I stumbled through the kitchen. Bleary-eyed from a night in which I was up with one girl or another more times than I could even remember to count.
My husband and daughter were getting breakfast on the table. I surveyed their progress, stretching as I stood there.
“I stwetch, too, Mommy!” My two-year-old raised her hands above her head imitating my every move.
“Do ex-cises, Mommy? I touch my toes!”
She bent towards the floor. Just like Winnie the Pooh does his stoutness exercises.
“No, sweetheart. Mommy’s not ready to do her exercises yet. She’s just waking up. Later.”
But somehow, later never happens. There’s always something more urgent than establishing good habits, more pressing than my need for strength training.
When bedtime rolls around and I realize I still haven’t done nary a push-up, I’m too tired to actually push myself. I go through the motions without the motions doing me any good.
I’ve learned that if I don’t do my exercises first thing, they probably won’t happen.
I’ve learned that if I don’t have a big mug of cold, clear water readily available, I won’t drink it.
I’ve learned that if the actions don’t hurt a little, they won’t stretch me.
My daughter’s imitations show me that she thinks exercising always starts with, and consists mostly of, being face-down on the floor with hands folded and eyes closed.
And I think she just might be right.