Winter bliss

After being a bit down in the dumps (could you tell? Geez, sorry about that, enough already, Molly...) I woke up on Saturday determined to do something about it.

The boys had a Cub Scout sledding outing. So rather than stay back at home marveling at how five people can generate that much mess, I dug out the wow-when-was-the-last-time-I-wore-these long underwear and got bundled up to brave the 8-degree day.

Really there is nothing like little boys on sledding hills. They have no fear. 

 And yes, that is terrifying, but also exhilarating. 

It was cold, but pretty with a new snow falling (come on people, yes, yes we have had like 300 inches of snow this year, I am trying to be an optimist here, work with me here.) 

Now this is where this gets fun. Because if you are skimming this you'll be likely to think we had an amazing time. Looking back I was struck by how it's funny that you take photos that show one thing thing, when, in truth, the reality may have been a whole different story. 

You don't take pictures of the crying over frozen toes. 
The disgusting runny noses of kids who are, unknowingly, about to spring fevers.

The toddler who went down once and refused to go again.

You don't reflect on the boys who refused to put on two pairs of socks (even through their mother "told them nine times!"). 

The wails that they were going to have to amputate their fingers and toes because they were so cold. (Okay, well maybe you do take some photos to show them later how ridiculous they looked.)

You just grab the great stuff. Because we're going to have fun IF IT'S THE LAST THING WE DO! 

At least looking back, it's way better to remember the 5 percent that was fun.

So now what...

That is the obvious question, isn't it?

So you hit the bottom. You left the clothes on the dressing room floor (and my apologies to the dressing room attendant, I was having a "moment.") And then you committed to finally doing something about it.

(And there I go again with that strange calling myself "you" but you, and really this time you, know what I mean, right?)

So now what?

First, I needed to recognize something in myself, I have developed a whole slew of totally bad habits. So to start I have to do something radical. I know myself well enough to know that I can't make it work with just a "I'll cut out white bread." Or "take smaller portions." I know those are the long-term solutions, but I need a temporary hard break. And so I have started that. I'm neither a dietitian nor here to debate the efficacy of starting it this way, so I'll leave it at that. But if you have questions about what I am doing, feel free to ask.

Second, as I have said before, I really don't like traditional exercise. And that is putting it nicely. So I am going to work really hard to change my mindset on that and I am going to seek to find fun ways to exercise. They may not be as efficient or effective as going to a gym, but I am hoping that if I do things I like I might stick with it longer.

And I found one for sure this weekend.

While we were in Lutsen, friends brought their copy of Michael Jackson The Experience for Wii.

We all started off playing in sweatshirts and jeans and before we knew it, were dressed like this.


Doing this.


Sweating and laughing and finding ourselves totally out of breath. (And some of us were already in shape, yours truly not included.)


And yes, the next few days we all discovered strange new muscles hurting.


So yes, I bought my own copy. And I am going to dust off my Wii Fit from time to time, too. And when our 80+ inches of snow melts, I might actually get out and go walking over my lunch hour.

I am going to do this. And I am going to laugh and have fun (well as much as I can) while I'm doing it.

As always, thank you all for your comments, emails, tweets, ideas, suggestions, and plain old misery loves company commiserations yesterday.   I appreciate you all. And if you are feeling like it's time to change your game, join me. I'll check back in with you next week to let you know how it's going.

And for your viewing enjoyment, here is a snippet of what the game looks like. I promise I did it, too, I just had to stop and take a video (which, yes we were in a basement, so sorry for the darkness).





*post contains affiliate links = you buy, I earn a few cents.You don't, I'll still love you.

I did this. It's my fault.

You are there in the dressing room with an arm full of clothes. Beautiful clothes. Funky clothes. Amazing clothes. Clothes you can imagine yourself in.

Twenty-one pieces in all.

These are all going to work. They are going to more than work. They are going to be amazing.

You try them on one after the other.

First one is a no go. You carefully hang it back up.

The second one doesn't work either.

Hmmm, well this one is a fluke that must be mislabeled.

You hang it up, but a little less carefully.

It can't be right.

On to the third and fourth and fifth.

Oh crap, it is right. They are all right.

You stop hanging them up. Draping them over racks and hooks instead. Hating each any every one of them.

You suck. You say it out loud. No, not you the clothes, you the person.

What were you thinking getting this size off the rack?

You idiot.

You hope the person in the dressing room next to you can't hear you chiding yourself.

You swore that you'd never be that size.

And before you know it you are saying all kinds of hateful, spiteful, scornful things to yourself. Things you would never say to a stranger or an enemy, yet they roll so easily off your tongue in a dressing room it's amazing. Tears don't come, just hot anger.

You are ugly. Look at you. A sausage in that dress.

Because you are overweight. You hide it in tunics and a-line dresses. You jump and dance to get into spanx every day. You ignore, you make excuses.

You blame. Blogging made me fat. My job did it. The stress of being a working mom did it. Eating with the kids did it.

But then there comes a time when you just can't anymore point the finger anymore.

You are done.

And this clearly isn't about you. Meaning you there reading this. It's about me.

I did it.


So yesterday, when I found myself looking at clothes that didn't fit, all of them, clothes that were past the size I'd "never wear" I was furious at that woman in the mirror. I still am.

But I did this. And so it's up to me to fix it.

What I don't understand is why our internal dialogue so easily goes to such a horrible place. WHy we so easily hurl such horrible insults at ourselves.

But I know I am not alone. Right? I don't need compliments (or insults either, for that matter). I'm just working it through.



How about you? How do you deal with it when you hit one of those critical "something has got to change" moments? Not necessarily just related to losing weight. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Positive Energy

I'm back.


After five days away. After a difficult week. A week of change. Of challenge. A week of needing to say "no" but finding myself feeling obligated to say "yes." But not to the really important things.

Our get away was just supposed to be four days, but a snowstorm kept us away a day longer.

Not what any of us ordered, but just what I needed.

Days spent with great friends, with Brian, who I don't get to see enough of, and with my kids, who, frankly, I often find I don't stop to enjoy just as much as I should. Again, all of those "have to" moments taking over the "want to" moments.

So thank you big old monster snowstorm for forcing me to slow down.

For making me take some time to rejuvenate.

For letting me just sit and watch my boys find glee in rubbing their hair on the couch in the dry winter air.  For helping me, in moments of laughing at static electricity, find my own energy.

The dying cat in the office

Yesterday was moving along just like any other day. Papers, phone calls, emails, chatting with coworkers.

It was a dark, foggy, brooding kind of a day.

And then the wailing started. Sad, creepy wailing. The sound poured through the hallways of our office.


Some of us popped our heads outside of our doors wondering what it was. It was a horrifying noise.


Almost like a cat had gotten stuck in the heating system and was dying a slow, hot, horrible death.


I sent a message to the woman who sits at our front desk asking if she had any idea what it was. She didn't and we both just agreed it was creepy and that we would try to move on.

But I sat and shuddered at my desk.

And then she wrote me back. Evidently one of our coworkers was trying out a new microphone system for the building.

By moaning and wailing into it like my boys would do. I mean like they would do if it were Halloween and we had a microphone system in our home.

I guess I should just be thankful that he didn't try it out with heavy breathing.

But I am totally going to have nightmares about my coworker and a cat stuck together in our HVAC system.

But next time, I am thinking someone might want to teach him the good old, "Check, check, testing, 1, 2, 3" method.

Did you ever get the robes back?

Short story? A guy (I had several other choice words, but will just go with "guy") stole our Christmas presents and sold them in bars. (The longer, far better story is here.) Yeah, and four boxes of the Christmas presents were bathrobes.  Twelve personalized bathrobes that my parents had purchased for all of us as a cute, albeit expensive, funny present.


And to answer a question I get asked a lot, no, no we didn't ever get them back. Let's move past the creepy concept that means there are people out there wearing robes with our names on them. Yes, even Eli. Yuck.


My parents decided to try it again.  They checked the "don't leave these packages without a signature" box and ordered them again.

Which meant that on Sunday we had a robe party.

Meaning we all got together and put on our expensive bathrobes.

And might have had a few choice words for our former Grinch.

And if Noah is making an obscene gesture in another language, he didn't know it.

Even the dog got in on the action.

Well not really. She already looked like that.

Funny how we all look a bit better when we're not taking photos in our pajamas at 11 p.m. after some holiday beverage-ing may or may not have occurred.

And yeah, Brian's arm was in a sling. In related news, don't take up snowboarding at age 37 for the first time.

So that is what you do in our family

Chin up. Belt tied. Robe on.

You can steal our presents. But you can't steal our spirit.

Listening in on my own funeral

I listened in at my own funeral this week.


Okay, so not quite.


But after nearly seven years, after great thought and deliberation, I resigned from my job to accept a new one.


And then? I put on fresh lipstick and powder, because I had a feeling that I knew what would happen next. And I mean that in the least arrogant way possible.


Really.


Because suddenly, all of the people who I loved working with came by. Lips curled in an honest pout. Eyebrows raised. Hands high-fiving. Or eyes pleading.


And then the kind comments and compliments began. All great sentiments and testaments to what they thought of me, of our working friendship,  but more importantly what they thought of us working together.


Some I "expected." And by expected, I mean I knew that those people valued me, valued our relationship. But some were a complete shock. People who had never said that they had something they appreciated about my role in this organization. My work. My personality.


It reminded me of the scene in "Tom Sawyer" where they have faked their own death and then went on to sneak in to their own funeral.

It just got me thinking. What if we didn't all wait until someone left, moved or, most significantly, died to say what we really thought? The good stuff.

What if we made it a point when the thought struck us to compliment people. In a big way. Not just "great job on that project." But big, sweeping comments and compliments.

What if.

The truth behind Valentine's Day

As a little girl, I always loved Valentine's Day.


Sure, the sugar high was nice.


And you couldn't beat a bunch of new pencils and stickers.


But what I really loved was the intense over-analysis that came with this Hallmarkian holiday.


Scott gave me a pink pencil, but he gave Katie a red one. Does that mean he thinks I am cute, but thinks she is cuter? David gave me a pencil and he gave Natalie a pen. Hmmmm. Andrew didn't give me anything. Well that's okay, he spits when he talks.


For years I wondered if the boys did a similar analysis of their Valentine's Day haul. Did Peter notice that I gave him the candy heart that said "Be Mine" when I gave Ryan the one that just said, "Hi"?

And, more importantly, was there any actual intent behind their pencil, sticker and candy choices? 

Then I got older. We stopped doing obligatory Valentine's Day exchanges. And eventually got engaged (on Valentine's Day, no less) and married and had three boys of my own.


Finally this year, I got my answer.


No.


Girls, the boys aren't putting the slightest thought into which bracelet they are sticking to the card. They don't care whose has more tape on it and it most certainly isn't an indicator that they do or don't really want you to get the gift.

They most likely reminded their mother at 3:00 on the day before Valentine's Day that they needed to bring something. Their mom went and played bumper carts in the aisle of Target with all of the other moms doing the same thing. Because Valentine's Day was less than 24 hours away, their moms were left picking between puppies and kitties, Barbie, some obscure relatively violent and totally not-kid-appropriate movie that they made Valentine's for and whatever she ended up getting.

Said boy then quickly wrote out his classmates names on the cards, paying most attention to which card he gave to his (male) friends. He hurried so he could get back to playing whatever he was doing before.

So little girls all over the country, my apologies. But it's best we all know this now. Whatever sticker or pencil or candy or bracelet you got was random.

It will easily be another 12 years before they are on the same page as you are.

And that's if you're lucky.

Coffee Talk Valentine's Day party today

I know I have seen several of you chatting over at the Coffee Talk forum, where I am a community leader, but if you haven't joined in, today would be a great day to do join, for free, of course! (And for those of you who are already members, a good time to plan to stop by.) 

We've been talking about family, social media, shopping, fashion, current events, of, and of course, food and coffee.

At 11:00 a.m. EST, we're having a live chat to virtually celebrate Valentine's Day together. So grab a cup of coffee and swing by.  P.S. Of course, there will be prizes!

Seeing the forest through the trees

We came home last night stunned to find that our boulevard trees had been trimmed.
Not so much trimmed as massacred. Giant piles of branches from our lovely Linden trees covered our sidewalk.


We got inside the house and I walked from the back door to the front and right back out to survey the damage.

There had been no warning from the city. No explanation. Years of lovely growth just gone.

The piles stood taller than I do.  Some of the branches were easily ten inches thick.

The snow was ugly and yellowed and covered in sawdust.

Our house stands on a bit of a hill. So, even though we live in the city, with the mature trees on our boulevard, it always felt like we were tucked up in a little tree house. During many months of the year we almost couldn't see the neighbors across the street.


After taking pictures of the destruction, I walked back up the stairs to the house where three amazed faces met me in the window.

E: Why'd they chop down our trees Mommy?


M: I don't know buddy, but it's a big bummer.

C: I think it's awesome, can we go collect sticks?


M: No probably not.

N: But think of the bonfire we could have!


M: I know, but not tonight.  I don't know guys, it makes me kind of sad...I mean, I know they have to trim the trees, but still...

I said, showing them the pictures on the camera...

M: Because our lovely thick tree is gone and now we just can see the neighbors.

Then Eli pointed to a small spot on the camera.

E: Yes Mommy, but we can also see the moon. And it's a fingernail moon!

Why yes, Eli, yes we can.  Thank you.

Can you just stay at work?

I know I should consider myself lucky. My kids love school and they love their after-school center just as much. And for a mom that works outside the home, that's the sweet spot, the divine combination, the cupcake with the perfect amount of frosting.


However, the problem is that they love their after school program so much that it's not uncommon for me to show up to pick them up, only to have at least one of them stomp their feet and ask why I had to come so early.


And so we have compromised. Some days I show up as planned and some I intentionally wait a bit longer. Give them more time to run and play and scream and throw balls in the gym.


Yesterday was one of those days. I had given my word that I'd come later. I got to their school and realized I was ahead of the schedule I had promised. So, hanging out in my cold car (it was -4 out, so I'm not being a martyr, it really was cold) I made some phone calls and killed 15 minutes.

Strolling into the gym, I see Caleb sitting there with not one, but two, ice packs on his head, sniffling with tears on his cheeks.

In just the time I had been sitting in the parking lot, he had gone long for a pass in the gym and collided head on, at top speed with a set of book shelves giving him not one, but two giant goose eggs on his head.

I sat in the parking lot while a set of book shelves viciously attacked my child's face.

Dude, I cannot win.

On second thought, I might have won. Pretty sure he's not going to beg me to sit in the car anymore. We all know how well that worked out.

Don't be such a Beyaz

I really had no plans to write anything today. Until I was shutting down the TV and computer at the end of the night and caught a commercial I hadn't seen before.


It was for a birth control pill with added folic acid or something like that.  All in all a good thing.


Now I get that pharmaceutical names have some kind of an art form all to themselves. And I also get that I have no idea any of the methodology behind the art form.


But it must go something like:  Needs to sound high tech, have several vowels, sound a bit Latin, it would be great it if could have some of the letters of the actual components of the drug in it...


The one last night made me laugh harder than I have before.


Beyaz.


Sure, you could take it at face value. Or you could pronounce it with a good south Chicago accent a la their beloved football team.


Or you could hear it like I did.


As in the slang for a certain derogatory word for a woman.


Also known as what many a woman may have once been called during that lovely time of the month.

Stop being such a Beyaz! 


Man you're a Beyaz right now. That time of the month?


Oh, son of a Beyaz, I forgot to take my birth control.

Just left me wondering what is next.  I'll let you ponder that one.  Any good ideas?




P.S. And thank you to everyone for your sweet, reflective, kind comments on yesterday's post. I finally had to stop reading as they kept making me cry at work. But I caught up on all of them last night. Thank you.

It's just a chair

I don't tend to get overly sentimental about things.  I've sold and donated baby clothes.  Let go of the crib.  Tossed pacifiers in the trash.  Moved forward and let go.


But this weekend, I had one that got me.


We were in the process of changing up the boys' rooms.  Caleb was ready for his own room and Eli and Noah were interested in sharing a room.


So as I lugged piles of clothes and books back and forth between the rooms, the chair caught my eye.

It sat in what had been Eli's room and was about to become Caleb's room.


I sat down in it for a moment and thought back to the first time I sat in it.  Ten years ago.  On the show floor of Babies R Us in Chicago.  Seven months pregnant.  I had never sat in a glider chair before.  And to my aching back and swollen feet, it was heavenly.


As I rocked in that chair ten years ago I remember thinking.  Wondering.  Who would the little person be that I would soon rock.  And would there be other little people to follow?  Who would they be?


And rock we did.  Three babies.  Three toddlers.  Three little boys.

Reading Goodnight Moon hundreds of times.  Taking temperatures.  Celebrating baby burps.

Cursing the loud squeak of the right glider that would wake the boys when we rocked back and forth.  Nursing.  Cuddling.

Laughing.  Tickling. 


But over time, the chair hasn't been needed as much.  And had become more of a dumping ground for stuffed animals and dirty socks than a haven for cuddling and rocking.


And now, in the room of a boy who was nearly 10 years old, it no longer made sense.


So with a sigh, I took some photos of it and put it on Craigslist:

Wooden rocking chair and glider foot stool.  From a pet and smoke free home.  Rocked with lots of love and care.

Within two hours it was gone.

I wasn't home when they picked it up.  Which was probably good.  I already got teary writing the listing.

But I grilled Brian when I got home.

Were they nice?  Was she pregnant?  Did they like it?

The answers really didn't matter.

The chair was gone.  He mentioned that he had sat in it one more time with each of the boys.

And then it really hit me.


For some reason, this one was different.  Harder.

The chair was gone, just leaving behind lines in the carpet.  And a small stain from where we repeatedly put oil on the squeaky glider.

I know the lines will disappear over time.

But I think I'll leave the stain there.