Mummy Goes To Boot Camp

Let's be completely honest - I'm a couch potato. Or at least, I'm quite happy being a couch potato. Even though I grew up playing netball, doing ballet, competitively swimming, crashing around a basketball court and swinging a hockey stick, I am not a naturally sporty person.

I loved my ballet - to be precise, I was obsessed. But the petite little thing I was at age five grew into a fourteen year old with broad shoulders and *ahem* a generous bra size, so a career as a prima ballerina was never really an option.

I played netball until my knees gave out. I ran around the basketball court (with no visible talent whatsoever) until I broke my nose going for a rebound under the hoop. Hockey was a sport I adored, which was a shame because I was rather terrible at it.

Swimming? Something I still do happily for hours to this day. I trained competitively for two years, and revelled in perfecting my butterfly sprints. The only downside was, I hated competition. I couldn't stand the pressure of swimming meets. I just liked the training. Weird, I know.

As a camp counsellor in the United States, I really enjoyed the outdoorsy, sporty lifestyle. Not because I was necessarily any good at anything. I just liked being outside, getting fit by traipsing up and down hills chasing after my campers. And the American sun gave me a tan, which was a bonus - something the Australian sun could never, ever do without frying me to a crisp.

Even though I grew up playing sport and being fairly active, I'm pretty sure that I felt plump the whole time. Which is ridiculous. Photographs of me as a teenager and in my twenties show a pretty normal looking chick (we're talking weight here, people, not normal as in completely normal, ok?) I mean, I felt fat most of the time, but quite clearly I wasn't. Fat, that is.

Even after Jack was born, I lost nearly all of the 19 kilos I put on while gestating him. Considering how skinny I was when I got pregnant with him (which I suppose would have been because I had only gotten married five weeks beforehand...), I could afford to put some on whilst enjoying the culinary benefits of being up the duff. And since he was such a hungry little bugger, I breastfed a lot of it off. The rest of it came off just before Phoebe decided it was her turn for another reincarnation.

Phoebalina's pregnancy was a fairly lean one because I lost about six kilos in the first trimester. Thank you, morning-noon-and-night sickness. Unfortunately, after my baby girl was born, post-natal depression gave me the unpleasant side-effect of being chubby. So at her first birthday, I weighed exactly what I had one year earlier, 9 months pregnant. Yay, me.

Did I get back into shape before pregnancy #3?? Um, no, not really. I lost some of it. But it was really tricky to find time to work, look after two babies, exercise, and not eat clinkers. So I was probably a tiny bit roundy when I got preggers with the Mouse. Not a lot roundy. Just comfy.

Well, when Mousie turned one in January, I was a bit tired of being comfy, so I joined Weight Watchers. And it worked, for a while. But after a couple of months and about 12 kilos, I became really good at maintaining my weight. An expert, you might say. I was being really good at walking with the pram almost every day, and eating fresh, healthy foods. But clearly, I was eating a little bit too much, and not moving quite enough.

My exercise of choice since Maisie was born is walking with the pram. It's quite convenient, actually. You can walk with the single pram, or the double. You can walk with one dog tied to the pram, or two dogs (it's when you've got the double pram, with a dog tied to either side, and the son on the scooter ahead of you that "well-meaning" people feel the need to comment on your lack of contraception. Have you noticed that? "My, my, you've got your hands full!!" Or, "Goodness, you must be busy!" Or my favourite, "You're a glutton for punishment!" To all of them I reply, "This is nothing - you should see how many I've got at home").

You can walk at night, in the daytime, with one baby screaming or two. You can walk with whinging toddlers, children who never, ever seem to shut up, or children with issues with their co-ordination. I didn't say you would enjoy every walk. But at least you're out there.

So I have been walking nearly every day, and it would seem that this is not enough to remove the jelly from my belly. Which is why, after a couple of wines at the primary school trivia night a few weeks ago, I (rather aggressively) bid for a three month stint at boot camp. And won. (Do you remember I told you?? You didn't think I'd actually do it, did you??? I don't blame you...)

And tonight I did it. I went to boot camp. And oh my lordy me, did it hurt. But that's ok. I imagine that it will absolutely cane tomorrow. But that's ok too. I fronted up tonight and did the hardest workout I reckon I've ever done, and it felt good (ask me again in the morning....) And I'm going to keep going for the full three months, because when Christmas rolls around, the only red-faced, roundy-bellied person in my house will be Santa.

I need to do this for me. And I also need to do this, because as I was heaving my lycra-clad buttocks out of the house tonight, the kids asked Daddy where I was going. When he told them, they protested, "But Mummy doesn't exercise!" Christian reminded them that Mummy did in fact exercise every day - that Mummy walked with them in the pram with the puppy dogs nearly every day. "But that's not proper exercise!", they chorused. (The fact that pushing both of the girls up hill in the double pram equates to pushing about 50 kilos obviously missed their pretty little heads, right?)

So here you are, my children. In the next three months, Mummy will be showing you what "proper" exercise looks like. Mummy will be going to boot camp three times a week, just to melt away the lingering evidence that the three of you each grew to a substantial size in Mummy's poor, abused uterus. Mummy will be a strong, resilient, womanly role-model for you. And when boot camp is over, Mummy will crawl back to her spot on the couch, and recover. Ok?