One Does Not Simply Leave the House

An hour at the gym, y'all. It's all I wanted. Only 4% of the day. It didn't seem that much to ask. It keeps me sane, exercise. Cardio is both my anti-depressant and anger management tool. Everyone, trusts me, wants me to go running. It's best for everyone. Not unlike Bruce Banner, you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. And since it's July in Texas, running outside just isn't a option for a couple of weeks. A quick trip to the gym. Sounds simple, right? Oh, but for the parent of multiple children, nothing is simple. Oh, no. One does not simply leave the house.

Because arrangements must be made. Someone has to supervise my heathens while I'm getting my sweat on. Now, luckily for me, my gym partners with a play care center, so there is somewhere for my children to hang out. It's a cool place for kids who aren't completely indulged and entitled like mine are: indoor play gyms, video games and TV, activities...and it might as well be the Gulag as far as my children are concerned. I'm leaving them at Guantanamo Bay. Cue the drama. Surely an hour at play care is only comparable to someone plucking your arm off and beating you with it.

Debate ensues. There is crying and so, so many BUT I DON'T WANNA GOs. There is hugging of legs and there are tear-stained faces. You would think I was taking them out to the woods because I couldn't afford to feed them anymore. I can't, but I digress. I'm not proud to say fast food bribery was used. I may or may not have shamelessly promised every chicken nugget on the face of the Earth if they would merely cooperate. It took the persuasive skills of a UN ambassador along with the promise of a happy meal toy, but at last we are in agreement: we're going.

Then: the preparation for launch. Clothes. Flattening of hair. Washing of hands and faces. Wardrobe consultations. I struggle into spandex, a workout all of its own. The brushing of the many, many teeth. There is an entire blog entry to be written about children of eight, ten, and six who must be sat upon and forced to dental hygiene. I won't get into the gory details here. Suffice it to say I've earned a four-star retirement home facilities from these children.

To the mini-van! First, all three kids have to agree on a DVD to watch in the car on the way. And when you've got three kids, picking a television show everyone likes is like having the vegan sister-in-law over for Thanksgiving...there simply isn't a way to please everyone. So I make the DVD selection...and please no one. Sulking and backtalk ensue. The indignance of a ten year old boy forced to watch The Littlest Pet Shop episodes is unmatched. And how in as small a house as we have do my children manage to misplace every shoe they own? How do left and right end up in completely different areas?

Do we need socks for the play area? Better pack them just in case. Mom, can I take my DS? Mom, can I take my stuffed giraffe? Mom, can I have a snack before we go pick up lunch? Mom, make the boys promise they will NOT leave me alone to play by myself. Mom. MOM. MOM!

Thirty minutes of traffic. Off to pick up lunch....25 dollars. Membership update at play care...40 dollars. Sitting fee for the privilege of my hour at the gym...22 dollars. Getting to work out my parental angst for an uninterrupted hour? Priceless.

One day, it won't take half the day and an act of Congress to pull off an hour of self care. One day, perhaps, it won't take me three hours to leave the house. These children of mine will grow. I hear one day they might even be able to be left under their own recognizance. One day, I'm going to get a bee in my bonnet to head somewhere, and all I'll have to do is pick up my car keys and go. Here's to the hope carving out the time to work out now helps me live long enough to see that day.