So we chilling on our bed last night, hubby massaging his quads with this annoying dolphin thing.
Seeking my attention no doubt.
As I finally have 5 minutes to myself without a small person asking me for food, water, to play cricket, read the same story for the 3145678th time, eat a Lego cake, help with homework, kick a soccer ball, wipe a bum, fill out a school form, put cbeebies on.
Etc etc et ceteraaaaaa
Doing the ‘close eyes deep breath in through tight lips’ thing.
I’ve tapped out of attention-giving this week.
I’m literally depleted of all cares.
So I ignore, secretly relishing in his self-inflicted pain.
Until… It casually says:
‘You know… I’ve heard the Comrades down run is just as painful as giving birth’
‘Yes, even ladies who’ve done both have said so.’
Didtheynow (that’s me talking fast by the way).
Unless they sneezed their baby out, it’s not.
I doubt anyone running on Sunday needed an epidural.
Or gas and air (Yoh I smaak that stuff).
Let’s not even go there. We lost count at 35. #bucketvag
(not really) (maybe) (kind of) (this is getting awkward) 😂
Moving right on…
Granted some things are similar:
Lots of sweat, bodily fluids, swearing, muscle rubbing, clock watching, cramping. Sore nipples, strength of mind.
But I’m certain not one runner’s end result on Sunday was as dignified as pooing out a ‘little’ 4kg+ baby.
‘Well maybe you should try one Comrades and see for yourself’
‘Ok cool’ I said, you give next year a miss so I can train.
‘Seriously, can I not even have the pain of childbirth.
Do you want to take away the one thing that’s mine??’
‘You own pain?’
Very much so
‘What pain do you own?’
The 6 foot 2 one lying next to me wearing a bright yellow t-shirt who’s about to get a dolphin massager shoved up his ass.