Shit on my hands

MH

My husband M is so disciplined about his exercise that – and he’ll readily admit this himself – he is a little selfish about it. There were times last year when I felt like the walls were closing in on me and I just had to get away from the damned baby when he’d breeze into the kitchen in his jogging gear to announce he would be gone for an hour MINIMUM. In fact, the only tense conversations we’ve had since T arrived have revolved around his unpreparedness to break his running routine. Of all the years, I beseeched, that he could perhaps forget about running the Melbourne marathon, surely this was it? No way. WHAT ABOUT ME?

But hang on. Aren’t I super proud of his achievements? And I know from experience that he’s rather less wonderful to cohabit with if he doesn’t have exercise as a stress outlet.  Also, he’s had such a great impact on my own willingness to move my arse from the couch. I remember in our early days that on one occasion he had to literally drag me out the front door for a WALK. It was lucky that I didn’t drive a car until my 26^th birthday and had to hoof it/ride the pushie everywhere or I’d have been a one-woman illustration of Australia’s obesity epidemic. And the kind of aging tattooed rock dogs I was wasting my time on were hardly specimens of clean living. Indeed, their idea of exercise was moving from the bar stool to the back lane to smoke a joint.

Not long after I met M I began to gradually succumb to the exercise bug. A little swimming, a couple of yoga classes a week, and – amazingly! – some running. At my fittest I could run 5 km’s WITHOUT STOPPING. That translated to jogging from my place in Westgarth along the Merri Creek to the Russian Orthodox Church in East Brunswick and back again. Why yes, this was me!

Pregnancy meant no exercise from weeks 5 to 10 as I could not be separated from bed or the box of Saladas. But as the nausea lifted I enjoyed prenatal yoga classes and the local pool. While the local old ladies did their water aerobics, I glided regally up and down the slow lane, my growing belly proudly protruding from between my bikini top and bottom, T flipping and rolling inside me.

Since the birth the most I’ve managed is pushing the pram around the streets. The idea of running with milky boobs doesn’t appeal, and where’s the time for it anyway? But over the Christmas break, with M on holidays and the weather warm, I’ve been able to return to the pool. What bliss to bang out twenty laps with full lung capacity and no massive protuberance along for the ride. And as pleased as I am for myself, M is perhaps even more so. He gladly looks after T for as long as need be if it means I’m getting all those mental and physical goodies that exercise brings.