Friday, February 19, 2010

hospital corners solve nearly everything

In what may be a futile attempt to curb my so-called "baby fat," I recently joined the New York Sports Club, after having been sold on the $5/hour babysitting service on the premises.

I put off joining a gym for quite awhile because there were none within a reasonable walking distance. But this gym is only 2 stops away on the subway and I can get to there in less than 10 minutes, that is, if I don't take Ike. If I take Ike, well, it's a 30 minute one-way commute, what with stopping to investigate doggy-poo, ubiquitous chicken-bone litter, and all siren-blaring vehicles. (Not to mention the awkward maneuver through the subway turnstile; Ike often exclaims "oh wow!" when we get to the other side, as if surprised we succeeded.) Nonetheless, I was quite keen on returning to a exercise routine.

Our first trip to the gym was invigorating. I congratulated myself on being such an active mother, envisioning my pre-baby clothes fitting again. But my son had a different response. Isaiah decided that being stuck in a room with 5 other toddlers watching Dora the Explorer while his mother disappeared into a loud gym pulsating to P. Diddy was absolutely unacceptable. So on our next visit he did what he does when things are unacceptable--he threw a tantrum.

I was summoned back to the nursery only to find Ike plastered to the glass door, screaming at the top of his lungs. He calmed down when he saw me, and we sat together for 20 minutes or so. I managed to continue my work-out in 10-minute spurts, punctuated by leisurely rest-and-reassurance sessions in the nursery. Of course, this ensured our stay at the gym lasted three times as long as necessary. I tried the nursery again a few days later, in the hope that the last visit was an anomaly. But Ike's second screaming spell was more intense than the first, and I was obliged to call my babysitter to come up and get him so I could work-out.

Not one to give up hope, I tried again this morning. But Ike started shrieking before we even got into the nursery, and with no babysitter back-up, I turned around and made the laborious trek back home. Promptly upon arriving home I finished off a chocolate bar in frustration--just the thing to console myself over an unsuccessful trip to the gym.

But I came out of my funk, made the bed--replete with taut hospital corners--, fed my son lunch and put him down for a nap. Then I did some leg-lifts and crunches on the living room floor.

1 comment:

Ser said...

That sounds kind of like my recent trip to the gym. At my gym, the babysitting is only for children ages 1-7, but babies and jogging strollers are allowed in the gym. (It is a community rec center.) I took Silas recently and started walking around the track with him in the stroller. He fell asleep, so I went to start my real workout. He awoke. Repeat 6 times. At that point, I had been walking for an hour, so I figured that was good enough. I love your story, since it is such a good example of motherhood in general. Everything takes three times as long, and it never turns out as we had planned. Oh yes, and there is much chocolate involved, at least in my experience.