I started working out with my mom and her personal trainer this week; just twice so far, but MAN, that woman can work it. She’s been going for six months and has never looked so fabulous, and to be honest, I was a little afraid to go
up against with her.
Rowing: beat me by two hundred meters, and stopped twice to my four times.
Extensions, triceps, sit ups, leg lifts, stairs: I didn’t hear much direction from the trainer going her way, it all seemed to be coming to me. Now, granted, I haven’t had a regular workout routine since that day I realized I couldn’t finish my step aerobics class because I was pregnant way back in 1997. I’ve been out of it for ten years. I plead four pregnancies. I blamed my figure on Daphne. Mom blamed hers on me. The last child is the best and most convenient scapegoat.
“I was… wearing… bikinis… after Dylan!”
“I was… wearing… bikinis… after Chris!”
“Yeah, but they gave you speed while you were pregnant with me, so who knows WHAT that did to me. Maybe I’d be different had they realized that shit was dangerous.”
“All right, both of you, it’s time for another rep.”
The whole time I’m trying to remember the form and function from my years of working out every week in my early twenties. We had names for each exercise, and that made it easier for me to get them right. I don’t think I was making sense today, though, when I was muttering them to myself in front of Mom and the trainer.
Pull-ups from a squat? That’s my “oh no you don’t” move.” Lean forward, grab child under arms from behind and swing out of danger.
Triceps pull downs? Open the potato chip bag. Lower it near your crotch, brace yourself, and pull equally from both sides.
Sit-ups with leg extensions? Mommy Scrum. Pretend you’re trying to get up out of bed with three children throwing themselves across your torso to keep you pinned. Keep those arms and legs straight!
Shoulder lifts with five-pound weights? Pouring the milk. Start from the waist, lift up evenly, tilt just right, and let ‘er down gently. Don’t spill!
Back extensions? Nope, it’s not under that side of the bed, either! Oh, you want me to check again? *Dips for another look*
Running sideways up the stairs, foot over foot, hips to the wall? That’s the carry-a-sleeping-child-with-something-slung-over-your-shoulder. The kid’s still light enough to carry but too tall to see around, and you don’t want to bang that bag into the wall, rebound into the opposite wall, and send you both flying down the stairs.
The trainer was impressed with my strength and agility after a decade out of the game. But I knew I’d never stopped. I run, lift small weights, squat, and lunge on a regular basis. But at least now I have grownups to talk to while I’m doing it.
Logan asked me at dinnertime if it was hard.
“Oh, yes. Very hard. Chin-ups were the worst.”
“What’s a chin-up?”
“That’s when you hang from a bar and try to lift your chin up above the bar. Except mine were mostly forehead-ups.”
“Heh, I can do that on the monkey bars. I did a nose-up.”
“I didn’t get that far. Maybe an eyebrow-up.”
“Okay, maybe I did a hair-up.”
“While we’re confessing, that last one was a look-up.”
Logan dissolved into laughter but my tummy hurt too much to join in.