Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Good Bad Day

I had a good day and I had a bad day. Some days are just like that. Even in Australia.

On paper, it seemed really good. There was chocolate. Fresh air. Sunshine.

But my morning started out early and rough. The boy either loves me so much it hurts or hates me so much it hurts. It's one of those. Nothing in between. When I said it was time to go to school, he began a full body scream tantrum, rendering him impossible to get out the door. The girl was holding it together but we all have sensory processing disorder and hate loud noises so it began to wear on us and finally, I asked her to carry the lunch boxes and she SCREAMED at me that she could not and I yelled at her and then we both apologized and I could tell this was going to be a terrible, no good,  very bad daycare drop off.

We survived the load in with only one dropping of a bag and made it the whole five minutes in the car listening to the baby sing the song of his people. The boy did not seem to know whether or not he wanted to walk into daycare himself or be carried so we took a good three minutes getting from the car to the door. Somehow, and I really can't figure out how, my daughter got her foot caught UNDER the door at this point and started screaming bloody murder. I think she was scared more than hurt. SO, that's right. I'm the mom with TWO screaming children, taking up the whole hallway at daycare.

I abandon my hysterical offspring with the daycare teachers aka saints and hand the valentines for tomorrow to one teacher as I flee. I hope no one notices I did all 25 of them BACKWARDS.

I go to work for a couple hours, tutoring. It is juuuuust fine.

I go to PT--go me. I tell her about how I did sixty minutes of Barre and how my butt hurts and she tells me I really should only do 30 minutes of any exercise at this point and I feel a bit deflated but she helps me with things and works on my stupid hip and then I leave, out into the glorious sunshine where two women on crutches talk about crutches things while they wait for their cars.

What happened next was ridiculous. I wish I could say I was enjoying the sunshine. I can't even say I was on my phone. I WALKED INTO A STREET SIGN. It was a construction "detour" sign and it was placed HEAD LEVEL on the side walk, which seems silly, but more silly is that I walked face first into it!

A very stylish older lady wearing red lipstick (#olderladygoals) witnessed this and was VERY CONCERNED for my health. I got a "sweetie!" And I yelled, "DID YOU SEE HOW STUPID I WAS TO WALK INTO THAT? I'M TOTALLY FINE!" It was super dumb. I'm fine. It actually might bruise.

At this point I decided I deserved ice cream. I know that's counter-productive to the whole go to PT so you can exercise but until then don't really exercise shebang, but I was very near Salt-n-Straw and it is a good month for the special flavors because they are all chocolate themed so I fucking got a scoop of goddamned fancy and amazing fucking ice cream. And I enjoyed it.

And then I bought a dress! I am attending a wedding and need a suitable dress. Shopping is supposed to be a fun activity but it is NOT fun for the poor mom bod because women's clothes shopping is insane. I went to Nordstrom Rack and picked out more dresses than I should have been feasibly carrying and I tried on every single one.

One woman can try on one million dresses and they can all be the same freaking numbered size on the inside and she will find a vast array of horrible fit problems: too big in the boobs, too tight in the boobs, doesn't fit over hips, doesn't zip, zips but with a gap, too long, too short, too low cut, too prudish, what the fuck is this slip thing, how am I supposed to get into this dress, too pink, too black, too too too too tooooooooooooo

I found two. I will do a fashion show at home and pick one.

And then I picked up the children and they alternated screaming at me and being really, really cute and playing nicely together and crying because one or the other was wronged.

Bedtime. Tutor another kid. His "cat" gave me a valentine. Because they are the best family ever.

Here I am. So tired. Still awake.

On paper, so good: worked. sunny day, chocolate, dress.

In real life...so much in between.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

The Follow-Through

This post is full of sports metaphors because I am an athlete now.

(I'm not.)


I did see a Sports Therapy Doctor.

Who referred me to a FANCY Sports Care Center.

Which is IN:


OK maybe adjacent? Attached?  Either way...It's basically a windowed office that looks out onto the field. And the parking lot was under construction so it had FREE VALET today. I am the fanciest. Well okay it didn't feel that fancy dropping off my filthy minivan but OH WELL.

Most importantly, I liked my PT and she seems to understand the human body and how I f-ed mine up royally and what to do to fix it.


I got a GIANT SHOT in my HIP!

It was not that giant. I told my (pregnant) doctor that it was not as bad as the epidural and also that the epidural was not that bad. And then my hip got numb for four hours and I went to go do my Barre DVD but it broke inside my DVD player and so I improvised.

FYI: Barre3 is my FAAAAVORITE mom exercise and I love it so much and recommend it and, no, they don't pay me to say this stuff, but, Sadie Lincoln, call me and you can pay me to say stuff!

When I was done pretending to be a ballerina, I mopped my floor because that is really the true test of the shot's potential effectiveness.

Maybe the shot worked? Hard to tell because there's so much other BS going on in my lower limb region. Anyway, I'm gonna keep on keeping on.

This didn't have enough sports metaphors. Um. Touchdown.


Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Take Care of Yourself: Part 3

In Part 1 we learned about how I'm an old lady and my hip hurts. In Part 2 we learned that I'm an old lady with grey hair except now I have fulfilled my haircut destiny and look like Rapunzel at the end of the movie:

Except older.

Welcome to Part 3 in which we learn HOW TO EXERCISE!

Turns out exercise is important. If we don't exercise we can't lift stuff like three year olds. And we get winded carrying a 26 lb 18 month old up a flight of stairs. And generally we just feel like Cogsworth:

Flabby, fat, and lazy.

Can you tell we watch a lot of Disney around here?

SO! I'm gonna EXERCISE!

STEP 1: Make time

1. Turns out in 2014 I bought 20 hours of daycare at the community center and didn't use it because: A) certain individuals didn't love the daycare
B) certain other individuals read the schedule wrong and could never figure out when to drop her off when a class she wanted to take was also happening
C) certain same individuals forgot completely.
So I put an event in my google calendar to use up the remaining 8 hours of daycare over the next few weeks and the children will have to DEAL! Also I'll take them to the indoor park after.

2. Put a note in my calendar to try that class on Thursday afternoons I've been wanting to try for three years and to do an online workout on Tuesday afternoons.

STEP 2: Move that body!

1. Due to all the missed connections in Parts 1 and 2, I have yet to make it to the gym in person but I DID purchase four barre DVDs on cyber Monday and have been trying them out during "free time."

2. Because of my broken hip (disclaimer: not broken), I SUCK at exercise. And because of my broken abs (also not broken) my core is super mega weak. Turns out having two 9+ lb infants surgically removed in quick succession can mess up your body. So I quickly had to step it waaaaaay back from my fitness plan post baby #1: baby boot camp.

SIDE NOTE ON BABY BOOT CAMP: Some people LOOOOOVE IT. Some people find it to be a fantastic community of like-minded moms and great opportunity to have their children learn how important fitness is.

I did not.

I found it to be...let's just say not my people. The particular class I took was in a wealthy suburb and was during the weekday so it was full of SAHM (learn your acronyms) and we just didn't have much in common though they were totally nice.  Mostly though, my daughter HATED being stuck in a stroller while I did squats IN VIEW OF THE PLAYGROUND. I have to hand it to her, that one makes sense. The other main reason that class didn't work for me is it broke my foot. Ok it didn't DIRECTLY break my foot. And it didn't ACTUALLY break my foot. But I did get a stress fracture from trying to keep up with the other moms. So I quit. And got pregnant again. Not related events.

Back to the present.

STEP 3: Move that body! Slowly! In a way that's safe for YOU!

1. Still working on this one. It's hard to do PT exercises and feel my limits and see that they are significant. I'm not the young, spry 20 something of yesteryear. I'm THIRTY SOMETHING. (32). Also I ignored myself so long and so hard that now I have to start over.

2. So I'm going to TRY to go easy on myself. But not so easy I do nothing.


Take Care of Yourself! Part 2

Ok so the stunning details of PART 1 chronicled my attempts to be a grown-up through medical care.


Ok don't get too excited.

Let's just dye my hair. And cut it. That's easy, right?


STEP 1: Schedule that shit!

1. I scheduled my hair cut weeks in advance.


1. It is the day of my haircut.
2. I showed up to my appointment after telling everyone and their mom I was GETTING A HAIRCUT TODAY!
3. My stylist didn't SHOW!
4. Turns out she'd written the wrong date down and wasn't even at the salon.
5. In a rage, I schedule another appointment with a new stylist.
6. I show up to the new appointment and sit down and start telling her all I want to do when she interrupts me to tell me she only scheduled me for a cut, not a cut and color and that she only has time to do the cut. I spin in my head! How dare she mess this up! I am pretty FUCKING SURE I TOLD HER! But also, shouldn't she confirm that because I'm a woman scheduling an appointment in the middle of the weekday. Chances are I have grey hair!
7. I leave the appointment because I don't want half a haircut. Later that day is when my doctor no-showed me and I feel as if I have upset my karma somehow or perhaps was cursed by someone...I burn some sage (I do not.)
8. I feel super mega guilty and also embarrassed because I'm sure I came off in not my best light by nearly crying and then skulking out of the salon.
9. My original stylist has been texting me, feeling really bad about messing up so I give her another shot.
10. The night before my new appointment, my daughter seems like maybe she's getting sick. I put her to bed and bemoan how I'm probably not going to get a haircut.
11. In the morning, she's fine. Back to normal (kinda...she's very...unique)
12. Send her to school! Go to work! GO TO MY HAIRCUT!
14. As I pay for my haircut, a text comes in. My daughter spiked a fever at school and I need to go fetch her.


Was that so hard? Yeah. Kinda was.

Take Care of Yourself! Part 1

Self- care. Seems so easy. Be selfish. Take care! It's our biological imperative to protect our bodies from harm.


I keep hurting myself because I'm keeping the boy from leaping to his death from arms. Or he's insisting on being held but also not holding on. Or the girl wants to forgot where she exists in space and decides to become a mass of flailing legs.


I keep doing chores instead of exercise.


I keep eating toddler leftovers instead of real food.


I still don't get to sleep through the night.


I wear active wear always.


I am a mess.


A big ole slobby, gray haired, scraggly, poorly nourished, bags under my eyes, walking funny because of injury, out of shape, MESS.

So I made a plan. I am going to TAKE CARE OF MYSELF, damnit! It's the least I can do!

STEP ONE: Make time.

OK done. I freed up my afternoons on the days the kids go to daycare and I'm gonna TAKE CARE OF MYSELF (Tuesdays and Thursdays for three hours. When the chores are done. If I don't have something else to do. If school is in session).

STEP TWO: Schedule some shit!

1. Go to the fucking doctor and figure out why my hip hurts all the time,
2. Doctor sends me to PT
3. Go to PT for two months.
4. At the end of two months, the PT says, "We don't know what's wrong with you but it's getting worse. Go to your doctor."
5. Go to the fucking doctor except now I have to get a new doctor because my old doctor doesn't work during my three hours of alone time.
6. Get new doctor who refers me to a Sports Therapy Doctor.
7. Go to fucking sports therapy appointment.
8. Doctor runs so late I have to leave to pick up my kids.
9.  Get a new sports therapy doctor.
10. Office calls to tell me this doctor is not in my insurance network.
12. Go to doctor. I KID YOU NOT. On the way to the appointment I GET HIT BY A CAR! But it was very minor and left no damage and it was fine and I was still on time. But it seemed symbolically significant.
13. Doctor pokes me in the hip and says, "Yeah there's a couple of things going on here."
14. X-rays hip
15. Doctor says, "Your X-ray looks good. Which means I don't know what it is yet. Let's INJECT YOU WITH STEROIDS!"

Ok this is as far as I've gotten so far because I'm exhausted and waiting to schedule my injection. I could have gone today but then I'd have to bring my whole "team" and I think doctor's offices are traumatic enough for them without them having to witness this:


Friday, June 23, 2017

Swimsuit Season

“After I put on my bathing suit, you must not look at me until I get into the water.”
“Why not?” asked Frog.
“Because I look funny in my bathing suit. That is why,” said Toad.
(Frog and Toad Are Friends by Arnold Lobel)

Last year, I successfully avoided wearing a swim suit. With a clever bit of inception, I convinced my husband and daughter that swimming was a special father/daughter activity and they went to the pool without me once or twice a week, coming home chemical-scented and hungry. I fed them, hugely pregnant, and was thankful.  Then, my son was born at the beginning of July and swimming was forbidden for six weeks because of my cervix or something. I rode that excuse all the way to fall.
This year, with a nearly one-year-old and a three-year-old, pool time has to be a family outing. Two kids at the pool is a bit much for one adult. So I pulled out my swim suits and tried them on.
First was the tankini I bought to wear rafting before I knew I was pregnant with my daughter. I wore it exactly once and back in the drawer it went.  The top is a medium and the bottom is a large because…pears. Still fits, though my nursing boobs are kinda smushed in and my stretch marks are showing. I decide it’s not going to work and move on to option number two.
Maternity swimsuit. Worn only during the first pregnancy to water aerobics. That’s a whole other post…but it fits. It looks like a maternity suit, though. It has that ruching on the sides. But my boobs are contained.  The bottom is super pilly…but who can tell?  Who’s looking? I decide it’s not going to work and move on to option number three.
Post-partum suit.  Purchased the summer after my daughter was born. It’s from Old Navy and has that “vintage-inspired” one-piece look: strapless except for a shoestring holster. A piece of fabric over the whole thing that can be bunched up to hide fat rolls and/or pulled down to turn the one-piece into a tube-dress suit. It is doing nothing for my boobs. They are seconds from popping out. I remember that they often did the summer I wore it. My husband is called in for a consult and declares it “not the worst thing” if my boobs pop out at the community pool. I decide it’s the worst one yet and take to the internet.
When it comes in the mail I’m initially happy with the fit. It’s a high waisted, pin-up style. It has significant coverage but is purposefully stylish. I stash it in my swim suit drawer. Cut to today. It’s the first hot day in forever and we decide it’s the day we will go to the pool, which has just opened for the season this week. I pull out my suit a couple hours early, just to make sure. I plop the baby in the pack-n-play in our room and he amuses himself with his own reflection and a pretend piano while I don the fancy new suit.
It’s terrible. Maybe my boobs shrank but the cups sit perched atop my wobbly “there used to be a person in there” abdomen and there’s a sizable gap on all sides. The halter pulls at the back of my neck and the back strap keeps rolling around.  The swim bottom is fine but it is perhaps TOO high-waisted, making me look short and stubby…TOADLIKE even. Husband is pulled in for a consult. He declares it “Fine. Sexy. Good.” And he’s gone, his two cargo-short suits folded neatly next to his actual cargo-shorts. Life is easy for him. I decide the new suit is the worst yet and go back through each of the above.
I finish where I started: tankini. It’s fine, I tell myself. By this time, the baby is getting bored of this activity and wants up. I pick him up and glance at the mirror. Now that I’m holding a baby, the suit takes on a ghoulish fun-house mirror shape. The twenty-something pound baby can’t be held while I’m standing upright and pushing out my chest, sucking in my gut. The giant baby, who doesn’t hold on at all by the way but rather leans away, trying to see the world, must be held on a hip. And when I do that, there’s my “there used to be person in there” abdomen, jutting out for all to see. My boobs are in great danger of exposing themselves and my posture is not runway-appropriate.
And he’s laughing at me. The baby. Just like in the story—all of Toad’s friends laugh at him because he DOES look funny in his bathing suit.  To which Toad says, “Of course I do” and picks up his clothes and goes home! The baby is laughing at me and so will everyone else. Or worse, they’ll look at me with pity and disgust.
Wait. No, he’s not. The baby is laughing at himself in the mirror.  And I smile at him and he goos enthusiastically, wrapping his chubby little arms around my neck and giving me a slobbery, open-mouthed kiss. He could give two shits about me in my bathing suit. He just wants to be near me. Duh.
At the pool, I notice the other mom-bods. Don’t try to tell me you don’t scope them out, too. Obviously, mostly, I was watching my children, but as it turns out, the baby is terrified of the pool and just wanted to sit in the shallow end, holding onto me for dear life. So I had a moment to scan the crowd. There were mom-bods just like mine—pale and untoned and doing their best in tankinis, one-pieces, skirt-bottoms, t-shirts, some full-blown bikinis, and all other variations of swimwear. I saw them pulling down their tops, pulling their bottoms around their bottoms. I saw them trying to adjust their posture while holding a baby and realizing that would result in back injury. I saw them too focused on the safety of their kids to worry that their love-handle had made an appearance. I saw them yank up their tops to avoid a near nip slip. And I saw the dads, carefree and heartless in their man-uniform. And I saw the inexplicably fit moms and the naturally petite moms and the nannies who don’t have kids and the friends who still have shape and the teenagers who look perfect. And all the cute kids in their colorful swimwear and hats and floaties, not caring at all about stomach flab. And everyone was fine. It was fine. They saw me and I saw them and, sure, I’m probably gonna go buy a suit so I have something that fits a little better, but then I’m just going to wear it. Because, believe it or not, it’s not about me. Or my stomach.

In the end, my boob did come out. The baby’s hydrophobia was so great I decided to nurse him to ease his panic. So I sat on a bench, giant baby on my lap, and popped my boob out of my tankini. And no one cared. Except the baby…he was pacified. 

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Mom Guilt Gifts

I am the ultimate mom stereotype at Target today.  I pulled up in my minivan, strapped the baby to my front and lifted the toddler, LOUDLY SINGING a song in gibberish loosely inspired by "Hakuna Matata" into the cart.  I'm feeling svelte today in my Costco jeans and flannel button up, one day out from a fast but furious stomach flu that touched the lives of all who met it like a dead person who did nice things except this virus did horrible things and it seems it will never die.

I'm at target to buy an "I'm Sorry My Daughter Threw Up On Your Rug: I Didn't Know She Had the Stomach Flu" rug and an "I'm Sorry I Infected You and Your Whole Family With Our Stomach Flu Because My Baby Put His Hand in Your Mouth: I Thought He Was Well Again" card.  The second one doesn't exist but I looked. It's kinda niche market, the whole "throw up apology gift" thing, isn't it? But, Target, if anyone were to start carrying a line of these items, it would would YOU.

I also had to buy an assortment of mismatched frames to compensate for the fact that I can't hang pictures correctly, Gatorade, rice, and other delicacies. Basically, I spend $150 as per usual.

They are remodeling my local Target, so I got lost and then the toddler had to pee before I found where they'd stashed the kid water bottles because none of ours have a complete set, so I was in Target for a LONG time today and thought of some more apology products.

Disclaimer: I'm of the mind that we don't need to apologize for our kids like those parents who hand out goodie bags to the "poor, unfortunate souls" who have to share an airplane with a child who may or may not have an inner ear catastrophe while in flight.  HOWEVER. I am kinda the worst in this stage of life and I hope the following gifts will help people forgive me.

To the person I cut off during the confusing four way stop by my house:
"I'm Sorry I Can't Figure Out Whose Turn it Is to Go Because I'm Fielding a Hungry Toddler and a Hangry Baby and Probably Shouldn't Be Driving Because I'm Super Tired" cactus

To my Mom Friend:
"I'm Sorry We Can't Be Friends Anymore Because Our Kids' Nap Schedules Don't Align" candle

To the Waitress:
"I'm Sorry I Didn't Pick Up the Cracker Crumbs my Toddler Left on Your Floor: I Just Wanted to Get Out of There Before She Decided to Lie Down on the Floor and Have an Exit Tantrum" coffee mug

To My Husband:
"I'm Sorry the House Looks like This and Also I Didn't Make Dinner But Everyone Cried All Day Today and I Didn't Want To" decorative vase

To My Childless Friend:
"I'm Sorry I Dramatically Rolled My Eyes When You Said Caring for Your Pet Is Just Like Having A Child" flower pot

To the Baby:
"I'm Sorry Your Nap Got Ruined by Your Sister Coming in And Asking If You Wanted To Go to the Zoo: I Was Peeing and Didn't Catch Her in Time" teething toy

To the Toddler:
"I'm Sorry I Snapped at You for Licking a Stranger" sticker book

To the Stranger:
"She Licked You Because She Likes You: I hope You Don't Get the Stomach Flu" gift basket

To Myself:
"I'm Sorry You Have to Wait Just a Little Longer for Lunch Because the Baby Had a Blowout and the Toddler is Protesting Nap: Just Reheat it One More Time" wine glass

I admit a couple of these are sorrynotsorry apologies, but mostly I do feel bad that I just can't get it together and keep the world healthy and basically I'm just thankful that people generally give me a break and find my child's vocal improvisations endearing.  So next I'll think of THANK YOU presents and I'll try not to make them too snarky....

To the Target Checkout Lady:
"Thank You for Giving My Child a Sticker Even Though I Am Not Sure She Met All the Requirements for Deserving One" tote bag