I can’t run because my goldfish just died (or something like that)

There are all kinds of excuses we use to get out of the everyday mundane.

“My computer crashed and I lost the document/couldn’t print”

“I got stuck in traffic/construction.” (Note: Please be sure to check road/traffic reports or only use this one if it’s true, because it’s very easy to verify).

“I contracted malaria and coming to that meeting will put everyone else at risk of contamination.”

And then there are the types of excuses women push out of their lady parts and are generally good for about 18 years or until they move out of the house.

Yes, it’s true. It didn’t take me long to discover my children make excellent scapegoats. If I’m lacking motivation to do nearly any given thing, running in particular, it’s all too convenient to blame it on exhaustion from chasing after/nursing/being up all night with one of them (Note: they also make legitimate excuses for getting out of dinner plans with people you don’t care for and if used appropriately, getting out of speeding or distracted driving fines).

Confession: my half-marathon was nearly two weeks ago and I ashamed to admit that I haven’t run once since then. The list of reasons is as long as the nasty string my daughter peeled from her banana in horror this morning, but to “real” runners, it’s just a bunch of noise. I don’t know if I fall into the category of real runner; those are the people who calculate negative splits on one hand while successfully ripping open a gel with the other. However while I may not be quite that hardcore and I’m using my tiredness from boisterous kids and home renovations as a reason to be stagnant, I can always tell when I’ve gone too long without running. I know pounding out a quick five kilometers is the answer to the little voices inside my head that tell me Casey Anthony is a more fit parent than I am.

My anxiety built for several years, but it didn’t really hit home or become a medically recognized condition until my daughter was three months old, when doctors could attach the word “postpartum” to it. I started running three months after the diagnosis and began to discover, even for a few brief minutes at a time, what feeling normal and strong was like again. I also had more patience and felt somewhat in-control when I walked back through the front door. So it makes perfect sense that my two weeks of non-activity have left me irritable, restless and generally about as pleasant to live with as I imagine having the entire Lohan clan as roommates would be.

One of these mornings I will shake off the sleep and push my half-alive carcass out the door for a slow jaunt around the neighbourhood. Until then, assume I’m just too busy repairing my broken printer and/or car, and sleeping off the Ebola virus.