When one of THESE:
meets one of THESE
your Grampa is gonna need one of these:
The only thing that saved our asses is that the old man had been the one out in the yard with the Viking the day before the storm...
Sunday, April 10, 2011
PSA in pictures...
Rarely am I "wordless" on Wednesday or any other day, but... as we flip Winter the bird and look ahead to our 15 minutes of New England Spring, I'll offer the following PSA. You just have to see this to really appreciate the message.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Like walking, only faster... right?
To say that I "went running" today would be to misconstrue the facts more than slightly. It's one of those wake-up-next-to-a-stranger-with-a-thick-coating-of-tequila-on-your-tongue-and-your-pants-nowhere in-sight situations - all bets are it happened, but you can't attest to the quality of the experience... or so I've heard.
I don't know how the notion took hold, honestly... but there was little planning. The entire thought process was less than a dozen sentences this morning as I sat eating my oatmeal with fresh blueberries and gazing out the window. I saw a very trim little fitness freak jog by looking pain-free and sweatless from where my fat arse was parked... she bobbed by looking strong and fit and effortless.
I thought: "I could run..."
"Running is fast walking... how hard could it be?"
"Remember when you were a kid and you wanted to get somewhere fast? You just ran..."
"Hmmmm. Not one memory of running? Is this possible?"
"Oh well - I could just see how far I could get... um, you know... faster than walking."
"Ugh. Everything is going to jiggle..."
"I could just run on the side streets. Not on the main road. That would cut down on the amount of exposure "the jiggle" gets..."
"Grab your Nikes, Forrest Plump. It's now or never..."
15 minutes later, my brain was the only part of my body that was even slightly prepared for this experience and as you may have gathered from the above internal conversation - "prepared" is a loosely used term here. As the other parts of the body became aware (read: alarmed) by the sudden and foreign acceleration in movement, not to mention confused by the lack of vicious growling or presence of a mob of zombies within 3 feet of my rear end, they began to revolt. The burning sensation in my legs was only eclipsed by the burning in my chest. (FYI - pain trumps self-consciousness! When my calves were on fire I was no longer worried about what was jiggling.) After passing 7 houses, I could barely lift my knees up any longer and I tripped a little - thank God for the jogging stroller or my face might look a little Krueger-esque right now.
Listen up... running is NOT just walking, only faster. Walking is what you do to get to the fridge. Running is an entirely different activity. Running requires that your calves and some other body parts exert enormous energy to propel your lard ass up and forward. In rapid succession. One thing is for sure - today I would have been zombie chow. There was lots of walking during my "run." But I didn't stop just because there was jiggling or a burning, leaden feeling in my legs or because I was foaming at the mouth... And I might even try it again. You see, I grew up a quitter and this feeling of "try it again... keep going." is new and interesting. The little chubby girl inside me who worried about what the rest of the softball team was thinking when I didn't hit the ball or when I clumsily ran to first base is not the voice I hear anymore.
Please allow a moment for the following related A.D.Detour:
One of my past preschoolers who'd experienced many of life's lessons via the School of Hard Knocks at the ripe old age of 3, spent the first 6 weeks of school scowling and stomping around all morning long. When he did speak it was to refuse to do whatever we asked or suggested and most conversations with him usually ended in "Shut up, you FREAK!" There's a little bit of Linus that lingers in me to this day - whenever I'm listening to someone I think is full of shit, I can hear his 3 year-old, 2 pack-a-day voice growling those trademark words.
And that's where I'm at with the little girl inside me who says I'm too fat to do stuff. I've already tried nurturing her. And as it seems that all she responds to is a never ending supply of Nutty Bars, now all I have left to say is "Shut up, you FREAK!" I'm currently planning my next "run." And by planning, I mean to say that I'm teaching the Viking how to dial 9-1-1 on my cell phone.
I don't know how the notion took hold, honestly... but there was little planning. The entire thought process was less than a dozen sentences this morning as I sat eating my oatmeal with fresh blueberries and gazing out the window. I saw a very trim little fitness freak jog by looking pain-free and sweatless from where my fat arse was parked... she bobbed by looking strong and fit and effortless.
I thought: "I could run..."
"Running is fast walking... how hard could it be?"
"Remember when you were a kid and you wanted to get somewhere fast? You just ran..."
"Hmmmm. Not one memory of running? Is this possible?"
"Oh well - I could just see how far I could get... um, you know... faster than walking."
"Ugh. Everything is going to jiggle..."
"I could just run on the side streets. Not on the main road. That would cut down on the amount of exposure "the jiggle" gets..."
"Grab your Nikes, Forrest Plump. It's now or never..."
15 minutes later, my brain was the only part of my body that was even slightly prepared for this experience and as you may have gathered from the above internal conversation - "prepared" is a loosely used term here. As the other parts of the body became aware (read: alarmed) by the sudden and foreign acceleration in movement, not to mention confused by the lack of vicious growling or presence of a mob of zombies within 3 feet of my rear end, they began to revolt. The burning sensation in my legs was only eclipsed by the burning in my chest. (FYI - pain trumps self-consciousness! When my calves were on fire I was no longer worried about what was jiggling.) After passing 7 houses, I could barely lift my knees up any longer and I tripped a little - thank God for the jogging stroller or my face might look a little Krueger-esque right now.
Listen up... running is NOT just walking, only faster. Walking is what you do to get to the fridge. Running is an entirely different activity. Running requires that your calves and some other body parts exert enormous energy to propel your lard ass up and forward. In rapid succession. One thing is for sure - today I would have been zombie chow. There was lots of walking during my "run." But I didn't stop just because there was jiggling or a burning, leaden feeling in my legs or because I was foaming at the mouth... And I might even try it again. You see, I grew up a quitter and this feeling of "try it again... keep going." is new and interesting. The little chubby girl inside me who worried about what the rest of the softball team was thinking when I didn't hit the ball or when I clumsily ran to first base is not the voice I hear anymore.
Please allow a moment for the following related A.D.Detour:
One of my past preschoolers who'd experienced many of life's lessons via the School of Hard Knocks at the ripe old age of 3, spent the first 6 weeks of school scowling and stomping around all morning long. When he did speak it was to refuse to do whatever we asked or suggested and most conversations with him usually ended in "Shut up, you FREAK!" There's a little bit of Linus that lingers in me to this day - whenever I'm listening to someone I think is full of shit, I can hear his 3 year-old, 2 pack-a-day voice growling those trademark words.
And that's where I'm at with the little girl inside me who says I'm too fat to do stuff. I've already tried nurturing her. And as it seems that all she responds to is a never ending supply of Nutty Bars, now all I have left to say is "Shut up, you FREAK!" I'm currently planning my next "run." And by planning, I mean to say that I'm teaching the Viking how to dial 9-1-1 on my cell phone.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Speak of the Devil...
So, my Little Viking keeps getting bigger and bigger... and I don't mind admitting that adoring him has been a long journey.... I can't even really remember why, except to say that while he was not a difficult baby, he was the more difficult of my boys. I can just remember at times, looking at him and not feeling the rapture with which I'd cooed over the Tornado at similar stages of development. In the summer, when I'd started writing here, we started each day with a stand off about breakfast and then an 18 hour pissing match about whether or not the sippy cup would make it into the carpeted living room. He is the Mini Master because he's opinionated and strong-willed just like mom. Although not yet as diplomatic, so he's just kind of an asshole from time to time. Two years, 3 months and 27 days after his birth I can say without a doubt that I am completely enamored of this child.
He is a totally different species than the Tornado... he swings his fists like Holyfield, makes anything he can wrap his chubby fingers around into a sword, and blasts "shoots" out of the palm of his hand at imaginary ghosts, robots and "Black Knights." (and often shoots loved ones in the face - it's a gesture of endearment... I think) We recently went to my BFF's wedding and delighted with the red linens, the Viking would not go anywhere all evening unless one of the napkins was tucked into the back of his collar like a cape. If you don't know a bulldozer from a skid steer, save yourself a disgusted glare and don't talk - just listen, 'cause he'll tell you. The Viking's favorite game is "Fight?" It goes like this: "Fight, mama?" asked in the same tone of voice one might use to try to coerce a scared cat into a carrier - dripping with sweetness and the promise of some sort of treat but by the time you realize what he's asked, he's already socked you in the eye and he's dangling from your hair. Or you may just be watching TV or clicking around facebook when WHAM! you've got a welt on your temple the exact width of the homemade Captain America shield he's learned to throw like a boomerang. That game has been renamed "That funny, mama? Ha ha... That funneeee??" He's a bit of a menace. Incidentally I told him that the other day, and his response was: "No. I. Cap'an. 'Merica!" Did I mention that he speaks in periods? It sounds like he's being raised by William Shatner and Christopher Walken. And then, just when you've been "Heeeee-ya!'d" to the point of insanity, he will do something fabulous like use his finger to fetch an imaginary "Liddle. Baby. Chick." from your nose. He'll pet it and pretend to kiss it and tell you to hold it while he goes to Stop and Shop. He's a surly, quirky little fucker with a right hook... and (finally) I really, really like him.
My mother was driving the kids out to see my brother recently and had been asked by the Tornado, "So who invented bad guys, anyway?" She began to tell him the story of God and the fallen angel, Lucifer. So she said, "Long, long ago God had a favorite angel who was the most beautiful and was the smartest of all the other angels..." (Lucifer, for those having trouble keeping up) at which point the Viking pipes up and says, "Yeah. That. Me." He hasn't been baptised yet and there's a part of me that really wants to flick a little holy water on him just to hear it sizzle...
He is a totally different species than the Tornado... he swings his fists like Holyfield, makes anything he can wrap his chubby fingers around into a sword, and blasts "shoots" out of the palm of his hand at imaginary ghosts, robots and "Black Knights." (and often shoots loved ones in the face - it's a gesture of endearment... I think) We recently went to my BFF's wedding and delighted with the red linens, the Viking would not go anywhere all evening unless one of the napkins was tucked into the back of his collar like a cape. If you don't know a bulldozer from a skid steer, save yourself a disgusted glare and don't talk - just listen, 'cause he'll tell you. The Viking's favorite game is "Fight?" It goes like this: "Fight, mama?" asked in the same tone of voice one might use to try to coerce a scared cat into a carrier - dripping with sweetness and the promise of some sort of treat but by the time you realize what he's asked, he's already socked you in the eye and he's dangling from your hair. Or you may just be watching TV or clicking around facebook when WHAM! you've got a welt on your temple the exact width of the homemade Captain America shield he's learned to throw like a boomerang. That game has been renamed "That funny, mama? Ha ha... That funneeee??" He's a bit of a menace. Incidentally I told him that the other day, and his response was: "No. I. Cap'an. 'Merica!" Did I mention that he speaks in periods? It sounds like he's being raised by William Shatner and Christopher Walken. And then, just when you've been "Heeeee-ya!'d" to the point of insanity, he will do something fabulous like use his finger to fetch an imaginary "Liddle. Baby. Chick." from your nose. He'll pet it and pretend to kiss it and tell you to hold it while he goes to Stop and Shop. He's a surly, quirky little fucker with a right hook... and (finally) I really, really like him.
My mother was driving the kids out to see my brother recently and had been asked by the Tornado, "So who invented bad guys, anyway?" She began to tell him the story of God and the fallen angel, Lucifer. So she said, "Long, long ago God had a favorite angel who was the most beautiful and was the smartest of all the other angels..." (Lucifer, for those having trouble keeping up) at which point the Viking pipes up and says, "Yeah. That. Me." He hasn't been baptised yet and there's a part of me that really wants to flick a little holy water on him just to hear it sizzle...
The Viking wearing his cape at a recent wedding - The Devil's done with Prada - it's red linen this season
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Some People Tell Me I should Write a Book...
When people hear me talk about life in preschool they tell me things like, "You should write a book!" or that I should do stand up comedy (yeah... like I need another job that won't pay me shit) When I began writng this blog I promised funny stories about preschool hijinx... and I haven't delivered. Here's a little bit about why:
When I was in fifth grade I was mad at my teacher and his class pet for some slight I only half remember. So because it was the beginning of the "Mean Girl" stage of development, I wrote something nasty about them on a piece of notebook paper and planned on passing it all around the classroom. I'm cringing as I tell you that I believe the word "humps" made an appearance in my mini smear campaign propaganda. For whatever reason, I never did circulate the note... but my mom found it in my pants pocket the next day. She told me never, under any circumstances should I write down something that I didn't want to be found out. I would love to tell you that I'm a fast learner and that I never again screwed myself with undeniable facts written in my own hand... but the 25+ times in high school that she looked through my backpack or my room and found notes to/from friends about parties and things I wasn't supposed to do with boyfriends I wasn't supposed to have, are testimony to the thickness of my skull. I am proud to say, however that TODAY, well... today, I get it!
I've been following some of the news stories about Natalie Munroe, a Pennsylvania English teacher who vented about students on her personal blog. If you haven't heard about this, here's a brief back story.
It obviously hits home for me as my blog deals mostly with my personal life, but touches from time to time on my perspective of life as a preschool teacher. There have been many times that I could have used this as a sounding board for gripes I have about work stuff, but have held back for several reasons - 1. my supervisor reads this blog, 2. confidentiality is important to me, as is my sense of professionalism, and 3. I've come to realize that my friend, Jen is the only person who can really handle the uncensored answer to "How was your day?" She loves it when I use the word "retard" and well... some other folks tend to cringe.
What's happening for the Pennsylvania high school teacher is unfortunate but, let's face it - fair or not fair, in this life you risk consequence with every action you take. I have no wish to debate right or wrong about this teacher's posts. She didn't use names and she spoke some truths that I share. What interests me more is the idea that if she were a doctor or a mechanic or a librarian or a bus driver she could comment on the absurdity and stupidity of nameless people she encounters in her work day without public uproar. So, America? What puts our children above reproach in our mind's eye? Why are we horrified by a teacher's rantings about lazy, entitled and it has to be confirmed - stupid kids?? Your kids have friends for Christ sake - you've encountered some of these people too. Spend some time on your school's playground after school someday and keep your eyes and ears open. What never fails to cross my mind when I'm out there is "So many 'treasures,' so few holes to bury them in." There is some atrocious behavior happening amidst the under 18 set...
Before you say it - What if it were MY child she had in mind when writing those comments? I've thought about this and tried to put myself on that side of the arguement, and you know what I came up with?
So what??? Here's the thing: I know what my child's potential is. I know his insides and his outside and I know what he's going to do/say/think usually before he does. I know how I feel about who he is and I know what my hopes are for who he will become, because I am his MOM. I don't expect anyone else on the planet to see in him what I see. No one will ever feel the way I do about the Tornado because to date, no one else has as much invested in him and that's the way it's supposed to be. Teachers and coaches and friends and their parents will form their own opinions about my kids that will have NO IMPACT on how I feel or what I know about them. So serioulsy? In the grand scheme of things - who gives a shit if someone thinks my kid should check in with local waste management companies for employment? (to be honest my biggest gripe about the PA teacher's comments was the insinuation that driving a garbage truck was inferior work - work is work, bitch! It's a recession...)
So while I envisioned being able to share stories here about my present day work with preschoolers, I will heed my mother's advice (please don't tell her!!) and NOT put into writing anything about specific instances with my present class. I stand by everyhting that I've written about teaching preschoolers so far in this blog. However, only my nearest and dearest will get the "Full Monty" of classroom life with the SassMaster. I realized while pondering all of this, that while I gripe and parody and poke fun in the name of blowing off steam about a highly stressful job, what readers wouldn't be privy to are the moments that temper the What the Fuck stories that my BFF gets to snort about. Because there are days when someone small says something like "You are my nicest hero..." to you and it allows you to let go of the kid who won't stop knocking down his friends' blocks (let go of him figuratively, of course because head locks, while effective are strictly forbidden.)
When I was in fifth grade I was mad at my teacher and his class pet for some slight I only half remember. So because it was the beginning of the "Mean Girl" stage of development, I wrote something nasty about them on a piece of notebook paper and planned on passing it all around the classroom. I'm cringing as I tell you that I believe the word "humps" made an appearance in my mini smear campaign propaganda. For whatever reason, I never did circulate the note... but my mom found it in my pants pocket the next day. She told me never, under any circumstances should I write down something that I didn't want to be found out. I would love to tell you that I'm a fast learner and that I never again screwed myself with undeniable facts written in my own hand... but the 25+ times in high school that she looked through my backpack or my room and found notes to/from friends about parties and things I wasn't supposed to do with boyfriends I wasn't supposed to have, are testimony to the thickness of my skull. I am proud to say, however that TODAY, well... today, I get it!
I've been following some of the news stories about Natalie Munroe, a Pennsylvania English teacher who vented about students on her personal blog. If you haven't heard about this, here's a brief back story.
It obviously hits home for me as my blog deals mostly with my personal life, but touches from time to time on my perspective of life as a preschool teacher. There have been many times that I could have used this as a sounding board for gripes I have about work stuff, but have held back for several reasons - 1. my supervisor reads this blog, 2. confidentiality is important to me, as is my sense of professionalism, and 3. I've come to realize that my friend, Jen is the only person who can really handle the uncensored answer to "How was your day?" She loves it when I use the word "retard" and well... some other folks tend to cringe.
What's happening for the Pennsylvania high school teacher is unfortunate but, let's face it - fair or not fair, in this life you risk consequence with every action you take. I have no wish to debate right or wrong about this teacher's posts. She didn't use names and she spoke some truths that I share. What interests me more is the idea that if she were a doctor or a mechanic or a librarian or a bus driver she could comment on the absurdity and stupidity of nameless people she encounters in her work day without public uproar. So, America? What puts our children above reproach in our mind's eye? Why are we horrified by a teacher's rantings about lazy, entitled and it has to be confirmed - stupid kids?? Your kids have friends for Christ sake - you've encountered some of these people too. Spend some time on your school's playground after school someday and keep your eyes and ears open. What never fails to cross my mind when I'm out there is "So many 'treasures,' so few holes to bury them in." There is some atrocious behavior happening amidst the under 18 set...
Before you say it - What if it were MY child she had in mind when writing those comments? I've thought about this and tried to put myself on that side of the arguement, and you know what I came up with?
So what??? Here's the thing: I know what my child's potential is. I know his insides and his outside and I know what he's going to do/say/think usually before he does. I know how I feel about who he is and I know what my hopes are for who he will become, because I am his MOM. I don't expect anyone else on the planet to see in him what I see. No one will ever feel the way I do about the Tornado because to date, no one else has as much invested in him and that's the way it's supposed to be. Teachers and coaches and friends and their parents will form their own opinions about my kids that will have NO IMPACT on how I feel or what I know about them. So serioulsy? In the grand scheme of things - who gives a shit if someone thinks my kid should check in with local waste management companies for employment? (to be honest my biggest gripe about the PA teacher's comments was the insinuation that driving a garbage truck was inferior work - work is work, bitch! It's a recession...)
So while I envisioned being able to share stories here about my present day work with preschoolers, I will heed my mother's advice (please don't tell her!!) and NOT put into writing anything about specific instances with my present class. I stand by everyhting that I've written about teaching preschoolers so far in this blog. However, only my nearest and dearest will get the "Full Monty" of classroom life with the SassMaster. I realized while pondering all of this, that while I gripe and parody and poke fun in the name of blowing off steam about a highly stressful job, what readers wouldn't be privy to are the moments that temper the What the Fuck stories that my BFF gets to snort about. Because there are days when someone small says something like "You are my nicest hero..." to you and it allows you to let go of the kid who won't stop knocking down his friends' blocks (let go of him figuratively, of course because head locks, while effective are strictly forbidden.)
Thursday, March 3, 2011
My Cup Runneth Over.... or "If any more AWESOME gets crammed into this day I just might blow up and turn into Mary fucking Poppins...
I really want to get this posted while the high is still a fresh tingle in my spine... please excuse any typos.
First an update:
Weight Watchers is not the Hell I imagined and besides a few minor derailments that astonishingly did NOT involve Nutty Bars, is much easier than I expected it to be. After the first white-knuckle night during which I went through every emotion imaginable simply by virtue of the fact that I'd disrupted my usual routine of bored? shove high fat/sugar stuff into pie hole. avoiding some task? shove more crappy food into pie hole. sad? angry? you know what to do, Porkchop! shove something with cream filling into your pie hole...
So I actually had to feel every feeling that I had for a few days and the experience made me want to come out of my skin. I also felt the urge to throttle random citizens and loved ones for no obvious reason other than it looked as though they might be breathing within 3 feet of me.
Thankfully that phase has passed and all people in my life, big and small are present and accounted for. No lumpy rolled up carpets, or weighted river dumps. Congratulations for surviving Chubby Girl DTs, everyone. And thank you for your patience.
We are once again members of our local YMCA. Haven't been back since renewing the membership except to take the boys for a swim. However, I am encouraged that the thought no longer drives me to the cupboard in search of a spoonful of Fluff. We've been incredibly sick this winter with what I'm going to call chronic Pan-American Death Flu. I almost grabbed the kids and headed to the gym this afternoon when the thought of the childcare rooms with the Death Flu strains they are, no doubt still crawling with, turned me into Agrophobe Mommy and I opted for mounting the elliptical machine/towel dryer at my house. We just got better for Christ's sake...
errr... update complete.
Today I felt some more of the feelings I'm so used celebrating/stifling with cream filling and I may not sleep for hours yet because there's still a palpable buzz in my being from all of it. This afternoon I got on the elliptical/towel dryer for 30 minutes and instead of watching the clock and feeling ashamed of the jiggles and all the clicking I heard my hips doing I felt AMAZING! What a relevelation! My head is a riot of words right now trying to find the best way to describe my exercise experience today...
Anyone who knows me will tell you I am the self-proclaimed poster potato for couches. Yesterday I would have told you I only run when chased... today I felt like I could run a marathon (except I would totally sacrifice time for a bathroom break when I need one - No way will anyone catch me crossing a finish line with a melange bodily fluids running down my leg.)
At first I was just thrilled about not sucking wind inside of three minutes but as my legs found that familiar rhythm and pace of the machine, I felt stronger and stronger and sweaty, and tired, and stuff started to get sore and I lost my balance a little bit, but then all those glorious endorfins that failed me during labor and childbirth flooded my system and stronger took over again. I felt some anger I recognized had been ruminating inside me for a few weeks and the angrier I got, the better I felt so I let it go and pushed harder with my body... Music I love was blaring in my ears and I didn't care about where my children were... or what family and strangers had done to incur my wrath. I pumped my legs and punched the air. I thought, "Somebody line up Glenn Beck and Ted Nugent. The SassMaster is ready to kick some ass." Poppets, I smiled and flailed and moved and sweated and closed my eyes and head banged through a work out... and I loved every minute of it. Fuck me. Who'd have thunk?
The second bit of awesomeness to grace my day was my brother. He continues to triumph over the train wreck of his not-so-distant past and is all the inspiration I should need to keep moving forward no matter how many obstacles I put in my own path. He's a recovering alcoholic who is in his umpteenth stretch of sobriety at the ripe old age of 29. Today he walked into the kitchen and reached out for the Viking with hands that didin't shake and a solid, grounded stance, a clear and contented gaze and I handed over my baby without an ounce of trepedation... just trust. I couldn't do that 6-8 months ago. I couldn't be sure my brother was sober enough to keep himself upright, let alone manange my squirming toddler without ending up ass over tea kettle. The best part was that I didn't let our history of dysfunctional communication stop me from telling him how proud I was of how far he's come and how happy I am to look into his face and recognize the person looking back at me.
Coincidentally, my BFF whose father is still struggling with his disease posted this today:
Jen, I think I got the best of this one today, but I know your Grace is due... and until then, I'm here to listen and respond with irreverence and sarcasm, as always. xo
Keep yours eyes open for your Grace, poppets... it doesn't always jump on your face and wiggle, but it's happening around you, of that I'm sure.
First an update:
Weight Watchers is not the Hell I imagined and besides a few minor derailments that astonishingly did NOT involve Nutty Bars, is much easier than I expected it to be. After the first white-knuckle night during which I went through every emotion imaginable simply by virtue of the fact that I'd disrupted my usual routine of bored? shove high fat/sugar stuff into pie hole. avoiding some task? shove more crappy food into pie hole. sad? angry? you know what to do, Porkchop! shove something with cream filling into your pie hole...
So I actually had to feel every feeling that I had for a few days and the experience made me want to come out of my skin. I also felt the urge to throttle random citizens and loved ones for no obvious reason other than it looked as though they might be breathing within 3 feet of me.
Thankfully that phase has passed and all people in my life, big and small are present and accounted for. No lumpy rolled up carpets, or weighted river dumps. Congratulations for surviving Chubby Girl DTs, everyone. And thank you for your patience.
We are once again members of our local YMCA. Haven't been back since renewing the membership except to take the boys for a swim. However, I am encouraged that the thought no longer drives me to the cupboard in search of a spoonful of Fluff. We've been incredibly sick this winter with what I'm going to call chronic Pan-American Death Flu. I almost grabbed the kids and headed to the gym this afternoon when the thought of the childcare rooms with the Death Flu strains they are, no doubt still crawling with, turned me into Agrophobe Mommy and I opted for mounting the elliptical machine/towel dryer at my house. We just got better for Christ's sake...
errr... update complete.
Today I felt some more of the feelings I'm so used celebrating/stifling with cream filling and I may not sleep for hours yet because there's still a palpable buzz in my being from all of it. This afternoon I got on the elliptical/towel dryer for 30 minutes and instead of watching the clock and feeling ashamed of the jiggles and all the clicking I heard my hips doing I felt AMAZING! What a relevelation! My head is a riot of words right now trying to find the best way to describe my exercise experience today...
Anyone who knows me will tell you I am the self-proclaimed poster potato for couches. Yesterday I would have told you I only run when chased... today I felt like I could run a marathon (except I would totally sacrifice time for a bathroom break when I need one - No way will anyone catch me crossing a finish line with a melange bodily fluids running down my leg.)
At first I was just thrilled about not sucking wind inside of three minutes but as my legs found that familiar rhythm and pace of the machine, I felt stronger and stronger and sweaty, and tired, and stuff started to get sore and I lost my balance a little bit, but then all those glorious endorfins that failed me during labor and childbirth flooded my system and stronger took over again. I felt some anger I recognized had been ruminating inside me for a few weeks and the angrier I got, the better I felt so I let it go and pushed harder with my body... Music I love was blaring in my ears and I didn't care about where my children were... or what family and strangers had done to incur my wrath. I pumped my legs and punched the air. I thought, "Somebody line up Glenn Beck and Ted Nugent. The SassMaster is ready to kick some ass." Poppets, I smiled and flailed and moved and sweated and closed my eyes and head banged through a work out... and I loved every minute of it. Fuck me. Who'd have thunk?
picture this with curly hair and much more "jiggle" or if that visual is too much for you,
just enjoy 10 seconds of Brad Pitt
The second bit of awesomeness to grace my day was my brother. He continues to triumph over the train wreck of his not-so-distant past and is all the inspiration I should need to keep moving forward no matter how many obstacles I put in my own path. He's a recovering alcoholic who is in his umpteenth stretch of sobriety at the ripe old age of 29. Today he walked into the kitchen and reached out for the Viking with hands that didin't shake and a solid, grounded stance, a clear and contented gaze and I handed over my baby without an ounce of trepedation... just trust. I couldn't do that 6-8 months ago. I couldn't be sure my brother was sober enough to keep himself upright, let alone manange my squirming toddler without ending up ass over tea kettle. The best part was that I didn't let our history of dysfunctional communication stop me from telling him how proud I was of how far he's come and how happy I am to look into his face and recognize the person looking back at me.
Coincidentally, my BFF whose father is still struggling with his disease posted this today:
God, grant me the patience to relish each second of this day,
the courage to learn from and let go of yesterday,
and the passion to pursue tomorrow.
Keep yours eyes open for your Grace, poppets... it doesn't always jump on your face and wiggle, but it's happening around you, of that I'm sure.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
I'm On the Verge of Action...
In my previous post I talked about procrastination and horrified readers into silence by disclosing my pants size and weight. I've always abandoned any effort that felt like effort to get and stay healthy. It's desperate. I am at least 50 pounds overweight - that's like running around everyday with an extra 7 year old. Stuck to my body... You know what? I don't know that kid and I don't like him. It turns out that he won't just get bored and leave on his own while I sit in front of the computer or eat pistachios while watching CSI. I have to do something but so far all I really know for sure is:
You see where this is going, right??
{this is where I could be headed}
{and THIS is a little too far down the road I want to be on}
I'd like to land somewhere waaaaay south of Charming "Little" Ella, up there and just before Fergie's skirt hits the bottom of her cheeks. So if anyone has the slightest idea how the fuck to accomplish that, please do let me know. I am almost ready to gear up to plan to seriously commit to saying I may possibly be leaning towards taking action. Yep... I'm THAT serious.
Phase One: Getting Ready
The first logical step to starting a healthier lifestyle seems to have been to eat a whole bunch of the stuff I'm going to miss not eating anymore. Does anyone else do this or am I the only fucktard who loads up on junk food before going on a diet? Good bye, Nutty Bars... Thin Mints... I'm done with you. Hello sugar-free Jell-O... I see many nights of Special K for dinner in my future. Saturday, I register for Weight Watchers, and it feels like looking at 6-10 months in lock-up.
So while I haven't been exercising YET, I did craft the most excellent workout playlist. Look!
*If you hate any or all of this, it's OK. You're OK. But I don't care. Save your hate mail for oil companies and people who throw puppies into rivers...
✓ Sure Shot Beastie Boys
✓ So What'cha Want Beastie Boys
✓ Brass Monkey Beastie Boys
✓ Hey Ladies Beastie Boys
✓ Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It) Beyoncé
✓ Boom Boom Pow Black Eyed Peas
✓ I Gotta Feeling Black Eyed Peas
✓ Pump It Black Eyed Peas
✓ Crazy Bitch Buckcherry
✓ Darkside (Album Version) Crazy Town
✓ Only When I'm Drunk (Explicit Album Version) Crazy Town
✓ Lollipop Porn (Explicit Album Version) Crazy Town
✓ The State of Massachusetts Dropkick Murphys
✓ Shake That Eminem
✓ Too Funky George Michael
✓ Head over Heels The Go-Go's
✓ Key West Intermezzo (I Saw You First) John Mellencamp
✓ Wild Night John Mellencamp
✓ Gold Digger (Featuring Jamie Foxx) Kanye West
✓ When the Sun Goes Down Kenny Chesney
✓ Just Dance Lady GaGa
✓ Goodbye Kristinia DeBarge
✓ American Woman Lenny Kravitz
✓ One Step Closer Linkin Park
✓ Bleed It Out Linkin Park
✓ The World Should Revolve Around Me Little Jackie
✓ Supermassive Black Hole Muse
✓ Something In Your Mouth Nickelback
✓ Just a Girl No Doubt
✓ U + Ur Hand P!nk
✓ So What P!nk
✓ Don't Let Me Get Me (Radio Edit) P!nk
✓ Blood Sugar Sex Magik Red Hot Chili Peppers
✓ Give It Away Red Hot Chili Peppers Red Hot Chili Peppers
✓ Pon de Replay (Radio Edit) Rihanna
✓ Living Dead Girl Rob Zombie
✓ Fake It Seether
✓ Oh Carolina Shaggy
✓ Caress Me Down Sublime
✓ Switch Will Smith
✓ Lady Marmalade Christina Aguilera, Lil' Kim, Mya & Pink
✓ 18 Wheeler P!nk
✓ Porn Star Dancing (feat. Ludacris) My Darkest Days
✓ Kick In The Teeth Papa Roach
✓ Hollaback Girl Gwen Stefani
✓ Rich Girl Gwen Stefani
✓ It's Tricky Run-DMC
✓ Raise Your Glass P!nk
✓ Hey Baby (Drop It to the Floor) Pitbull
✓ Stand Up Ludacris & Shawnna
So there we have it! I'm almost completely ready to start living healthier... pretty much. I mean... you know. Right after I get some new work out clothes and sneakers. THEN.... well, then I'll be ready to jump right into a gym routine. Except on Mondays... 'cause you know... It's Monday. And Saturdays are reserved for the Tornado's basketball games and a seemingly endless string of birthday parties. Wednesdays look good from like 3:30 - 3:40 and I will definitely be able to get in a brisk walk on Thurs.... oops. No... Thursday is the night I actually try to cook for dinner. That's the whole afternoon and evening blown. Hmmm....You see where this is going, right??
Somebody, please... say something INSPIRING.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Bless me, Father. I'm a repeat offender
Thank you in advance for agreeing, via mouse click to be my confessor today.
Procrastination is like a shitty boyfriend. You know you should just cut him out of your life because it feels sooo bad. But then again... it feels so very good right now.
Read the following while I tend to my sore ass. Procrastination has bitten me once again...
I am up to my eyeballs in work that remains undone... SHHHHHH! Don't tell anyone... I have progress reports due in
Confession #1 - On the morning of the 30th I will have about 4 out of 11 completed and still be telling myself I have plenty of time to bang out the other seven before the end of the next day. That's the way the SassMaster rolls, poppets... on half a tank of gas, one flat tire and ALWAYS fifteen minutes late. Aren't you glad you're not my supervisor? Check! It's the 30th today and as it stands: 4 reports complete.
Confession #2 - If I even think about singing The Wheels on the Bus, or The ABC Song I want to hang myself with a macaroni necklace...
Confession #3 - Because my home page is Facebook, I often get sucked in to 30 - 45 minutes of FB before I realize I logged onto the Internet with some other purpose. By that time I've forgotten what my mission was. But I've posted 4 or 5 witty quips about my friends' kids or laundry and perused all sorts of brain food like what folks have had for breakfast, who's at the mall with or without kids and who's got a big ol' iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts. And please understand that it's not that I don't care about this stuff, because I so do! When my girl, Jen has an iced coffee she smiles and feels loved and looked after by the delightful man she married - and that makes ME happy, too. But poppets, this is what keeps me from my progress reports.
Facebook hinders my responsibility. The sad truth is that FB is the last scrap of any recognizable social life I have. I'm hanging on with both hands. Responsibility will have to wait. I NEED to know what Diana's having for dinner tonight.
Confession #4 - A year and a half ago I was a size 14 and thinner than I had been in over 8 years. I made a promise at that time that I would never be bordering on a size 20 again. Guess who's size 18's are working harder than the Hoover Dam these days? I am no longer worried about who or what I DON'T look like. The magazines and MTV no longer make me shrink into a corner, bearing the terrible weight of unworthiness that slumped my shoulders and drew my eyes toward the floor. What necessitates a lifestyle shift now is that I feel like shit ALL. THE. TIME. I don't need to be skinny. (I let go of single digit pants sizes when I was 20 years old.) I just want to learn to be well and stay healthy. So, I'm sacrificing SassMaster secrets for the sake of being held accountable to change by virtue of the fact that the information is out there. PEOPLE KNOW... Here you have my numbers, cyberspace: I am a 34 year-old mom of 2 who wears a size 18/20 pants and XXL everything else. I weigh well over 200 pounds, but admittedly, I haven't stood on a scale since they wanted to weigh me 6 weeks after The Viking emerged. And my blood sugar numbers have been borderline diabetic. I'm beautiful. I'm worthy. I'm smart, funny, kind and I'm good at my job. I am the best mother I know how to be. But I'm not well. And I want to be.
In the following months I will attempt to take back my body and make it my own again. That was what I told myself when I was undergoing the Essure procedure to block my tubes. The last ten years have been consumed with hormones, ovulation tests, cervical mucus, prenatal vitamins, eating for two, growing babies, breastfeeding, breast pumps, birth control pills and patches... and it's all behind me now. Now is a new chapter. If I can use this body to birth two completely new human beings, I can use it to rebirth a healthier, more energetic and stronger ME.
This is going to be painful and no doubt you're going to hear all about it... bear with me. There's bound to be humor in losing my death grip on the Nutty Bars.
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