I’m afraid I’m not ready for this weekend’s triathlon. I’m actually crazy worried about the thing.
Understandably, he likes to play. To be danced around. To be read to. To be kissed and hugged and bounced. He likes when I comb his five hairs with a fine-toothed comb. It soothes him. He likes when I rub lotion on his forehead. This too soothes him. He likes to be ferried around the house in his umbrella stroller, which Joe and I lovingly refer to as The Hank Patrol because when he’s in it it’s (usually) because he’s morphed into his wicked baby alter-ego, Hank.
My child isn’t big on napping and when he’s awake he requires entertaining. I would have been wiser to train for a circus instead of a triathlon.
Oh, and I’m back to work, so there’s always that excuse.
Two weekends ago, I swam 50 laps at the public pool. I biked there and back. When I got home, I ran three miles in the blistering heat. I didn’t break any personal records, but at least I was out there.
Thank god for muscle memory and jog strollers. I can’t wait for the temperature to drop below 80. The heat and humidity are killing me. (Oh, yeah. There’s that excuse too.)
And then of course there’s breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Some people run with weights. I run with them strapped to my chest. Breastfeeding has taken running with milk jugs to a whole new level.
I’d like to tell you triathlon training is the reason I lost all my pregnancy weight (and then some), but I’d be robbing my mammary glands of the tremendous credit they deserve.