Postpartum slog

They said that the pounds "just fall right off" when you are breastfeeding.

Lies.

Starboy has been breastfeeding for three years, and I am like a house. People still ask me if I'm pregnant. It's horrifying. Especially since I'd love to be pregnant with a brother for Starboy.

A woman posted to a mommy list I used to participate in (that's a story for another day), raving about a particular boot camp — how she was in the best shape of her life, she loved the workout, it's different every day, she's skinnier than when she was in college, unicorns frolicked during the session underneath glistening rainbows, and so forth. I was intrigued. I've never seen a real unicorn baby. Though a big seller for me was that the group meets at someone's backyard, nearby, and kids are welcome. And the price is right: about $20 per session.

Then I found out that the host of the sessions is actually a mom I already know! Total bonus. This is going to be a great idea!

I mentally committed to starting yesterday, and doing two days this week. Actually, I ate the last of the  ice cream yesterday and started this morning.



And then I began to realize how woefully unprepared I am for this. I maybe have running shoes. I don't own a bra with elastic that works properly, much less one that would contain these massive girls on a run. Form-fitting clothes are not an option.

In our basement, I have a giant plastic bin filled with clothes suitable for a workout. They are all at least two sizes too small. I'm being kind to myself. When I hold them up, I feel like Starboy could wear them, they are so tiny.

So when I finally dash out of the house with toys for Starboy, snacks for Starboy, water for each of us, a towel to sit on (I don't know what I"m going to find there) and a mat for Starboy to play on, I am dressed, basically, like I do all of my shopping at the Goodwill. And I'm not talking the funky, stylish rask of vintage at the Goodwill. To wit: maternity gauchos, a tent-like t-shirt, hiking shoes and regular socks. It doesn't really match. The bra straps keep falling off my shoulder.

I decide not to stop at the grocery store on the way home.

The other mamas in the small group were great. One kept going on and on about how toxic she felt because she broke her diet yesterday with—gasp—California Pizza Kitchen and then a burger. And I'm thinking, man: a CPK salad is kind of a good day for me. There's vegetables in there, and stuff.

Then the workout. Which was embarrassingly challenging. Things that I used to do for hours on end as a six-year-old made me feel like a bag of cement. There was jiggling. A lot of jiggling, and I'm not talking about the moves the trainer was suggesting. I began to feel light-headed. Visions of four 5-lb packages of flour attached to my body—the excess weight that needs to go—were not really helping with my energy. Starboy began to get a concerned look on his face. The unicorns had left to get coffee.

By some great miracle, I was able to finish the hour without throwing up or passing out. Although a few minutes there were touch-and-go. And I use the word "hour" very loosely: At about the 40-minute mark, my body mostly gave up and the effort for the last segment amounted to more of an extended cool down than actual aerobic exercise.

Starboy said: Mommy, I did not like you dancing.

Yeaaah. Me neither, kid. Me neither.