Desperately Seeking Superwoman

Thoughts

Birthdays kinda blow

November 7, 2015

On Tuesday I had a birthday. It was a day that marked the passing of 364 days since the last day I reflected intensely on and took inventory of where I was at in life. Now, full disclosure, I don’t own a birthday foam finger. That is to say, I’m not a big fan of them. It’s not that I despise getting older (“It’s better than the alternative,” my dad, Big Rog, would say), it’s the expectation and, ultimately, letdown it induces.

Look no further than your facebook wall. “Happy National Holiday!” “You deserve the most special day ever!” “I hope it’s epic! Go do something amazing with your girls!” It’s the LeBron James of calendar occasions. No single day can live up to that hype. It’s just not possible to artificially impregnate a specific, designated 24 hours with all the joys and surprises and rewards you’ve been wishing for all year, or the well-meaning, completely unattainable dreams that cascade down from your social circle.

But we try, don’t we? It’s OK to admit it … I’ll go first so you don’t have to. The embarrassing truth is, as our grown-ass heads meet the pillow on our respective birthday eves, we entertain impossible possibilities that awaken a childlike exhilaration and anticipation, the likes of which rival only Christmas itself. Then we try to talk ourselves down from the high … “Oh my gosh, that’s crazy to think that my boss is going to just send me home for my special day.” “OK, Courtney, they are not going to name a burger after you at Brava’s just because you got older.” “A 20-day getaway to an all-inclusive hut with a window in the floor where you can see fish? He would never!”

For me, the downright preposterous delusions drown out practicality all the way through mid-afternoon of my actual birthday, when I realize that this year, much like last year, will be marked by thoughtful messages from friends of the past and present, a handful of funny cards about farts and drinking too much (my favorite things) and vanilla cupcakes from Kroger with the whipped cream frosting. They are humble, delightful traditions, and they are mine. The truth is, contradictory to what this post might imply, I relish every small, special nod I get on November 3. I do. They just aren’t on the My Super Sweet 16 scale that I uncontrollably harvest a desire for from some disgusting place in the depths of my selfish, greedy subconscious. It’s a gross internal battle and I blame the aforementioned MTV reality series.

Perhaps most sobering, is the acceptance that there is no magic spell that befalls my home on that day. The girls still fight. The dishwasher still needs emptied. The laundry still needs put away. The workout still needs to get done. As hard as I silently send out wishes to my fairy godmother, the chores and the sibling conflicts just keep right on coming, like punches to a piñata at my mental fiesta. Again, the rational woman in me chuckles at the notion that anything would change just because of an event that took place 33 years ago. But the 7-year-old birthday girl cries a little bit.

I have friends who are great birthday people. They organize nice evenings out in celebration of their lives, and manage to mark the occasion year after year with the perfect marriage of merriment and modesty. But I shutter at the thought of planning an event in my own honor and instead choose to sit by and let it pass, all the while secretly pining for grand gestures. It’s not in my typical nature, I swear. It’s an annual internal display of obnoxious narcissism that I’ll never understand and can’t believe I’m owning right now. It’s not pretty and it’s not cute, but all of this ugliness is why I don’t care for my birthday. But I love everyone else’s.

(Editor’s note: Thank you so much to everyone who sent me a birthday message on facebook. It’s so thoughtful and truly one of the happiest highlights of the day.)

Now that we have that rant all neatly wrapped up, I’d like to take just a few bullet points to toast the things I actually managed to accomplish in my 32nd year of life. Some big, some small, all a hash mark to verify I was striving for something.

I dropped the butts. The mere fact that my smoking habit hung on as long as it did embarrasses me, but I won’t carry it on to 33. You’re welcome, lungs. And sorry about that.

Oh, did I mention I ran 13.1 miles? I might have already talked about the fact that I completed my first half marathon. I still can’t motha cluckin’ believe dat ish. Huge bucket list bullseye there.

I talked to you folks. The reality is, it’s not easy fitting this fun little writing project of mine into the gridlocked traffic jam that is our Monday through Sunday. But it’s a release. It’s a time capsule. It’s a priority because it proves I can still find myself at the crossroads of profession and passion. And I’ve kept it going for the past year, which was something I really wanted to prove to myself. I might only post once a week, but it’s still breathing.

Aluminum-free at 33. I put some persistent paranoia to bed and finally found an effective, healthy deodorant.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. I did the ballsiest thing I can remember myself doing in years, and switched jobs back in June. It’s been a road of small victories, lots of lessons and invaluable self discovery.

I fell for Emma. After years of Hank and I talking about the kind of parents we wanted to be and the corners of the world we wanted to take our kids, we finally took a step in that direction. We’re pulling our modest little popup around and putting pins in the map. It feels so good running alongside our adventures rather than just chasing them.

So Says Sloppy Joan

Sentimental for Sloppy Joan

November 5, 2015

I was sitting at work when the phone rang.
“OK, I need you to talk me down off the ledge,” my friend said. “Is it crazy that I’m heartbroken about getting rid of my baby swing?”
“No, absolutely not,” I quickly answered.

“I just stood there and – I’m gonna cry again right now – I played the bird sounds on it, you know, and I sobbed.”

“Totally normal.” I assured her.

“OK, I’ll let you get back to work. I’m just … emotional I guess.”

Just a month ago, I literally sprinted out to the garage, not allowing enough time for thoughts to permeate, put the bent and battered oscillating chair down by the trash bin, wiped my nose and told Hank I didn’t want to talk about it … like ever. There’s no telling when it will strike and what seemingly meaningless object will trigger the catastrophic hormonal mommy meltdown, but we’ve all sat and played the birds at some point.

In the spirit of forbidding our children to grow up, I want to freeze a few memories in place here. On Monday, my baby was 17 months old. She’s popping new teeth two at a time and repeating words and being just generally awesome. Here, for no other reason other than to fill my digital baby book and personal posterity, is an incomplete list of reasons I can’t get enough of this freaking kid.

15 Reasons to Love Sloppy Joan

1. She had 4 teeth, like, forever.

2. Sometimes we play this fun little game where she pulls on my ponytail and as soon as I say, “No!” she plops her head down like she wasn’t there and has no clue what I’m referring to. Then does it again. It really hurts, I’m not going to lie, but the fact that she plays it off makes her too cool for me to care. I can’t even be mad.

3. She picks up every bite of food with her thumb and forefinger, as if each morsel deserves her very judicious and meticulous scrutiny before being shoved into her mouth for consumption. (Even when she’s dozing off.)

4. She’s a body slammer, this kid. One of her favorite things is to start from across the room and run, arms outstretched, until she plows into you. This also ties up with the fact that she always thinks you’re chasing her. If you’re coming up within 5 feet from her back, you just opted in to her assumed game of chase. Prepare for her to trot and giggle away while peeking over her shoulder in your direction. Trust me, you’ll love it.

5. After a seemingly endless phase where everything was, “this,” she’s transformed into a petite little parrot, repeating the words that filter through her tiny ears and register enough to come tentatively from her budding voice. If we were awarding points for articulation, she’d earn the highest marks for, “Mama!” which she now shouts from her crib upon waking on Saturday mornings in a demanding, almost disgruntled tone that I just adore for some reason. (What does that say about me?)

6. Her whale spout is everything.

7. She tootles around with her hands tucked behind her back. You know, like your teacher did while you were taking a test in grade school. It’s so cute, you guys, I just can’t describe it in a way that will do it justice. I also can’t seem to unholster my cell fast enough to capture it, so you’re gonna have to trust me on this one.

8. When I pull her out of the tub, I can’t get a towel around her before she dives into my lap to snuggle up, soaking wet. It always makes me feel like I peed my pants in the most endearing fashion possible.

9. She sits in her little hiking backpack so nicely and urges me to, “Go, go, go … Go, go, go …”

10. She loves it when I gently tickle her skin, especially on her face. Homegirl drops from a dead sprint to a puddle when I graze her cheek. Mouth open. Drool. It’s beautiful.

11. She sniffs out GoGo Squeezes like a bloodhound. If the pantry door is cracked, she’s pulling out a tasty pouch and it makes her hangry mama so proud.

12. She learned to dance. Moves include: fast feet, spins and falls.

13. I’ve never seen anyone as flexible as this baby. It’s a Cirque du Soleil every day up in this house, and it equally impresses and terrifies me.

14. The tickle she gets from taking one arm out of her shirt.

15. Her belly laughs. If a sound could be a cure for the hurt in the world, it would be this one.

Thank you for humoring me. Now let’s all go smell an old burp cloth soaked in Johnson’s baby wash and cry, k?

Kids

Dance, too much BOO-tay in da pants

October 29, 2015

We waited until the Wednesday before Halloween, so our pumpkins aren’t perky, but they’re perfect for us. Try not to pee your pants from these scary faces. Looks like Spike might have done something perplexing in hers.

Oh, and there’s this. You’re welcome.

Kids

Who are these jerks?

October 28, 2015

Oh man! I feel like the Genie when he comes out of the lamp after 6 million years. I don’t know what’s had us so busy … a little bit of camping … a little bit of work … a lotta bit of laundry … the Fit2Feast workout challenge and then, right when I think I’m going to sit down to write, my Stitch Fix comes. Life is just full of distractions.

So, the thing about this post is that I’ve been thinking about sharing it for months, but it’s not the most popular topic. See, with all the happy highlights and filtered Instagrams, it’s hard to imagine that anything is ever less than ideal in this place. I mean, Spike is so funny, and JoJo so wise beyond her years and Sloppy Joan is just the cutest, but there are moments … many, many moments, where my kids are … well, they’re freaking punks.

It’s always been there. The whining, the petty fighting, the outlandish demands. But this past year, particularly since JoJo started kindergarten, it’s been beyond any normal human’s threshold for whining, fighting and demanding. There are days when my directions are merely suggestions in a world dominated by their whims and wants. My requests are considered and immediately dismissed to make time for something like cutting construction paper into 30 million tiny pieces. They fight over items as priceless as the cardboard center of a toilet paper roll and go straight to hand to hand combat when direct commands fall on deliberately deaf ears.

I know that I’m not alone. I do. But it feels lonely in those moments. Like these are failures specifically tailored to showcase my shortcomings as their example. Being a parent and observing your kids is like the lab that accompanied a chemistry course in college. You try to follow the directions. You use the ingredients and strategies the teacher recommends. But sometimes, your formula fizzes (and boils over in a completely irrational fashion) while your neighbor’s simply combines and falls to a peaceful, obedient state. Despite your best intentions, things explode and react in a spastic, uncontrollable, combative roar simply because you added, say, one unforeseen ingredient (like a mandatory family nap on a Sunday afternoon).

Do I love my girls? No. I adore them beyond measure. I am obsessed with them. I worship every little piggy on their petite, perfect feet. But there are times, worship or not, when I sit back as a bystander, a helpless observer, watching one of them on a downward emotional spiral sparked by a microscopic annoyance and I think … who the hell are these jerks?

Typically, Hank and I trade off bearing the brunt of their tantrums. Sometimes Daddy’s having a bad day, and sometimes Mama jumps on the hormone grenade. It just depends. It helps team morale when one of the coaches can come out to the mound and tap in for their flustered, frustrated co-captain. We laugh about it a lot. But the truth is, it bothers the crap out of me. I want to know what sassy switch was flipped in my 6 year old the day I sent her into grade school. More than that, I want to know how to flip it the frick back off. It’s hard to feel like you’re failing. It’s sad when the day ends with an argument.

Because that’s the thing about your kids acting out; you end up acting like a huge asshole. You go through the stages of the last parenting book or article you read. You try to put yourself in their shoes, come down to their level, but inevitably, you snap like Elle Woods in a hair salon. Your eyes get big, and nostrils flare, and threats are thrown about, and yelling takes place. And this psychotic break never brings about any change for the better. They fight back or recoil and you’re left feeling like a splat of bird poop on a park bench. Nobody wins.

Until the next morning when all is forgotten and the stage is set for a few great moments and the unspoken, optimistic hope that maybe everyone will get along today. The girls won’t fight. I won’t have to ask 5 million times for someone to feed the dog. The sun is going to shine and happy, twittering birds are going to fly in and make my bed for me, just like in a Disney movie. And just to humor you, God does give you some of this.

The other night, Spike told JoJo that she loved her with her whole entire heart like Jesus. She patted her older sister’s head warmly and placed her treasured monkey blanket over her feet. And I thought, ya know, that’s what it’s all about. Just when you feel like you’ve been run over too many times to get back up, something beautiful happens and it puts you right back on your feet. I was swelling with pride. I felt renewed in my parental purpose and like the good man up above was providing a much-needed pat on the back.

Then Spike accidentally kicked her and JoJo pushed her off the bed.

JoJo Just Said

Label maker

October 23, 2015

Kids go through phases, this I know. JoJo sang Adele’s power ballad Someone Like You for weeks when she was 3, Spike ate phone chargers while they were plugged in for an alarming number of months during her second year, and Sloppy Joan has been inconsolable from 5pm-6pm every evening since she was 2 months old. But the thing about phases is they pass and a new, even weirder one, comes along. JoJo, it would seem, has moved into her Post-Impressionism period phase. Since summer, homegirl is putting labels on everything.

Some are very literal and make me feel like I woke up in a home for Early Onset Alzheimer’s. For example these handy signs indicating this is the

and this is where I should

But the obvious soon became too ordinary, so she moved on to creating signs where events would soon take place. Such as the front room where we would apparently be hosting a Kung Fu exhibition.

But my favorite has to be this one she so proudly put on the front door. Come one, come all to our creepy children’s Pajama Party. The sign is up all yearlong, folks, so if your favorite jammies aren’t back from the cleaner’s, don’t worry … we’ll be here waiting whenever you’re ready. Not sure it puts out the vibe we were hoping for.

She’s hung RSVPs on the front door with 2 crayons hanging down where people could check “Yes” with a blue, or “No” with green. The door to her bedroom is like a caveman’s epic novel; with clear instructions on when people can come in, stay out and who lives within.

Of all her habits, at least this one is helpful for guests who can’t find our trash receptacles and uplifting for passersby who are feeling lonely and need to party. I say, leave your mark on my woodwork- I mean the world, JoJo. It’s a perfectly lovely phase that every type A, young and old, can celebrate.

Thoughts

Screen shot through my heart

October 21, 2015

I love Instagram. I do. I love it. I’m 78 percent sure I am developing carpal tunnel in my right thumb and pointer finger (I wish I was exaggerating) from repetitive motions linked to technology, namely scrolling through social media, the most common of which being Instagram.

Often I come to a quote or image that moves me, usually from the likes of Deepak or the equally insightful Heidi Powell. Desperate to capture the impact of their wise words, I quickly screen shot the post only to come across it 5 months later as I do a massive image capture dump onto my laptop.

But these are too good to dump. I must share them somewhere and, for lack of a better place, that somewhere is here. I hope they move you to share or pin or maybe just pause for a moment. I also hope you don’t mind I’m going straight up screen shot style here; no Photoshop, no PicMonkey. Some nights I’m just all outta fancy.

Wellness

Might as well face it, you’re addicted to food

October 19, 2015

This is a post about control.

And, more accurately, the fact I don’t have any.

On Friday, my college roommates came to town for a lovely little visit. These girls are family to me and I always want to make sure their tummies are full and the gentle, jolly tingle of a perfect booze buzz is constant. I went to Costco Friday morning and got plenty of goodies for dinner, dessert, apple cider sangria (the best recipe for a fall get together) and breakfast Saturday morning. Some of Hank’s family was stopping by, so I figured it was enough of a crowd to justify Costco portions.

After the last chicken flew the coop Saturday afternoon, I was left facing a few certainties: 1) I really adore those girls, and 2) I had a shit ton of food left over. Of course the salted chocolate-covered caramels and spinach and artichoke dip with parmesan are finding spots to settle in and leave lardy sediments in my thighs, but the bigger concern is the devil temptress known as the Costco cinnamon butter crumb coffee cake.

I want you to, just for a moment, imagine your round cake pan. Mentally pull it from your cabinet. Can you picture it? Now I want you to visualize baking 3 cakes in that pan, piecing them together, topping each cake with balls of butter and sugar, and then pulling up a seat to watch me eat them. All of the cakes. Just me. Every last sinful crumb. That is what happened between the hours of 9:30 am Saturday and 8 pm Sunday night.

I impregnated myself – one forkfull at a time – with a baby made of enriched flour, real butter and refined sugars. Self sabotage is the father and, sadly, it has many, many siblings; all the result of the same pitiful practice. Did you ever see that Sex and the City with Miranda and the chocolate cake? If it had been Sex and the Land of the Super-sized Midwestern American Diet, that would have accurately represented the catastrophe at my crib this weekend.

I think this confirms my suspicion that I am a food addict.

I turned to the top authority on the topic. The Internet. And here is what I found.

8 Symptoms of Food Addiction
(from Authority Nutrition)

1 Cravings despite being full. (yes.)
2 Eat much more than you intended to. (A Costco-sized coffee cake.)
3 Eat until feeling excessively “stuffed”. (lol and yes, I wear stretchy pants on purpose.)
4 Feel guilty afterwards, but do it again soon. (Hate myself. … Don’t waste that!)
5 Making up excuses in your head. (The girls were in town.)
6 Repeated failures at setting rules for yourself. (On Monday, I go paleo. No, Whole30. No, just sugar free.)
7 Hiding your consumption from others. (For sure waited until I was alone with the cake to take it to pound town.)
8 Unable to quit despite physical problems. (I consider a flat tire a physical problem.)

So, here I am. A belly full of regret, a tough Monday morning weigh in waiting for me and a half a container full of salted caramels promising failure all week long. What’s a girl to do? Start over, I suppose.

The number of times I’ve sat and dwelled on this depressing reality is gross. I feel like I’m stuck in a divine sugary quick sand. I get my torso out a tiny bit only to fall in almost to my chin by close of binging business Sunday night.

Admittedly, week days are my come to Jesus reset. Oily fish, leafy greens, flax … they all make the starting lineup on days I have to dress up and be a big girl. But from the time I walk out of the office and declare the weekend “in progress,” I’m hammering the fries, condiments and any and everything that stands still long enough to get doused in chocolate.

I’d say I just need a good strategy and then I’d change my ways. I’d give up my rich, sticky mistress and clean up my ways (and my inflammation). But I would be lying. You see, there’s always a reason to eat the good stuff. Someone brings in bagels for a brainstorm. The folks in your carpool beg for Starbucks. Your kindergartener gets straight “E”s on her report card and wants to celebrate with frozen yogurt. You burn dinner and have to call an audible. And just when you think you’ve come to the end of your excuses, the holidays come along and knock you on your plump ass into a baby pool filled with corn casserole and cheese trays and all of the pies. It’s like the 6th day for the Hungry Caterpillar every damn day for two solid months.

If you have any secrets to success, as always, you can send them my way. In the meantime, if you have a Costco membership, you gotta check out that coffee cake, man. Take it somewhere you can share or somewhere you can hide. Either way, no judgement. But it’s damn good.

Tune in Today, Wellness

Join me: Fit 2 Feast

October 16, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … convince you to take a 30-day challenge.

Remember the other night when I was all … I’m on an adrenaline crash … and … gosh, I really need a goal … and all that noise? Well, be careful what you ask for, because when you ask, sometimes you receive. My pal Hollie, over at Muscles & Munchkins, was ready and waiting with a butt-kicking, badass, 30-day workout bonanza, and I’m already reaching for the arnica.

The details are below. If you’re interested in doing this thang with me, reach out to Hol and she’ll get you all squared away. All you need is free weights and a half hour a day. Just don’t get more points than me and don’t come cryin’ when your pants are too saggy come turkey day. Knowing this girl, it’s going to be a little Kayla-ish, a little Tone It Up-esque and for sure a solid month of sweat and surprises. Saddle up!

I am excited to announce that I will host one last virtual fitness challenge for 2015! That is right, this is the last one of the year: FIT 2 FEAST. Don’t wait for the new year, do it now; feel confident this holiday season and make fitness a priority.

Wherever you are on this journey, I will meet you there: encourage you, and provide tips and tricks to healthier lifestyle. My fitness challenges are where this happens. I have successfully run six groups and they keep getting better. The participants are loving the encouragement and community the groups provide.

Here is what one of my participants had to say:

“I just want to thank you!!! For motivating me and showing me that I can actually do it! I’ve never been one to be able to work out and it has forever changed me…so thank you!!”

“I am stronger than I have ever been and you provide so much knowledge and encouragement. Let’s do another one!”

This 30 day challenge will be just what you need to feel confident for Thanksgiving and beyond. You will have a head start on your new year. 30 days of workout challenges, nutrition tips and being a part of an encouraging FIT TRIBE!

This group starts on Monday, October 26th. There is a $25 registration fee and the WINNER will receive a cash prize.

Have more questions or want to join? Email me:hollie@musclesandmunchkins.com

Let’s get fit,
Hollie

Mindfulness

There’s some things on my mind

October 15, 2015

On my migration toward mindfulness, I’ve learned things about myself. I’ve learned that the majority of my thoughts are frantic and frivolous and trail one after another like a demented train of dominos. Below is a sampling of the subtitles that would actually appear to you, the reader, as generated by my psyche.

OK …
sit up straight …
touch your forefinger to your thumb to generate that good kind of energy …
and …
here we go! Breathe in 4 seconds and out for 4 seconds …
picture your breath coming and going …
gosh, my lungs feel so good …
is it the running? I bet it’s from all the running …
I need to get back to running …
why do I always fall off the wagon …
and why is there so much freaking flute in this Asian zen playlist? It’s like meditating with Ron Burgundy for pete’s sake [picturing this exact scene from Anchor Man] …

my back hurts …
I should eat better …
I wonder if it’s been 3 minutes yet …
oh, shoot, come back to the breath …
come back to the breath …
And why does every Asian zen song have waves crashing? Do I have to pee or is it just the water sounds? And, you know, I hate them for making me have to decipher the difference …
I know this, my head itches. Dan Harris didn’t scratch his itches. He acknowledged the thought, put it aside and – [I scratch my head] …
In for 4 seconds, out for 4 seconds ….
In for 4 seconds, out for seconds …
Gah! Are my itches having babies with each other or what? I just gotta scratch and be done with it. I’ve committed to scratching. I’m not as strong as Dan. I wonder if there’s some science to trying not to itch and how it makes you itch more …
bring it back …
bring it back y’all, bring it back y’all, bring it back heeeeeeeeeere we go! ….

The jam! …
Do I really like Empire? Or am I just faking it and trying to see what Libby sees in it? I mean, Cookie’s so good, but it’s a little soap opera …
In for 4 …..

I believe eventually the thoughts are supposed to become passersby; just fleeting flashes in a calm and focused mind. But for now, they’re bouncing around like fleas at a circus. Please send any great meditation playlists or guided meditations my way if you’ve got ’em!

Wellness

I ain’t sayin’ I’m a goal digger

October 13, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … find a new light.

I feel obligated to report that, though the free time and flexibility are great, I seem to be experiencing a bit of a half marathon adrenaline hangover. Like I got dropped from a 10-story-building high and went splat on the pavement of normalcy. Like, the pain and fatigue were drawing me in over the 12 weeks of training; quietly clenching and claiming parts of my brain. It’s like I’ve been temporarily reprogrammed to savor sweat and relish sweet soreness. Who am I? No, but seriously … who am I?

So, I guess the conclusion is, I need a new challenge. What should I do? I definitely want to start hitting some classes at the gym again because, you know, this and this worked out so well for me. But I have arrived at the undeniable truth that I am a goal junkie. I need to know what I’m working toward. I know lifelong wellness is a journey, and it shouldn’t be a “diet” and all that jazz, but this mama needs a light for her tunnel. (That sounds weird.)

So, let’s go dream goal shopping, shall we? What cool things are out there to try?

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