I had trouble getting off the toilet last week. I didn't have a stomach virus, and really I had trouble rising from a seated position regardless of the seating arrangements. I finally quit making excuses and headed back to the gym to lose my "baby weight."

Yes, I said "baby weight." I realize my "baby" is a year and a half old but it is what it is. I'm not one of those people with a body that "bounces back" after a baby. My body bounces like a raw egg on a concrete slab.

After a few unfortunate episodes with childcare workers in South Carolina, I became a bit leery about taking my kids with me to the gym. There was the time I pried my two children off of my legs and left them crying in the nursery to run on the treadmill. I stood at the one-way mirror and watched to make sure they calmed down before beginning my workout. I had only been on the treadmill for about five minutes when I was summoned back to nursery, to change my child's diaper. I commented to the worker, "Maybe y'all should change your sign from 'Childcare' to 'Supervision.' "

Instead of returning to my workout and leaving my kids screaming again we packed up and went home.

In a separate gym snafu, I went to a weight lifting class after losing over 50 pounds following my second pregnancy, I was in the best shape of my adult life and felt really good about myself. Until the instructor sashayed up to me with her twelve-pack abs and spandex bikini, leaned in and whispered, "When are you due?"

I wanted to scream at her, "NOT EVERYONE WHO COMES HERE LOOKS LIKE YOU, YOU FREAK!" Instead, I calmly looked her in the eye and said, "I'm not pregnant."

She nervously backed away and whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, I bet you are," I murmured as I stared her down. I spent the next hour lifting weights and making eye contact with her so she wouldn't forget what she'd done. I'm assuming her mother forgot to tell her you never, ever assume a woman is pregnant. You'll never go wrong playing dumb and looking surprised when someone says, "I was supposed to have this baby yesterday."

Imagine the Brownie points you would score by exclaiming, "You can't possibly be pregnant!"

I had a million excuses for avoiding the gym: my kids, moving from South Carolina to Mississippi, Facebook, housework, being called pregnant by workout Barbie, and trying to work from home. For the last year my exercise routine has consisted of squatting to pick up my girls, doing bicep curls as I lifted dishes out of the dishwasher and pushing myself up out of the bed in the morning. My cardio routine has been running behind my kids trying to keep them out of the street, off of ladders and away from the river. While my little exercise routine was sweat inducing and exhausting, it apparently wasn't enough to cancel out all the Kraft Easy Mac I was eating off of my kids' plates while cooking dinner for my husband and myself.

Momma is making a comeback. I've put away my excuses, and started wearing my workout clothes to actually exercise and not just to wear to the grocery store when I don't feel like taking a shower.

On Day 3 of Momma's Comeback I woke up to my baby's cries, I attempted to get out of the bed and every muscle in my body spasmed in pain and protest. I knew my husband was in the kitchen, so I grabbed my phone off of my night table and called him. He didn't even bother with a greeting, but said, "I'm in the kitchen."

"I know," I croaked out my first words of the morning.

"Then why are you calling me?" He asked reasonably.

"Sadie needs milk and I need the bottle of ibuprofen off of the kitchen counter…"

"Are you serious?" He asked incredulous.

"Totally."

This week I had trouble rising from a seated position on my own and in no manner imaginable could I pick anything up off of the floor. My hamstrings and quadriceps screamed every time I put on my shoes and my 5-year-old had to unload the bottom of the dishwasher for me. I became an expert at walking without bending my knees which does, in fact, look as ridiculous as it sounds. If you see me this week struggling to get out of a chair, avert your eyes or offer me a hand. And if you see me sitting in line at a fast-food restaurant pretend you didn't read this. I'm doing the best I can, but nobody's perfect.

(Robin O'Bryant is a former Mount Pleasant resident and mother of three. Read her blog online at www.robinschicks.com or e-mail her at robinschicks@gmail.com.)