legs, bums and toddlers (this week in the express)

Every January, one of my many new year resolutions is a combination of the themes ‘Lose weight’, ‘Get fit’, ‘Exercise more’ or ‘Lose weight, get fit, exercise less and eat more chocolate covered macadamia nuts’. What? Macadamia nuts are good for you.
Except 2008, which I rang in pregnant. That year my motto was ‘Eat now and worry later’.
This year has been no different, with the small exception that unlike previous attempts at fitness where my enthusiasm for ab crunches disappear quicker than Prada bags on sale, I have managed to stick to my plan — for an entire month. No thanks to my son though.
Every morning the toddler shaped alarm in our room goes off at the unearthly hour of 5am. Our human clock raises both arms and begins to beep non-stop till he is removed from his crib and deposited on the ground to begin to wreak havoc.
In the time it takes me to heat his milk, groggily change in to my exercise clothes and slip the DVD in to the player my son has amassed enough energy to begin laying siege to a small country.
Yes, that’s right. Work out DVD. I have a phobia of gyms, taut women running endlessly on treadmills like lithe hamsters and little boys accompanying their mothers in to the changing rooms and sniggering at all my wobbly bits. Plus at home the succour of my sofa is but a sidelunge away.
As I unfurl my workout mat on to the floor, the boy settles himself on the sofa, drink in hand, waiting. Watching. He knows what or rather who is going
to jump on to our screens. It’s not the colours or the upbeat music that gets this boy going but the parade of spandex clad beauties butt crunching their way across the screen.
As the workout progresses so does my son’s enthusiasm. From the sofa he slowly inches towards the television so that very soon his eye balls are stuck to the screen, mouth wide, drool escaping from the side. This spectacle of male willpower is followed by high octane shouts of glee and clapping. I guess they never really do grow up do they?
In an attempt to dislodge this obstruction from my view, I once made the mistake of coaxing my son to join me on the mat. As I pitifully completed one ab crunch after another I felt a crushing weight on my chest.
No, I wasn’t having an exercise induced heart attack, but a 15-kilo load had been added to my workout in the form of my son. Sitting astride my bulk, he proceeded to jump, rock and wriggle atop me as though he was on of those spring based horses at the park. To make matters worse, he soon found one of my hand weights on the floor and before I knew it, he had deposited it on my head.
When people said labour pains paled in comparison to the pain of raising a child, I didn’t know they meant it literally. I’m contemplating taking up a more gentle form of exercise. Tai chi or yoga or pilates. Something weight-free. Or may be I should just join my son on the sofa and ogle at the women. I might just be able to will myself fit.


3 thoughts on “legs, bums and toddlers (this week in the express)

  1. :)) keep up the good work though …I gave up exactly at that stage .. Now I do what your son does :)))..watch kids shows with my son and laugh silly :))

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