I eat not when my cues tell me I am hungry, but when I realize that I have morphed into a crazy mom because I am starving. It is 11:00 in the morning and I have not had breakfast yet. I have been up since at least 7 AM and I have fed another human being twice without any nourishment for myself. I gobble a breakfast over the sink. Or, I sit down to eat civilly, only to be asked by the beggars that are my children for bites of my food. I share. Of course, I share; I am a mother.
I walk to pick Charlie up from preschool where he tells me to "run so fast that the wind blows my hair" for the walk home. I oblige as best as I can, panting for breath and puffing out responses to his questions in between strides. Sometimes, I ride him home in the Burley attached to my bike; I pull the forty-plus pounds of kids like I am competing in the Strongest Woman in the World competition. But, alas, I am not.
I am a mom.
Trying to stay fit.
Having to stay fit just to partake in my normal life.
Why I am not a Size 2 I will never understand.
Charlie and I walked to the library the other night. He conned me into going without bringing the stroller. He was superb with his persuasion, "Mom, I am three now. Look at my fingers: one, two, three. I don't need a stroller."
We made it there easily. It was great to walk side by side, turning to look at the same things at the same time without fingers directing eyes. But that picture above was taken on the walk home. I walked at least five blocks with a bag of books and a not one, not two, but three-year-old on my back who provided no assistance as you can see by the fact that he is looking up at the sky. He didn't hug my neck and support himself. I used my core, my quads and my triceps to lug the bag of bones that my body produced all the way home.
And I came home the same size as I have always been.
