Sitting Still

getting in shape, because "round" is not a good shape

After listening to DBN go on and on about her obsession with the gym, I decided that I couldn't let her be the only skinny bitch around. Monday, I joined a gym. A gym with free daycare. I figured, if nothing else, I could go take a shower without interruption. That alone would be worth the monthly fee.

Tuesday morning I had hoped to get to the CardioGroove class, because everyone knows that a 30-something white woman is precisely what an aerobic dance class needs. However, the class time fell right when Gage was going to need a feeding, so I dropped into the earlier PUMP class instead. 

The schedule provided to me did not give a description of PUMP. After Monday's experience, my version would be something along the lines of "Holy hell that hurts." I should have known I was in trouble when I walked in and everyone had pulled out one of each of the pieces of equipment: a step, two sets of weights, a ball, a resistance band, and a personal trainer named Mario. 

Just kidding. They don't keep buff men in the equipment closet. They keep them in the free weight area, silly.

An hour later, and I'd strength trained every major muscle group in my body. Two days later, I'm finding it hard to sit on the toilet because my quads hurt so damn much. But it's a good hurt. Yeah, sure it is. 

Class ended with a set of abdominal strengthening exercises, and learned that I am a medical marvel: I have absolutely no abdominal muscles and yet I somehow manage to stay upright. Thank goodness for skin and a quality Cesarean repair, because otherwise my guts might just be dangling, and even elastic waisted pants couldn't help me then.

* * * * * 

If anyone else is looking for a little friendly competition/support for getting back into shape, come join us in the Debunot Cellunot challenge! 

don't think, just type

Hi! How y'all been?

Busy here, of course, though that's the lamest ass excuse in the book. Truth is, I've had plenty to write about but got out of the habit of writing and the longer I waited the more I felt like I had to write something good rather than the meaningless navel-gazing I usually indulge in here, and so I waited and waited and before I knew it, it had been a few weeks and I still hadn't thought of anything provocative to say. So I decided to just login and spew some randomness and get it out of the way, in hopes that TOMORROW I might get all insightful, though it ain't likely, as obviously it hasn't happened in three weeks, and who am I kidding?

So, anyway. How y'all been?

Lots happening here. Big things. Let's take it slowly, and with fewer run-on sentences:

Claire is finishing up her preschool year. This year, she only went three mornings a week. Next year, if she stays at the same school, it will be every morning, and then (gulp!) kindergarten. She's currently obsessed with High School Musical and can sing the soundtracks from both movies. Her gymnastics class finished up last Friday with a demonstration and awards ceremony, and she got a trophy. Then today she had her dance recital, which was awesome and hilarious, and she got another one. She could not be more pleased. 

Gage is being kind of a pain-in-the-ass, which is out of character for him. I think it's teething -- either that or he's got an unusual taste for his own fingers and an overactive salivary gland. I'm hoping those suckers are all busting through simultaneously because he seems miserable. He also takes after his father and his father before him in that the least amount of discomfort is cause for much bellering and carrying on. High drama -- it's a family tradition!

I am actively looking for a job and had an interview last Friday that seems promising. I'd love to be part-time, working into full-time as Gage gets a little older and Claire heads toward kindergarten. It's hard to figure out what to tackle first -- a job or childcare -- and I spent a few days chasing my tail until I decided I had to get a job first. I'm also sewing again. First I tackled an insane yardage of pink spandex and blue sequins to make dance costumes for the recital. Next I'm going to whip up some hand-crafted baby gifts to put in a friend's indie gift shop. We'll see if they sell. There's also a chance I'll be in Greece at the end of September for a much-coveted vacation alone. More on that later.

Ron is finishing up his training, and in about a month gets elevated from "overworked trainee" to "sugar daddy." KIDDING. But this is a real job, with a schedule of his own and an office and everything, so it's a pretty big deal. He's surfing again. Oh, and planning to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro sometime in the next few years.

We've had some visitors and some vacation time and some family adventures, including a kayak trip (Ron and I), a visit from my MIL and her friend Laura (much wine), a trip to AZ (me and kids), and time back at the beach (all of the above). Charleston is awesome this time of year, and the Spoleto festival begins this weekend. Ron got me tickets to see Monkey: Journey to the West this Thursday, and I'm looking forward to it. I might even ask him along, if he behaves between now and then.

fall rush, 2026

My son is a baby frat boy.

The term was coined by my friend Liz, who saw him wearing a cute plaid collared shirt with khaki cargo shorts and a wide, who-wouldn't-love-this? grin. At first I was offended, but the more I observe, the more accurate I think the description is.

Yesterday, we went to a birthday party for one of Claire's friends. I'd put Gage in a cute but kind of girly-looking seersucker outfit. He grumbled about it, but I insisted to him that he looked adorable. Then he found the one guaranteed way out of a sissy boy outfit: he crapped all over it. With the costume change, we were back to the wrinkled button-down shirt and grey shorts.

When we arrived at the party, Gage quickly located his new girlfriend. She was thin. She was blonde. She was adorable. He kept flirting with her, throwing gummy smiles and boyish glances her way, while trying not to try too hard. The next thing I know, he's sitting on her lap, gnawing on her elbow and she's gently rubbing his back telling him what a good boy he is.

Eventually he got handed back to me, but not without first making a pass at his new girlfriend's chest. I fed him a nice leisurely meal of milk and then put him on my shoulder.

He burped. No, babies burp. He belched, in the way that beer-guzzling, football-watching, pizza-eating men belch. It was loud and gross.

And then he smiled and looked around to see if anyone had appreciated it. He got a "That was a good one, buddy!" from someone, and you could see the sutures in his baby skull widen just a bit to accommodate his enormous head.

watch out world

I don't know where I lost it. That's the whole idea of losing something, right? You're not sure where you put it, or where it got to, or you'd go right to where you left it and pick it up and put it in your pocket and it wouldn't be a big deal. But sometimes the thing you've lost is hard to describe. That thingamajig. That whatchamacallit. That -- what's the word? Hmmm. I can't quite put my finger on it.

I'm guessing it got misplaced somewhere between the third trimester of pregnancy, delivering a baby, having a husband gone and then sick. When you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, you don't really care whether your feet are pedicured or that your sandals are last season. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, looking up every once in the while to make sure you're headed in the general right direction, but not really sure which way that is.

Then all of a sudden you realize that it's been months since you read a book for pleasure. Or taken photographs for the fun of it with that camera you so desperately wanted. Or written something that was outside your comfort zone. It's been since December that you hosted friends at your house. Even longer since you wore something you liked for a reason other than it was clean. Nevermind that your year-long sabbatical for motherhood is approaching an end, and you're craving the stimulation of a workplace that does not constantly need cleaning and the wardrobe of clothing that is not made by Old Navy.

The haze of the fourth trimester is lifting. Gage is thriving. Claire is adjusting well to sisterhood. And now, I want me back. Strike that. I NEED me back.

Change comes slowly. Still one step at a time, but now in the direction I want, towards goals beyond survival. I'm looking for a job. Digging into the stack of books accumulated on my nightstand. Making an effort to trim down the pregnancy weight and find clothes that fit my body and make me happy.  Taking walks whenever I can and taking pictures whenever the mood strikes me. Volunteering to host a baby shower on a moment's notice despite the fact that the house is dirty and the yard still needs a spring clean-up. Enjoying my last months as a stay-at-home-mom with trips to the strawberry fields and plans to make homemade jam, at the same time I'm writing kickass cover letters and hoping for a great career opportunity.

One day at a time, one decision at a time, I'm starting to feel like myself again -- sassy, smart, and on top of my game. There's a spring in my step, a smile on my face, a twinkle in my eye, and a hunger in my soul. I want more, and I'm about to reach out and take it.

I don't know where I lost it, but I know it's returned: Mama's got her mojo back.

Consider yourself warned.

leafy greens are the new Prozac

After some contemplation, Ron and I decided to join a CSA this spring through a local farm. Every Tuesday, we drive to a nearby market, pick up our share of this week's harvest, and fill our refrigerator with healthy, locally-grown produce. It's fresh. It's delicious. It's, frankly, a bit overwhelming.

The crops harvested right now are from those plants that don't mind growing in the cooler weather -- namely, leafy greens of all varieties. This week, we got a box that included kale, green oak leaf lettuce, spinach, tat soi, arugula, mustard greens, and turnips with greens attached. Apparently, somebody thought our house needed some regularity, based on the high fiber content of my refrigerator.

Having all of this healthy food around is definitely good for our diets. We feel guilty letting any of it go to waste, and so I'm searching for ways to get greens into dishes aside from eating them raw. I'm beginning to think that CSA actually stands for "Consume Salads All.the.time." (If you have any favorite salads that take lettuce to a new level, please pass them along. Seriously.)

And while I sometimes wonder whether I can stand another lunch of salad and strawberries (also in season), I'm seeing benefits. Turns out those nutrition experts know what they're talking about when they tell us to eat this stuff. My skin has cleared up, my extra pregnancy insulation is thinning, and my mood has improved. It seems that when I put less crap in my body, I feel less crappy. Genius.

Now if I could just find a way to make those mustard greens tasty without cooking them with bacon, imagine what other improvements I might see. Possibilities are endless: children who never tantrum, a blissful marriage, the perfect work-life balance. All if I could eat my greens without a little salt and fat from the pig.

Yep, pork is all that stands between me and world domination. Delicious, delectable pork.

this evening

Sitting in a beach chair on my deck. Fussing with Twitter (addicted). Watching my husband play soccer-tball-tag with Claire while Gage snoozes in the swing.

Right now, for this moment, life is good.

simple pleasures, three-month-old-style

It's been there the whole time, of course. He was born with all ten digits -- we counted -- but up until the last few days, it's just been sitting there, unused.  Perhaps tucked under his fingers when he comes out with flying fisticuffs from a nap, but otherwise lying dormant, waiting.

Then, serendipity. Ah, the luck of having it slip into his mouth while he was chewing on his fists, waiting for his next meal. A perfect fit. Suck, suck, suck. Comfort in a time of need.

Thank God for thumbs.

Now he knows it's there. If he's tired or hungry or bored, I see him bring his hand to his mouth. He wants it, but can't always coordinate the insertion procedure easily.  This leads to lots of slobbering and gnawing and licking.

I woke up to slurping noises on the monitor this morning. It was kind of disgusting, kind of cute -- which pretty much sums up my mothering experience in general, now that I think about it.

But considering just how much he loves his newly-found toy, there is one thought I can't shake:
Just wait until he finds his penis.

site updates

I know the geekiness behind the blog is only interesting to some of you, but I'm working on some updates. The "About Me" link to the right now works, and has a fun new photo taken of the four of us as well as an up-to-date bio, if you're interested. The books listed are actually the books on my nightstand currently, and I'm hoping to throw in some book reviews here and there just because it'll be proof that I read something other than websites.

I need some help with the blogroll.  I have my old favorites, of course, but I also want to try to link everyone who has linked me (and isn't afraid to 'fess up!). If you want to be listed on that page, leave me a comment or send me an e-mail, will ya? Don't be shy.

I also decided to drink the 140-characters-or-less Kool-Aid and signed up for Twitter.  I don't know exactly what I'm doing there, but my username is sittingstill if you want to be my buddy.

Rock on. Dork out. Good night.

freedom

One of the loveliest gifts I received for my birthday this year was taped inside a card from my friend Bridget. It was a pupae of a Vanessa cardui, with the promise that in 3-6 days, a butterfly would emerge.

The painted lady broke free of her chrysalis Tuesday morning.  Claire noticed her first.  "Mommy, there's a butterfly in our house!" she said, running to get me and dragging me into the kitchen where our new insect friend rested, wings still wet and crinkled. We moved her into a bug house with wire mesh sides so that she could finish drying out and enjoy some rest. All the work required to change from caterpillar to butterfly must be exhausting.

I told Claire that we could keep her for a couple of days, but that soon we'd have to release her in the yard. We decided this morning -- a warm morning, but heavy with fog -- that we would wait until this afternoon to let her go.  (Claire wanted to be sure she was warm and could see where to go.)

"It's time," I told her, after lunch and with Gage napping in his crib.

She picked up the bug house and immediately burst into tears. "I don't want to let her go," she sobbed. "I love her and I want to keep her."

"Honey, butterflies don't belong inside houses.  Butterflies belong outside, where they can fly through the sky and float on the wind," I replied.

We made a deal. We would open the door to the bug house and pull the butterfly out on a stick.  If she left, she left.  If she stayed, then we'd keep her another day.

The painted lady sat there for a moment, flapping her wings and allowing us one last close-up look at her gorgeous color.  We both held our breath as she left.  There was no gentle flapping of wings, no resting on flowers nearby. She was there and then gone; it seemed almost as if she became part of the wind.

magic eight

Shhhhh.  I have to tell you a secret.

Gage slept through the night last night. 11 pm to 7 am.  That's eight whole hours. Even better, I was smart enough to go to sleep when he did, so I got eight consecutive hours of sleep for the first time in many, many moons.

He woke up happy and squirming.  I woke up happy and human. My boobs, on the other hand, did not get advance notice of this change in plans, and they woke up screaming. Well, more accurately, squirting.

You're welcome for that last little bit of TMI.

Still glad I'm back?