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.
We’re running a dairy farm over here. Our freezer is stocked with enough milk to nourish the entire neighborhood. Consequently, I’m beginning to feel like I’m running on empty.
But back to training.
So on Saturday, despite crappy weather, I attempted to bike and swim.
I packed my towel and swim goggles. I walked to the shed to get my Bianchi and suddenly the light drizzle that had fallen all morning turned into a full-fledged downpour. Frustrated, I sulked back to the house and announced to Joe that I was driving to the pool.
I called the pool to make sure they were still open. I was told yes – as long there wasn’t thunder and lightening.
So off I drove to swim in the downpour.
I got to the pool, stripped down to my suit, put one toe in the water and a giant clap of thunder sent a bevy of 19-year-old lifeguards scattering like bugs across the concrete.
“POOL’S CLOSED!” They screeched, waving their arms frantically.
So I drove home sopping wet, having never even jumped in the water.
When I got home, Joe was playing Madden on the PlayStation. Henry was asleep in his swing and Cubbie was snoring on a stack of couch pillows.
This was my pep squad.
I looked from Joe to Cubbie to Henry to Joe.
Eff it, I thought.
The rain had stopped. The clouds had parted and the sun was beginning to poke out.
“Wanna take Henry for a walk?” I asked my husband.
“When I finish this game,” he replied.
“Can we get an ice cream on the way back?” I asked.
“Sure,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on our colossal television.
And that’s how I ended up eating a bowl of vanilla ice cream covered in peanut butter sauce and whipped cream instead of training for a triathlon that’s now five days away.
PS. I’m mostly looking forward to the fact that my sister Heelya is driving down from Myrtle Beach to run this thing with me. It’ll be her first tri and the first time she’s seen Henry since he was five days old!