Saturday was my solid day. The day I always knew I could get a run in. Maybe in the morning, maybe in the afternoon. But it would happen. Micah and I could take turns, or maybe he’d just take the kids without reciprocation. He’s nice like that.
Except that Saturday has been a little shaky lately. Micah’s gone all day, we’re hanging out with friends, we’ve got a packed day from wake-up to lights-out. There’s no chance. Not an hour for me to slip away. My mind is racing ahead to January, when I need to be training for the Boston marathon, but my body is stuck at home with the kids and the cold and the dark.
I should be building a base: running consistent miles for when the long runs and the speedwork become weekly treats. I should be strengthening my core, my abs and glutes and back and hips to keep me upright and moving forward. I should be making early morning runs my habit, my routine.
But it’s hard to think that way. The thought of committing to 3 or 4 early mornings a week is more than I can handle. My brain turns off and I think, “No way. Not going to happen.” Still, I can exercise 3 or 4 times a week. Maybe get 2 or 3 runs in. Pop in a yoga video once or twice if I can’t get out by myself.
So I’m easing in. Taking it slow. Evaluating each night whether I can get up in the morning or not. Trying, as I did near the end of the pregnancy, to work out 3 or 4 times a week, whatever that means: running, yoga, kickboxing. It doesn’t feel like too much of a commitment. It doesn’t stress me out. It structures my week pushes my comfort level just enough to make it a priority, rather than being either discouragingly difficult or so easy that I can brush it off with the thought that I can just do it later.
Still, I hope that by January I can get my Saturday runs back. I miss them.