Is It Monday Again?

I have often said I am a Monday person.

Cheated on my healthy eating plan? I’ll start over again on Monday.

Fell off the exercise wagon? I’ll go back to the gym on Monday.

My house is a mess and I’ve been crabby with my sons? I’ll clean up and do better on Monday.

Didn’t write anything all week? I’ll post something on Monday.

For me, life has been an endless series of Mondays. Until Tuesday comes, that is.

Tuesday is when . . . .

 . . . Head on over to Mamalode to continue reading "An Endless Series of Mondays."

 

 

 

It's Time for a Change in Direction

 

We were sitting in the pharmacy drive-thru. My head was half hanging out the window of the van, my eyes closed. I could hear the soft bing bongs and bleep bloops of the boys' video games.

 

I was tired. I felt myself drifting off, and then, "Can I help you?"

 

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Driving off with prescription in hand my fog continued. We were stopped at a red light when it dawned on me: I can't remember what clothes Joey was buried in.

 

I know they must have been green - his favorite color was green - but I can't remember exactly which ones. I know we didn't put shoes on him. The only shoes that fit his swollen feet were his tennis shoes, and I didn't think it was appropriate to bury him in tennis shoes. Besides, no one would see his feet anyway.

 

I searched my brain for the visual of Joey, but all I could remember was touching him in his coffin and feeling his cold, waxy face. I couldn't see what the shirt looked like, but I remember hearing crinkling when I touched it, like Joey had been wrapped in Press 'n Seal before he was dressed.

 

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I'm so tired I can't remember what I buried my son in.

 

I'm so tired I can't complete a task without getting distracted.

 

I'm so tired that my brain is having trouble thinking of the words my mouth wants to say.

 

I'm so tired I can't even be patient with my children.

 

I'm so tired I don't want to spend time with my husband.

 

I'm snapping and negative and yelling. And then I wonder why they talk to each other that way. I'm not too tired to realize they are learning it from me.

 

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I'm tired because my house is a mess. Papers are everywhere. Toys and clothes and junk we don't use anymore have piled up and a house that once seemed big is shrinking from too much stuff.

 

I had a baby a year ago. A year's worth of no time to organize, clean out, start fresh.

 

Now, I have made lists and planned my time and I know what I want to accomplish.

 

But it's not happening and I feel like I am chasing my tail.

 

Chasing it into the wee hours of the night.

 

Falling asleep in a chair.

 

School lunches unmade.

 

Dishes in the sink.

 

The pile of photographs from summer 2011 still sitting unlabeled on the dining room table.

 

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I'm heavier than I have ever been in my life. There is a least fifteen pounds of extra weight around my middle that has no business being there.

 

But I'm too tired to do anything about it.

 

And my treadmill broke and my gym membership expired.

 

My husband asked me if we were still married.

 

I need a girls' night out.

 

He wants a date.

 

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It's all swirling in my head along with the fact that I am doing nothing that I should be doing.

 

Sleeping.

 

Cardio.

 

Yoga.

 

Nourishing my body with healthy food.

 

Starting my novel.

 

Seeking out paid opportunities to write.

 

Spending time with my family before they are all grown up and gone.

 

What I am doing is getting lost. I'm getting lost along a path that I thought I knew. A path I didn't need a map for. A path that came out in a clearing.

 

But somewhere along the way I got distracted by the scenery, led off course to somewhere I thought I should be going.

 

I'm stumbling. I'm drained. I'm flailing. I'm failing.

 

I'm losing myself.

 

And now I need to find my way back.

 

 

 

 

 



He Poked Me While I Was Sleeping

                                                     

source

I felt it sometime around 1:00 a.m.  A small finger poking my shoulder.

"Mom, my toe really hurts.  Will you get me a band-aid?"

I opened one eye and looked at Knox. "You can't get you own band-aid?"

"I can't find any, Mom.  Will you please help me?"

Without a word, I got up and went to the hall closet where it took me exactly 2.2 seconds to locate a box of Scooby-Doo band-aids.  I handed it to Knox, kissed him on the head, and went back to bed.

Only to sleep for another hour before I was awakened again, this time by the

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?