Before kids, I was in shape. I went to the gym three times a week, played sports on weekends, and generally had an active lifestyle. I could eat within reason whatever I wanted, and my metabolism handled the rest like a well-oiled machine. Life was good.

Then I had kids.

Fast forward to today, and my fitness routine consists of lifting a 3-year-old who refuses to walk, running upstairs to grab a forgotten water bottle, and dodging Lego landmines with ninja-like precision. My gym membership is basically a charitable donation at this point—I keep paying for it, but I haven’t stepped foot inside in months.

And my diet? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Gone are the days of protein shakes, meal prepping, and balanced nutrition. Now, my daily meals are determined by three factors:

1. Can I eat it one-handed? (Because at least one child is always in my arms.)

2. Will my kids eat it? (Spoiler: Probably not.)

3. Can I finish it before someone screams, spills something, or decides they “don’t like this anymore” after three perfectly fine bites?

Breakfast is usually coffee (cold, because who has time to drink it hot?), whatever leftover toast the kids abandoned, and a protein bar that I pretend is healthy but is really just an expensive chocolate bar in disguise. Lunch is often a game of “what’s in the fridge that I can shove in my mouth before my next meeting?” And dinner is where I attempt to cook a nutritious meal, only to have at least one child declare it “disgusting” before even taking a bite.

And let’s talk about snacks. Before kids, I used to snack on things like almonds, fruit, or yogurt. Now, I snack on whatever is left on my kid’s plate before I scrape it into the trash. Half a chicken nugget? That’s mine now. Crust from a sandwich? I guess I eat crusts now. A lone, slightly stale french fry from last night’s takeout? Don’t mind if I do.

The worst part? When my kids are eating junk food, I somehow convince myself that if I eat it standing up in the kitchen, the calories don’t count. It’s basically a law of physics.

Exercise? The closest thing I get to cardio is sprinting after a child who has just stripped naked in public. Strength training? Carrying a toddler in one arm while unloading groceries with the other. Flexibility training? Trying to reach under the couch for a lost toy without throwing out my back.

So, yes, I still try to be healthy. I make an effort to drink water (if I remember). I walk when I can (usually while pushing a stroller loaded with enough supplies for a week-long trip). And I occasionally even eat a salad (while simultaneously cutting up chicken nuggets for my kids).

But let’s be real—at this stage of life, survival is the priority. If I make it through the day with all three kids alive, the house still standing, and only minimal amounts of food spilled on my shirt, I’m calling that a win.

Healthy eating and exercise can wait. Probably until they all move out.