I’m sitting on the couch.
I’m tired. Worn down. Emotionally exhausted.
I feed the baby. She falls asleep.
I don’t feel like getting up.
I pass the baby to Jason anyway.
I put on my running tights. I’m still ten pounds heavier than I used to be, and they cut into my stomach.
I trade my nursing bra in for a sports bra, and put on a quick dry tee.
I realize I forgot to put on my heart rate monitor and do it all again.
I grab my iPod and the headband I wear to keep my earbuds from falling out.
I change watches.
I lace up my Newtons. I remember when I thought pink running shoes were blog worthy. It seems so ridiculous now.
I head out.
It’s hot. Hotter than Northern California’s supposed to be.
And windy since we live near the water.
I’m so much slower than I used to be.
My heart rate tops out, and I stop to walk. I have to walk up almost every hill, even the ones that aren’t really hills.
But I continue to place one foot in front of the other. That’s all I can do.
Just keep moving. It’s the only mantra that’s ever really worked for me during a tough run.
I think about how that’s symbolic of my life right now.
My feet slide forward on the downhills, and my toes slam into the top of my stupid, pink shoes.
My feet must have grown while I was pregnant.
The new Jason Mraz single starts to play.
I turn the corner into my neighborhood and let myself pick up the pace.
My breath is heavy by the time I reach my driveaway.
I walk to the front door, through the overgrown rose bushes that frame the walkway.
The baby is crying, already hungry again.
I quickly change out of my workout gear, and wash the allergies off my face.
I blow my nose fifty times.
I wipe the sweat off my chest, and put on a nursing top.
I grab an orange soda because I always crave one while I’m running, and I’ve decided that I get to have one every time.
The baby’s still crying and I go to her.
Right now I want to hold her. Kiss her head. Whisper it will be okay in her ear.
This is the best I will feel all day.