Busted!

A resolution post:

Last April, I literally busted out of 2 pairs of pants. I was – both times – in the process of the seemingly innocuous act of sitting down. (Side Note: The first time was my birthday, thank you very much, but I was with friends and had already consumed a couple of beers, so I laughed it off. The second time, however, I was in the middle of teaching 3rd period. Next to audibly farting, ripping your pants in front of your students is the absolute worst thing that could befall a high-school teacher. I somehow managed to teach from my chair the rest of the period, and I don’t think anyone even noticed. The remainder of the class and the walk of shame to my car is now simply a horrifying blur.) In my butt’s defense, both pairs of pants were old and worn. But, after the second bust, I could not ignore the obvious: 2 years without a strenuous workout was taking its toll. That was 9 months ago, and nothing has changed. The question is: Do I care? 

Some background information: Before Baby, I was a very physically active person. I ran or did yoga (the non-spiritual workout kind) almost every day. Travis and I went hiking or biking or cross-country skiing every weekend. I love being outside, and for me, getting out almost always involved working out. I used to take a week-long backpacking trip every summer with a girlfriend, and our itineraries would typically call for fifteen-to-twenty-mile days. On one trip to Olympic National Park, we ran into a fellow hiker at mile 19; when he found out how far we’d travelled that day, he was not impressed. “You can’t appreciate,” he kept muttering. He explained that he had only hiked 6 miles that day, but had plenty of time to consider the majesty of the trees, watch for wildlife, and stop for several cups of tea along the way. “You’ve got to appreciate.” Cue eye rolls. 

Running to Mason Lake at 4 weeks pregnant

Back to my ripped jeans: These days, maintaining a rigorous workout routine has joined the ranks of Things That Are No Longer Feasible. Along with joining friends for Happy Hour, being on time, and enjoying a bit of silence, getting my heartrate up with any degree of regularity has become a pipe dream. And for the first two years of Levi’s life, I didn’t miss exercise at all because I was burning calories in other ways. First, hiking with a baby is even more of a workout than hiking without a baby because you carry extra weight. Second, merely existing as a breastfeeding human was a workout in itself. My body was putting pedal to the metal all day every day, I was ravenous all the time, and generally exhausted. Working out was not on my mind at all. 

Hiking to Annett Lake with 3-month-old Levi (aka “Extra Weight” Menaul)

But, the times they are a-changin’. 

First, my no-longer-nursing-around-the-clock body has officially thrown a white flag and entered rest mode, perhaps for the rest of its life. 

Second, at two and a half, Levi is an extraordinary little hiker, and he wants nothing to do with the backpack carrier. I have plenty of time to “appreciate it” these days. A typical family hike is always in the single digits. The low single digits. It is not uncommon for us to drive 60 miles to hike 1. While there is no end to the pride I feel watching Levi in toddler beast mode tearing up the trail, hiking with him does not activate my own adult-sized endorphins. 

A short hike on the North Fork of the Quinault River, the day after Thanksgiving

Third and finally, I just don’t wanna. When I do get the chance to work out, I have to literally talk myself into it. My internal dialogue is eerily similar to the back-and-forth I engage in with Levi when I want him to do something he doesn’t want to do: “Let’s get ready to -- ” “Nope.” “Come on, it’ll be --” “Nope.” “But--” “Nope.” Because the thing is, life with a child is absolutely exhausting, even if you never leave the living room. If you’ve ever played cars with a two-year-old for more than 5 minutes, you know exactly what I mean. It’s a struggle to stay awake, let alone spring up and do something chipper, when going to bed at 7pm is also on the table. Pass me some Goldfish, and let’s watch Llama Llama. In bed. Again. 

I have more luck talking myself into exercising when I make it a mother-child activity (because the alternative could be playing cars). But there are, of course, strings attached, so nothing is easy or straightforward anymore. For a brief interval this summer, for instance, Levi expected that all of our hikes involve a waterfall. He actually asked to see a picture of the waterfall in the hiking guide before we got in the car. As for running, he will accompany me only under the following conditions: that I “go fast”; that there is a point of interest along the way; and that he can have a large cup of Cheddar Bunnies for the road. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that he will continue to be amenable to skiing and biking with us, but Levi now has his own skiis and a bike. I fear this might mean the end of the Mom & Dad show in 2020. 

With all this grumbling, I have to ask myself why working out matters to me anymore. Of the myriad things I have written off (sleeping in, listening to grownup music, hot sauce. . . the list goes on), why maintain an attachment to exercise? The other day, I brought Levi and his balance bike to a local park. He’s pretty fast, so I ended up trotting alongside him for about 2 miles, getting my heart rate up for the first time that week. The trail – Lincoln Park in West Seattle – skirts the Puget Sound, and in addition to splashing through puddles and crunching through every pile of leaves he could find, Levi wanted to ride on the beach this time. It was a beautiful night, and we were out until the sun set. At one point, as I was basking in the glow of the setting sun, and watching Levi try to do “Wheewies” in the sand, an actual runner whizzed by us. And the genuine thought crossed my mind: “That guy doesn't appreciate!” 

I guess it’s time for some new jeans. Happy New Year, everyone!

Appreciating it!