Now it’s a struggle to finish.
With every step, my lungs burn.
Worse, my bladder feels as if it’s about to explode.
But I’m determined to keep going, though not without taking a pee break.
Running has always been a cinch for me.
My typical routine is five miles a day, every day.
Interestingly, women tend to look at me with pity, not scorn.
When I was expecting my first baby, I stopped running a mere two months into my term.
I guess you could call me an addict.
Yet driven as I am, I couldn’t decide if it was right to maintain my habit.
Certainly, my family and friends didn’t think so.
Then there was my husband, who has always had a love-hate relationship with my hobby.
(He loves that it makes me happy and hates that it steals me away from home.)
So when he had an excuse to badger me to stop, he took full advantage of the situation.
“It’s better to be safe than sorry, right?”
I couldn’t exactly disagree with him there.
Reluctantly, I switched to walking.But whenever runners passed me, my palms would start to sweat.
Unlike drugs or booze, my running addiction makes my life better.
I will never need Prozac as long as I have my daily fix of endorphins.
“Be patient with yourself.”
My husband echoed that advice.
I knew he loved me and that, like the midwife, he meant well.
But I was tired of being patient.
To deny myself a run was akin to denying myself food: I couldn’t survive without it.
Despite what everyone thought, I told myself I knew my body best.
But after a mile, I felt it kick in againthe adrenaline jolt I’d been craving.
No other exercise seems to provide it for me in quite the same way.
When I got home, I was beaming.
As I kept running, my body shrank back into itself, returning to its prepregnancy state.
Physically, I was a mess, leaking from my breasts and jiggly all over.
Yet two miles in, nothing mattered except putting one foot in front of the other.
When I got home, my daughter was asleep and my frazzled new-mommy brain was momentarily quiet.
But I could control my run, how fast I chose to go, my cadence, my route.
Then, nine months after I delivered my daughter, I got pregnant againa major surprise.
At first, I was despondent; I was just getting my groove back.
I vowed to feed that craving.
Except this time, I came to my decision armed with research and advice.
My reasons for running are simple.Unlike a baby, running is predictable.
There is fast, and there is slow.
you’ve got the option to set goals and beat them.
It helps me deal with the overwhelming moments of new parenthood.
One day, my daughter bit me on the nose, drawing blood.
Instead of yelling at her, I ran off my frustration.
What better gift could I give them than the serenity and satisfaction I get from my passion?
When we head out together, our outsize bellies bouncing, we probably amuse everyone.
But we are fierce, even if we seem a little bit crazy.
Mostly, he sleeps when I am on the move.
Maybe he finds it reassuring, this motion that he can count on every day.
My children do deserve a content and fit mother.
One day, I hope we can all lace up our shoes, hit the pavement and run together.
Photo Credit: Steven White/Getty Images
