Not Fit One Bit

It's winter, and as the temperature has dropped, my weight has gone up.  I can list my reasons (ahem-excuses) for this.  It's really cold.  It gets dark at 4:30.  Cookies taste good.  EJ wakes up too early. My gym is crowded, and that's annoying.  I don't have any Lululemon workout clothes.  I think my running sneakers are old and I could get shin splints.  I'm tired. Wine tastes good. Bread with butter is everything.

So one morning, when I once again couldn't find pants that fit, I decided that I'd had enough and did what any other true American would do...I threw money at the problem.

I drove, not walked to my nearest electronics store and bought a Fitbit.  It was going to be a real game-changer, I could feel it.  I charged the device and downloaded the app on my phone as I ate veggie straws.  I felt fitter already.  I then scoffed at the goal of 10,000 steps daily...of course I could do that...I'm an ACTIVE teacher constantly flitting around nurturing young minds, and, wait for it, my classroom is on the SECOND floor, so I'm walking up and down stairs everyday...make it  more like 20,000 steps, Fitbit.

Astonishingly, I've been Fit-bitter, err, a Fit-bitter for a few weeks, and my pants are still tight.  I've only hit 10,000 steps once. It's quite shameful.  One day, it was only 4,000.  Gulp.  I thought I was SO much more active than that.

I've done everything except actually workout to try to up my step count.  I made a board on Pinterest about getting in shape. I read health magazines. I march in place as my students answer questions.  I climb the stairs a few extra times during the day.  I walk to the faculty bathrooms in the farthest bowels of the school (pun!).  But, 10,000 steps continues to elude me.

I've thought about strapping my Fitbit onto an animal while I sleep.  That has to be good for a few thousand steps.  I have also considered purchasing a Shake Weight (those things work, right?) in the hopes that I can at least tone my arms while the shaking motion increases my step count.  But, I've stopped myself from this type of scheming because when you cheat your Fitbit, who really wins?

So, I'm back to step, err, square one.  I guess all I can really do to reach 10,000 steps is move more.  Maybe even go to the gym once in a while.  I guess some good old fashioned hard work and mild sacrifice is called for...sacrifice beyond wearing a rubber bracelet that clashes with my outfits and jewelry.  I'll let you know how it goes.

In Memoriam

I remember you dancing a lot.  Whether it was a group or solo performance, it didn't matter.  The rhythm spoke to you...even that damn Electric Slide song.  My favorite dance compilation was to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.  Please find Patrick Swayze up there and show him your moves.

I remember you taking us skiing for the first time...four kids to only one parent.  We got into a car accident on the way there...flew over a snow bank and into a ditch.  After we were towed out, you felt like we still needed to hit the slopes and not waste the trip.  What a trooper.

I remember you telling us to just "let it go"...way before Frozen came on the scene.  You urged us to be more carefree and less uptight.  Very important lessons for Type-A worriers.

I remember you on vacation.  You had fun, which you always did, but it was really heightened by tropical drinks and sunsets. Good times.

I remember you being a good sounding board.  A second mom.  You offered me a fresh perspective on my life, another fork in the road I could take.

I remember Friday night sleepovers and pizza dinners.  We could stay up later at your house, and you were always willing to let us spend the night and try to get out of Saturday morning cleaning at ours'.

I remember summers with you.  Beach trips and backyard BBQ's.  Days that started early and ended late without formal props and plans, but were magical just the same.

I remember your "every day is a gift" attitude.  You really felt and lived this way.  I always found it remarkable...partly because I'm pretty cynical, partly because you'd been through so much.  You  never let things get you down for long.  You always stood back up and truly enjoyed life, grateful for the tiny moments of each day.  Coffee on the porch, sunsets, a good book, sharing Facebook messages.

I remember you always encouraging us to live freely and love fiercely...whilst maintaining our independence and self-reliance.

I remember you being there when EJ was born.  And at his first birthday.  And at his second.  Thank you.

One week ago, a lovely, loving, brave, funny, smart, sassy woman passed away. She will be dearly missed by those who loved her, and even if you didn't know her, her life and what she stood for should be remembered by us all. 

I'm On A Plane

Where to begin?  Let's start with the where. Newark to LAX to visit my sister and brother-in-law for Christmas.  

My days pre-trip were plagued with high anxiety about flying with a toddler--so much so that I almost pulled the plug on the trip twice. And yes, I know "everyone does it" (eye roll), but that didn't offer my virgin mom-flyer self any solace.  

The trip to LA is the longer of the two legs. Astonishingly, It was a breeze. People were friendly. And helpful. No lines, no hassle, no shoes removed, and not a lot of idle waiting around. I almost expected sparrows to fly up and hand me a card at the gate that said we'd been bumped to first class. And, on the flight, EJ was a dream. Like poster child, front of Sky Mall catalog dream (minus the yorgurt stains on his shirt). Sat in his seat the whole time. Displayed enough excitement to be cute but not annoying. Didn't cry once. Napped for two hours. Became an expert finger manipulator of i-Pad toddler puzzles (hello, Harvard). I actually watched a movie and read a magazine. I don't even get to do that at home.  In fact, once we landed, I decided that EJ and I were going to travel all over the world. And, since flying was so simple, I could start to dress like those posh, stylish traveler ladies I envied as I double-knotted my Nikes and the waistband of my sweatpants. 

Then we landed and our trip happened.

And now I'm back on a plane. And reality has hit. Apparently my first flight was a unicorn of air travel experiences. This time, I got the real deal, dawg. Crowds. Lines. Endless waiting. Everyone coughing and sneezing. Grumpiness. A toddler perpetually on the brink of a meltdown. No personal TVs. An understocked drink cart. No nap, which means no bathroom for me, as EJ cannot know walking in the aisle is an option. I am frazzled, smelly, achy, and tired, and now my first flight seems like a mirage in the desert (probably because I'm thirsty). As I curl my knees to my chest and position the i-Pad so that EJ can watch "Planes" from an angle that doesn't make him cry, I am thanking the lord for my sweatpants, and now that stylish lady two rows up in the houndstooth cape and skinny Hudson jeans just looks ridiculous.

We'll be landing soon. And I know flying will become like so many other parental experiences--from childbirth to driving lessons. I'll be proud of myself for getting through it, forget all the rough parts, and want to do it again. See you soon, friendly skies.

Deeds and Monuments

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of this holiday season, I've been reminded about what's really important.  Unfortunately, poignant reminders often come on the wings of sadness, tragedy, or despair, but if some good is garnered from bad, then so be it.


Since the only books I am reading lately are about first plane rides (EJ and I will be visiting LA for Christmas), magical elves who race to tell Santa when you refuse to eat your peas, and various animals using the potty for the first time, I will once again refer to a book I'm reading aloud to my fifth grade class.  My genius is profound, I know.

I'll spare you a synopsis of  R.J Pallacio's Wonder, and just say it's a phenomenal book with so much depth, substance, and humor.  Really good stuff. Anyways, the chapter I just finished reading to the kids revolves around the precept/quote YOUR DEEDS ARE YOUR MONUMENTS.  I keep thinking about that as myself and people everywhere race around to purchase, wrap, and give away stuff, stuff, stuff.  And sure, the stuff is great.  Big or small, expensive or simple, gifts bring joy to those around us.  I'm seeing this firsthand as my two-year-old receives presents and squeals "Whoa!?" for every single thing he opens...from a racecar track to the pack of AA batteries that powers it. But what happens in the weeks and months after the holidays when the new stuff is old hat and broken in?  What are we remembering then? Not the stuff.

We are all surrounded by temples, totem poles, and towers.  They are the monuments of those we love...unseen manifestations of legacies built up brick by brick by their words and actions. I've been lucky enough to know so many wonderful, strong, funny, good people who have left me a plethora of heartwarming memories....enough to fill dozens of museums and be archived in my memory forever...free to visit whenever I need.

I sometimes wonder what my monuments look like...what memories I'm leaving behind for my family and friends.  And, as I get caught up in the business of December, I'm trying to leave scraps of kindness and good deeds that will certainly outlive anything I can put in a box and wrap. I hope you do the same.  Happy holidays.

Getaway

(Those are my toes.)

I recently got gone.  Rather, I got away.  Or, I went on a getaway.  Whatever way you choose to say it, I left home to spend a few days in Mexico.   And, not spring break, Señor Frogs, Montezuma's revenge Mexico...serene, adults-only Mexico, with only a few drunken idiots mixed in...just the way I like it.

This was my first time going away in a long time.  In fact, I haven't traveled internationally since 2004, so I had to renew my expired passport in order to go.  Luckily, I had never updated it to reflect my married name, so that was one less government agency with whom I had to share my divorce decree. Sweet.

It took some finagling and planning, but the boyfriend and I found childcare, took off from work, etc. so that we could have four WHOLE days for our trip.  In parent time, that's like two weeks. Of course, EJ got sick the day before I left, which resulted in a stressful, harried pediatrician trip in which I had the poor doctor pinky-swear me that it was okay to leave my coughing child.   But, I won't even get into that.  Or, I will not tell you how I forgot my entire makeup bag on EJ's Playskool table, and only realized it after we'd gotten through security at JFK.  Now, before you blow off the significance of that, I must remind you that I need to draw on my eyebrows in order to look like a functioning member of society. My makeup bag did not contain frivolous items like a smoky eye kit, it contained essentials like my eyebrow tools, a comb, hair rubber bands, etc.  Do you want to go on vacation with no brows or extra hair ties?  I think not, my friends, I think not.  So, I shed exactly three tears, put this ridiculous problem into perspective, and took fifteen minutes to buy a comb, mascara, and an eyebrow pencil.  Then, I told my boyfriend to get a good look at my face with curled eyelashes and eyeliner and pronounced that I would be sporting a camping-like appearance for the next few days.  Luckily, he doesn't care about that kind of stuff (and the one hair tie I did have on me lasted the whole time).

Okay, onto the actual trip.  It was lovely.  Being able to do NOTHING for an extended period of time was wonderful.  My days were read, relax, swim, drink, repeat.  And, since my parent self is incapable of sleeping in, I was able to put in full days of doing nothing from 6:30 a.m. until bedtime.  In fact, we pretty much opened up the pool each morning, along with the nice men who were vacuuming it and folding beach towels.  And, by the end of each night, we were truly wiped.  Nothing can be tiring.

Alright, now the point of this post.  Ummm, I guess nothing.  Just like the point of a getaway.  There are no goals, no must-dos, no checklists, no divine awakenings or revelations (usually).   It's just a break.  A reprieve.  A recharge.  A time to vacate your life and up your calorie intake, just for a bit.  And maybe that in itself is a revelation.  Because if you like getting back home into your routine after a getaway, you're not doing so bad for yourself.  And, when your routine gets to be too much, you plan another getaway.  Then repeat.

Re

In life, we face a lot of  RE opportunities.  You regrow your hair after a bad cut, you refinance your house or car, you reteach your children how to ride a bike or tie their shoes, you retake bad photos or tests, and you refurnish or refurbish rooms in your home.  Sometimes your RE's are bigger and you have to rebuild something that has been decimated or taken away from you.

A RE can be just as scary and tiresome as it is exciting and invigorating.  It's part glass half empty/half full mentality, or depends on what exactly it is that needs to be done again.  I would certainly prefer reconfirming my hotel reservation in Tuscany to renewing my license at the DMV.

Two and a half years ago, the version of life I was living abruptly came to an end, and I had to start my adult life over again.  At first I was heartbroken, but then I pumped inspirational girl rock and recited various mantras and suddenly felt elated to have the opportunity to restart my life.  Yay.  One problem though, I've just realized haven't really restarted much of anything.  Bummer.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm proud of myself for standing up amidst the rubble of my married life to move forward as a pregnant lady with no plan and seemingly nowhere to go.  I found a place to live, birthed my son, etc. etc., and have even learned to relove and trust in another person.  I've managed to remain dedicated to my profession, and I've held onto most of the friends from my former life.  I also didn't start talking to cats or develop a meth problem, so I'm certainly not a slouch who has regressed.  However, none of the things that I've accomplished since EJ was born are true restarts. I've just kinda been coasting along, and though that's been absolutely fine, it's starting to feel redundant.

To be perfectly honest, I'm the type of mom who is a little self-centered, and I do better by EJ when I feel good about me.  This doesn't mean I can only parent after a mud body wrap and tennis lesson...I'm talking about a manicure here and there and seven hours of sleep.  Anyways, I think now is the time for me to truly reestablish myself.  And, not as the married lady I was in my late 20s, but the person before that.  The person who had a few ballsy hopes and goals.  The person who was less excited about cutting coupons for organic fruit pouches and more excited to travel anywhere and learn new things.  It's that person I'd like to refamiliarize myself with.  I think she'd be a cooler person and a kick-ass mom.  Since I'm a list-maker, I've made a list of things I'd like to do to truly restart my life.  And, if my effort starts to drop off as the days get shorter and the weather gets colder,  I'll reread my list and renew my dedication. 

At the end of this proposed recharge, I'll still be a coupon-cutting, suburban mom.  But, I'll be reinvigorated in other aspects of my life, which is ultimately the goal.  If you could RE something in your life, what would be it be?

Halloweenie

I am a big weenie.  A Halloweenie, to be precise.

Every year, I hide out on Halloween.  I don't know why.  I like candy.  I like children.  I like costumes.  But for some reason, all of those things combined make me want to become a shut-in...straight up Boo Radley style ala To Kill a Mockingbird.  Maybe it's the forced "awh, soo cute" conversation when a child with a hatchet jutting out of his brain stands before me, or being scared of what the 18-year-old trick-or-treaters will do to my house if I don't act like it's perfectly okay for them to be there.  Or, maybe I'm traumatized from all of the sexy service worker constumes my peers donned during my 20s while I awkwardly par-tayed as an asexual bumble bee, field hockey player, or Waldo from Where's Waldo. 

However, now that I'm a parent, my Halloweenie-ness is dwindling.  Since EJ's first two Halloweens have been canceled by bad or catastrophic weather, this year is the first time I'm actually looking forward to the day.  I can't wait to have EJ and I greet our trick-or-treating guests and then slowly toddle around the neighborhood stock-piling candy for me, errr, I mean him.  Plus, EJ is going to be Elmo, so that is just too adorable (and a good photo to share with his high-school girlfriend down the road).  Who knows, maybe next year, I'll even go to a grown-up Halloween party after trick-or-tricking.  Perhaps Halloween is more sweet than scary, Boo.