The first one… a year on.

In just a couple of weeks (I think?) this little blog will blow out a candle. So, I’m putting on my big girl pants (no, not nanna undies … DON’T get them confused, people), and linking up my very first post with Robomum in the Lounge to have a little peek at how far (or not) I’ve come.

It’s short. It makes me wince a little. What the hell. Here it is.

the-lounge-logo

My Happy Place
So, I joined a gym.

Exercise used to be to lose weight, to look good in a bikini (yep, ok, naked) and to not feel completely crap when turning up at the beach or, worse, flicking through a glossy mag featuring models in bikinis, WHILE at the beach, wearing a bikini. But now?

Now I just want a quiet place. A place where nobody pulls on me and asks for food, a place where nobody hits anybody (without gloves on), and, blissssssssss, a place where I can ride a bike to nowhere and read a trashy magazine about nothing while someone else looks after my kids for the princely sum of $2. If you need motivation to exercise, people, have children!

The other day I was feeling particularly grumpy about my domestic ungoddessness (it’s my blog and I’ll make up words if I want to DAMMIT) and I needed to get out of the house desperately. Where to go? Where to go?

YOGA. Perfect. Ten minutes of screaming at the girls to get shoes on, eat breakfast, stop dancing on the toilet, and we were in the car driving at breakneck speed towards RELAXATION.

I barrelled through the door without a second to spare, lay down and took my ten long breaths in, and out, in, and out.

I fell asleep. And it was good.

 

This is not me not doing yoga.

Another successful downward dog day

I’ve mentioned before how much I love going to my happy place - the gym, for some alone time and the chance to score cheap childcare. The days at home seem to pass so much more quickly with a brief respite from the limpet needing a ‘high huggle’. And, amazingly, after an hour away, they turn cuter! Magic. I really should tell them to stop photoshopping my kids while I’m gone.

As usual, we had five minutes left to make it from our place onto the yoga mat, and amazingly the planets and green lights and children aligned. I made it. There was some chi ball dancing, some butt torture (‘Ryan Gosling is seeing you naked for the first time’ I started saying in my head for motivation, but it was more like ‘fuck fuck fuck I’m going to die’ by the end), and some lying down. I liked the lying down most.

Some highlights:

1) The uncanny resemblance my neighbour’s chi ball bore to a mango. At one point I very nearly crawled over and sunk my teeth in. Thank God I have subhuman restraint.

This is a chi ball . Deflated, when you’re hungry, it’s mango-esque.

2) The spectacular and very loud fart that NOBODY heard. Poor woman – I wanted to laugh it off with her but I suspect she hoped/imagined/dreamt it was unheard. Sometimes etiquette is stupid. And, to my eternal credit, I didn’t laugh. Like a teenaged boy, in a quiet space, I find farting hilarious.

3) My ineptitude with a theraband. These are the stretchy things that physios give you in rehab. I’d pulled it behind my foot in an ‘all-fours’ position, then tipped right off to the left, until SPLAT – I’d rolled over like a dog for a belly scratch. Being at the very back of the room, the gorgeous lady in front kindly drew it to everyone’s attention with ‘MAN DOWN!’

This is almost exactly how awesome I look with a theraband before I do the sideways roll over dog

In a nutshell – my kids get cuter, I get to swear unimpeded, work on being Ryan Gosling’s girlfriend (cos we all know THAT’S going to happen), make childish fart jokes inside my head and roll around like a sleepy itchy dog. Is exercise supposed to be this fun?

My happy place

So, I joined a gym.

Exercise used to be to lose weight, to look good in a bikini (yep, ok, naked) and to not feel completely crap when turning up at the beach or, worse, flicking through a glossy mag featuring models in bikinis, WHILE at the beach, wearing a bikini. But now?

Now I just want a quiet place. A place where nobody pulls on me and asks for food, a place where nobody hits anybody (without gloves on), and, blissssssssss, a place where I can ride a bike to nowhere and read a trashy magazine about nothing while someone else looks after my kids for the princely sum of $2. If you need motivation to exercise, people, have children!

The other day I was feeling particularly grumpy about my domestic ungoddessness (it’s my blog and I’ll make up words if I want to DAMMIT) and I needed to get out of the house desperately. Where to go? Where to go?

YOGA. Perfect. Ten minutes of screaming at the girls to get shoes on, eat breakfast, stop dancing on the toilet, and we were in the car driving at breakneck speed towards RELAXATION.

I barrelled through the door without a second to spare, lay down and took my ten long breaths in, and out, in, and out.

I fell asleep. And it was good.

 

This is not me not doing yoga.