Yesterday I spent 20 minutes doing my butt-busting Pilates workout tape for the first time in three months (okay, maybe four). By the time I was on my second session of "fetal thigh" leg lifts, my three year old was saying things like, "Mommy, I need to lay on you." And "Mommy, I don't want to be healthy!" But I persisted and finished the final painful squeeze, while patting my daughter's little blond head, which was laying right where I was supposed to be "supporting my powerhouse" with my right hand.
By two o'clock yesterday afternoon, I was vowing never to exercise again. My legs felt like lead. My glutes were aching. I was not a nice person to be around. I sacked out on the couch at 8:15 last night, and when Hubby woke me to drag me upstairs to bed, I declared "This is why I don't exercise."
"Well," Hubby said, "If if you do it more than once every three months, it won't be so hard."
Ouch. That hurt worse than my sore muscles.
This morning, my six year old had a shoe tying issue. One of my non-successes (doesn't that sound better than "failures"?) as a mother is that I didn't teach her to tie her shoes until first grade. She was struggling with her bunny ear lace loops in today's morning rush out the door, and kicked both her shoes off with a roar of temper.
"Sweetie," I said in my most patient Mother voice, "yesterday you tied your shoes just fine. You just need to be persistent. We can't give up when things get hard. And we can't do only the things that are easy for us."
Oh, crud. This also applies to my work-outs. I hate it when I teach myself lessons like this. When it comes to exercising, I have the persistence of a sleep-deprived first grader.
I've showered already, so no butt-busting for me today because I don't want to sweat. But tomorrow, I guess I better get out that tape again.