One step at a time

I remember the moment I thought about getting out and about and active after Freddie was born. He was a few weeks old when I started to feel more like myself and less like I’d been hit by a bus. I had a little bit more energy and my body was beginning to hurt a bit less. I wasn’t about to don my trainers and go sprinting around Islington, but it no longer seemed so far-fetched that I might be able to do that again one day.

And whilst I spent a huge amount of time on the sofa trying to keep up with Freddie’s appetite, I also felt like I was getting more active by going for walks with the buggy, or endlessly pacing the house trying to get Freddie to sleep. Surely this counted as exercise?!

So I started to wear my activity tracker, which in theory tells me how many steps I’d taken and how active I’d been in any one day. It also tracks quality of sleep, but what was the point of that? I didn’t need a fancy device to tell me my quality of sleep was somewhat lacking!

Now I know it’s well documented that these activity trackers are wildly inaccurate, but I couldn’t help feeling quite pleased with myself when I reached the suggested number of steps per day without me really putting in too much effort, and when the app told me I’d walked the equivalent of a few kilometres before lunch. Brilliant…more biscuits for me then please!

My smugness lasted until one night when I ended up going to bed with the tracker still on. Finishing a night feed, I was doing the usual tricks of trying to get Freddie to burp; lots of back patting and rubbing. I noticed some flashing in the corner of my eye which in my sleep deprived state I couldn’t quite place. Phone, alarm clock, tablet….nope, none of the above. I then realised the flashing was coming from my wrist, each pat on Freddie’s back was registering as a step on the activity tracker. Apparently I had taken several hundred steps without even getting out of bed. Now I’m all for rounding up my miles to make myself feel better, but this was definitely a step too far (no pun intended). It was then that I decided I should probably get a bit more active…essential though relieving Freddie’s gas was, it wasn’t going to help me get fit or lose that baby weight.

A change of pace

Before I got pregnant, being fit was my ‘thing’. It didn’t used to be, my university days and first years working in London were peppered with the odd run or half-hearted gym session, but I was far from being considered fit, and wasn’t particularly interested. Somewhere along the way I became interested in running and working out, experienced what it can do for one’s mental as well as physical wellbeing, and found out I was actually quite good at it. Don’t get me wrong, I was no Paula Radcliffe, but compared to my peer group I could hold my own. I became one of those people who ran in the rain and did spin classes before work. I ran a 5km race, then a 10km, then a half marathon and eventually the London marathon. I became a ‘smug runner’, and I loved it.

When I got pregnant, I was determined to keep exercising. I was lucky enough to avoid particularly bad morning sickness and, although I was often exhausted, I knew a run or an hour in the gym would make me feel better. I also managed to somehow convince myself that I wouldn’t find childbirth too bad if I was fit and healthy (in hindsight, perhaps an unrealistic expectation?!). I had images in my mind, mostly fuelled by Instagram, of my neat little bump encased in flattering sportswear trundling along on the treadmill at the gym. I revelled in the comments I got from people…’Wow, you’re seven months pregnant and still working out’ and became a bit smug about how pregnancy hadn’t changed my attitude to fitness and exercise.

I was sure that having a baby wouldn’t change who I was and my attitude to running and exercise either. I would be the same person, with the same interests, just with a small person in tow. I wasn’t completely unrealistic, I realised that carrying a baby and going through childbirth would have a huge impact on my body. I knew I would need rest, and would have to take things very easy when I did eventually start exercising again, and that I’d be constantly tired and often drained from taking care of a baby. I expected to be pretty much starting from scratch when I did feel ready to start exercising again.

However, before my beautiful little boy came into this world, I considered things from a very logistical perspective; I would start exercising after around 6 weeks (assuming the birth was straightforward with no complications), start small and build up. I would go running when my husband got home from work. I would do workout videos in the living room while my boy was asleep. I even signed up to do a half marathon 5 months after my due date!

What I was completely blindsided by, totally unprepared for, was that that little boy of mine would change who I am, what my priorities are and how I approach things. I’m not just the old me with a small person in tow; running and exercise isn’t my ‘thing’ anymore, being Freddie’s mum is my ‘thing’, and I love that it is. Yes I could hand him over as soon as my husband walked in the door, put my trainers on and go running, but I would much rather watch him gazing adoringly at his dad, or talk to my husband about what we’d got up to during the day. Yes I could put Freddie down when he sleeps during the day (theoretically!), and do a series of planks, crunches and yoga positions on the living room floor, but I would much rather hold him in my arms and watch his little eyes flutter as he sleeps, marvelling at his tiny hands and soft skin.

And so my challenge remains, how to strike a balance between pre-baby me and post-baby me; how to be the best mum I can possibly be, whilst still making time to keep fit and keep running. And decide whether or not a half marathon in 7 weeks’ time is as ridiculous as it sounds?!