Happy People Take Risks

A high school teacher I admired once said, "Happy people take risks."

Maybe it's because I've never been a risk taker, or maybe it's because I've never had an abundance of confidence, but being happy and taking risks never went hand in hand for me.

I think I thought if I did take a risk, it would fail miserably and then I would be miserable. That's a heck of a way to live life, right?

I'm mulling over all of the things that I've missed out on by not taking risks here on Good Housekeeping. Pop over and share your thoughts. Are you a risk taker? If so, how does it usually turn out for you?

Subscribe to our monthly mailing list

Tuesday

It's Tuesday again. Tuesday is my Nemesis, my Groundhog Day.

Yes, this would be my toilet.

 

 

 

You see, my cleaning lady comes every Tuesday. Now, before you go thinking 'Kathy is too highfalutin' for me,' just know that I don't pay her very much. She's not that good. And I'm okay with that because 3.2 seconds after she walks out the door, someone spills their full glass of milk all over the kitchen floor or pees all over the bathroom wall or smudges up the glass on the front door with their fingerprints.

 

So each Tuesday, after she leaves, I inevitably have to use the toilet in the master bathroom at some point in the day. And each time I use it, I have to scoot the toilet paper keeper - thingy back up next to the toilet because she has scooted it all the way back in the corner.

 

Why is my toilet paper not on a toilet paper holder, you ask? Because the same little humans that mess up the house in 3.2 seconds managed to break it off the wall, that's why.

 

Anyway, each Tuesday, as I am sitting on the toilet and scooting the toilet paper back up next to me - again - I am thinking, 'It's Tuesday again? What did I do last week?'

 

In fact, I'm kind of feeling like my life lately has been this endless series of Tuesdays that leave me scratching my head and wondering what I am doing with my life.

 

One glance at my already full January calendar tells me what I've been spending most of my time on.

 

Everyone has their own color.

 

Sometimes I long for the early days when the boys were little, and we had nowhere to be. An outing for us was the grocery store or the library for story time. I never got bored because I always had someone to play with.

 

But my boys are growing up, and unlike the lazy days my older boys experienced, Baby E's schedule is determined by the older boys' or how many errands Mommy thinks she can run before nap time. That's just the life of a family, I guess.

 

Not that I mind (most days), but as the new year is beginning - ironically on a Tuesday - I can't help but reflect on one nagging thought: What the hell did I do last year?

 

And more importantly: What will I do this year?

 

No, this isn't going to be a New Year's Resolution post. I've done that before. And I think it's safe to tell you because we're all friends here - I didn't do any of those five things I said I was going to do, with the exception of writing more. In 2011, I posted 23 times. In 2012, I posted 116 times.

 

In April, I was asked to be part of a new website called Her View From Home, which highlights the many wonderful aspects of my home state, Nebraska. (No seriously, Nebraska rocks! It's a great place to live.) I am currently writing two family posts and one gluten-free post a month, which post on Wednesday mornings. Even if you live nowhere near Nebraska, I promise you, the site has something you will enjoy.

 

Lately, I have also been featured on other sites. Mamapedia was the first to post something of mine. I really wanted to see my own name on my daily e-mail from them. After submitting about eight times, I was ready to give up. I had a post that had gotten a good response from people, so I said 'What the hell - one more time.' And that's the one that did it. You always hear that many famous people were rejected several times before they found success. But, rejection sucks - for real. I guess my takeaway there is that the more I submit, the more likely someone will grab something they like.

 

I've had success on other sites, too, like The Huffington Post. From there, I have gained new followers for whom I'm so grateful. I may not have thousands of followers, but I know the ones who are here are here because they really want to be and want to hear what I have to say. And that's humbling, but also inspiring.

 

As far as those getting healthier and exercising goals - holy crap, you guys! This has not been a good year for that. I have neglected myself big time. That fact glared back at me a few times from pictures I saw of myself. Here I am on my 40th birthday:

Not bad, right?

Here is a professional photograph I had taken this summer that is now following me around the interwebs as my gravitar:

 

 

 

This picture is horrible! Holy moley, I look godawful! I think you can still see the old me in my smile and eyes, but the bags under my eyes and the bloated face tell onlookers what's been going on - way too much crappy food and way too little sleep. My mom keeps telling me, 'Well you are 42, you know.' Yes, thank you, Mom, I can count. I'm not denying aging, but looking the way I do in the second picture is preventable and - hopefully - fixable.

 

And there's the aging body. Yes, again, I'm in my 40's, metabolism is slowing down, blah, blah, blah. But friends, I have gained a serious amount of weight his year. Which obviously is not acceptable. I know I am probably never going to have my honeymoon, pre-baby bikini body back - like, ever - but, I did promise Hubby I would consider wearing a bikini on our tropical vacation later this year. Instead of airbrushed magazine models, I'm using me as inspiration.

 

 

I used to think I was fat. It was the thighs. I've always

had, er - ample - thighs.

 

 

 

We joined a new family-friendly gym, and I just have to go. Or do something at home most days. There's really no excuse. One of my sons is getting a little chubby, too. I feel like I've been setting a horrible example - failing as a mom. I need to do better.

 

So that's the thing. I need to do better. I know I can do better. I told someone today, I've had too many of those Why bother? moments this year. And I shouldn't have. Despite the fact that yes, I am still grieving the loss of my beautiful boy and I will be for the rest of my life, I do have the rest of my life ahead of me. And Hubby's and my sons. I want to be the best me I can be. I want to at least be trying harder.

 

We've heard all the sayings - Happy wife, happy life. - If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

 

Seriously, these are true. And the wife and mama hasn't been too happy for a while now. Really happy.

 

But you know what? I think I've finally come to a place where I know what makes me happy - what used to make me happy anyway. And all I can do is say I will try. No resolutions, no goals. Just maybe a few dreams in mind, maybe some things I want to do. I'm not going to spell them all out here. I'll keep them close to me for now, but I promise I will share if I meet with success.

 

I have spent way too much time this past year feeling sorry for myself, thinking nothing I do matters anyway. I know that is simply not true. It matters. I matter. I don't want to feel tired and hopeless. I want to feel invigorated and hopeful.

 

There are things I want to do.

 

All I can do is try.

 

It is Tuesday after all.

 

 

 

 

Do you have a New Year plan?

 



 

 





 

 



 

What I Learned on My Vacation

I'm back to my blog after about two weeks off. Two weeks away from social media. No blogging, no tweeting, no pinning, barely any commenting on other blogs. I needed a break. Things were getting to me. I was tired, physically and mentally.

I wrote this post, and then went on vacation to San Diego with my family. The perfect time to step away.

In my absence, I received all manner of comments ranging from empathy and understanding to speculation that I am depressed, still grieving, or really ill.

Well, it's nice to know people care.

The truth of the matter is that I am probably all of those things. I am a busy mom, trying to do too much and not taking care of myself.

The truth is that I am depressed - about Joey, about family "stuff", about myself and feeling like I'm in a sinking boat while my only oar floats away.

The truth is that I grieve for Joey every day, but so much harder some days than others.

The truth is my well-being is ill because it hasn't been attended to in a long time. My treadmill broke. I eat like crap. I'm tired, but I won't go to bed because of everything that's weighing on me.

I slept a lot on vacation. As I sat in our bungalow each night waiting for the boys to fall asleep, I'm sure Hubby was sitting outside with a glass of wine waiting for me to join him and look at the stars over the bay and listen to the water lapping against the sand.

But I was sleeping. Because I needed it.

I took two naps, too. Because I needed them.

I didn't bring my laptop, and I deleted a lot of blog posts that were e-mailed to me (I did read the ones from all my most favorite friends - AnnMarie, Steph, Meredith, Kimberly, JD, and a handful of others, but I just didn't comment). I didn't look at Twitter, and I barely checked Facebook.

And you know what?

Life went on.

Bloggers blogged, Tweeters tweeted, Pinners Pinned, Facebookers updated statuses.

And honestly, I really don't think I missed much.

What I didn't miss was having fun with my family at Legoland, watching the sheer exuberance of three little boys who ran screaming through the Mini-Land display to all of their favorite Star Wars scenes.

 



Or the fascination that all my boys - big and little - had with the fish pond at the resort.

 

 

 

Or watching all four boys have a total blast simply playing in the wet sand getting completely filthy.

 

 

 

Allowing myself to allow them to get completely filthy.

 

 

 

My mistake was thinking that things would change once I arrived back home. Thinking that I would have this magic change of heart or profound inspiration or strong motivation to eat tofu and run 6 miles every day.

 

Nope.

 

Monday morning greeted me with two appointments and no babysitter, and Monday afternoon slapped me with two activities and one little boy who didn't want to do either.

 

My treadmill was still broken, I had vacation laundry to do, I had a post to write for HVFH, and I fell back into my old pattern of staying up way too late at night and noshing on too many unhealthy foods.

 

I realized that there were things to be learned from a week away . . . and they weren't necessarily things I wanted to admit.

• No matter how much sleep I get or how many naps I take, I will always be tired.
• I like junk food; and if it's here, I will eat it.
• I am a night owl. I always have been. Old habits die hard.
• There is no laundry or toy fairy who visits your house when you are gone (oh, wait a minute . . . yes, there is. Her name is MOM!! Thanks Mom!).
• I logically cannot spend all of my time on social media. It is not my job. That's great that some people treat it like their job, but I just can't right now. And I can't let myself get upset about certain things not happening because I am not trying as hard as someone else.
• That pile of crap on my desk and all that junk in the "Lego" room is not going anywhere. I will get to it eventually.

Please tell me you have a room like this in your house, too.



I once heard that if you've crossed everything off your to-do list, that means you're dead. I think I am going to be around for a while.

 

As far as my writing goes . . .well, I'm not sure where it's going. What I do know, is that I need to take my own advice.

 

A young person whom I love very much and who has been very important to my family the past seven years, came to me for some advice. I told her one of my favorite pieces of life advice from one of my favorite people from my past.

 

My speech teacher in high school was Mary Kay Mueller. Today, she is an author, a motivational speaker, and life coach. She always had a smile on her face as she repeated to snotty, bored high school girls, "Happy people take risks."

 

Happy people take risks.

 

For 25 years I have been carrying this saying around - and telling other people this, too.

 

But not really living it.

 

You see, I'm scared of risk. With risk comes loss, and I've already lost too much. Loss hurts.

 

But without risk, you may never find happiness. No one was ever happy simply standing still. Content? Perhaps. But happy? No.

 

So yeah, I've got to take some risks. Recently, I applied for a paid blogger job and found out I was a finalist for the position. Wow, 'cause last year when I applied for this same job, I wasn't even considered.

 

I didn't end up getting the job; but I took a risk, and it made me happy.

 

So, going forward, I'm following the old school advice that Kit gave Vivian in Pretty Woman: Take care of you.

 

It seems so simple. Don't worry about anything else. If you take care of yourself, the rest will come. No comparisons, no beating myself up for something I am not. No gimmicks, no trying too hard. I am me, and I am unique. I am not anyone else and shouldn't try to be. I should just be the best me I am capable of being.

 

Without totally exhausting myself again, that is. ;)

 

 

What's the best piece of advice you've ever gotten? Did you follow it? How did it turn out?

 

 

I. Am. Enough.


Summer is officially here at my house, and even though I've written about how much I love spending time with my boys, I dread it, too for reasons that have nothing to do with bored, fighting siblings.

I dread it for the simple fact that during summer more than ever, wherever I go I am constantly comparing my body to other women's. 

And feeling incredibly insecure about myself.  Seeing other women in short shorts and bikinis and sundresses and tiny skirts makes me want to hide myself away covering every inch of the body I think is not good enough.

Why? 

No one has ever told me that (no one important anyway).

So why do I compare myself to someone who is not me and feel like I am not enough?

Because I am a woman, and it's what we all do.  I have been surprised over the years at how many different sizes and shapes of women have found fault with themselves. 

I once read a blog called Just. Be. Enough (*No longer linkable). Its mission was to
"empower, inspire, and remind women, parents, and children that the time has come to celebrate ourselves. We must. We must carry the weight of confidence and empowerment on our shoulders instead of allowing the burden of our flaws and imperfections to push us down."

The burden of our flaws and imperfections...

Are they saying everyone has flaws and imperfections?

Yep.

I think that is one lesson we women have always been taught that never quite sank in.  No one is perfect.  Even that woman with the kick-ass bikini body, a hot husband, and three adorably well-behaved children has flaws.

Even that woman at work or on the PTO who has fifteen balls in the air and juggles them with unflappable grace has flaws.

Some people are just better at hiding them. Some people are better at faking confidence (I do it sometimes).  Some people are just better at denying their problems.

If we know this, then why do we compare ourselves to other women?  Why do we let our flaws and imperfections push us down?

We are all beautifully flawed.  It is our flaws that make us wonderfully unique.  I have big hands and feet and a big nose and lips and broad shoulders matched with a small head and tiny eyes and short legs and small breasts with big hips and thighs.

But my husband thinks I am beautiful.

And some days, I do too.

Because I look at all of those mismatched proportions and I think about my wonderfully sweet and loving parents and which parts they gave me.  And which I gave to my darling sons.

I think about which parts make me just like my sister or my nieces, and which make me different.  I think about what I have that is unique.

When I get depressed I remind myself that I have a supportive family, I have an adorably funny and sweet husband who has never treated me badly, I have five very unique and special children, I have friends who laugh with me and drink wine with me and challenge me to be a better person.  I have a talent for writing that people enjoy and want me to share.

I am never going to think I look good in short shorts or a bikini or a backless dress.  But there are several other things I look good in and feel good in.

Dresses and platform heels.

Running shorts and tennis shoes.

Boot cut black pants and a cute top.

Jewelry.

My children's arms.

But I tend to think too much about, "If I can just lose ten pounds."

"If I could just organize my house."

"If only I could run farther."

"If only I could get paid for writing.'

I should stop thinking that I need to fix myself.  I should stop defeating myself and start caring for myself.  I should just start being enough me and stop trying to be some other woman.

I should carry the weight of confidence and empowerment on my broad shoulders for I have done some amazing things.  I am most proud of the fact that I have birthed babies and nursed them, and that I held my child and stayed with him when he died.

We have all done something amazing.  We just need to give ourselves permission to admit it and be proud of it.

Maya Angelou, that phenomenal woman with a gift for telling it like it is, said, “You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anybody.”

We don't have to prove that we are thin enough, fit enough, smart enough, mom enough, woman enough, good enough, anything enough.

We alone ARE enough.

That is going to be my mantra every time I go to the pool and look around at the perfect bikini bodies.  If I can truly get myself to believe that, I think I might make it through the summer with my sense of self intact.


Tell me, what are you most proud of about yourself?  What do you like most about yourself?  How do you convince yourself that 'you alone are enough?'

Welcome to May: The Month of Me

"Sweet May hath come to love us,

Flowers, trees, their blossoms don;

And through the blue heavens above us

The very clouds move on."

Heinrich Heine

It's finally May.  I love May.  The spring air has warmed, and the flowers and plants are in full bloom.  Birds sing to wake me in the morning.  School is winding down in a flurry of field trips and picnics and field days.  The beautiful spring clothes are on clearance in the stores and all the summer fashions have been rolled out.  Warm days mean pedicures and cute sandals and beautiful cool evening air for playing outside after dinner.  It also means intense, booming thunder that sends sweet, frightened little boys to my room to snuggle in bed with me. Graduation parties and wedding showers and outdoor barbecues with chips and salsa and plenty of good wine in cute novelty glasses. 

It's hands-down my favorite month.

Oh, did I mention that my birthday is in May?  And that Hubby has dubbed May "the month of Kathy?" He knows how much I love my birthday. I know, at least 19 million other people on Earth have my same birthday; three of my Facebook friends do.  But it's still my birthday, my special day.

Given the fact that I've never really had the utmost love and confidence in myself, it is ironic that I would have such strong feelings about the day I was brought on this earth, but I do.  Actually, there's never been any shortage of love I show myself this month.  I get pedicures and massages, and I get my hair cut and highlighted for the summer.  I do lunches with my friends, and I just relish in celebrating me.

The May I turned 40, Hubby threw me a wonderful surprise party, which was exactly what I needed given that's when Joey was very sick.  Even though I have always wanted a surprise party, all I really wanted for my birthday that year was to hear Joey say, "Happy birthday, Mommy."  But each time that day I would tell him it was my birthday, he just gave me a mildly interested smile.  By the next time I would tell him, he had forgotten already.

How Hubby planned a surprise party with all that was going on is a mystery to me.  Of course, I had no clue because I was so consumed with Joey.  He thought I knew, though, because I really made myself up that week, getting my hair done, a mani/pedi, and a spray tan.  Even though I was turning 40, I didn't want to look it.  Did I?

It always seems to rain on my birthday, though, which is weird.  So if you have any outdoor plans on the 20th, you may want to have a back-up plan.  Just sayin'.

Of course, Mother's Day is in May, too, just adding to the "month of Kathy."  We go out to brunch and dinner so I don't have to clean up the kitchen all day.  That's present enough for me!

So this year, I'm looking forward to this month and my birthday again.  My boys will be out of school already, and I have lots of plans for us for the summer.  And even though I'm over 40, I feel like my best is yet to come.  I've faced tragedy and been strong, I've held my own in a houseful of boys, and I've found a voice through my writing.

Now that the year is one-third over (wow, that was fast), maybe it's time for me to check in with my new year's resolutions.  As far as spending more time with my boys, it's been hard with school and homework and sports.  But, there's always this summer.  And Hubby and I have been pretty good about having at least one date night a month.  Just last week we went to dinner and a comedy club, which is something we haven't done since we were dating.  We even got to spend some time in the hot tub together.

About trying new things, I haven't really been presented with the opportunity.  But believe me, I've been looking.  Just this weekend, we were at a water park with water slides that were enclosed in a tube.  Seems like no big deal to most, but super scary for me.  I don't like dark, enclosed spaces or the idea that some freak accident could happen to me.  But, I decided to do it...and it was a blast!  I even got Slim to try it with me, and he had a great time, too.

Slim and me swooshing out of the water slide tube.

Hopefully, this summer will present more opportunities to step out of my comfort zone and try something new and fun!

My goal of writing more has definitely been achieved, as I am posting here at least once a week plus a weekly post on Her View From Home.  I've submitted some pieces to other sites, but none have been accepted.  That's been discouraging, and I haven't submitted anything lately.  So, I think it's time I try again.

That leaves the weight loss and the exercise.  And to that end, don't ask.

So here I am in my favorite month, looking outside at the leaves swaying gently in the breeze and the beautiful bright sunshine warming the world.  I have hopes for this month, for the summer, and for the rest of the year.  I think it's May's influence on me.

"The world's favourite season is the spring.

All things seem possible in May."

Edwin Way Teale

What do you like about your favorite month?

How Cool Is That?

              "I honestly think it is better to be a failure at something you love than to be a
              success at something you hate." (George Burns, American comedian, 1896-1996)

About three months ago, my best friend from college, who is a professional writer, sent me a message on Facebook.  It said, "I think you should submit one of your pieces here," and had a link to The New York Times.

The New York Freaking Times.

They were asking for stories on Modern Love, and my friend suggested I submit one of my Joey stories.

Now, I may not be one those "funny" mom bloggers, but sappy, mushy, and emotional I can do.

And even though it was The New York Freaking Times, and I thought I had little more than a snowball's chance in hell of my essay being chosen, I decided to go for it.

I spent the better part of two months crafting a story that wove the tragedy of Joey's death with the miracle of Baby E's birth.  It had great guts, but I had to write and rewrite both the ending and beginning several times.

When it was finally at a place that I could call it done, I e-mailed it to my "editor," my mother, herself a brilliant writer, who has been polishing my work since I was in high school.

As per her suggestions, I changed the ending again, and struggled to get the word count just right.

And then, I took it, and hit "send."

The information provided said to assume after four weeks if I hadn't heard back that they were not publishing my piece.  I wrote "four weeks" on my calendar from the day that I had sent it.  (When Hubby saw that, he said, "What the hell does 'four weeks' mean?"  He thought I was pregnant again!)

I forced myself to not think about it. I forced myself to not think about how maybe, just maybe, it was good enough to be published in The New York Freaking Times.   I forced myself to not think about how cool it would be to say that I had something published in The New York Times.

So I went about the business of writing and submitting articles to various on-line publications.  And blogging.   And waiting.

As the four weeks loomed nearer, and no one was biting on any of my writing, I started to get depressed. I started to wonder if I'm really as good at this writing thing as I want to think I am.  The words of another college friend, who has shared some of my blog posts on her Facebook wall, kept popping into my mind: Don't let yourself get in the way of this, Kathy.

Because that's what I do.  I get in the way of my own dreams.  Being the queen of self-doubt, I take any rejection and non-encouragement and use it to fan the flames of my negativity and self-pity.  I've only been writing for a little over a year, but many times I've wondered why I'm even doing it at all.  Am I just wasting time?

Until last weekend, when I got an e-mail from another blogger.  It seems she came across my blog via the friend who had been posting on her Facebook wall.  She is launching a new website next month and asked if I would like to be a guest blogger.

I felt a little like Sally Field for a moment.

Of course I said yes, and I will share the link here when the site gets closer to launching.

I had almost forgotten about the Times submission, until I opened my e-mail yesterday and saw Re: essay on modern love.  It had been exactly four weeks since I had submitted my essay.  My stomach jumped as I went to open it, although I knew in my heart what it would say:

"Thank you for sending your writing to Modern Love. Although we have decided not to use your essay, we are grateful for the opportunity to consider it. I regret that the volume of submissions we receive makes it impractical for me to offer editorial feedback."

Wow, I got rejected by The New York Freaking Times!  How cool is that?

You know what's even cooler?  That I gave myself the chance to be rejected.  That I didn't just say to myself, 'The Times would never choose my piece, so why try?'

Instead, I tried, and I'm doing what I love.  And I'm resonating with people who are reading my blog. To me, that is success rather than failure.

How cool is that?



Have you recently tried something you've always wanted to do?  Did it make you feel like a success?

At Least I'm Doing It

So, I got the bill for my gym membership in the mail the other day. 

That's $127 I'll never see again.

I know, I know...you're saying, "So, Kath,  how's that New Year's resolution to get healthy going?"  It's going - really, it is.  It's just not going to the gym.

I have a treadmill in my basement, which I use a lot over going to the gym.  It's just that it's right there.  I don't even have to leave the house.  I can hop on when Baby E is napping or when the other boys are watching t.v. or building Legos.  I can listen to my ipod and sing as loudly as I want.  Cee Lo and I can shout out, "Forget You (clean version only around the kids)," or I can obnoxiously agree with Gaga, "Nebraska, I love ya!"  And my boys don't even bat an eye.  They figure that Mommy is just singing again.  Being Mommy.

I like to rock out and dance/walk or dance/run.  I can run like this, and no one is around to see me (the boys don't seem to think it's strange at all).  I can do weird interval sprints or walk backwards or sideways or on my hands if I want to (no, I'm not that talented).  I don't have to worry about how I am working out or how hard or for how long, because no one has to know but me.

Sounds great, right?

Only when it works out (no pun intended).

The disadvantage of trying to exercise at home versus going to the gym is that the baby monitor, not me, determines the length of my workout.  When Baby E is done with his nap, I'm done with my work out. At the gym, someone else is watching him, and I can have up to three hours to exercise and shower (not that I ever use that time, but maybe I will some day - I can dream).

At the gym, there's obviously so much more equipment than I have at home, and trainers to help me use it.  There is a vibe there, too.  All around, people are getting fit and healthy, and I push myself to get into that same rhythm.  I silently compete with others as I look around the gym.  I've never matched the number of miles I've run at the gym on my home treadmill.  It's too easy to quit at home.

And too easy not to start at all.  Oftentimes, I will lay Baby E down for his nap, and before I even get on the treadmill, I think I can just quickly clean up the breakfast dishes.  And throw in a load of laundry.  And check my e-mail.  And, oh, as long as I'm on the computer, I'll see what people are talking about on Facebook this morning.

And before I know it, my time is up - and so is the baby.

My only inspiration and motivation at home are my too tight spring clothes and my flabby image staring back at me in the mirror.  At the gym, there are lots of other women, the ones I see every time I go, who are in great shape.  And I don't mean in an intimidating, hard-body, spandex type of way.  My gym is not like that - that's why I chose it.  I mean in a way I could be if I would make it a priority to go regularly.  I once met a darling octogenarian who gets a ride to the gym five days a week!  She was beautiful and happy and perky - a true role model for life longevity.

Plus, the scale at the gym has a sign over it that says, "Smile! You're beautiful!"

My scale at home says, "Hey, Fatass!  Why haven't you lost this weight yet?"

This  morning, I had planned on going to the gym.  I even called yesterday to reserve a spot for Baby E in the nursery.  When I woke up, I put my gym clothes on.  The morning was going smoothly - the kitchen was clean, and fresh laundry was in the dryer.  I was right on schedule.

But then, Baby E started yawning, and it became clear I wasn't going to make it to the gym.  So I called and cancelled the appointment.

No matter.  I knew he would sleep after I dropped Lil' C off at preschool, and I could log some miles on the treadmill anyway.

As soon as he was down for his nap, I went straight downstairs and put on my running shoes - no stopping in the kitchen, the laundry room, or at my computer.  I got on and started running.  I could feel the flab melting away.

And then, there was my alarm - the cries erupting from the baby monitor.  He had only slept ten minutes.  I bolted upstairs to try and lull him back to sleep.  He wasn't having it.  Frustrated, I went back downstairs anyway, and resumed my workout.

I knew Baby E was safe in his crib, and I could still hear his faint cries.  I cut my run way short, by at least twenty minutes, but at least I did it. 

I've been so frustrated lately with my lack of time to devote to exercise, especially with spring looming around the corner.  But what I need to remember is that at least I'm doing it.  I may not be working out everyday or for as long as I want, but at least I'm doing something.  That's going to have to be okay for now.

I may not like it, but I can't beat myself up about it.

Did you hear that, scale?  I'm doing it.  It doesn't matter where or when or for how long.  I'm doing something.

So shut up and leave me alone.


How do you find time to exercise or go to the gym?

Self-Esteem and a Five-Year-Old

Getty Images

I think I know exactly the moment I lost any self-esteem I had growing up.  It must have flowed right out of my body along with my very first menstrual period when I was ten years old.  Yup, ten.  Before any of my friends, my sister, or anyone else I knew.  I think it was after that moment that I began to take notice of what other people were doing and wearing and how they were acting and how people were reacting to them.

Before that time, I was just a little kid in my own world.  I was raised by great parents who let me be me, as much as any oddities I may have had probably bugged them.  Never once did they cut me down or doubt me in any way.  I was a kid who could read before kindergarten (when this was not the norm), was a good soccer player, had tons of friends, and who, as the teacher once told my mother, was looked to as the trend-setter in girls' hairstyles in my fourth-grade class.

So where, when, and how did I end up being self-doubting, self-loathing at times, sitting home alone on weekends feeling sorry for myself and getting voted "most likely to become president of the negative thinkers club?"  (High school girls are mean, aren't they?)

If I knew these and other answers, I could decipher the mystery of what is becoming my five-year-old's self-esteem.

As Knox grew up, he was always being thought of as "one of the triplets." He was only eighteen months younger than his older twin brothers and very closely resembled them in size and looks.  He always wanted to do everything they did; and for the most part, I let him.

Fast forward to about a year and a half ago, when his best friend, his idol, and his constant companion was diagnosed with cancer.  His brother was there physically but gone mentally.  In a week, Knox had lost the person he looked up to the most, the person who gave him all of his great ideas, showed him how to act and treat his other brothers, the person that we were sure was going to be his best friend for life. But this wasn't to be.

Knox was only three at the time of his brother's devastating diagnosis, yet I have a feeling he knew what was going on.

It has been almost a year since his brother has been gone. In that year I have seen some changes in him, changes that I know are probably normal for all children making the transition from preschool to grade school, but some I think may be attributed to his self-doubt over his role model being gone.

I have been frustrated with him this whole year.  It seems like over the winter we literally did nothing. There was no suggestion of a sport or a class or a play date I could make to him that he wanted to undertake. Every time I suggested something, he would protest - loudly! And if I would just take him somewhere, he would literally spend half of the time pouting, while the other children were having a great time and getting to know one another.  He gained a lot of weight over the winter, too, moving him into the 99th percentile for weight, although balanced out by being in the 92nd percentile for height.  He's always been a big kid; but for this weight gain, I blame myself for allowing him to sit and pout and mope and watch t.v. and eat snacks.  After all, this past year, I was sitting and pouting and moping a lot over both losing one son and gaining an unexpected other one.

He didn't want to try any sports because he didn't think he would be any good.  He quit playing soccer last spring because he "wasn't scoring any goals."  And, unfortunately, because we were in the midst of our other son's illness, we let him quit.  He wouldn't ride his bike without training wheels, and he quite frequently came home from preschool in a sour mood.

And I feel like it's all my fault somehow.  I kept thinking, 'has my negative self-esteem rubbed off on him?  Have I projected my own insecurities about friendships and talents onto him?  Have I been too hard on him?' 

Or does it have to do with the death of his brother?

Or is it just normal growing up stuff?

One beautiful day that Hubby happened to have off work, I came home to an elated Knox.

"Mommy, I have something to show you!"  And he jumped on his bike and sped off without his training wheels!  Daddy had just taken them off and told him to hop on.  He was so proud of himself that whole night.  He had to call Grandma and Papa and tell them because, after all, Papa had told him he could do it.

Later that evening while we were cuddling, he said to me, "I wish Joey could have seen me ride my bike like that."

And this wasn't the first time that he has mentioned his late brother.  He often says, "I wish Joey were here.  He always had the best ideas of games to play." He mentioned that his fifth birthday party - at which we had a blow-up water slide, snow cone maker and cotton candy - would have been so much better if Joey had been there.

Soon after the training wheel-free bike ride Hubby, who is a DDS, discovered that Knox was getting his six-year molars, or "big boy teeth."  Knox just beamed with pride!  That Friday was kindergarten round-up.  He brought "homework" to show the teachers.  Having taught Joey, and knowing that Knox might need some special attention, they gushed over the paper on which he had scrawled his name. And he learned that a nice little girl from his preschool class would be attending kindergarten at his school next year.  He has begun reading sight words, and nightly insists on trying to read one of his Hot Wheels books to us.  He has been wanting to do more "homework" every night.  Clearly in his case, a little success goes a long way.

He asked to try soccer again, and I quickly signed him up before he could change his mind.  On the day of his first game, Hubby and I sat huddled together on the sidelines silently pleading with the soccer gods to let Knox score a goal, knowing that if he didn't, he would not ever want to play again.  It turned out that the soccer gods smiled on us in more than one way, as not only did he score a goal, but he lucked out and got put on a team of little hustlers.  His previous teammates were happy to just stare at the clouds and dig in the dirt, and this was part of the problem.  But this current team is all about going after the ball.  We even saw him pat a teammate on the back and tell him 'great job!'  Hubby and I let out a joint sigh of relief as we got the victorious "thumbs-up" from Knox several times during the game.  He has since been asking to try some of the other sports I had previously suggested to him.

Despite all of these successes and the growing confidence he is displaying, there are hints of his former insecurity.  Before dressing for preschool (this is preschool, mind you), he asks me what I think all the other kids will be wearing.  He asked me the other day what I think he should be when he grows up, and frequently asks me what I think he should play.  He's been asking me to re - comb his hair before he goes to school (could he have a crush on the aforementioned little girl?). He plays Mario Brothers as much as we will allow him because he "has to be as good as" his little friend who has been over for play dates.   And lastly, he hasn't exactly stepped up to be the big brother I hoped he would in Joey's absence (but I think that's another story).

So the secret to building a five-year old's self-esteem?  I can't answer that. For me, it took keeping a journal, a Book of Smiles as I called it.  At first, I just wrote compliments people paid to me, mostly about my shoes or hair or outfits.  I wrote about every time a guy paid me some attention or I got asked out on a date.  Eventually though, the journal was more about compliments on my teaching ability or my success in graduate school.  Ultimately, I stopped writing in it, although I think I could still use it at times.  Self-esteem is something I will struggle with for the rest of my life.  And the more I talk to other women, the more I think everyone struggles a bit with an inner demon or two.

As for my son?  I think he's either got it or he doesn't.  I have a feeling self-esteem will be something he'll mount an ongoing struggle against as well.  I also know that I can provide him with opportunities, praise his success, and comfort him in his failures.  In the end though, it's going to be up to him to see the value that lies within him.