Run!

Back in the days before children, when DH and I were working and living in London and had the kind of extra time and money I can now only daydream about, I joined a gym and hired a personal trainer to whip me into shape. I was a size 8 then, and thought nothing of it. These days, my lifestyle has changed beyond recognition. And unfortunately, after two children, so has my figure.

“So what size are you now?” asked DH at the weekend as we were getting ready for bed.
“Twelve” I replied, standing sideways in my underwear before the bedroom mirror and holding my tummy in.
“So you’ve got fifty percent bigger?” he asked in mock amazement. I gave him a withering look and stalked off to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

When I was pregnant with the Small Girl in India, I felt I ought to exercise and so I swam every day. Alone in a still, sapphire pool overlooking the twinklingly distant sea, I swam and swam under the endless Bombay sky and I loved the sun and the water and the feeling of new life inside me.

But I don’t have the time or the resources these days for complicated gym arrangements or swimming pools. So I decided to try running as a means to get back in shape. It’s free, it’s easy and with summer around the corner and the Very Small Boy at playschool, I can fit it into the gaps in my life. I had always thought I hated running, but to my great surprise, I’ve found I love it.

It was DH’s turn for a lie-in on Saturday morning. I got up with the Very Small Boy, who had slept badly and was particularly fussy, clinging to my pyjama-leg and whining as I fixed his breakfast and tried to make myself some tea. After he had eaten and a sleepy Small Girl had joined us, he began to ask for his Daddy.

“Dada? Dada?” he said forlornly, casting about for his father.
“Daddy’s asleep, darling” I explained.
“Ssshhh” he nodded wisely, forefinger to his lips, before tiptoeing to the stairgate, grabbing hold of it and rattling it as loudly as he could, whilst screeching “DADA!” at the top of his voice.
“Mum, can I have pancakes for breakfast?” asked the Small Girl.
“Yes Sausage, just give me a minute and I’ll make some” I replied, trying to pry the Very Small Boy’s fingers off the gate.
“Morning” said DH sleepily, descending the stairs.
“Oh sorry Darling” I muttered” Did we wake you?”
“Mummy… paancaaakes!” beseeched the Small Girl above her bother’s wails.
“Yes, OK, just give me a minute!” I said, exasperated, as I struggled with a thrashing, wailing Very Small Boy and eyed my running shoes longingly.

Half an hour later, I was free; the pounding streets beneath my feet giving way to winding country lanes; uplifting music thumping in my ears; my heart hammering and my legs aching; my lungs bursting and my mind focused. And I realised then that I love being a wife. I love being a mother. But sometimes I need to escape to be myself... sometimes I just need to run.