Not once, not twice, but thrice

is how many times my daughter pooped today. It had been a long, long time. I can't tell you how happy I am...I seriously considered snapping a picture of it.

P.S.: the no cheese and regular training was working as the scale was trending downwards a bit, but then my daughter and I got hit with bronchitis this weekend...not too bad, but didn't do a good run. Tomorrow is another day and all that.

mamashell-shocked

Mouth Full of Soap

I just realized that I left a comment on a much-adored blog and in said comment used the eff word there. I haven't committed that same indiscretion here on my own blog. Maybe it's because MY blog is a babyblog.

Also, the mere fact that I am far more reluctant to *gasp* swear online than I would be IRL is an interesting phenomenon...I still sometimes giggle when I use expletives. My husband says I have the maturity of a 13 year-old boy. Why specifically a boy, I don't know.

Anyway, I have to keep it real in my own special SAH-MOMMA-way and recognize that it just isn't cool to drop an eff-bomb on someone else' territory when you are keeping it clean at home.

So in the immortal words of the esteemed Mr. Farrell, "Here we GO!"

Fuckityfuckfuck.

im like geeze sorry

All I can figure is that my husband was playing a prank on me and put Cory Kennedy's blog on my linky list there to the right and was just waiting for me to see how long until I noticed.

I apologise for any confusion.

And no cheese for a week

So. My mom was just here visiting for a week; a great time was had by all.

But there was the moment that she poked my belly and told me yes, it was time to lose some weight. You don't want anyone asking when the baby is due, do you?

OUCH.

I used to be the kind of girl I now resent, the one who could eat anything without a thought about my weight. But the years have changed that, for a host of reasons, and I am now the kind of woman the lithe young me secretly thought had to be at least a bit lazy...the love handled/muffin-topped/back-fatted/sweatpants wearing person who has just stopped caring. I do care; I'm just not used to having to exercise willpower, and so the pounds have slowly, insidiously accumulated.

But fortunately I am also one of those annoying people who exclaim, "I love working out!!!" and really mean it. I do, and if I miss a couple of days in a row I get cranky. Unless I am totally out of the habit then I don't mind going months without working out, but that's not my normal MO, and hasn't been for years.

I have an elliptical and a few times a week happily sweat away on it through two episodes of Family Guy or one of The Riches or Ugly Betty...or I'll read a mag, or listen to my iPod. I suppliment on off days with squats and lunges and push-ups and crunches and DVD's and Fit TV. And then later in the day after the kids are in bed I will consume twice as many calories that I burned. I simply cannot do that anymore.

A few months ago I signed up to run a half marathon this summer. I ran this same race two years ago...well, I ran/walked it (I pretty much only run straight through if it's three miles or less) 3.5 minutes of running, 1.5 minutes of walking, repeat for the next 13.1 miles, which was about 2,713 times for the 1/2 marathon if I recall correctly.


But I kind of hate running, at least long distances. I can get into it ocassionally if all the stars align correctly and my iPod is charged. My body isn't built for speed; I bulk up fast but just don't have those slow twitch muscle fibers on my side. I'm a fast twitcher.

Which is kind of why I chose to mix-up my workout with running. I think it is good for me to challenge myself physically like that, shake it up, you know? When I was running regularly a couple of years ago I had the long, lean muscles of a runner. Still with fluffiness over them in areas, but NOW with the bulky muscles I am sporting along with the mucho extra pounds, I am feeling HUGE.

I jump started training for the half marathon today...ran/walked 7 miles (the old routine of running 3.5/walking 1.5 for as many reps as it takes to get to 7 miles). I have a blister on my butt from my undies chafing. Nice. It's a good look.
I'll let you know next Sunday if I am down any pounds or inches or if there is anything going in the right direction.

Back to Basics

If the eight year-old me could attend one of today's average birthday parties, it would blow my mind. Today's celebrations...the overly orchestrated and elaborate events with their back-to-back scheduled activities, professional entertainment and trucked in hardware like bouncy houses, trampolines, and ponies. Then there's the complete alteration of the backyard or rented hall with an explosion of coordinated decorations (and I'm not kidding, I've been to one done by a hired professional party planner; it was for a ONE YEAR-OLD).

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand the party favors. Like the cost of your attendance at a wedding, you have to take the party favors into consideration when selecting your gift for the birthday kid; you don't want to be the chump that walks leaving the host in the red.

Now, to me, a homemade cake always meant love (it's the secret ingredient...ssshhhhh). But to many it seems that a homemade cake signals that the parents were too cheap to spend the big bucks on a three-tiered cake with their little darlings images prancing around with their fave Sprout character on each level. Or something like that.

I understand it's pretty easy as a parent to adopt that model to one extent or another..you want to create a wonderful birthday memory for your kids. But the bar keeps getting raised with each successive party the kids attend, "Mom, Jackson had a climbing wall at his party! It was so COOL! Can we get one for my party?!?!?!"

I haven't totally bought into that whole world, but I have succumbed a bit in the past. I still make my cakes, but now I get all elaborate with them. I plan activities and decorate, usually with a theme of some sort. Or I rent some time at a gymnastics center and let them handle it all.

So it was so refreshing the other day to get a call from a friend who confessed to me that she was considering a totally non-conventional recognition of her son's ninth birthday party. No bouncy house, no caterers, no entertainment, no organized activities...just a few friends over to play.

It was awesome. Six boys hanging out, shooting hoops, playing with water guns, throwing balls, kicking a soccer ball, doing whatever they wanted for a few hours after school. There was pizza to eat, smores instead of a cake, bottles of water and juice boxes in a tub that the kids grabbed whenever.

I was there helping my friend manage the chaos, and towards the end of the party I overheard the birthday boy exclaim, "Mom, this is the best birthday party EVER!"

I know what I am doing for my kid's next party.

I'm not proud of this, but feel the need to confess that

right now there are three spots in my house of which I am aware that have cat yack, and I am seriously considering leaving them there and hoping that either some other human member of this household cleans it up, or one of the animal residents eats it.

Kisses

A couple of years ago my son very seriously asked me, "Mom, how do those special kisses work?"

Immediately my brain went to the worst possible place and I assumed that he saw something, some ad, some commercial, some movie preview, something that was inappropriate for his age.

I am not ready for this talk, I am not ready for it. HE isn't ready for this talk. I should have thought about how I would approach this when the time came, now I am going to have to wing it. Shitshitshitshitshit.

While sorting through the possible places that he might have seen or heard something he shouldn't have and whipping mental grenades at those responsible for the breach, I sought some damage control by babbling something to the effect of, "Ummmm, derrrr, fffpppppthhhh...special kisses?"

"Yeah, you know! When I get a boo-boo and you make it all better by kissing it. How do you do that?"

"It's the love, honey. The love makes the boo-boo feel better." That answer came without having to think.

Now my boy can kiss away his little sister's boo-boos, but I am still squeamish about The Talks.

Why is it that even the most sexually libertine (not that that's me, not really) can get all woogly talking to their kids about reproduction? Or maybe the question is, when did I become such a freaking prude?