Mom Gets Real

The other day I heard about some study done in Great Britain that talked about how a certain percentage of women achieved sexual satisfaction from working out at the gym.

I want to know where the hell they go to work out. Or, if they really have a clue about what sexual satisfaction is really like. Maybe it’s just because they’ve been faking it for so long they don’t know what an orgasm actually feels like.

All I know is that not once–EVER–have I mistaken what I feel when I exercise for what I experience during sex. I don’t think I’m doing it wrong, but what the hell do I know?

Anyway, I just signed my family up for a membership at the local YMCA because I’m hoping all of us will get a little more active. Ok, Miss E. takes dance and gymnastics a total of 4 times a week, so she probably doesn’t need my help. Miss C could use a little more activity, but she’s lovely just the way she is. Jon, as a man, will likely start working out a little bit, cut out a few small things in his diet and lose the few pounds he claims he needs to in about 2 weeks (SO NOT FAIR, btw.)

And then there’s me: the person who needs to be active the most and who likes it the least.

I don’t need an objective, scientific study to be able to declare that getting off while working out is a crock of shit.

Today was my first day at the Y. We decided to take it easy and start in the pool. Sure, grab a kickboard, get in the lap lane and spend 20 minutes or so doing laps.

I somehow defied the law of physics and seemed to either remain stationary or actual move backwards. Eventually, I made it across one length of the pool and was gasping for air. Huh, maybe THAT’S why these women in the study are so confused: the heavy breathing is from pain and exhaustion and NOT stimulation, honey!

Look, I’m a big girl and I’m not just talking about my age. I am morbidly obese and know that the weight has to go. I’ve altered my diet in the past and have had some moderate success, but I’ve never managed to get on a good activity routine. I’m hoping this time if I start with the activity, the rest will get easier.

It’s gotta be easier than today was. I managed to get two full lengths of the pool done through a variety of the ugliest looking swimming strokes possible and my heart was pounding out of my chest so much I had to take breaks in between.  I’m watching all these other people: older people, skinnier people just glide through the water like it’s nothing. Then, there’s me flopping around like a fish out of the water. I did a little treading water and water walking after swimming just felt too stupid. I’m wondering how the hell this is going to do meany good whatsoever.

Jon says that I’m doing something and that’s a start.  I guess he’s right, but I hate telling him that.

For me it’s not just the physical challenges to overcome. I’m humiliated to be in a bathing suit in front of everyone (Ok, I’m humiliated about how I look, period.) But, I can’t get into the pool without it, so I have to suck up my pride and just do it. I’m going to be going into the fitness room next week, so on go the shorts and t-shirts. More embarrassment. They’ll also be a Zumba class I’m trying. This big mama does have some moves, but I’m sure my body is going to quickly remind me that I have at least 10 more years and a LOT more pounds on me than I did the last time I really shook my moneymaker.

I’m not sure which will be the hardest thing to overcome for me: the fatigue or the fear. But, I got day one under my belt. The fatigue is there and so is the fear, but I’m willing to face it again come Monday…

Miss C is on the last bites of dinner tonight and is about to be the last person standing–or in this case sitting. When it comes to dinner, she always seems to be the last one to finish even though she eats the least. She claims the food I cook is good, but trying to get her to eat it can be a challenge. I shouldn’t complain: at least she eats it now. There was a time when I swear all she ate was chicken nuggets, frozen waffles and yogurt. She’s expanded her horizons quite a bit now. She’s included popcorn and pop-tarts to her ever-growing list of staples.

Anyway…she’s trying to get down the last few bites of chicken and realized she has nothing left to drink. The horror! Instead of getting up to refill her glass or even ask one of us to do it, she reaches in front of her to a water bottle that I know has been there a while. I’m not talking a few hours; I mean at least a few days.  Without missing a beat, she picks it up and is about to take a swig…

What the hell?! I blurt out. That’s gross! You have no idea what’s in there or how long it’s been sitting there!

The all-knowing teenager pulls the bottle away from her lips and lightly shakes it like a scientist does with chemicals in a glass beaker.

It swishes, she says confidently. So I know it’s not milk.

In my mind, I’ve moved from what the hell to WTF!

Darling Daughter #1 must have noticed my confusion because she was kind enough to clarify things for me.

Mom, if it was old milk, it wouldn’t swish. It would be all clump-clump-clump, you know? So, I’m sure it’s fine.

Is this how Einstein arrived at the theory of relativity?

Fortunately, I convince her to open it up and check. She announces it is, indeed, water and goes to take another drink. I beg her to get a fresh glass of Sunny D or water from the fridge and leave the ancient water alone.

She opted to stay thirsty.

That is a new level of lazy, my friends. Her discoveries amaze me sometimes.

Because nothing says “I Love You” like an evil, dark Sith Lord.  Don’t his glowing yellow eyes and pointy teeth just cry out “Cuddle with me, please!”

I attended the Bloggy Moms conference in the summer of 2011 and had a great time! The Bloggy Moms site is a great place to find new blogs to read, tips on blogging, contests and more. As I continue to get my feet wet with this blogging thing, I thought I’d jump on board the site’s January Blog Hop! Check it out!

One of my goals for 2012 to to have be an active blogger–which means, of course, that I actually have to post more often.

Those of you who do blog out there make it look so easy. Your stories are funny and entertaining or manage to pull at my heart strings. I feel like I have a bunch of things inside of me to share, but honestly wonder who the hell is going to care about my stories or what I think? I’m not an expert. If I want this to be a blog and not simply a diary, I am supposed to help others by sharing who I am and what goes on in this crazy life of mine! Most of the time, it feels like a battle of knowing what day it is and now I’m thinking I can be articulate and even entertaining.

HA!

I’d love to know how all you bloggers out there do it? Seriously, where do you find the inspiration, the time–and most of all the courage to do what you do?

My 9-year-old’s idea of mommy-daughter bonding time worries me a little.

We took our girls to a hockey game a few weeks ago in Cincinnati. We had been once before and had a pretty good time and we were gifted the tickets by the venue, so I figured why not. Even though we’re not as well versed in hockey as we are in football, the family was enjoying the game when a fight broke out.

At a hockey game…I know, shocking.

What was a bit shocking was seeing my little girl jump up on her seat and hear her screaming at the top of her lungs:

“YEAH! FIGHT! HIT HIM!”

The people around us were quite amused. Sure, I was, too. But, there was also a little sense of “is it right to be enjoying this?” I mean, this is the same same girl who’ll be dancing in the Nutcracker later this week.

A few minutes later, our team scored a goal and I notice she’s high fiving a bunch of guys sitting in front of us as if she’s known them her whole life! She turns to me and shouts:

“This is the BEST! I love when we do stuff together, Mom!”

Fast forward a few days later…

We had a rare warmer day here in SW Ohio so I cooked out on the grill. While I’m outside cooking, Miss E. makes her way outside and somehow, she and I are playing this ninja-style game where when you touch a person’s limb, they can no longer user it. We’re hobbling around out there until we fall on the ground. My oldest comes out and starts to join in on the fun. A few minutes later, my husband calls the girls in to get ready for dinner.

“AWWW….DAAAD!” exclaims Miss E. “We’re having mother-daughter bonding time here!”

As long as we’re spending quality time together and no one gets hurt, it’s all ok–right?

Have you seen this viral video? You know, the one where two little boys, left alone for a few minutes, manage to create a man-made avalanche thanks to a 5lb bag of flour? No? Take a look:

It seems some of the 1.2 million people who have seen this believe it’s a crock. Why? Some say it’s because the flour is too evenly distributed, the flour went to high, the boys didn’t have enough time (those of you with little ones know it may take them 3 days to pull their socks and shoes on, but you leave them alone for 30 seconds and they’ve trashed the place.)

For me, what makes me doubt the video’s authenticity is her reaction…”Oh My Gosh…” over and over.

Oh My Gosh? Really? That’s it?

I understand a shock factor…but my shock tends to come out a little less formal and a lot more guttural. Let me put it this way–censors on all the tv stations would have had a field day with covering up my reaction.

Maybe I need to take yoga or something to chill out to be more like this mom..

My family has been under attack for at least a few weeks by a force stronger than any of us imagined.  I’ve done my best to protect the kids from its tempting influence, but I have to confess even I have almost succumbed to the dark side.

The Christmas Creep is stalking all of us with its lure of sparkly tinsel, twinkly lights, pretty paper and catchy music.

Each year, the Christmas Creep’s reach is a little longer and pulls in countless innocent victims. It’s hard to resist an enemy that wants to prolong the holiday party by simply starting a few weeks earlier. Who doesn’t want to celebrate just a little longer, right?

Except it’s not a little longer anymore.  I swear I saw Christmas trees and decorations weeks before Halloween. If things keep moving backward at this rate, not only will I have to start dressing my kids up as Santa or his reindeer for Halloween, but I also may be able to buy a Yule Log for my Fourth of July bonfire.

I guess the holidays were simply too big to contain to the month of December. So, the start of the season was moved to Black Friday—the day after Thanksgiving. Speaking of Black Friday how is it fair that each year, the doorbuster sale hours get earlier or even pushed back to Thanksgiving night? My body is still recovering from consuming all that tryptophan in my beautiful Thanksgiving turkey. Now, I’m being encouraged to drop everything, grab my purse in my post-feast stupor and rush to the store? I’m sure the hubby and the kids won’t mind me ditching them, although the thought of leaving them to clean up after the meal makes me a smile just a little.

I’m on the verge of a holiday hangover already. I haven’t even finished shopping for the big Thanksgiving feast, yet. Can I at least make the turkey dinner with all the trimmings before I have to start worrying about trimming a tree?

My family is not related to the Grinch nor do we trace our lineage back to Ebenezer Scrooge. We are not humbugs. Our family loves Christmas and the entire holiday season.  But, as much as we love the holidays, I set a firm rule in our house: no Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. Ok, well…my kids have pushed that to Thanksgiving night over the years—I’m not made stone. I just think hearing Christmas music on the radio 24/7 the first week of November is a little much.

Our tree goes up in the day or two after Thanksgiving. I pull out my Christmas music playlist and we spend a lot of time decorating, baking, etc. over the following weeks. My husband, girls and our extended family and friends create amazing memories during this special time.

Birthdays are special because they are only celebrated once a year. If I had a cake every day for two to three months leading up to my big day I’d be sick of it and not be able to fit through a single doorway in my house.

I’m all for a few weeks of decking the halls, lights and presents and taking time to reflect upon the real “reason for the season.” I simply want to keep this time of year magical—and how is that possible if the bag of tricks are used up before Thanksgiving?

photo by AKARAKINGDOMS

Oh, there are so many things I can describe here–but, since I’m pretty sure you don’t want to read a novel, I’ll narrow it down to one today and share others with you at another time.

A couple of years ago, the family was at the local IHOP for breakfast on a Sunday. The kids would love it because there was always a balloon artist there who would go from table to table and make things for the kids (for tips, of course.) Well, my girls, being the oh-so-shy-and-retiring flowers they are, practically start bouncing in their seats. After a few nasty glares from me and one warning that I’d take them out–see previous post about Manners by clicking here–they settled down a bit.

After hours of waiting (in their time, of course. I think it was only about 10 actual minutes), the balloon lady finally arrived. Then, my youngest, Miss E. makes the poor woman go through extensive menu of all the wonderful creations she can twist out of balloons. She starts casually rattling them off:

“I can make a flower, a hat, a doggie, a bunny, a pussy cat…”

“OOOH! A PUSSY! I WANT A PUSSY!” shrieks my 7-year-old.

Ah, yes…my delicate little flower of a daughter…

The balloon lady seems unmoved by the declaration, while me and my husband practically are fighting each other to crawl under the table.

She had no idea that she now had the undivided attention of the restaurant. She just wanted that damn cat! Which she did get after we quickly reminded was a kitty cat. She’s asking me what the problem is and I’m just telling her “It’s a cat, not a pussy. Ok? Why? Because I said so!”

The 11 year old knows something is up, but has no idea why her parents are having a stroke in the middle of IHOP.

Needless to say, we didn’t go back there for quite a while…and when we did, it wasn’t on a Sunday morning.