In throwback college student fashion, I’m writing this the morning it’s due.
Baby gets out of bed for the day at 7:40 am, so any amount of time I wake up before that is time I can use to conquer all the things that are rendered impossible when your most useful limbs are dedicated to making sure Baby doesn’t yeet herself down the stairs.
In theory, this would be the optimal time to make like the training sequence in Rocky and set an alarm for 4 am, get out of bed, down a glass of salmonella, and run through the city streets in the arch-support horrors that are Converse shoes. The difference between Rocky Balboa and me, however, is he never in his life had to wake up with gallons of breast milk trapped in his pecs.
And I’ll tell ya, until you can get a baby to empty those or a trustworthy farmer to milk you, going for a run is not an option.
So, I rose and shown at 6:20 am this morning knowing I needed to get this writing done lest I deprive you male readers of learning about the breast milk balloons that weigh us postpartum women down. This morning’s plot twist was that I was in Grand Rapids, sharing my childhood (and my 20s, let’s be real) bedroom with Baby—who was still sleeping in her Pack N’ Play with the alertness of a landmine. I laid there for a bit knowing that if I got out of bed, she’d wake up and begin cawing like a broken crow.
OR...(and this was much more tempting)
I could stay in bed, pay off 80 minutes of my sleep debt I’ve accumulated in the last 10 months, and both Baby and I would finish our slumber.
I had to get up, though. I had to write this.
I took the risk and got out of bed quietly as I could and, by either reward or you-owe-Me-for-this from God, Baby stayed cool and I made it downstairs to type these words that offer no advice whatsoever on postpartum training for a marathon (sorry, readers).
I had a very doubtful week in training. It’s a miracle I worked in a 7- and 6.4-mile run the last two days. All it took was driving 2.5 hours to Grand Rapids (at $5.35/gallon) to be in a place where my mom could watch her granddaughter and allow me to frolic for more than an hour, and my bother (35, engineer and single, ladies) convincing me to go for a run after Baby went to bed. I felt great after both, but the damaging thoughts that 7 miles hardly compares to 26.2 nearly took the accomplishment away. For now, having one minute before I have to tend to Baby, I only have time to say: Don’t let those thoughts take discredit your training efforts.
Sign up for the GR Marathon on October 16, 2022. Get a free banana!
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