So this whole mom-ing thing is kind of a mind fuck. Each time you think you’ve got it down, you’ve got it locked and loaded, you have a plan and a system and you’re going to WIN the the whole “I can have it all!” myth, the baby just so casually changes her mind.
With no notice whatsoever.
And then all that carefully laid groundwork just goes to … crap. Down the drain. And then you understand that that cute toothless grin and the “Braaaahbabagah gah gah” actually means “Nice try, sucker!”
I thought I had this whole thing figured out. Okay, not actually this whole thing, but I had at least found a solution to consistently getting exercise and feeling human after yet another night during which no chunk of sleep dared cross the threshold of more-than-two-hours.
I had our routine buttoned up tight. At night, I prepped the stroller with the 10 million things you can’t leave the house without. I laid out my running clothes so there would be NO EXCUSES. In the morning, I’d get up, change the baby, brush my teeth, and go for a run. I bought the stroller, I committed to leaving the house without brushing my hair, and I even committed to running.
Which, as y’all know, is a sign of desperate times.
Need more proof? I even waited until AFTER the run to drink coffee.
And then. THEN.
Mackenzie decided she hates the stroller.
She screams bloody murder whenever I put her in it. And no matter how high I crank up the volume on my headphones, I can still hear her.
And even if I couldn’t hear her, and just kept my gaze up and on the road ahead, the concerned looks on fellow morning runners’ faces was evidence enough of the baby torture ensuing below. I’ll have a big heaping pile of mom guilt for breakfast, k thx.
I can’t tell you how many ‘runs’ have ended up with me carrying the baby in one hand, pushing the stroller with the other, and overall feeling like a not-even-sweaty chump.
So, clearly, Mackenzie doesn’t want me to run. And I gotta say, I secretly love her for it.
However, that does take me back to … not working out. At all. (Yeah, don’t believe what my Instagram tells you).
It’s insane to me that my whole job is about healthy living, and I can barely make a workout happen once a week. Yep, this week, I managed one actual workout. Yoga on Sunday morning, which perfectly coincided with Mac’s nap. And also Nathan wanted to take a nap. So I snuck away from my sleepy family for a quick hit of power vinyasa.
Where does that leave other women who have regular office, non-fitness jobs? How do they do it?
The thing is, I know all the information. I know that exercising makes me better at my business and a better mom, wife, etc. I know that it’s all about priorities. I know that failing to plan means planning to fail. I know to crank out a few squats while she pulls up to standing and to plank while she “reorganizes” her bookshelf. I know all those things, and I still can’t get ‘er done.
The truth is, when I have time without the baby, I prioritize work. Without fail. (Except that one time I collapsed on the couch and read gossip blogs for about 30 seconds before falling asleep, hard. That was a weird day).
The outline I started this post with ended with a neat little kicker. Here’s how I planned to wrap up this stream-of-consciousness white flag of despair:
I overcame my lack of exercise by doing X and Y to work out with my baby! After finished working out with this pumpkin, I transformed it into local organic baby food, and did I mention I’m crushing it at work?! #MomLife #WIN #LEANINBITCHES
I also intended this post to be a sponsored one, but all these feelings I didn’t realize I had derailed the whole plan. So after I finished venting my feelings here, I also wrote this sunnier post, with cuter clothes.
The truth is, there’s no nicely packaged little lesson I can tie a pretty bow on. This shit is hard. And I only have one kid, and a supportive partner. FUCK.
The one thing I keep coming back to is a little mantra a former yoga instructor used to tell us in class:
It’s never too late to start from scratch.
She’d say that in pretty much every class, usually while holding us hostage for at least 15 minutes. Sometimes her classes would run 30 or 45 minutes over. I used to resent how late she’d go—didn’t she know we all had somewhere to be?—but now I’m grateful that I COULD stay late in yoga, and for that nugget of wisdom that I might not have remembered otherwise.
I feel like I’m starting from scratch, every single day. So there you have it.
Or as Mac would say, “Braaaahbabagah gah gah.”