Thursday, September 8, 2011

Hello, gym!

The gym we belong to was chosen entirely because it has on-site childcare, which means I can drop the boys off and forget about them for an hour or two.  Before N was born this provided me with a sanity break every day, where I could hop on a bike and read a book without having to worry about a toy bashing me on the head.  Or being deafened by the ABC song being "sung" at the top of the lungs.  The side benefit of losing weight was nice and all, but if I'm being honest it was really about the break.  Once N was born, though, it became muuuch more complicated.  Infants have to have “appointments” to ensure the baby to staff ratio doesn’t get out of whack, which means I have to PLAN.  That’s a four letter word around here.  I make plans and Murphy just laughs at me.  So prior to today, N had only been to the gym once…and on that occasion Z just about flipped out when he saw the PARKING LOT, screamed the whole way into the building, and apparently screamed anytime someone came near N.  And then screamed when I came to pick them up, even though he’d been fine right up until he heard my voice.  So between the scheduling and the freakouts, it hasn’t been worth the effort to try and get out there, so it’s been a good four months since I’ve been.  Today, though, I decided it was time.  N has been doing pretty well on his new sleep schedule, so it was possible to make an appointment with a fair amount of confidence.  Zach is pretty well adjusted to the fact that he has a brother, now, so he's less anxious about that kind of thing.  And I had a new book that was interfering with my ability to do anything not related to reading it.  So I made an appointment for 3:30, figuring that N would get up from his afternoon nap around 3.  HAHAHAHAHA…I finally woke him up at 3:25.  Luckily the gym isn’t too far, and they give you a 15 minute grace period on these appointments.  We get there, Z is still okay.  We walk in and the lady at the front desk remembers him by name (warm fuzzy feelings ensue) and he’s okay.  Walk into the kid zone and the ladies get all excited to see him, ooh and aah over N, and we’re doing okay.  In fact, despite all my worries, there’s only a little bit of a pouty “I want to cry but I’m holding it together” expression as he walks back to the playroom, and otherwise it’s no big deal.  Hallelujah!  What was I so worried about?  He's a big boy now.  Let the regular gym-going re-commence!

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