Tag Archives: postnatal

The perils of postnatal exercise: Part III

It’s happened again.

The ritual humiliation, pain and constant pummelling of self-esteem. The sweaty socks, sweaty pants and sweaty bum crack. The sickeningly toned beautiful people. The hot room, the weights and the constant never-ending bouncing-bloody-squats.

Yes, it’s Bootcamp time.

After the pants-wetting and hairy toe episodes of last week, it’s fair to say I’m the least popular Bootcamp victim. But just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

Again, I made a promising start. I survived the kettle bell drill. For those of you unfamiliar with this method of torture, it involves standing up, bending down, lifting, pushing and bouncing. All while holding a heavy weight and doing your best not to fart.

I also survived the running back and forth across the room while being shouted at. Without wetting my pants. Or farting.

All in all, I was feeling pretty smug. And sweaty.

But then I got to the car park. I wasn’t in the best of shapes. The smugness was giving way to a dazed and confused feeling. With a bad case of trapped wind.

The car park was dark. It was cold. I was scared.

I fumbled in my pocket and grabbed my key. The trapped wind was turning into a stabbing pain deep in my stomach. I pushed my key into the lock and…nothing happened. I was getting desperate. As the pain intensified, terrifying scenarios started to run through my head…I’m going to get mugged, I’m going to have to ring the police, I don’t have my phone, my car’s broken down, the baby’s going to wake up and I’m miles from home. I’m going to get mugged…

And then a sharp tap on my shoulder.

This is it. I’m being mugged. It’s actually happening. Please don’t hurt me.

I turn to find one of the Beautiful People staring angrily at me.

Turns out I’d only been trying to get into the wrong bloody car. The sheer relief that I wasn’t being mugged was all too much. I could hold it in no longer. Yep, that’s right. I did a massive trump.

Great. So now I’m a pants-wetting, hairy toed, flatulent car thief.

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The perils of postnatal exercise

There’s nothing quite like an exercise class to make you feel rubbish about yourself.

Last night I took my first step to getting back into shape after having my baby. I know, I know, she’s eight months old now, haven’t I left it a bit late? J-Lo was back pumping iron after six weeks, you say? Whatever. I am lazy. I won’t deny it.

Anyway, it was hell. Pure, unadulterated hell.

The thing is, this experience of pure, unadulterated hell is one I will have to repeat twice a week, for six weeks. Because I’ve paid for all the lessons already. And I have a bet on with the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine that I won’t drop out.

Seeing as it’s too late for me to save myself, I thought I would commit the utterly selfless act of being the exercise guinea pig. I will undergo a twice weekly humiliation, for your benefit. Every time something awful happens at one of these classes, I will share it with you. That way, you can gain all the virtuous experience of an exercise class, with none of the humiliation.

So, what have we learnt after Lesson One? Don’t do bouncing squats if you’ve had a baby in the last year. They make you wet yourself.

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Things I said when I was pregnant (and naïve)

naive pregnant woman

 1. I will have a water birth, with no pain relief.

You try that when your baby’s all tangled up inside you and takes two days to move into the right position to come out. Pethidine seemed like a rather lovely option at the time.

 2. I will get back into shape at least six months after giving birth.

Going for ten mile runs after being up all night with a teething baby really don’t appeal.

3.  My baby will not watch TV.

But she loves Zingzillas! And Neighbours. Who can blame her really?

 4. My baby will take a bottle.

Six months and £150 later this still hasn’t happened. We’ve tried every teat under the sun and every Tom, Dick and Harry giving it to her. She hates it.

5. I will do Yoga at least twice a week.

Tried it once. Fell asleep doing Downward Facing Dog. ‘Nuff said.

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