My daughter is looking at me from her high chair, accusation radiating from her big eyes and rosy cheeks as a moment usually spent communing over her favorite activity (spreading food over large surfaces) is actually spent typing on my computer.
On a normal weekday we would rush through a breakfast of eggs and avocado, then I would throw everything I need into two backpacks, one of which attaches to the back of my bicycle. The whole family would then hop over to the gym where my wife and I take turns taking care of the baby while the other gets put through his/her routine.
Usually we’re done by 8am which gives me ample time to shower, change and cycle to work. Sometimes we even have time to take V to the park for a few minutes on a swing before it’s time to go.
On Sundays its a bit different. I don’t have to go to the office so everything gets pushed back an hour. We wake up at 7am, go through a more leisurely morning routine (which is why I have time to write this), and get to the gym for a 9am session. We’re done by 9:30 (the benefits of HIT), and back home before 10am.
Our daughter is a minor celebrity at the gym. Given the regularity with which we go, she’s familiar with all the staff and everyone who goes there at the same time as we do. The sight of her crawling around the mats, playing with the medicine balls and climbing all over us as we try to complete our abs routine is part of the morning routine.
Luckily she smiles at everyone and exercises a sort of magical baby charm to ensure that she’s accepted as a part of the experience and appreciated by all, rather than a nuisance that gets in the way of people’s exercise.
Ok, I’ve finished my coffee. It’s time to go. The gym beckons. It’s legs and calves today.