Between the peace I felt yesterday during the race and my husband’s comment on this morning’s blog, I’m a little weepy in a good way.
I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be living this life, to be me. To be his wife, their mother, myself. It’s a beautiful feeling.
For the last few days I’ve been going through the motions of being me, but I’m a better me for some reason and I know it’s too many Quad Venti Iced Sugar-Free Vanilla Non-Fat Lattes.? Oh, I’m kidding.? I wish Starbucks would change the name of that drink to Zero Calorie Punch In The Face - at least that is shorter.? Everytime I order it I mix up the words that are in it and the girl has to fix it in her head and regurgitate it back to me but I always have to say Quad Quad Quad so I get all my shots to the face.
So I’m listening to too much Regina Spektor (is that possible?? I think not.) and I’m weirdly happy and oddly connected.? This song and this song are particularly uplifting to me at the moment.? It’s like I’m riding the wave of me, whatever the fuck that means.? There’s nothing to be sad about, except that I miss Daren but the kids are showering me with love and sloppy kisses and tiny arms around my neck.? And I hold them a little longer, a little tighter these days.? I’ve always appreciated them so very much, but lately I look at them and watch them grow an inch or a crop of unexpected knowledge in front of my eyes and do the whole double-take thing.
In the last three days I’ve managed a bagel and a salad, and about 8 granola bars.? You know those Nature Valley Sweet & Salty ones with the peanut butter or the almond butter coating?? It’s all I want.? I know it isn’t enough but I am forcing the food as best I can.? Also?? Writing my own songs.? The kids love all the singing in the house right now.
I have this weird excitement going on in my body - a buzzing of sorts.? I know this probably not making any sense but I feel as though I’m standing on the edge of something enormous and wonderful and hopeful.? I love this feeling.
It’s perfect sobriety, it’s a cocoon of love and love and love, all around.? Nothing can touch this.
What is it about age 3?
Chris just wrote a letter to her almost-teenage son and I could have written the same letter to Thomas.
He gives me these looks like I’m the biggest idiot that ever walked the earth. Last night I hired our sitter so I could take Dylan to hockey practice without the crying and whining from Thomas. That and um, Thomas informed me that he wasn’t going to hockey and that he wanted the sitter. When we returned home, he came down the stairs and shouted at us, “I’M WATCHING MY MOVIE!” Brows furrowed, evil eye, scowling. WTF?
Every morning, going to the gym is like pulling teeth. The first few weeks were difficult enough to get my ass motivated enough to go, but the constant mantra of “I HATE THE GYM AND I HATE YOU AND I HATE THE CAR AND I HATE THESE SOCKS AND I HATE THIS SHIRT AND I HATE OXYGEN!!!!” Yeah that is kinda hard to take.
Now that I’m addicted to the gym and know that my day will be less stressful if I just go and work out, it’s a little easier, but yesterday morning I had a ridiculous conversation with Thomas. I lectured a 3 year old on the benefits of exercise.
*smacks head*
Yes, I’m an idiot.
I told him it makes Mommy happy to go to the gym and work out. That it’s good for my heart and body. Things he wouldn’t really understand I guess, but I was on a roll and he was actually listening. Then I made a mistake. I said I was sick of being fat.
He looked at me, wide eyed, his innocence flowing around me and I knew he was still listening. I stared back, knowing I shouldn’t have said that to him. I don’t want my kids to have negative body images and I know that I need to set the examples of healthy habits without using negativity and such, but it just came out.
Thomas, wiser than me at that moment, put his little arms around my neck and said, “You’re beautiful, Mommy.”
On the way to the gym, he said from the back seat, “I don’t hate the gym Mommy,” which really meant a lot but I don’t know if he just likes doing his own thing here at home or if he isn’t happy with change, or what. It seems he doesn’t like going out, period.
Of course he loves going outside, and loves the library, but running errands, going to the hockey rink and the gym seem to be difficult for him. I try to give him lots of warning before we go anywhere, but he fights me - a lot.
3 was the toughest age for Dylan too, so maybe I just need to be patient and get through this. I need to remember that once he gets to the gym, he’s fine, it’s just some days, by the time I get there, I feel like I’ve already worked out.
?***
OMG you guys have to read this - pee first - thanks Deb!
I was going to write something on Saturday, but it was write or take the kids to the park and play soccer with Daren. The family won.
I was going to write something yesterday but it was write or go to the gym all by myself. The gym won.
I was going to write something right now but it’s write or go to the gym again. The gym won again. There’s a BodyFlow class I’m dying to try at 10:30.
But! I need your help! I’ve signed up at Kimberle’s Petroville site to swear off candy (Thanks Ali!) until November 7th.
Not hard usually, but the evenings I am weak. I’ve been eating frozen blueberries or yogurt, but I need some more healthy ideas for snacks or diversions. What’s your favorite?
Okay, that title is misleading but let’s not take it literally. Working out nearly every day is not as admirable as it might seem. I mean, really, I get Dylan off to school, pack a bag and my rewards lie ahead of me.
I’ve loaded the iPod shuffle with some ass-jiggling shaking tunes - stuff that I like, that makes me feel strong, muscle-bound, badass even; more importantly, stuff that makes me move. The drive with 3 year old chatter from the backseat is heartwarming, really, but who needs constant Hallmark moments with your 3 year old when his other 14 personalities can rear their ugly heads at any given moment? It’s more like Sybilmark, trust me.
Once His Royal Pain In The Ass Majesty is settled in the daycare, I empty my bag into my locker so the bag is ready to receive sweaty duds, my shower stuff on top of a pile of clean clothes, and my tanning accelerator and goggles in the side pocket for the post-workout-sunshine-up-the-butt-application. Call it gym-dessert.
I will be the first to admit that the gym and it’s members intimidate the crap out of me if I’m having a LSED (Low Self Esteem Day). You know what I mean, those days where you stupidly turn sideways in a full length mirror and crush your thoughts that you looked good because NOW THAT YOU’VE SEEN THE SIDE VIEW LIFE IS OVER. Or you catch your shadow somewhere along the way and the frizzies have taken over your entire head and your silhouette resembles Don King. Those days where you feel like people are looking at you and it makes you feel awkward and conscious of every move.
Enter the mental jock. I try hard to bring my A-game to the gym and not worry too much about what other people are thinking. Wow I sound like a post-game hockey player interview. My A-game? Uh, okay. So uhhh, the team is looking to uhhhh, bring it together for the next game and uhhhh, we’re all going to have to gel and uhhh, we just have to work together and uhhh….okay okay, you get the point.
The funny thing is, I look at the other people and I’m really not at all scrutinizing, “Maybe that girl who looks like me has already lost 20 pounds, or 100,” or “Maybe that woman is recovering from a car accident.” The truth is, we’re all there for our own reasons. The women I glance at while squatting with a medicine ball or rocking out on the elliptical are likely not scrutinizing as I first thought when I chose this all-ladies gym. Even the adorable university students are friendly and all encouraging smiles. That or their thinking, may I never become that fat when I’m a Mom. Oops…negative self talk.
Daren and I have booked a trip to Mexico and because I’m so white I give off light not normally a sun-dweller, I thought I should get a base tan, so my reward at the end of working out is the tanning booth. I prefer the stand up version just because of the time being half of that of the lie-down, but the lie down is nice too because you can close your eyes and pretend you’re already in Mexico.
I just thought I should spare everyone at the resort of the blinding light that would illuminate the entire beach at the drop of a wrap: “OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT????”
“Oh shit, honey, it’s just a Canadian.”
Working out nearly every day has serious advantages. The days I work out I’m waaaay less of a Yelly Mom and anyone who has ever had a Yelly Mom can totally agree. I love the relaxed feeling I get when I’m walking out of the gym, satisfied with how hard I worked, not to mention the 6 minutes in the tanning bed that rejuvenates me in a way that is akin to sticking rays of sunshine up my butt.
We switched locations of the gym chain I attend because the ladies only version is newer and cleaner than the gym I originally signed up with. The one I signed up with was darker, kinda dingy and let’s just be nice and say the new one, despite being ladies only? Did not have one hair in the shower drain and that, my friends, is extremely important to a girl who would shave her head if it was socially acceptable. But not in a Britney way, okay?
Unfortunately, I couldn’t bring my awesome trainer with me so that kinda blows. I’m hoping the new one calls soon to set up our first appointment though. I’m also hoping I don’t get some kind of twenty-something twinkie that is all like, and you know, and such as like you know.
One of the best things about doing all this working out is listening to music I don’t normally get to hear because of wild boys that live in my house. Songs that get my butt moving include most of Justin Timberlake’s latest hits.? To look at the dude, he wouldn’t normally make me bounce up and down on an elliptical but there is something about him that makes me a little warm in the yoga pants. Anyone?
On another note, I’ve been reading through my Bloglines and one of the running themes is that there has been a decline in comments across the blogosphere. I’ll admit I’m also guilty of not commenting as much as I did before, but between working and getting hot over Timberlake and stuff etc, I skim through posts and click through very rarely.
Then I got to thinking and while real life has me by the balls, I have to say something about that lack of comments and how it’s making some of you feel. I hope I can articulate this well.
Don’t let it get you down - there are more blogs than ever, many of them written very well and from perspectives that are new and fun and fresh, a la Bossy, for example.? We all have voices that are valuable, important and unique.? Don’t let the number of comments validate your voice.
Blogging is a hobby for me. For a long time, I cared how many comments and hits I got but it’s been at least a year since I gave it a second thought. I occasionally glance at my stats if only to see who’s talking about this site or whatever, but really, I have no inclination to take over the internet with a million different ideas. I’m far too busy lazy for that.
I guess what I’m saying is, I’m glad YOU stopped by today, and I’m happy to blog about whatever is on my mind. Nothing more, nothing less. I write because I enjoy writing, sharing and looking back on what this site has always been about: my family and me.
I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost in the sounds
I hear in my mind
All these voices
I hear in my mind all these words
I hear in my mind all this music …
~ Regina Spektor, Fidelity
I can honestly say I love Daren and the kids fully. With everyone else, including myself, I do have one foot on the ground.
That is about to change.
I’ve been abusing myself for years ~ a silent string of insults in my head and sometimes coming out of my mouth:
“God, I’m so fat.”
“If I had self-discipline, I could be better at controlling the food one way or another.”
“I’m so stupid.”
“I can’t have that, I’ll only gain more weight.”
“I can’t participate in ____, I’m too fat.”
“What are you doing in the kitchen AGAIN, you dumbass.”
“I’m such a lazy ass.”
None of these things are actually true, I know, but some of us are our own worst enemies. Would you call your friends any of those things? I hope not.
Furthermore, my oldest picked up this crappy attitude towards himself and began calling himself names that didn’t fit him either.
This morning before I went to the gym to meet with my trainer, I had this whole different post planned for the Stop the Abuse campaign I wrote about last night.
As my trainer showed me new moves with free weights, made me do squats for the first time in my life (you might recall I was asked to squat once before and how well that went),and introduced me to new machines, I said some things that she finally called me on.
I called myself a fatass, made jokes about my klutziness and although I didn’t complain about the work I was doing to improve myself, I was being very negative about ME.
My trainer told me that while I was doing all this work, I was being too hard on myself and that I needed to stop talking like that, to be more positive. She was really sweet about it, but stopped me in my tracks. She said that even by joking about ourselves that way, it’s negative. Pairing that with the fact that I constantly joke about whatever pains me, I think she is right.
You see, I went through a self shit-kicking in the last year that stemmed from a huge surge of emotions coming to surface after suppressing those very emotions for years. In short, I went a little nutty. I lost friends, I pissed off family. Hell, I pissed off strangers and readers! I felt very alone. And now? I feel pretty stupid about sharing it all with the internet.
Live and learn, I suppose. I won’t delete it ~ it’s part of my growth over the last year and I’m proud I made it through all of that.
For those who weren’t here for that, basically I was drinking a lot, starving myself, acting out, and being a hot mess in terms of my emotional topography on a daily basis. It was everything short of shaving my head. It’s all here on this site somewhere if you care to dig.
This self-abuse was so destructive, that I nearly wound up in the psych ward. My doctor wanted to put me away ~ called me bi-polar ~ wanted me on Lithium. That alone was scary enough to at least warrant a huge step: opening up to Daren about everything I’ve never shared with anyone. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, and yet best possible thing I could have done.
While I’m still healing, and have come a long way since what we can call Karen Rani’s Nervous Breakdown of 2007, up until a few weeks ago, when I hired the trainer and decided to do things right for my body, I was still drinking. Every. Single. Night.
I love wine. Wine makes me tingle and numb and never makes me sick, like vodka does now. Funny thing about that Vodkarella, she hates vodka now…what will she do about her site name? Ideas?
The Self Abuse Train has stopped. It’s sitting on the tracks, always there to chug up again, but this time I’m tossing the keys in the river and walking away.
I’m walking towards daily fitness, towards the advice of my trainer, who says 5 small meals a day and lots of water, towards only drinking on the weekends, if at all, towards moderation, self control and positive thinking and speaking (and writing).
I want to love myself fully. There are some difficult habits to break, like this self-depreciating inner voice, but I’m giving it my best shot. I have a lot of personal goals, like getting fit enough to run a marathon by next spring, and learn to skate well enough to play hockey next winter, but this one goal is most definitely the most important for a lot of us, I think.
Ironically enough, tomorrow (September 27th) marks one full year of not smoking. What a way to celebrate!
So while I applaud those of you who are already at this point in your lives, and I’m anxious to join you, I suspect I’m not alone in this journey and hope that those who know they need to, will Stop the Abuse: of themselves.
xo
This is what happens when you’re busy juggling emails and Oprah and a bag of Tostitos while you *think* your 3 year old is upstairs playing with his toys:
You go to take a shower (yes at 3 p.m. - ahem) and discover that not only is your makeup bag sopping wet with water from the counter, but said water is running down the vanity and into the drawers with the hair brushes and the scrunchies and the pads and the tampons.
Well, at least those last two things are absorbent.
Oh shit.? As I’m writing this, he discovered my chocolate stash under the couch.? Oy.
Oh shuddap - like you haven’t had days like this.
“LEAVE VODKARELLA ALONE!”
The last scary movie I saw was The Ring, back when it first came out on video. I have always been a bit of a pussy about scary movies, but this one affected me greatly. I have a really big problem with gore and suspense. I get right into the movie and my heart is racing, my body shakes, generally I’m just a huge wuss about it.? I would hazard a guess that the celebs I’ve been making fun of would laugh if they knew what a big pussy Vodkarella is.
Especially when that movie has creepy hairy kids in it:
After I watched the The Ring with Daren, I went outside for a smoke (this was even before Thomas was conceived). I stood on our back deck, and the reflection from the neighbours porch light cast a shadow of what I thought was the little girl from The Ring. My heart jumped and I grabbed the dog and hauled ass into the house.
The next day I realized that porch light had illuminated some tall cedars and that’s what I had seen. I laughed at myself but swore off scary movies, especially once I developed PPD after Thomas arrived.? When I had PPD, I had those nasty images in my head and so watching this kind of movie only made that worse.
Last weekend, Daren threatened to bring home Vacancy, and much to his surprise, I said, “Okay.”? So we finally rented it this weekend, curled up on the couch and I proceeded to have 45 heart attacks and shake more than Ricky Martin’s ass. ? Needless to say, despite the entertainment I was able to provide for my better half, I won’t be watching another scary movie ever again.
****
Need a stroller?? I’m giving one away at Drool - you have till the end of September to enter!
[23:13] .?:*?~*?`*Karen*?`*?~?*: my portfolio: http://swankwebstyle.com/work/category/designer/karen/
[23:16] Erin: those all you eh? Nice Job
[23:17] .?:*?~*?`*Karen*?`*?~?*: yep
[23:17] .?:*?~*?`*Karen*?`*?~?*: thanks
[23:17] Erin: very impressive
[23:17] Erin: have you met all these people or do they just contact you throught the site
[23:18] .?:*?~*?`*Karen*?`*?~?*: i’ve met some of them through mommyblogging but most come because of word of mouth
[23:18] Erin: I don’t have that kind of talent
[23:18] .?:*?~*?`*Karen*?`*?~?*: rofl - YEAH YOU DO
[23:20] Erin: Not like that
[23:20] Erin: I have o rely on normal 9-5 jobs
[23:20] .?:*?~*?`*Karen*?`*?~?*: you are good with people.? me?? i fucking hate people.
[23:22] Erin: nah you don’t just the ones that piss you off
[23:23] .?:*?~*?`*Karen*?`*?~?*: oh?? just them?? as in everybody?
Feed Yourself Sugarpants!
