“I work out. Just kidding. I chase triplets.”
This catchy saying was going around a few of my triplets groups a few years back. It appeared as memes, adorned coffee mugs, and was screen printed onto flattering, yet practical, shirts. I like it, but I can’t tell you why. And I can’t—for the life of me—figure out what it means.
Clearly, it means that no working out happens in life with triplets. But is the phrase tongue-in-cheek, or is it literal?
In traditional English weenie fashion, I’ve decided to analyze the saying. But I don’t want to bore with a blog post to rival Moby Dick, so I’ve split my thoughts into two posts (shout-out to my BRF, who suggested this). Read on to learn about the workouts that happen in mommyhood with triplets. My next post will detail how traditional workouts have been hard to come by since triplets have taken over my life.
Workouts happen with triplets—just maybe not in the traditional lunge, squat, press sense. When I pull out my foam roller and Tiger Tail massage stick (affiliate links) at the end of the day, my muscles turn on the waterworks. “Seriously?” they sob. “Do you realize what you spent the last 12 hours putting us through?”
I basically put them through a 12-hour workout with three lightweight contenders who weigh in at upward of 65 lbs combined and have a boundless supply of energy.
I lifted three toddlers and all the shtuff that goes with them—usually together. And I did so without (excessive) grunting and dropping them to the floor with a guttural scream.
I pushed three passengers around in their strollers and wagon. I was a stinky, sweaty, out-of-breath mess with hair plastered to my face afterward. Ironically, that’s pretty similar to my state after hard workouts.
I lunged and squatted—usually with an attachment on one hip—to pick up shtuff from the floor. I’m told that’s called unilateral exercise. I’m also told it’s good for me.
I crawled after a gaggle of gigglers in mad games of chase. Seriously—how does crawling not count toward my daily step goal?
I sprinted after prisoners trying to stage jail breaks. Incorporate fartleks? Check.
I wrestled with wigglesquirms who wanted to do everything but lie pacifically while being diapered and dressed. As the day wore on, they wound up pinned on the floor under one of my legs. Bonus hamstring workout!
I pried apart mini versions of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier as they duked it out over the same red stacking cup—while being surrounded by two sets of stacking cups. Tiny humans are ridiculously strong (and stubborn).
I traversed two flights of stairs every time I carried a babbling bundle between the two levels in my home. Stadiums are as overrated now as they were when I was in my prime.
I sprinted around at naptime because my to-do list is extensive, and I never know when snores will turn into peeps. Incorporate sprint intervals? Check.
I served as personal jungle gym to three monkeys who thought nothing of piling on top of me with limbs poking every which way of Sunday. This wasn’t really a workout so much as it was a session in being a punching bag.
Every moment of every day with triplets is a workout. By the time the Tagalongs are safely tucked in bed, my body is screaming uncle. And I certainly feel older than my almost 32 years when I snap, crackle, and pop my way out of bed in the morning.
If anyone were to gift me an item with this saying, I’d request that the phrase be changed to “I cross-train. Just kidding. I chase triplets.” As you’ll learn in “How I Fit Workouts into Infertility, IVF, Pregnancy, and Triplets,” workouts outside of caring for my munchkins do happen.
