Exercise, Motherhood and Depression

I just came back from the gym. I feel good.

There are the obvious reasons for feeling good. I've crossed something off my to-do list. I have an overall sense of accomplishment. I've worked off the chocolates that my lovely husband got for me the other day.

But when I say, "I feel good", I mean so much more. My head feels good. I feel lighter, more optimistic and relaxed. Love abounds in my heart for family,  neighbors and mankind. Picture me with a skip in my step, humming the song, I Can See Clearly Now, as the serotonin balances in my brain.

I need to workout. When I don't exercise, the stress in my life turns into dark thoughts, irritability, and a struggle to accomplish daily tasks.

It's workout, go on Prozac or be depressed. I've done all three. I prefer the first option, and have
chosen exercise for many years. I haven't always wanted to get to the gym. There have been times that it was hard to fit it into my schedule.

But working out is a commitment that I have made to myself and my mental health. I'm grateful that exercise has worked for me as well as any pill.

Now, I have Claire. I'm finding it harder to honor that commitment. Frankly, it's easier to find time to blog. I can sit at home while she's sleeping and write. I've never been an exercise tape kind of girl. I'm tired. I don't have a ton of free time. The list goes on.

I don't easily recognize the slow slide into depression either. Remember the frog sitting in a pot of water on the stove? She's slowly boiled, because she doesn't feel the rising temperature. I'm like her. I notice the dark side of myself only in contrast, when I feel differently than dark. 

In general, we moms have a hard time taking care of ourselves. It's ironic, though, that at a time when we need to be our best selves for our children, we find it challenging to attend to our needs. So many other priorities seem to trump us and our pesky needs.

I do notice I'm not taking care of myself, though. I notice when I return from a workout and feel differently than dark.

Like today. That's when I remember that my daughter deserves a mom who feels this good. I am a better mom when I feel this good. I deserve to say, "I feel good" and really mean it.

We all do.

Connect with: Bloglovin', FB, Twitter, G+, Pinterest

Photo Source: Mike Baird, Flickr, this photo has been altered and does not suggest that the licensor endorses me or its use
License

Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

 

<center> <a href="http://taoofpoop.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/FJIJWl.jpg"/></a></center>

Check out this week's fab features:

Finding Ninee, Dear Special Needs Mama
MamaSchmama, Theater of the Absurd

Body Image

Apropos of nothing, my two year old, Claire yells out, "I LOVE MY BELLY!"

This kind of joyous non sequitur is what makes being a mom to a toddler so fantastic.

But just as quickly as my delight and love for my daughter washes over me, I start to wonder when her love for her belly will end.

I know. I'm a buzzkill. Or I read too much news. I prefer to think my doom and gloom is related to the latter, as well as living in a society obsessed with body image. I can't help but remember the article that I read last year that stated that 80% of ten-year-old girls have dieted. Ugh! Or the alarming trend of teens obsessed with measuring the gap between their thighs. Insert jaw drop here.

My own life is not the roadmap that I want for my daughter on the subject either. I think back to my college days and remember that it was easier to count the girls with an eating disorder than the girls without one. My friend's sister died from heart failure at age 22 courtesy of bulimia.

At worst, these issues can be deadly, at best, they can shift a young girl's focus from nurturing nascent parts of herself to obsessing about things that should be a given. I spent just as much time worrying about my looks, as I did about scores on final exams. I look back on my preoccupations as a complete waste of time.

Society's influences today are no help either. Claire will contend with a world of photo retouching, and the speed with which potentially damaging images can be accessed on the internet. Now, the messages are not only hostile, they are truly unattainable and available at an accelerated pace.

Of course, I will strive to be a role model for my daughter. Yet, I still struggle from the aftershocks of the messages of my youth. Can I say that I love my body now? I am in awe of the fact that I made a baby with this body, which is an improvement.

But I'm not yelling, "I love my belly!" anytime soon. That would be absurd.

Why is this affirmation so absurd?

I'm not going to write on and on about this subject. So many other men and women have done it more eloquently than me. In fact, I was hesitant to publish this post, because my views and fears about the subject have become so commonplace as to possibly render them boring.

But I do have a few more personal things to say...

I know my daughter will experience pain in her life. Someone will break her heart for the first time. She will lose a race for student government or the state track meet. A friend will betray her. She will believe she will never recover, and I will be there to tell her that she will. And to love her. These experiences are part of growing up, no matter how much I wish it to be otherwise.

Having to hate her body is not a necessary part of youth. 

My mothering impulse is to want to silence whoever or whatever may be perpetrating such needless pain on young girls.

The only problem is there is no one object towards which I can direct my anger. I fear I'm less a lion slayer than someone in the lion's den.


Connect with: Bloglovin', FB, Twitter, G+, Pinterest

Photo Source: Public Domain Pictures