Three Point Five

Punky is officially three and a half today.

The sentimental Mommy side of me is screaming, "No! Slow down! Stop growing up so fast!" and reflecting on the little baby I brought home from the hospital and all the amazing milestones she reached in last few years.

The realistic Mommy side of me is cheering, "Come on, four!" and dreaming of her next birthday in December.

If I'm being honest, three sort of sucks.  She's defiant, temperamental, stubborn, and demanding.  In other words, she's a completely normal three year old.  And her dad and I have come to the realization that we aren't very good at dealing with her normal three year old behaviors, not because we stink as parents, but because in every other way she is not typical and we tend to treat her like she's much older than she is.

For example, one night a few weeks ago, Punky and I spent about an hour playing with her chalkboard in the living room.  She drew a face with one eye about twice the size of the other, and I joked with her that it was a silly face and hardly symmetrical.  Of course, she latched on to the word 'symmetrical' and I spent the next half hour tying to explain the concept of symmetry to my three year old.  I drew a line down the center of the chalkboard and drew shapes mirroring each other on both sides to demonstrate.  I repeated the process several times, some symmetrical and some not, and she caught on and was able to tell me with accuracy which drawings were symmetrical and which were not.

Next she wanted to do math on the chalkboard, so I spent the next fifteen minutes writing simple addition and subtraction problems for her, drawing lines under the corresponding numbers for her to count on the harder ones.  She ended our chalkboard playtime by drawing the solar system, naming each planet in order as she drew them around the sun.

Then we shared an ice cream sandwich and she proceeded to wipe her chocolate-coated fingers on the back of her white t-shirt and I literally wanted to slam my head off the wall.  She started this habit a few weeks ago, ruining shirts left and right, and no matter how many times we tell her not to do it the message simply isn't landing in her brain.  And this is the type of thing her dad and I struggle to comprehend.

Behaviorally, she's three.  Intellectually, she's much older.  The disconnect between the two makes it so difficult sometimes.  How can she seem to understand a concept like symmetry, but not understand to use a napkin?  It's simply mind-blowing. 

Aside from these typical behavior issues, Punky is a sweet, loving little girl, and this age is so much fun.  Her imagination is running full speed ahead and she can turn any mundane task into an incredible adventure in her mind.  We often brush our teeth while sitting on the bathroom counter so the tiger passing by won't see us.  We have to sneak past the bear hibernating under her trampoline.  Some annoying imaginary dog is always barking so loud that she just has to turn the TV up to hear Dora the Explorer.  And we can't do anything without me ending up the rotten egg.  What can I say?  She cheats.

As far as school goes, she finished the year in the older group she joined in March and the plan is still for her to move with them into pre-K in September.  The daycare director loves stealing her now and then for some one on one time.  She keeps telling me she wants to write a book about Punky, and she can't wait to have her in her pre-K class full time.  I'm excited, too.  I hope she's able to challenge her and help fill in the blanks.  We have a big decision to make next May, private school kindergarten or another year in daycare pre-K, and I know we'll rely heavily on her teacher's opinion.  I suppose my winter project will be to research the options available in the area in case we go the private school route, though I don't know how on earth we'd ever afford it.

Not much has changed in the way of Punky's favorite things.  She still loves books, snuggling her blankie, and soaking the carpet during bath time.  Macaroni and cheese, celery sticks, raw green peppers, and watermelon are her foods of choice these days.  For some reason, and I have no idea why, she's taken to calling me mama again instead of mommy, and it totally cracks me up when her vast array of stuffed animals address me by my first name.  She loves playing outside and has mastered her tricycle, scooter, and the battery-operated car we bought last October.  Impressed with her driving skills and obvious need for speed, her dad took the pin out to give her a faster gear for zipping around the yard.  She still loves music and prefers to watch shows with singing and dancing and mounds of annoying kid songs that get stuck in my head and cause me to get caught singing "Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes..." at my desk at work. 

With summer in full swing, Punky and I have been enjoying some quality girl time.  We spent a day at a nearby park and enjoyed a real picnic lunch, complete with a comfy blanket to sit on, our favorite foods packed from home, and a minor ant invasion when we jumped on the swings for a few minutes before finishing our dessert.  We spent another day at an amusement park, just the two of us, and it was so much fun.  She rode her first kiddie roller coaster and she was so proud.  And I was so proud of her too, even though the bumpy, jerky, extremely uncomfortable ride cost me my sunglasses which flew right off my face and into the creek below.  Now that I finally found out, after almost five years in this area, that there is a community pool just three miles down the road, I'm sure we'll be spending a lot of time there this summer.

The Fall of the Superheroes

Aside from enjoying a relaxing weekend away, our camping trip earlier this month served another purpose.  It was my opportunity to spend some time with my dad before he went under the knife on Monday morning.

The last few weeks have tossed me into emotional turmoil for many reasons, none of which I'm ready to face.  Suffice it to say that if I were five, I'd be hiding in the clothes hamper with a book and a flashlight, my chosen coping mechanism as a child.  But I'm an adult now, so instead I've resorted to a loss of sleep, pacing the floors, and snapping at people for no good reason.  Plus, I no longer fit in the clothes hamper.

The gist of the surgery was an attempt to fix my dad's hip replacement that was completely worn out and causing him a great deal of pain for over a year now.  He's had several of these surgeries but the last one was over thirty years ago.  At that time he was told the prognosis wasn't good for another one if needed down the road.  The technology was limited and they had done all they could with what appeared to be his final hip replacement.  If it slipped, the consequences could be as severe as amputation.  Not a fun thought to have hanging over your head.

So, thankfully, it lasted over thirty years until last summer.  He avoided the issue and dealt with the pain for quite a while before facing the doctors, out of fear I assume, but it was inevitable.  Around Christmas time they scheduled his surgery for June 11th at the VA hospital in Manhattan because the local doctors wouldn't touch him.

My dad ended up having one of the top surgeons from New York University Hospital and, even though he gave him no guarantees whatsoever going in, he actually managed to start a new hip replacement.  The good news is that thirty years of advancing technology and one amazing surgeon came together to do what would have never been possible back then.  The bad news is that he was only able to start the replacement; he needs to finish it a few months from now once the bones have a chance to grow and secure the new socket.  Until he goes back in and attaches the ball, my dad's thigh bone is not connected to his hip, which means a few months in a wheelchair while nature takes its course.

The planned three-hour surgery was more like six, the quality of aftercare he got there was so horrific it ended in a transfer to a VA closer to home, and his actual stay in the hospital was much longer than planned or anticipated.  He finally came home today.  And while all of the gory details can take up an entire post on their own, that's not really what I need to write about.

What I need to get out is the startling revelation that my parents are, well, aging.  And that's a hard pill to swallow.

I think children tend to naturally view their parents as invincible, and that image doesn't disappear once the kids reach adulthood themselves.  Parents are strong.  Tough.  Able to handle any situation.  They always know just what to do.  From boo-boos to hunger pangs, broken hearts to toothaches, parents have all the answers.  They can skip meals, survive on minimal sleep, and travel a million miles a week running kids to soccer practice, ballet class, and piano lessons, and still have time and energy to help with homework, prepare dinner, do laundry, work a full time job, and leap tall buildings in a single bound. 

I'm fully aware that I'm a stone's throw away from forty, so obviously my parent are not.  Even with my sub-par math skills I can do that calculation, but yet somehow in my mind they've remained forty-something. Yes, aging is a gradual process, but I've blissfully ignored the signs.  And all of a sudden reality smacked me square in the face. 

My parents get tired now.  They can't go nonstop all day like they used to.  The grandkids really do literally wear them out.  My mom's comment about her recent new car purchase may very well be true: it might be her last one.  My dad's rebound from this surgery wasn't immediate, not because of the scope of the operation, but because he isn't forty anymore.  Reality is that they are both only a decade away from the point where my grandmothers both suffered severe health problems.  And ten years can go by in a flash.

I'm just not ready for this.  We haven't had enough time.  I want them to run and jump and ride roller coasters again.  I want them to be strong, healthy, and live forever.  I want them to see Punky graduate from college, and get married, and give birth to their great grandchild.  The truth is that they may not even see her graduate high school, and that thought makes me cry.  In fact, it's had me crying for weeks.

I'm having trouble coping with this revelation the way it is, and my uncle's passing in the midst of it just drove the point home even further.  The tables turned while I wasn't looking.  Suddenly I'm staring down the other side of the mountain, and I don't like what I see at the bottom.  I want my superheroes back.  I want them to shoot spider webs out of their wrists and climb back up to the top.  I want them to fly again.  I want them to swoop in and save the day like they've done so many times. 

I don't ever want to say goodbye.

Three Years Of Rambling

Today is three years since I first started rambling on and on in my own little corner of cyberspace.

For the most part, it has served the purposes intended.  I have documented Punky's life and given her a window into her childhood that I hope she can appreciate someday.  I've had an outlet for my thoughts as I deal with the ever-changing journey of motherhood.  I've told funny stories, bitched about the trivial nuisances of daily life, and even worked though some deeply emotional stuff once in a while.  In all honesty though, several times I've considered throwing in the towel.

I surely was mistaken when I thought I would have more time to write as Punky got older.  Maybe there's still hope a few years down the road, but right now I feel like I'm constantly trying to catch up.  And it's so frustrating.  Writing has become a chore simply because I struggle to find the time to do it.  Once I committed to changing my sleep habits about eight months ago, it started going downhill.  Then, when I added in making time to exercise regularly, it got even worse.  The bottom line is that there are only so many hours in the day, and most of them are spoken for right now.  

When I have something worth writing about, I start a post.  A few lines, maybe even a paragraph or two, so I don't forget about it.  Then, something else comes up and I start another one.  Same deal.  Before I know it I have several posts started, and no time to finish any of them.  Usually I end up gluing myself to the chair one weekend a month in a desperate attempt to fill in the blanks and get caught up.  Under those frustrated circumstances, writing is no longer the relaxing, therapeutic activity it once was.  

Ultimately though, I can't quit.  I need this space.  This outlet.  This time, even if it is crammed into a marathon weekend of frantic typing.  It's important to me.  If for no other reason, for Punky.  

Here's to year number four in the blog world.  I'm sure there will be no shortage of material, but time will continue to escape me.  I'll do my best to keep up, and hopefully with a little luck, I'll end up with more than three posts to show for it.

To The Woods

Last weekend we made our first trip with our new camper.  I took a half-day on Friday and we were on the road shortly after two.  Rather than being sensible and choosing a nearby campground for our first venture, we drove all the way to the Poconos to camp where my parents have parked their camper for the season.

It was roughly a three-hour drive.  Given our rocky start with this camper, I was obviously prepared for the worst but, remarkably, it went rather smoothly.  We arrived just after five and setting everything up took less time than I expected.  Our site was a mere sixty feet away from my parents' at the very back of the campground.  It was the perfect spot, both quiet and convenient.  My sister arrived shortly after us with her kids and the new guy in her life.  By seven, we were enjoying a great dinner and chatting around the campfire.  

Fueled by the fresh, mountain air and open spaces, the kids were running around like maniacs.  We took a walk around the campground to check it all out and, of course, we had to stop at the tiny playground at the bottom of the hill.  One glance at Punky and it was clear we'd spend a great deal of time there over the next few days.  She was in her glory; her love of playgrounds runs deep.

I was up at the crack of dawn on Saturday and it was just as I remembered it from my childhood.  Cool, crisp, morning air.  The smell of percolated coffee stirring my senses.  The sounds of nature playing like soft background music in my ears.  I dressed as quickly and quietly as I could, and then headed out for some quality 'me' time.  

I was well aware of the menu planned for the weekend.  I knew I was facing some serious calorie intake and my only shot at not gaining five pounds was to be as active as possible.  There was no way in hell I was skipping out on any of that great camping food.  Steaks done on the fire, baked potatoes, bacon and eggs, toasted marshmallows, wine coolers... I wanted to enjoy it all, and that meant working for it.

After some stretching outside of the camper, I started to walk the loop around the campground.  I used my Fitbit to clock the distance Friday night.  It was just under three quarters of a mile round trip.  Knowing that intermittent cardio bursts would make all the difference, I alternated between walking and jogging.  As I made my way around, the rhythmic sound of my feet on the stones below made me feel so relaxed yet energized at the same time.  I wished life could afford me this luxury every morning.  When I reached the top of the loop, I stopped at my parents' site and my mom and sister joined me for a few more trips.  It was a great way to start the morning, especially since I ate non-stop the rest of the day.

The campground hosted a pinewood derby race on Saturday evening, so the kids (and guys) spent a lot of the afternoon turning their hunks of wood into cars, complete with messy, custom paint jobs.  They each got to race twice, but none of them ended up the big winner.  Punky's dad relied on the knowledge he gained from the boy scout pinewood derby races with his son, but we didn't know there were absolutely no rules in place for the campground race.  And it was open to anyone, not just children.  People had all kinds of objects glued to the top of their cars to make them heavier and faster, like beer bottles, hammers, and cans of soda.  The kids' cars didn't stand much of a chance, but they seemed to have fun anyway.

For reasons I'll get into in another post, my parents headed home Saturday afternoon and my sister left on Sunday.  We stayed another night, just the three of us, and finally left the campground around noon on Monday.  After a quick trip to a local Wal-Mart on Sunday so I could attempt to find a bathing suit that fit, we had the opportunity to check out the campground pool.  It was the highlight of the weekend for Punky and we had the whole pool to ourselves, which was especially nice given the fact that the only suit I could find at the store ended up being way too big and I had a few incidents of indecent exposure while swimming.

All in all, it was a very nice escape from reality for a few days.  Punky's dad and I had a bit of a fight early on Sunday which dampened the mood a bit, and we found a tick on Punky on Saturday night which freaked me out and turned me into a lunatic with my can of bug repellent, and Punky had so many falls on the stones that her tiny body was virtually covered in black and blue marks including one the size of a quarter on her right butt cheek, and I suffered the pains of constipation as my body struggled to process the mounds of fat it's no longer accustomed to digesting, but even with all of that crap it was awesome to be in the woods and away from the daily bump and grind.  I'm looking forward to trip number two, whenever that may be.

And my active approach seemed to work.  I only gained half a pound.

Four Months Down

Today is four months since I started the journey to a smaller, healthier, stronger me.  Here's an update plus some funny facts and random observations I've made along the way:

• As of this morning, I've lost just a hair under twenty-nine pounds since February 1st.
• My original goal weight is a mere twelve pounds away at this point.
• Despite those amazing statistics, my BMI calculation still lands in the overweight category, but only by a few tenths of a point. 
• The people who created the body mass index can bite me.
• I have now lost more weight than my daughter currently weighs.  I lost a whole person - a little one, but still.
• I now weigh thirteen pounds less than I did when I got pregnant with Punky.
• I've learned so much about food and nutrition that I no longer need to rely on my calorie counter app to keep things in check.  When I started this journey I thought that would be a life-long necessity, especially given my less-than-spectacular math skills.
• This whole process has created the perfect opportunity to teach Punky about food, health, and body image.  Too many young girls suffer crushed self-esteem and eating disorders as a result of the media's irresponsible math.  The number on the scale does not equal beauty.  Hopefully internalizing this lesson at such a young age will spare her some grief when those dreaded teen years hit. 
• I've read that a woman burns more calories in the two weeks between ovulation and menstruation than she does the two weeks prior.  In my experience, it's true.  The scale lallygags the first part of the month, then finishes the second half at a record low.  Then my period starts and I gain a few pounds.
• I give full credit to Jillian Michaels for the unbelievable change in the shape of my body and I'm thrilled to say she no longer totally kicks my ass.  There's no doubt that her workouts are tough, but I can make it all the way through now without feeling like I'm going to drop dead at any second.  
• When I first started working out, I wanted to smack her right through the TV when she would nonchalantly comment about feeling amazing at the end of those forty-five minutes of pure torture.  Now I get it.  I feel amazing, too.
• When I stand up straight and touch the cut muscles in my legs, I giggle.
• Admittedly, I do that several times a day.
• A few weeks ago I put my hands on my hips and made another surprising discovery: my waist.  I have one again.  No doubt the result of those tough ab and core workouts.
• Okay, yes.  This also makes me giggle and I check often to make sure it's still there.
• I can no longer wear any of the work suits I had when I started this journey.  In fact, they have all been packed up and donated to charity along with two full drawers of shorts and jeans.  For now, I'm getting by with a few things I've purchased and some stuff that was given to me.  I'm holding out for the last twelve pounds before I face the stores again and truly rebuild my wardrobe.
• The last twelve pounds are one hundred percent concentrated in my lower abdomen.  Damn c-section.  I've made peace with the fact that the roll will never fully disappear without the help of cosmetic surgery, and I'm not that crazy.  But it still pisses me off and my stretch mark scars are even uglier now that I've lost weight.  They've morphed from lines into full blown wrinkles.  It's disgusting.
• To Punky's dad's dismay, the weight loss finally hit upstairs.  I knew it was only a matter of time.  On the bright side, I can now wear a drawer full of old bras I hadn't worn in years but kept for no apparent reason.  Now my hoarding of undergarments is justified.
• If I can do this, anyone can.  Yes, there are tough moments but it's a process.  Those moments are necessary for success.  I fully understand now why fad diets don't work in the long run: they work too fast.  Losing weight successfully is not just measured by the number on the scale, it's achieved through a complete transformation of the body, mind, and soul.  And that takes much longer than a thirty-day colon cleanse.  Without the changes in mindset, habits, and overall lifestyle, it's easy to land right back at square one in the blink of an eye.
• Learning to listen to your body and interpret its cues is the most important lesson and the hardest one to learn.  When I have hungry days, I eat.  Period.  And the scale usually drops the next day.  I don't deprive myself of anything I need.  Not food, not sleep, not exercise.  I feel like I reached a new level of awareness and understanding I never knew existed.  And I'm no longer scared about the after - after I reach my goal, that is.

So, there you have it.  In a nutshell.  There's just one more thing I need to say:  I'm so very proud of myself.  And that's worth my original weight in gold.  On to month five...