The Wee Wanderer
So, you guys. I started a post about becoming a semi-serious runner again after having a child. Inane, I know, but wait. I was about halfway through writing when my mind began to go in a different, much more interesting direction:
Who is “The Wee Wanderer,” anyway? And then I wrote the following enormous aside:
When I created this blog, my son was the Wandering Wee One. Like most new mothers, I was fixated on him, where he’d go, what he’d do, who he’d be. He was an enigma: what he was thinking, doing, caring about, were magical mysteries to me. For a long time, I stopped thinking about myself as much as I thought about Levi. I didn’t have anything against me; I simply projected all of my physical and mental energy elsewhere. It wasn’t that there was “nothing left over” or whatever. Even with the constant nagging from friends and media about the importance of post-partem “self-care,” I just didn’t. A plate of nachos and a front seat at the Levi Show was what I considered a good time.
In a sense, I blasted off from myself immediately upon giving birth to Levi, and I have been spending the past 4 years wandering back through the stratosphere. How often do you get the chance to try a new version of yourself? And what do you think you’d choose if you got to start over? I’m not trying to land exactly where I took off from. I’ve spent too much time in this blog vilifying “Old Sarah” as the central antagonist, prancing around in Lululemon regalia, headed to yet another hot yoga class, without a care in the world. I see her waiting for me in Warrior One. That bitch.
Maybe on some level we’re all redefining ourselves as we stumble out of the COVID haze. Who are we? Who do we want to be? Could the answers possibly be the same? I watch as my school district scrambles to rebuild an exact replica of education as it existed in the Before Times, to get “back to normal.” Bells. Homework. Tardies. Is this what we want? Or do we want to be something radically different? Did we break from the norm for 18 months only to become a tireder version of what we were before?
You guys, I think it’s me. “The Wee Wanderer.” This blog post was supposed to be about becoming a runner again. As I was writing it, I kept thinking, “Why the hell am I writing this?” I mean, why would anybody care? But I kept writing, as if there was some meaning to it. And then I realized that this post is actually not about becoming a runner again. It’s about not becoming a runner. Or, at least, not the runner that I used to be. Did I break from the norm for 4 years only to attempt a tireder version of who I was before? Do I really want to be a racer again? Do I want to be a person who fights traffic to make it to yoga class 5 times a week? I’m fighting muscle memory here.
The day I went into labor – the death bed of Old Sarah – I was having lunch with a friend, who asked me if I was scared of the pain. I told her about a particularly grueling half marathon I had run the previous year: it was cold and raining, and my feet were soaked after a creek crossing at Mile 1. After the race, I couldn’t move my fingers. I had to prevail upon a stranger to fish my keys out of my pocket and start my car for me so I could sit there until my hands thawed and I could drive home. I told my friend I wasn’t scared because I was able to do that. I couldn’t imagine anything being harder. Readers who have been through labor know how little I knew then.
As I come down from the stratosphere, looking for a place to land, I have this to say to my former self: May you rest in peace.
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Here is the original blog post about running in the After Times:
In the days of yore (a mere 5 years ago), my idea of a good time was hitting the trail for a hard run. The year before I gave birth to my son, I was at the top of my game: Running every day and racing on the weekends, a serious runner was who I was. My best friends were my running buddies. Bonds were forged on thousand-foot elevation gains, and we reminisced like war veterans after particularly grueling routes. And the unabashed carb loading! (It’s not a metaphor! There’s not a better word to describe the intake of food before and after a big run.) Breakfast burritos! Pizza! Spaghetti and meatballs! Those were the days, you guys!
I raced through the first trimester of my pregnancy, and then stopped at 20 weeks. (My midwife was right. It started to feel “icky.”) I ran again for the first time when Levi was 6 weeks old. It felt like an accomplishment, and I took lots of selfies. But, for a variety of reasons, running didn’t go beyond a once-a-week activity. First, I was so tired. All the time! It took me a full week to recover from each run. Second, there is no sports bra on earth that can make running un-painful for the breast-feeding mother. Third, there were so many other compelling things that were suddenly tearing at my attention. Running hardly ever made it through my filter, and I honestly sort of forgot about it.
From a weight-loss standpoint, there was absolutely no reason to exercise for the first two years of my son’s life. From milk production to baby hauling to endless walks with my new mom friends, my body was working overtime by just living. But, when Levi was about 24 months, I starting noticing a difference. My previously innocuous Cheddar Bunny habit began to surpass my metabolism. Loyal readers (Hi, Mom!) know that I’ve written at length about the notorious pants-busting spree that commenced in the Spring of ’19, and has not officially come to a close (no pun intended). A year and a half ago, I wrote a genuine blog post about not caring. I think caring would have meant one too many priorities in a life already filled to the brim. But, this past January, space somehow opened up (in my life, not my waistline), and I started to miss running again. That, and we spent a couple days in a cabin that had a full-length mirror in the living room. (Seriously, why?!?) This experience was a blessing and a curse, which triggered a resolution to get back in the game.
The “game” has, of course, changed since having a child. I’m not dusting off my running watch or tracking my miles. My motto since January has been to take every opportunity, no matter how small, to enjoy some physical stamina. Key word: “Enjoy.” I’m a 40-something high school English teacher with a 4-year-old son. Any one of these identifying features would be enough to send the average person over the brink from time to time. At the moment, adding an exercise “routine” (a word I use loosely at best) is something I want to do, and the moment it becomes a burden, I promise myself I will let it go.
I know parents who exercise every day with or without their kids. More power to you if you are one of them, and stop reading now unless you want to feel good about yourself (which is a perfectly valid reason to read any of the content in this blog, by the way).
Some things I’ve tried to get back in the game? I Run solo once a week. My nanny stays a few extra hours on Tuesdays so I can hit the trail on the way home from work. There are a million other things I could do with this time, so commitment is key here. I also do a stroller run once a week. My favorite thing about running with Levi is the accolades. You are automatically hard core when you are pushing a 40-pound child up hills in a 10-pound stroller. People have literally run out of their houses to cheer me on. (Also, I secretly love pissing off solo runners as I pass them with all of my cargo, leaving Ritz Cracker crumbs in my wake, and whispering, “Lame!”) Finally, I have fully embraced the concept of 10-minute abs. I know. Go ahead and whisper, “Lame!” But 10 minutes is better than nothing, people.
Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be back to competitive running. The comeback kid in the 50-60 age bracket. Maybe. By the way, did anyone actually make it to the end of this blog post? If so, you have stamina, and should consider long-distance running. Maybe.