Gestated Cinco ceased gestating almost seven weeks ago. So that means it’s time to get serious about the whole exercise thing again. I exercised fairly religiously up until eight months, but my body was more than happy to say good bye to the muscles I had maintained and flabby is a state of being once again. So, workouts here we come.

There are perils involved in exercising, add children to the mix, and surviving becomes a feat in itself. After my first girls, I stuck primarily with Pilates. Because I was in my early twenties and bouncing back was actually a reality. I have left that place in life. The girls were considerate enough to nap during my exercise time. And if they did have to join me, it was a true partnership. Baba especially likes to lie next to me and partake in the various stretches. She also gave me all sorts of encouragement, telling me how good I was doing. Now it might sound silly that I appreciated my three year old’s exercise critiques but I did.

Enter Mac. Maybe it was because he was a boy. Maybe it was because I was in my late twenties. But bounce back was left in the past. And weight gain was especially gargantuan.  So I had to exercise.  And do so with a passion. Which I didn’t. Mostly because with three, one starting school and working from home, nap time was work time or collapse time. I exercised, but it was haphazard. This is actually an appropriate description of life at that time.

Then X-Man’s existence became known. I broke the news to the father figure by telling him that he had better get the treadmill into the house because I wasn’t about to become the Godzilla of incubators. I tend to cut to the chase when it’s important. No cutesy pregnancy test gimmicks for me.

Up unto that point, exercise consisted of me doing some work out while Mac assisted. Lay on your back on the floor? Why sure, and add a two year old to your stomach. Standing on one leg? Let’s use the other one as a chin up bar. Downward dog? You mean, super awesome tunnel don’t you? Child’s pose? Or mountain on which to reenact the iconic Rocky scene.

So I had to crank up my efforts while dodging Mac’s. And that was easier said than typed. And considering that I had to stop typing three times to retrieve Gestated Cinco’s binky, that’s saying something. I could get up at six am; Mac would get up at 6:05. I would wait until bedtime at night; Mac would be unable to sleep. And really, really need to be with me. I had begun to walk 2.5 miles a night on the treadmill and Mac thought that his dinosaurs should walk with me. And cars, there should be cars. He also thought that my resistance band should be used as a slingshot or Baby would harness him and run or all three of them would play red rover with it, hurling each other across the living room. My weights were instruments by which to see who could crush a sibling’s foot the worst.  It ended up not so much the exercising that helped me through X-Man’s pregnancy but rather the chasing a commandeering my own equipment from his siblings that kept the pounds at bay.

After X-Man was born and those baby pounds did slip off easily, I committed myself to exercise bigger and better. I invested heavily in Jillian Michaels DVDs and set about to be awesome. My resolve was shaken when Mac wandered in and observed for a few minutes. He then wandered off, commenting “You’re losing mom.”  I also learned the hard way that if you are developing mastitis, doing “30 day Shred” will spread the infection like wildfire. FYI.

The father figure was helpful himself. He would pass through, listen to me talk all sailor-like to Jillian and the offer “Oh, that’s not that hard.” I demurely panted pack “It’s not hard if you’re sitting on the couch dude.” 

It’s all about teaching my kids about healthy body image. Or it’s ok to be a grown person who cries.