Potty training is a fact of life for any parent. At some point, you are forced to spend hundreds of hours trying to get your child to use a toilet. You talk with other parents to get advice. You beg, and bribe your child to use the potty. Potty training consumes your existence. And for a working mother, you feel unusual pressure because at some point, your daycare provider will not let your child advance classrooms, if s/he is not potty trained. And so - you feel like you fail if your child can't advance with his classmates.
My husband and I were lucky with our first two - Matthew potty trained at 16 months thanks to the Sandra Broyton books which I can proudly say I can now recite without looking (I may not know a lick of Shakespeare, but I do a mean rendition of Snuggle Puppy...), Emme self-trained. One day she announced "no more diaper" and that was it. But, Nicholas was a different story. I have never had two kids in diapers at the same time, and so it was with that Nicholas had to be potty trained before Lucas was born. And so we began the routine with Nicholas like we had with Matthew - put the potty ring on the toilet, get a book, and let him do his business while we read to him.
But, Nicholas is not Matthew as I quickly learned the first time I had him on the toilet and he promptly throws his hands in the air and announces "tah dah" as he begins to pee ... promptly spraying me, the book and the wall. This was not going to be easy. And so it was for months as my husband and I tried to potty train Nicholas. He was willing to use the toilet - he just got overly impressed with himself anytime he did anything. But, one thing he picked up on early was the fact that when you are on the toilet, you always had company.
So - he took it upon himself to make sure that anytime I had to use the toilet, he would join me with a book in hand. Like most Moms, I thought this was unbelievably cute until I realized that I would never have a moment to myself if I didn't get him out of the bathroom. I started to tell him that I needed privacy. But that didn't deter Nicholas. No matter what I said or did, Nicholas would not give me privacy. He would acknowledge my privacy - "okay Mommy privacy" in his two year old speak - but, he would never leave me alone. And then it happened, one day Nicholas asked for privacy in the bathroom and while I would not have advocated for leaving a 2 year old alone on the toilet - I thought this was the only way to get him to leave me alone in the bathroom. I headed for the door. And as I was about to leave, Nicholas got upset. So, I stayed and we read. This cycle has continued for a couple weeks now - he would ask for privacy, I'd try to leave, he'd get upset, so I stay. I couldn't figure it out. But, I chalked it up to Nicky being 2 and not understanding what privacy meant --- until today - when I took him to the bathroom at church.
"Nicky go on the toilet" " "No". No? No? What does he mean "No?" - he's been wearing underwear now for almost four months - why was he refusing to get on the toilet? We've been in this bathroom dozens of times before - why he is acting up now? So I resort to begging and bribing Nicholas to get on the toilet. I stopped just shy of offering him a pony - when he
decided to get on the toilet. I was relieved, but also curious as to why he didn't want to get on it before when I asked. "Nicky, how come you didn't want to sit on the toilet before" - and he looks at me with his big, bold eyes and tells me "Nicky wanted to sit on the 'pirate seat' just like Mommy. Mommy says 'I need pirate seat' when she goes potty. Nicky wanted pirate seat, too." And so it was at that moment, that I realized that it wasn't the two year old that needed a definition of privacy but his Mom ... AARRGHHH.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Say Cheese ...
People have days they dread. For a long time, I dreaded my birthday. I don't know why - I just never liked celebrating. It was never an issue of age - I am too practical to be bothered by aging - you are born, you age, and then you cease living. So - aging for me is not the issue. I guess I just don't like the attention. I have a good friend who loves birthdays - and I love celebrating with her. But, me - no - I never wanted anything special for my birthday. It is a day I dread. In fact, despite all the nice things that people - my family, my friends - have done for me for my birthday, there is probably just a small number of birthdays - maybe even just one - that stays in my soul. But, when I became a Mom, I quickly found a day I dreaded more than my birthday ... picture day!
Picture day honestly makes me break out in a cold sweat. I've given talks in front of large groups of people, I've interacted with influential individuals - all with grace and ease. But, picture day - is going to age me.
Each year for the past five years, whenever picture day rolls around, I would rather do anything but think about it. And yet, I always feel compelled to give it thought. Mostly, I think about all the Moms who somehow manage to get their kids matching outfits and who then get to hang a perfect picture in their foyer.
And so, as with other picture days, this picture day, I got the letter home informing me which clothing colors look best and asking me what background did I want and I begin to think. I think - I should get matching outfits - I never do. I think - I should braid Emme's hair or get a bow in it - I never do. I think - I should comb the boys hair, I never do. I think I should do something extraordinary because it is picture day. But, I never do. And so, when picture day morning comes around, I become a raving lunatic - trying to get my kids into clothes that are somewhat "cute" and perhaps matching - I at least try not to have uncomplimentary patterns on each child - and then I threaten the kids within an inch of their life not to get their outfits dirty. So, we eat breakfast amidst the tears and my paranoia - all as I try to ask them if they are going to smile for the camera.
And so I thought it would be again this picture day morning. But, instead, the night before as I was pulling glue out of Emme's hair and yogurt out of Nicholas' hair, I sat and wondered as I looked at my kids - why does this day make me crazy? My kids are cute - some of the cutest around - does it really matter what they wear? What is my real worry about this otherwise ordinary day?
Am I worried that the picture will somehow be less than perfect? .... that somehow the photographer's snapshot would define our life and everyone would know that our life wasn't perfect because the picture would hang in our foyer?
And then it dawned on me - as I looked over at five years of pictures --- there was the year that Matthew was 11 months old and didn't get to eat breakfast before his picture so he was pouting in his his picture, something he still does today when he's hungry, then there was the year that Emme had her eyes closed, but had the biggest, warmest smile on her face as if the smile was so big there wasn't enough room in the picture for her beautiful eyes, and then there was the year that it looked like Nicholas was trying to escape out of the picture, but his big brother and big sister gingerly had their hands on his shoulders guiding him back him - life isn't perfect.
What the photographer captures is who we are - with our imperfections. It is how we come not to love the perfect person, but to love perfectly the imperfect person. And so - on this picture day - I let Emme pick her outfit and do her own hair (by the way, she decided that morning that she no longer wanted bangs ...) - I didn't freak out over the chocolate muffin Nicholas got for breakfast - and I simply put a sweater over Lucas when he spit up on his initial outfit. These are the moments of my life - endlessly beautiful, always imperfect ... framing who we are through the memories that we cherish all because despite a lunatic mother, my kids were willing to say cheese ....
Picture day honestly makes me break out in a cold sweat. I've given talks in front of large groups of people, I've interacted with influential individuals - all with grace and ease. But, picture day - is going to age me.
Each year for the past five years, whenever picture day rolls around, I would rather do anything but think about it. And yet, I always feel compelled to give it thought. Mostly, I think about all the Moms who somehow manage to get their kids matching outfits and who then get to hang a perfect picture in their foyer.
And so, as with other picture days, this picture day, I got the letter home informing me which clothing colors look best and asking me what background did I want and I begin to think. I think - I should get matching outfits - I never do. I think - I should braid Emme's hair or get a bow in it - I never do. I think - I should comb the boys hair, I never do. I think I should do something extraordinary because it is picture day. But, I never do. And so, when picture day morning comes around, I become a raving lunatic - trying to get my kids into clothes that are somewhat "cute" and perhaps matching - I at least try not to have uncomplimentary patterns on each child - and then I threaten the kids within an inch of their life not to get their outfits dirty. So, we eat breakfast amidst the tears and my paranoia - all as I try to ask them if they are going to smile for the camera.
And so I thought it would be again this picture day morning. But, instead, the night before as I was pulling glue out of Emme's hair and yogurt out of Nicholas' hair, I sat and wondered as I looked at my kids - why does this day make me crazy? My kids are cute - some of the cutest around - does it really matter what they wear? What is my real worry about this otherwise ordinary day?
Am I worried that the picture will somehow be less than perfect? .... that somehow the photographer's snapshot would define our life and everyone would know that our life wasn't perfect because the picture would hang in our foyer?
And then it dawned on me - as I looked over at five years of pictures --- there was the year that Matthew was 11 months old and didn't get to eat breakfast before his picture so he was pouting in his his picture, something he still does today when he's hungry, then there was the year that Emme had her eyes closed, but had the biggest, warmest smile on her face as if the smile was so big there wasn't enough room in the picture for her beautiful eyes, and then there was the year that it looked like Nicholas was trying to escape out of the picture, but his big brother and big sister gingerly had their hands on his shoulders guiding him back him - life isn't perfect.
What the photographer captures is who we are - with our imperfections. It is how we come not to love the perfect person, but to love perfectly the imperfect person. And so - on this picture day - I let Emme pick her outfit and do her own hair (by the way, she decided that morning that she no longer wanted bangs ...) - I didn't freak out over the chocolate muffin Nicholas got for breakfast - and I simply put a sweater over Lucas when he spit up on his initial outfit. These are the moments of my life - endlessly beautiful, always imperfect ... framing who we are through the memories that we cherish all because despite a lunatic mother, my kids were willing to say cheese ....
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Wayne is gone
It is hard being four. Tonight was no exception for my Emme bear. Tonight she cried herself to sleep. It is one of those moments that tugs at a mother's heart. I taught tonight - my online class - EdPsy 556: Analysis of Advanced Instructional Technologies. It is the night where I keep myself hauled up in the basement in the 'study' to teach. My husband puts the kids to bed. And so it was to be tonight - except that the class ended early so I went upstairs to say good night to my babies. As I got to the first floor I could hear Emme sobbing - what was wrong? What was wrong with my Bear? And so I went up another flight to comfort my crying daughter. And so I tried as I wrapped my arms around her - telling her that things will be okay. And all she kept saying was "Wayne is gone". I didn't know what she was saying, but I stay to comfort her until I finally couldn't take it any more. "Wayne ? Who's Wayne" - "he's the one I loved best" - loved best, I thought? She's too young to love and now a broken heart? So - who was this Wayne. Was it someone at daycare? A new face, a new name I had somehow missed? It is always tough - thinking that you don't know exactly what is going on with your child's life in daycare. And so, I thought that Wayne was a new friend. I was convinced that I could help my child through this ordeal. And I planned my strategy. I was going to help her through this - the loss / moving of her friend Wayne. And so here I am tonight - as I write - determining how best to help my Emme mourn the loss of her "favorite friend" Wayne Newton - who was kicked off Dancing with the Stars. So what's a Mom to do? Well, I'm thinking of just having her send him some of her Dora undies ...
6 months and counting ...
Well, I've survived my first week and a half of training through I-Power Fitness. I'm proud of myself for what I've accomplished so far. Okay so maybe I haven't accomplished much, but I have stopped wincing every time I try to walk down the stairs due to my quad muscles and I didn't hyperventilate after they took my measurements and weight. In fact, I calmly got off the scale, quietly cursing the 20 pound new Nikes I had bought. Clearly, I needed to buy a much lighter pair of shoes.
It is humbling when you look at yourself in terms of numbers. I felt like I needed to make an excuse for why I wasn't built like Barbie. I could blame it on my kids - I mean - four pregnancies do take their toll on your body. And, in many ways I always thought I could use my kids as a shield .... That I could convince myself that each extra pound that I carried was a right of passage into motherhood... That my stretchmarks were simply a sign of how my children grew inside of me - how I was able to protect them and comfort them for 9 months and not a result of the Strawberry Cheesquake blizzards I would eat late a night. But as the numbers flash across a screen, you are humbled. Okay - and a bit perplexed - how exactly is my left arm a good half inch bigger than my right arm? And, wouldn't I have noticed this before? I mean - are my shirts that tight-fitting overall that I neglected to feel a little more tightness around my left bicep? Yes, the numbers do make you stop and think ... and wonder. Could I convince myself that I was really the "new Barbie"? I mean, we all know that her measurements are unrealistic - not to say that she wouldn't be able to stand without falling over, if she were real. But, I decided that to debate the merits of Barbie's dimensions were not a good use of my energy. Instead, I should pick a role model and embrace her beauty and her "measurements". And so I did. I decided that Denise, one of the managers and lead instructors at I-Power was a good role model for me.
My trainers are great. But, they are young and are not Moms. (Okay - Garin will never be a Mom, but he's still young ...). I was looking for someone who had a good body and who was a Mom. I wanted to know that it was possible to regain a healthy body - both internally and externally - after giving birth. And so, I picked Denise. I also loved how she made me laugh whenever I'm there - so I figured - I'd like to be like her. And so, quietly over the past week, I set a goal to have a body like Denise - fit and solid - within the next year.
And so it was on Monday as we walked out of I-Power together after my workout. She had complimented me on the outfit I as wearing. And I felt good - yes, maybe all this working out was doing something for me - maybe I could achieve a body like Denise. And then she said it - the words I dreaded to hear - "I miss being able to wear outfits like that" - hmmm, I thought - odd statement to make. But, really, I don't know Denise well - I only just met her. Perhaps despite having a fit body - she made odd statements. But, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to probe further. "why?" - Oh, well, you know I'm 6 months and counting ... Counting I thought - counting what? Oh - and then it hit me - like the 20 pound Nikes in my gym bag. She was pregnant! 6 months and counting until her delivery date ... I had selected the one pregnant woman at I-Power as my role model.
Suffice it to say - I've decided that maybe Barbie's measurements aren't all that unrealistic and maybe standing without falling over is highly overrated.
It is humbling when you look at yourself in terms of numbers. I felt like I needed to make an excuse for why I wasn't built like Barbie. I could blame it on my kids - I mean - four pregnancies do take their toll on your body. And, in many ways I always thought I could use my kids as a shield .... That I could convince myself that each extra pound that I carried was a right of passage into motherhood... That my stretchmarks were simply a sign of how my children grew inside of me - how I was able to protect them and comfort them for 9 months and not a result of the Strawberry Cheesquake blizzards I would eat late a night. But as the numbers flash across a screen, you are humbled. Okay - and a bit perplexed - how exactly is my left arm a good half inch bigger than my right arm? And, wouldn't I have noticed this before? I mean - are my shirts that tight-fitting overall that I neglected to feel a little more tightness around my left bicep? Yes, the numbers do make you stop and think ... and wonder. Could I convince myself that I was really the "new Barbie"? I mean, we all know that her measurements are unrealistic - not to say that she wouldn't be able to stand without falling over, if she were real. But, I decided that to debate the merits of Barbie's dimensions were not a good use of my energy. Instead, I should pick a role model and embrace her beauty and her "measurements". And so I did. I decided that Denise, one of the managers and lead instructors at I-Power was a good role model for me.
My trainers are great. But, they are young and are not Moms. (Okay - Garin will never be a Mom, but he's still young ...). I was looking for someone who had a good body and who was a Mom. I wanted to know that it was possible to regain a healthy body - both internally and externally - after giving birth. And so, I picked Denise. I also loved how she made me laugh whenever I'm there - so I figured - I'd like to be like her. And so, quietly over the past week, I set a goal to have a body like Denise - fit and solid - within the next year.
And so it was on Monday as we walked out of I-Power together after my workout. She had complimented me on the outfit I as wearing. And I felt good - yes, maybe all this working out was doing something for me - maybe I could achieve a body like Denise. And then she said it - the words I dreaded to hear - "I miss being able to wear outfits like that" - hmmm, I thought - odd statement to make. But, really, I don't know Denise well - I only just met her. Perhaps despite having a fit body - she made odd statements. But, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to probe further. "why?" - Oh, well, you know I'm 6 months and counting ... Counting I thought - counting what? Oh - and then it hit me - like the 20 pound Nikes in my gym bag. She was pregnant! 6 months and counting until her delivery date ... I had selected the one pregnant woman at I-Power as my role model.
Suffice it to say - I've decided that maybe Barbie's measurements aren't all that unrealistic and maybe standing without falling over is highly overrated.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
12 Feet Deep
Sundays are always a challenging day for working moms -- at least those working moms that I know. Sundays represent the end of one crazy week and the beginning of another. I often think to myself that even God rested on the seventh day, but that doesn't seem to comfort me nor does it make me not have a hundred things to do to finish off the week and to start another one. In fact, all it really did is make me fairly certain that God was not female and clearly was "our Father" because if he were "our Mother, " he'd never be resting on day seven.
So today, like most Sundays, the routine began with me getting four kids ready for church ... And then with me wondering about half way through the Lord's prayer why I bother to go to church because all I really do is wrangle in four wee ones. I never really find myself praying - unless you count when I pray that Nicholas doesn't decide to use his crayons on the Bible pages like he did the previous week, or that Emme stops talking to her imaginary friends, or that Matthew doesn't burn the boy next to him as he holds the candle on the altar, or that Lucas doesn't need his bottle made in the middle of church. No, it always seems to me that I was not praying. In fact, I would find myself on occasion having random thoughts that included my making a mental list of all that needed to be done after church.
Today was no different except for the fact that Matthew had his best buddy's birthday party at the Aquatic Center here in town. But - I had devised a plan in church - I would drop him off and then go to my office to work on a grant that needed to be submitted this week. It would be a couple of hours for me to focus without other distractions. I found myself smiling in the middle of church, even when Nicholas with his two-year old charm announced to the congregation that he needed to go poopies. I had a plan - a plan that would allow me to get work done and would give me a few moments of peace.
But then the party didn't go as planned. The Aquatic Center was late opening up and I found myself hanging out with about 10 five year olds and their Moms as we waited, not wanting to disappoint the birthday boy. It was one of those nightmares for Moms who had painstakingly planned out - weeks earlier every detail of the party, including several variations of whether to eat pizza and cupcakes before or after the swim. But then, something beyond your control happens - in this case - six life guards and not one with a key! The kids were troopers playing tag, opening presents, eating pizza - all in the unseasonably warm 90 degree October heat. After about the first 45 minutes of waiting, the Moms realized we were in for the long haul, in this swealtering heat - yet one more thing we do for our kids, who were seemingly unphased by the fact that they were not yet in the pool. And then Emma's mom offered to make a run to the gas station to get drinks for us Moms. Once you become a Mom, you are defined by your children not by your own first name ... in fact, I find myself not using my own name when I introduce myself, but rather saying that I'm Matthew P's Mom - making sure not to confuse myself with Matthew W's Mom. A cold beer would have been great, but I settled on a diet coke and really at that point in the heat - I probably would have offered Emma's Mom my first born, for just a sip of something cold. Instead - I gave her the few bucks in my pocket.
The key finally arrived. The kids were thrilled. Swimming time. And so - because all the other Moms stayed, I stayed, too. But, I was sitting there planning how I could make an exit - even for just a few minutes to have some peace. After making conversation with Dominic's Mom, I excused myself to go outside and call home. She was headed down towards the water slides where our kids were playing and I told her I would join her after my call. And so I walked to my van - slowly - trying to breathe a little peace - I called home and headed back into the Aquatics Center. I was greeted at the door with the birthday boy's Mom holding Matthew's hand. They calmly told me that he had almost drowned. But - the life guard got to him in time. He had tried going down the big slide into 12 feet of water. And when he realized he was neither taller than 12 feet or a good swimmer - he panicked. I stood there looking at my son - my first born - who just minutes earlier I had thought about giving to Emma's Mom just for some diet coke. My first born who changed me forever - like your one true love. Matthew made me a Mom - he inspires me, he amazes me, he frustrates me, he teaches me, and he loves me - unconditionally. And I stood looking at my little boy - who because I needed to breathe, because I wanted to find some peace - took the wrong slide and was scared. And I was not there to help him. ...
He's fine. He went back in the water and down the slide - the one that goes into 3 feet of water. If you ask him, he'd tell you he had the best time at his best buddy's birthday. But for me, I sat vigilantly and nervously watching him play in the water with his friends for the rest of the party. His smile - his laugh - his wave to me as he would get out of the water to go on the slide again - all those things that I had moments before taken for granted, now meant so much ... including why I go to church and why I was glad that God was a man, who knew it was okay - and necessary - to rest on Sunday ....
So today, like most Sundays, the routine began with me getting four kids ready for church ... And then with me wondering about half way through the Lord's prayer why I bother to go to church because all I really do is wrangle in four wee ones. I never really find myself praying - unless you count when I pray that Nicholas doesn't decide to use his crayons on the Bible pages like he did the previous week, or that Emme stops talking to her imaginary friends, or that Matthew doesn't burn the boy next to him as he holds the candle on the altar, or that Lucas doesn't need his bottle made in the middle of church. No, it always seems to me that I was not praying. In fact, I would find myself on occasion having random thoughts that included my making a mental list of all that needed to be done after church.
Today was no different except for the fact that Matthew had his best buddy's birthday party at the Aquatic Center here in town. But - I had devised a plan in church - I would drop him off and then go to my office to work on a grant that needed to be submitted this week. It would be a couple of hours for me to focus without other distractions. I found myself smiling in the middle of church, even when Nicholas with his two-year old charm announced to the congregation that he needed to go poopies. I had a plan - a plan that would allow me to get work done and would give me a few moments of peace.
But then the party didn't go as planned. The Aquatic Center was late opening up and I found myself hanging out with about 10 five year olds and their Moms as we waited, not wanting to disappoint the birthday boy. It was one of those nightmares for Moms who had painstakingly planned out - weeks earlier every detail of the party, including several variations of whether to eat pizza and cupcakes before or after the swim. But then, something beyond your control happens - in this case - six life guards and not one with a key! The kids were troopers playing tag, opening presents, eating pizza - all in the unseasonably warm 90 degree October heat. After about the first 45 minutes of waiting, the Moms realized we were in for the long haul, in this swealtering heat - yet one more thing we do for our kids, who were seemingly unphased by the fact that they were not yet in the pool. And then Emma's mom offered to make a run to the gas station to get drinks for us Moms. Once you become a Mom, you are defined by your children not by your own first name ... in fact, I find myself not using my own name when I introduce myself, but rather saying that I'm Matthew P's Mom - making sure not to confuse myself with Matthew W's Mom. A cold beer would have been great, but I settled on a diet coke and really at that point in the heat - I probably would have offered Emma's Mom my first born, for just a sip of something cold. Instead - I gave her the few bucks in my pocket.
The key finally arrived. The kids were thrilled. Swimming time. And so - because all the other Moms stayed, I stayed, too. But, I was sitting there planning how I could make an exit - even for just a few minutes to have some peace. After making conversation with Dominic's Mom, I excused myself to go outside and call home. She was headed down towards the water slides where our kids were playing and I told her I would join her after my call. And so I walked to my van - slowly - trying to breathe a little peace - I called home and headed back into the Aquatics Center. I was greeted at the door with the birthday boy's Mom holding Matthew's hand. They calmly told me that he had almost drowned. But - the life guard got to him in time. He had tried going down the big slide into 12 feet of water. And when he realized he was neither taller than 12 feet or a good swimmer - he panicked. I stood there looking at my son - my first born - who just minutes earlier I had thought about giving to Emma's Mom just for some diet coke. My first born who changed me forever - like your one true love. Matthew made me a Mom - he inspires me, he amazes me, he frustrates me, he teaches me, and he loves me - unconditionally. And I stood looking at my little boy - who because I needed to breathe, because I wanted to find some peace - took the wrong slide and was scared. And I was not there to help him. ...
He's fine. He went back in the water and down the slide - the one that goes into 3 feet of water. If you ask him, he'd tell you he had the best time at his best buddy's birthday. But for me, I sat vigilantly and nervously watching him play in the water with his friends for the rest of the party. His smile - his laugh - his wave to me as he would get out of the water to go on the slide again - all those things that I had moments before taken for granted, now meant so much ... including why I go to church and why I was glad that God was a man, who knew it was okay - and necessary - to rest on Sunday ....
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
I'm finally a Queen!
For the past four years, my home has had a princess. Mary Evangeline - our Emme Bear - was born in April of 2003. We thought we were having a boy, but to our surprise at 12:31 a.m. on April 15th - Emme was born. Since that time she has been our princess shadowed within a tomboy persona. But, despite her desire to play PowerRangers, she clearly reminds us that she is a princess. But, our home lacked a queen ... until two weeks ago when I became a queen. Okay - it's a "Jeans Queen" - but, a queen none the less. And these days, amidst the strep throats, sleepless nights, crying fits over Barbie costumes, goldfish crackers in my slippers - I will take what I can get!
So, what is a"Jeans Queen"? Well - it was my first attempt to regain a part of me. The local radio station here, Mix94.5, ran a competition for listeners to write in and tell them why they should be a "Jeans Queen." If selected, you would get the chance to workout with a personal trainer at IPower fitness and win a pair of jeans from Paris' Boutique, if you reached your weight loss/inches goal. I'd heard that the training was tough, but you'd get results. I was also told the jeans are amazing and have a price tag to match.
So - I decided to put in an entry. Why? Well - at first I thought it was to address a deep rooted angst I held against my Mom who never did buy me the pair of Guess jeans when I was in the fifth grade - I can still hear her "you want me to spend how much on blue jeans" - and then I thought it was because for the past six years I have shared my body with another human being for over 50 months and then I thought it was because if I didn't start taking care of my body, when I ran backwards (a cool new thing my 2-year old is into) I may actually start beeping for folks to get out of my way -- but, when I finally hit the submit button - it was because I wanted to do something for me ... something that I didn't have to share with anyone except for three other strangers and one DJ, Sarah, - who can't really qualify as a stranger since my kids think she lives in the "box" on my nightstand. And so, I "won" the chance to get some exercise and a pair of jeans. I was thrilled. And the fact that my doctor didn't laugh when I told him that I was really just undertall, not overweight, as he was giving me my cholesterol results, made me realize I needed to do something.
My first day of training was Monday. Today is Tuesday and I am pleased to report that I do have quad muscles. Apparently, for the past 37 years I have not used them because now all I can do is wince as I walk or try to get up from a chair. I do recall at some point today thinking, "if I had gotten this far in life without quad muscles ..." - but, I am determined to work through this program, which may include getting over my fear that when I go to the washroom and sit on the toliet - I may need to get the jaws of life to help me stand up again. (In case you're concerned, I did carry my cell phone with me today.) Yes, today I was constantly reminded that I was indeed a "queen." My trainer is great and if it weren't for this great pain in my quads, I'm sure I'd remember her name - but, right now I'm thinking it might be associated with a few expletives for all the lunges and squats she made me do - so probably best to wait for another posting to reveal her name. I didn't fashion myself to be that out of shape - but I truly don't think I ever worked this hard so quickly before. But alas, I survived. I'm doing something for me and about me. And, I can still hear my trainer's voice saying "you need to push your butt out towards the window" as I was trying to do a squat while raising a 10 pound weight above my head and all I kept thinking is "honey, I thought I was here because my butt already pushes out towards the window!"
So, what is a"Jeans Queen"? Well - it was my first attempt to regain a part of me. The local radio station here, Mix94.5, ran a competition for listeners to write in and tell them why they should be a "Jeans Queen." If selected, you would get the chance to workout with a personal trainer at IPower fitness and win a pair of jeans from Paris' Boutique, if you reached your weight loss/inches goal. I'd heard that the training was tough, but you'd get results. I was also told the jeans are amazing and have a price tag to match.
So - I decided to put in an entry. Why? Well - at first I thought it was to address a deep rooted angst I held against my Mom who never did buy me the pair of Guess jeans when I was in the fifth grade - I can still hear her "you want me to spend how much on blue jeans" - and then I thought it was because for the past six years I have shared my body with another human being for over 50 months and then I thought it was because if I didn't start taking care of my body, when I ran backwards (a cool new thing my 2-year old is into) I may actually start beeping for folks to get out of my way -- but, when I finally hit the submit button - it was because I wanted to do something for me ... something that I didn't have to share with anyone except for three other strangers and one DJ, Sarah, - who can't really qualify as a stranger since my kids think she lives in the "box" on my nightstand. And so, I "won" the chance to get some exercise and a pair of jeans. I was thrilled. And the fact that my doctor didn't laugh when I told him that I was really just undertall, not overweight, as he was giving me my cholesterol results, made me realize I needed to do something.
My first day of training was Monday. Today is Tuesday and I am pleased to report that I do have quad muscles. Apparently, for the past 37 years I have not used them because now all I can do is wince as I walk or try to get up from a chair. I do recall at some point today thinking, "if I had gotten this far in life without quad muscles ..." - but, I am determined to work through this program, which may include getting over my fear that when I go to the washroom and sit on the toliet - I may need to get the jaws of life to help me stand up again. (In case you're concerned, I did carry my cell phone with me today.) Yes, today I was constantly reminded that I was indeed a "queen." My trainer is great and if it weren't for this great pain in my quads, I'm sure I'd remember her name - but, right now I'm thinking it might be associated with a few expletives for all the lunges and squats she made me do - so probably best to wait for another posting to reveal her name. I didn't fashion myself to be that out of shape - but I truly don't think I ever worked this hard so quickly before. But alas, I survived. I'm doing something for me and about me. And, I can still hear my trainer's voice saying "you need to push your butt out towards the window" as I was trying to do a squat while raising a 10 pound weight above my head and all I kept thinking is "honey, I thought I was here because my butt already pushes out towards the window!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)