Running Up Mountains

This week, I realized that training for a marathon while breastfeeding and sleep deprived was a highly questionable decision.

Don’t worry, I’m not quitting. Or you can worry that I’m not quitting. Either way, I’m still running. But I won’t lie to you – it’s harder than I thought it would be.

I used to think that I was hardcore. Before I was pregnant, I competed in trail running races, hiked above 4000 metres, ran up mountains, and backpacked in Colombia. I ran until I was seven months pregnant. I am one of those people that actually likes interval workouts. But now my softer, lazier post-partum self would much rather spend Saturday mornings drinking strong coffee, eating French toast, and reading the paper than lacing up for yet another long run.

You see, I’m at the point in my training where we are running a half-marathon (21km) or longer every single weekend. It has also been ridiculously cold, so my faithful running partner and I have put in several long runs in -15 or -20 degree weather (and that is without wind chill, my friends). I’ll admit, when I put that in writing it sounds a bit ridiculous.

Another side effect of running so much while still breastfeeding is that I need food. Lots and lots of food. When I get back from a two hour run, I feel like I could eat the entire fridge and everything in it. My husband witnessed this first-hand when he questioned whether I really needed to eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. I just glared and got a bigger spoon. Of course, I am eating so much food to fuel my running that I haven’t shed a single pound in two months, and weight loss was one of my reasons for running the marathon. Shoot.

What on earth was I thinking?

I can tell you one thing: I was not thinking that running during my maternity leave would be so complicated. I thought I would have tons of time, considering that I have no work schedule to contend with, no commute, no volunteer work... maternity leave is “time off,” after all, isn’t it?

Right.

Fitting in regular runs has been surprisingly difficult, especially in the early months when my son needed to nurse every 90 minutes. Despite the fact that we bought a nice car seat attachment so he would be safe and snug in our fancy, shock-equipped, SUV of jogging strollers, the little tyke would not tolerate running (or walking) in the stroller for more than ten minutes at a time. He would cry and cry, and I would run faster and faster, hoping to return to the car before he really lost it.

People on the path gave me disapproving looks (or so I imagined) as I raced by, frantic and sweaty, my poor baby wailing in the stroller. But if I stopped and pulled him out to calm him (which I did every five minutes) he would just cry harder when I put him back in. So every time I ran by someone, I would say loudly, “It’s ok, baby, we’re almost home, baby,” so that perfect strangers would not think I was ignoring my child. Eventually I would surrender, pull him out and trudge all the way home pushing an empty stroller, the victorious infant happily perched on my hip.

By the time he would tolerate the stroller long enough for me to run seven or eight kilometres at a time, winter had arrived with blankets of snow and sub-sub-zero temperatures.

I tried taking advantage of the nursery at my gym, but that too was an epic failure. My sensitive little munchkin, at this time five months old, would tolerate about 20 minutes before an exasperated childcare worker would drag me off the treadmill. Sweaty and out of breath (again) I would calm the frightened little peanut, pack up my stuff and head home, defeated. Another run incomplete.

Out of desperation, I bought a cheap, used treadmill – the perfect solution.

Or so I thought.

I would nurse my baby, gently put him down for a nap, throw on some running clothes and race to the treadmill in our basement. Inevitably, I would get about 35 minutes into my run when I would hear him start to stir and whine on the baby monitor. With two or three more kilometres to go, I would frantically increase the treadmill speed, running faster and faster, willing him to go back to sleep (or at least to let me finish my workout). But my baby was apparently determined to make sure mommy never ran again.

Of course, now that he is older, my son takes nice long naps and I can finish my workouts without a problem.

That is, until my treadmill broke yesterday. It is now stuck on incline level 12 and won’t go down.

I guess I’ll be running up mountains again, after all.

The Dreaded Search for Childcare

It seems that I have finally extracted myself from the comfy world of denial. After being sidelined by a nasty cold and banking a few more days under the covers, I finally made the enormous step of emailing my boss. And then I conducted my first interview with a childcare provider. Yes, you read that right. I took two giant leaps forward. And I have had a headache ever since.

Now I don’t want to get too dramatic here. I’m not talking about leaving my son with someone else for nine hours every day, five days a week, like many parents do. I’m talking about two days a week. That’s it. Just two. But even that makes me sad.

I am trying to find a good compromise by working part-time, but I must admit that even this does not appeal to me right now. Perhaps I have become too comfortable in my yoga pants. After all, in my current occupation as mom, I can get on the floor into downward-facing-dog pose whenever I want, and the only person giving me weird looks is my baby. I like the lack of deadlines and the fact that my days are filled with baby giggles instead of media calls. I like library story hour and the children’s museum. I love taking my son to a coffee shop at 2pm or going for long morning walks with other moms. Some days are really tough, but even the worst days are still filled with kisses and snuggles. The thought of driving in rush hour, paying for parking, packing a lunch, attending two-hour meetings, and staring at a computer screen all day gives me the shudders. Especially since the cooking, cleaning, and laundry will all still be waiting when I get home. It feels like I will be adding a part-time job when I’m already working 12-hour days.

But back to the point: finding childcare. Any parent in Canada knows how difficult it is to find reliable, inexpensive, high-quality childcare. In Quebec, the government subsidizes daycare so that parents only pay $7 per day. (No, that is not a typo.) But spots in such daycares are nearly impossible to find. The wait-lists are literally years long. The alternative is unlicensed home daycare, which in this part of the country ranges anywhere from $20 to $45 per day. This is certainly cheaper than hiring a nanny, but these “home daycares” are often just stay-at-home-moms who have decided they want a few playmates around for their kids. There is nothing inherently wrong with this, but some mothers have vastly different parenting styles and values than I do. How do I know that this person is not going to just plunk my child in front of a TV all day and feed him beige, packaged substances masquerading as food?

I realize that no nanny or childcare provider is ever really going to be good enough for me, because they will not be me. But since our family lives on the other side of the country, and flying him back and forth doesn’t seem very practical, I need to find an alternative.

So I interviewed a woman with a new home daycare in our neighbourhood. She was very nice, professional and organized. She had references and menu plans. Her home was nice and new. Her little daughter was sweet and bright and obviously well-loved. There was nothing clearly wrong, no red flags, no real problems. I asked her questions for nearly an hour and left feeling satisfied with her answers. Yet, when I drove away, I wanted to cry. I know, I know. It’s only two days. Some of you are thinking that I should get a grip. But he’s my little buddy, he’s my sunshine, and I don’t want to miss a thing. He’s still just a baby.

But maybe I’m the one being a baby. Maybe he’ll enjoy two days of games and playmates and outings to the park. Someone even told me that he’ll be happier in daycare than at home because he’ll be playing with other kids. I think this is a lie that mothers tell themselves so they will feel less guilty. (Also, could my son really get any happier? He giggles and laughs and grins all day long!) I just don’t believe that he’d rather be in the home of a stranger with six other kids than at home with his momma. Even for just two days a week.

But I have two months left to figure it out. Until then, I’m going to enjoy all the baby giggles I can get.

The Comfort of Denial

I have been trying to pull myself out of denial this week, with very little success. It’s like a deliciously heavy blanket on a cold afternoon.

You see, I’m supposed to return to work in just over two months, and this is causing me considerable stress, when I actually think about it. So I have been coping by refusing to deal with it. The result is that I still have not talked to my boss, I have made no childcare arrangements, and I have dug myself deeper under the covers. Now, with two months to go, I am in a panic because I have nothing lined up. Denial, it seems, does not accomplish anything in my absence.

But these facts have not spurred me into action. In fact, I just seem to become more paralyzed as the days tick by. I have not left the house in three days, due to exhaustion and sheer listlessness. And I don’t think that I am alone. Many of the young, well-educated, highly motivated moms that I know have no idea what to do in this next phase of our lives. Our maternity leaves are ending and we do not know what to do next. Some of us, including me, are contemplating a return to school, perhaps a complete change of career… but is that just another way of prolonging decisions for a little bit longer?

The tricky part is figuring out how to progress in our careers while being unwilling to work full-time, much less overtime. Some mothers choose to stay home full-time while their children are young, planning to return to work once the little munchkins are in school. Other moms return to work full-time right away, satisfied that their children are in high-quality daycare and will be just fine without them.

I am neither of these types. I want to work full-time and be a full-time mom. And yes, I realize that this is not possible in the current confines of our universe.

The problem with my generation of mommies is that we want to do everything, all at once. We want to be the successful academic, or the visionary director, or the superstar CEO, or award-winning writer, or whatever, but we also want to make all our baby food from scratch (and organic, of course), help with the homework, kiss the boo-boos, be the PTA leader, bake the cupcakes, and coach the soccer team. And run marathons. Oh, and we also want toned bodies and flawless hair while we’re doing it.

We are convinced that “just” being a mom is not enough. Somehow we also have to be everything that our childless friends can be. But our babies need us more than the boardroom does. There will always be someone else to step up and fill my desk chair. But no one else can be mommy to my son. I know that. But I still need to feel smart. I need to remember why I went to graduate school. I need to think and write and be a part of something bigger than my little life of avocado kisses and lullabies.

You see, I think that we can have it all. But we can’t have it all at the same time. That is a lie we women keep telling ourselves, and we are turning ourselves inside out trying to achieve the impossible. So we have to choose. We have to breathe, rest, compromise, laugh, and choose.

And I don’t know what to do.