How not to fight the flab

Pa's aunt and uncle dropped by last week to visit, and also get a glimpse of our little fella. But they reserved a little surprise for Pa's appearance.

"Why... you've... well... grown prosperous," they stammered after a pause, during which you could almost see the frantic mental clawing-about for a polite phrase. As in, alternative to 'fat', 'tubby' or 'lardy'.

Unfortunately, any of those terms would have justifiably applied. Pa has certainly gained a kilogram, or two, or dozen, since Sonny joined us (as has been noticed in previous posts; click here for a refresher). The good news is that he's recently launched a carefully calibrated, come-back fitness routine - which is a fancy way of saying that he's tried to trot round the block at least once or twice a week. In case that sounds rather desultory, Pa explains that he is slowly 'building up' to a proper exercise programme, which will presumably feature extensive high-speed workouts and impressively regular explosions of energy.

At the moment, of course, even the thought of such exertion is liable to leave Pa drained. However, as a gesture towards that glorious future, he has resolutely refused to purchase new clothes - not wishing to load up on sizes that will "fairly soon" prove saggy and excessive. There is something of the noble optimist (if not the fantasist) about all this, yet perhaps this is the ideal attitude to which to approach parenting too. After all, we don't want to linger morbidly on the prospect of months or years of being peppered with inane kiddy requests, tantrums and assorted other headaches, so we simply gaze right through them - as though they were transparent - and gaze into the future vista of well-brought up, exquisitely well-behaved offspring that will also fetch and carry on command.

Of course, this will not make the grunt work go away - whether this be the exercise undertaken on the road to flab-fighting or the child-caring that must go into producing the useful errand-absorbing youngster. The best thing to be said about either endeavour is that the first steps have been taken, with many more to come. Best enjoy the enjoyable parts or just push through the painful ones... though Pa might protest that there really aren't too many 'enjoyable' aspects to the dreariness of self-punishment.

Exercise enthusiasts are welcome to contribute proofs to the contrary...

Hidden, high-scoring gems

Earlier today, Pa was scuttling along near our home after dropping Sonny off at the infant care centre, trying to get in his 15 minutes of exercise (regular readers will note that this hopeful theme will emerge from time to time before fading from view). There's a basketball court along the route, so Pa paused long enough to see what was going on there.

A middle-aged man and a woman - almost certainly husband and wife - were shooting hoops, clad in el-cheapo sneakers and worn attire. They wouldn't have warranted a second look if encountered anywhere, whether in the bus, at the market or in town. But as Pa looked on in mounting amazement, the duo put together a stunning basketball exhibition: They took turns to score from all angles, from different distances and using everything from high lobs to sky hooks and classical-release shots. It was all done at an unhurried pace: These folks weren't doing much more than getting in a bit of physical exertion, from the looks of things - even if the way they were scoring without pause was enough to disrupt Pa's progress and keep him entranced for several minutes.

We haven't a clue, of course, who these people were. But they were certainly hidden away in a quiet residential area of Singapore, surrounded by blocks upon blocks of modest apartments. The encounter brought home the truth that you never know when you are going to stumble upon something of interest, so long as we remain aware of what's going on about us and don't become totally enwrapped in our own private musings.

All of that, of course, ought not be forgotten as we shepherd Sonny - less than a fortnight away from completing his tenth month with us - along his own exploration of the world around him. For now, his wonder and curiosity at everything he comes across is pretty much a salient characteristic. Nothing is so insignificant as to not warrant an inspection; a quiet nook, once spotted, simply cannot be left alone until there has been a crawled-over expedition to scout for surprise treasures. But as the years pile up, there is a danger that we lose that investigative edge; our awareness is dulled as experience silts up a "done-this, seen-that" weariness that can leave us to trudge through life expecting nothing fresh to peek out at us.

That would be a pity. If Sonny shows signs of flagging in that manner, we'll need to be sharp enough to pick it up and attempt some exhortatory reinvigoration. But that probably won't be a problem for some time yet: Curbing excessive curiosity seems more the current worry. Still, Pa hopes he'll see more basketball action as he continues his modest exercise routine, even if he isn't himself inspired to try and sink any baskets. Maybe he'll strike up a conversation some time with that wonder couple: They could be onetime hoops legends who have fallen on hard times and are now relegated to obscurity, their once shining talent now glistening only occasionally at our neighbourhood hard court. Or they could be diamonds-in-the-rough with outstanding ability but no interest in shaping their gift in the direction of fame or money.

It might turn out to be a gem of a conversation - like the many that always surround us, waiting for us to notice them.

Look weird but exercise right

We had just dropped Sonny off at the infant care centre when the woman with the bizarre gait cantered into view.

Mum saw her first: The woman, who looked to be in her 30s, was pushing a stroller and fair whizzing along. She had her arms ridiculously extended horizontally, her posterior rising like a minor hill, while her legs clip-clopped energetically like a sprightly pony's. She was probably trying to get in a bit of exercise along with transporting her baby (assuming she was conveying one), but came across as either struggling with a back ailment or a devotee of some martial art that prescribes weird training postures.

But best not to make too many snide comments. Since Sonny has entered our lives, we've had to make our own share of posture adjustments. For starters, Mum is convinced that she now has a sprained back that is the upshot of bending down too many times to pick up an increasingly heavy baby. Pa, meanwhile, has carefully worked out just how to hold his back and spine to avoid travelling down the same path as Mum's. The result may not arrest the casual observer, but it involves lowering his centre of gravity and slightly widening the stance of his feet. If we were ever to try and build up a good head of speed while strollering Sonny along, chances are we might end up with a gait at least as eye-catching as that woman's.

And at least she was keeping up her fitness programme. We've seen many parents do the old jog-with-baby routine, though they mostly use those fancy buggies that come with three extra-large wheels for increased stability, speed and (for all we know) built-in afterburner. The best Pa has done - as recounted a while back in 'Stroller: Danger on the left' - is to give Mac the stroller a good shove while releasing, so that Sonny skitters along as though on remote control until Mac's momentum wanes and Pa catches up. He claims it gives his arm muscles a bit of a workout, but nobody else is buying that sorry tale.

Perhaps he'd gain more credibility if he faked some weird gait while releasing...

And the message of the Games is...

Just as soon as Sonny can conquer that great obstacle called Learning to Walk, he'll probably get interested in sport. Great, we say. He'll certainly be up to watching the next Olympic Games, in London, and might even begin to idolise some of the ever speedier, higher and stronger heroes. He'll be able to hold them up as... well, there's a problem here. Exactly what message is being transmitted by the modern Olympic Games?

Sporting competition? Fair play and sportsmanship was always the major subtext to sport. Except that apparently doping and drug use are still rampant at the highest levels, with the cheats thereby deriving a very obvious advantage. Unless, of course, virtually every other competitor is a cheat, which would really beget a moral poser: Some folks have even said that it ain't cheatin' if everyone's doin' it. Hmm, but surely cheats are only bothering to run the health risks of doping because others aren't doing it. If everyone could openly do it, the extra advantage would be eliminated, and what would the point be then? Maybe this is a little to complicated for Sonny. Why doesn't he look instead at...

Sporting achievement? Look at the way world records continue to be smashed. Many of the record-breakers succeed honourably, so aren't the Olympics a showcase of how humans will always strive for new heights? Except that apparently today's athletes are getting some 'legit' help: Anything from high-tech tracks for runners to better equipment to deeper pools for swimmers (presumably this has something to do with better buoyancy). No doubt, fanatical hard work and dedication has something to do with it too. But since powerful interests keen to sustain audience interest (and reap profits) know that people want to see records toppled, they are happy to 'assist'. How then could we conscientiously claim that today's sportsmen are definitively an improvement over those of the past? Best not. Instead, mightn't Sonny glorify...

Sporting amity? Yep, sports can transcend barriers, bring people together and all that jazz. Aren't the Games just the very epitome of that? Well, it's true that we have individual cases of, say, a Chinese gymnast generously giving a gift to the American who's just bested her (albeit only in one event). But it wasn't so long ago that countries would boycott the Olympic Games just to make political points (remember Moscow '80 and Los Angeles '84?). In fact, some folks wanted more of the same this year in Beijing. And could we really compare ourselves to the days of the ancient Olympics, when the Greeks would suspend wars for the duration of the Games? We seem to have fallen behind, if anything. Which seems to leave just...

Sporting profit? Ah, now we're talking. Think of the millions of bucks on the line in endorsements, sponsorships and so forth. Even a mere performer in this year's Opening Ceremony can reap a movie deal (never mind that there was some lip-syncing and not even real singing). Sports was always a way out of the ghetto for many poor athletes. But it's only for the very best, of course - and it's not very clear that material success through sport falls squarely into what sports per se should be about.

But why kvetch, eh? The Olympics are a great show, and honest sportsmen still abound. With any luck, sports will help keep Sonny fit and healthy - without his ever being a good enough sportsman for the shadier side of things to ever worry him.

Jogger joins the blame game

As a rule, Pa avoids getting himself weighed, claiming loftily to be resisting "society's fixation with body shapes, dieting and self-absorption". But he couldn't duck the scales at a routine check-up the other day - or the verdict that he really ought to lose another 5kg.

His first measured reaction: Blame the baby.

"I was just getting into my jogging before Sonny was born," he insisted to Mum. "It's just that our schedules haven't really settled back into normalcy." Mum was unimpressed. Neither was Sonny, who wheeled his arms about dismissively.

So now Pa plans to relaunch his exercise programme, which involves an hour-long run every other day, with push-ups, pull-ups and various warm-ups thrown in. If past experience is any guide, there'll be some backsliding, but he'll eventually get up to speed. But there's a wild card this time: He's never before had a son to use as a crutch - well, an excuse - for not meeting the mark.

We've certainly known of acquaintances who've wielded their offspring to turn aside blame like fencing champs. That they don't exercise any more is only the littlest of the transgressions they lay at their children's dainty feet. Long after they should have rejuggled their schedules, they no longer keep up with world events, maintain social contacts or worked as hard at the office. It's amazing they don't hold their children responsible for leaking pipes or rotten weather.

We don't doubt that we'll be facing the pressures that come with parenting. But if we end up slackening the pace a bit, it says something not about our children but our own priorities, energy levels or powers of planning. There may be fewer hours in the day, but whatever we consider to be really worth doing can always be squeezed in, so long as we adjust and trim other expectations accordingly. To be honest, we expect to be doing exactly what these pace-slackening acquaintances have been doing - and perhaps more.

But, hopefully, we'll be clear in our minds as to just where the blame lies.

Push-ups, baby style

More than six weeks after delivering Sonny, Mum hit the gym yesterday. Yep, we're trying to resume our customary fitness routines (as opposed to the... erm... 'unconventional' one we've blogged about).

There's no question, however, as to who's working out the hardest: Pound for pound, it's Sonny by a mile.

These last couple of days, he's added push-ups to his programme. Here's how he does them: First, we'll place him on his stomach, hoping this will put him in the mind for a snooze. With the aid of his arms, Sonny will instead begin to repeatedly raise his neck, head and torso. A trifle spasmodically, it must be said, but with stubborn determination: Several minutes can go by as he does multiple sets.

From the get-go, his calisthenics have involved lots of forceful leg-shoves. Like a swimmer doing a turn at pool-side, he's forever launching off our thighs (we are selective about what surfaces we expose to such punishment). By way of warming up, however, Sonny prefers energetic arm-whirls - clockwise as well as anti-clockwise - especially when he detects milk in the vicinity. The whirling will become frantic, he throws his whole body into it and little yips of effort are heard.

Speaking of exercising his whole body, Sonny is also doing what might be called 'body-transfers': Jogging is beyond him right now, so - as an earthworm might - he wriggles and shoves his way along for alarming distances. An obvious devotee of cross-training, he tends to mix and match all of these elements simultaneously.

Of course, as with most baby athletes, Sonny is most religious about his lung-expanding breathing exercises ('rigorously-scheduled bawling sessions' to the rest of us). Every few hours, he'll pucker up his little cheeks and howl away, sometimes so enthusiastically his rhythm becomes rather ragged. While performing his calisthenics as well.

Really, the fella's putting us adults to shame...

Not quite the Olympics

Our life has become rather sedentary since Sonny was born, revolving around his constant feedings. We're eating well, too, thanks to the culinary skills of our confinement lady, so getting lazy and out-of-condition might be thought a concern.

Luckily, there is a mitigating factor. Sonny's arrival has inaugurated a set of all-new exercise routines: They won't ever involve into anything of Olympic dimensions - but they've been keeping us from going completely to seed.

To start with, there's the baby lift. This involves lugging the little critter around the home, either one- or two-handed. At its lowest level of difficulty, the baby lift is attempted when he is completely pacified; there's also an inexorable progression to these sets, since he's been sucking in vast quantities of milk and gaining weight prodigiously.

Next comes the shopping sprint. The starter gun goes, and we scoot out the door at top speed, once Sonny's been fed - with a series of of next-door stations to hit (and errands to perform). The time limit is dictated by his voracious appetite; if we don't get home fast enough, a certain trademark howling will announce that we've missed the cut.

The diaper toss, to give credit where it's due, was invented by our confinement lady, who is poetry in motion as she readies Sonny for a fresh nappy, wraps all soiled items up compactly in the used diaper and then tosses the bundle into the bin. Here, failure to score a bulls-eye can result in a most unpleasant spillage, so concentration is especially tested.

Finally, there's the help-me-I'm-feeding relay, which involves both parents - but always has Pa handing over to Mum, never the other way round. This sport commences at regular intervals, and is sparked whenever Mum is breastfeeding. She will, once Sonny has latched on, inevitably want some small item, whether a drink, book or TV remote. Waiting craftily till Pa is about as far away as is possible - no mystery as to who's currently shouldering the writing duties - she then announces her requirements, jiggling the baby meaningfully. Pa then first roots about for the item, which may be artfully concealed for extra entertainment value, then trudges over.

Oddly enough, he'd rather just get back to jogging.