Looking for My Mojo

It's a fill-in-the-blank-for-your-own-prompt Prompt: 

The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.

I chose to write about the first time I ran after having Dylan.

I bent to retie my shoes, loosening my laces and pulling them tight, though they felt perfect before the tweaking.  My mood wavered between unsettled and apprehensive, my eight-week old at home, without me.

 

I worried he had woken up.  I worried he would miss me.  I wondered if Ryan would call me if there was a crisis.  I wondered what kind of crisis could possibly arise during the forty-five minutes I planned to be gone.

I bent to tie my shoes again, then abruptly straightened and stepped onto the treadmill, out of excuses.  Sliding earbuds into my ears, I turned on my carefully prepared workout mix, the hip hop jarring after carefully monitoring the child-appropriateness of my music choices during my gym hiatus.

The warm-up walk was familiar, easy in fact without a massive double stroller in front of me.  My stride turned almost to a strut as I contemplated changing speeds.  Inexplicably, I probed at my caesarean incision, testing for soreness, for pain, for a challenge to my plan to get back into shape.

Numbness. The best I could hope for.

I wondered what was happening at home.

I eased the speed up to a twelve-minute mile, thinking back to the hours I had logged on the elliptical during my pregnancy.  My legs fell into a remembered rhythm, awkwardly and tightly, feeling heavy and unfamiliar above my shoes.

 

My tight sports bras reminded me of the tether that would link me to Dylan for the next year.

Minutes later, my lungs were as heavy as my legs, my breathing labored and forced.

Walking, pre-natal yoga, and the elliptical machine had kept my weight gain within a respectable range, but my body was eager to remind me that nothing could make me sweat like a good run.

Turning up my music so I couldn’t hear myself panting, I forced my legs to move back and forth, slowly waking my muscles from hibernation.  Sweat snaked down my temples by the end of the second song, but I lumbered on, attempting to ignore the discomfort.

Refusing to take a pacifier meant Dylan could be difficult to soothe if he woke hungry from his brief naps.

But as my feet struck the rubber belt, left right left right, I felt another familiar sensation.  Briefly, fleetingly, joy flickered, teasing my lips into a grimacing smile.  Anxiety flowed out of me with the sweat.

Ryan could handle any emergency manufactured by a sleeping two-month old and a toddler.

Muscle memory pumped my arms back and forth, my stride quickening to its accustomed beat.  The bass in the background propelled me along.  I eased the speed up a few more notches.

That lasted for a few brief, glorious minutes before I had to slow back down to a walk or risk keeling over and flying off the back of the treadmill.

Still, those marvelous moments reminded me of why I had a training schedule written, in pen, in my planner. 

Running keeps me in shape and keeps my stress at bay and keeps me from throwing the Glee soundtrack out the window after hearing it countless times.  Running brings me joy.

And now, over a year, and hundreds of miles later, I need to recapture that joy.  Running has morphed into a chore, an item on my to-do list, a burden.

I need to reevaluate my goals or my mindset or my running playlist.  I need to lace up my shoes and turn up my music and follow my feet.

I need to remember why I run.

showing that even though he doesn't have a recital costume, he's still a cutie pie