The Journey Continues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favorite Things Friday: Cracker Chips

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three and a Quarter

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

Ahem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Theater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking Charge of the Numbers

My mom and sister decided to start one of those so-called "miracle diets" the first of this month, and while I wasn't invited to play along, it was the catalyst I needed to attempt to lose my post-baby and post-thyroid-disaster weight.  But I'm doing it the old fashioned way, no drugs or crash diets.

The first fifteen pounds or so is new weight, gained in the last few years through having Punky and moving in with a man that can cook circles around most women I know.  They say couples mimic each other's eating habits over time, and now that I take a step back and look at it objectively, there's definitely been some mimicking around here.  I expected this new weight would be fairly easy to lose with some minor changes to my food choices and eating habits, but I anticipated a struggle when I reach the old weight gained when my thyroid initially crapped out fifteen years ago.  It's been a around long enough to be comfortable and stubborn.

When my thyroid issues started, I gained almost thirty pounds in a two-month period.  I had stretch marks to rival any pregnant woman and I literally burst out of my clothes.  Once the doctor stabilized my levels, I never made a serious attempt to lose it.  Looking back, I'm really not sure why.  I was never a skinny minnie, and years of gymnastics, cheerleading, and swimming my summers away left me with a somewhat athletic build, but I never had any struggles with weight control.  I really never paid much attention.  I was young, busy, active.  I guess maybe I thought it would fix itself with time and thyroid meds. 

Anyway, I started counting calories on February 1st.  An app on my smart phone makes it easy and convenient.  I set up a custom plan based on where I was and where I want to be come summer, and aimed for the accepted healthy rate of about a pound a week.  From everything I read about weight loss before starting, slow and steady wins the race.  It's logical, I suppose.  It's not about losing a bunch of weight quickly, it's about a lifestyle change.  And change is a process.  The more gradually it occurs, the more like you are to accept it, internalize it, and not return to bad habits once you reach the finish line.

The first week of this journey was an incredible adjustment, not only in regard to what I was eating but when.  I opted for six small meals or snacks a day, and counted every ounce that crossed my lips.  I can't really say I was hungry by week two, but I was a bit cranky.  Cravings set in and made it difficult to be excited about carrots, but I got through it.  Week three was much better, and by week four it had almost become routine. 

Weekdays are easy.  The structure of my day at work makes it simple to stay on track.  I try to end the work day in the 500-600 calorie range, which leaves just over half of my goal intake for dinner and a snack before bed.  It works well.  Weekends, on the other hand, are a train wreck.  It is so much more difficult to keep that routine when I wander aimlessly through the kitchen a thousand times a day.  I've never been into sweets, but I'm a carb junkie.  The loaf of bread on the counter is almost maddening at times.  If I want something bad enough I eat it, but I plan ahead for it and leave enough room in my calorie count to accommodate it.  That way, I don't feel like I'm depriving myself of anything which makes me a much happier person.  And, in turn, makes Punky and her dad happier people. 

So, today was the end of week four.  The result?  I've lost fourteen pounds.  This weekend I wore jeans I hadn't worn since before Punky was born.  I've worn shirts to work that haven't escaped the dark closet for years.  I can't really see the difference in the mirror, but I can feel it in the way clothes feel on my body.

While it all seems easy and worth it and rewarding right now, things are about to go down hill.  I know my thyroid has been a bit overactive and I'm sure it played a role in the accelerated weight loss this month, but I need to adjust it now.  I've had a few heart palpitations lately so I need to back off the medicine for a while, which in turn will crash my metabolism and cause the scale to freeze.  Well, hopefully it just freezes.  I'll be pissed if it starts going the opposite direction.  Also, just as I expected, the new weight I described above has disappeared.  Now I'll be dipping into the old stuff and I don't think it will leave without a fight.

The finish line is set for mid-July.  I'm sure there will be many ups and downs along the way.  Hopefully more ups than downs.  No, wait.  I guess technically more downs than ups would be better.  It's a vicious game of numbers, and math was never my strong suit.

Moving On Up

We had our annual parent/teacher conference at daycare this week.

While we weren't a bit surprised to hear how intelligent Punky is, we were a tad bit shocked to hear that her behavior at school is almost stellar.  Don't get me wrong, that's a good thing, but it means she's saving all the whining, crying, hitting, and full-blown tantrums for us.  Better than decking some kid at school, I suppose.

Her teacher conducted the standard evaluation, but then the daycare director spent a few hours with Punky one on one to evaluate her further.  She took her through a series of skill sets and was amazed to see her easily completing tasks that most kids fail at age five.  Based on her discoveries, she made some phone calls to fellow teachers for advice on what to do with Punky to keep her learning and engaged.

The problem, first and foremost, is that it's a daycare.  They strictly follow the guidelines as far as what to teach children based mainly on a number: their age.  They confirmed our suspicions in that the decision last fall, to keep Punky with her current teacher instead of moving her up with her peers, was made because she was only two.  She was eight months younger than the closest child in her original group, so they held her back and stuck her with kids months younger than her.  It did wonders for her maturity, let me tell you.  We had previously kicked many behavior issues only to have them return in October when she was surrounded by kids still in the biting, hitting, whining stage.

Another problem is that they are simply not staffed to provided a custom education program to one individual child.  There isn't really a need; most kids that age fall within the norm of development.  Her current teacher told us that she really struggles with Punky in class now because, with a group of rambunctious toddlers, she doesn't have the time to devote to take lessons a step further for Punky's benefit.  As a result, Punky is definitely bored and gets frustrated when her teacher makes her wait to answer while the other kids take turns guessing.  But, on the flip side, she said Punky is really helping her teach the younger kids.  While they have a tendency to tune the teacher out quickly, they pay close attention when Punky steps in and explains things.  

Based on all of these observations, they have devised a plan.  For the next three months, they are going to move Punky up into the next class where she would have been if she moved with her group last fall.  After the summer break, they are planning to move her into the pre-K group even though she will only be three and a half.  Based on the director's evaluation, Punky already has most of those skills nailed the way it is.  

The only other factors to consider are her social skills and level of maturity.  On the social end, she is way ahead of the game.  No worries there.  On the maturity end, I have some concerns.  I think she would have been fine if she moved with her group last fall, but I think the past six months spent with the younger group has hindered her some.  The next three months will determine her fate.  If her attention span, in conjunction with her ability to sit still, keep her hands to herself, and follow instructions, is where it should be then she will go to the pre-K group in September.

If the plan comes together, she will have completed the pre-K course before reaching age four and a half, and then she'll have almost sixteen months to wait until she can start kindergarten because of Pennsylvania's strict guidelines for public schools.  A child must be age five by September 1st, or else they have to wait another year.  No exceptions.  No testing.  No consideration for advanced kids whatsoever.  The only way around it is a private school.  They will admit a younger child if she passes the required testing.  Once kindergarten is completed in a private school, a public school has to admit the child into first grade.

While this decision is still over a year away, we've briefly discussed it.  It will be a tough call, that's for sure.  We want to do the best we can for Punky and we don't want to push her if she's not ready.  And at the same time, I have no idea where the closest private school is to us or if we could even afford it.  But, on the other hand, she is starting to read now after just recently turning three.  She's doing basic addition and subtraction.  She is teaching herself Spanish, for God's sake.  Chances are that by the time she is able to start kindergarten in a public school, she'll be reading on a third grade level or higher.  And we'll have set the stage for more years of boredom and frustration.  

We are so proud of her, how could we not be?  Before Punky was even born, I worried about her development.  What if there was something wrong?  What if she was behind?  What if she had a hard time learning?  Now, on the other side of the fence, I have just as many worries and concerns about her future.  One thing for certain, there's no shortage of shit to stress over in the world of parenthood.

Reflections on Thirty-Eight

I turned thirty-nine on the eleventh.

I needed to let it soak in for a good week before even attempting to write this post.

It's conflicting, really.

The logical, rational side of me says "no big deal, I'm still young, it's just a number, it doesn't matter one bit.  I'm generally healthy, generally happy, and have many great years ahead of me."

The crazy, emotional, tendency to over-react to everything side of me says "what the hell just happened? I was thirteen, like, yesterday. This is my last trip around the sun as a thirty-something.  How will I even cope this year with forty taunting me on the horizon?"  This side also caused me to write a to-do list that includes things like making a video will, creating a list of items I want to take with me, so to speak, when I go, and ridding my closet/dresser of all items that a woman in her forties shouldn't wear.  And it made me google things like the average costs of funerals these days, the most creative places people have had their ashes scattered, and the safest, most popular plastic surgeries available.

Then Punky's dad slapped me.

Not really.  But I'm sure he wanted to.  My pity party lasted all day Sunday.  I moaned, I sighed, I whined, I moped.  I took an inventory of my grays, I checked my legs for spider veins, I stared at the wrinkles that have definitely started forming around my eyes and smile.  Lucky for him, he was on third shift that weekend so he slept a good part of the day.  But while awake, he followed me from room to room as I bounced from topic to topic, spewing tangent after tangent.  He was a good sport when I asked him repeatedly if I look my age, if he thinks I'm fat, if my boobs are getting droopy, if I should dye my hair.  

Lucky for us, I was back to my normal self on Monday.  

Thirty-eight was a good year.  We had our first ever real family vacation.  My peanut transitioned from baby to big girl.  The health scare we had with her turned out to be nothing, so far anyway.  My years on diaper-duty came to an end.  We had great holidays.  We both remained gainfully employed.  Of course, there was some drama, some bad luck, and some shitty days.  

I thought thirty-eight would be a year of change for me on a personal level, but it didn't really start to kick in till the end.  Even though I thought I was ready, I suppose I wasn't.  Now, slowly, the pieces are coming together and I've started down the path.  The big 4-0 looming overhead is a great motivator.  I know who and where I want to be at forty.  And I have less than a year to make it happen.  Some changes will be big, some small, some easy, some hard, some may even be silly but necessary to get to where I'm going.  

Stay tuned.  I think thirty-nine will be a great year.