That which is not baking

I'm lucky enough to have a husband who's lucky enough not to have to be at his job at any given time, most days. He has a weekly staff meeting on Wednesday mornings, and now and then there's something else, or a conference or what-have-you, but most days he can work from home, or swan in at lunchtime, or work in the middle of the night, and nobody looks twice. Even his boss rarely gets into the office before eleven.

This is lovely, because, coupled with the fact that we live across the road from his work, it means he can let me go back to bed for an hour in the mornings, or come home for lunch, or co-op at the nursery school, or even come back if I ring up and tell him I just can't do it any more (only happened once, so far). It also facilitates him in his hobby: running marathons.

It started when Monkey was about 10 months old and I met my new BFF, who just happens to run marathons, partake in triathlons, and coach first-time marathoners with her running club. I mentioned that my husband had always had a vague ambition to run a marathon, and the damage was done. He joined her club and signed up for the first-time marathoners program. I indulged him just this one time, assuming that once he'd done the deed his urge would be sated and he'd never do such a crazy thing as trying to run 26.2 miles in one go again. I didn't understand about marathons: you always have to beat your best time, so you just have to run another. He's currently training for number seven, which will be his second crack at Boston. He's pretty good, then, and I am in awe of his determination, his sticktoitiveness, his disgusting level of fitness, and his buns of steel.

So if Daddy's not here, then, he's almost always either at work or out running, and this is accepted with equanimity by the children. His return is hailed by them and me with delight and relief, respectively. Any absence of Mummy, however, is a tragedy, an offence against human nature, and probably a contravention of civil liberties; and can usually be remedied by barging into the bathroom. The fact that I seem to be the Preferred Parent for both kids is mostly my own fault: in addition to having the boobs, I'm also always here. (Omnipresent, but - sadly - less and less omnipotent.)

My own relationship with exercise is less impressive. Exercise and I aren't on speaking terms at the moment, really. It's not that we're fighting; it's more that we never really got acquainted. Apart from a few forays into swimming and pilates, I've never had what you'd call a gym habit, never been interested beyond the hypothetical in long hikes up high mountains, never really enjoyed breaking a sweat. When B's running friends ask me if I run too, I reply that if I'm going to miss the bus, I'm going to miss the bus. Luckily, for the moment, my genes and breastfeeding combine to make me delightfully petite, but that won't last for ever. Part of me hopes that I don't have to eat my words and start running after all, and another part of me wants to join the other preschool moms in their sprint triathlon next year. Most of me would just like to find some time to myself on a Sunday morning to go swimming, and maybe a Wednesday evening to go back to my pilates class.

Which would be just the very tip of the iceberg of my not being Always Here, and probably a good thing for all concerned.