Words. At This Moment, They Fail Me.

Oh, FFS already:

Right now I'm still speechless.  I'll find some words and post them later.

More Baby Steps

I’m a first-born.  And an over-achiever.  Not to mention a people pleaser.  I’m also Catholic.  Mix all that together and what do you get?  Someone who has a hard time standing up for herself and when she does, she feels guilty about it.  Someone who just does. not. like. letting people down, or having people disapprove of a decision she’s made, or be displeased with her.  Ever.

Yeah, I’ve been working on that.  For almost forty years.  Step by step, I’m making headway.

For example:

About three weeks ago I got talked into participating in the From Couch to 5K program at my YMCA. 

For those who don’t know, From Couch to 5K is a ten-week long program designed to prepare non-runners (here I am, waving my arms, non-runner over here!) to run a 5K race.  Starting with a five minute walk followed by a two minute jog followed by another five minute walk, the program gradually builds the time spend jogging until the final week, when you jog for thirty minutes straight.

Ugh, I’m getting palpitations just re-reading that phrase:  “jog for thirty minutes straight.”

Actually, the first three weeks really weren’t all that bad.  I enjoy my solo Saturday morning runs and quickly found that I can run for a minute or two longer than the scheduled times, and then run again for another three or four minutes.  Doesn’t sound like a big deal, but keep in mind that I am That Girl who, in high school, begged the gym teacher to pleeeeeeeeeease let me stop and retie my shoes during the timed mile run because my lungs were on fire.

All of that progress was very exciting for me.  This week, however, my body started to rebel.  For the past year and change, I’ve been working out three days a week – yoga, Pilates, and a half an hour on the elliptical.  Now I’ve added three days of running to that regimen, and my back is not happy. 

Tuesday was rainy, so instead of jogging on the trail, we worked out on treadmills.  Our trainer did what she’s supposed to do and encouraged us, and pushed me to jog faster to better mimic running outside.  My normal response would be to suck it up, begrudgingly increase my speed, and jog faster while whining inside my head.  On Tuesday, I decided that that wasn’t going to work for me.  And I said just that – “No, that doesn’t work for me.”  The trainer looked at me and tried to lay a guilt trip on me, but I just shrugged and kept jogging at my slow pace.  Then she suggested that I increase the incline to (again) better simulate jogging outside.  To humor her, I raised the incline to 1.5.  My lower back quickly voiced its displeasure.  I lowered the treadmill's incline back down to zero and said that magic phrase once again – “That’s just not working for me.”

It felt so good.

I know, I know, sticking up for myself to a trainer when participating in a running program is hardly revolutionary.

But for what might be the first time since I can remember, I listened to my body and instead of pushing myself further, I drew a boundary.  And stuck to it. 

That felt good.

I might not stick with this From Couch to 5K program, but I will definitely stick with listening to my body (physically and emotionally), drawing appropriate boundaries, and sticking to them.

Defining Me

It happened again.  One of my boys did something that compelled a teacher to tell me about it.  After T’s gymnastics class, a boy was sitting down and putting on his shoes when T came up from behind and pushed him over.  The teacher made it a point to let me know that she didn’t see if anything happened before hand (which I took to mean that she didn’t know if the boy had done something to encourage or provoke T), but that she saw T push the boy.

My first thought was something like: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.  This woman probably thinks my kid is an ass and I suck as a mom.  You know, because every other mom has such puppet-master-like control over their kids that the mere thought of misbehaving causes such psychic pain that they immediately think otherwise.  Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Now, intellectually I know T made a bad choice.  And intellectually I also know he’s not a bad kid, but your typical five-year-old boy.  He’s at an age where he’s very tactile, very touchy – he is constantly touching me, his brothers, his friends.  It’s not malicious; often it’s the exact opposite, but he doesn’t quite get that others might not appreciate his invasion of their personal space despite his desire to hug them.  But there’s still that voice in my head that says it’s my fault.

And then the Thursday before school vacation, I got a call from J’s teacher.  On the playground during recess, he was wrestling (!!!) with some classmates – boys and girls.  One of the girls fell and hit her head, and J accidentally kicked her.  The teacher said that J acknowledged that he was doing something he shouldn’t, and that he was remorseful that the girl was hurt, but she called me because the girl left school early due to her injury.  (They have recess at the end of their day, just before dismissal.) 

Again, my first thought?  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.  I thought we were past this.  Will J ever get over this attraction to mischief, or am I going to spend the rest of his academic career as That Mom?  I don’t want to be That Mom.  I want to be That Mom of Those Really Great Boys.

In both cases, I know the boys made bad choices, and made them independent of me.  And yet I feel like those choices are a direct reflection on my performance as a mother, and on me as a human being.  And that these reflections are, for the most part, ugly and negative.  Like there’s this huge, gilt-framed portrait of me (and it’s totally unflattering because the angle makes my already large nose look absolutely humongous) with “Epic Fail” stamped on it in big red letters somewhere in the Halls of Personhood.  In the Motherhood wing.  In the Room of Failure.

I don’t doubt that this obsession with my parental effectiveness is exacerbated by the fact that I am a stay-at-home mom.  I know, I know, just being a mom is a Full Time Job (seriously, working moms, I tip my hat to you; I don’t know how you work a full day and then come home and do what I do), but when you don’t leave the house to go and interact with other adults on a regular basis, you spend a tremendous amount of time thinking about things.  Like the layout of your house (where should we put the piano?), its state of general cleanliness (don’t ask), and how to create a perpetually organized homework station in your kitchen (if you know how to do that, please let me know because I’m desperate).  But mostly you think about your kids.  And whether you’re doing a good enough job raising them.  And what your kid’s teacher thinks, and what your kid’s friends’ moms think, and what your mom friends think, about you as a mother.  You think about how you’re being judged.  Always about how you’re being judged.  I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.  (Please tell me it’s not just me.)

And maybe this is just me, but I feel like there’s a connection between the perceived negative judgments and the fact that I’m raising three boys.  That people tend to think that boy moms whose boys are active (you know, just like typical boys who – gulp – run in the library and touch everything within reach and constantly use their outside voices inside) are somehow not doing as good a job raising their kids as other moms.  Sure, the boys are reflections of me; and since they spend the vast majority of their time with me, it stands to reason that more of my influence rubs off on them than that of Hubster’s.  But I feel that people tend to ascribe the boys’ negative behaviors directly to me and my influence, and that every failure on their part is completely my fault. 

It’s a challenge not to let my boys define who I am as a person.  Right now, I don’t have a career other than Mother.  Sure, I have skills and experiences that were gained prior to, but I put those aside to dedicate my time and my self to raising my children.  They have been gathering dust for ten years, and I’m not sure exactly how or when they will be taken out and put back in use.

In the meantime, I need to keep reminding myself that I am doing my best to teach the boys right from wrong, to treat others with respect, and to make good choices.  And as hard as it is to let my boys go and let them learn from their choices, it’s equally difficult to remember that while they came from me and reflect different facets of my personality (and some of those facets might not be among my finest), my boys do not define who I am.

You know, except when they do awesome stuff like behave impeccably in public (how I cherish those oh so rare occasions), use good manners around adults, and win Nobel Prizes.  Then,  they can define me.  But pretty much only then.

This Space Intentionally Left Blank

Oh, Please

Take a look at this photo:

That’s Jennifer Lopez, aka JLo.  This picture appeared on msnbc.com on Friday, along with the following quote:

“I’m not a size 0 or 2. I’m not 6-feet-tall like a lot of the models that come around, and I’m like, ‘Wow, I’m really short compared to models!’,” the "American Idol" host, 42, said in an interview in the new digital edition of Vogue magazine. “I’m just a regular woman. I wear a size 6. You know, when I eat a little too much over the holidays, maybe a size 8. When I’m in shape, maybe a size 4.”

I was all ready to call bullshit on this until I went to this website.  She’s one inch shorter than I am, and weighs almost ten pounds less.  No, I’m not bitter.  I mean, depending on the brand of jeans I buy the designer, I’m either a size 6 or 8, too.  No harm, no foul there.  But then the website also gave JLo’s pre- and post-baby measurements:  34C-26-40 (pre-babies) and 34C-26-38 (post-babies).  Seriously?  She loses two inches in her hips while I lose TWO CUP SIZES IN MY BREASTS?  There is no justice.

Oh, come on now.  This woman probably has her own personal trainer, nutritionist, chef, hair and makeup team, personal assistants, and a nanny or thirteen at her disposal.  You’ve got a family membership to the Y and your parents to occasionally babysit the boys.  Of course she’s going to be in amazing shape after having twins.  And you know that the camera really does add ten pounds.

So now I’m supposed to feel better about myself because JLo isn’t a size zero?  A woman who has, from the dawn of her career, been known for – and celebrated for – her curves isn’t a size zero and this is news? 

And then the article shares with us that JLo wears a diamond ring that reads “I Love Me.”  You know, to remind her that if you don’t love and take care of yourself, nobody else will, either.  That is actually an incredibly important message that every female of any age should internalize and never forget.  However, I don’t think too many of us can afford to wear it on our hands as bling, as JLo does.

Uh, no.  But... your point?


Oh yeah.  Right.  My point.

Look, I do appreciate that there are celebrities like JLo who do look slightly more like "regular" women than those skeletal size 0 models.  But... and this is a big but (not to be confused with a big butt...  ha ha) can these celebrities please be just a teeny bit more realistic about how different their lives are from just about everyone else's?  You know, admit that you have a cadre of assistants who help you, and you are aware that pretty much every other mother in the world can't afford that.  And that maybe, just maybe, you realize that your life is pretty damn good, and you are grateful for it.

Because otherwise, I'm just not going to have any sympathy that JLo is "really short compared to models" at her curvy size 6.

OMG I'm Not Twenty Any More!

Last night at yoga I realized that I am getting old.  Well, yeah, we’re all getting older all the time, but I have lived in this little fantasy bubble of mine where I think – despite being married for ten years and having carried and borne three kids – that I’m still in my twenties and have this cute, tight little body (please ignore the slightly stretched out, flabby belly and shrunken boobs), and can totally hang with the likes of Kristen Stewart, Emma Stone, and Mila Kunis.

Yeah, right.

Last night it hit home that I am so beyond all that.

Over the past couple of weeks I started to notice that I was getting a little bit of a spare tire.  I know!  I do yoga and Pilates as well as cardio every week.  Okay, maybe I’m sneaking one too many chocolate covered almonds, or scarfing pretzels and chips (and Trader Joe’s dark chocolate pistachio toffee) too often, too late at night.  But still, isn’t that why I’m working out?  So I can eat those things whenever I want?

And then, last night while doing a pose during yoga, I held my arm out and looked at my hand.  Really looked at my hand.  And I noticed that my hand no longer looks like the hand of a twenty something.  No, it looks like the hand of a middle-aged woman.  I guess it’s a good thing that I was in a yoga-induced calm when I realized this, because just typing “middle-aged woman” gave me palpitations.  Me.  Middle aged?  No.  That’s just preposterous!  It’s impossible!  It just. cannot. be.

Except it is.

Let’s face it.  I’m forty.  I am going to be forty-one in a month.  Those little starlets who I like to pretend I could hang with?  I could be their mothers, for God’s sake!  (I also could have starred on Teen Mom when they were babies, but that’s another topic altogether)

No, given the chance, I will never turn Rob Pattinson’s head.  *le sigh*  And to be honest, even if the impossible actually became possible and I found myself, erm, in a position to get intimate with the  twenty-five year old Hollywood hottie, I would be so freaking neurotic that he would be horrified by the changes that motherhood have bestowed upon my body.  TMI alert, kinda – while I am proud to say that I can still fit into size 6/8 jeans, carrying three babies to term has not only left my belly soft and mushy despite the weekly Pilates classes, it has also, um, affected my other less visible lady parts.

I can’t stop the forward march of time.  I can’t magically make myself forever twenty-five.  At times (like at yoga this week), it totally sucks.  But I remind myself that everyone else is getting older, too, so while that’s not ideal, it certainly lessens the sting.  

As does $10 and a box of permanent hair color.

Reality Check

I don’t know what’s gotten into me since I unloaded my bullying experience.  It feels like 95% of my motivation for writing evaporated as soon as I hit “Publish.” 

My kids will do or say something and I’ll think oh, that’s a great topic to write about, but instead of germinating and poking its head up through the ground, the seed remains dormant.  My mind has been rendered infertile, dammit, and I do not like it!

So I apologize to you, dear reader (all one of you), for two things:  first, for my recent lack of posts, and second, that it might take me some more time for the brain to return to its fertile, writing-piece-sustainable state.

While all of this is frustrating, though, it’s really not all that bad.

I talked to a mom yesterday who, almost two months ago, had a bilateral mastectomy and about thirty lymph nodes removed.  Tomorrow she starts chemotherapy, and will later also undergo radiation, to ensure that the stage three breast cancer she was diagnosed with is eradicated.  She has a six year old and a four year old.

Thankfully, her doctor says that after her treatment, there is a less than one percent chance that the cancer will return.  But in the meantime, she has a hellish road ahead of her.

I can’t imagine what she is going through not just physically and financially, but emotionally as well.  Just thinking about it makes my stomach tighten and my eyes well up. 

In the meantime, I am organizing helpers among my moms’ club – we’re going to do what we can to help this mom in need by running errands, hosting her kids for playdates, bring them to and from school, and providing gift certificates to Target and the grocery store.

So yeah, I have been rather frustrated that I can’t seem to break through this writer’s block, but my frustration is far preferable to the medical, financial, and emotional turmoil that my friend is dealing with.  I pray for her, and I thank God for the blessings that I have.

I know I’ll get my writing groove back.  I've got to.  I’m a full time mother to three little boys.  Just dealing with them, how can my mind not return to its normal, sarcastic state?