A few months ago, I went to a Zumba class where I quickly concluded that white girls don’t have much rhythm, Latin girls have a lot and 20-something Swedish nannies don’t need any. And last I checked, I’m not Latino or a 20-something Swedish nanny.
But still, despite a lack of actual rhythm, I was feeling pretty good about myself for going to an exercise class. Good enough that I rewarded myself with a two month break.
And then just the other day at preschool pick-up, I ran into a friend who is an avid exerciser and I had the stupidity to ask…
“So are you working out these days?”
“No, not so much. But I’ve totally been hitting the candy. Hard,” she responded.
Okay, she didn’t actually say that. Instead she said,
“Yes, I’m training for an Iron Man.”
Oh. That’s sort of like a Zumba class except that instead of gyrating, shimmying and tripping over yourself for 50 minutes, you swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles and then run 26.2 miles.
And not in a lifetime.
In a single day.
In fact, she had just done a six hour training run.
Holy grilled cheeses.
That sounded so painful. And boring. And impressive.
So as I was contemplating how anyone could take part in an Iron Man, my throat started to hurt. Which I ignored.
And then my head started pounding like a mofo. Which I figured was nothing.
But by Saturday morning, “nothing” was kicking my ass.
I had a fever which 6-year-old Dylan pointed out was completely worse than having Bieber Fever. And she’s so right.
Despite my deteriorating condition, I couldn’t rest because I had to volunteer at our school fair and take care of my four kids, including twins who were also sick. Thankfully my dad was there to help and I did manage to squeeze in a trip to the walk-in clinic where they confirmed strep throat. Which of course, my twins have too.
It was honestly my worst day as a mother. Not that I was a bad mother. I wasn’t. It’s just that it took epic energy to push through my throbbing pain and care for my children when all I wanted to do was lie down. Every single second.
It definitely wasn’t top notch care. But they were fed, they were clothed, they had bedtime stories. Of course, there was too much TV, the house was a mess and I’m sure everyone got called the wrong name. (But kids don’t care what they are being called when they’re watching hours of “Bubble Guppies.”)
That day was my own personal Iron Man.
The only one I’m positive I’ll ever complete.