I sniper crawl out of the darkened room, praying for the furnace to turn on to mask any sounds I might make in my crawl to freedom. I crawl past one of Ava's many art projects on the floor, it's just waiting for one false move to crinkle and crisp, ringing out like a gunshot to my light sleeper's little ears. I don't have much time. I need to sleep now since any moment I could hear the siren cry of my puking 11 month old from down the hall.
The last twenty-four hours I've found myself in some sort of nightmare. My normally sweet baby has been infected with some sort of an anti-food sickness in which all liquids and solids are almost immediately rejected. The many post baths and batches of laundry have blurred together. I can't tell you how much sleep I've gotten but it's between 1 and 5 hours.
My torturer aka The Projectile Vominator has me in her clutches. She clings to me and whines as I try to shop the cyber monday deals. "Don't you want this soothe and glow seahorse?! Can't you see Mama's trying to score a deal!" She stares back with undeterred self-importance as if to say, put the computer down. All attempts to carry on as normal are futile. Don't you know who you're dealing with? No one can escape the demands of The Projectile Vominator! Well unless you're Daddy.
What I wouldn't give today to be elbow deep in samples of urine, ready to be put through a series of tests to determine whether you've been smoking something and I don't mean Peyote. Daddy works in a clinical drug testing lab. Although I'm pretty sure that the D.A.R.E. officers at Ava's school are confused as to what Ava's daddy does at work. The other day she came home and said, "Drugs are bad, mom!" I concurred. Then she said, "I told the man that Dad does drugs at work." Nice.
Some days as a mother you just have to see keeping your sanity as the big accomplishment for the day, especially when The Projectile Vominator invades your world.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Ava on Love
Last week Ava said to me, "Mom, I'm in love with Mattheo."
Me: "Really?"
Ava: "Yep. He's really funny, like me. That's why I love him."
Me: "Well, I'm sure you like him a great deal, but you're not in love, Sweetie."
Ava: "I am, Mom. I'm in love with Mattheo."
I let it go and went back to whatever it was I was doing. Then tonight while we were driving she said, "Mom, I used to love Brewster."
Me: "Oh laws, Ava. You don't know what love is!"
Ava: "Yes I do. And I used to love Brewster."
Me: "But you don't anymore?"
Ava: "No. Not anymore."
Me: "Well, can you tell me what love is? How do you know you're in love?"
Ava: "Well, your face is really shiny and you walk around with a big grin on your face all the time. That's how you know you're in love."
Me: "Sheesh."
Another time I tried to talk to Ava about boys. It's crazy that you have to have a talk about boys with a five year old, but that's society for you. It wasn't nearly as bad as having to explain to Ava what a maxi pad was used for. This after her repeatedly pestering me about the feminine hygiene products she saw in the bathroom drawer. She's a very curious person. Now she says to me all the time, "Are you having your period?" Wow. Word to the wise: hide your Tampax asap and install a lock on the bathroom door.
Anyway the talk about boys came when she walked into the living room and said, "I'm hot!" and I told her she could put on a short sleeve shirt if she was hot, but she said, no I'm not that kind of hot. Then she tells me what hot means: hot means that boys like you. If it were possible to have steam coming out of my ears like Elmer Fudd then my ears would have been burning.
What followed was a talk about why there are so many more important things to be than "hot". And why it doesn't matter what boys think, it matters what she thinks. And I might have tried to convince her that boys were gross and slightly dumb and a pain in the neck. Except for her daddy and grandpas, of course. Oh well. Raising a girl is definitely eye-opening. What is difficult is all the messages in the media sent directly to girls...whether it be that annoying Victoria's Secret Angel commercial with young women strutting the streets of Prague in their undies or the billboards we pass on the way into SLC from up north with semi-sized butts and boobs advertising some plastic surgery center, what girls see is what is most important to society when it comes to women is their bodies. Not their brilliant minds, or the way their unique talents and gifts can make a difference in the world, but if their bodies fit into the desired mold of idealized beauty.
Lately I've evaluated how I might be adding to this perception. Of course I want her to look clean and nice when she goes to school. This means sitting in a chair in front of me while I continue to perfect my french braiding skills. She hates it. She really does. She couldn't care less if I do a dutch braided headband on her. She just wants to play. I mean it's a fine line between teaching your child to value themselves enough to take care of themselves physically and sending the message that it's uber important how you look to the outside world. Being a mom is tough.
As for Mattheo, be forewarned, you just might be next week's Brewster. Girls.
Me: "Really?"
Ava: "Yep. He's really funny, like me. That's why I love him."
Me: "Well, I'm sure you like him a great deal, but you're not in love, Sweetie."
Ava: "I am, Mom. I'm in love with Mattheo."
I let it go and went back to whatever it was I was doing. Then tonight while we were driving she said, "Mom, I used to love Brewster."
Me: "Oh laws, Ava. You don't know what love is!"
Ava: "Yes I do. And I used to love Brewster."
Me: "But you don't anymore?"
Ava: "No. Not anymore."
Me: "Well, can you tell me what love is? How do you know you're in love?"
Ava: "Well, your face is really shiny and you walk around with a big grin on your face all the time. That's how you know you're in love."
Me: "Sheesh."
Another time I tried to talk to Ava about boys. It's crazy that you have to have a talk about boys with a five year old, but that's society for you. It wasn't nearly as bad as having to explain to Ava what a maxi pad was used for. This after her repeatedly pestering me about the feminine hygiene products she saw in the bathroom drawer. She's a very curious person. Now she says to me all the time, "Are you having your period?" Wow. Word to the wise: hide your Tampax asap and install a lock on the bathroom door.
Anyway the talk about boys came when she walked into the living room and said, "I'm hot!" and I told her she could put on a short sleeve shirt if she was hot, but she said, no I'm not that kind of hot. Then she tells me what hot means: hot means that boys like you. If it were possible to have steam coming out of my ears like Elmer Fudd then my ears would have been burning.
What followed was a talk about why there are so many more important things to be than "hot". And why it doesn't matter what boys think, it matters what she thinks. And I might have tried to convince her that boys were gross and slightly dumb and a pain in the neck. Except for her daddy and grandpas, of course. Oh well. Raising a girl is definitely eye-opening. What is difficult is all the messages in the media sent directly to girls...whether it be that annoying Victoria's Secret Angel commercial with young women strutting the streets of Prague in their undies or the billboards we pass on the way into SLC from up north with semi-sized butts and boobs advertising some plastic surgery center, what girls see is what is most important to society when it comes to women is their bodies. Not their brilliant minds, or the way their unique talents and gifts can make a difference in the world, but if their bodies fit into the desired mold of idealized beauty.
Lately I've evaluated how I might be adding to this perception. Of course I want her to look clean and nice when she goes to school. This means sitting in a chair in front of me while I continue to perfect my french braiding skills. She hates it. She really does. She couldn't care less if I do a dutch braided headband on her. She just wants to play. I mean it's a fine line between teaching your child to value themselves enough to take care of themselves physically and sending the message that it's uber important how you look to the outside world. Being a mom is tough.
As for Mattheo, be forewarned, you just might be next week's Brewster. Girls.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Belated Weight Loss Wednesday
If a person could lose weight, by thinking about losing weight than I'd be a size 0 by now. A size -1 if that's even possible. Not that my goal has ever been to be super skinny. I'd just like my thighs and bum to divorce themselves from one another. It's an unholy union for sure, born of a sinister love for deep dish pizza and Coca-cola.
If you're a long time reader than you've been subjected in the past to my late night ramblings about my issues with food and body image. I usually have to post a follow up to assure everyone I'm not on suicide watch. Yes, being overweight makes me feel bad. It makes me uncomfortable to be around other people. It makes me bitter. In a nutshell it makes me miserable. If you're like my husband with a very logical brain you then think to yourself...then why don't you do something about it?
Good question, Dr. Phil. I've been trying to figure that out myself. Since the first year after I got married and went in for my annual check-up at the OB/GYN and the nurse practitioner became alarmed at my thirty-five pound weight gain in a year I've been "trying" to lose weight. I can say I have honestly tried several times to lose weight. And I've done the opposite at other times. Making my efforts very counter productive to say the least.
In the past I've taken the "exercise like hell and eat whatever you like" approach. Excepting my bountiful bosom that makes jogging a nightmare, I don't mind working out. I do get bored though with a workout eventually. I did step aerobics and Tae Bo in high school. Billy Blanks' muscular thighs and drenched bald head are practically burned into my psyche.
Don't forget the many ankle injuries caused by one false move off the step aerobics step of doom. In fact when I was dating Brigham I had to limp to his mexi-green truck one evening after a graceless fall during a fateful step aerobic workout. That night on my parent's doorstep he instructed me in the basic practice of R.I.C.E. No, that's not an acronym for post date hanky panky, although at the time I remember wishing it were. Rest Ice Compression Elevate. Brig took one look at my elephantine ankle and gave me that very helpful, but unromantic piece of advice. If I had said what I was thinking I would have told him all about the benefits of K.M.Y.F. or Kiss Me You Fool. But he was a returned missionary at the time. Fresh off the plane from Venezuela with that same suave side part haircut and a new found hatred for rice and beans. Apparently rice and beans is the official dish of Venezuela. Point is it took him a while to get around to kissing me.
In recent years I've done Turbo Jam. The music is supposedly "Slammin" and the instructor is certifiably too peppy for her own good. But for a while I enjoyed the challenge of learning the choreography and improving my tolerance for intensely blond middle-aged instructors still clinging to her old cheerleader days of glory. Fifteen pounds lost later I was bored out of my mind. Uncle! I give, I give. Yes, Chalean your workouts are effective but if I have to listen to you proclaim how much you love this 90's hip hop song one more time I think I'll roundhouse my foot right into your tanned face and then my husband would really be mad because he'd no longer be able to watch football on the t.v. because there is a size 8 sneaker-shaped hole smashed through the screen.
It's obvious that the exercise lots, eat more approach is not effective. Especially because I slack off and exercise none, and still eat more. And if I really want to be healthy this approach is not good for my specific set of genetics. Cooper and Heart Problems might as well be one and the same.
So where do I go from here? I'm trying the old exercise and eat moderately approach. My initial goal is ten pounds. Believe me I need to lose a lot more than that, but in the past I've always become overwhelmed when I think about the amount of weight I need to lose. So yep, ten pounds is it for now.
I'm also trying to reduce my caffeine intake by nixing my bottle of Coke every other day. Baby steps. I'm starting off my exercise by doing a free weight program with, who else? Chalean from Turbo Jam fame. It's about 35 minutes of weights five days a week. I am also going to be walking and doing some aerobics on video. Eventually I'd like to have enough confidence to go to Zumba classes at the local rec. center. I hate obsessing over calories, but I'm going to shoot for 1500 calories per day. I'm sure it will vary with my mood.
And lastly I wanted to list a reason why I want to lose weight with every Wednesday post.
BECAUSE SWEAT PANTS ARE NOT AN ANY OCCASION TYPE OF APPAREL. MY PRE-PREGNANCY JEANS AWAIT!
If you're a long time reader than you've been subjected in the past to my late night ramblings about my issues with food and body image. I usually have to post a follow up to assure everyone I'm not on suicide watch. Yes, being overweight makes me feel bad. It makes me uncomfortable to be around other people. It makes me bitter. In a nutshell it makes me miserable. If you're like my husband with a very logical brain you then think to yourself...then why don't you do something about it?
Good question, Dr. Phil. I've been trying to figure that out myself. Since the first year after I got married and went in for my annual check-up at the OB/GYN and the nurse practitioner became alarmed at my thirty-five pound weight gain in a year I've been "trying" to lose weight. I can say I have honestly tried several times to lose weight. And I've done the opposite at other times. Making my efforts very counter productive to say the least.
In the past I've taken the "exercise like hell and eat whatever you like" approach. Excepting my bountiful bosom that makes jogging a nightmare, I don't mind working out. I do get bored though with a workout eventually. I did step aerobics and Tae Bo in high school. Billy Blanks' muscular thighs and drenched bald head are practically burned into my psyche.
Don't forget the many ankle injuries caused by one false move off the step aerobics step of doom. In fact when I was dating Brigham I had to limp to his mexi-green truck one evening after a graceless fall during a fateful step aerobic workout. That night on my parent's doorstep he instructed me in the basic practice of R.I.C.E. No, that's not an acronym for post date hanky panky, although at the time I remember wishing it were. Rest Ice Compression Elevate. Brig took one look at my elephantine ankle and gave me that very helpful, but unromantic piece of advice. If I had said what I was thinking I would have told him all about the benefits of K.M.Y.F. or Kiss Me You Fool. But he was a returned missionary at the time. Fresh off the plane from Venezuela with that same suave side part haircut and a new found hatred for rice and beans. Apparently rice and beans is the official dish of Venezuela. Point is it took him a while to get around to kissing me.
In recent years I've done Turbo Jam. The music is supposedly "Slammin" and the instructor is certifiably too peppy for her own good. But for a while I enjoyed the challenge of learning the choreography and improving my tolerance for intensely blond middle-aged instructors still clinging to her old cheerleader days of glory. Fifteen pounds lost later I was bored out of my mind. Uncle! I give, I give. Yes, Chalean your workouts are effective but if I have to listen to you proclaim how much you love this 90's hip hop song one more time I think I'll roundhouse my foot right into your tanned face and then my husband would really be mad because he'd no longer be able to watch football on the t.v. because there is a size 8 sneaker-shaped hole smashed through the screen.
It's obvious that the exercise lots, eat more approach is not effective. Especially because I slack off and exercise none, and still eat more. And if I really want to be healthy this approach is not good for my specific set of genetics. Cooper and Heart Problems might as well be one and the same.
So where do I go from here? I'm trying the old exercise and eat moderately approach. My initial goal is ten pounds. Believe me I need to lose a lot more than that, but in the past I've always become overwhelmed when I think about the amount of weight I need to lose. So yep, ten pounds is it for now.
I'm also trying to reduce my caffeine intake by nixing my bottle of Coke every other day. Baby steps. I'm starting off my exercise by doing a free weight program with, who else? Chalean from Turbo Jam fame. It's about 35 minutes of weights five days a week. I am also going to be walking and doing some aerobics on video. Eventually I'd like to have enough confidence to go to Zumba classes at the local rec. center. I hate obsessing over calories, but I'm going to shoot for 1500 calories per day. I'm sure it will vary with my mood.
And lastly I wanted to list a reason why I want to lose weight with every Wednesday post.
BECAUSE SWEAT PANTS ARE NOT AN ANY OCCASION TYPE OF APPAREL. MY PRE-PREGNANCY JEANS AWAIT!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Small Towns
I find myself driving a lot here in Salt Lake City, not necessarily to go anywhere. Just to drive. I miss driving away. Away from the people and the traffic and the buildings. I know I'm probably romanticizing living in the country like the way you do with an old relationship. You remember the person as funnier, cuter, and a better kisser than he really was. You forget the dragon breath that came with his love of Gardetto's, the annoying way he ate his cereal and how he once cried when you broke his treasured Star Wars Ewok Village replica. Three words. Buck up, Skywalker.
There are a lot of things I miss about the small town I grew up in. The way the night sky looks like someone poked a thousands holes in the Light Bright paper, how everyone waves when they pass one another, how quiet it is. It's so quiet, you can hear the wind rushing over the open fields. It fills your ears up like the surf being driven upon a beach.
There's also a lot of things I never thought I'd miss. Like the isolation from civilization. Here you can get anything you need 24 hours a day. It sounds good in theory, but when I'm craving Stacy's pita chips and hummus dip and I know it's a two minute drive to the nearest grocery store I'm more than likely to give into temptation. And that bag says it's three servings but I'm pretty sure it's one. See what I mean? No bueno. Three servings? Pshaw. Maybe for Polly Pocket.
I recall one fateful morning in middle school. I woke up, washed my hair and went to plaster my frizz fighting hair gel to my many strands of unruliness. Oh no! We forgot to buy hair gel when we were last in Logan. I remember being pretty upset with Mom. How could she do this to me? Did she want me to be a social pariah? Had she forgotten I resembled Sideshow Bob when my hair remained au natural? My poor mother. She instantly put on her chemist hat and started cooking me up some hair gel in the kitchen. How hard could it be, right? I don't know all the things she put in the mixture...gelatin, cornstarch, honey...maybe? Who knows. But I attempted to slather it on my head and I swear if you threw a couple of mini marshmallows and some mandarin oranges and cottage cheese in the mix, you could have ate some tasty jello salad ala Debbie. I caused such a ruckus that she told me to stay home from school. I would have loved to listen in to her call to the school. "Yes, I am Denise Cooper's mother. She won't be to school today because I am serving one of the courses to my lady's luncheon off the top of her head." Country folks are nothing, if not inventive.
There are times I enjoy the anonymity of living in a place with so many others. Like when I run to the grocery store, sans makeup. When we lived in Logan, it was more than likely that you'd have to stop four or five times to visit with the people you knew from high school and church and family reunions. Aren't we related? Yeah I've been asked that before. When I worked at Lowe's. When I said no, he asked me out on a date. Bu-dum-bum.
But I also miss knowing people. At least when you live in a small town you know who all the weirdos are. In the city there is no definitive way of knowing. You know, unless you actually...talk to them. I've lived on the same street for nearly two years and I still don't know who lives in a quarter of the houses. Maybe I just happen to live on Hermit street. Maybe I'm one of them. I simply can't shake this sense of "otherness".
I look at these city folk and I think...I'm not like you. One summer day as a kid I got invited up to my neighbors house to swim. What did we swim in? Their brand new watering trough for their Holsteins. We had so much fun. It truly was a hillbilly swimming pool and none of us even cared or knew it at the time. Hey, better to swim in it pre-cow saliva, than post. And that's what I think when I'm introduced to another fashionable city dweller. Have you ever swam in a cow trough? Did your mother ever resort to her vast knowledge of jello saladia to save your white girl afro? Have you ever had to wait until the next big grocery shopping trip into "town" to pick up your latest craving? No? I didn't think so. It's country snobbery. I admit it. I must be the only person in the world to think less of you if you've never waded in manure infested water. Maybe if I touted the benefits of City Creek (Creek rhymes with tick for those not in the know) Clarkston would become the mecca of organic spa getaways. I can see it now...the cow trough hot tubs, the cow patty facials, and my mom's mandarin orange jello salad hair mask.
There are a lot of things I miss about the small town I grew up in. The way the night sky looks like someone poked a thousands holes in the Light Bright paper, how everyone waves when they pass one another, how quiet it is. It's so quiet, you can hear the wind rushing over the open fields. It fills your ears up like the surf being driven upon a beach.
There's also a lot of things I never thought I'd miss. Like the isolation from civilization. Here you can get anything you need 24 hours a day. It sounds good in theory, but when I'm craving Stacy's pita chips and hummus dip and I know it's a two minute drive to the nearest grocery store I'm more than likely to give into temptation. And that bag says it's three servings but I'm pretty sure it's one. See what I mean? No bueno. Three servings? Pshaw. Maybe for Polly Pocket.
I recall one fateful morning in middle school. I woke up, washed my hair and went to plaster my frizz fighting hair gel to my many strands of unruliness. Oh no! We forgot to buy hair gel when we were last in Logan. I remember being pretty upset with Mom. How could she do this to me? Did she want me to be a social pariah? Had she forgotten I resembled Sideshow Bob when my hair remained au natural? My poor mother. She instantly put on her chemist hat and started cooking me up some hair gel in the kitchen. How hard could it be, right? I don't know all the things she put in the mixture...gelatin, cornstarch, honey...maybe? Who knows. But I attempted to slather it on my head and I swear if you threw a couple of mini marshmallows and some mandarin oranges and cottage cheese in the mix, you could have ate some tasty jello salad ala Debbie. I caused such a ruckus that she told me to stay home from school. I would have loved to listen in to her call to the school. "Yes, I am Denise Cooper's mother. She won't be to school today because I am serving one of the courses to my lady's luncheon off the top of her head." Country folks are nothing, if not inventive.
There are times I enjoy the anonymity of living in a place with so many others. Like when I run to the grocery store, sans makeup. When we lived in Logan, it was more than likely that you'd have to stop four or five times to visit with the people you knew from high school and church and family reunions. Aren't we related? Yeah I've been asked that before. When I worked at Lowe's. When I said no, he asked me out on a date. Bu-dum-bum.
But I also miss knowing people. At least when you live in a small town you know who all the weirdos are. In the city there is no definitive way of knowing. You know, unless you actually...talk to them. I've lived on the same street for nearly two years and I still don't know who lives in a quarter of the houses. Maybe I just happen to live on Hermit street. Maybe I'm one of them. I simply can't shake this sense of "otherness".
I look at these city folk and I think...I'm not like you. One summer day as a kid I got invited up to my neighbors house to swim. What did we swim in? Their brand new watering trough for their Holsteins. We had so much fun. It truly was a hillbilly swimming pool and none of us even cared or knew it at the time. Hey, better to swim in it pre-cow saliva, than post. And that's what I think when I'm introduced to another fashionable city dweller. Have you ever swam in a cow trough? Did your mother ever resort to her vast knowledge of jello saladia to save your white girl afro? Have you ever had to wait until the next big grocery shopping trip into "town" to pick up your latest craving? No? I didn't think so. It's country snobbery. I admit it. I must be the only person in the world to think less of you if you've never waded in manure infested water. Maybe if I touted the benefits of City Creek (Creek rhymes with tick for those not in the know) Clarkston would become the mecca of organic spa getaways. I can see it now...the cow trough hot tubs, the cow patty facials, and my mom's mandarin orange jello salad hair mask.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Trick or Treat
I was so happy that the weather was warm this year. Last year we slogged through rain the entire time we were walking around the neighborhood.
This is Ava's "tough girl" pose. Super girl was her chosen alter ego this year. I don't remember super girl dressing in all pink, but oh well. Ava couldn't care less.
Never trust your husband when he tells you the shot looks good. Look at my wonky eyes. But the kids look cute, and that's all that matters. Brielle was a cranky skunk for Halloween. I wish I would have taken a picture of the back as she crawled. It was so cute.
We proceeded with the ghoulish mayhem door-to-door trick-or-treating. There was a ton of people out and it made things difficult as Ava didn't want to knock on any doors while other kids were there getting their loot also. Such a diva.
The little stinker finally fell asleep. I'm not sure she was really taking this holiday seriously.
I enjoyed seeing all the decorations. Some people go all out. There was one house that had so many gruesome decorations, including a fake decapitated head hanging in a bag next to the front door that Ava approached it and then after staring at the fake head for all of five seconds came running back to the sidewalk without knocking or anything.
There is a house a couple of blocks east of our apartment that really get into it. Ava was really scared but toughed it out to the front door to get some candy. I thought the creepy zombie baby was a nice touch.
Me and Brielle last night while she was wide awake with her teeth torturing her. I just love staying up until 2:30 with a fussy baby. It's the best!
Back home with the spread. It's pretty disgusting. People kept telling her to take a handful. I started telling her to just take one, but she didn't listen to me, and who can blame her. If a kid is being offered three or four pieces of candy instead of just one it goes without saying that they're going to take advantage of that generosity. I'm the one that will pay for it in the end though. With the sugar highs and my expanding thighs. In other news I think I will add a feature called Weight Loss Wednesdays, tracking my "progress" as I strive to lose weight. If anyone wants to join me, feel free.
This is Ava's "tough girl" pose. Super girl was her chosen alter ego this year. I don't remember super girl dressing in all pink, but oh well. Ava couldn't care less.
Even as Super Girl she can't help posing daintily.
The little stinker finally fell asleep. I'm not sure she was really taking this holiday seriously.
I enjoyed seeing all the decorations. Some people go all out. There was one house that had so many gruesome decorations, including a fake decapitated head hanging in a bag next to the front door that Ava approached it and then after staring at the fake head for all of five seconds came running back to the sidewalk without knocking or anything.
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