Wish me luck

Well, friends, we're leaving late this afternoon for Milwaukee, and our plane leaves for Texas at 5:40 tomorrow morning. I am as prepared as I can be, which means I am completely ill-prepared. It is fair to say I'm nervous. It is fair to say that today has been a pretty major disast of trying to do last-minute packing and errands while trying to keep two cranky children from eating each other in a fit of cannibalistic rage. It is fair to say I am ready to get out of here - I just am not particularly amped for the getting there.

Please send good flying vibes to the vicinity of the Ks tomorrow.

Please send good boarding vibes to my nervous Houndy, who my sister predicts will be hairless by the time I return as a result of his anxiety.

And on that note, have a Happy Thanksgiving!

XO,
Momma

Fit and Fat: Actual Living Specimen Found Roaming The Woods

I'm hating myself a little for this post already, despite not having written it yet. But I'm gonna do it anyway. I'm gonna talk about fitness.

To paraphrase my sister, I'm the type of person who is inclined to sit on my porch drinking a giant Dr. Pepper while armed with a Super Soaker filled with mayonnaise that I use to shoot any poor sap who comes jogging past my house in body-hugging, moisture-wicking activewear. I mean, don't get me wrong. I've pretty much always been outdoorsy and basically active in my day-to-day operations: hiking, walking several miles a day, gardening, and generally dicking around in a state of perpetual low-grade motion. But I am not a person who purposefully tends to fitness. You know, for like 45 minutes at a certain point during the day while wearing a heart rate monitor. No, not Big W.

Ahem.

So, Hosedog. My sister went on this fitness and Weight Watchers bender nearly two years ago and she got all fuggin' fit. She made pals with this weight-lifting meathead at her former school, and he got her on a serious lifting program and she got hooked. And then she got all cardio-tastic and ran a half marathon. And shit like that that I disdain. And then she moved home to The Woods to teach here. And then she asked me if I wanted on her fitness bandwagon. And I was all like, "Fuck no. Okay."

So since the beginning of the school year, I have been waking up at 5:30 IN THE MORNING, and my sister pulls in my driveway at 5:45 and we drive up to school and we go in the weight room and we work out until we almost puke. Every day, unless there are extenuating circumstances. But we've been pretty dang faithful for a couple of semi-roomy gals who don't necessarily shy away from a cream sauce. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we do cardio. Tuesday is arm day. Thursday is leg day. Sometimes we throw in an ab workout. We wear weight-lifting gloves and shit and grunt when we have to. It's all like scheduled and planned and just like all the fit people who do fitness every day because they're fit. And then I come home and walk the dog a mile or two for a cool down. And people say to me, "Wow, I saw you out walking before 7:00 this morning!" And I casually affirm their statement, but on the inside I'm thinking, "Bitch, that was my COOL DOWN! I am so fit that the impressive little early a.m. trot around town with the houndy is my fuggin' COOL DOWN!"

So, Hosedog is pretty much the best personal trainer ever. She has enough weight training knowledge to actually impress my husband, which is close to impossible in pretty much any department, but most especially that one. When I'm like dying my way through the third set of some horrific skull crushers or some other horrifically named weight lifting maneuver, she always casually but in a very timely manner says, "Hode, your forearms look HUGE right now!" I mean, not that most people desire huge forearms, but I'm a fan of all hugeness and it works. She's really supportive and knowledgeable and awesome and a great person to almost puke with. And it's a nice way to start our day together. We can bitch about things, almost puke, and bitch about things. It's nice. Pretty much every day, we spend a minute in my driveway deciding whether we should just go out for a big fuggin' omelet instead...but up to the weight room we trudge. The only way to work out is with a partner. I don't know what the heck I'll do when she moves away again.

So I'm feeling muscular. I mean, I am muscular...my baseline physique is abnormally muscular for someone with a uterus. But Hode's maneuvers have got my arms all firm and, dare I say, almost toned? My legs need more muscles like Turbo needs more ears, but it's always nice to be just a little bit more of a badass, right?

And the cardio. That's the reason I'm posting today of all days when I've been keeping this big fitness secret from you all. Today I did something that is, for me, epic. When I was a kid living on my block filled with my cousins and 100 other kids, we of course ran all over hell all the time playing ridonkulous games that involved a lot of, well, running. And I hated it. I hated feeling winded. I hated the way it made my sides hurt. I hated the burning feeling in my lungs. I took to telling the other kids I was allergic to running. And I wasn't kidding. That's right. As an 8-year-old, I very seriously told people I was allergic to running. Fast forward to high school, during which time I participated in lots of organized sports and tended to not suck. I still hated running. I played many, many basketball games during which I saw not even 30 seconds of bench time, but still that is different than straight up running. There is stopping and starting, for example.

But that, high school, was the last time I was actually purposefully moving my body at a speed greater than a brisk walk with any regularity. Yeah, I graduated 12 years ago. And gained 600 pounds. And spent 44 consecutive months pregnant or nursing (that particularly statistic is never going to get old for me).

So Hode says we're gonna do real cardio. Me, seeing no point in this, decided that if I was going to do it I needed some explicit plan to follow so I could have goals, meet them, and generally feel as if there was a point beyond self-torture. So I found one of those Couch-to-5K programs, even though I wasn't doing a 5K. Because it was a plan, it was clear, I could cross things off. So I started doing something like walking 90 seconds, jogging 60 seconds, or something like that. Of course it was easy. But then when I started to run for like 3 minutes, my body got a little pissed. I never had wind problems (amazingly), but where my calves connected to my bones hurt and my hips hurt and various parts of my legs felt like they'd explode. But I kept at it, and never couldn't do the workout I was supposed to do on any particular day. Thanks be to iPod (ironically, also a gift from Hode).

So today, today was a big deal. I ran for 20 minutes (21 actually, because I wanted to do an even 2 miles), without stopping. The previous workout had been 8 minute run, 5 minute walk, 8 minute run...so 20 minutes seemed like an eternity. I mean, really. That is a long time to be running on purpose if you haven't so much as broken into a trot for 12 years. I wasn't going to attempt the 20 minutes today because I've had a horrible chest cold for what seems like 3 months, but at the 8 minute mark, I felt good. So I kept running. (You know, like Forrest.) And I just kept running. And my body kept running. And then it ran some more. I was sweating pretty awesomely and feeling like I was exerting myself, but it was totally freaking doable. Me. Running. For as long as it takes to watch an episode of Cougar Town if you fast forward through the commercials.

The weight room is in a mezzanine overlooking the gym, and we are roughly at eye level with the gymnasium lights. There is a big silver light that another light casts it light off of right in the middle of my field of vision...making for a big silver shiny spot. It is my focus object in labor. I go to the light. I actually enter the mythical place where I am just going, not really even completely conscious of the fact that my body is moving. Holy shit, right?

Because, um, pals, I'm a chubster. Really. I've lost a few pounds since we started with these shenanigans, but I do not look AT ALL like a person who runs. I am, in fact, muscular. But I am also a giant cow. My midsection is decidedly wrapped in an exoskeleton of flub. Not "pinch an inch" flub. Actual flub. I am flubby. I have back fat. My BMI is, like, a lot. (Eff BMI, by the way.)

So, here it is. I am fit and fat. Ha! This phenomenon actually occurs! Neat!

You know what the cool thing is? Now that I am reasonably fit on top of my fat (or underneath it, as it were), I don't really look at the fat the same way. I'm just pretty much cool with myself. More forgiving, definitely. Whatevs, back fat, you can't keep me down! I can run for 20 minutes! And next week I will run for 30! So, take that, Fatty McBackfatterson.

This is entirely personal. I don't much care about anything except the fact that I feel really good. When Bigsy takes off for the highway, I can definitely catch him. If I ever need to flee from an attacker, I could actually potentially get away. I feel strong. I feel healthy. I feel solidly mentally stable. My pants fit better. I don't look in the mirror and get all pissy about my midsection...I just flex my big arm muscles at myself and then go make Big K feel my triceps while I gloat.

This, this...fitness...was not a bad idea.

Dude.

Good times.

So I came in the house this morning after my big marathon (ha!) and I was shrieking and dancing and yelping. Phook laughed at me for a bit and then said, "Okay, Mom, it's time to settle down." Big K was appropriately proud of me but could not resist saying, "So you ran two miles for the first time in your life at age 30. You're an inspiration to old ladies everywhere!" That was a good one, I gotta admit. And then we laughed about how I'm going to try to stay fat as a disguise of my fitness so I don't make other people feel bad about how unfit they are. You know, it's kinder to the general Wisconsin populace if I keep an ample midsection. Can't fly your fitness flag too high around here. Good times in the K bathroom this morning.

So, there you have it. I don't think we can call me a runner, but I think we can call me fit. Yes, we can say fit. I will indeed call what really fit people consider a warm-up to be evidence of my own watered-down version of fit. Yes, I will. Yes, fit. I am.

Ha!

XO,
Momma

P.S. If you read this whole post while loading your mayo gun, I really understand. I've read a lot of posts like this on other blogs while loading my own mayo gun. I hate few things as much as other people's fitness. So if you hate my fitness, I understand, I really do. Just don't tell me in my comments, because that would make me really sad on a very fit day.

Leavin' on a jet plane

Aw, buds.

Next Tuesday, my whole family and my MIL and BIL are getting on a plane and flying to Texas to see Big K's other brother; he defected there a couple years ago. Our flight leaves at 5:40 a.m., which means I'll be dragging myself and the kids out of bed at a really disturbing hour. My plan is to have everything ready and throw them in the car in their p.j.'s at the last possible minute and pray that they'll still be in a deep enough sleep to pass back out in the car, but that's highly unlikely and I'll functionally be getting my children up at about 4 a.m.

We then take about a 2 hour flight to Atlanta, have about 40 minutes to change planes in what is a huge and extremely busy airport, and then take another 1 hour flight to Texas. We'll get there at about 11:30 a.m. local time. Right now, I can't even look at the itinerary to check the return flights, but I know it spans over nap time.

Allright, crap.

This was my idea, the flying. Big K had been angling hard for the typical K Family 24-hour roadtrip, but I couldn't imagine Bigsy strapped to a carseat for 24 hours. Sure, we did it when he was 9 months old, but a 16-month-old is a decidedly more mobile animal, and this one is rabid. And then there is a 3-year-old thrown in the mix just for giggles. I had credit card miles, we have a vehicle to use when we get there...we only had to buy one ticket and therefore it is actually cost effective to fly. When I was clicking my heels and booking the tickets, I was amped.

But now that I think about the realities of those hours and what the heck it might do to my kids at 30000 feet, I'm not able to control my gag reflex.

The good news is that we do not have to haul strollers or car seats because our destination has a kid population-in-law and they have stuff we can borrow. Major awesome. I will wear Bigs in my Ergo carrier in the airport. Phook is oddly adept at marathon and sprint distances, and my husband is a pack mule. So I'm not even worried about airport logistics.

Nor am I worried about the 3-year-old in question. The child has been totally amped to "fly up to the top of the sky" since I broke the news to her months ago. She is a great car traveler, she enjoys nearly anything we hype up to her as awesome, she can be entertained with books and drawing really easily, and she is generally not a real big shithead until after she has had her sleep schedule jacked up for more than a 24 hour period. So Texas may suffer some damage, but I'm optimistic that she'll do her part to keep the skies friendly.

But Bigs. Oh Bigs. I love him, I do. But the child is mad man. Have I mentioned that? I don't blog about him enough. Here's the thing. He puts Phook's status as a physical savant in a fairly distant second place, and we thought she was a rockstar. The child taught himself to two-footed jump--both on the ground and off of miscellaneous items--several months ago. You know, right around the time most kids are starting to get the hang of walking. He now spends about 4 hours per day jumping. You know, just cuz. He goes up and down stairs with ease. He can climb up onto any piece of furniture, even if it starts at a height that is taller than he is. He bends over, puts his head on the floor, and drives himself around with his forehead stuck to the carpet just for the fun of it (we lovingly call this the "meat plow."). He thinks all his body parts are weapons. He can kick, throw, operate a scissors, put a straw in a juice box better than I can, operate most features of the DVD player, and if I gave him chopsticks, I'm guessing he could figure out their operation by suppertime. He also has a cruddy, garbled vocab of maybe 20 words and screams really loudly when unhappily restrained.

A couple weeks ago, at church, he wanted off my lap and he crawled down onto the pew and sat like a big boy next to Phook for about 4 minutes. I think that's the first and last time I've ever seen him hold still while conscious. I was gasping for breath and clawing at the pew in front of us because I nearly lost consciousness from shock.

Fellow passengers, I apologize in advance. Given that it's a 5:40 a.m. flight to a huge international hub on a Tuesday (albeit Thanksgiving week), I'm guessing it is not going to be a particularly family-filled flight. Just us and a lot of people who hate us. Oh shit.

Did I mention he's flying as a lap child?

Did I mention he's getting his molars?

Did I mention we've all been sick for what seems like forever and I'm sure we'll still be flying snot rockets early next week?

So, okay. Snacks. I take lots and lots of snacks.

Someone told me to get little white boards and markers. I might.

Books. I'll take some for him to throw at me.

Miscellaneous small amusements to brain other passengers with.

But, really, I'm screwed.

Assvice? Anyone? Ever flown with a 16-month-old often mistaken for a hurricane? One with poor listening skills?

Thank God he's cute. I'll dress him in bibs to maximize any potential charm he has in the hopes that the other passengers consider sparing him. The only other good thing is that, at least on the trip there, our family will have all 5 seats across a row in an aircraft, if they honor the seat selections I made...which means he can theoretically be tossed back and forth across an aisle and not be assaulting a stranger. That's got to be worth something, right???

If there's one thing I've taken a stand on on this blog it is about appreciating what you have and not being the type of idiot who bitches about the color when someone gives you a free cashmere sweater. And yet, here I am. About to go on a long, extremely cheap vacation to a place that will be decidedly warmer than my homeland. And we're even driving down to the ocean for two days, which is, um, my favorite thing to do. And I'm all Whiny McWhinerson about the flight. Note that I've noted this, and I'm feeling appropriate levels of guilt and practicing appropriate amounts of self-flogging. I'm just having a hard time suppressing my own survival instinct...because, dude, Bigsy in a confined space for multiple hours when he is supposed to be nestled in bed...yeah, the thought of that scenario makes me feel like my life is in jeopardy.

So, dudes, have a hearty chuckle on me. And send earplugs.

XO,
Momma

Better late than never

Allrighty, so, the retail world long ago decided that it is the Christmas season, totally skipping over the lovely holiday that is Thanksgiving. But despite being behind the times, I wanted to share a few Halloween pictures with you. Because my kidlets were really cute, methinks.

First I must share with you that both kids were totally into the pumpkin gutting this year. Bigsy was all in it to win it.


Phook was also onboard this year, after years of trepidation. She pretty much solo gutted her pumpkin, then requested that we carve the face of her gymnastics instructor into the thing. Alas, Big K carved her second choice, a cat.


Big K rocked his classic maneuver of absurd pumpkin art by carving a chupacabra within a pumpkin as designed by Hode. I didn't even know what a chupacabra was, which apparently makes me really lame.


For costumes this year, Big K desperately wanted us to go as The Flintstones, because he thought Bigs was the perfect BamBam. Well, he was on point on that count, however I couldn't figure out how to get us all in costumes that are essentially scant animal-print rags without making a major investment in insulated flesh-colored body suits, so we went with two witches and two mad scientists. I think it was hott.


I really loved the mad scientists:


And this was supposed to be the witches-only picture, but a mad mad scientist snuck in:

Let's check out the cutest mad scientist in close-up:

And my favorite witch:

Man, this Halloween was really, really, really just fun. It was the first time for Phook that the holiday was all fun, no fear. She was into trick-or-treating bigtime, had the whole routine locked up, and really enjoyed herself. Bigsy was his jovial self and ate like 19 pounds of candy before we even got home. Just a good old time. I hope yours was fun as well. Now get out there and finish that Christmas shopping, you slackers! (Eff that noise, I say.)

Quote of the Day x 2: The Potty Humor and International Relations Edition

Quote of the Day - Potty Humor Edition

So the other day we were driving to gymnastics. I asked Phook if she needed to go potty or if she could hold it all the way to gymnastics. She said, "No, I don't need to go potty. The potty at quastics (her adopted word for gymnastics) is real big. And all the kids fall down the hole into the poop and into the pee. And then they get real mad."

And I said, "Really buddy, they do? What kids do that?"

And Phook said, "Nobody. I just teasin' you."

I thought that was good bathroom comedy.


Quote of the Day - International Relations Edition

Today we were in the car in a nearby town. There is a camo-painted Army tank permanently parked and displayed in sort of a town square area in this town. Phook spotted it and asked what it was. I found myself struggling to give a reasonably detailed answer, because reasonably detailed answers are what she is going for these days, to the point where I sometimes have to invoke the "We'll have to ask Daddy when he gets home" response because we're getting to some grade level in science that exceeds my personal knowledge base. What I ultimately came up with was something like, "Well, Phook, that's a real big 'chine that's like a big tough car. And sometimes countries, like the big place where we live, get in fights with other countries. And those big fights are called wars. And when our country is in a war, we need to use big 'chine cars like that to help us win our fights."

And Phook said, I shit you not, "Those guys need to change their attitudes. They need a new attitude."

Seriously. My recently minted three-year-old is able to figure out what the world's heads of state are incapable of realizing, based simply on the most ridiculous, most elementary description of the concept of war.

That made my day. Maybe my year. Phook, budding diplomat?

And one step back...

In parenting circles, you hear the term "regression" not uncommonly. People talk about their kids regressing after the birth of a sibling...wanting to use a bottle or sleep in a crib after they've graduated from these things. Or regressing in their potty training when they move to a new house. Or something like that. I've also heard about kids randomly regressing in some way in conjunction with a growth spurt or some developmental leap. I dunno. I kind of thought all that was bunk, since I'd never witnessed it here in the House of K and I'm narrow-minded like that. I mean, I've witnessed ear-splitting naughty and maddeningly emotional outbursts and all those joys. But I've never seen one of my kids very markedly go backward in their behavior. Until now. Let's discuss.

Phook. Phook is mid-regress. It's weird. She is not being especially naughty or especially confrontational or especially difficult. But she is definitely doing some things that are so 6 months ago. Or maybe even a year ago.

Not the pottying. Thank everybody's god, not the pottying. The pottying is intact.

The first thing I noticed was that she was asking to be carried, particularly up the stairs to bed. And not just in a random way, but she wants to be carried slung across the front of the carrier's body, "over the threshold" style, let's call it. This is a child who has been walking miles on her own since her first birthday. Also a child who is a big fan of the "I want to do it ALL BY MYSELF" school of fun. So I noticed this. She does it with me and with Big K. We simply comply. No harm, no foul.

The second thing is her language. Now Phook has never been known for her pristine diction. Not by a long shot. But she had gotten to a point where there was less than one percent purposeful gibberish in her speech. I would have called it a rarity. I would go so far as to say she was at the all-English all the time phase of linguistic development. But the last few weeks, we have gibberish again. Yesterday, she was sitting against the wall waiting for her turn at the gymnastics class she's taking, and all of a sudden she just burst forth at me across the gym with a not angry but not entirely pleasant streak of something resembling, "Jock a pee a pall a peen a pop a pood a pep!" I smiled and nodded, looked around for her real parents, shoved a handful of craisins in Bigsy's mouth, and moved on. She is spouting a streak of gibberish at least 15 times per day at this juncture.

Her overall pronunciation is intact with the exception of her brother's name. When he was first born and she was 21 months old, she still had a significant amount of difficulty with the ending consonant sound in words. For example, she would say "ca" instead of "cat" and "cu" instead of "cup." Her brother's name ends in a hard sound and when he was born she couldn't say that ending consonant. A couple months later, that part of her pronunciation developed both with Bigsy's name and with other words. The last few weeks, she is back to calling him just the first sound of his name about 70% of the time. So odd.

She has also been very, very clingy with me. Today at storytime at the library, she chose to sit with me (I was on the floor monitoring Bigsy's ill-conceived attempt at squishy juice box consumption anyhow), instead of on her carpet square. When I left her with my sister last week to go play volleyball one evening when Big K had an evening meeting, she for some reason thought I hadn't given her a hug and a kiss before I left (I had) and launched into a meltdown the likes of which I could not even imagine her engaging in as my sister described it. Really. And this child, while healthily attached to me, has been able to casually wave and say "bye" when I leave since at least her first birthday. If I am sitting on the love seat and she on the couch, she comes over to sit by me...something I would normally have to beg her to do. Very, very odd.

So I can't figure it out. Heaven help us if it's a growth spurt because between her two-year and three-year checkups she jumped from 75th percentile in height and 50th in weight to off the charts in both measures. The child just turned 3 and she is wearing a 5T. So I think the growth spurt has to have already happened.

My only theory, and it is a shaky one, is that it has something to do with her social development. As I mentioned, she started taking a weekly gymnastics class about two months ago. She really likes it. There are like 5 kids in the class with an instructor. They do all sorts of cool stuff. Headstands, somersaults, launching themselves onto foamy pads, getting in a harness and jumping on a trampoline, walking on a beam, etc. All lovely. A couple weeks ago, Big K got home from work early so I was able to take her by myself and leave Bigsy at home with Big K. On the way there, I was making conversation about the class, asking her if she liked it, etc. She does. I asked her if she liked her teacher. She does. I asked her if she liked the other kids in her class. Her response stunned me. She said, "I like Jake. Not the Sarahs." (There are two girls named Sarah in the class.) Maybe for those of you with kids in daycare who have formed little friendships since they could crawl, this is not noteworthy. But for Phook it is. She has met and played with about 9 billion little kids - kids of my friends, playgroup kids, etc. It always goes pretty much fine and without incident. This gymnastics class is the first time she has been engaged with a consistent group of other kids regularly, so maybe that's what has her forming firm opinions on her peers. Whatever, it is new. She informed me that she does not like The Sarahs simply because they are "real weird." She will not elaborate.

But I know she does really truly like Jake. She is worried that he won't arrive if we get there first. Yesterday, she didn't want to play in the warm-up area until he got there. Halfway through the class yesterday I looked up to see her very gently clasping his cheeks with both hands, staring into his face. When she left, they hugged each other warmly. I would say it is the first time she has formed--or has had a chance to form--what seems to be something of a meaningful relationship with another kid.

So I'm wondering if this new development of friendship outside our family has the other half of her wanting to cling to her family more than usual. It is the only big change I can see when I sit around and theorize about this.

That's probably a crackpot theory. I don't even really believe it. I just thought I'd throw it out there. Big K simply says, "Child development is not linear" and dumps an entire bag of M&M peanuts from the kids' trick-or-treat candy in his mouth. I sit around and think about it. Of course.

So tell me, have your kids gone through seemingly random regressions? What did they end up being linked to, if anything?

(Let me be clear than I'm not hoping to "fix" this or even lamenting it so much as I am just feeling curious about it. I don't mind extra snuggling. For all I care, I'll carry her up the stairs when she's 16 if she asks me to. I'm a sucker like that.)

XO,
Big W