all fairness, running is a completely different ball game now. And I halfway mean that literally because while there's no ball, it is a game.
Pre-Sweetie Pie, a run meant I kissed Doodles and Adam on their cheeks, strapped on my Garmin and my MP3 player, and I headed out the door. Now it means I coerce my son into thinking he wants nothing more than to go for a stroller ride while Mommy runs, load this 28-pound child into a jogging stroller, and head out for the hilly streets of my town while keeping up a constant patter. Because I've found when you say, "Hey, Doodles, want to go for a run with Mommy?" the answer is inevitably "No!" But if you ask, "Hey Doodles, want to go for a run with Mommy and look for pumpkins," I get a "Yeah!" What I'll do post-holidays is a worry, but one I won't think about until January, not that I think he's going to want to go out in winter time with me. Between not running for seven months, the hills, and my constant monologue, I was dead after less than two miles.
I could leave Doodles at home. Sure. Let poor Adam in his few hours home deal with a whirling dervish running circles around every piece of furniture in the house while also taming the screaming breast monger. Doesn't seem fair to the poor man that he must deal 40 hours a week with the corporate animals only to come home and have every waking moment dealing with our monkeys. So twice this past week, Doodles and I set out, with me chattering the entire way. "Did you see that pumpkin? Oh, look, there's a pumpkin in the window! How many pumpkins do you see?" while my child gives me a steady stream of "More pumpkins! What's that? Another witch? Scarecrow! More scarecrows?" I'd see other runners and just wish that I had a sign across my back that read, "Give me a break! I have a seven-week-old baby!"
My winning time? A whopping 16 1/2 minute mile. Whoo hoo! Call Paula Radcliffe, I'm ready to take her on! The best part about this? I have to choose: morning jog or shower. Yes, that's right folks. That funk you smell is me. Actually, given my slow pace, the mild weather, and the frequent rain, it's really not that bad. Just take a step back. I'll shower tonight, promise!
On Saturday, my in-laws came over to play with Doodles, so I took my opportunity to hand Sweetie Pie off to Adam and take off. It was pouring out, but I barely noticed. I strapped on my ipod, cranked the volume, and started to feel like my old self again. My time was still miserable--12 1/2 minute miles for a three-mile run--but it was enough to make me long for more solo runs. Solo running lets me lose myself. I work out problems I'm having in my writing, I reminisce when songs bring me back to different times, I fantasize about my next marathon (NYC 2006! Tavern on the Green or bust!).
My goal for the foreseeable future is two runs during the week with Doodles and one solo run on the weekends. When Sweetie Pie hits six months (or one year, depending on who you ask), she'll be old enough to go in the jogging stroller so perhaps I'll up my runs in the spring. I'll of course have to up them next summer if I get a lottery spot in the marathon.
So all you Boston folks, when you see a poor woman barely shuffling, hunched behind a chattering kid in a jogging stroller, take pity on her. Toss her a Gatorade. Let her have the right of way. She's doing the best she can.
1 Comments:
I so envy you and your energy! It's only taken me two years to get back onto a treadmill, I'd say you are doing WONDERFULLY!
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