Endorphins create happy people. Exercise releases endorphins. Therefore: people who exercise are happy. What crap! I'm firmly convinced that Richard Simmons is either deranged OR a play-acting jerk hell bent on the bottom line.
It's no lie that weight has been a constant struggle in my life. I make goals, I work hard, and after a few months with no visible results (either on the scale or in my clothes), I give up...just to repeat the nasty cycle again. I don't want to be chubby. I'd like to be fit. I'd like to look nice in that form flattering dress I've been pushing to the back of my closet. I'd like to *FEEL* like my husband is proud of me (keep in mind, he's totally supportive and very loving and assures me he's always proud of me - it's me). So, I get back on the horse and try, try again!
This time around (as with every other) I try something that seemed to work a little - if only I kept with it longer, as well as something new. It really should be a matter of energy in vs energy out, right? [sigh] So, I track my calories consumed best I can via Loseit and I started back up on exercising. I bought a FitBit (which deserves its own whole blog posting) I dusted off my couch to 5K app, and revisited an old friend: Billy Blanks. Yes, I said Billy Blanks and his unitarded (haha, unitard) Tae Bo awesomeness!
I can honestly tell you that not ALL people who exercise are happy people. In fact, I think it has the reverse effect on me. I'm angry. I'm bitter that I have shitty genes and that all (well, maybe not 1 or 2 cousins) the women in my family battle weight (attest: I'm THE tallest blood relative female in my family, both sides - and I'm only 5'7"). I'm incensed that I work so hard and it doesn't melt off. I'm indignant that I'm tired and sore. And mainly, I'm chafed that Billy's unitard doesn't give me the same satisfaction that I'm sure seeing Josh Duhamel in a unitard would elicit. GRRRR!
I've tried so many different exercise routines and all yield the same results: Cathy swearing in her head while doing the activity...well, except one, but that one while being at the top of my list doesn't burn nearly enough calories . Oh well... In any case, a larger problem has now erupted: I'm fairly certain my swearing isn't contained in my noodle any longer. I've gotten the stink eye while at the Y. I've been chastised by my children when I emerge from the basement, sweaty and exhausted, that I said too many "grown up" words for my own good. And mostly, I catch myself calling Billy some very colorful names when he tells me, "One more time now, make it burn." I've actually imagined finding something of his...and burning it. Maybe that unitard.
So, if I inadvertantly bite your head off in the next coming months, or I seem an even bigger ass than normal...know that this is the price of me being healthy. Yes, that is it. And rest assured - it's Richard Simmons fault. All of it. I'm not going to sweat happily into any newness, let alone the oldies.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Monday, June 24, 2013
Forget Wearing My Heart on My Sleeve, It's Been Through The Blender
We never know the love of a parent till we become parents ourselves.
~Henry Ward Beecher
No one can ever truly prepare you to become a parent. Sure, you can take classes and read books and gather advice and sage wisdom. What doesn't happen through all of that is that you actually, I mean ACTUALLY realize that to be a parent is to forever have your heart walk around outside of your body. [I heard that once somewhere, and the quote by Elizabeth Stone - quite possibly - is the most honest truth I've ever heard]
It's precisely this type of love that can make grown men prone to public embraces, and for strong women to weep silently in their cars, where no one else can see. No one can prepare you for this. No experience can ever compare. And no matter how much you think you're equipped, you're really not. Not by a long shot (and even when you are a grandparent, I hear; it's not much different).
Largely, parenting is an achievement of common sense, compassion and a bit of dumb luck. Some times, you just have to throw some shit at a wall and see what sticks. We've all done that for ourselves. Not knowing the answer and relying on a "We'll See" for a small human being 100% dependent on you is a totally different ball game.
When your children are happy and healthy, life cannot get any better. And when they're hurting, upset, distraught, sick or frightened - it's unbearable. And not just for YOUR kids! I can't even watch Sally Struthers on TV any more without sobbing and wanting to scoop up all those babies and kiss their woes away. I've cried for friends' children too! For Pete's sake...I still can't watch How To Train Your Dragon without wanting to curl up and die (over both the tragedy AND the triumph in that story).
My son is hurting, and I'm going to go kiss away the pains that I can...but to the parents out there: I know you know what I am talking about. For the parents yet to be, you may think I'm crazy, but one day - you too will understand. And if any of you can ever figure out how to soften the blows...let me know.
~Henry Ward Beecher
No one can ever truly prepare you to become a parent. Sure, you can take classes and read books and gather advice and sage wisdom. What doesn't happen through all of that is that you actually, I mean ACTUALLY realize that to be a parent is to forever have your heart walk around outside of your body. [I heard that once somewhere, and the quote by Elizabeth Stone - quite possibly - is the most honest truth I've ever heard]
It's precisely this type of love that can make grown men prone to public embraces, and for strong women to weep silently in their cars, where no one else can see. No one can prepare you for this. No experience can ever compare. And no matter how much you think you're equipped, you're really not. Not by a long shot (and even when you are a grandparent, I hear; it's not much different).
Largely, parenting is an achievement of common sense, compassion and a bit of dumb luck. Some times, you just have to throw some shit at a wall and see what sticks. We've all done that for ourselves. Not knowing the answer and relying on a "We'll See" for a small human being 100% dependent on you is a totally different ball game.
When your children are happy and healthy, life cannot get any better. And when they're hurting, upset, distraught, sick or frightened - it's unbearable. And not just for YOUR kids! I can't even watch Sally Struthers on TV any more without sobbing and wanting to scoop up all those babies and kiss their woes away. I've cried for friends' children too! For Pete's sake...I still can't watch How To Train Your Dragon without wanting to curl up and die (over both the tragedy AND the triumph in that story).
My son is hurting, and I'm going to go kiss away the pains that I can...but to the parents out there: I know you know what I am talking about. For the parents yet to be, you may think I'm crazy, but one day - you too will understand. And if any of you can ever figure out how to soften the blows...let me know.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Revoked Commissary
A changing wind blows, and my sweet son is suddenly filled with naughtiness. My Aunt, who has been doing hair for over 25 years says that hairstyles can change your attitude. If this is the case, I'll never shave his head, at his request, again. The moment he became bald, his badness level rose to astronomical heights.
A coworker of mine had the brilliant realization that my son is a disgruntled inmate. Let me explain:
Recently, his head was shaved bald. At his request. The closest I could get to bald without breaking out the Bic...and he loved it. A sparkle appeared in his eye. Uh-oh...
This convict's first line of business was to go on a hunger strike. Not unheard of for the child who is commonly referred to as "Ghandi" in my house. He's prone to getting in a tiff about something and refusing to eat...for at least two days. This kid is six! The civil disobedience starts young with this one...
The next criminal activity that took place was him slamming his bedroom dresser drawer to the floor with enough force to break it! This isn't cheap furniture. It's solid wood! It's beautiful. It's broken. I flip out.
The rampage continues. Our toilet gets clogged. No, he's not a "growing boy" where these things happen...He purposely clogged it. And it isn't the first time. This toilet is purported to be able to flush two dozen golf balls...and this child stuffed it with enough TP to have done someone's front yard a great injustice. The worst part was he was thrilled to see plungers in the bathroom. Delighted even.
Most recently, he socked his sister in the face. My Sweet Son! Now, I'm not saying she didn't deserve every ounce of puny child muscle walloping her in the kisser...what I am saying is that he should not have done it (or at least, not so loud enough that it was heard in another room). While part of me beams with pride that he can give a solid thumping, I have to cringe at the poor decision.
While reliving this drama to my coworker, who is former law enforcement, he shakes his head and begins to chuckle, "Cathy, what you've got on your hands is a disgruntled inmate. First, they're shaved & tattoo'd. Then they clog their toilets and start prison riots. I'd watch out if I were you. Flinging shit always comes next..." On that, he turned back around to continue working while I contemplated his astute observation in dumbfounded silence.
You'll know what happens next, if and when my son winds up "in the hole." There for certain will be a dead man walking...
Thursday, June 6, 2013
How Do You Make A Hankie Dance???
Sadly, many of the things I say as a parent no longer shock me. There once was a time when the words, "Your finger was where?!?", "Don't put that near the cat's butt..." and "Can you explain to me why you'd put those rocks in your mouth?" used to make me actually stop and ponder my situation for a few moments...not any more. Don't get me wrong, I can still be amused by these scenes, but I'll never more experience that briefest of pauses and wonder to myself, "Did I really just say that aloud?".
One of these days, I'll actually strike an event off my bucket list and compile these wonderful stories into a book of sorts. It's my dream actually. I grew up reading Erma Bombeck. That lady was funny! I loved how she had this brilliant outlook on every day life. I hope I bring that kind of warm hilarity into our household. It's with that type of fond memory I'd like to relay my most recent non-cause for pause.
I was sitting on my throne...doing what all queens do: taking five seconds to power pee while I was ensured I'd have some privacy (meaning everyone was still at the dinner table). In my hasty grab for the TP, my eyes laid upon what I think might qualify as the world's biggest booger (I think Guinness will be hard pressed to beat this sucker out). Wiped. On. My. Wall. Really? I sigh.
As a mom, I know most of what happens in my house...even when the kids think I'm not looking and my husband thinks I'm not listening. What I've not picked up on first hand, I can usually deduce fairly accurately. I have my suspicions...and I march back into the dining room with them.
I sidled up to my oldest, who is a habitual non-nose blower. "Sweetheart, I'm not saying you did or did not stick your finger up your nose, pull out a giant booger and wipe it on my wall. I'm not looking for any remark or any explanation, in fact - I implore you not to provide any. What I am looking for, or maybe I should better say, what I hope to NEVER look for again is a booger of giant or any other proportions wiped on my wall or any other surface in this house. I would then suggest that if nose picking is a hobby of choice, that it is probably best done in one's own room, with the door closed and where the fruits of one's labor can be carefully wiped inside the Kleenex that might have been used in lieu of blowing."
I walked out on my daughter and husband staring at me, dumbfounded and went off in search of my younger two Things. I found them conspiring to overthrow our parenting tyranny in the hallway.
"Yo. Either of you hear what I just said to your sister?"
"Yes, you told her not to pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the bathroom wall."
"Astute translation of my tirade. Same goes for the both of you, with the addendum - everything I said before and then wash your hands."
"YUCK! Who would pick their nose and NOT wash their hands?!?!"
"Indeed. Carry on."
It's only now, that I can sit and appreciate that in my quest not to angrily blame anyone for said booger painting, I at least discovered my kids wash their hands after they dig for gold. Nice to know some of the life lessons you impart stick.
One of these days, I'll actually strike an event off my bucket list and compile these wonderful stories into a book of sorts. It's my dream actually. I grew up reading Erma Bombeck. That lady was funny! I loved how she had this brilliant outlook on every day life. I hope I bring that kind of warm hilarity into our household. It's with that type of fond memory I'd like to relay my most recent non-cause for pause.
I was sitting on my throne...doing what all queens do: taking five seconds to power pee while I was ensured I'd have some privacy (meaning everyone was still at the dinner table). In my hasty grab for the TP, my eyes laid upon what I think might qualify as the world's biggest booger (I think Guinness will be hard pressed to beat this sucker out). Wiped. On. My. Wall. Really? I sigh.
As a mom, I know most of what happens in my house...even when the kids think I'm not looking and my husband thinks I'm not listening. What I've not picked up on first hand, I can usually deduce fairly accurately. I have my suspicions...and I march back into the dining room with them.
I sidled up to my oldest, who is a habitual non-nose blower. "Sweetheart, I'm not saying you did or did not stick your finger up your nose, pull out a giant booger and wipe it on my wall. I'm not looking for any remark or any explanation, in fact - I implore you not to provide any. What I am looking for, or maybe I should better say, what I hope to NEVER look for again is a booger of giant or any other proportions wiped on my wall or any other surface in this house. I would then suggest that if nose picking is a hobby of choice, that it is probably best done in one's own room, with the door closed and where the fruits of one's labor can be carefully wiped inside the Kleenex that might have been used in lieu of blowing."
I walked out on my daughter and husband staring at me, dumbfounded and went off in search of my younger two Things. I found them conspiring to overthrow our parenting tyranny in the hallway.
"Yo. Either of you hear what I just said to your sister?"
"Yes, you told her not to pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the bathroom wall."
"Astute translation of my tirade. Same goes for the both of you, with the addendum - everything I said before and then wash your hands."
"YUCK! Who would pick their nose and NOT wash their hands?!?!"
"Indeed. Carry on."
It's only now, that I can sit and appreciate that in my quest not to angrily blame anyone for said booger painting, I at least discovered my kids wash their hands after they dig for gold. Nice to know some of the life lessons you impart stick.
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