So last Monday night the planets were in alignment: early tea, relatively settled baby, good weather, still light outside.
I decided, finally, at last, after seven months plus nine ish months, to go out for a run. madness. I leave hub-in-boots to bath the jman, I don my “from behind the iron curtain giant sports bra” (there is nothing less sexy than underwear whilst breastfeeding), and out I go.
I’m doing ok. I run all the way to tarban creek bridge, I have a quick breather. I start to run out of puff on Cliff Young hill (an Aussie long distance older runner, known for his shuffle, and this hill always makes me shuffle), I start to lose it a bit but I press on, enjoying the solitude, enjoying the tunes, enjoying the me time. I think ” my Monday snapshot needs to be a picture of my feet, running. I’m so proud I got out, and did something positive for myself. The me I was before I was a mum.”
But I don’t get the snapshot up.
I get home to a bathed and sleeping child. It’s bliss. That hour felt like a two week holiday. Too good to waste on blog posts! “We’ll be doing this again” I tell hub-in-boots, “three times I a week”.
The next morning, I head off to mums n bubs boxing, feeling a little sore, but good sore.
And then I do this.
My ankles were fine during pregnancy, they are loose and sore all the time in the past few months. I go to do a step up on a park bench, and I end up eating dirt. Gravel rash on my palm, my cankle currently funky, fat and purple. As are my toes. What a dill.
And just in case you miss jman, here’s one we made earlier: