Here’s my morning: I wake up early, feed the baby, play with her, shower, wake and feed the toddler, make lunch for the toddler, put the baby down for her first nap, explain to the 2-year-old why I have to go to work, then run out the door in a tizzy for the office. I work for 9 hours. I race home, I immediately put the baby to bed, play with the toddler for a few minutes and then initiate the evening ritual of bath, stories, three lullabies and 100 kisses.
Exercise is not happening a lot. If I were to exercise, I’d miss out on precious time with my kids or valued time with my husband. Or so I tell myself. But my ass is not getting smaller. And the “baby” isn’t really a good excuse anymore. What’s a mom dreading bathing suit season to do?
Use economics, of course.
I’ve concocted a commitment device. Her name is Nina. She’s a friend who lives one block away, loves to run and can help me get the running stroller and baby down two flights of stairs at 6:30 a.m. In douche bag, Wall Street parlance, it’s win-win: the baby gets fresh air, I get bonding time with the her and my friend, and I won’t have to dread hauling my backside into a bathing suit by June.
Now if I could just stop rewarding myself with donuts, I’ll be set.
Source: Boudewijn Berends