T-Blog

I am training for a marathon.  I don’t really have a good answer as to why I would subject myself to this torture training other than I’m 35 and have something to prove.  Oh and when you burn 2,000 calories on a training run  you can eat WHATEVER YOU WANT!  Then there is the added bonus that while I’m running for 2-3 hours, no one bothers me, demands things from me, asks me to get them juice and Goldfish crackers and needs help finding their socks.  If they do need me they have to find me, chase me down at a 9:15 minute/mile pace, and rip the ipod out of my ears. 

For most people, the mere thought of running 26.2 miles is enough to cause heart palpitations and muscle cramps, even for runners the mileage is daunting.  Several weeks ago I ran 13 miles- a half marathon.  While I felt strong finishing the run, I realized that during the race I would have to run those 13.1 miles all over again.  So, the biggest hurdle to training for a marathon?  Convincing your mind that yes, you can do this.  No one starts off running 26.2 miles- most people don’t even get up to that on their training runs- you start off with what you can do and add a little bit each week.  You run and run and run and run.  Even when it is cold outside.  Even when it is hot outside.  Even when it is raining outside.  Even when you have a cold.  Because you never know what the conditions will be like on race day.  You train your legs to go the distance; you train your mind to convince your body to keeping going.

But unfortunate issues with intense training are the inevitable injuries that crop up.  For me it’s the IT band, a muscle that extends from the hip through the outside of the leg all the way down to the knee.  And when the IT band is pissed off it stabs you in the side of your knee and then twists the knife further in, just for giggles.  It is a mean little devil.  Mine started acting up on the last few runs I’ve had.  In the past, I tried to run through it and ended up with an injury that took weeks to recover from.  The best thing to help the IT band is the one thing I’m the least disciplined about- stretching. 

So, this week I took a class at the Y called Yoga Therapy.  Sounds promising, right?  Some good stretches of the problem areas and when you leave you feel like you just took a Xanax.  Weeeelllll, not so much.  I don’t know if there is such thing as a Yoga drill sergeant, but I just met her.  She is relentless and unforgiving.  You will have straight legs while stretching even if your hamstrings are as tight as an accountant’s ass.  During the warm up, my yoga instructor folded her body in half while her head touched the floor and went through her legs.  A move that would have impressed Lord Shiva.  During a particularly challenging stretch for me, she grabbed my leg and moved it closer towards my nose a move that sent my hamstrings screaming.  As a winced and groaned, the 10-year old girl next to me said, “pain is just weakness leaving the body”.  And unfortunately I was too contorted to slap her.  Girl, I know you think you know about pain, but come talk to me after you’ve just had a c-section (after 12 hours of labor) and the not-so-nice-nurse makes you get out of bed to walk to the bathroom for the first time.  As you take a step forward and look behind you to see if you’ve left your intestines on the floor- come talk to me about pain. 

Is there an over-committers anonymous? If so I should start one. Who’s going to join me? I see the hands going up now. I know a couple of people I can recruit- I’m not naming names since this is anonymous and all (JENNIFER). We’ll learn how to say no gracefully and will work through our guilt at having said no.

No one has ever coerced me into doing volunteering, but the heart-wrenching sales pitch ALWAYS works on me. It’s like waving a sad-eyed, underfed puppy at me. Now that Henry is in kindergarten, I’ve entered a whole new world in the scope of volunteering. Before public school, volunteering was a night or two a month (yeah, right) with some organizations I’m passionate about, but now it is like recruiting in Hell.

I’m happy to volunteer, really, I am. And I’m fortunate that I don’t have anything else to do as a stay-at-home-mom BUT volunteer. My problem is I don’t know how to stop. My problem is that no one told me that the things I volunteered for would take up 5 weeks of my time. Those PTO bitches just nodded their heads and said, “Oh, you will LOVE that”. Today at the training I got to hear the speech of “there are so many schools in need of volunteers. Many schools only have two volunteers all year! Now those parents love their children. But many of them are trying to make ends meet working 2-3 jobs. Won’t you consider volunteer at another school?”

And I’m all- “Yes, yes! I’ll do it! I’ll do it for the children!”

Can you say SUCKA?

So, my fiver-year old, Henry, was diagnosed with ADHD this summer. This was a big surprise to NO ONE. I knew something was up with him when he was about 15-18 months old. While kids his age were still toddling- he was running circles around them. His impulsiveness was always a concern- I never knew when something would catch his eye and he would run after it regardless of speeding cars in parking lots. Yes, I knew early on- and even had him evaluated at 2 ½ years old. Unfortunately, there aren’t a whole lot of options for preschoolers with ADHD- in fact you can’t even get a real diagnosis until a child turns 5 or 6.

One day I was talking to my neighbor outside and holding Michael who was an infant at the time. Henry went into the backyard and got his dump truck and started pushing it down the sidewalk. I continued talking to my neighbor and watching Henry out of the corner of my eye when he decided he wanted to go to the park and took off at full speed pushing his yellow dump truck down the sidewalk. I started walking after him barefoot with Michael in my arms telling him stop and come back home. Our street is relatively safe; however, he was determined to go to the park and was getting closer and closer to the intersection of a very busy street. I was in panic mode at this point and found myself crossing over to “crazy woman” territory. My voice was no longer stern and threatening, it was the sound of a panicked and desperate mom. I ran with my infant child bouncing in my arms trying to catch up with him and knowing it would be too late. An elementary student that was walking home from school heard me and stopped Henry just before he started to cross the busy intersection and made him wait for me. You can see how the “what-ifs” from this scenario would cause unprecedented levels of anxiety. They do- and so I try not to dwell on the “what-ifs” and thank God for the kid that stopped Henry.

I know Henry’s mind. I know what he is thinking often before he does. He wasn’t intentionally being disobedient. He wanted to go to the park and he knew the way to get there and he was going to go. But that isn’t how things look to the adults that don’t understand ADHD. To them, your child is undisciplined, spoiled, entitled, disobedient, and really just needs a good spanking. Oh, the judgment I have seen! I am trying to learn to accept the ADHD as a part of his personality, a quirkiness that will set him apart. And I try not to let people’s righteous judgments affect me. I’ve realized that with the ADHD, comes an amazing gift- the gift of intelligence and that just might be his saving grace. Besides, the hyperactivity won’t last forever, one day his kids will suck out whatever energy his has left.

The hyperactivity part of the ADHD is probably one of the most challenging aspects of the condition. It is exhausting. I have to consistently think of ways for him to “burn off” energy. Burning off energy isn’t an added bonus of the day that helps him sleep a little better at night- it is requisite for getting through the day. It makes mommy very tired. Figuring out what works is trial and error. For example, soccer was a total disaster, Tae Kwon Do, eh not so much, gymnastics- so far so good. And there are some things and places that I just know if I take him things will NOT GO WELL, for example, the quiet early service at church when all the old people attend and the quaint little boutique with all the pretty breakables. So, we “manage our expectations”, we don’t avoid all social situations- but we make sure there is an escape route!

I haven’t figured out everything about ADHD and I haven’t made any decisions regarding treatment (i.e. medication). I hope I can help him learn tools to manage the ADHD without unleashing more neurosis- I suppose he can blame me in therapy later.

But let me tell you where we are today. Henry rides his scooter all the way to school (about ½ mile) and back every day. I follow behind him pushing Michael in the jogging stroller. We put our lives at risk every time we set out because of all the impatient drives and their general contempt for pedestrians that dare to cross an intersection. Henry rides far ahead on his scooter, when he gets to an intersection; he stops and waits for me to catch up. He doesn’t cross until I say he can go and we cross together. We have come such a long way.

I can’t be trusted around knives. I always cut myself and who knows how much of my blood has ended up in my casseroles. It my belief that all knives are designed for right-handed people or it could be that I’m just a natural klutz. Yeah, let’s go with the latter- I have too many witnesses that can testify to that statement. So, this week I cut myself with a serrated kitchen knife. You would think that I would have actually stopped once I hit flesh, but no, that was one tough apple I was slicing! Now, even though I am a natural klutz and have fallen, tripped, bumped, cut, run into, scrapped, twisted, and broken all sorts of various body parts- I have NEVER needed stitches. Given my track record, I am quite proud of that statistic! Ask my brother how many stitches he has had. He who ran into a parked airplane at an air show (and they call me the klutz!). When I cut my finger tip off myself this week, I called TJ at work and asked, “How do you know when you need stitches?” His response was, “if you are calling me at work to ask me that, you need stitches.” But my almost two-year old JUST went down for a nap- so I just put some gauze over it and went about my business. I realized that this was one of the ridiculous “mom” moments. Yeah, I probably could have used a stitch or two, but the thought of waking a cranky baby from his only nap of the day and then sitting for 2-3 hours in a crowded germ-infested emergency room is far more painful than dealing with a flesh wound for a couple of weeks. But it does remind me- I better go get that tetanus shot- just to be on the safe side.

Everyone has a currency. Me, I can easily be bought with chocolate, wine, books, free vacations, spa days, music, concerts, etc. etc. Okay, truth be told someone just has to shake some Skittles at me and I’m all “oh please, please, I’ll be your best friend” (pant) (pant) (pant) - good dog. My older son, Henry, has no currency. Or maybe he does, it’s just that he has really expensive taste. I can’t really afford to buy a Lego set every time he poops on the potty- although I have entertained the thought. When he was potty training we tried to get him interested in pooping on the potty with some M&M bribes. He turned to his grandfather one day and said, “I don’t need any M&Ms pappy.” (Read: I’m perfectly content sitting in my own feces- clearly YOU are the one with problem.) At Henry’s second birthday party we had a piñata. As the candy poured out, Henry stood in the middle of the pile arms akimbo, looked down at the Skittles, Lifesavers, gummy bears, and Nerds and walked away. It was like; call me when you get the cherry tomato piñata, okay? And imagine his disappointment at yet another Easter egg hunt. All that hard work collecting and hunting for eggs only to open them and find Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups, Cadbury Eggs, and jelly beans. “Ugghh- candy again???” And when I ate one of the pieces of chocolate, I got a 15-minute lecture on how unhealthy candy is, how it is bad for you, how it makes you sick and if you eat too much of it, you’ll die. And he made me promise never, ever to eat it again…or give it to the baby.

Yes, I gave my baby chocolate. What? He liked it. He really, really liked it. Apparently, baby Michael inherited my sweet tooth. I’ve also given him jelly beans and Skittles and Twizzlers and…… In fact one of the few words he knows how to say is “candy”. Or “kon-dee?” I know this appears like bad parenting, but what I’m doing is building a currency. Soon he will discover that he really, really needs to have that lollypop and guess who has the power to give it to him. Mommy. (Because his brother sure as hell won’t.) But he only gets it if he does what mommy wants. And then I would have built a nice piece of manipulation that only costs about 5 cents each.

So, the Weight Watchers thing is really working out for me. Yes, there is a hint of surprise in my tone because initially I was skeptical. I mean, I KNOW how to eat healthy, I DO make healthy choices….therein lies the problem, I make too MANY choices.  In fact I make a choice every time I walk into the kitchen; will it be cheesy, sweet, or crunchy?

The first couple of weeks I was a little cranky- okay I was pissed off. Especially the day I made 3 dozen sugar cookies and didn’t eat a ONE! When TJ said “so?” in response to the above scenario he got the ima-gonna-hit-you-in-da-head-wit-my-fryin’-pan look until he relented and said, “I see your point.” And the freakin’ Girl Scouts! What a bunch of pushers! They give me the sad eyes and pouty lip every time I turn them down at the grocery store. I’m like “look kid, I’m here to buy carrot sticks and celery, all right?” Nevertheless, I have two boxes of unopened Girl Scout cookies on top of my fridge that mock me every time I open the fridge door. “Come one, you know you want us. How about some chocolate-y and crunchy goodness? Diets are for pussys! Open the box! OPEN THE BOX! SET US FREE!”

The Weight Watchers meetings are inspiring and encouraging. They give me enough pep talks to get through another week that and the quantitative analysis of the often-looked-forward-to-but-mostly-dreaded weigh-in. Like a bunch of addicts, all we do is talk about is our drug: food. Only this time it is ways to eat healthier, new recipes, hints, and tricks. Kind of like, you know, you can make that cocaine go so much farther if you cut it with baby powder. (I don’t know- I’m not a drug user so don’t try that at home.) We meet in a meeting room at a local church and right behind the motivational speaker is a print of “The Last Supper”. Jesus with his arms outstretched revealing all the foods that we will be able to eat in heaven and not gain a pound; cheeseburgers, French-fries, macaroni and cheese, pizza, and of course, wine.

I won’t give away the WW “secret” but the amount of points you are allowed to eat each week is determined by a number of factors- including sex (as in gender, not if you are having it). The mere act of having a penis entitles a man to 8 extra points A DAY! The unfairness of it all is right up there with men getting paid more money that women, and men having more upper body strength. And the reason I even mention this fact is that my husband has lost 8 lbs. since I started Weight Watchers. That is 8 lbs. with minimal effort and cutting back on a few beers. Bastard! Meanwhile, I’m sneaking in baby carrots at McDonald’s. Oh well, the end result of all this is so that I can wear a bathing suit to the YMCA without scaring the young children. Gotta keep my eye on the prize!

I have learned over the years that there is a huge chasm that divides the way men and women think. Such realizations such as finding out my husband really isn’t into the Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood as much I was and my husband finding out that when I say “nothing” to the age old question, “What is wrong?”, it is rarely- nothing, have helped bridge the gap over that great divide.

But nothing has been more revealing than raising boys. I brought home my old Cabbage Patch dolls for Henry to play with to help him with his nurturing skills. The dolls have remained undressed and tossed into the back of the closet for last few years. Never has either boy taken the slightest interest in the dolls until one day I grabbed one doll and bonked its head into the other dolls head. The boys thought that was hysterical and wanted me to do that again and again.

So, the other day I’m talking to my friend Jennifer on the phone and eating some popcorn because I just got back from the gym. One of the kernels went down the wrong way and I started choking on the phone. It was one of those spells where for a moment you think you might actually die. You have a vision of your tombstone “Beloved wife, mother- choked on popcorn”. Meanwhile, both kids are seemingly ignoring the breathless cries from their mother as one child is dumping over the cat food while the other is playing Legos. As I attempted to spit out a frail “I’m okay” to keep Jen from calling 911, my son starts to sing. And it isn’t “The itsy-bitsy spider”. Jennifer paused for a moment and then laughed, “Is Henry singing a song about you choking?” And that is the difference between girls and boys. If I had a daughter I’m sure she would hit me on the back to dislodge the foreign object or at least ask if I was okay. My son, however, made up a song about it. Oh well, at least he noticed.

My mom is choking

She’s turning blue

She says she can’t breathe

I don’t know what to do

Well, she did the Heimlich

When there was no more air

Threw her body-

Against the kitchen chair

Well, I’m glad it’s over

And I’m glad she’s back

‘Cuz I’m getting hungry

And I want a snack…..

When I was in 8^th grade I remember calling myself fat. I was 5’7” and all knees and elbows- I probably weighed 105 at most. I didn’t even have enough body fat to develop breasts. Oh, to be that young and skinny again!

Now, I am literally fat. All pieces of medical literature, even the back of pantyhose boxes, put me in the overweight column- or “Queen” size, as it were. It has taken a while for me to come to accept this fact for several reasons. One, I am healthy and fit. Would a fat person be able to run a half-marathon? Second, because of generous sizing and a little invention called “stretchy pants”, I’m able to fit into a size 8 jeans- size 6 even. The problem, however, is that because of the way my fat is distributed and the way my body is proportioned, I looked pretty good from the butt down. The top half of me looks like a stuffed sausage- with boobs.

In my early 20s I was heavy. I managed to lose over 50 lbs. and kept most of it off. But, here I am fat again. It is no mystery how I got here. It was the sit-on-your-ass-and-stuff-your –pie-hole-with-junk-food diet I had when I was pregnant with Henry that caused me to gain 70 lbs. Whew- 70lbs., that’s like an entire Olson twin! It took years for the weight to come off. Okay, it never really came off. Then I got pregnant with Michael and gained 35 lbs……okay, maybe 40. Someone told me that the weight I gained would just “melt away” if I nursed. So I nursed. All day, all night…for a year. It didn’t melt away. My fat must be like that weird artificial butter that stays congealed even over high-heat in a frying pan. So I have about 15 lbs. from my pregnancy with Henry, 8 from Michael, and 2 from all the damn chocolate I ate over Christmas. But it is okay. You know, why? I joined Weight Watchers this week.

I’m very positive about my weight-loss journey and so many people have had success on the WW plan that I believe I can do it, too. But I am only into my second day. The real crankiness hasn’t kicked in yet. During our weekly Friday trip to McDonald’s, I found myself frantically calling my friend like she was my AA sponsor. “What can I eat? How many points does the Big Mac have?” She slowly talked me into something sensible. “Back away from the fries and nobody gets hurt”. And in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have watched “Julie and Julia” tonight. All that footage of sweet cream butter was distracting to the plot of the movie. But for now, I remain positive and focused on the goal and hopeful for the loss of a couple of pounds. Until my next weigh in……

My family has some unusually large heads.  Not large enough to be a medical mystery but large enough to make getting on sweaters a problem.  I, however, have the opposite problem, an unusually small head.  Small enough so I can wear children’s baseball caps.  Now, I think paleontologists have discovered that the dinosaurs with the smallest skulls had the smallest brains, and therefore the dunces of Cretaceous period.  I argue that my brain is not pea-sized, rather just more efficient- like a Prius.  It might not have the best pick-up, but it will take you where you need to go. 

Combine the large Birkhead head with the large Avery head- and you end up with two boys with Charlie Brown heads.  The back of Henry’s head looks exactly like my brothers- I mean it is a genetic freak show! 

I think this might be what you call karma.  30+ years of teasing my brother about his melon head and I end up with two kids whose heads were bigger than mine the day they were born. 

As an infant, Henry’s head was so disproportionately large compared to the rest of his body, his pediatrician measured and fretted about it at every visit.  Between the head size in the 95 percentile and the flatness on the back of Henry’s skull the pediatrician referred him to a pediatric neurologist at 10 months old.  Of course, that all could have been avoided if I would have just brought my brother into the pediatrician’s office with me and said “you see?!!!”  Henry didn’t need surgery or a helmet to correct his head shape/size; however, his future will be filled with tons of t-shirts with the neck stretched out.  Fortunately, his little brother has the same issues- so by the time he passes down the said t-shirts they’ll be nice and broken-in. 

When we visited my brother for Christmas, Henry was telling him a joke- only he didn’t get it quite right, fortunately I’m always there for a good punch line. 

Henry:  Why…did the chicken cross……..your head?

Clint:  I don’t know, why?

Me:  Because he thought it was the road! 

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me……..

Twelve hours traveling

Eleven shots of vodka

Ten relatives fighting

Nine major meltdowns

Eight inches to the waistline

Seven crappy presents

Six maxed-out credit cards

FIVE CHRISTMAS DINNERS!

Four poopy diapers

Three puking cats

Two cranky kids

And ONE major panic attack