Punky vs. The Olympics

In general, very few things make me teary.  I'm not an overly sappy person.  I don't cry at commercials, except when I had pregnancy hormones up to my eyeballs, and I can count on one hand the number of movies that have prompted me to shed a tear.  Even real-life circumstances that cause normal people to lose control and break down rarely start waterworks for me.  One exception is my love for Punky, of course.  Sometimes I get teary just watching her watch TV.  And the other guaranteed tearjerker for me?  The Olympics.

The watery eyes start with the opening ceremonies and continue through each event I watch.  I love the Olympics, especially the summer games, and they turn me into a complete couch potato for two weeks straight.  Four years ago, while I was pregnant with Punky, I spent every free moment tuned in to the games.  Night after night I vegged on the couch with my cross-stitch and stockpile of sour foods that I craved the entire nine months.  The crazy hormones made it an especially teary time for me.  The house was quiet; her dad knew not to interrupt.  And life returned to normal after the closing ceremonies.

In preparation for the London games, I've spent the last few months telling Punky tidbits about the Olympics, the different sports and events, and some of the great moments I'll always remember from games past.  The intent, of course, was to build her interest and excitement so I stand a small chance in hell at being able actually watch an event from start to finish without getting her twenty-three cups of milk, putting the head back on her doll eight times, answering fifteen questions completely unrelated to the happenings on TV, and solving at least seven utter crises that occur in a three-year-old's world in a ten-minute period.

About four minutes into the London opening ceremonies it was already clear that I failed miserably.  She danced around in front of the TV, played with the loudest toys in her arsenal, and was the hungriest, thirstiest, neediest child I have ever seen over the course of those few hours.  I kept trying to suck her in to the excitement on the screen, but she'd watch for thirty seconds and then return to raising hell.  When the parade of nations began, I grabbed her globe ball and attempted a geography lesson.  I thought it would be neat to show her where everyone was from, and maybe it would keep her seated and quiet for a bit.  We made as far as China and then she tired of my plan.  I was a somewhat grateful when I saw names like Mauritius, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan.  And where the hell is Azerbaijan anyway?  In the end, Punky fell asleep exactly two minutes before team USA was finally announced in the stadium and I knew better than to wake her.  

I was a bit more hopeful going into yesterday's events because she would get to watch actual sports instead of people just walking around in circles.  In my mind I envisioned us snuggled up on the couch, laughing and cheering and munching popcorn together.  It didn't quite work out as planned.  The cycling prompted her to ask me to ride her tricycle about fifty times before I finally couldn't take it anymore and reluctantly shut off the TV to take her outside for a bit.  Upon our return, the women's beach volleyball match between the USA and Australia cost me a picture frame when Punky decided to serve a ball into the entertainment center.  The men's 400 IM, that resulted in Ryan Lochte finally ending Michael Phelps' Olympic medal-winning streak, made Punky think it would be a good idea to dive off the couch into a pile of pillows.  She miscalculated and went face-first into her guitar which left a little cut on her cheek and prompted a twenty-minute crying spree.  The men's gymnastics qualifying event caused her to run, jump, spin, and tumble around the living room but thankfully I caught her before she dismounted from the back of the couch and broke any bones. 

I have a feeling this is going to be a long, dangerous, stress-filled two weeks at our house as I struggle to keep both Punky and the furniture in one piece.  As I write this, the TV is on the Disney Channel.  I'm saving my strength and patience for the start of the women's gymnastics events tonight, and I'm looking forward to Rio in 2016.  Hopefully it will be much easier when Punky is seven, because right now just watching feels like an Olympic event in itself.  Thankfully I've had three years of training.

Glutton for Punishment

In terms of holidays, the Fourth of July has never been a big deal to me.  I welcome the day off from work, of course, and I enjoy a grilled burger now and then, but other than that it's just like any other day of the year.  It's certainly not in the same holiday category as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.

But not to Punky's dad's family.  For them, the day is truly Christmas in July.  It's a big deal, complete with a huge family gathering, lots of food and booze, and the utter need to end the night watching a fireworks display impressive enough to rival the largest cities of the world.  Lucky for them, his sister happens to live in a tiny town that does just that, and she opens her home every year to friends and relatives for the celebration.

Fireworks, meh.  I could honestly take 'em or leave 'em.  Yes, they're pretty to watch, but they've never been a big draw for me.  Even as a kid, I'd rather do something else.  I remember staying in the pool in the backyard while everyone else went out front to watch the fireworks at my grandmother's.  Swimming was simply more fun.  Disney World is another fine example.  Stop and watch the fireworks at the end of the night?  Hell no.  Go on as many rides as possible while the lines are short because everyone else has gathered to watch the them, of course.  I've just never been bitten by the fireworks bug, I suppose.

Anyway, even though I'm not really into the bangs, booms, and colors in the sky, I enjoy going to his sister's for the get-together.  We don't really see most of his family very often, and I want to make sure Punky has the opportunity to spend time with them.  They are her aunts, uncles, and cousins, and I want her to grow up knowing them.  It's important to me.  And the day is usually full of good laughs, good music, and good food.

Punky and Marley

This year we took the camper and parked it in her driveway so we could spend the night and not have to worry about having a few drinks or fighting the traffic to get out of town.  Punky had a great time playing with Marley, a little girl her age, and I enjoyed watching their interactions.  We walked down to the tiny carnival in town for a bit and Punky loved the rides and games.  She won a goldfish, but thankfully forgot all about it so we left it at her aunt's when we left the next morning.  I know, bad Mommy, but I'm seriously not up for cleaning fish bowls or hosting flushing funerals just yet.  And the fireworks display at the end of the night was pretty spectacular, but we would have enjoyed it more if it didn't start raining two minutes before it started.

We got home shortly after noon yesterday and by one o'clock I was in bed, sick as a dog.  My stomach simply ached.  It rumbled, grumbled, cramped, and turned for hours, despite the three doses of Pepto, eight Tums, and an enormous glass of baking soda and water.  I moaned, groaned and whined through movie after movie while Punky's dad thankfully kept her occupied all day so I could pray for death in peace.  He even took her out to the camper to sleep last night and spared me the usually lengthy and complicated bedtime routine.  I finally felt better this morning, until I stepped on the scale.  In exactly forty-eight hours, I gained three pounds on the nose.  And, aside from breakfast, all I ate yesterday was twenty-calorie popsicles because the cold was oddly relieving some of my stomach trauma.  

I suppose I overdid it a bit on Saturday.  Okay, a lot.  And it was somewhat premeditated.  I mean, I've been diligently counting, and watching, and exercising for months.  Once in a while I deserve a day to eat what I want and not worry about it, and what better opportunity than a family picnic, right?  I worked out just before we went, we walked miles around town, and I chased Punky around all day.  I wasn't exactly sedentary and I made the conscious decision to enjoy all the wonderful foods stockpiled in the kitchen.

Unfortunately for me, my body rebelled against my choice.  I'm just not used to eating like that.  Cookies, cheese and crackers, chips, candy.  A deep-fried bloomin' onion at the carnival.  A six-pack of wine coolers.  What the hell was I thinking?  All that fat, sugar, grease, and alcohol surely wouldn't sit well in a stomach used to mostly healthy foods and a low-calorie diet.  And believe me, over the last twenty-for hours I've paid for every single bite I took.

While I obviously have no intention on ever returning to old eating habits, once in a while it's nice to indulge a bit.  But one of the side effects of this body-changing journey is apparently the development of a finicky stomach.  Honestly, it really sucks.  I used to be able to eat whatever I wanted with no issues.  I never had indigestion, constipation, heartburn, or nausea from food.  Most women suffer with those almost constantly through pregnancy, but I got by with a handful of Tums over the course of nine months.

Now I've found that just one slice of greasy, cheesy pizza can block me up for days.  Sweets of any kind can set me up for bedtime heartburn.  And alcohol consumption leaves me bloated and gassy, with an occasional bout of the walking farts.  

I suppose these changes in digestion could be attributed to the fact that I'm getting older, but I'd rather blame it on something more positive.  If I tell myself it's from all the incredible changes I've made in the last few months, it's easier to swallow.  We have another camping trip and huge family picnic coming up at the end of August which will be the perfect opportunity for history to repeat itself.  I sure hope I internalize this lesson by then because I don't want to spend those days alone, on the hard bed in the camper, praying for my stomach to explode and put me out of my misery once and for all.

My Fifty Cents

As much as I love it, it's no secret that reading has been on the very bottom of my to-do list the last few years.  I manage to keep up on some blogs I love and sneak in the occasional novel once in a while, but for the most part recreational reading landed in the not-enough-hours-in-the-day category once Punky came along.

Over the last few months, I've read blog after blog about the book Fifty Shades of Grey and, to be quite honest, I reached a point where I was tired of hearing about it and I had no desire whatsoever to read the trilogy.  First off, the biggest complaint was that it is poorly written, and I knew that in itself would make me want to gouge me eyes out.  And the other hot topic, of course, was the intense sexual relationship at the very core of the plot.

But then I read that analysts are actually predicting a 2013 baby boom because of the immense popularity of the books.  I read that seniors in nursing homes are devouring the trilogy.  I read that thirty-year marriages are ending because women are demanding changes in their sex lives after years of the same old routine.  Finally my curiosity got the best of me and on a whim I decided to take the plunge.  Plus, it was the perfect excuse to try out the Kindle app I installed on my iPhone months ago but had yet to actually use.

If you haven't read the books but intend to, stop reading here as this post may contain some spoilers.  And, Mom and Dad, if today happens to been the once-in-a-blue-moon when you actually come by and read something I've written, kindly hit the back button on your browser now to return to your bingo game or Facebook.

I started the first book shortly before our camping trip last month and the trilogy became a welcome distraction with all the crap that ensued in the following weeks.  Just a few chapters in, I had to agree with the critiques about poor writing.  If it weren't for the dark and mysterious character of Christian, I may have been tempted to quit reading, but I already needed to figure him out.  The more I read, the less annoying the poor dialogue and repetitious vocabulary became.

On the whole, the characters are fairly unbelievable.  Take Anastasia, for example.  What twenty-one year old female in modern times doesn't own a cell phone?  I mean, really.  She's portrayed as the perfect picture of innocence and naive to the gills.  Of course she's a virgin, in fact she's never even had a boyfriend.  While finishing up her college degree, she buries herself in classic literature and her part-time hardware store job, and is apparently oblivious to the fact that a world of incredible technology exists all around her.  She's portrayed as whiny and needy and child-like on one hand, yet in other respects she comes across much older than she is.  Her character is a bit conflicting and confusing at times.  One minute I'm rooting for her, and the next I want to punch her.

Then there's Christian, because gorgeous, mysterious, twenty-seven year old millionaires are a dime a dozen, right?  Yes, Mark Zuckerberg is only twenty-eight, but he's not exactly a Christian Grey, is he?  For me, Christian's character would be much more believable if he were forty.  He's smug, arrogant, controlling, demanding, and sneaky, and even though those traits all end up attributed to his early childhood with his birth mother, the crack-whore as he so affectionately calls her, and his six years of submission to the infamous Mrs. Robinson, he still comes across as way older than he's supposed to be.  In my mind, anyway.  No matter how I tried, I couldn't envision a twenty-seven year old kid while reading. 

Minus the poor grammar, conflicting character portrayal, and pages upon pages of sexual encounters, the underlying plot of the trilogy isn't bad.  There are plenty of surprises and intense moments that leave you hiding in the bathroom to finish a chapter before your three-year-old can interrupt you for the hundredth time.  Or maybe that's just me.  

Now to address the big elephant dancing around the room in a tutu: Ana and Christian's sexcapades.  Critics have called the book dirty.  Religious zealots have called it sinful.  Prudes of all ages have deemed it pornographic.  I don't think it was really any of those things; I think it was real.  Just because people in general don't talk openly about such intense sexual encounters doesn't mean they're not having them behind closed doors, or that the majority of the population only has missionary sex for the purpose of procreation.  If that were the case, strip clubs, hookers, adult bookstores, and the world-wide web of pornography simply wouldn't exist. 

Christian and Ana's sexual relationship is definitely intense.  In the beginning, he's trying to mold her into what he's always known, and her innocence keeps getting in the way.  Their encounters are always heated, overly passionate, often downright scary, and sometimes even a bit gross, but the one thing the critics fail to point out is that they truly are head over heels in love from the very start.  Throughout the trilogy their sex life continually evolved, and by the end they seem to have it all figured out.  Everyone has limits, sexual or otherwise, and they know each other on an intimate level that most people married for decades never even know exists.

The hardest part of the story for me was figuring out when exactly Christian made the transformation from jerk to Mr. Wonderful.  In the beginning I didn't like him, even though he intrigued me.  Every time I started to be on his side and think he wasn't such an a-hole after all, he'd screw up.  By the end of the story I loved his character, but it was truly a two step forward/one step back process through all three books.  

My absolute favorite part of the trilogy was the final epilogue at the end of the third book, especially the very last part where the author rewrote the beginning of the first book from Christian's point of view.  It gave me the answer I wanted: Christian had feelings for Anastasia right from the moment they met.  He wasn't really the selfish, arrogant, twisted jerk he seemed to be.  Okay, so he was, but his intentions were good.  And knowing that changed entire tone of the story for me just when I thought I had it straight in my mind.

Laters, baby.

Three Point Five

Punky is officially three and a half today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fall of the Superheroes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't ever want to say goodbye.

Three Years Of Rambling

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

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

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

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

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

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

To The Woods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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