The Journey Continues

Well, I've completed month number two of this what the hell was I thinking when I started this shit weight loss journey.  Some days were good, some days were bad, and some days were downright ugly.

The best example of ugly came just after my post last month when I entered week five.  I was riding a natural high, you see.  The first month was stellar, the results were spectacular, and I was smug enough to think it was easy.  Even though I wrote about anticipating a slow-down in month two, I can assure you I never fully internalized that thought.  But, all of a sudden, the scale stopped moving.  For three long, painful weeks it barely budged.  My 3.5 pound per week loss from month one had shrunk to less than a half pound per week. 

My reaction, as you can imagine, was not pleasant.  Every morning began with a showdown between me and the scale and ended with lots of yelling, cursing, and threats to the scale's well-being.  The more it held it's ground, the angrier I became.  Two weeks in, when Punky's dad tired of hearing my daily scale bashing, he took it upon himself to find a solution: he bought me a new scale.  'Cause that must've been the problem, right? 

It's true that the scale I had been using was probably manufactured around my ninth birthday, but as far as I know it's accurate.  My mom even confirmed it when she was up for a few days.  She weighs herself every morning as well, and my scale was exactly where it should be when compared with the scale she uses at home.  His intentions were good, but it only caused more anger on my part.  First off, it's a high-tech, digital model that tells you everything from your weight, to your BMI, to your hydration level, to the color eyes of your first-born child.  It's insane.  I was already aggravated by the time I got it out of the packaging and played twenty questions just to set the damn thing up.  Then, I made the mistake of actually stepping on it.

Four freakin' pounds difference, and not in my favor.  It took all my strength not to smash it on the spot.  Once I cooled down and had time to rationalize a bit, I realized that the scale I started with had definitely dropped fifteen pounds since the first of February, and this new scale was not denying me my success.  It simply meant that this scale would have started four pounds higher to begin with if I had used it from the start.  So, the weight I lost was still real.  But I hated staring at it's new math.  I felt like I had to lose those same four pounds all over again, and that pissed me off enough to take another approach.

The next day at the store, I browsed the clearance aisle and found a two-pack of exercise videos.  Jillian Michaels.  I can't say I ever saw more half an episode of The Biggest Loser, but I read a lot about her while researching all this weight-loss bullshit, and she seems to know her stuff.  She's smart, she's tough, and personally I find her funny.  I tossed them in the cart.

Punky's dad was still sleeping when I got home with the groceries (third shift week), and I was busy unpacking things when he emerged from the bedroom.  He glanced at the kitchen counter and the videos caught his attention.

"Oh my god," he said.  "She's gonna kick your ass."

I thanked him for the vote of confidence then cursed him under my breath.  I knew he was probably right, but I wasn't going to admit defeat prior to even trying.

It took a few days for me to build up the courage to pop one in the DVD player.  Even though the digital scale was now allowing me to see a tiny bit of improvement some days, I was still pissed and I decided to pour that energy into exercise.

The warm up was a breeze.  The first circuit, not so much.  Okay, so it totally kicked my ass.  Those seven minutes lasted an eternity.  It was all kickboxing.  I hadn't moved my body like that in years.  I quickly realized just how out of shape I really am, so then I had something else to be pissed about.  How did this happen?  I was a gymnast, dammit.  I had broad shoulders, muscle tone, and energy that would last hours on end.  Suddenly I was filled with years of regret.  Why didn't I stay active?  Why didn't I make exercise a priority?  I thought of the uphill battle I was facing and my eyes filled with tears.

The first couple tries, I stuck with the warm up, one circuit, and the cool down only.  Then I was able to make it through two circuits.  Now I'm up to three, with a mere four more to go.  Today, for the first time, I played the entire 45 minute workout straight through.  I did the three circuits I am used to in full, one I skipped entirely, and I did about half of each of the other three.  I wouldn't say it's getting easier, I think I'm just getting more and more determined each time I press the play button.

What's driving that determination?  The scale, of course.  It's moving again.  It's gone down a full five pounds since the first day I first got it, and that brings my grand total to twenty pounds in just two months.  I never imagined that could happen so quickly, and I feel better than I have in years.  I love being active again.  I already have so much more energy than I did two short months ago.  I'm sleeping well.  I'm eating well.  I can finally see the difference in the mirror, and all of my work pants are starting to slide down my hips.

And I finally stopped threatening the scale's life every morning.  Twenty down, at least twenty more to go.  On to month three...

Favorite Things Friday: Cracker Chips

As you know, last month I jumped on the calorie-counter bandwagon in an attempt to shed some layers and return to a much healthier me.  I'll dish the scoop on month number two later, but now I want to share my happiest discovery thus far on this journey: Kellog's Special K Cracker Chips.

Sweets were never my cup of tea, but my love of carbs runs deep.  I crave them.  I need them.  I have to have them so no one gets hurt.  Bread, pasta, and crispy, crunchy, salty snacks were always my go-to comfort foods.  As I said last month, I haven't totally eliminated any specific foods from my diet, but simply eat them less frequently and in smaller portions than before.  It has worked well in regard to meals, I have adjusted and I'm content with my occasional carb indulgence, but there was a definite void in the snack department.  I love carrots, and applesauce, and fiber bars, but once in a while I need that delightful crunch you get only from eating a chip-like munchie food.  

As a result of this process, I have morphed into a die-hard label reader.  I don't eat anything without checking the stats and determining what consumption would mean to my overall bottom line for the day.  I have to say, the labels on traditional snack foods are enough to make my stomach turn and I just can't justify wasting that many of my precious daily calorie allotment on such junk.  Then I discovered these cracker-chips, and my world was suddenly right again.

The taste is hard to describe.  To me, it's sort of a mix between potato chip, cracker, rice cake, and the Mum-Mums Punky ate as a baby.  They are light and crispy, salty and crunchy, yet they seem to dissolve in your mouth with very little chewing.  They currently offer four flavors that mimic potato chip varieties, and I really like them all.  As an added bonus, Punky's dad hates them so my snacks are safe in the pantry.

I keep a box in my office at work for my mid-morning snack.  I only eat yogurt for breakfast, and by about ten o'clock my stomach starts to turn.  I was always like that.  If I don't eat something solid in the morning, I get very nauseous within hours.  These cracker-chips are perfect to curb that feeling while giving me a guilt-free fun snack just when I need it.  And at night, when I need that little something crunchy, they do the trick as well.  The sea salt variety is especially good with some mild salsa.

Now for the numbers: 110 calories per serving, and a serving is 27-30 chips depending on the variety.  Considering the cracker-chips are about the size of a half dollar, that's a mighty good snack in my book.  Most of the time, I only eat half a serving and it's more than enough to satisfy my munchie carb craving.  And 55 calories is easy to justify with the confines of my daily goal. 

So, go buy some of these chips and get snacking!  I can't let this product line fail or I'll be back to square one.

Three and a Quarter

Let's all just ignore my utter failure at blogging this month while I hang my head in shame and try desperately to catch up in these last days of March...

Ahem.

So, as you've probably already noticed, the usual monthly updates went by the wayside once Punky turned three at the end of December, partly because they are no longer needed and partly because it's difficult to find time to write the last few months.  But, since I truly started this blog for her benefit years down the road, an update type of post every so often can't hurt.

When we were staring down the barrel of the terrible twos a year ago, experienced moms everywhere told me the twos are a breeze compared to the threes.  Wise women indeed.  So far the threes are no barrel of monkeys, and I can honestly say a part of me is hoping four comes quickly. 

I think the biggest issue in her life at this point is navigating her emotions.  Minor events that are no big deal in the grand scheme of things sometimes cause an entirely over-dramatic outpouring of feelings, and major ones that beg for a reaction get hardly any at all.  If I turn a light off out of habit, she freaks out because she wanted to do it.  She cries, she whines, she demands I turn it back on again so she can turn it off.  On the opposite end of the spectrum, when she slipped getting off a stool in the kitchen and cracked her chin hard enough to cause a nickel sized black and blue mark under her jaw, she cried for twenty seconds and got on with her day.  It's a total crap shoot; we never know how she will react to anything these days.

Her need for independence is often trumped by the fact that she's three.  She wants to do everything herself, but she lacks the skills, co-ordination, and experience to do so.  She gets so frustrated when she can't do something and, unfortunately for her, she seems to have inherited my lack of patience.  It's the perfect combination of traits to spark mega-meltdowns. 

Her eating habits have shifted with the onset of the threes.  She was never a picky eater; from baby food on up, she always ate whatever we served with very little resistance.  Now she has a list of about ten things she'll eat willingly, and any variation from the norm causes a fight at the dinner table.  At least some of the things that make the cut are healthy, like carrots, apples, and celery.  But, given the choice, she would happily eat mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese for dinner every night, with an occasional chicken finger here or there.

To our surprise, she managed to make it through the rest of winter without another ear infection.  She had some colds and coughs along the way, but nothing doctor-worthy until two weeks ago.  As soon as she got out of bed that Friday morning, the puke-fest began.  By sheer coincidence, I'm usually the one home at the time when the vomit volcano erupts.  But not this time.  I was already at work, so her dad was on bucket juggling duty for the day.

Even though her list of acceptable foods has shrunk, her appetite certainly has not, and the poor kid was complaining of hunger all day.  Every time her dad gave her something solid, she brought it back up within minutes.  Apparently he's a slow learner because when I walked in the door that evening she was devouring a plate of macaroni and cheese.  He headed for the bedroom to get a quick nap before going in for third shift that night, and he closed the door just as the living room carpet was showered in projectile macaroni and cheese.  Needless to say, he got clean-up.  After all,  I wasn't the one who thought it would be a good idea to feed a puking child a heaping mound of pasta and cheese sauce.  But I did, of course, get her all cleaned up while he was scrubbing the carpet.  Thankfully, that was the last eruption.

The next day Punky had no appetite whatsoever.  I mean zip.  She didn't have a solid bite to eat all day, but what worried me was that she didn't want to drink anything.  Not even a popsicle tempted her.  I know that stomach bugs can linger a few days so I wasn't super-concerned, but I didn't want to see her get dehydrated either.  The germs altered their plan of attack that evening and opted for explosive diarrhea instead.  At that point she hadn't eaten in 24 hours, and everything prior had already exited through the front door, so I was completely baffled by the volume.  I was convinced the worst was over and she would return to her normal, hungry self the next morning.

For the next three days, we begged her to eat.  I offered cookies, candy, and whatever else I could think of just to get something in her belly.  She adamantly refused and would only take one little nibble here and there when I forced her.  She was a little more cooperative with drinking, but not by much.  She was a totally different child.  She kept complaining she was tired and actually napped on several occasions.  She hadn't jumped on her trampoline in days.  She didn't want to play games, or read books, or ride her scooter.  She was content on the couch in front of the TV, and every evening like clockwork she made a mad dash to the bathroom for another round of diarrhea.  

By Wednesday, a trip to the doctor was inevitable so I called off work.  It was understandable that she had no energy because she hadn't eaten a solid meal since the previous Thursday.  Through it all she remained in good spirits and swore nothing hurt each of the thousand times I asked.  I began to wonder if she swallowed something she shouldn't have, but she insisted she didn't.  Nonetheless, it was time to see the doc.

After a full check-up, the doctor thought a stool sample would be the best course of action.  She said it could very well be a rotavirus because some are known to linger up to ten days, but Punky's shift in behavior warranted some further investigation to rule out parasites or bacterial infection.  I left with a goodie bag full of vials, labels, latex gloves, wooden sticks, and a plastic bowl contraption that fits on the toilet for easy specimen collection.  The worst part was that it needed to be at the lab within two hours, so I was instructed to take it to the hospital emergency room if it occurred after hours.  I immediately envisioned a forty minute drive at three in the morning to drop off the gross, little tubes for processing.

That evening she actually ate some dinner, not much but at least it was an improvement.  I waited for the regularly scheduled bout of diarrhea that night, but it didn't happen.  Thursday morning she ate two pieces of toast for breakfast and we decided to send her to school.  Neither of us could miss more work time just waiting for a poop.  We made the right choice because she didn't go that day either.  She ate some at school, and had a bit of dinner again.  Things were looking up.

Finally, at the very end of the school day on Friday, she went.  Needless to say, we missed the opportunity for specimen collection.  That night she was an entirely different kid.  She ate dinner, twice.  She asked for cookies, crackers, gummy snacks, and candy.  In a matter of three hours, she ate more than most people do in a day.  She hadn't really eaten in a week and she was making up for it big time.  Come Saturday, her appetite continued to race and she ended up using the bathroom at the grocery store, so we blew another opportunity to provide a sample.

The doctor called Sunday morning to see why she hadn't received the lab report yet.  When I filled her in on Punky's insatiable appetite, her triumphant return to her bouncy, energetic ways and normal bathroom activities, she told us to skip it.  I can't say I was disappointed to hear that.  It must've just been one hell of a stomach virus, and luckily she didn't share it with Mommy.  Daddy, on the other hand, suffered a small bout of the shits for two days, probably because he had to clean the four-foot stretch of vomited mac-n-cheese off the living room carpet.

In other less disgusting news, Punky transitioned to her new class at school this month and so far all is well.  She is so proud to be with kids older than her again.  They should've never kept her back to begin with last September and it still makes me angry.  I'm so excited to see what happens this fall when she starts pre-K at only three and a half.  

Another big change I've noticed with the dawning of the threes is her thirst for new books.  Instead of reading the same old books over and over again like she wanted before, now she asks for new books constantly and simple stories spark great conversations between us.  I have no problem saying no to new toys or candy at the store, but I can't say no to a new book.  The tiny, public library around here is only open a few hours a day, during the week of course, so it's not an option.  I think children's books are ridiculously expensive but it's not killing me to buy a few each month, and I know I can always donate them down the road to kids who aren't as fortunate.  

Punky's vocabulary continues to grow with leaps and bounds.  She regularly uses words like stupendous, proceed, hypothesis, and evaporation.  I swear, she talks like she's thirty.  And when she hears a word she doesn't know, she immediately asks what it means.  She still plays the Spanish flashcard game on the iPod, and throws random Spanish words into sentences from time to time.  When she's bored, she'll grab her chalkboard and ask me to do math with her.  A few weeks ago, I taught her how to play Crazy Eights and Go Fish so they are currently her games of choice.  

We made another trip home last weekend.  I had a dentist appointment on Friday morning, and we both got long-overdue haircuts that evening.  On Saturday, my mom had the bright idea to take all three grandchildren to get their pictures taken together.  Getting a six year old, three year old, and one year old to all sit still, look at the camera, and smile at the very same moment was impossible.  Obviously, the photos were far from spectacular, and we were left to choose the least goofy of the bunch.  And my mom vowed to bring vodka with her the next time she gets the brainy idea for a photo shoot.  For her, of course, not the kids. 

The Theater

Punky has been infatuated with the Fresh Beat Band since the very first time she watched an episode, and I'm fairly certain that was before she was even a year old.  They are traveling the country and heading our direction in two weeks. 

Of course, the advertisement for the show has been running every five minutes on TV, and Punky wants to see them in the worst way.  Her dad, who is much more tightly wrapped around her little finger than he'll ever openly admit, wants to take her.  I, on the other hand, have been quietly ignoring her pleas for many reasons.

First of all, the tickets are ridiculously expensive considering it's a band from a kids' show and not some mega-star with decades of contributions to the music world.  Secondly, the closest venue hosting them is over an hour drive away.  Even though we've been insanely lucky this winter, it's still only March and that drive is not one I want to make in bad weather.  It's all mountains and extremely treacherous in the snow.  And third, I just don't think she's ready for a concert, no matter who it is.  It will be dark, crowded, and extremely loud, and I think we'd face a full-blown meltdown when she realizes she can't hug them, talk to them, or even get near the stage at all.

So, rather than debate the issue any longer, I opted for a trial run.  Last night I took Punky to see Sesame Street Live at a local theater.  The tickets were a third of the price, it was only a half-hour trip, and it was better suited for a child her age.  Even though she's not really into Sesame Street these days, she was super-excited to go to the show and I had high hopes for a night of quality mother/daughter bonding.

I wanted to make sure I got a parking space so we arrived fairly early.  We had fifteen minutes until they even started seating people, so I suggested we wait in the car a bit.  After about three minutes, it was clear that plan wouldn't work so we headed inside.  As we stood amongst the crowd of parents and screaming children, Punky's patience continued to run low.  Once we found our seats, we still had thirty minutes to wait for the show to start and I almost thought we weren't going to make it.  If I had a nickel for every time she asked "Mommy, is it time yet?" I would've recouped the money for the tickets.

It all seemed worth it the minute the curtain rose.  The look on her face was priceless and she shrieked with glee as each character appeared on stage.  The show had her full attention for the first fifteen minutes, but it went downhill after that.  She started getting fidgety and she didn't want to sit any longer.  She stood up to dance along, but got angry when she realized she couldn't see the stage that way.  She didn't like when they turned all the lights out to accentuate the glowing costumes in an underwater scene, and she didn't like the loud cannons that shot confetti into the audience.  By intermission, we were both ready for a break.

We went for a quick walk to the lobby and bought some cotton candy.  It certainly wasn't my first choice, but she wanted it and it was sort of a special occasion.  We returned to our seats and chatted about what we saw in the first part of the show while she inhaled sticky handfuls of pink and blue sugar.  She was so excited when the lights dimmed for the second half.

Two minutes later, as serious as a heart attack, she said, "Mommy, I'm done watching this show.  We can go home now." 

Needless to say, we stayed until the end.  I paid for the tickets and we were going to get my money's worth, dammit.  Her attention faded in and out for the remainder of the show.  She watched some parts, and tried to fold herself up in the chair during others.  She had a small meltdown when I put a cap on her cotton candy consumption, and followed it up with a major one when the show was finally over. 

"I don't want to go, Mommy! I want to stay here!  I want to watch the show some more! I want to talk to the guys! Mommy, where did they go? I don't want it to be over! Please Mommy, can we watch it again? Please?"  The tears poured down her little face.

She continued her protest all the way out of the theater and most of the ride home.  "I'm never going to another show, Mommy, never ever again!" she yelled as I buckled her in the carseat.  I dawned my super-mommy skills and talked her down from her tantrum podium by the time we got home. 

While munching a quick snack before bed, she told me how much she loved the show, how happy she was to go see it with Mommy, and how much she can't wait to go to the theater again.

All in all, she acted about how I expected.  After all, she did just turn three two months ago and it was her first time at a live show.  When I conveyed the evening's events to her dad, he conceded and agreed it would probably be wise to skip the concert.  I think next year will be perfect; she just needs a little more time to mature.

And I can't end this without a quick shout-out to whomever played Cookie Monster in the show.  It was probably the biggest and bulkiest costume on stage, but he shook it like there was no tomorrow.  Cookie Monster was one hell of a dancer, let me tell you.  He kept me amused the whole show.