Before I had babies, I used to go running quite a lot. After a bit of cajoling, DearDaddy caught the bug and joined me in the London marathon. The following year we ran two marathons in two weeks – one in Barcelona (the week before moving house) and one in Paris (the week after moving house). That was only three years ago, but it feels more like a lifetime ago.
Since then, I’ve managed a few runs in 2015, a couple of months after giving birth to Tinytoes, but that’s about it. In the summer I began to go down with every virus imaginable (all of them ending in ‘itis’) and by November I was pregnant again. This time with a young baby to look after. And severe morning sickness.
So this morning I was expecting to feel a twinge of envy at the prospect of going along with the baby girls to watch DearDaddy running a 10k race in our new village. We had spotted the posters advertising it and, seeing how his eyes had lit up, I’d been the one to egg him on to sign up. After all, I was in no fit state to run it.
I realised I’d need to sacrifice DearDaddy’s help in the evenings so he could train, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel envious of him coming home after a day in the office only to go straight back out the door for a liberating run along the old railway line. I, meanwhile, would be sitting at home looking after the babies, after a day of looking after the babies.
To be fair, he only went on three training runs as he’d signed up the week before the race itself. And there was no way on earth I could ever have managed a 10km with barely any training. Let alone eight weeks after giving birth.
But the morning of the race doesn’t pan out quite as expected. It turns out I don’t have time to feel envy at DearDaddy running the race; quite the opposite in fact. I realise I’ve grossly underestimated the time needed to get two little people and myself fed, dressed and cleaned. It transpires that 60 minutes is woefully inadequate.
DearDaddy, meanwhile, had already left the house to register and begin the race. He had even given Tinytoes breakfast before leaving. But I still had to get her out of her pyjamas and into her clothes (which always takes an inordinately long time), change her nappy, have a quick shower and get dressed myself, eat my own breakfast, get Microtoes dressed, breastfeed her twice and change her nappy. And I did all of the above in no particular rush as I was blissfully unaware of the time.
The plan had been for me to leave the house 30 minutes before DearDaddy’s estimated completion time, so we would be there to cheer him over the finish line. So imagine my panic when we’re finally ready to leave and I see he has only 11 minutes to go. I know how proud DearDaddy felt at the prospect of having his two girls being there to see him cross the finish line and it would be all my fault if we weren’t there.
I throw open the front door and run down the hill, tightly grasping the handle of the twin buggy. The weight of both girls in the buggy and the water bottles underneath actually pulls me along and it’s easier than expected to run (bar the fact I’m wearing a nursing bra rather than a sports bra).
When the road flattens out, the momentum from the hill and the extra weight of the buggy seem to propel us along for a fair stretch. We must have been quite a sight.
The first incline slows me down to a brisk walk. For the rest of the way I alternate walking and jogging until we arrive at the (back of the) finishing line with about one minute to spare. One of the organisers takes pity on me (clearly we were a sight) and lets us have pole position to wait for DearDaddy.
When he arrives a few minutes later, Microtoes is fast asleep and Tinytoes is picking her nose and looking in the opposite direction. I don’t care because at least we were all there and at least I was able cheer him on. Tinytoes flashes her daddy a huge smile, when she finally clocks him, completely unaware he’d even been running.
And so it was that I’d ended up running my own race – ok so it wasn’t 10k –but it was my ‘equivalent’. And when DearDaddy gets back from this week’s trip away with work, I fully intend to leave him with both babies one evening and attempt my first proper run. In a sports bra this time. And minus the buggy.
Calamitous Mummy 