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Kids

Gopher Day goes awry

April 2, 2015

 

April 1, 2015 was Gopher Day in my little suburban slice of the world. It’s the day when neighbors, whom you haven’t seen in months, pop out to give a smile and subtle wave to signal the official close of hibernation. Masculine machines are firing up … trimming, whacking, pruning. I feel that familiar face sweat beading into formation in the sunlight through my car window. Hello, old friend! The songs sound catchier. Traffic flows like a good piece of gossip among girlfriends. It’s my favorite day of the whole year.

I pulled in my driveway to find the chicks, in various states of sweet spring activity – JoJo pushing Sloppy Joan around in an umbrella stroller. Spikey stepping up to her big girl bike with tottering training wheels. This is some serious utopian stuff, I thought … like a moron.

Any mom worth her salt knows that picturing perfection and your kids in the same space for more than a handful of minutes is a rookie assumption, sure to implode before you, leaving in its wake stinging shrapnel made of pinches, pokes and hysterics.

But this was Gopher Day! So I put history and intuition aside, and embarked on a sure-to-be-blissful jaunt around the park. And then, like the shittiest April Fools joke ever, all hell began to break loose. First, JoJo decided to abandon the bike she was on to push Sloppy Joan, which, it would turn out, meant big sis sprinting while a wide-eyed baby sat, white-knuckled with her prominent whale-spout pony flapping violently atop her head.

But this juvenile joyride was nothing compared to Spike, or as she will henceforth be called, “The Girl Who Killed Gopher Day”. Our 3 year old is notorious for bailing. Every hike, walk or bike ride to date has ended with her in a puddle of pout on a sidewalk. It’s embarrassing and it really brings my Supermom mojo down. To assume today would be different just because the sun was shining was naïve, I admit it, but I let her hop on her new Hello Kitty bike and get after it. I’d say about .2 of a mile in, we were in good shape. By .3, we were having steering issues. And by .4 we were standing next to the steed, contemplating the next move.

Sensing a general frustration and seeing smoke off JoJo’s heels, I simply suggested Spike leave the bike, walk with us and then practice when we came back around. If my future self could have intercepted the words from the mouth of my present self, everyone would have come through just fine. But there was no going back.

Me: Babe, let’s just go enjoy the walk and we’ll try again when we come back this way.
Spike: But Mama …
Me: Spikey, it’s such a beautiful day, let’s go try to catch JoJo!
Spike: No, I want to ride my big girl bike!
Me: Then hop on and steer it, like you were before.
Spike: It’s not working, Mama!
Me: OK, then let’s just walk for now.
Spike: No!
Me: Honey, Mommy’s gotta go catch up with your sisters. You coming?
Spike: No! I want to ride my bike!
Me: OK, well then you need to head home, hon.
Spike: Noooooo! I wanna ride my bike! [cue tears]
Me: Spikey, I’m not doing this here.
Spike: [cue screams]
Me: I have to go now. [Walks away nervously splitting my eyes to keep one on each set of children.]
Spike: [Screaming, blubbering dialogue I can’t decipher]
Me: [Runs back, picks Spike up and puts her in our fence. Neighbors at a standstill.]
Hank: [Chases Spikey around the backyard like a farmer after
a greasy pig until he catches and carries her, sack-of-potatoes style, into the house, where screams can still be heard because the windows are open because, you know, it’s freaking Gopher Day.]

JoJo, Sloppy Joan and I continued on our loop, which was, all things considered, nice.

I was naïve. I see that now. I thought I would be taking a mental snapshot of my three little ladies riding and strolling and smiling on the first sunny day of spring, and I would want to write about it and store it away in my heart forever. But I’m writing about this. And you know, sometimes that’s just the way walks go.
Wellness

What the scale said in March

April 1, 2015

 

This is a depressing update because the scale said I was still overweight, basically. It did. not. move. For a whole month. One of our longest months at that. It wasn’t like it was February, which is so short no one can, realistically, get anything done.
The scale says:
Down – 28.4
To Go – 18.6

The humiliation is good, guys, really … it’s good. I mean, I need a tablespoon or twenty of humility. (See how I equate everything to food?) A week goes by and you eat a tub of Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Almond Bark Thins and a few Apple Fritters, and you think, Monday is the day. The day I search Amazon for more Trader Joe’s chocolate. I blame the Mayans and Aztecs, actually.

But, April – sweet, spring-has-sprung April – that’s where it’s at. “A” is for “April” and “A game”.

The plan. The progress.*

Whole30
– Completed February 5 (100%). Considering another round (post-Easter, of
course). Any takers?

Kayla Itsines 12-week Bikini
Body – On Week 9 (75%). This guide is badass. More to come.

Join a Gym – Officially members and regularly attending Spinning
and attempting TurboKick tomorrow. Aw, snap Billy Blanks, what! (80%)

Clean Eating – Why do I even keep this on the list? Note to self: Meal prep is magical. Get back to what works. (-2.1%)

Half Marathon – I am registered. I have also selected a training program to get me to a place where I can do my real training program come July.
This was a realization best served by someone else. In my case, a coworker who moonlights as a marathoner, but more to come on that later. (1%)

Calorie Tracking – It sucks. Keeping a food journal is like the ultimate sensory cock block. The smells aren’t as sweet. The bites aren’t as beautiful. It’s all one big finger in your face, disgracing your dairy and desserts. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work. (Unless you’re Whole30-ing.)

Hiking – Got my boots and JoJo chose a hiking trip to mark her 6th
birthday in May. We’re going places. (3%)

Yoga – Every Sunday (10%)

Slim & Sassy essential oil – I sip on this stuff at least twice a week. I don’t
know how I’ll know when I know it’s doing something. (5%)

*These percentages are based on complete bullshit because I don’t know
how to do math or quantify something like “Clean Eating”.

Kids

Sometimes you gotta …

March 29, 2015

Life can be tense from time to time. It can be a downright kick in the pants. When a case of the Mondays descends, or tempers run high, I think you just gotta dance it out. A good old fashioned dance party is the antidote for what ails and annoys. Bring the funk to ban it.

If your motions are a merger of your mama’s sweet moves and dad’s stiff hips, it might look like this:

It’s cool. Own it.

But there is one caution I feel compelled to share with those considering an all-family dance party – something that must be anticipated and addressed as a household before a situation arises and you find yourself ill prepared. I’m talking about Taylor Swift. Now, I am not anti-Swift, as a general rule. I am also far from a Swiftie. But sure as a death in a Disney movie, your kids are going to flipping love her. Be ready.

I feel that my organic reaction has been genetically transferred to Sloppy Joan. Watch as, at just 10 months old, she has the I-can’t-freaking-believe-I’m-actually-dancing-to-this-shit-and-I-love-it response to America’s revered pop anthem:

The amazing thing is, this was the first time Sloppy Joan clapped. This night, dancing. Taylor Swift is so good, her sick beats elicit human reactions beyond existing motor skills. I can think what I want about her gaping, girl power expressions, but the B is good. Damn good.

Wanderlust

My heart and soles

March 26, 2015

From the moment you arrived, my heart told me this was going somewhere. If I married up the seconds I’ve stolen with thoughts of our life together, it would add up to days … maybe weeks. And now the love affair of my daydreams is tangible, it’s standing right in front of me. 

As with any enduring relationship, I must request your unwavering support. That you take me to unforgettable places that mean something so special, even if only to us. And that you at least try to be dependable every step of the way. Here’s to our new romance and the promise of getting lost together in the right direction.

Thoughts

The wonderful whoops, or Phillip Douglas took forever, or My birth story

March 24, 2015

 


 
There’s a section in Amy Poehler’s Yes, Please! (superfluous praise here), where she recounts the day she was born. Her parents even make an
appearance to narrate their respective recollections in the audiobook. It’s adorable.Anyway, Amy, my new best friend, encourages people to ask their parents about the day they were born. If you think about it, it’s astounding how many people don’t know their story. My Dad didn’t know his. So, even though I’d heard parts of it before – specifically how they had a great 10th anniversary
celebration and nine months later an unplanned blessing ­­– I asked Rog and
Marilyn to crack open the vault and share the story of the day I came into the
world.

How Mom remembers it …

“I woke up in the middle of the night and felt a little crampy. Instead of staying in bed, I went downstairs to
watch television. There was a stupid movie on called Islands in the Stream. It was about Papa Hemingway … so boring. At
around five in the morning, I heard this gurgling sound and realized that my water was about to break. I called for your Dad, as I figured I would probably have you right there. Your sister came so quickly. We went to the hospital where I had many hours of labor, during which we were trying to pick out boy names since I was sure you were a boy. I believe we settled on Phillip Douglas.  After hours (yes hours with no medication) of labor they finally
decided that they needed to do something to make things happen. I was reluctant, but your Dad told them to go ahead bring in the pit drip. Really? (Sure, it wasn’t him having the labor.) It looked like a foot-long needle that they inserted in the side of my wrist but within a minute all heck broke loose. With constant contractions, I was in delivery within 45 minutes.  I was not aware, but it seemed your heart rate had dropped, so they were anxious to get you delivered. Bing, bang, boom, there you were in all your glory! My beautiful Courtney.”

So, to recap:
I always thought the whole Islands in the Stream thing was why I have an affinity for Dolly and Kenny. Turns out, maybe it’s why I’m a writer.
“Your sister came so quickly” = Kirsten’s is perfect.
Phillip Douglas sounds like someone who signed the Declaration of Independence. Actually … is that someone who signed the Declaration of Independence?“a foot-long needle inserted in the side of my wrist” = thank you, Mom, for my horrendous fear of needles.

“Really? (Sure, it wasn’t him having the labor.)” = homegirl still isn’t over
it.

How Dad remembers it …
“I woke up early that morning.  I found your mother in the family room watching Islands in the Stream about Hemmingway. Her
water had broken, and she felt anxious about getting to the hospital. You were the third baby, and you were the first that they didn’t have to break her water. We thought that we were in for a quick delivery. Hours went by with no progress. Finally at about 4 pm or so, the nurse suggested a Pit drip to get things in gear.  They were concerned that we were coming up on 12 hours after the water had broken and the risk of infection. Of course,
being the brave one in the family, I said yes. Once they started the drip, things went very quickly. Your mother was in pain almost continuously, but she had no anesthetic. You were born at 5:15 or 5:30. You cried right away. You were pretty and pink with all of your fingers and toes. We were beaming with happiness! You and your mom only spent about a day in the hospital and went home. You were the biggest of the babies at 9 pound 2 ounces.  Cute as a bug’s ear and still are!”
A few final thoughts:
Does anyone else find it disturbing that these people barely remember that my heart rate dropped – clearly a near-death experience – during delivery, or the exact time of my birth for that matter, but Islands in the frickin Stream stands out clear as crystal?“You were the third baby, and you were the first that they didn’t have to break her water.” = Why can’t you be more like your brother and sister?

“Of course, being the brave one in the family” = I get my ability to bullshit
from my father.

… The rest is actually pretty sweet. Thanks for having me, Mom and Dad! Best decision you two crazy kids ever made.
Kids

My daughters’ differences

March 20, 2015

 

As I watch the ladies in my home grow and transition, and bicker and prod, I realize with absolute certainty that my frazzled, thirty-something mind will never comprehend the ancient complexities of how two human beings, created by the same two human beings, can be so completely, drastically different. Hank and I are opposites, no argument there. It is frequently pointed out to me that the older two pull their dominant qualities from the maternal side, but it’s hard to tell with such a sprawling spectrum of genetic attributes in both directions.
JoJo is inquisitive. She worries and ponders and seeks the truth. She cries often, and asks about things that people my age don’t understand or only contemplate when they’re really, really stoned. She has concerns and she likes to direct action and take the lead when she feels comfortable.
Spike is my wild card. She, too, is emotional, but it’s more for dramatic effect and from frustration. She demands to be heard and she doesn’t have much patience for parenting. I don’t worry about Spike when it comes to friends or the pursuit of her dreams. I think all that girl needs is a compass and she’ll be on her way.
While I celebrate these beautiful, mystifying differences between my babies, they are often the culprits for our sibling domestic disputes. The girls are the only players in a tireless game of tug-of-war … the yin and the yang … the opposites that often don’t attract. They would move mountains both to defend each other and to defeat each other. The fights. The crazy, yelling, name-calling, remote-throwing, door-slamming fights. About whose turn it is, or who was telling the story, or who gets the green plate. It’s exhausting, but common. I’ll catch myself tiptoeing toward losing it before I plant my feet, take a beat and remind myself that my actions become their reactions. That sisters fight. That this is life in our house right now, and it looks like this sometimes in ours and all the other houses with little firecrackers running around.
But a shaken soda settles eventually, and bitterness dissolves with distraction. And that’s what I adore. It’s then I like to slow the narrative and commit it to memory. It’s in the moments when, unprompted or pushed, they hug, or tickle or have those amazing conversations when you turn your back and laugh from your heart, out through tiny tears in your eyes. And my soul feels so full and I think,
I love these little humans. And I love that they have each other. They talk about the planet and God and monsters. They solve the day’s problems and only ask for my confirmation at the very end. “Right, Mama?” Sometimes I correct them, and more often I let their little imaginations govern the day. Because, really, wouldn’t we all be a little better off with thoughts of smiling moons and horses named Kiyango at the front door?
I simultaneously dread how quickly the time will pass, and eagerly anticipate the day when Sloppy Joan joins her sisters at the kitchen bar. If my predictions are on point, she will be her father; the calming rhythm that steadies the noise. I’m sometimes wrong about these things, but I see a peace and joy in her little eyes that reminds me of the man I married, and also why I married him. And it’s reason No. 5,986 why I love her so much.
So, this post is dedicated to the slower, happier moments. To dancing to Beyonce’s “Girls” in the basement, and imaginative time playing mermaids in the tub. To saving each other from the top of the slide and falling asleep holding hands. To reuniting after school and smothering hugs. Here’s to my delightfully different, dynamic, amazing girls and the perfectly imperfect sisterhood they share.
Vs.

Spike and Daddy vs. Goose and Maverick

March 16, 2015

They felt the need for speed and Spike felt the need, the need to pee. And we didn’t make it in time so she had to change into a Pull-Up at a rest stop somewhere in the Midwest. But, going by strut alone …

Who has the right stuff?

Spike + Daddy …

or Maverick + Goose?