The run itself went OK.
I had to check my app seven times to make sure that the distance-tracker was working (it was, I just hadn’t reached a mentionable distance the first six times I checked). I had decided on a short circuit around the town, just a few miles to break me in easily.
I slogged and I slogged, but I managed to make it round the whole circuit. As I triumphantly limped down my road on the homeward stretch, the app tracker announced that I had just surmounted Half A Mile, instantly vanquishing my sweaty daydream of smugly cracking out a quick half-marathon before breakfast tomorrow.
I think my toddler was actually a bit scared of the dripping scarlet mess that flung herself into the room, and then alternated between groaning, panting and softly swearing for 45 minutes. She did finally recognise me after I took the headband off.
I got home, dragged myself onto the sofa, and hyperventilated quietly for a few minutes before being able to slowly sip the sweet nectar of a chilled bottle of water. I think my toddler was actually a bit scared of the dripping scarlet mess that flung herself into the room, and then alternated between groaning, panting and softly swearing for 45 minutes. She did finally recognise me after I took the headband off.
So that was that. My return to exercise, one month ago. I managed another, almost identical run that week, and then the four month sleep regression hit us hard, and I haven’t run since. And I have felt terrible about it, truly experiencing that awful pressure on mums to bounce back to their pre-pregnancy selves as quickly as possible, but somehow amplified because I had managed to make a start which had then faltered. It is a twisted world where celebrities make news for their method of achieving a flat stomach post-baby, with no consideration for the physical and mental strain that this puts on the mother, and ultimately, the baby. Because, if a new mum is all strung out about losing those few extra pounds, or squeezing into those jeans, or running that 10km, then she is not really focusing on her true well-being.
Today I made a decision.
“Enough,” I thought. “It’s time. Time to get ME back to ME.”
Time to give myself a break. To accept that self-care might on some days involve struggling into an ill-fitting sports bra, but on other days it will be watching Bake Off without sharing any of my family sized bag of giant chocolate buttons. To know that my body is wonderful, powerful, fruitful; so what if it isn’t as strong as it once was – those days will come again, there is no rush. Sure, there might be a bit more of me to love these days, but if anyone has a problem with that, they are not worthy of my time, or love. To slow down, live in the moment, and feel proud instead of guilty of an un-busy day. To take the pressure off by turning a common commandment on its head and affording myself the same expectations, patience and forgiveness that I try to afford others. To invest in some sports gear that actually fits. For when I am really ready to go running again.
And ONLY then.
Originally published on Life of the Bear’s Wife. Charlotte Colehan is a gardener, crafter, maker. baker. Project starter (and mostly finisher!), ambitious daydreamer, excessive tea drinker. Wife to Joe, mum to Molly and Finley. Keen camper, sun worshipper, beer gulper, terrible driver. A little bit of everything, including parenting, family adventures, and some haphazard thoughts on parenting and the good things in life. You can also find her on Instagram: @lifeofthebearswife
