One of the most irksome and most wonderful things about living here is that there are so many bad drivers that I look good by comparison. I look like Jeff Gordon (is he still a thing? probably not). Every area has its quirks. For instance, in Madison, Wisconsin, no one knows how to merge. But Salt Lake is like a grocery store full of senile old people, and instead of carts we have two-ton death machines.
Turn signals are completely optional. Someone once explained to me that this is because if you're on a multi-lane road, and you turn on your signal, people will move to NOT let you in. This explains changing lanes, but it doesn't explain not using turn signals when you're actually turning. And THEN! Half the time, when I do see a turn signal, it's not even reliable. People use them so seldom that when they do actually turn them on, they completely forget about them for the next three miles.
Saturday on my way home, I watched a lady drift slowly across three lanes of traffic, wander directly in front of me, THEN turn on her right signal. A few seconds later (with the blinker still on), she drifted back to the lane to left of her. I honked, and she didn't even flip me off. She didn't even hear me, she was so engrossed in her phone conversation. I knew she was on the phone because she had it held up in front of her face like a microphone.
I love it when people hold their phones up in front of their faces when they talk instead of putting them on speakerphone, or holding them up to their ear. It's like the telephone equivalent of holding a gun sideways in the movies. You think you look cool, but you really just look kind of weird.
Emmy continues to do everything she can to make me insane. I kind of don't mind because she does it so hilariously. Like the not sleeping thing. Things Emmy has said to get out of her crib at night:
I pinched my tongue!
I bonked my tummy!
I'm done singing!
Iiiiii'm poooop! [she's not]
I need some water! [she doesn't]
I need some chocolate!
No dogs allowed!
Hold still!
Move back up!
She push me! [Grace is sound asleep]
Mom! Mommy! Mom! Mama! Mom! Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! Mommy! Mama!
I gave birth to Stewie's soulmate.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Happy Mother's Day
I got strep for Mother's Day. Now, now wait. It wasn't so bad. Yes, I know it sounds crazy. But it was like the mildest case of strep EVER, and I got to lie in bed for an entire weekend.
Thursday I started getting a sore throat. I've always gotten them frequently, even when I'm not sick, and since we've moved to Pollution Valley, they're even more frequent. So I just figured it was from taking a very long walk in dry, dusty air with the kids.
Friday, a friend had a potluck at her house. I was tired, but it was a long week. I didn't think anything of it. Then BAM, I suddenly just CRAVED my bed. On the way home, I started aching all over, my throat went from mildly sore to IMMA CLAW MY WAY OUT YOUR NECK PARTS AND EAT YOUR FACE, and then I wanted to die. But Friday was the worst of it. I was juuust sick enough to need to lie around all day Saturday and Sunday, but not sick enough that I was completely miserable. And I'm pretty sure I didn't pass it on to anyone else.
It was the perfect illness.
Today, with Jeremy back at work, I was a bit worried; but I woke up feeling tired yet not horrible and spent most of the day cleaning or shopping. Clean apartment and new electric blue shoes. Not the worst Monday ever.
We went to Target. I only spent $55, and only $10 of that was even moderately frivolous (the aforementioned shoes).
Now, we had to go to Target; I avoid that place because everything is so tempting. But Emmy got a handful of splinters last week on our semi-regular walk to see Ernst the Disgruntled Duck: "Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy. Off the fence. No, Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy, stop climbing the fence. Emmy, you'll get splinters. Stop climbing the fence." I sound like Rain Main. Literally nothing I can do deters her, other than picking her up and carrying her, which is exactly what she wants.
So I let her get the splinters this last time. She was PISSED. I got the accusatory glare of You're a Terrible Mother, Why Didn't You Tell Me? Those tear-filled eyes followed me all the way home. She would occasionally throw herself to the ground and moan dramatically. But this is what she does if I tell her, "No, you can't run into the marsh," or, "No, I won't let you cookies for breakfast," so I just kept walking. Sucks to be a second child.
We finally got home--a 30-second walking turning into a 10-minute walk--, and I picked them out and cleaned off her hand. I apparently missed one; a couple days later she had a blister with a splinter floating in it.
So I cleaned it up again, picked it out, cleaned it some more, and then had no way to cover it or keep it clean. Toddlers are not known for cleanliness or allowing things to get in the way of their constant pawing at whatever object strikes their fancy, and this thing was right in the middle of her paw. I would've had to duct tape her entire arm to her body.
It healed for a couple of days, got ugly, required a doctor visit, and so I HAD to go to Target today. Thanks, Emmy.
You know what else she did last week? She took a swan dive off the changing table. She's familiar with gravity. She's familiar with methods for descending from high places without too much injury. This is not a baby who doesn't know any better than to just roll off the table. This is a near-girl with extensive experience in the laws and consequences of physics.
I bent over for about three seconds to wipe Grace's face, and when I stood up, Emmy was poised for her grand dismount with such a look of glee and confidence on her face that I almost believed she could fly.
You know how in comedies, everything slows down when an accident is about to happen, and the character's voice goes slo-mo as he yells, "Nooo!" and reaches for the idiot who's about to hurt himself? Yes. That is exactly what happened.
She did not fly.
She smatted right into the linoleum. I knew it was bad, but oh, I could not help but laugh. It was heartbreakingly funny. I laughed over her shoulder while I hugged her. I don't want her to grow up with any more mother issues than any one person ought to have. The whole right side of her face was red and puffy, and her lips were bleeding in about five places. She looked like Rocky.
She calmed down after twenty minutes of rocking and soothing. I knew she wasn't faking it because she was hiccuping the whole time.
Then she napped for a record length of time and woke up with no bruises and no fat lips. Amazing. I wonder if we could exploit this superpower for profit.
I have nothing of note to say about Grace. Fat, toddling Emmy makes for some great stories, but Grace is pretty near perfect lately. Which makes for some pretty boring stories. "Today Grace smiled a lot and folded all the diapers without me asking." "Today Grace ate kale without being cajoled." Wonderful to me, of course; not so much to an audience.
Thursday I started getting a sore throat. I've always gotten them frequently, even when I'm not sick, and since we've moved to Pollution Valley, they're even more frequent. So I just figured it was from taking a very long walk in dry, dusty air with the kids.
Friday, a friend had a potluck at her house. I was tired, but it was a long week. I didn't think anything of it. Then BAM, I suddenly just CRAVED my bed. On the way home, I started aching all over, my throat went from mildly sore to IMMA CLAW MY WAY OUT YOUR NECK PARTS AND EAT YOUR FACE, and then I wanted to die. But Friday was the worst of it. I was juuust sick enough to need to lie around all day Saturday and Sunday, but not sick enough that I was completely miserable. And I'm pretty sure I didn't pass it on to anyone else.
It was the perfect illness.
Today, with Jeremy back at work, I was a bit worried; but I woke up feeling tired yet not horrible and spent most of the day cleaning or shopping. Clean apartment and new electric blue shoes. Not the worst Monday ever.
We went to Target. I only spent $55, and only $10 of that was even moderately frivolous (the aforementioned shoes).
Now, we had to go to Target; I avoid that place because everything is so tempting. But Emmy got a handful of splinters last week on our semi-regular walk to see Ernst the Disgruntled Duck: "Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy. Off the fence. No, Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy, stop climbing the fence. Emmy, you'll get splinters. Stop climbing the fence." I sound like Rain Main. Literally nothing I can do deters her, other than picking her up and carrying her, which is exactly what she wants.
So I let her get the splinters this last time. She was PISSED. I got the accusatory glare of You're a Terrible Mother, Why Didn't You Tell Me? Those tear-filled eyes followed me all the way home. She would occasionally throw herself to the ground and moan dramatically. But this is what she does if I tell her, "No, you can't run into the marsh," or, "No, I won't let you cookies for breakfast," so I just kept walking. Sucks to be a second child.
We finally got home--a 30-second walking turning into a 10-minute walk--, and I picked them out and cleaned off her hand. I apparently missed one; a couple days later she had a blister with a splinter floating in it.
So I cleaned it up again, picked it out, cleaned it some more, and then had no way to cover it or keep it clean. Toddlers are not known for cleanliness or allowing things to get in the way of their constant pawing at whatever object strikes their fancy, and this thing was right in the middle of her paw. I would've had to duct tape her entire arm to her body.
It healed for a couple of days, got ugly, required a doctor visit, and so I HAD to go to Target today. Thanks, Emmy.
You know what else she did last week? She took a swan dive off the changing table. She's familiar with gravity. She's familiar with methods for descending from high places without too much injury. This is not a baby who doesn't know any better than to just roll off the table. This is a near-girl with extensive experience in the laws and consequences of physics.
I bent over for about three seconds to wipe Grace's face, and when I stood up, Emmy was poised for her grand dismount with such a look of glee and confidence on her face that I almost believed she could fly.
You know how in comedies, everything slows down when an accident is about to happen, and the character's voice goes slo-mo as he yells, "Nooo!" and reaches for the idiot who's about to hurt himself? Yes. That is exactly what happened.
She did not fly.
She smatted right into the linoleum. I knew it was bad, but oh, I could not help but laugh. It was heartbreakingly funny. I laughed over her shoulder while I hugged her. I don't want her to grow up with any more mother issues than any one person ought to have. The whole right side of her face was red and puffy, and her lips were bleeding in about five places. She looked like Rocky.
She calmed down after twenty minutes of rocking and soothing. I knew she wasn't faking it because she was hiccuping the whole time.
Then she napped for a record length of time and woke up with no bruises and no fat lips. Amazing. I wonder if we could exploit this superpower for profit.
I have nothing of note to say about Grace. Fat, toddling Emmy makes for some great stories, but Grace is pretty near perfect lately. Which makes for some pretty boring stories. "Today Grace smiled a lot and folded all the diapers without me asking." "Today Grace ate kale without being cajoled." Wonderful to me, of course; not so much to an audience.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Don't mock. Too hard.
A friend invited me over to an essential oils class/party thing yesterday.
Normally, I'm really skeptical about any kind of doctor conspiracy!/pharmaceuticals are out to get us! kinds of products, but I'll tell you what. When I used to get migraines, sometimes the only thing that was effective was this peppermint oil I bought for a bazillion dollars an ounce and rubbed on my temples and under my nose. I still don't think that all the doctors have a conspiracy going, and I still think that pharmaceutical companies that spend billions of dollars on failed medicines have to make up for that research by charging lots of money for the few successes they do have.
But some stuff? I think some good stuff really is discounted just because it's for hippies and Europeans.
So I went with an open mind. And not only did I like this stuff; I loved it. I tried some sore muscle cream on my poor aching legs (er, I went in the bathroom for this). Pain nearly gone in less than five seconds. It was amazing.
I only spent $10, but I would have loved to have bought one of the kits. They're too expensive, unfortunately, but I think I'm going to save up for one.
Meeting new friends outside of school or work or church is very awkward for me. I sometimes feel like my brain operates on a completely different set of rules than the rest of the world sometimes, so I'm constantly second-guessing myself. Am I too exuberant? Too flippant? Too sarcastic? Too helpful? Too people-pleasing?
This is really fun at the park. I constantly feel like I'm being judged, even when I know I'm not, and this is not helped by the fact that no one is better at judgy than judgy moms. Side note: if you say "judge" enough, it starts to sound fake. So until very recently, I haven't said "hi" or made small talk or anything with other women who are there at the playground with their kids.
And then a few weeks ago, something in my brain broke, and I was like, "This is the dumbest thing ever. Just say hi, you insecure moron." And now I'm making new friends left and right. Not let's-braid-each-others'-hairs kinds of friends, but people who I can smile and wave at without assuming they're thinking, "Ugh, why does SHE keep talking to me?" And even if I do get that vibe from them, I don't care. It's amazing. Thank you, Lord.
I still have a whole heap of Crazy stashed in a back closet of my brain--Crazy I wasn't even aware I had until after Grace was born, but it was there, lurking, all along. But it seems like lately, they're being lifted off me, one by one. And maybe someday I'll be able to talk on the phone without breaking out the anti-nausea medicine. And do you know what that means? This means I will be calling all of you people who have kindly given me your number over the years. MWAHAHAH.
(Don't hold your breath; it will probably be 2020 before I get to that point.)
(Did anyone else read "2020" in a Barbara Walters voice?)
Normally, I'm really skeptical about any kind of doctor conspiracy!/pharmaceuticals are out to get us! kinds of products, but I'll tell you what. When I used to get migraines, sometimes the only thing that was effective was this peppermint oil I bought for a bazillion dollars an ounce and rubbed on my temples and under my nose. I still don't think that all the doctors have a conspiracy going, and I still think that pharmaceutical companies that spend billions of dollars on failed medicines have to make up for that research by charging lots of money for the few successes they do have.
But some stuff? I think some good stuff really is discounted just because it's for hippies and Europeans.
So I went with an open mind. And not only did I like this stuff; I loved it. I tried some sore muscle cream on my poor aching legs (er, I went in the bathroom for this). Pain nearly gone in less than five seconds. It was amazing.
I only spent $10, but I would have loved to have bought one of the kits. They're too expensive, unfortunately, but I think I'm going to save up for one.
Meeting new friends outside of school or work or church is very awkward for me. I sometimes feel like my brain operates on a completely different set of rules than the rest of the world sometimes, so I'm constantly second-guessing myself. Am I too exuberant? Too flippant? Too sarcastic? Too helpful? Too people-pleasing?
This is really fun at the park. I constantly feel like I'm being judged, even when I know I'm not, and this is not helped by the fact that no one is better at judgy than judgy moms. Side note: if you say "judge" enough, it starts to sound fake. So until very recently, I haven't said "hi" or made small talk or anything with other women who are there at the playground with their kids.
And then a few weeks ago, something in my brain broke, and I was like, "This is the dumbest thing ever. Just say hi, you insecure moron." And now I'm making new friends left and right. Not let's-braid-each-others'-hairs kinds of friends, but people who I can smile and wave at without assuming they're thinking, "Ugh, why does SHE keep talking to me?" And even if I do get that vibe from them, I don't care. It's amazing. Thank you, Lord.
I still have a whole heap of Crazy stashed in a back closet of my brain--Crazy I wasn't even aware I had until after Grace was born, but it was there, lurking, all along. But it seems like lately, they're being lifted off me, one by one. And maybe someday I'll be able to talk on the phone without breaking out the anti-nausea medicine. And do you know what that means? This means I will be calling all of you people who have kindly given me your number over the years. MWAHAHAH.
(Don't hold your breath; it will probably be 2020 before I get to that point.)
(Did anyone else read "2020" in a Barbara Walters voice?)
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Exciting things are coming our way
Jeremy will be gone again for another week and a half soon. Jooooy!
Okay, sarcasm aside, there are some ways that it's nice when he's not home:
-The weather is decent this time. We can escape the house without thirty minutes of putting on clothes, then taking half of them off to go potty or change a diaper, and then putting them back on again. On really nice days, we can just walk for ten seconds and be at a playground.
-I tend to go to bed earlier. Used to be, when he went away, I'd stay up until 5 in the morning. But the last few times, I'm asleep by midnight. Thank you, drugs. And thank you, aging brain and body.
-Freedom! Kind of. Ish. I mean, the kids are not exactly independent adults yet, but if we feel like going to the playground at 11:30,we don't have to worry about being home for Jeremy's lunch.
-When he's gone, I get a weird drive to tackle huge projects that I wouldn't normally even want to think about.
This time I think it will be decluttering. Since we had movers last time, I didn't do my traditional Household Purge, in which I throw out or donate everything that isn't nailed down or being worn by someone right that minute. So we have all this stuff lying around driving me crazy, but I haven't done anything about it because this is normally the sort of thing I hate dealing with (mostly because spiders like to pop out and scare the living daylights out of me every time I open a box).
We moved from a 1600-foot house with a terrifying basement to a 1200-sq-ft apartment with a tiny garage. We have never actually parked a vehicle in that garage even though we've lived here for a year. Ridiculous.
So I got all cocky and thought I was starting to get into shape, right?
HAH.
I went and did this workout (not every single set all the way through, but I did 1/4 to 1/2 of each one, I think). My sister posted it a few months ago, but I was too chicken to try it. I did not want to know how terribly weak I really am--especially my legs.
I did *that yesterday.
Today I can barely walk. My arms are fine (thanks, swimming!), but my woefully neglected legs rain down punishment every time I move. I took the kids to the park and "ran" a few laps around the playground, started feeling good again, got home, sat down for .5 seconds, and my muscles were already so stiff I had to kind of roll forward off the couch. I'm thinking Saturday will be a good day to try to start moving again.
It's okay, though. It's not the injury sort of pain, just the YOU REALLY NEED TO WORK HARDER THAN THIS, YOU SISSY kind of pain. Next week when I try it again, it will maybe only be three days before I can walk normally again.
*For some reason it won't embed the whole thing, just the warmup. Irritating.
We enrolled The Child in swim lessons. This might be interesting. There are a lot of things she's afraid of, but she has been terrified of water from birth. She didn't stop screaming through baths until she was something like two (and I don't mean just the hair-washing). Now she remains calm even through hair-washing, and last week when we went swimming, she even enjoyed some splashing and wandering on her own. It's exciting progress; when she's 14, she may even be able to take a shower!
I really am hopeful, though. Dogs have been another big fear, and lately she's been walking up to strange dogs and asking to pet them. She's still scared, especially if they look at her. Maybe she thinks if a dog looks in her eye, it will eat her soul. But she hasn't actually screamed over a dog in at least two weeks.
So, we'll give swimming a go. She's got crazy long arms and giant flappy feet like me, so maybe she'll be a natural. I was afraid of water like she is until THIRD GRADE. Then my parents put me in swim lessons, and that was the end of that. So... wish her (or the instructor) luck!
Okay, sarcasm aside, there are some ways that it's nice when he's not home:
-The weather is decent this time. We can escape the house without thirty minutes of putting on clothes, then taking half of them off to go potty or change a diaper, and then putting them back on again. On really nice days, we can just walk for ten seconds and be at a playground.
-I tend to go to bed earlier. Used to be, when he went away, I'd stay up until 5 in the morning. But the last few times, I'm asleep by midnight. Thank you, drugs. And thank you, aging brain and body.
-Freedom! Kind of. Ish. I mean, the kids are not exactly independent adults yet, but if we feel like going to the playground at 11:30,we don't have to worry about being home for Jeremy's lunch.
-When he's gone, I get a weird drive to tackle huge projects that I wouldn't normally even want to think about.
This time I think it will be decluttering. Since we had movers last time, I didn't do my traditional Household Purge, in which I throw out or donate everything that isn't nailed down or being worn by someone right that minute. So we have all this stuff lying around driving me crazy, but I haven't done anything about it because this is normally the sort of thing I hate dealing with (mostly because spiders like to pop out and scare the living daylights out of me every time I open a box).
We moved from a 1600-foot house with a terrifying basement to a 1200-sq-ft apartment with a tiny garage. We have never actually parked a vehicle in that garage even though we've lived here for a year. Ridiculous.
So I got all cocky and thought I was starting to get into shape, right?
HAH.
I went and did this workout (not every single set all the way through, but I did 1/4 to 1/2 of each one, I think). My sister posted it a few months ago, but I was too chicken to try it. I did not want to know how terribly weak I really am--especially my legs.
I did *that yesterday.
Today I can barely walk. My arms are fine (thanks, swimming!), but my woefully neglected legs rain down punishment every time I move. I took the kids to the park and "ran" a few laps around the playground, started feeling good again, got home, sat down for .5 seconds, and my muscles were already so stiff I had to kind of roll forward off the couch. I'm thinking Saturday will be a good day to try to start moving again.
It's okay, though. It's not the injury sort of pain, just the YOU REALLY NEED TO WORK HARDER THAN THIS, YOU SISSY kind of pain. Next week when I try it again, it will maybe only be three days before I can walk normally again.
*For some reason it won't embed the whole thing, just the warmup. Irritating.
We enrolled The Child in swim lessons. This might be interesting. There are a lot of things she's afraid of, but she has been terrified of water from birth. She didn't stop screaming through baths until she was something like two (and I don't mean just the hair-washing). Now she remains calm even through hair-washing, and last week when we went swimming, she even enjoyed some splashing and wandering on her own. It's exciting progress; when she's 14, she may even be able to take a shower!
I really am hopeful, though. Dogs have been another big fear, and lately she's been walking up to strange dogs and asking to pet them. She's still scared, especially if they look at her. Maybe she thinks if a dog looks in her eye, it will eat her soul. But she hasn't actually screamed over a dog in at least two weeks.
So, we'll give swimming a go. She's got crazy long arms and giant flappy feet like me, so maybe she'll be a natural. I was afraid of water like she is until THIRD GRADE. Then my parents put me in swim lessons, and that was the end of that. So... wish her (or the instructor) luck!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Sunny days are here. Mostly.
I haven't been around much lately because life has been GOOD. And busy. In a GOOD way. What a wonderful change from two and three Marches (edit: Um, April, Naomi. APRIL)ago. Except:
Ways in which swimmers typically hurt themselves:
1. Rotator cuff problems
2. Other repetitive strain-related injuries
Ways in which I have hurt myself swimming:
1. Chipping my teeth on the side of the pool. Twice. As a seasoned swimmer.
2. Smashing my heel or heels into the wall on a turn. Twice. At least. As a seasoned swimmer.
Idiot. I sometimes wonder how I survived four years of soccer. Or, you know, thirty years of feeding myself with a fork.
The weather here has been (mostly) amazing the last couple of weeks. I have acquired a sunburn and a very faint tan. The sunburn just appeared one afternoon for no apparent reason, this circle right in the middle of my upper back and shoulder. I'm pretty sure it was aliens.
We go to the playground a lot. I've made a few friends. It's odd because last spring and summer, there was hardly anyone there, ever. Now it's just crawling with kids all the time, and so far most of them have been the un-obnoxious sort. I love it! I have yet to run into a mom or nanny who isn't nice and interesting.
Here's the part where I get annoying. Annoying-er, maybe. My friend is running a half-marathon this summer for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and she's SO CLOSE to raising the required amount.
Don't feel that you have to donate or anything; I'm putting it here because I figured it couldn't hurt, right? I know her personally, and I've only donated $5.
Anyway, I'm putting the link here; you can do whatever you want with it:
Fundraising Page
In the fitness department (feel free to skip this; I mostly keep track for myself), I am, overall, about down to where I was size-wise pre-Grace, though I weigh about ten pounds more. I have more in the stomach than I did then (hard to avoid after what pregnancy does to one's skin), but my legs and arms look way better than they have in years, even when I was spending entire waitressing shifts lugging around heavy stacks of plates. It's such a great feeling. The increased strength, I mean. Not the stacks of plates.
In the last month I have finally started to SEE a difference when I look in the mirror. Sure, I've noticed that I've gone down a couple of clothing sizes, but almost nothing had come off my stomach or arms until very recently, which I think is how the eye gauges size. Especially one's own hypercritical eye.
I can do 13 real pushups now. I could do more when I was younger, but I also weighed a lot less. I don't think I broke 105 lbs before my sophomore year of high school. I'm going to try to figure how to work my way up to pull-ups, too. That's another thing I was never able to do even when I was in great shape; if I can do it now, weighing so much more than I did as a freshman in high school, that'll mean I'm really getting somewhere.
Ways in which swimmers typically hurt themselves:
1. Rotator cuff problems
2. Other repetitive strain-related injuries
Ways in which I have hurt myself swimming:
1. Chipping my teeth on the side of the pool. Twice. As a seasoned swimmer.
2. Smashing my heel or heels into the wall on a turn. Twice. At least. As a seasoned swimmer.
Idiot. I sometimes wonder how I survived four years of soccer. Or, you know, thirty years of feeding myself with a fork.
The weather here has been (mostly) amazing the last couple of weeks. I have acquired a sunburn and a very faint tan. The sunburn just appeared one afternoon for no apparent reason, this circle right in the middle of my upper back and shoulder. I'm pretty sure it was aliens.
We go to the playground a lot. I've made a few friends. It's odd because last spring and summer, there was hardly anyone there, ever. Now it's just crawling with kids all the time, and so far most of them have been the un-obnoxious sort. I love it! I have yet to run into a mom or nanny who isn't nice and interesting.
Here's the part where I get annoying. Annoying-er, maybe. My friend is running a half-marathon this summer for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and she's SO CLOSE to raising the required amount.
Don't feel that you have to donate or anything; I'm putting it here because I figured it couldn't hurt, right? I know her personally, and I've only donated $5.
Anyway, I'm putting the link here; you can do whatever you want with it:
Fundraising Page
In the fitness department (feel free to skip this; I mostly keep track for myself), I am, overall, about down to where I was size-wise pre-Grace, though I weigh about ten pounds more. I have more in the stomach than I did then (hard to avoid after what pregnancy does to one's skin), but my legs and arms look way better than they have in years, even when I was spending entire waitressing shifts lugging around heavy stacks of plates. It's such a great feeling. The increased strength, I mean. Not the stacks of plates.
In the last month I have finally started to SEE a difference when I look in the mirror. Sure, I've noticed that I've gone down a couple of clothing sizes, but almost nothing had come off my stomach or arms until very recently, which I think is how the eye gauges size. Especially one's own hypercritical eye.
I can do 13 real pushups now. I could do more when I was younger, but I also weighed a lot less. I don't think I broke 105 lbs before my sophomore year of high school. I'm going to try to figure how to work my way up to pull-ups, too. That's another thing I was never able to do even when I was in great shape; if I can do it now, weighing so much more than I did as a freshman in high school, that'll mean I'm really getting somewhere.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
They should have baby Ambien
I keep coming on here to write entries, and they all come out something like, "Waaah, waaah, I'm in a bad mood and sometimes Jeremy is gone, and the kids magically get sick the day before he leaves on surprise trips to Bucharest and the Philippines, so I can't even drop them off at the gym to work off my angst there," and I get about half a paragraph in and realize what a first world snooty tool I sound like.
I bet if I had to haul river water all day with a 33-pound Emmy strapped to my back (YES SHE WEIGHS AS MUCH AS GRACE NOW) in inappropriate footwear, I would feel a lot differently about this week's lack of variety in exercise.
Speaking of which, Jeremy is on a surprise trip to Bucharest. He's almost back, so I don't feel all creeped out telling you that. I usually withhold that information until he's home, but I just don't care this time. Probably because I'm really tired. Grace sleepwalks just enough that I'm now conditioned to jump out of bed and check on every noise. Also, Emmy doesn't sleep anymore. She talks all night. ALL NIGHT. There is occasional screaming. But mostly she just tells herself jokes and then cackles and then goes silent when her partner in crime just lies there sleeping instead of cackling back. And then she's back with the jokes again.
So I've been feeling sorry for myself. And then I read this today, by my sister who has four kids and a crazy schedule: "New approach: work at joy. And by work, I mean all the little things. And by joy, I mean get it through my skull that I have nothing to whine about and everything to be happy about."
Tomorrow I will probably feel sorry for myself again, but for now I've been shamed into joy. Tell me these things directly, and I'll cut you (and then somehow make your injury all about me), but sometimes if I hear them indirectly, it does the trick.
I bet if I had to haul river water all day with a 33-pound Emmy strapped to my back (YES SHE WEIGHS AS MUCH AS GRACE NOW) in inappropriate footwear, I would feel a lot differently about this week's lack of variety in exercise.
Speaking of which, Jeremy is on a surprise trip to Bucharest. He's almost back, so I don't feel all creeped out telling you that. I usually withhold that information until he's home, but I just don't care this time. Probably because I'm really tired. Grace sleepwalks just enough that I'm now conditioned to jump out of bed and check on every noise. Also, Emmy doesn't sleep anymore. She talks all night. ALL NIGHT. There is occasional screaming. But mostly she just tells herself jokes and then cackles and then goes silent when her partner in crime just lies there sleeping instead of cackling back. And then she's back with the jokes again.
So I've been feeling sorry for myself. And then I read this today, by my sister who has four kids and a crazy schedule: "New approach: work at joy. And by work, I mean all the little things. And by joy, I mean get it through my skull that I have nothing to whine about and everything to be happy about."
Tomorrow I will probably feel sorry for myself again, but for now I've been shamed into joy. Tell me these things directly, and I'll cut you (and then somehow make your injury all about me), but sometimes if I hear them indirectly, it does the trick.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Stinker
One of Emmy's favorite things in the world is to shred up her food on the sly and then surreptitiously drop it off her tray when I'm not looking. Little git.
So it's now her job to pick up the floor around her chair after mealtimes. This solution has somewhat backfired. I don't have to painstakingly pick up every last chunk of food off the floor anymore, but she now thinks she's being rewarded for her little habit, and it hasn't deterred her in the slightest.
Well, today it was a tortilla. I was cleaning up the dishes, Grace was doing calisthenics or something in the living room, and Emmy, as usual, was still eating. Or so I thought. Something registered in my brain at some point, and I looked over to see her picking the tiniest pieces off her tortilla and peering intently over the edge of her tray as gravity did its thing. (This sort of nonsense had better mean she'll be a scientist one day) It looked like a bag of rice had spilled on the floor.
So I came over, got her out of her chair and told her she had to pick ALL OF IT up. She looked at me like, "Well... duh. Why do you think I did it?"
But there were probably a hundred of these little tiny pieces, and after about ten, she started losing interest. Mainly because she likes to pick up one little piece at a time and trot back and forth from her pile to the garbage can. Which is really funny when she has a full belly and has been forced to dine shirtless.
And I stood over her like a taskmaster and pointed to each one that she had to pick up. Honestly, it was more work for me than it was for her. But she eventually stopped enjoying it and was all, "Nnnnngh! This is work. Why are you making me WORK?"
I think from now on I will allow her to make a really huge mess before getting her down and making her pick it up. This will work, right?
So it's now her job to pick up the floor around her chair after mealtimes. This solution has somewhat backfired. I don't have to painstakingly pick up every last chunk of food off the floor anymore, but she now thinks she's being rewarded for her little habit, and it hasn't deterred her in the slightest.
Well, today it was a tortilla. I was cleaning up the dishes, Grace was doing calisthenics or something in the living room, and Emmy, as usual, was still eating. Or so I thought. Something registered in my brain at some point, and I looked over to see her picking the tiniest pieces off her tortilla and peering intently over the edge of her tray as gravity did its thing. (This sort of nonsense had better mean she'll be a scientist one day) It looked like a bag of rice had spilled on the floor.
So I came over, got her out of her chair and told her she had to pick ALL OF IT up. She looked at me like, "Well... duh. Why do you think I did it?"
But there were probably a hundred of these little tiny pieces, and after about ten, she started losing interest. Mainly because she likes to pick up one little piece at a time and trot back and forth from her pile to the garbage can. Which is really funny when she has a full belly and has been forced to dine shirtless.
And I stood over her like a taskmaster and pointed to each one that she had to pick up. Honestly, it was more work for me than it was for her. But she eventually stopped enjoying it and was all, "Nnnnngh! This is work. Why are you making me WORK?"
I think from now on I will allow her to make a really huge mess before getting her down and making her pick it up. This will work, right?
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