It's Just Casual...

So, if you ever venture over to my other blog, the one I started in january and have posted in exactly 4 times, you'll know that I am on a quest to lose many, many pounds of Sarah. To that end, I have started going back to the gym. Ugh. I should just stop the post there because "ugh" pretty much sums up the entire experience.

I'm not going to talk about how I got winded after 5 minutes on the elliptical trainer set to level 3, because that's just too embarrassing (and I'm going to save weight loss and all that misery for the other blog). I am going to talk about my gym's "casual child care center" and the anxiety attacks that fueled my first two visits.

When you see the words, "casual child care center", does it instill confidence? Does it sound to you like a facility staffed by trained professionals ready to be accountable for the well-being of your child while you whip your feeble body back into shape? Hm. Me, neither. The girls who work there seem nice enough, in a "casual" sort of way. They are babysitters, not day care providers, but I don't think they're even really strong babysitters. Ugh. Instead of repeating a mantra of "I am woman. I am strong." on the treadmill, I find myself repeating, "Don't hurt my baby. Don't hurt my baby." It doesn't make for a really satisfying workout.

The room is massive with a McDonalds style "Play Place" in the middle of it and a television constantly feeding little minds an endless diet of Disney movies (yes, Ethan, all girls should have massive boobs and a one inch waist-line--make sure you burn that ideal into your subconscious so you can perpetuate insecurities in your future girlfriends).

On a positive note, there are some good toys and I've watched watched the babysitters clean them off with sanitizing wipes, so even though he might fall to his death from the Play Place if they aren't paying attention, he will be germ-free. (cut to mama hyperventilating into a brown paper bag).

So my dilemma is this--I NEED to work out. My body is begging to work out and get fit. I have never been able to do that on the pavement. I need to be in a gym, with machines and skinny people motivating me through pure ire and jealousy. This time I might even need some big knuckle-dragging muscle-bound trainer to tell me I'm fat and whip me into shape. But I cannot concentrate on my workout when I am wondering if Ethan is being trampled by a bunch of toddlers during Disney intermission or if he's crawled into the tube of the Play Place, never to be heard from again. (breathing into the bag....breathing into the bag).

I comfort myself by telling myself I am an overprotective, paranoid stay-at-home mom who doesn't have any experience letting others care for her child. That the interaction with others is good for Ethan and better that I learn to let him go a bit now than have a total nervous breakdown when he goes to kindergarten. I remind myself I am only one syllable from the loud-speaker away from him if he melts down.

But still, there is something about the name "casual child care" that just makes me feel like they are daring me to gamble with his wellbeing by leaving him there for 45 minutes. Ugh.