Reason #116 – My son is nothing but deadweight to me

Reason #116 – My son is nothing but deadweight to me

Nov 24

Deadweight (n):

1. a heavy weight or load
2. an oppressive burden; encumbrance
3. (Transport / Nautical Terms) the difference between the loaded and the unloaded weights of a ship
4. (Engineering / Civil Engineering) another name for dead load
5. (Business / Commerce) (in shipping) freight chargeable by weight rather than by bulk

Oh, yeah. That’s my boy.

And before you leap to the obvious conclusion that I am referring to the second meaning, I’ll have you know that I in fact mean 1: “a heavy weight or load”.

Holy MOLY, does my boy have a heavy ass!

As you can see, I tried baby-wearing for a while. When I was pregnant I got pretty evangelical about it, going so far as to buying a rebozo and bravely trying to strap a stuffed bear to my chest while my mother rolled on the floor laughing. I don’t mean it as a figure of speech either – she could not help me get out of the flipping’ tangle of metres and metres of fabric I got myself in because she was laughing so hard.

I frankly felt a lot like Calvin.

Even after I got a fancypants carrier, baby-wearing was an utter failure. I got winded after 2 blocks or 20 minutes, whichever happened first – and it usually was the 20 minutes.

Still feeling evangelical, I enrolled C into swimming lessons, hoping that buoyancy would make the load easier to carry. You know, since C’s weight would be decreased in a measure equal to the weight of the water he was displacing. I used to be a Physics teacher. I know about this shit.

I overestimated the amount of water C would displace. Even in the water he was too freaking heavy. Behold my bulging neck and strained expression as I try to lift him onto a raft.

For a while I just gave up and let C’s entourage do the dirty work for me. It was brilliant. We all know how deep he rolls, too, so it was a long while.

Yet at some point I kinda came to terms with my miserable physical condition, probably when I got winded – seriously, painfully winded – after pushing C’s pram up a long steep hill. “Holy crap,” I thought to myself, “this kid is not going to get any lighter. And neither am I if I continue like this!”

So I sought professional help from one of the finest online personal trainers around (love ya, coach!) and I started working out at home. Jogging. Doing short and intense routines that left me sitting on the floor in a right daze. Spinning.

Soon I started looking good and feeling better, and by the time I went on my recent trip to New York I managed to keep up with the Dane without getting winded once. (If you’re reading this, high heel grumps don’t count, sir.) (Everyone else can get your minds out of the gutter and stop sniggering.)

Which finally brings us to the deadweight part: I use C as weights for working out!

It’s not like I go through a whole routine (I’m not THAT fit yet!) but whenever I have a chance I carry him and do a few squats, or bounce him about on my legs, or do a couple of biceps curls while carrying him. And the best part is that he thinks I’m playing with him! Win win!

But we know the truth, and it is that I am not playing with my boy – I am using him as deadweight to work out. Bad mama, bad.

I think I’ll go work the guilt out, Babercise style.

PS: Apologies for the late posting. I couldn’t finish writing last night because of reason #117.