Another New Year

It's unbelievable to think that another entire year has gone by in what seems like the blink of an eye. For every good thing I can say about 2013, I can say two completely shitty things. 

I really can't explain why my writing took such a hard hit this past year. There were some minor bumps in the road the first half, but come June things got ugly quick. And that's when I stopped writing. 

One of the main reasons I started this blog in the first place was to vent about life's frustrations the best way I know how. But when life hit rock after rock on its way down the steep side of the mountain this year, writing was the first aspect of my life to suffer.  I quit, just when I needed it most. 

Needless to say, returning to real-time blogging tops my list if goals for the new year, closely followed by the goal to catch up on the last six months I completely neglected. I won't get every detail down, but I at least hope to cover the big stuff. I mean, the other reason I started writing was for Punky and I can't leave such big holes in her story. She deserves better than that. 

So, here's to 2014. For me this year is all about reorganization.  It's time to restructure, reformat, and reboot. I need to start at the very core of my being and move through all aspects of my life. Last year was too much of a jumbled mess and I can't function that way any longer.  It's just not an option.  

Laughter in the Rain

Nearly four months in, I don't even need a full hand to count the number of positive things I have to say about being forty.  I still hate the very thought of it. 

I hate the fine lines on my face that somehow appear more noticeable since my birthday. 

I hate the white strands of hair that seem to be spreading all too quickly now.  It might not be so bad if they at least attempted to blend in, but the obnoxious little shits have a mind of their own, sticking straight up and out like the bristles of a wire brush. 

I hate that I've recently noticed a few small spider veins developing in my legs.

I hate that I consciously pay attention to ads for things like leaky bladder medicine because my over-the-hill body might break at any minute and leave me Tena-twisting all over the place.

I hate terms like 'middle age', 'seasoned', and 'mature'.  And, so help me, I will slap the next person who says, "Forty is the new twenty."

No, it isn't.  It's nowhere even remotely close to twenty.  In fact, it's twenty away from twenty.  In no other case would anyone even consider those numbers as equals.  Next time you're out shopping, find an item priced at $40 and offer the cashier $20.  See how that goes.

But if there is one gem I've discovered about this whole over-forty racket, it's the fact that I truly care less what other people think of me.  I spent the majority of my life being self-conscious about, well, everything.  I'm sad to say I missed out on a lot of things I may have loved if I just had the courage to take a chance without worrying what others would think.

I'm not sure if it's a "with age, comes wisdom" type of thing, or if it simply took me this long to get over my insecurities.  Maybe I'm truly a slow learner in the life-lesson department.  At any rate, I've found a whole new type of freedom with this revelation and it's led to mornings like this one:

The sound of the rain pelting the air conditioner woke me from a dead sleep.  I barely poured a cup of coffee when Punky stumbled out of her room, no doubt also awakened by the downpour passing through the neighborhood.

We chatted a bit while she ate her cereal and I told her we were likely to be stuck in the house most of the day.  The weather forecast called for rain, rain, and more rain. Blah.

"Can we go outside and play in the rain?" Her eyes lit up just asking the question.

"Oh honey, I don't know if that's a good idea."  I mumbled. 

"You said we could sometime."  Her matter-of-fact tone isn't so cute when she's right.

"I know, Punky, but it really has to be a nice, warm day with a nice, warm rain, and no thunder or whipping wind."

"I don't hear any thunder, Mommy."

"I haven't either but it's a really heavy rain.  And I doubt it's very warm.  And it's only 8:15 in the morning.  And Mommy really doesn't feel like getting soaked right now.  Maybe later in the day if it warms up.  Besides, I just poured a cup of coffee."  I was seriously fighting the urge to crawl back under the covers for a few more hours.

Just then Punky's dad came in from playing outside in the shed, or whatever it is he does for hours in that tiny shack of tools, grease, and broken stuff.

"Boy, that's really a warm rain this morning.  Now they're saying it should be over by noon and we will see some sunny skies after all today." He bent down to kiss Punky's head without realizing he just sealed my fate.

"Daddy said it's warm, Mommy!  And it's not going to rain later!  Please, Mommy!  Please, please, please can we play in the rain?" she hopped of the stool and bounced around the kitchen.

I admitted defeat with a long sigh as I shot a sarcastic thank-you look to her dad.

"Yes, Punky, yes.  Finish your breakfast and we'll play in the rain."

So, we kicked off our Sunday by running up and down the street in a total downpour, jumping and splashing in every puddle we found, giggling hysterically, and dancing in the rain like no one was watching. No doubt the neighbors think I'm a lunatic (did I mention we were still in our pajamas?) but to my four year old I'm clearly the coolest mom ever.  And that's worth every drop of mud and water I had to clean off the kitchen floor once we finally came inside to hit the showers.

Mother's Day Jewels

Last year for Mother's Day, Punky made me a bracelet at school. Despite its brightly colored rainbow beads and overly snug elastic, I've worn it faithfully every day (except a handful of times when I forgot it entirely or chose to skip it for fear of losing it - like on amusement park days).

As you'd expect, I absolutely love it. I love that she made it herself, I love the little block beads that spell her beautiful name, I love that she still checks my wrist a whole year later to make sure I'm wearing it, but most of all I love it because of how proud she was to give it to me as a Mother's Day gift. I'll never forget how she beamed from ear to ear as I unwrapped it and tried it on for the first time. She seemed so grown up in that moment and I relive it each time I wear the bracelet.

The company I work for has a very formal office environment and professional attire is expected at all times. The men wear suit jackets and ties every day, business casual is frowned upon, and there are no dress down Fridays for us. I think the walls would burst into flames if everyone showed up in jeans.  Anyway, my childlike multi-color bead bracelet doesn't exact match my work wardrobe, but I've worn it religiously nonetheless and answered many questions about its origin when I remove my suit jacket or let it slip out from under a long-sleeve shirt.  It's small and easy to conceal if needed, and most people think it's adorable when they hear the story behind why I wear it.

When I got home from work on Friday, Punky was waiting with a red, tissue paper package in hand.  I knew instantly that it was this year's Mother's Day project at school.

"Is that for me?" I asked, pretending to be surprised.

"Yes, Mommy! Open it! It's for Mother's Day!" she could hardly contain her excitement.

"Well, Mother's Day isn't until Sunday.  I think maybe I should wait to open it then." I flashed her a smile and a wink.

"No, Mommy! You have to open it now! I want you to wear it!" she screeched.

Wear it?  I was a bit nervous.  Surely the package was too big to be another bracelet.  What if it was some kind of hand-sewn hat or something?  What if she expects me to wear it every day?  How could I possible love another hand-made gift as much as I love my bracelet?

I stalled for time but ultimately lost and ended up opening the package.  As I carefully peeled the tape and opened the tissue paper, that familiar look of pride swept across Punky's beautiful, little face.

A necklace.  Big.  Long.  A seemingly endless string of random beads in multiple shapes, colors, and sizes.  She'll want me to wear it to work every day.  It will stick out like a sore thumb.  The bracelet is one thing, but the necklace just can't be hidden as easily.  I love it and all but I just can't...

"Do you like it, Mommy! I worked on it a long time and just finished it in music class today!  I put lots of heart beads on there 'cause I love you so much.  And see the little square ones?  They have the letter 'M' on them for 'Mommy'.  And I made sure to use lots of different green ones because green is your favorite color! Let me put it on for you, Mommy!"

My eyes filled with tears as I leaned forward so she could slip the necklace over my head.

"I love it, sweetie," I managed to whisper, "I really, really love it.  It's absolutely beautiful, just like you."  

Looks like I have a new necklace for work tomorrow.  And I couldn't be more proud to wear it.   

Loosening the Strings

Punky had an overdue milestone moment this weekend: her first sleepover. 

Alone. Well, not alone alone. Just without me.

And she liked it.

My sister really enticed her. She set up a cool tent in the living room for an indoor camp out, complete with a bouncy air mattress and two crazy cousins begging her to stay. I wasn't sure she'd go for it, and she hesitated right up till the last second, but finally decided to give it a shot.  She ultimately ended up in her aunt's bed early the next morning, but she made it through the night with no tears, no fears, and no phone calls begging me to come get her at three a.m.

I'm not going to lie: leaving her for the night was tough.

Yes, I know she's four.  Yes, I know she was with my sister, not some stranger off the street.  Yes, I know my nephew and niece have spent the night at my house many times.  But I've never spent the night without her. She still sleeps with me often, and when she doesn't I still wake to check on her at least once a night, if not twice.  Sometimes even three times.

Her dad's rotating work schedule means Punky and I are alone together more often than not.  She's really attached to me, and I to her.  I love that we have such a close relationship and I hope it always stays that way. Maybe it will keep her from locking herself in her room and totally ignoring me when those dreaded teen years hit.  Okay, probably not, but I can hope.

I figured I wouldn't sleep a wink without her under the same roof, but my sister loaded me up on port wine before I left.  Two glasses later I was warm, fuzzy, and having trouble keeping my eyes open.  I was asleep in no time flat.  I didn't even wake up once during the night to worry about my little peanut.  Come morning, I felt a bit guilty for sleeping so soundly.

I'm so proud of her for making it through the night, but I must admit I was happy to hear she asked for me first thing in the morning.  Baby steps, people, baby steps.

Workin' for a Livin'

Ah, work.  The topic I shy away from more than any other in this blog.

Lately it's been causing me some fairly high stress levels and quite frankly it's starting to piss me off. It was even the main cause of my few-and-far-between posts towards the end of the year. While it's true I struggled with writing most of last year as I waded through what I considered a mid-life crisis at its finest, work sealed the deal in the final months.  I was writing at home almost every night for weeks, but obviously not on this blog.

On November 1st, a drastic price hike on a raw material sent my boss and those above him just reeling.  Before I could say boo, I was leading a team of plant managers, supervisors, and production planners on a project with one specific goal: to reduce our costs come hell or high water.  Time was of the essence and I had to turn in the final report before Christmas.  My initial response to his request was shear panic, but I rose to the challenge, met the deadline, and actually really enjoyed the ride.

My current position doesn't allow for much of the work I truly enjoy doing.  I love analysis, I love problem solving, I love burying myself in data and sorting my way to the answer one long, complicated spreadsheet at a time.  In fact, that's exactly what I was originally hired to do.  When the loss of business resulted in some restructuring almost three years ago, I was moved into a different position that can mostly be described in one word: dull.  It's littered with repetitive daily tasks that require very little brain power, if any.  There is a whole world of issues and problems that can be tackled in relation to my position, however I don't have the power to do any of it.  I'd say 90% of my current job can adequately be performed by a high school dropout whose only previous work experience involves some sort of fast-food uniform.

Once I settled into this position a few months in, it was actually a breath of fresh air for a while.  Punky was only eighteen months old at the time.  I was still struggling to find the right balance between my role as a parent and the demands of working outside the home.  Once my job suddenly required less focus, less attention to detail, and less stress and aggravation, it became easier to achieve that balance.  Work simply became work.  Just a job and nothing more.  I did what I needed to do from eight to five and easily left it all behind me when the day was done.  I had more energy, clarity, and patience to tackle the really important things in life, and I was okay with that.  For a while.

It's funny because my former boss warned me that a year into this position I would be bored to tears.  It actually took about a year and a half - six months to learn all I needed to, and then a full year bask in its mundanity.  Given that it's now just two months shy of three years in this job, I can safely say I'm over it and the point really hit home on the heels of this recent project.  For two months straight I was up to my eyeballs in analysis, research, organization, meetings, and writing the report.  I was busy.  I had to think.  I had to focus.  I was reminded how I always do my best work under pressure, and just how long it had been since I've felt any on the work front.  The whole experience was so refreshing, so invigorating, and so satisfying.

Come January, it was back to business as usual.  And it brought with it feelings of dread and discontent. Since business still hasn't improved much, I fear I'll be stuck in this seat forever.

Some people experience a seven-year itch in relationships; I tend to suffer a five-year itch when it comes to employment.  December marked my five year anniversary with this company, and recent events have ignited the itch. It's conflicting, really.  Half of my brain is calling me an idiot.  Why do I want more stress?  Why do I want work to consume so much of my life again? I'm getting a decent salary without having to over-exert myself.  Why do I need to think so much anyway?

The other half of my brain is yearning to do more.  It's simply not satisfied with the boring, daily routine.  It wants to make a difference.  It wants to think outside the box again.  It wants to be used, and challenged, and exhausted at the end of the work day.

One half needs to shut up.  I'm not sure which yet.  I wish business would pick up and settle the argument for me.  If I continue to wallow in this state of mind, a career change is eminent.  And as much as I'd love a new opportunity, starting over sucks.  Period.

Reflections on Thirty-Nine

I'm back.

And I'm forty.

Well, technically I have about twelve hours left to enjoy thirty-nine and I plan to milk every last second before admitting defeat and facing the big four-o. But, to my surprise, I'm not as upset as I anticipated.  Yet, anyway.  

Looking back, it's easy to see I've already weathered my mid-life crisis.  It began before I even turned thirty-nine, hence the total body transformation this past year, and continued chugging along through the end of 2012.  I think I'm securely at the tail end of it now and the worst is over.

Thirty-nine was a great year for me.  I was determined make changes.  I had a vision of who I wanted to be at forty and for the most part I accomplished those goals.  While there's always room for more improvement, life is surely different than it was a year ago.  I learned a great deal about myself this year and, though it stings a bit to admit it, I think I finally grew up in a sense.  

Somewhere over the course of this transformation, I've finally gained the wisdom to accept what I cannot change and focus my energy on the things I can.  This tidbit of knowledge has greatly reduced the stress of daily life and given me a new freedom of sorts.  I can't change people, I can't change situations, I sure as hell can't change the world, but I have the power to choose how I react to life's blows and I've learned the only way to remain standing is to focus on my own two feet.  I'm not sure why this lesson took nearly forty years to learn, but now that it finally sunk in I feel a thousand times stronger, both physically and mentally.

While I spent much of this year reorganizing, prioritizing, and cleaning up some messes from years past, I realize now that life is a work in process. There's still more to do, more to face, more to tackle, but I'm up for the challenge.  I spent most of my life plagued with self-doubt, but somehow I managed to kick it's ass this year.  I'm confident, I'm tough, I have faith in myself and my abilities.  I know my strengths, I know my weaknesses, I know what makes me tick.  I'm happy being me, even if that means turning forty today.

And yes, my writing hiatus is over and I fully plan on picking up the pace a bit. I have lots to catch up on, but it's time to get ready for work and psych myself up to face forty with grace.  I hope I make it through the day without bursting into tears at my desk.  I think I can, I think I can...

Wants, Needs, and Spoiled Brats

Punky is a good kid.  Mostly.  I mean, she's three and often very good at it. She has the occasional tantrum, some typical acts of defiance, the expected exertion of her independence here and there.  But on the whole, she is a sweet, loving, polite, respectful little girl.

Until recently.

Lately she been falling more in the demanding, ungrateful, unappreciative, spoiled brat category.  Just in time for Christmas and her birthday.  And I don't know how to fix it without doing something drastic.

I've always tried to explain to Punky that she is a very lucky girl.  Granted we really don't have much and basically live paycheck to paycheck, but it's still a hell of a lot more than many people have these days.  She has food in her belly, clothes on her back, a cozy home, more than enough toys for one child, and we go places and do things regularly.  Even though she's very young, I've tried to explain the concept of money and how sometimes it's necessary to make decisions about how you spend it based on what's needed and what we can do without.  She made her first purchase with her very own money a few weeks ago, a new baby doll, and so far she treats the doll like gold.

We talk often about kids less fortunate than her.  We talk about how great it was that she participated in a trike-athon at school and raised over a hundred dollars for the sick kids at St. Jude's.  We talk about the importance of sharing with those in need, and she never passes up the opportunity to toss some spare change into a charity collection bucket, whenever I have some in my pocket that is.  

When she asks for something at the store, the answer is often no.  But sometimes it's yes, like when she's been exceptionally good, when I have the extra cash, when she asks for something educational like a book.  Up until recently, the answer didn't matter.  Either way, she was okay with it.  No arguing, no tantrums, no snotty attitude.  Lately we haven't been so lucky.  

When someone gave her something, be it a toy, or clothes, or a book from a yard sale, she would be thrilled and appreciative and always said thank-you without having to be told.  She didn't expect people to give her things, so her surprise always added to the excitement.  The last time she saw her godfather, she asked him right out if he had anything for her, like he always does, before he even had a chance to take off his coat. And I almost went through the roof.

She just started watching TV with commercials in the last few months, and now she wants everything she sees.  The ads opened a whole new world of want for her, and I don't like it one bit.  I mean, I know she's three and all, and it's not really the fact that she wants things, it's more the attitude that accompanies that want.  It's like she feels the world somehow owes her these things, and denying her them, no matter the reason, sets off a pissing, moaning, whining, groaning, stomping, yelling tantrum.  

I'm really at a loss here.  I don't know how to handle it.  I'm always as honest as I can be without burdening her with issues beyond her years.  I don't want her to act like a spoiled rotten little brat, but I don't know what else I can possibly say at this point.  If she were older, I'd drag her to a soup kitchen to help out for a day but three's a bit too young for that.  I'm at my wits end, seriously.

I suppose there's a chance she's acting totally normal for her age, and it's just a phase like the hundreds of others she's endured thus far, and it's simply something she needs to go through and grow out of over time, but I can't help my impatience.  I guess all I can do is keep reinforcing the lessons I've been trying to teach her since birth.  

She knows Christmas and her birthday are right around the corner.  And I know, as I have every year, about the wall of stuff about to hit our house and a part of me is dreading it.  I obviously want her to be happy, and I love seeing her little face light up when she gets something she's really wanted, but this time of the year is overkill on presents.  I'm not exactly sure how I'll respond if she reacts poorly to any gift she's given, or if she carries on because she didn't get something she wants, or if she doesn't like something and has the audacity to say so.  Mommy's likely to lose her shit.

This parenting stuff is hard sometimes.  It's a never-ending chain of crises and dilemmas, but I wouldn't trade it for the world.  Seems like every time I think I have it all figured out, a new problem comes out of nowhere and punches me in the gut. This one in particular really has my panties in a bunch, and even more so now since we found out today that her dad is laid off from work, effective immediately.  He thought he would be safe until after the holidays but we weren't that lucky, as usual.  Things are going to get ugly quick come January, so I suppose I should just let Punky enjoy all the spoiling she gets in the next few weeks.  We have some extremely rough months ahead of us.

Waiting and Watching

Punky is on the right side of the couch, peacefully asleep for now.

I'm on vomit watch for the next few hours.

In round one she managed to get the carpet in one long, nasty streak from the living room, up the hallway, and into the bathroom.  After dozing off for about an hour, she soaked the left side of the couch in round two, right through the towels I stockpiled under her.

So, I suppose I have some time to kill while I enjoy my Lysol high and wait for the inevitable round three.  And for the washer full of puke towels to stop so I can get them into the dryer.

I'm always whining that I never have time to write, so I may as well take this opportunity to bombard you with random tidbits of shit I would've written about in the last few weeks if I had the tiniest ounce of self-discipline and determination.

Let's see, where to start?

The election?  Meh.  Politics aren't usually my thing but what the hell.

Truth is, I really don't have many positive things to say about either candidate.  One is a financial disaster, the other a social disaster.  In my opinion, the lesser of the two evils won in the end.  As I explained it to Punky, my uterus is happy but my piggy bank is scared.

All I know is this: if we stand any chance at fixing this country and healing all that ails it, politicians need to spend less time worrying about gay marriage and what women do with their reproductive systems.  Their beliefs on such issues are rooted in the teachings of their religions and therefore have no place for debate in a country that was founded on the very principle of separation of church and state.  And one way or another, everyone deserves to have health insurance.  Period.

Sandy?  Wow.  She packed quite a punch.  We weren't really affected here, aside from some strong winds and rain for a few days, but the devastation on the coast is horrific.  While I am in no way, shape, or form a beach person, I do love the boardwalks of the Jersey coast, especially Atlantic City. My sister inherited my mom's taste for a nightly glass of wine; I inherited her love of an occasional jaunt to a casino.  In the last few years I haven't really had the time or the finances to indulge much, but I have some great memories of the yearly trips we used to make to AC on Black Friday.  We gambled while the rest of the country shopped.  It was our thing and I really miss those trips.  I wish all the devastated areas a speedy recovery.

My weight?  Holding steady.  I bounce between 133 and 138 and haven't really had any issues with maintenance.  I try to stay on the lower end of calorie intake during the week, and then eat what I want on the weekends. So, the scale reading tends to be the highest on Monday morning, and the lowest on Friday.  It's a great balance and really works for me.

My back?  On the whole, much better.  But it's still not quite right.  I haven't returned to the chiropractor since that last painful rib-muscle-stretching visit. I was sore for weeks afterward.  I haven't started working out again, and I've decided to wait until after the holidays.  I'm thinking the beginning of February.  It will give my back a bit more time to heal but still leave me plenty of time to get in shape for summer.

Finances?  Yuck.  A sore topic around here.  The switch in Punky's dad's schedule has impacted us just like I thought it would.  Things are tight, but we are getting by and making ends meet for the most part.  This Christmas will pale in comparison to last year, that's for sure.  Since my whole family is in the same boat, we've agreed to focus on the kids and skip the gift exchange between the adults.  I've already finished my niece and nephew, and we're about 90% done with Punky.  I even wrapped about half of what I've bought thus far.  So, I think we'll weather the holidays okay.  The most important thing is that the kids have a great Christmas.  But it's going to get even uglier come January.

Unfortunately Punky's dad is facing a massive layoff after the holidays. Company wide, the "safe" date has been rolled back to a hire date in 1984. It's very likely he'll be off for an extended period of time, and we'll be forced to make some extremely hard decisions.  Should we sell the camper we only used twice and enjoyed so very much this summer?  Should we break our contract and pull Punky out of school?  There's no way we'll afford it with him on unemployment, but it will be a great disservice to Punky.  She's so smart, so advanced, and she absolutely loves school in the pre-K class this year. Should one or both of us look into picking up a second job now instead of waiting until we we hit rock bottom?  We're rolling with the punches for now. My stomach turns just thinking about it.

There, the washer has stopped and the puke towels are clean and in the dryer.

This week was rough for Punky in terms of illness.  We've really been luck this fall, so I guess we were due for some shit.  She woke up with a low fever on Saturday, and as the day progressed it climbed higher and took her cranky meter with it.  After eating a banana as a snack before bed, she told me her throat hurt when she swallowed.  I grabbed a flashlight and was horrified by the puss bubbles lining the back of her throat.

Thankfully our pedi office has weekend hours in case of emergency.  I was convinced she had strep so we made a Sunday morning jaunt to the doctor. The rapid strep test came back negative and she told us that most of the puss-filled sore throats they've been seeing are viral in nature and it simply needed to run its course.  She was still too sick to go to school on Monday, so her dad stayed with her in the morning and then I came home after lunch so he could go to work.

She was still slightly feverish on Tuesday but otherwise fine so we sent her to school.  Come Wednesday I missed another half day of work because they decided to close the daycare at one o'clock.  All the teachers were sick and they didn't legally have enough available staff left to stay open.  When I took her to school this morning, the daycare director told me most of the teachers had respiratory things, possibly even the flu, but she had the stomach flu and spent twenty-four hours with diarrhea and vomiting.

Guess which one Punky picked up?  I suppose it's the better of the possibilities.  It's the messier one, that's for sure, but it's over relatively quickly with very little chance of major complications or hospitalization.

I am so relieved that I already have a vacation day scheduled for tomorrow because otherwise I'd be calling off again, but the reason I'm off is because we are headed down state for my nephew's birthday party this weekend. Punky and I both have an appointment for desperately needed haircuts tomorrow evening, so were were planning on hitting the road relatively early tomorrow morning.

All I can do now is wait to see how she is tomorrow.  There's no way I'm making a two and a half our drive with a pukey kid who has the potential for explosive diarrhea at any moment.  She's still asleep and I don't dare move her.  I'm not stirring up her remaining stomach contents, if there's even anything left in her tiny belly.  I guess I'm looking at a night spent sleeping on the living room floor.  My back won't appreciate it, but I won't leave her alone in case she vomits in her sleep again like last round.

It's been over two hours since that last bout and I suppose I should try to get some rest while the getting is good.  Here's to hoping her dad and I escape catching this crap, and that this is the end of pukefest 2012.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

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.

Bewildering Blues

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.  

Spontaneous Combustion

Without a doubt, the worst class I had in college was Sociology 101.  Yes, it was even more painful than the public speaking course required for all majors.  It wouldn't have been so bad if I had gotten the memo about Dr. Armstrong.  Apparently most students knew better and avoided his classes like the plague, hence the mounds of seats still available when I was finally able to schedule my classes for that semester.  I thought I was just lucky.

Dr. Armstrong was obnoxious, intimidating, and in some respects he conducted his class like an elementary school teacher.  He closed, and locked, the classroom door at exactly 8:00.  If you were late, you were shit out of luck and marked absent for the day.  After all, he was a very important man and he would not tolerate any interruptions once he began speaking.  There was no eating or drinking allowed in his class, and gum chewers faced the humiliation of wearing it on their nose, a consequence I hadn't encountered since the sixth grade.  There was no chatting, no slouching, and no looking anywhere but directly at him while he lectured for ninety minutes straight with barely a pause to breathe.  Unless, of course, someone broke one of his rules.  Then his usual condescending tone became even more so as he went out of his way to make a fool of the offender.

He assigned a new chapter at the end of each Tuesday's class, and then every Thursday we faced a brutal quiz: one essay question from a 50-60 page textbook chapter before any of the material was even discussed in class.  He graded them on a scale from one to ten, but he never gave tens because nobody's perfect.  And nines were next to perfect so no one got those either.  By midterm, I was dangerously close to failing the course. Between the fives and sixes I was averaging on the quizzes and the shocking C I managed to score on the midterm exam, I was in big trouble.  I needed a new plan.  A different approach.  A way to beat this all-knowing professor at his own game.

I bought a tape recorder.

Go ahead and laugh, but it was a long time ago and students weren't carrying laptops to class back then.  I used the only technology available at the time, and it paid off big time.  For the rest of the semester, I diligently recorded his classes from start to finish.  Even though I continued to pull mediocre quiz scores, my sights were set on the big picture.  I was going to ace the final exam come hell or high water - partly because I really didn't want a D on my record, but mostly because it was the ultimate way to shut up Dr. Almighty.

The format of the exam was four essay questions, of which we had to answer three.  I was determined to figure out what the questions would be. The week leading up to the final, I spent every night in the basement of my dorm, all alone in the dark, listening to the tapes of his lectures over and over again.  What did he stress?  What was he most passionate about?  What did he talk about the longest?  I settled on four potential questions with the hope of having three actually show up on the test, and then wrote my answers out ahead of time and committed them to memory.

I couldn't help the tiny squeal the escaped my throat when my eyes first saw the exam.  All four of my prepared questions were on the test, so I was able to eliminate the one I liked least.  I spent the next two hours spitting his words back to him verbatim, just as he said them in class.  Just as I heard them over and over again on the tapes.  Just as I had written them out the night before.

As I walked to his class for the last time, I practiced my argument in my head.  There was no way I was settling for less than an A on the exam and I was fully prepared to challenge him, even if it meant playing my class tapes for the Dean.  In true Armstrong style, he launched into a half-hour lecture before finally passing out the test scores, and with each passing moment my heart rose further into my throat.  His lecture that day was all about how only one person in the entire class managed to understand a damn word he said all semester.  One golden student who paid attention and digested the material.  The class simply wasn't worth the time for the other students. Nothing landed in their heads.  He wasted his breath on the lectures.  He normally doesn't give A's because nobody's perfect, but one student's essays were so far above the rest that he had to make an exception this semester. And he thought it only fair to acknowledge that student in front of the rest of the class.

So I got an A on the final exam, with a side of public humiliation at no extra charge, and I ended up with a B as my final grade for the class.  As a student that normally got A's with little effort , I have to say I'm more proud of that B than any A I ever got.  I walked away from Dr. Armstrong's class with the satisfaction of knocking him down a peg, if only for a brief moment, and I learned to ask around about professors before blindly scheduling future semesters.

In terms of actual subject material, almost twenty years later there is only one thing I remember from his class.  For whatever reason, I took one particular lesson to heart and it stuck with me all these years.  According to the infallible Dr. Armstrong, the difference between blue-collar and white-collar parenting can be summed up in one four-word phase:  Because I said so.

He claimed it perfectly illustrated the difference in mentality in the approach to child-rearing found between those with and without higher education.  Blue-collar parents think their children should respect them simply because they are the parents and saying 'no' requires no further explanation.  White-collar parents, on the other hand, teach their children to think about the consequences of their actions by providing explanations beyond 'because I said so.'

While I'm sure his assessment isn't one hundred percent accurate, I found it close when I applied it to the various families I've been exposed to over the years.  I'm from a 'because I said so' family myself, with an occasional scare tactic thrown in for good measure.  When I got my period for the first time at the ripe old age of eleven, and sat on the edge of the bed in tears because there was blood gushing from somewhere deep inside my body and exiting through a hole I never really knew existed and it felt like someone was stabbing my abdomen with a rusty butcher knife and I would surely be dead by morning, my mom's explanation went something along the lines of  "This means you can now get pregnant, and if you get pregnant before you're married, your father and I will disown you."  It would've helped if she explained exactly how that could happen.  When I had my first real kiss nearly two years later, I cried for two weeks because I thought I was pregnant and soon to be homeless.  I even packed a few things just in case.

I'm not saying my parents were bad parents, they just parented the way their parents did before them, but Dr. Armstrong's lecture on child-rearing stuck a deep chord with me long before I even considered having a child of my own.  I don't want Punky to avoid situations because she's scared, I want her to avoid them because she understands what can happen if she doesn't. I don't want her to stop doing something simply because I told her to stop and my word is the be all and end all of her world, I want her to ask why so I can explain the reasons behind my words.  I want to earn her respect instead of demanding it simply because I'm her mother.  I want to guide her to make good decisions in life by educating her, not by demanding her obedience because I'm the parent and I said so.

I've made a conscious effort over the last three and a half years to try and explain why I tell her the things I do.  I can't say I've never slipped and spewed a 'because I said so' ever, I mean, I'm not perfect and some days she's as challenging as all hell.  But, I try my best to always provide at least one simple statement as to why I feel the way I do, and I try to be as honest as possible without painting her a horrific picture of blood, guts, and gore.

So, now I can finally get to the point of this entire long-winded post.

While I have to admit she is doing surprisingly well with the switch to a five-day school week that starts each morning at six-thirty, Punky was being particularly difficult this morning.  She was supposed to be eating her waffle while I was getting dressed, but I returned to the kitchen to find a mere two bites gone.  I told her she only had a few minutes left to eat, or she will have to wait until they serve breakfast as school.  I headed to the bathroom once again, and called her a few minutes later to come and get ready for school. And again a minute later.  And again a minute later.  And again a minute later.

Once she finally arrived in the bathroom to make her morning pee, I went back to the kitchen to get my lunch ready for work.  When I returned to the bathroom two minutes later, she was gone.  She was hiding in my bed, under the covers, giggling her little tush off.  She hadn't even peed yet.  This time I supervised her toilet time, and we headed to her room to get dressed.

By the time we both got back to the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair, we had exactly three minutes until we needed to pull out of the driveway.  Of course, she arrived without her pants, the ones I just put on her thirty seconds earlier, so we lost another minute on the re-do.  When I finally handed her the toothbrush, she dropped it and left a hot-pink blob of bubble gum toothpaste on my light green bathroom rug.  As I knelt to clean it up, my eyes caught a glimpse of the clock.  I was now likely to be late for work, and my patience was just about shot.

By no means did I yell, but my tone was surely stern as I began to rant about the morning's events.  

"Punky, I let you sleep as long as I can in the morning.  That means when it's time to get up, you need to get moving.  There is no time for messing around.  You need to eat your breakfast and get ready for school when I say so, or else I need to start waking you up even earlier if you insist on goofing off.  This schedule is already hard on the both of us, let's not make it even worse.  Mommy can't be late for work every day because you don't listen to me.  My boss would be really mad.  I might even get fired and we certainly can't afford that right now."

She immediately burst into tears.  I mean real waterworks.  Crying so hard I could barely understand what she was saying.  I was in complete shock.  I had no idea what I said to upset her so much.  Finally I managed to calm her down enough to decipher her words.

"Mommy? If you're late for work, will I be on fire, too?"

Apparently she thought I would burst into flames if I walked into work a minute late, and she might as well by default since I blatantly blamed her for my tardiness.

Needless to say, it took me another ten minutes to calm her down and get out the door.  I spent the five-minute drive to school apologizing profusely and explaining the definition of the word 'fired' in the context of employment. In the end, I was twenty minutes late for work but, lucky for me, my boss got a big kick out of Punky's theory of spontaneous combustion.

Make Lemonade

Yesterday I rambled about all the reasons why this summer has been a bit rough and challenging, so today it's only fair to present the other side of the argument.  All problems aside, we did have a fun summer overall.

Before I actually start making lemonade, I do need to add two additional lemons to the pile.  The first is an update: they let his truck pass inspection yesterday, but he has to take it back on Thursday to get the brakes done.  It turns out I misunderstood him on the phone.  It's not just the front brakes, he needs rear ones, too.  And the second lemon I simply forgot to mention: my laptop sounds like a jet engine and will probably blow up before I finish this post.  Given our current situation, I may be facing a few months without a computer and quite honestly I'll go crazy. 

Now, let's start juicing these little suckers before I lose my mojo.  Or my laptop bursts into flames.

We managed to make it to Knobel's twice this summer and that's one of Punky's favorite places.  Memorial Day weekend we went with my sister and her family, and even though it ended on a rough note when a sudden torrential downpour left us stranded on back roads for three hours on the ride home, the kids still had a great day.  Then, a few weeks later on the way home from visiting my dad when he was in the hospital, Punky and I stopped and spent the day at the park.  Just the two of us.  And I have to say I think it was my favorite day of the summer.  It's really important to me to have one on one time with her once in a while, and she loves our girl time.  We also spent a day at a local park where we had a picnic, played at the playground, went swimming for a few hours, played miniature golf, had ice cream, and she rode the handful of kiddie rides they have over and over again.  She's already lined up a bunch of things she wants to do next summer for our special days, as she calls them.

I took a day off a few weeks ago to go with Punky's school on a field trip to the county fair like I did last year.  Her dad joined us after work so we spent the whole evening there as well.  I sneezed my face off as we made trip after trip through the barns to see the cows, horses, sheep, goats, chickens, pigs, and rabbits.  We watched a gross reptile show with far too many snakes for my taste.  Punky participated in sack races, relay races, and other events that were set up for family day at the fair.  She did a 4H project where they made seed balls to take home and throw in the yard to make fall flowers grow.  And, of course, we rode the rides, played games, and ate far too much greasy, fattening fair food.

We spent a day at Dutch Wonderland in Lancaster with my mom, sister, niece, nephew, my sister's new beau, Punky's godfather, my aunt, my cousin, her husband, and their daughter.  The park is really targeted for little kids and they all had a blast.  My nephew, niece, and Punky are all seasoned riders, they've been visiting amusement parks since before they could even walk, but my cousin's little girl had never been on any rides before and they were a bit nervous about how she'd handle it.  We were all amazed to see not even an ounce of hesitation as she tackled ride after ride.  From the carousel, to the whip, the kiddie roller coaster, log flume, tilt-a-whirl, and even bigger, faster, spinning rides, she enthusiastically rode them all and couldn't get enough.  My cousin's not a rider whatsoever, so her daughter obviously got her dad's genes in that department. 

Our trip to Dutch Wonderland also brought a milestone moment for my six year old nephew: he rode his very first grown-up roller coaster.  My sister was egging him on all day, but he was too scared and refused all our attempts at bribery.  Then, after four trips in a row on the kiddie coaster, he quietly mumbled, "Mom, I want to ride the big one."  In a mere seven seconds flat we dumped the other kids with my mom and literally ran with him as fast as we could to the big coaster.  We weren't taking any chances on him changing his mind.  Thankfully the line was short and we boarded almost immediately.  He did great!  He absolutely loved it and rode several more times that day.  We were all so proud of him and happy to add yet another roller coaster junkie to the family!

My sister and her family came up to visit one weekend where we just hung out at here, drank wine, played stupid dice games, and watched the kids destroy the house.  Then, they came up again a few weeks ago and we took another day trip to an amusement park in Rochester.  It was another park aimed more at younger kids, but they had a water park as well and the kids had a blast riding the slides, shooting people with water canons, and standing under huge buckets of water just waiting for them to dump gallons on everyone below.  Given that it was a balmy ninety-nine degrees in Rochester that day, the adults enjoyed the soak zone just as much as the kids.  Punky has already chosen this water park as a destination for one of our special days next year.  It was definitely her favorite experience of the summer.

My mom came up last Thursday and brought my niece and nephew along for five days.  We went to one of Punky's favorite playgrounds one night, and swimming the next afternoon.  Then, that evening, we went to a parade and carnival in the next town over.  They had a great time gathering handfuls of candy thrown at them during the parade and they ended up with an entire shopping bag full by the time it was over.  We had a relaxing Sunday at home before they left on Monday.  It was nice having them here; I don't get to spend nearly enough time with them.  The kids bounced back and forth between playing nicely and trying to tear each others ears off.  My niece got the worst of it.  She's the youngest and you know what they say about shit rolling downhill.  And Punky isn't really good with other kids touching her stuff because the opportunity doesn't happen that often.  She was trying to watch a show Sunday evening and, after repeated interruptions by her cousins, she turned to me and as serious as a heart attack she said, "Mommy, I'm ready for my house to be back to normal now."  

I can't wait till they all get over this "first" stage.  The fights over who gets to do something first, who was playing with what first, who said something first, who finished their food first, who gets to take a bath first, and so on.  It was endless.  I was waiting to see which one of them ended up tied to a tree first when Grammy lost it a bit on Sunday night and threatened to bang their heads together.  There were intense moments, messy moments, loud moments, and crying moments, but ultimately I'm so glad they came up for a few days.  And I'm also glad I stopped at one kid.

We had our first camping trip in June with the new camper and we have another one planned for Labor Day weekend.  We had to cancel two others we hoped to take due to all the crap tossed our way, and we almost cancelled this one coming but ultimately decided it is the last hurrah of summer and we'll find a way to pull it off.  Plus, the annual family corn roast is on Sunday that weekend so we would be traveling that way anyway.  We leave on Friday morning and won't be back until Tuesday.  Five days of fresh air, camping food, and relaxation.  I can't wait.  I know what lies on the other size of labor day; it's all downhill from there.  I plan to enjoy every single minute of this trip before we're stuck in the house for months until spring finally breaks next year.  

And in between all these fun summer activities, we spent a lot of time at the local community pool.  I can't believe I didn't even know it existed until almost the end of June.  It's a great place and Punky loves it there.  It isn't very crowded which truly surprises me because it's very clean and it has a great kiddie pool.  It's about 12 ft. x 12 ft. and only eighteen inches deep in the center, but it has a tube slide and water fountain going into it.  The slide is her favorite part, of course.  At first we had to catch her every time, but then she learned to go down herself with a tube around her and then eventually without the floaty thing.  She can do it for hours straight, I've seen her.  One side of the big pool is about 4 ft. and she loves coming in with us.  She got really good at keeping herself upright with the tube around her, and she learned how to get where she wants to go by kicking her feet.  Her favorite part of the big pool is jumping in off the side.  She learned to do it herself with the floaty on and hold her breath while she briefly dips under the water.  Her dad and I take turns watching her while the other gets to actually swim for a while.  And in the process, I rediscovered my love of swimming.

I spent summer after summer in my grandmother's pool as a kid, but I could probably count on my fingers the number of times I've actually gone swimming since college.  I'm not even counting all the swim classes I took Punky to because I didn't actually get to swim; I just spent an hour holding her up in the water.  But this summer I actually had the chance to really swim and enjoy it.  It's such great exercise, too.  Talk about a total body workout.  We enjoyed it so much that we've added a pool to the list of things we are looking for in a house if/when we're ever in a position to make a move.  We actually found a great house, at a great price, in a great location, with an awesome in-ground pool, and it's killing us that we can't do anything about it right now.

So, as you can see, this summer will remembered for all the fun we did manage to have, even if we had more than our fair share of lemons along the way.  I'm old enough to know that over time, the sour fades from memory while the sweet seems to linger forever.  My goal now is to get us back on track so next summer can be even better than this one.  I'll keep making lemonade until we're sick of drinking it, and then I'll just resort to zinging the lemons at random people on the street.  That will be just as satisfying, maybe even more so.

When Life Gives You Lemons...

In some respects it's been a rough summer, particularly this month.  

It's also been an active, fun summer at the same time.

Let's get the shitty stuff out of the way first, shall we? 

 

Punky's dad's workplace announced a last-minute two-week mandatory shutdown for the first two weeks of July, causing us to lose half of his income for the month.  It wouldn't have been too bad to digest if we hadn't already planned such a busy summer, but it left us having to cancel some camping trips and stuff in order stay on top of the bills.

When he returned to work after the shutdown, the company announced a change in schedule starting mid-August.  He'd been working a seven-day rotation, swing shift no less, for two years straight.  It had its drawbacks, like the fact that he only had one weekend off a month, but it had its benefits, too.  His days off normally fell during the week so he was able to handle all of the inconvenient errand stuff, like oil changes, bank visits, and such.  It also meant that Punky only had to go to daycare three days a week and, between his days off and rotating shifts, there was a good chance he was able to take her to the doctor and stay with her when she got sick, which greatly minimized the time I needed to miss work.  They are now switching to a five-day swing shift rotation, Monday through Friday, with every weekend off.

His new schedule means we need to send Punky to school five days a week, increasing our daycare costs by $200/month.  Once again, it wouldn't be too bad if all other factors remained the same, but this new five-day schedule also brings a lower paycheck.  On seven-day, he worked most weekends and they were at higher, overtime rates.  Now that's gone.  So, between the extra needed for daycare and the income lost on this schedule, we are out more like $400/month and that's a tough number to swallow, especially while we are still trying to recover from his income loss in the July shutdown.

Once they finally got everything mapped out and all the employees reassigned to fit into this new schedule, we suffered another blow.  Well, actually me.  He made out rather well in the deal; I'm the one paying the price.  He was transferred to a different department, and that department only works solid first shift.  So, for the first time in years, he is working a normal M-F, 7-3 schedule.  No more rotating shifts, no more working weekends, no more trying to manage a crazy, ever-changing sleep schedule.  I, on the other hand, get to drag my ass out of bed at five a.m. every day so I can get myself ready for work before waking Punky, feeding her breakfast, getting her dressed, brushing her teeth, combing her hair, and rushing her out the door by seven to drop her off at daycare and get myself to work on time.  Every. Single. Weekday. 

Taking Punky to daycare every morning, as opposed to the three days a month I used to, is especially trying given the fact that on school days it's next to impossible to get her to sleep at a reasonable hour.  I wake her up early, she's exhausted so she naps the full two hours they allow at daycare, and then it's after eleven at night and I'm still fighting with her to go to sleep.  So then she's exhausted in the morning, and naps the afternoon away at school, and won't sleep again at bedtime.  It's a vicious cycle, I tell you.  We are now two weeks into this new schedule and I'm exhausted.  And the thought of having to do this through the cold, snowy, miserable winter mornings ahead makes me want to vomit.  Add bad roads into the mix and I'll be getting up at four a.m.  So much for the wonderful, new sleep habits I've managed to develop over the past few months. 

In the midst of all these financial blows, my car decided it was the perfect time to self-destruct.  I've had it over five years, and I've never put any money into it other than for the expected, basic maintenance stuff, so I suppose it was about due.  It's been at the garage for almost a week waiting on the part needed to fix it and make it safe to drive again.  I don't fully understand all the technical car speak, but it's something about a bad axle bearing ruining the shaft which could cause the front axle to drop right out of the car while going down the highway.  Not good.  I do, however, fully understand the $1,000 it's going to cost to fix it and the fact that September will be an extremely tough month financially, like ramen noodles for dinner tough.

With my car out of commission, Punky's dad borrowed his mom's car so I could use his truck to get to work.  Yesterday I had to leave work a half hour early to go rescue them when her car broke down after he picked Punky up at school.  Right now he is out buying an alternator to fix her car so we can both make it to work on Monday.  Oh, and did I mention that his truck was at the garage earlier this morning for its yearly inspection?  It needed front brakes to pass, of course.  You had to see that coming.  I swear, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

News on the family front hasn't been much better.  My dad returned to Manhattan two weeks ago for his first post-surgery appointment.  Initially he was told it would be three to four months until they could do the follow-up surgery and finish the hip replacement.  Knowing our luck, I really thought it would be more like six months and fall just in time for Christmas thus ruining the holiday.  If only.  As it turned out, they have scheduled the second surgery for May 13th.  Yes, eleven months and two days after the first.  The doctors explained that they only have one shot at this so the longer they wait, the better.  They can only see so much from the outside, and if they go in too soon and the bones aren't ready, that's it.  They can't go back in again.

As hard as this news is on my normally super-active dad, I think it's even worse for my mom.  He gets around okay with the crutches and wheelchair, but my mom needs to do most of the chores he used to handle plus help him with everyday tasks like showering and getting dressed.  He'll be miserable when the bad weather hits and he's stuck indoors, but he can't risk slipping on the ice and snow.  One fall and it's all over.  And, of course, they are forecasting a cold, storm-filled winter ahead.  No chance of a repeat of last year's mild, snowless winter.  May can't come fast enough.

And I've still been struggling with finding time to write, which especially sucks now since it's my main outlet and obviously needed in light of recent events.

The Finish Line, Sorta

Based on the plan designed by my calorie counter app when I started this weight loss journey back in February, my finish line was set for July 18th.  Because I tend function better with nice, round numbers, I gave myself a grace period until yesterday - six months on the nose since I began on February 1st.

The result?

Well, truth be told I fell a bit short of my goal.  But, the 'bit' is only three pounds as of this morning's scale reading, and it's certainly nothing to quibble about given the thirty-eight pounds I did lose.

Yes, that's right.  I said thirty-eight.  Unbelievable, isn't it?

I'm rather amazed myself.  I thought I would lose some weight, and maybe incorporate more physical activity into my daily life, and possibly drop a clothing size or two, but I never expected to actually come within inches of my goal in such a short period of time.  The plan I chose was very aggressive, the workouts I picked were incredibly tough, and honestly I'm not exactly the most disciplined person at times.  I had no idea change could happen so quickly, both physically and mentally, and my only regret is that I didn't do it years ago.   

Life is now very different from that cold, winter day when I decided to take that first step and make some desperately needed changes - not just for me, but for Punky as well.  While she still manages to eventually wear me out with her marathon bursts of energy, I keep up a hell of a lot better than I used to.  Mommy is much more fun now, I'm sure, and we've been enjoying a very active, busy summer.  I am happier, healthier, and more confident than I've felt in years.

I had my six-month thyroid appointment about two weeks ago.  I have to say I was never so excited to stand on the scale in a doctor's office.  January's number was burned in my brain and I couldn't wait to overwrite the data with some new, more acceptable digits.  My doc was really impressed, not only with the weight loss achieved, but also with the fact that my thyroid levels were exactly the same as six months ago.  I'm supposed to skip one pill a week, but the last few months I've been skipping two most of the time.  I can tell when it gets too high, or too low, and I adjust accordingly.  I'm glad she left my medication alone and didn't try changing the dose.  She told me to keep doing what I'm doing because obviously it's working.  And I'm happy to report that my vitamin D level has gone from dangerously low to perfect.

So, I guess it's time to get real about the numbers.  On the morning of February 1st, I weighed in at 176 pounds.  My BMI was in the obese category.  Most of my size 14 clothes were becoming too tight and I had started replacing them with size 16.  I hated what I saw in the mirror.  I hated being so self-conscious about my appearance.  I hated that simply chasing Punky across the room left me winded.  I hated being so tired, so worn down, and so depressed.

This morning, just six short months later, the scale reading was 138.  My BMI is in the normal range.  When I bought some new clothes at the end of April, size 10 was a perfect fit.  Since then, I have lost another 14 pounds so they are now on the donate pile as well.  Size 8 pants are too big in the waist but comfortable on my lower abdominal c-section roll; six 6 fits my waist perfectly but can be a bit too snug on that mommy pouch depending on the brand.  My sister even made me try on her size 4 jean shorts and I was surprised to see them slide so easily over my hips, but they were about an inch too short on fabric in the lower gut to actually get them zipped.

My original goal was 135 pounds.  Now I've decided to shoot for 130 which would leave me smack dab in the middle of the normal BMI category for my height.  It will be a slow process though.  I will continue to exercise regularly and watch what I eat, but I want to really focus on learning how to maintain this level for a bit.  I still plan to face the scale every morning because, for me, it really is the best way keep things in check.  If it drops a bit here and there and eventually reaches 130, so be it, but I'll honestly be thrilled to stay anywhere in the 130's.  I'm happy here.

Over the last few months I've written about my journey and all the things I learned along the way.  I really don't have any new or exciting tips to share, but here are the things that I feel really made a difference and helped me achieve a goal I once thought impossible:

Weight loss is basic math.  Calories in vs. calories out.  Period.  It's not really what you eat, or the type of exercise you do, that matters.  What matters is the mathematical equivalents.  Sure, some foods are clearly healthier for you and lower in calories than others, and some forms of exercise are tougher and more strenuous than others, and eating well and working out hard will surely tip the scales in your favor, but the bottom line is this: burn more than you consume.  It doesn't get any simpler than that.

Strive for balance and don't deprive yourself.  Losing weight doesn't mean you have to give up all your favorite foods and indulgences.  It just means learning moderation and focusing on the big picture.  I didn't give up any particular foods, I just learned how to accommodate them in my diet by lessening the frequency and portions while keeping an overall balance in mind.  Sure, I've had days of complete overindulgence, but I worked hard before, after, and sometimes during, to keep their impact to a minimum.  Again, it all goes back to basic math.

Get enough sleep.  Seriously.  I know as well as anyone how incredibly hectic and crazy life can be, but stealing extra hours at the expense of the good night's rest your body so desperately needs is never a good idea.  Somehow I've managed to get my insomnia under control and establish a regular sleep schedule, with only an occasional off-night here and there, and I really think it's made a world of difference.

Take your vitamins, especially vitamin D.  I spent years blaming my thyroid issues for my rollercoaster mood swings, but the doctor disagreed with me in January and pointed the finger at my extreme lack of vitamin D.  I don't think it deserves all the credit, I mean eating right, excercising, and feeling better about myself in general has surely contributed to a happier me, but I really believe there is some truth to it.  I feel calmer, more relaxed, and life is more like a train ride than a rollercoaster these days.  Sure, there are some sharp turns and once in a while I hit some garbage on the tracks, but life seems to chug along steadily now.  The extreme highs and lows no longer exist. There is no deep, underlying depression.  I have a new level of control and balance in all aspects of my life.

And if you're looking to make a huge physical transformation in as little time as possible, I can't say enough about Jillian Michaels' workout videos.  The woman obviously knows her stuff; my body is exhibit A.  Her focus on a combination of strength training plus cardio really works and creates a lean figure in no time.  In the beginning, you'll want to die.  Trust me.  But it's truly amazing how quickly your body will change, your endurance will skyrocket, and suddenly you'll skate through the circuits with ease.  Okay, maybe not exactly with ease, I mean you'll still feel the burn and sweat buckets but you'll get through it without panting and gasping for air, throwing your hand weights at the TV screen, or calling her every name in the book.

Now I just need to find the time, the money, and the willpower to face the stores and buy new clothes because my closet is in really bad shape.  I only have a handful of things I can wear to work, and I'm tired of wearing the same outfits week after week.  Unfortunately, of the three, the money will be the hardest to find right now.  There is another round of big changes heading our way.  I'm sure you'll hear me whine about it once we have all the details.