So I’ve noticed my mouth isn’t the only thing growing big with age. And while I could easily qualify as a personal trainer in how to justify this growing trend, my tiny Type-A (the eldest in my variety pack) finally decided to put my excuses on the bench and start running me in the right direction again, when she sweetly (note my virtual sarcasm) announced, “I’ll be your personal trainer Mama.” So I ignorantly agreed to the playful proposal of my compact coach, with visions of leisurely walks with Hallmark breaks for desperado dandelions. Thus, I was grossly unprepared for my bite-sized boot camp.

5:30 AM: Mere minutes past bedtime. The morning still dressed in the black of night.

Wait! Let’s replay the start of the training session that led up to this starting gate.

12:30 AM: “Bedtime” (note the quotes)

1:00 AM: The needy one cries out, ready for a marathon evening. I win, but only after an exhausting race back to bed.

2:30 AM: The wild one wakes. Out of breath. Grateful for our stock-hold of baby meth (I mean asthma medication) that brings her back into the race, and provides her with just enough amphetamines to keep her accelerating through the darkness until she passes out just before the finish-line of dawn.

5:30: We’re back to the starting shot. Mere minutes past bedtime. The morning still dressed in the black of night. I “awake” (assuming I ever really had the opportunity to dance with my dreams) to my diligent drill sergeant,  running shoes in hand, laced through her tiny grasp, ready to chase away the excuses of my eventful evening. I reluctantly oblige, pulled towards the starting line by guilty visions (or perhaps bad dreams, given I am still half-asleep) of disappointing my determined little dynamo. I dust off my running shoes (literally) and step into dawn, only to be presented with the first of many tiny training tactics that began my heart racing: “Where you go Mommy?” I hear cheered from the sidelines, with the hopeful sound of joining Team Tiny.

And thus began Baby Boot Camp Day 1: 1 Mommy, with ample training in the inevitable art of exhaustion, 3 tireless, tiny trainers, and the world’s longest recorded race around the block. Interested in matching my mommy model? Here are some of the highlights of my priceless parent-and-me program:

-Interested in strength training? Invest in at least 1, 25lb weight ball to use in circuit training. Affix to your hip until comfortable, then move to your ankle, and occasionally shoulders for additional muscle manipulation. Mine took approximately 9 months in production and about a year to work up to this weight class. I named him Wesley. Need an additional challenge? Invest in a 2nd, more challenging weight. I  named this power ball Mia.

-Looking for cardio? Take your tiny trainers to a track shared with motorcars during race time. Neighborhoods drenched with driveways during a Monday morning rush will also do. Every time one of your racers speeds ahead (or often in opposing directions) your heart will race, settle, and then accelerate again as another dynamo dashes from a driveway without consideration for your tiny team, resulting in a great cardio circuit training.

-Speed and agility? Hit the track in your official mommy uniform (a.k.a. roll out of bed and go). There is nothing that moves me more than a public display of my pjs.

-Needing an extra push to pass the finish-line? Try complaining. The great thing about your kiddie coaches is they are trained in the art of tantrums. If you threaten self-defeat, the contagious effect of your attitude will inevitably result in a mini meltdown mid-marathon, which will only add a resistance band to the 25 lb weight ball discussed previously.

-As a way to maintain the “benefits” of your workout throughout the day, I recommend a diet of coffee and well, more coffee.

I’ve  also included a shot of my tiny training team. My first thought upon viewing this promo shot was to burn it and swallow the shame. Then I read one of any of my other posts and realized I vomited my shame and secrets long ago to the point of trademark. So, like the movie stars who have the bravery of gracing the cover of Glamour with only a glimpse of gloss, I decided I should share scenes from my own ridiculous race as an image of my escape from excuses. Unfortunately, as chap-stick and flip flops are my usual beauty regimen, I had to bring it down a few levels to arrive at the same dramatic effect of liberating, visual self-deprecation. So here it is. Me and my three little excuses.