Judging Moms on the Farm Field Trip

Therapist: When was the last time you had fun with your two year old?
Me: (sobbing) I don't even know!

This was a week ago, after I left a play place crying, football carrying my son, who was being aggressive toward other kids who wanted to play with a toy he coveted.

Today, I had fun with my two year old.

I had the opportunity to take him to a farm with some buddies on a perfect, crisp but warm, fall Oregon morning while his sister was at preschool.

We picked apples and pears, we rode in a wagon, we got mini-pumpkins, we saw some farm animals, and he played on a huge hay slide.

For the sake of the story I will describe the play structure. It was a tower of hay with a wooden house at the top from which a plastic slide came down to the ground.

While playing on the play structure, we became encircled by a group of preschoolers on a field trip. They had on matching shirts that designated them from a wealthier suburban area. I would have known we were in the midst of a wealthier suburban preschool crowd by the moms.

I'm not going to pretend I'm well-evolved enough not to judge other moms. I am SUPER JUDGY. (ESFJ!!) I will judge you if you:

- don't vaccinate
- think your child is perfect
- have unsecured firearms in your house
- judge me

So let me just jump right in and paint a little picture. Every mom was white (but, you're white, you say. I KNOW! I got sunburned today! I'm juuuust saying this entire preschool was white). The overall appearance was that each woman jumped off a Pinterest board entitled "Fall Fashion Favorites." They had cute boot wedges. They had canvas coats. They had dark-wash skinny jeans. They had their hair "done" and they were standing, chatting, in a circle, while the children went completely bonkers all over this hay slide thing.

I'm not saying I'm judging them for their clothes. They were darned cute. They were #momfashiongoals. I'M JUST PAINTING HERE!

For contrast, I wasn't in sweats, per se. I had on leggings (as pants), red Hunter boots, a tunic, and a sweater. Only my sunglasses and bra were from Target. It was an acceptable outfit. But it was dirty at this point in the morning from playing with my child. These women's outfits are adorable, but they seem to symbolize the amount of hands-on involvement these women would be willing to have with their kids.

They were chit-chatting about financial goals behind me.

No one was paying too much attention to my kid and his friend who were yelling "CHICKEN" at a nearby chicken. But they occasionally shot me glances that seemed to say, "Aren't you going to tell them to stop verbally abusing that chicken?" I politely asked my group to stop yelling at the chicken and they went to play on the hay thing,

On the hay thing was a child on the field trip who was winning the gold metal for "Kid Going Totally Insane on a Field Trip!" He was all limbs. He was all loud. He was a cute Dennis-the-Menace of "dis-regulation." We're gonna call him Golden Boy. Or Gold. Or Goldie.

I'm not judging this kid. I've had this kid. Lots. Lack of structure + my child = chaos.

And his little friend in the striped shirt was going for silver with the insanity.

I see my two-year-old go into the little playhouse at the top of the hay. I see Gold and Silver go in after him, totally hyperactive and out of their minds, drunk on the freedom of being out of doors. I see these kids are in my kid's FACE. I see half the preschool crowd into this three by five little playhouse. And I see Gold come out crying.

This part of the field trip is wrapping up at this point and the moms are herding the preschoolers away from the hay thing.

As they leave, a very beautiful woman says to me, "That little kid? There?" (points at my two year old) "He's yours, right? Just so you know, he punched that kid (points after Goldie) right in the face."

I say, "Oh. Ok. Thank you." as she walks away. And then to my friend, I say, "I'll just go ground my two-year-old to teach him a lesson."

Because.  What. Am I supposed to do with that, lady?

Should I tell her he has some sensory sensitivities such as loud noises or people getting in his face?

Should I show her my receipts from the therapist, who told me to do something low-key outside with my two-year-old to see if we can have fun together and, if possible, take a video if he gets aggressive with anyone?

Should I point out that the injured party, Golden Boy, is probably four years old, a foot taller, ten pounds heavier, and was taunting my two-year-old, but that, hey, I'm working on getting my toddler to use his words?

Should have her fetch Goldie and force an apology out of my not-remorseful toddler? Should we role play until my kid says, "Excuse me good sir, would you please give me an acceptable personal bubble? I'm hitting my emotional limit."

Should I tell her that my kid has a black-eye right now, yes, but not because he's a mean kid or because someone is teaching him to be mean by beating him up but that he fell and bonked it last weekend?

No. Because she just wanted me to feel bad and then she left with the preschoolers, not giving me a chance to make an excuse, apology, or, oops, throw it back on her.

So, yes, fancy preschool moms, I'm gonna judge you,

Because aren't we all doing the best we can? Are your children, who, for whatever reason, felt like they needed to put my baby in a corner, so perfect? Did I chastise you for your "bully?" No. Because Golden Boy is not a bully. He's maybe a little out of sorts or even...oh dare I say, "Difficult," but, whatever. He's a small child. He's not quite done yet.

Like mine.

My Child Will

Some of you know my children very well. But in case you don't and you'd like to...

Bonus guessing game, guess which kid does which.  Trick: several of them apply to both.

My child will NOT...

eat a sandwich for lunch.

eat anything besides a sandwich for lunch.

forget the color of your cat.

color inside the lines.

wear jeans.

stand in line.

TOLERATE HUNGER.

put shoes on the correct feet.

be embarrassed by their behavior, no matter how inappropriate or loud.

choose a weather appropriate outfit on the first try. But it will be colorful...and patternful.

My child will...

say hello to EVERY stranger. Then tell them her full name. Her address...her social...our bank pin...

scratch you in the face if you cut in line.

recite entire Dr. Seuss books! And sometimes Shakespeare.

hear a loud noise, find it disturbing, and decide to combat it with MAKING MORE NOISE.

swing on swings FOREVER.

sing in the car.

take off shoes as soon as we reach the destination...even if it's the park.

give you the tightest and most passionate hug of your LIFE. Even if you are a plumber they just met.

lick you.

dance at a wedding.

exaggerate an injury in order to get a band aid.

play elaborate pretend games that involve every toy and costume in the house.

show the full range of human emotions...in one conversation.

tell you they love you. Even if they just met you.

Real

We've been reading The Velveteen Rabbit again.

"What is Real?"

“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you."

Can I try to articulate why this book gets me so misty? I don't know if I can. But I'll try. 

It's a lie. You're real because you exist. You're real because you're REAL. Duh. This is not the matrix. Is it? No, Right? No. It's not.

You are real.

The Velveteen Rabbit is not real. But it feels real.

It feels like you're only real, you only exist, if someone else cares about you enough to validate you. 

"When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

Being a parent does not make you real. Being childless does not make you real. But the horse (made of SKIN?!) is right in that having children, and parenting them, and getting punched in the face because it's bedtime and "I no wan to!" HURTS. But you let them. Well, you tell them not to, but you let them in that you don't break up with them. You don't leave them because they tell you they don't love you (I'm having two-year-old troubles).

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”

My children love me when I'm in a dress, when I'm in yoga pants, when I'm trying to take a shower. And, to be honest, lately, I have been feeling a bit shabby. And my eye sight is quite bad now. And my joints were VERY LOOSE because of hormones.

But these things don't matter at all?

I'm not trying to be annoyingly literal. It's just that REAL sometimes feels like...it's only happening now, when I'm alone. When they are otherwise occupied. When I dressed myself in "real clothes" and went to a "real job."

This post isn't very funny, is it? It doesn't have many answers.

I guess, I'm trying to say, it's still hard, nearly five years in, to feel like this is all real. A weekday sometimes still feels wrong, in September, when I don't work ten-hour days for pennies thrown at a student loan. The wonder of a human I cooked up myself (with a helper!) let alone TWO humans, still feels uncanny.

When will it feel real?

The book is about love. Love makes you real. It's a flawed message. It should be that loving, not being loved, makes you real. Loving SOMETHING, a bunny, a person, being alone with a cup of coffee, makes you real, I guess.

Unless I'm just a glitch in the matrix.

Excerpts from― Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

Sisyphean Spinning

Because my work situation is...in flux...at the moment (weeping, brain exploding, shrugging emoticon), I had an unexpected day off and decided, yet again, to attempt to better myself through fitness.

Don't worry, the laundry is going now. I will not neglect the laundry on this, the day I have off.

My super cool new surgeon who told me I no longer need to run if I want to keep my shins suggested cycling as a good cardio option. So I strapped on the rented shoes and snapped myself in.

A brief history of me and bicycles. I never learned to ride one as a child ("I lived on a hill!") and then, as an adult, my then BF now DH (LEARN YOUR ACRONYMS) taught me. There was drama. BUT I LEARNED.

Then I went biking with our family friend in California and attempted to adjust my sunglasses and fell off into some gravel and got a scar EXACTLY like a stigmata and gave up from there.

SO here we are.

In case you are unfamiliar, the new kind of cycling cultImeanCLASS is that you go in a room with a very fit and adorably approachable lady at the front of the room on a bike and that bike is on a pedestal. We underlings strap ourselves into our machines on the ground and then they turn on loud music and turn off the lights an then the smiling lady yells at you to pedal while she cackles but actually she's really very pretty and nice and smiling and helpful so it's like a hearty laugh. It's not HER fault I'm unfit.

Now, the darkness and the loudness struck me as very weird but I actually really, really loved it.

Because in the dark, no one can see my tears.

And the music drowns out my whimpers.

Seriously though. I cried a lot. Because I felt frustrated. My feet fell asleep during the warm up. Then they just spasmed until the ride was over. Maybe it's because of my stupid hip problem or it could be perhaps, my rented shoes were too tight. It could be perhaps, my head's not screwed on just right. Well, whatever the reason, my hip or my shoes, I sat there on my bike starting to bruise.

Bruise? You ask? Well yes. Of course. On my...what I'm going to call....undercarriage because it is simultaneously a euphemism and also a non-romantic one. BIKING HURTS!

So I chose undercarriage or foot pain for the duration.

And I feel totally awesome right now. Seriously. ENDORPHINS UP THE WAZOO.

But the pain hasn't set in. And I haven't tried to stand up in a few minutes.

I fitnessed!

Now back to our regularly scheduled laundry.

Stupid Hip Problem Update #23233487347347936742847624624

Today I finally got validation. 

No I don't know why my hip hurts a little bit all the time. More on that later. 

But I did find out that I'M NOT CRAZY! Ok, actually I didn't find that out at all.

For the longest time (cue Billy Joel), I have had the sneaking suspicion that I am being gas lighted by the MOM INDUSTRY! 

You know, the one that tells you to RUN with your jogging stroller in your expensive plastic yoga pants. And to pay them money to RUN outside with them yelling at you to run faster because you ate too much on Mother's Day (true story). 

I've always thought that perhaps they were telling me to do something that felt...wrong. But they were fit, and happy...so I must be wrong...

For example, every mom I know (hyperbole) is doing this thing called Hood to Coast this weekend. In case you're not local, my understanding of this event is that you get up at 3am, drive in a smelly van (THAT YOU DECORATED) with your coworkers or, worst case scenario, your spouse's coworkers, to the top of a mountain (Hood). Then you run down it until you fall, lifeless into the ocean. That's right, my mom friends are so desperate to get away from their beloved and adorable children that they would rather run all day and night for a weekend than sleep at home with their families. No, they like doing this event. They CHOOSE to do this event. They train for it, work hard, and ENJOY it, I'm told. 

NOPE NOPE NOPITY FUCK NO NO.

I did Couch to 5K in 2015. I did not make it to 5K but I did make it off the couch, until I broke my foot (stress fracture). 

I accepted defeat and tried to do other forms of exercise. JKJKJKJK I just got pregnant and gave up (you know this story, though). 

I've been invited a few times to run, since, and I've politely declined, citing my broken hip (not broken) and broken foot (also fine). 

BUT TODAY!

TODAY!

(gleeful cackle)

Today I met with an orthopedic surgeon because my sports medicine doctor said, "I've done all I can for you" and referred me out (to which I responded behind his back, with deep sarcasm, "you've done so much for me so far, though). 

She told me that I should NEVER RUN AGAIN because I have weird calf and shin anatomy and I will separate my muscles from my bones and DEFINITELY need surgery if I run.

I'M NEVER RUNNING AGAIN.

Except after the boy the next time he decides to go walkabout into the road. 

SUPER VALIDATION.

But my stupid hip problem, you ask, what about my stupid hip problem? You know, the one I went in there for? 

No easy answer here. I need to see a spine guy now to rule out a nerve pinching spine thingy. 

SO, just the news we all wanted...

TO BE CONTINUED.

Gaga

For some reason pregnant people ask me for advice on newborns. I don't know why because I hate newborns (I mean--I love my children more than life itself ...they know this and exploit my weakness and try to kill me with sleep deprivation torture and boob infections.)

My advice is this and it sucks because it's not advice:

The weirdest thing about having a baby is not that a human lives in your house who didn't exist last year, it's BOOBS. Boobs rule your life.

NOW LET ME BE CLEAR: Your baby needs food to live and if that food is formula, PLEASE FEED YOUR BABY AND DON'T FEEL BAD ABOUT IT omg staaaaaaaap with the mom-shaming, boob tyrants (I'm looking at you, Le Leche League).

Either way, the first week at LEAST, your boobs rule your life.

You will feel your feelings in your boobs.

You will feel your baby's feelings in your boobs.

You will feel the fucking weather in your boobs.

Your boobs own you.

My boobs took ownership on March 22, 2014 at about 1 am when a nurse put the girl baby on me and she bit me so hard my nipple folded in half (bad pronoun. The baby, not the nurse. Nurses don't bite). It bruised that way, in a straight line, and then cracked and developed mastitis which tried to kill me a little bit. MOTHERHOOD IS A BEAUTIFUL FUCKING MIRACLE lol auuugggggh.

Then everything got easier. I made enough milk, she drank enough milk. Breastfeeding became easy and convenient and I loved it. Not everyone feels this way, including Queen Victoria.

And she was the QUEEN! But I liked it. It went well.

The girl was easy to wean. At 17 months, she stopped asking and I stopped offering. She was a Le Leche League poster child. My body didn't even go back to "normal" yet when my boobs (not my brain. Most definitely not my brain) made me say to my husband, "I wouldn't mind being pregnant."

Here we are. 2018. My second child, the boy, is almost 20 months old. And it's happening. He's weaning.

On Monday night he nursed.

On Tuesday morning he asked for a waffle instead of Gaga.

Gaga is his name for my boobs. I don't know why or how he came up with that name but everyone knows because, every time I picked him up from daycare in the last six months, he would jab his cute, stubby finger into my breast bone and yell, "Gaga!" until I either whipped it out or forced him, hysterical, into the car seat so we could Gaga in the privacy of our own home.

On Tuesday night my husband put him to bed and I tried to work up some emotion about the end of the era but I felt nothing but glee. I would be free! I could take ALL THE DRUGS (jk hugs not drugs)! I could drink all the alchomahalz (jk I can't drink more than one unit or I fall asleep)! I can get a tattoo (maybe)! I can buy REAL BRAS (DEFINITELY)!

On Wednesday, at naptime, the boy remembered Gaga. "GAGA GAGA GAGA!" He screamed. But it was too late! Wasn't it? My boobs began to question, threatening to break free from their sports-bra enclosure. I left him to scream and put the girl down for nap. When I came back in he reached for me. I picked him up, feeling like I was going to crumble. I was going to do whatever he asked of me. And he just let me hold him. He didn't ask for anything at all. I put him down and he went right to sleep.

I sobbed. I blubbered. I was breathless, unable to utter a sentence. My husband insisted on video chatting me. He praised me for being strong (he has selfish motives, of course, but also pure ones). I cried and cried and cried and ate chocolate to chase away the Dementors and read some articles online that made me feel bad (LLL....I SEEEEE YOU) and some that made me feel better (Kelly Mom, way to go), and did some work, and...

It's over. No more Gaga.

It was my boobs that were sad, not me. Lady Gaga was crying, not me. She was gonna miss being of use. She was going to miss being gloriously resplendent, unable to be contained by a simple underwire. She was going to miss spending time with that sweet little baby, who always held my hand as he fed. She didn't want to deflate into withered old hag bags. It wasn't me! IT WAS GAGA!

I was gripped by a crashing wave of loneliness. My husband told me I'd feel better soon. He agreed it was the hormones making me hysterical, not me. I'm FINE. I'm HAPPY.

Nearly as long as a one-term presidency (here's hoping), Gaga was commander in chief. And it's over. I'm in charge now.

Thank you, Gaga.

The Symbolism of the House aka I HATE POTTERY BARN

Is your home a symbol of your mindset? In a dream, yes, maybe. In real life?

My house is a complicated thing. It's large, unwieldy even. It is always a little messy and a little disorganized. It is hard to arrange furniture in it so that the children will not murder themselves. It is full of unfinished projects.

My house is a constant domino effect of broken appliances.

First and biggest was the furnace. The first time we went to turn it on for the season, we realized it wasn't turning on. I had someone come down and look at the old guy. He opened it up and said, "Well that's not good." I texted my husband, "Prepare to buy a new furnace today." Turns out my 1964 furnace had finally, quietly died in the springtime, alone and unnoticed in a (very fortunately not deadly to the whole household) blaze of internal fire. Basically it fried itself and all its wires and was unfix-able. Bring in the estimates. We ended up getting a new furnace and putting in AC and giving them allllllll our money.

Then went the fridge. It stopped working during a heat wave this summer and right before we were having ten people over for dinner. The guys fixed it and we went on our way. Two more calls and we got a new one.

Next the stove. This one turned out to be a quick ($80) reset because it was not actually broken, just flooded.

And the washer and drier decided to take turns three or four times this year, too. A baby sock was stuck in the washer and caused the water to fill but not drain, which is catastrophic when you're trying to wash out your son's blankie that he puked on. The dryer had a potpourri of fixable ($80 each) problems but has been mercifully soldiering on without need of replacement.

The appliance guy must think I have a crush on him with how often I call.

Oh and let's not forget the window. My husband tripped on a kid toy and put his head/shoulder through the kitchen window. He's fine. It looked like he mostly pushed the glass out of the frame with his body and then it shattered on the way down.

For some unknown reason though this, my husband decided we should update our lighting fixtures and have an electrician see to the lights that randomly don't work. So we hired a guy and bought fixtures from several stores including Pottery Barn. Now I'm in lighting limbo because we started the project but the damn Pottery Barn fixture refuses to ship. Every time I track it it has a NEW date two-weeks into the future for shipping and customer service is straight-up lying to me about it. I'm being ghosted by a lamp!

FUCK YOU POTTERY BARN NEVER AGAIN!

I bought another lamp and now have to wait for the electrician to come back to finish/take my money.

Cost of all of this: infinity.

Is it symbolic? Is there something cosmically wrong here? Or is it just the price of home ownership (reminder: the price is infinity)? Does everything break around me as a test? What are they testing? My sanity? Aren't we testing that enough with the whole two toddlers thing?

Someday I dream (and pinterest) of a home with all functional appliances and lamps, where there is never a random pile of cheerio dust and where you don't find one million toy cars littering the hallways, just asking to be ridden upon like runaway roller skates. I dream of a house where the cats and children will allow an undisturbed house plant to thrive, where photos are on the walls, straight, well-spaced.

No...I don't. Doesn't that sound so boring? Like a fucking Pottery Barn catalog from hell? The chaos is lovable, in its way. I will look back on this phase of insanity with fondness.

I see you out there, trying to be perfect. You might be better dressed. You might have that infinity money to have a perfectly functional house straight from FUCKING POTTERY BARN. You have professional photos of your family done every year and they actually look good and your children actually smile in them (the one time we did professional photos the girl glowered in every. single. one). Your body does all the normal things without incident. You and your children eat spinach on the reg. Do you exist? Or are you a facebook facade? I don't care. I'm not perfect and I don't care so much if you are.

This is it. My messy house. My messy rooms. My messy me. Also fuck you Pottery Barn.

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.

The Follow-Through

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

(I'm not.)

BUT!

I did see a Sports Therapy Doctor.

Who referred me to a FANCY Sports Care Center.

Which is IN:

THE TIMBERS STADIUM.

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.

ALSO!

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.

🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈🏈

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.

WORK IN PROGRESS.

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.

NOW! CUE MAKEOVER MONTAGE!

Ok don't get too excited.

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

NOPE.

STEP 1: Schedule that shit!

1. I scheduled my hair cut weeks in advance.

STEP 2: CUT THAT HAIR!

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!
13. GET A FUCKING 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.
15. SURE NO PROBLEM BECAUSE I HAVE FRESH HAIIIIIIRS!

OMG YAAAAAY SUCESSSSSSSSSS

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.

YET!

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.

OR

I keep doing chores instead of exercise.

OR

I keep eating toddler leftovers instead of real food.

AND

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

AND

I wear active wear always.

SO AS A RESULT:

I am a mess.

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.
11. Get new FUCKING DOCTOR.
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:

STAY TUNED FOR PART 2