MY JOURNEY BACK TO FITNESS

The majority of my personal trainer’s clients are moms. This became evident in our initial consultation when he asked me if I could do a jumping jack without peeing myself.

I started to work out with Jan Vlachy at his Burlington fitness studio in February after losing a traumatic fight with a pair of jeans. I told him I was there for myself, but also for my kids.

Simply put, I don’t want my boys to grow up with a fat mom who fuels herself with sugar and dreads the uphill walk back from the park. And I know the odds of my children being overweight depends greatly on my ability to battle my own diet and exercise demons.

I’ve never been thin. My grandmother likes to tell me I’ve been chubby since birth. Motherhood just tipped the scales.

Two caesarean sections, extended breastfeeding and 30 extra pounds (OK, maybe 40) make me an unlikely candidate for the next Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover. I’m more National Geographic material.

I don’t expect my body to ever go back to its former self. In fact, I hate the unnatural pressure society puts on new moms to get their old bodies back before their babies have cracked their first smiles. Your life is never the same after children, you can’t expect your body to be either. I try to embrace my stretch marks and surgery scars as reminders of the beautiful children I grew inside me. And my breastfeeding experience has been well worth the damage to the girls.

My weight, however, is different. I don’t want to keep using motherhood as an excuse for being unhealthy. A sleepless night can’t justify a drivethru run for a sugary drink and calorie-dense confection. My three-year-old shouldn’t think that chocolate solves all the world’s problems. And taking care of my family’s needs can’t always be more important than my own.

“Mothers have the most motivation, but they are the first ones to quit,” says Vlachy. In his experience, it’s usually a lack of time, not money or initiative that keep moms from committing to a fitness routine.

“You have to be selfish,” he advised me. “You have to make time for you.”

So twice a week, no matter what is happening in my household, I let Vlachy whip me into shape for half an hour. It’s often my only child-free time and I cherish it, even when I’m doing burpees.

It would be cheaper to work out on my own, but I know it’s unlikely to happen. When I’m home, dodging Hot Wheels on the treadmill or clearing a spot in the playroom to do crunches, it’s too easy to be pulled away by a crying baby or hungry preschooler. I need to physically and mentally escape my family (and the laundry heap) to focus on me. And I’m starting to do it without guilt, knowing in the end my family will be better with a healthier matriarch.

To date I’ve dropped nearly 20 pounds and a dress size. I pulled out my pre-kid clothing stash from the basement the other day and things are close to fitting again. I won’t say I’m getting back to my old self. I’m working on a new improved version, stretch marks and all.