Back in the pool

About a year and a half ago I was in the best shape of my life -- even better than when I was in high school. I'd swam in my first swim meet since 1986 and, after training for it most of the summer, I'd just completed the St. Paul Triathlon and was ready to get back to swimming full-time once my injured shoulder fully healed. I thought I'd take a break of a couple weeks and then get back to it. Which I did, only my shoulder still wasn't fully healed so I decided to take a longer break. That break has lasted until today.

It's kind of depressing, in a way, to get back into the water after not swimming for so long. You start off strong the first couple laps and then suddenly hit a wall as your body demands more oxygen than you are able to supply it. Muscles turn to jelly, your legs develop tiny cramps, and it feels as if you are pulling your body through sludge. Still, I pushed on, knowing that if I keep at it long enough, I'll be back to where I was. And it felt good to be in the water. I've been wanting to get back to swimming for some time now. I'm tired of looking in the mirror and seeing nothing but a flabby neck and feeling soft and fat in the middle.

I came home feeling dizzy and exhausted and hungry but the migraine I'd been working on before I left for the pool had gone into retreat mode and now that I've put some food in my stomach, I'm feeling a lot better. My plan is to swim again on Wednesday and Friday morning and then swim a few more times next week. By then, maybe, I feel like I can go back to the Masters Swim Classes I'd been going to before without feeling completely pathetic. Wish me luck!

I hate these days.

There are some days when I put the boys in bed and come downstairs and feel lucky to be father. I reflect back on the day, remembering things that the kids said or did or certain moments where everything just seemed right.

Then there are days when Arie is being a pain in the ass and being unpleasant or throwing fits but I seem to roll with it like a judo fighter, dodging his parries and blows with ease, deflecting each invective he hurls as if it were nothing. On those days, I feel exhausted but accomplished. I think back with pride at how deftly I handled all the difficult situations I came across.

And then there are days like today. When I stay patient for most of the morning and afternoon and then finally lose it. Sometimes I yell, sometimes I take things away, but I can't wait until both boys are in bed and my job is over. Arie usually goes to bed crying on these days because I've taken away a toy or stories or bath-time or everything. When he finally calms down, he'll ask for a hug and want me to stay with him for a few minutes and I swear, sometimes, it takes all I have to go and hug him because I'm still so pissed off. When I get downstairs I eventually cool down but the day feels like it's still stuck in my throat. When I finally go upstairs to move Arie from our bed to his own, he'll be asleep and I'll carry his soft, sleeping body in my arms just like I did when he was an infant. At those times, he seems so sweet, so unlike the child who hours before was threatening to hit me or break something of mine or just plain yelling, and I feel like the shittiest father in the world no matter how many times I tell myself I'm not.