When I glance at the number of posts I've actually managed to complete this year, it's terribly disappointing. But, on the bright side, my lack of time and diligence means you are spared some of the yearly bitching and moaning about things like the upcoming cold winter and my utter hatred of Halloween. So, with that in mind, I'll keep it short(cake) and sweet.
By mid-September, I started pushing Punky to decide what she wanted to be for Halloween. I wanted to avoid the last-minute, desperate search we had last year. If it were up to me we'd skip celebrating the holiday entirely, but being a good mommy means sucking it up and pretending to be excited about costumes, pumpkins, ghosts, and going to strangers' homes begging for miniature candy bars. Okay, I actually enjoy that last one. The chocolate, not the strangers.
Her first choice for a costume was a mouse. Not Minnie. Not Mickey. Not even Jerry or Mighty. Just a plain, ordinary mouse. Why, you ask? I have no clue. She has no mice stuffed animals. She never talks about mice. We haven't had mice in the house. I have no idea how she came up with the idea but it sounded simple enough. Surely I could find a mouse costume somewhere, right? Easy-peasy.
Wrong. I spent hours web surfing every costume site I could find and came out empty-handed. Most didn't have any mice, and the ones that did were sold out already. Apparently rodents were very popular this year. If you have an inkling as to why, please fill me in 'cause I definitely feel like I missed something.
Punky was disappointed but she quickly forgot the mouse idea when she saw a witch costume at the store. She truly had no interest in being a witch for the sake of being a witch. I mean, witches are scary and she doesn't like scary, but this particular witch costume had lights sewn into the fabric and she was captivated by their twinkle. In hindsight I should have bought it and been done with it, but I wanted to think on it a bit. When I returned to the store a week later, it was gone. And so, I had to disappoint my child once again.
Choice number three left me just baffled as the first two: a pig. She wanted to be a pig. Again, not Miss Piggy, not Olivia, and not even Peppa. Just a plain, ordinary pig. I found myself back on the internet in search of the perfect pig costume but, as it turns out, pigs are almost as elusive as mice. I found plenty of adorable pig costumes for babies, but only two for kids Punky's age and they were just about the ugliest pigs I have ever seen. How could I put my beautiful, little girl in an ugly pig costume? It just didn't seem right.
When I broke the bad news about her third choice, I seriously think she wanted to punch me. I wanted to punch something, too. I was beyond frustrated and I needed to put an end to it once and for all. For the next hour she sat with me in front of the computer as I bounced from site to site showing her the options. There was no giving up. I was determined to order her a costume. Something. Anything. I think I would've agreed to a cardboard box at that point. I just wanted it done so I didn't have to spend any more time and energy on the great costume hunt of 2012.
We managed to find a handful of really cute costumes, but getting her to make a final decision was like pulling teeth. All of a sudden she morphed into a shopping diva and my patience was running dangerously low. She was getting tired, hungry, and bored, and I had to pee so bad I was about to explode, but nobody was moving until I had something in the cart, dammit. It was a battle of wills, I tell you, and mommy wasn't caving.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we had a winner:
Despite the itchy wig and freezing temperatures, she had a blast hitting the town and collecting her treats. She was thrilled with her costume and, if I have to say so myself, she was the cutest Strawberry Shortcake ever. The real kicker is that she isn't even into Strawberry Shortcake, at least no more than mice, witches, and pigs. She simply baffles me sometimes, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Somewhere around the middle of May, when I was deep into my kickboxing workout videos, I heard a distinct pop in my pelvis. Over the next few weeks, kicking with my right leg caused a clicking sound in my hip. Because I'm not always so bright, I solved the problem by easing up on the kickboxing and switching to strength/cardio workouts instead. No clicking, no issues.
By mid-June I started having some mild back discomfort. Some days were worse than others, but I never had any extreme pain. Just an annoying twinge here and there, usually more noticeable in the morning after spending seven hours sleeping on my right side. Not about to let anything derail my mission, I continued to ignore it and went about my business.
I stopped working out in the middle of August. When my mom came to visit with my niece and nephew for a few days, I reached to catch one of kids coming down the slide at the pool and felt a sharp burning pain under my right shoulder blade. Even though it was a one time thing, I figured I better give my back a break and stop the strenuous workouts. As the weeks passed, it was no better but also no worse. I would be really achy when I first got out of bed, but once I got moving it was okay and I'd feel the occasional twinge throughout the day. I was finally smart enough to find a new chiropractor in the middle of September.
Years ago, when I couldn't even stand up straight because of the knot in the middle of my back, my previous employer forced me to see a chiropractor. The mere thought made me want to vomit. I couldn't handle the sound of my own knuckles cracking, and the idea of someone else popping and snapping my bones into place simply scared the shit out of me. But, as long as I live, I'll never forget the way I felt after that first visit with Dr. Poole.
I suppose I was a bit hard on my body. Years of gymnastics and cheerleading surely took a toll. Then pile on years of working in front of a computer with far less than perfect posture. My whole body tingled after my first visit with Dr. Poole. I no longer felt like someone was stabbing me in the back when I tried to stand up straight. I felt completely different. Taller, even. Strange, but true. I saw her regularly for a few weeks until she was sure all my bones were staying in place, and then every three months on average I would return for a tune up when I started to feel a bit off.
About six months after Punky's birth, I went in for my first realignment post-pregnancy. She warned that carrying a baby around would probably lead to more frequent visits, but that was fine with me. I was no longer afraid of the cracking and popping, and I always felt brand new afterward.
Then something terrible happened a few weeks later. Dr. Poole was walking her dogs one evening after work and suffered a massive heart attack. She passed away almost instantly on the sidewalk in her neighborhood before anyone could even try to help. And so ended my regular chiropractor visits. I trusted her, and only her, and I wasn't in the least bit interested in finding a replacement.
Over the last few years, I've gone from lugging a ten-pound infant around to toting a thirty-pound three-year-old. Our terrible mattress had gotten progressively worse. I've continued to work forty hours a week in front of a computer. My February brainstorm to lose weight and get fit by literally working my ass, and belly, off with Jillian Micheals videos was apparently the straw that broke the camel's back.
I like the new guy. He's surely no Dr. Poole, but he's nice enough and I'm not terrified to go there. His initial assessment revealed exactly what I thought: my hips were completely out of alignment. The muscles running up the right side of my spine were all scrunched up and pulling the intercostal muscles between my ribs. As a result, two of my ribs managed to twist which exposed their sharp bottom edges and led to the discomfort I was feeling. Sounds logical, right?
It took four visits to get my hips to stay where they are supposed to be, and a fifth visit to confirm they hadn't moved. That was almost two weeks ago, but I had to go back today for visit number six. He tapped my ribs into place a few times, but he didn't corrected them once my pelvis finally settled and my back was still bothering me. He thought it would get better on its own, but that wasn't the case. So today, he attempted to stretch the muscles between my ribs before getting his spring-loaded metal mallet thingy and untwisting the bones. It was extremely painful and I know I will be incredibly sore for days.
But here's the thing: I'm scared. Really scared. It's just not getting better. I still don't have any extreme pain, but something isn't right. And I'm terrified at the possibilities. I haven't been sleeping. I haven't been eating. And I haven't been all too pleasant to be around lately. I know if this doesn't work, x-rays are the next step. My stomach turns when I think about the things they may reveal.
I want to feel better. I want to get back to being active. I want to continue my journey to a healthier me.
Here's to hoping things return to normal soon. The worst case scenario is all I can think about, and I'm driving myself crazy.
If nothing else, this post will demonstrate both my utter lack of fashion and just how far out of the loop I've been for at least a decade.
When the warm, summer days bid farewell few weeks ago, I found myself in a bit of a predicament. All it took was one rainy, fifty-something degree Saturday for me to realize I was in trouble and facing the chilly autumn season naked from the waist down. Over the past few months I managed to give away every single pair of jeans I owned because none of them fit, and I had yet to replace them. I had a choice of either freezing in shorts or being over-dressed in work clothes for my trip to the grocery store that day. Given that regular leg shaving tends to directly correlate with the average outside temperature, my decision was obvious. Plus I hate to be cold.
The time had finally come to face the inevitable: jeans shopping. Since my August post I lost an additional four pounds, bringing the grand total to forty-two. I'm not exactly sure how I managed to pull that off since I haven't worked out the last eight weeks (more on that in the next post), but I officially reached my goal weight and I was ready to face the dressing room mirror. In fact, that turned out to be the easy part.
I stood in front of the massive jeans display like I just landed on foreign soil and didn't speak the language. When the hell did buying a pair of jeans get so complicated? I tried so hard to remember the last time I bought some and slowly arrived at the conclusion it had probably been roughly ten years. Pathetic, eh? All I know is that last purchase, whenever it was, was a simple transaction: grab correct size off the rack, head to cashier, go home. Jeans were simply, well, jeans.
I stared at the full wall of denim before me and tried to make sense of it all. The display was designed like a giant spreadsheet, with banner headers announcing styles/cuts at the top and size ranges/rise ranges/length ranges filling the cells below. To my dismay, none of the signs read plain, old jeans. I had no clue where to even start. What the hell is a bootcut skinny mid-rise. Or a straight average low-rise? Or a classic-rise skinny boyfriend? That last one made me giggle. But seriously, last time I bought jeans the size wasn't preceded by six other adjectives. It made my head spin.
So, I did what I imagine any old, clueless, fashion-ignorant woman would do: I grabbed as many pairs as I could carry and headed to the dressing room. With all the different styles available, I wasn't even sure what size would fit. I decided on an analytical approach and got busy trying on pair after pair. I pulled a small tablet from my purse and took notes as I worked through the various options, checking off what I liked and scratching what I didn't, just hoping to end up with the formula for the perfect pair of jeans.
This should probably go without saying, but as lost as I was in this new-world jeans experience I dared to attempt it: c-section rolls and low-rise jeans do not mix. It was downright embarrassing. Even if I stood perfectly still, the roll slowly inched its way upward and right out the top. It was ugly. And I have to say, even without the mommy pouch I have no clue how any woman can wear them without constantly feeling like they will slide right down at any second.
Start to finish, it took just under an hour to reach the checkout line with two pairs of jeans that were the right size, right style, right length, right rise, and right color for me, and I learned a ton of new vocabulary in the process. I left feeling both educated and exhausted, but smugly satisfied with my size eight jeans in tow.
When I arrived at school to pick Punky up last Monday, she was across the room playing with her friends. I headed to her cubby to get her crap together and found a backpack in it that didn't belong to us. Just as I turned to tell a teacher about it, Punky came zipping across the room at top speed.
"Mommy! Mommy! I get to go first! I'm the first one that gets to take Sloppy Joe home! Look, Mommy! Look at his backpack!"
I stood there dumbfounded as her teachers tried to contain their laughter and fill me in on the joke. I obviously missed something.
Finally, Miss Jackie said, "His name is Jungle Joe, not Sloppy Joe, and he's all yours for the next week. He's in the backpack with all his things. Just remember to write in his journal before bringing him back next Monday!"
Punky was dying to open the backpack and show me Jungle Joe, but I made her wait until we got home. The backpack weighed a ton. I couldn't imagine what the hell was stuffed in there. I really hoped Jungle Joe was not a living, breathing animal of some sort.
As soon as we got in the door, Punky dumped the entire contents of Jungle Joe's backpack out on the couch. I was relieved to see that J.J. was just a little stuffed bear in a safari outfit, and boy did he have the stuff. A flashlight, cellphone, blanket, story books, toothbrush, and extra outfits were just some of the things crammed in the backpack, but most of the weight came from the journals stuffed in the bottom of the bag.
As it turns out, the pre-K class at the daycare has been taking J.J. home for years, and all of his visits and adventures have been documented by the parents. Some wrote daily diary-like entries; others wrote only once at the end of his visit. Some included photos of their kids with J.J.; others had the kids draw a picture of him. Some were neat and well-written; some were sloppy and rushed. But as I started reading back through years past, I was amazed at all the places the stuffed animal has been and the sheer number of kids that had the experience of taking him home.
While I lost myself in reading the adventures of Jungle Joe, Punky showed him the ropes. She gave him the grand tour of our tiny house. She showed him both bathrooms in case he needed to pee during his week-long stay. She showed him the pantry so he knew where to get a snack if he got hungry. She showed him nearly all of her toys, one by one, so he could find things to play with if he got bored.
For the next seven days, she toted him everywhere. He was within arms reach at all times. Whatever she did, he did, too. She brushed his teeth every morning and night. She snuggled him close at bedtime and made sure he had his special blanket to sleep. She talked to him, sang to him, and told him stories. They watched cartoons, colored pictures, and played musical instruments. He even accompanied us on a trip down state this weekend to visit family. And, when we sat down last night to write the story of their week together in his journal, she cried because she didn't want to take him back to school today.
"But I'll miss him so much, Mommy!" she muttered through her sobs. "I won't be able to play with him anymore! I'm so sad, I can't stop crying, Mommy!"
From reading his journals, I was able to offer her a bit of comfort. It seemed like every kid had two turns to take J.J. home each school year, so I assured her that he would visit us again soon but she needed to wait until it was her turn again. Once she finally stopped crying, I finished the journal entry and taped a picture of them in the book. After she fell asleep with Jungle Joe last night, I packed all his things in his backpack and set in next to her school bag.
When she first brought him home last week, I wasn't exactly sure what, if anything, she was supposed to learn from the experience, but now I can easily list about ten lessons that can be learned and/or reinforced through a week with Jungle Joe. What a clever idea. The little fuzz ball and his two-ton backpack are welcome here anytime. Punky's already looking forward to his next visit.
