My kids generally love to play at the gym's child center... after they're already there. Getting there, though, is rarely a smooth transition.
So it went on Friday. "I don't want to go to da gym!" The Boy said adamantly as I parked the car.
"Sorry to hear that, honey. But, we're already here."
"I don't feel well," he said.
Sure you don't, I thought, and was impressed by the use of his grammatically correct "well," over "good."
A fair amount of diplomacy was involved to get him to walk through the doors willingly. I reminded him that the Chuggington Train table was there, waiting for him. I offered to buy a smoothie when we were done. There were promises of playtime on the Ipad. As always, he came along without a tantrum. He really is a good boy.
I didn't have grand workout plans. I just wanted to do the three physical therapy exercises I'm allowed to do. Yes, I can do them at home. But I was looking for sustenance--a little something to get me through what is turning out to be a very looooooong recovery period. Just going to the gym, in workout clothes, and being around people with fitness goals, well, that would give more credibility to my current fitness effort somehow.
I handed my membership card to the attendant in the child center and started to take off The Boy's coat. As I knelt down in front of him, he started to cry. I pulled him in for a hug.
In that split second I knew this workout here at the gym would not happen. But to be very clear about this, he proceeded to projectile vomit, sending a wave over my shoulder, down my back and onto the floor.
Once more onto my chest.
Once more into my cupped hands (only a parent could do this for their own child).
"Ummm... sorry, I said to the young man staring at us from behind the computer trying mightily not to let me see him dry heave. He couldn't know how sorry I was, as I heard my son's meek little voice in the car, "I don't feel well."
Plain and simple: I didn't believe him. Toddlers are such great manipulators, this is why we have fables like, "The Sky is Falling."
Still I felt like a louse for a mom. (Did I just write louse? Knock on wood. I dare not write or think about them, lest they venture forth into my children's hair!).
He could have said: I told you so! But he didn't. In fact, he said, "I feel better now. I can play here."
Could that make me feel worse? Yes, it did.
He didn't pay much attention as I explained why we needed to leave, instead he was busy examining the bits and colors he just upchucked. "Look! Those are carrots I ate at lunch!"
We wiped ourselves off as best we could and went straight home. He bathed. I showered. He puked some more. I cleaned the carpet. I caught the next round in a tupperware bowl. I did laundry. I washed my purse (in the zipper!) and my shoes (in the laces!). I still can't quite get the smell out of the left cuff of my jacket.
And--you know what this is like--I couldn't tell if I was feeling sick myself or just a little queezy from the smell. (As of this blog post, I, nor any other family member has vomited. Miracle.)
If you're still wondering, I did not go on to get a workout that day.
This is what we refer to in Hot (Sweaty) Mamas: Five Secrets to Life as a Fit Mom as a legitimate REASON to skip a workout. Excuses, there are many, but when your child vomits (all over you) call it a day.
Have you encountered any good reasons to skip a workout lately?