Julie Jay: Why pay to attend a gym class when I have a baby-sized kettlebell at home?

In an effort to encourage crawling, we have built a baby boot camp for Number Two, and no bad cops are allowed

"Every day Number Two and I go through our series of exercises to get this guy crawling his way to an Olympic gold medal, or at least the Community Games."

EVERY time I have to go anywhere with Number Two, I always seem to be caught on the hop outfit-wise. This week, his appointment with the public health nurse was no exception. 

A mismatched outfit composed of a boring grey top and jarringly green St Patrick’s Day leggings screamed, ‘my mother isn’t staying on top of the wash — please inform the appropriate authorities’. We persevered regardless to find out how he was doing. 

Developmental checks are basically NCTs for babies, but only with less cursing under your breath upon exit.

Overall, Number Two got on great, and though we were given a series of exercises to encourage crawling as a former múinteoir I always relish a homework assignment. I had been becoming increasingly cognisant that he hadn’t started to crawl at 10 months. While I definitely wouldn’t say I was worried, I welcomed the opportunity to offload my fledgling concerns to somebody other than my Dunnes delivery man.

The public health nurse reassured me that the lack of crawling wasn’t a problem but gave me a few exercises for working on his core because it turns out Number Two is a little weak (a better comedian might say something like: that makes two of us. But I’m not one for the cheap gag).

And so we have been in training mode ever since. The sitting room now consists of a baby boot camp consisting of teddies, blocks, and the occasional dinosaur (Number One has assisted). 

Every day Number Two and I go through our series of exercises to get this guy crawling his way to an Olympic gold medal, or at least the Community Games. We are rolling, we’re trying to stand, we’re doing pull-ups, and, of course, the dreaded tummy time. When Number Two objects, I remind him summer bodies don’t just happen, and we plough on.

Back in my single days, I was fond of boot camps, particularly when I felt that my self-flagellation wasn’t going far enough and I needed to outsource.

I remember my first visit to an especially hardcore boot camp in Limerick in 2012, where the instructors were rumoured to be real-life army soldiers.

In reality, the whole thing smacked more of the FCA than US naval marines, but given that I hadn’t run for more than a bus since 1998, I wasn’t complaining.

Our faces in the mud, I turned to a friend mid-push-up and bemoaned the fact I’d worn my good leggings.

“I didn’t think we’d be getting dirty,” I said, attracting the attention of the Bad Cop instructor who came over and rather rudely told me to “Keep going, you can do it.” Shots fired, indeed.

My attempts at a push-up were so feeble that the same instructor bent down to me at one point and insisted I stop. “Have you been in hospital recently?” he asked gently, belying his supposed Bad Cop demeanour. 

It was a weirdly specific question, but pointed to what, in The Simpsons character terms, could only be described as my Mr Burns level of physical prowess.

“No, not really,” I answered vaguely, my mouth full of grass, sniffing a possible get-out-of-jail card.

“Do you suffer from a chronic illness?” he continued.

I started to respond, but he raised his hand to stop me.

“You sit this one out,” he said. He gestured for Good Cop FCA soldier to come closer. “This girl’s taking things at her own pace.”

For the rest of the boot camp, I had a fine time of it, walking around the field at my leisure, lying on the grass of the rugby club, watching clouds go by as my fellow boot campers did push-ups galore and worked up a terrible sweat.

Every now and again Bad Cop instructor would tell me I was doing great despite all I was doing was lying down at the time. By the end, my core was still as soft as a Mr Whippy, but on the plus side, I’d gotten some well-needed rest.

Number Two has a more pleasant indoor course to work with, with the goal of crawling and reaching new hazards such as bookshelves and coffee tables.

We all know babies do things in their own time and their own way, and there is no right or wrong time for these little milestones. Some skip the crawling stage altogether and go straight for the walking. And how will you know this? Their parents will most definitely tell you.

While we haven’t conquered crawling yet, we are having a lot of fun trying to get Number Two a six-pack for summer. I have been so inspired by his willingness to get on board with our standing and sitting-up routine that I have taken to doing my own sit-ups with Number Two on my belly, much to his delight and the dismay of my abdomen. Why pay to attend a weight class when I have my little 10-month-old kettlebell at home?

Even if my make-shift baby boot camp doesn’t result in crawling, that’s OK because we’ve had fun along the way. Like Bad Cop Instructor of 2012, I’m encouraging Number Two to go at his own pace because a summer body is just a body, in summer, and word on the street is baby rolls are most definitely in.