Postpartum Fitness Illusion

Throughout my pregnancy I was motivated to stay fit. I managed to work out at least four or five days a week, willingly, lovingly, happily. I assumed then that I would want to dive back into my workouts as soon as I felt ready after birth. When I say "dive" I mean crank it up on or around that six-week postpartum date, from the walks and the Sahrmann exercises to more cardio and reintroducing weights.

And so last weekend I did dive back in. When I walked into the gym I felt like a kid in the candy store. I hopped on the stair step machine for 10 minutes, then the rowing machine because I didn't have a stomach to stop me. Next I returned to my Barbell Strength class. I didn't try to show off. I used low weights and took breaks often. But it felt good to do what I could do. And then, blessedly, the next day I was even a little sore. Not too much, just the good sore, that tells you you challenged yourself. I started planning my fitness future: one day a week at home with some sort of weight routine and one weekend day at the gym. Plus, I wanted to add yoga back in and extend my walks. Not too crazy, just moderate progress.

By Wednesday (without having done any of my aforementioned fitness plan) I was on antibiotics and suffering dearly with mastitis. 

I knew this was the Universe telling me: "Not!"

Even though I was trying to ease my way back into fitness and take my postpartum recovery seriously, my life, like any mother's, is a brutal workout all its own. No matter how many baths I took at the end of the day (and I took a bath almost daily for a month) life's daily tasks still pack a punch that a good soak can't always relieve.

During these last few weeks I've tried to channel my friend Nina. Nina returns to her family in India after the birth of each child (she's currently there after having her third) to stay for a month or more. She takes a leave from her job as a physician, packs up her other children and goes home for the traditional Indian customs that pamper new moms. As she explained it to me once, she practically gets sequestered in a room to herself, she gets massages daily (she is from the area in India that created Ayurvedic medicine), and her baby is brought to her to nurse. Family does all the diaper duty, cooking, cleaning and caring for her other children. You might understand why she braves some 30 hours of air travel alone with three kids to get there. I imagine that Nina is pretty blissed out by now and at the end of her stay she'll feel so good she'll be dancing to Jai Ho with her friends and family (Nina is just as gorgeous as Freida Pinto, the beauty in Slumdog Millionaire). 

Last week I was so sick it hurt to move my eyes (and I thought the week couldn't get worse after my last post). I'm feeling myself again thanks to antibiotics, but it makes me rethink my ambition. Part of me wants to reconsider my goals, the other part wants to tell them: "I'm just not that into you." 

The fit, and especially athletes, are generally in a big hurry to get their game back on after birth. I suppose I should be, too, since my blog is about balancing fitness with motherhood. But maybe this IS the balance for me, this not doing very much, or at least what I expected. Strangely, I'm fine with that. Everyone keeps telling me (as if I don't know this already), "They grow so fast!" These first few months, these crazy, sleepless, wacky months I can make myself sick trying to get back in shape or I can hang back and watch my newborn change. 

For now, I'll stick to my mental health walks and my core exercises (which The Boy can ride along for). My new goal? To feel good enough to dance to Jai Ho. 

All Grown Up

Yesterday my day began when I let our dog out and she returned covered in excrement. (I still haven't forgiven her). The day ended with a shower of baby barf. The middle is all a fog, but didn't contain the yoga I hoped for. And so, enveloped in that fog was a lot of fuming about "those women" who can resume a regularly scheduled exercise program (or life!) after having a baby.

And then this morning, a break in the fog: After The Boy was fed my husband took over and I got 20 minutes of yoga followed by 20 minutes of walking. Joy! During the walk I contemplated my many, many options while the girls were at preschool. Coffee shop? Book store? Super Target?

And then I came home.

One of my daughters was up with a temperature and a tummy ache. 

Suddenly I remembered the fine print; something about motherhood not being all about ME. This might surprise you, but I did not throw a fit. I didn't feel the need. And you know why, right? All because of those 20 minutes of yoga and those 20 minutes outdoors. That was enough to give me the presence of mind to deal with my morning. Like a grown up mommy.

That regularly scheduled exercise program is still a ways off for me, even if I am coming up on that magical "six weeks postpartum" place. (I know, can you believe? The Boy will be six weeks old on Thursday!) I am not at the point where I am trying to find time in my day for exercise; I'm trying to find time in my week. But I'll take what I can get when I get it. Like a grown up mommy.

Just a Minute

I have been telling my kids "just a minute" so often that I'm growing tired of hearing myself say it. Everyone wants something now, and my response is "just a minute," because I'm always in the middle of something else. My kids sometimes respond back with, "but it's gonna take a long time!" Because they're wise to the fact that a minute can become five or ten or thirty. So, this week, I'm going to try to stop saying it altogether.

Except to myself. I'm trying to find time for more strength exercises and I've realized I'm not going to get the 30 minutes or hour I'd like. What do I have? Just a minute.

The postpartum strength plan is to get strong at the core of my core before I attempt to run. I've escaped for a few walks in the last two weeks and I've learned that fresh air is my friend and that exercise does make me feel better mentally and physically and, this is important, makes me a better mom (i.e., the tone in which I say "just a minute" is notably nicer). On Sunday's walk, I considered taking off to see what a run would feel like. I reasoned that if walking felt so good then... but no. I won't let myself do it because I don't want to end up riddled with injuries and running in pain six months later. I have to get stronger first.

I am finding a minute here and a minute there for Kegel exercises (which really don't require a minute since you can do these anywhere anytime). We should all be doing Kegel exercises--even you men, I know you're reading this too. And Kegel's aren't just for the postpartum mom. Besides, all mom's are postpartum, no matter how old your kids are. So just for grins, everyone reading this should Kegel until the end of the post. These Kegel's will strengthen the pelvic floor muscles--the core of your core--which most people associate with bladder control. I, for one, prefer to keep my running shorts dry. But this is not the only reason Kegels are important. So many other muscles and ligaments connect from the pelvic floor. Everything surrounding your hips and pelvis, your adductor muscles (inner thighs), those glutes. So if the pelvic floor is weak, that weakness can manifest itself as problems in your hips, back, even knees. I don't want any of that when I start running again. Still kegeling?

The other strength regimen I'm finding a minute for are Sahrmann exercises. I'm up to Sahrmann exercise #3. Completing #5 is hard to do even when in the best of shape.

I never thought I'd promote the 60-second workout, but this isn't a gimmick, it's just all that's available to me. Beleive me, if I had an hour to exercise, I'd gobble it up. I long for the day. Meanwhile, I'll remind myself that "just a minute" is good enough for now.

Oh yeah, and I'm currently treating myself for pink eye.

Spilled Milk

This may have to be the only post this week, and a lame one at that. Two of my four kiddos have pink eye (what do you think odds are that the others will succumb?) This means no preschool, which means no respite. I have so much to say, just no time to say it. So, I'll leave you with my good news for the week: my stomach is now smaller than my boobs. It's negligible, but nonetheless a significant postpartum milestone. Of course, it's temporary, too. I refer to this situation as having "loaner boobs." The big boob experience without the big boob price. Oh, I suppose I pay in other ways. We'll call it milk money.

Now, off to wrestle my girls to the floor so I can apply eye drops. Sounds like that might count as a workout.

Turd by Turd

The woman who wrote that last post has gone missing. That overly optimistic, chipper, look-on-the-bright side blogger isn't here today. Little Miss Sunshine has left the building. Instead of taking on life bird by bird, it seems I'm now taking it on turd by turd. Sleep deprivation will do that. Any kind of bird--even the beautiful brightly colored ones--look like turds when you're working on three weeks of scattered sleep.

And I look as bad as I feel. The other day my three-year-old was gazing into my eyes. I thought she was about to say something profound in the unique way of three-year-olds. Something so loving that I could excuse all the naughty behavior that comes with being a toddler. She was looking deeply into my eyes and I was waiting for it... waiting for that melt-your-heart-moment (something I'd email grandma about later) when instead she said this: "Sponge Bob has blood in his eyes too." I must say it took me a moment to connect the dots, to fully comprehend she was comparing my blood shot eyes to those of the creepy cartoon character. You know you've lost that pregnancy glow when mommy looks like Sponge Bob Square Pants.

And there are the real turds, too. You would think by the time Baby #4 comes along I would know this fact: Babies poop a lot. And I am mostly OK with that, except at 2 a.m. Who poops at 2 a.m.? And he's rather noisy with his business, too. Sounds more like a big burly trucker than a newborn. It's hard to fathom, really. Every time The Boy passes gas my girls ask, "Mommy was that you?" Because they can't believe a cute little baby could do such a thing. 

The turds, real or perceived, were piling up on me today. I am so cranky. Have you seen that trailer for the upcoming sitcom "In the Motherhood"? I can completely identify with Cheryl Hines when she yells at the top of her lungs, "Stop screaming you're going to wake the baby!" 

When my piddly nap got interrupted today (sleep when the baby sleep only applies when you don't have other children) I lay there practically paralyzed... with exhaustion, fear, pity, self-loathing and your garden variety post-nap inertia. In that crippling fog I wondered if a workout would help. I don't crave the exercise physically--I'm too tired for that--but considering what a workout would do for me mentally, well, that appealed to me. I am certain my coping skills are more readily accessible when my brain has had a whiff of endorphins (especially when they come with a dose of fresh air and sunlight). 

Oh for the love of a brisk walk outside! I will have to fight the fatigue in order to get out the door, but I'm certain a little exercise will bring back that look-on-the-bright-side blogger. It seems impossible: a walk, outdoors, by myself. However, more possible than getting eight hours of sleep. I will need one or the other in order to start seeing birds instead of turds.

A Bird by Bird Day

My mom, who spent the last two weeks with us, left yesterday. It's the first day of the rest of my life as a mom to four children without my mom here. 

Let's all pause for a collective, "Awwwww."

All day yesterday I kept saying to myself, "How am I going to do this?"

This morning I had my answer: Bird by Bird.

If you're a fan of Anne Lamott, you know what I'm talking about. If you need background, then click here.

So when I stepped on the scale (I know, I know, that was stupid), I reminded myself: Bird by bird (or pound by pound). The clothes scattered across the bathroom floor: Bird by bird (or t-shirt by t-shirt). The kids with all their many needs: Bird by bird (or hug by hug). The marathon I plan to run... some day: Bird by bird (or mile by mile).

I've gone from feeling overwhelmed to being in a zone--a living within my limits zone. Aside from missing my mom and needing more sleep, I feel pretty content. I'm not beating myself up for letting my girls watch too much tv today (and they did), or eating one too many chocolate chip cookies (and I did), or not having started any laundry or not having a clue what I'll make for dinner. Bird by bird. And right now, the bird I'm tending to is sleeping on my chest.