As I triumphantly rolled my four-month-old under the balloon-arch finish line of her first 5K on this side of the womb, a grinning volunteer yelled, “You’re the first stroller!” I smugly reveled in my hardcoreness for about two seconds before reminding myself that sweeping the stroller division isn’t that hard when you jog a casual, non-timed 5K walk event.
Yep, I was that cocky idiot.
In my defense, I started out actually walking. But I quickly realized The Kid would wake up HANGRY by mile 1 if I didn’t get my butt in serious gear. So I did, and she didn’t. Victory all around?
You’ve heard of HIIT (high-intensity interval training) that’s all the rage, right? Well, HIIT this: Slinging sweat with an infant — especially, but not only, a breastfeeding one — at home or in tow is fast, furious and way more motivating to OMG HURRY UP AND FINISH than half-watching Cupcake Wars on the TV in the corner of the gym because:
- Someone’s gonna starve. No one wants a melting-down-hungry baby on their hands. In public. On a narrow path full of moving people with no place to pull over. I’ve breastfed my critter in some weird places, but seriously, is anyone that coordinated? And in the off chance you escape the house for a solo workout, tell me you’re not calculating the next feeding time in your head and sprinting accordingly. Oh, Babycakes can take a bottle? But then…
- Something’s gonna blow. And it’s going to be your boobs. What drains down must fill up, and by the time you squeeze everything into spandex and get to the gym and pick your playlist and oh god, I should have tripled up on sports bras. And quadrupled on nursing pads. Running on empty (literally) is much preferred in this situation, and that’s a small window to speed through.
- Something’s gonna leak. Related to #2, yes. But also, stroller walking, running, baby bootcamping, whatever tempts the baby bodily fluid gods like nobody’s business. The continuous fear of a blowout, pee-out or apocalyptic spit-up miles from home will keep anyone’s pace up.
- Something’s gonna bounce. I can’t possibly be the only postpartum worker-outer distracted by things jiggling that didn’t used to jiggle. But then I convince myself it’s like I’m wearing a sumo suit that makes me work a hundred times as hard and burn a million extra calories. Or something. Motivation much?
- Something’s gonna stink. At best, it’ll only be you. As if the sour-milk perfume isn’t enough, it’s going to mix with drying sweat that there’s no way you’ll have time to shower off because you just used up 29 of your 30 minutes of me-time in a panicked sprint. But you kicked it extra hard to save that last minute to throw on a nursing tank — because “athletic” nursing bras are a joke (amiright?) and trying to breastfeed in a sports bra is like using a pastry bag for too-thick frosting. That doesn’t even lead to cupcakes.
So next time you’re standing in the locker room trying to decide whether it’s worth the 15 seconds to wash the unidentified substance out of your hair before hitting the gym floor (it’s not — your headband will cover it), remember this: You, Mama, can accomplish way more in 29 minutes and a bra change than the person on the elliptical next door.
