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Staying Motivated

So, I’m still in the throes of this P90X.  I want to stop, but it’s like I’m conditioned to get up and get working now.  In part, I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I stop. I know, I know, I’m too hard on myself and I’m being ridiculous. A lot of people say that doing DVDs and tapes at home gets boring after a while and I do think I’ve hit that point. Still, I like the results I’ve gotten.  Plus,  I do have a tendency to “belly up to the trough” at dinner time, so I have to balance things out.

I was finishing up the legs and back routine this morning, seriously contemplating just stopping mid- exercise when I thought, “Well, I did eat that bag of Sweet Moments last night. . and I don’t want to end up like the Juicy Woman”.

Ahhh, the Juicy Woman. I know I’ve told some of you this story shortly after it happened, but it’s a classic and bears repeating.

About a year or two ago, my dad and I had gone out to Target to pick up some odds and ends. My dad was still relatively new to the area having recently moved down from MA. He insisted on driving so that he could get a lay of the land and learn the routes from his house to various points of interest and so forth. So, we are leaving the Target and he’s behind the wheel, hands firmly at ten and two.

In the shopping center, there are a lot of speed bumps to slow folks down, but they are spaced about two feet apart, so getting from the parking lot to the main drag can take a few minutes. We’re creeping along, shoppers are circulating in the lot and in and out of the shops, life is humming all around us.

My dad pulls up to a speed bump just as a person emerges from Party City carrying an enormous bouquet of balloons. So many balloons, in fact, all you can see are her pink sweat-pants and sneakers hanging out of the bottom. We pause to let her cross in front of us and as she makes her way to her car, she turns her back to us. She’s built like a pear — narrow waist, with wide hips and buns. Written across the back of her pants are the letters, “J”, “U”, “C”, “Y”.

My dad hunches up over the wheel to get a good look, his nose all but touching the windshield (*smh*). He turns to me and asks, “What is jew-kee?”

I look over at the woman, now bent in double trying to jam the mass of balloons into her car without popping or losing any of them. The letters are jiggling with her motions, and I can’t help but laugh.

“It’s not jew-kee, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s says Juicy. Her crack just swallowed the “I”.

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IN: ON: July 23, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Less Speaking, More Thinking

A good friend and I went out this morning to check out a consignment shop that I had read about in the paper.  GF (good friend) and I dropped the kids off at camp and hauled it down the road to VA Beach in search of a Starbucks and what promised to be some good finds at this place called “The Knapsack.”  


The GPS had me taking all of these twists and turns, every which-a-way off of the interstate to get to this shopping center.  We spotted the Starbucks, a veritable oasis in the midst of the burgeoning commercial sprawl, and hightailed in there for some quad half caf venti 3 pump vanilla 3 pump hazelnut soy extra hot no foam with whip and cinnamon sprinkles lattes.  Did I say hold the whip? 


Anyway, as we are on the clock — camp ends at noon and we’re a good 30 minutes away — we head back to the car, drinks in hand to find this place.  GPS says we’re here.  Google Maps (thanks, iPhone) says we’re here.  We can’t find this place.  No worries, we just call it up and the nice lady on the phone says, “Oh, I’m diagonal from Starbucks”.  Cool; we “U-turn” it over and through the parking lot and pull up to the store.  Out front, there’s a nice sandwich sign proclaiming our favorite word — SALE!!  Sweet!


We go in the store and are immediately greeted by the owner/clerk.  She must have hit up the ‘bucks, too, because she’s talking, talking, talking, fast, fast, fast!   She told us about her friends new store that sells upscale women’s consignments.  She told us about her kids. She told us about why she was in this particular suite in the development as opposed to another.  She told us everything but her social security number and ATM password. 


Now, I don’t really like to shop — no, really — but when I’m ready to, as I was today, I want to be left to my own devices.  No hovering, no shadowing, none of that. Please!  Just let me browse at my leisure.  GF is of the same mindset, but it wasn’t meant to be.   We began picking through the items in the store, giving half-hearted, “Uh-huh’s,” and “Oh, really’s” as this woman kept talking.  And talking. And talking. 


Eventually some other customers came in and the clerk glommed onto them with her questions, non-sequitors and anecdotes.  


For the most part, it looked like this trip was going to be a total bust.  “The Knapsack” had a lot of stuff, just not the stuff we were looking for.  GF did score a pair of Lily Pulitzer pants for her kiddo at a decent price.  We thumbed through the books, picked over the shoes, scanned the DVDS and toys.  Maybe we were just here on an off day. 


We make our way to the register and GF hands the clerk the cute pants.  The clerk rings her up and then hands her one of those ubiquitous “Frequent Customer” cards — you know, buy 10 things and get 1 at 10% off or some such.  The clerk asks GF for her information so that GF can receive all kinds of good discounts and assorted junk spam in her email.  GF, though, says, “No thanks, I’m getting ready to move overseas in a few weeks.”  


The clerk says, “Oh wow, that’s gonna be something, what with the new baby and all!”


::::silence::::


Says GF, “I’m.not.pregnant.”



I just kept my head down and prayed that the clerk would say something simple like “Sorry” and save herself (and us) from further embarrassment. 


This idiot goes on to say that the dress GF is wearing looks like a maternity dress they had in the store, something about how she (the clerk) gets that all the time, what with her being super puffy and all (LIAR! She looked pretty average to me). 

The clerk starts talking about how puffy she is “because of my surgeries because I’m having a hysterectomy in a few days” and on and on and on and shove, shove, shove that foot farther into her mouth.  


She tears off the receipt, hands it to GF and says, “Have a nice day!”


Right, because you assuming my friend her is preg-tastic just put the cherry on it. 


GF was ever so gracious, but I know that her feelings were hurt.  I did my best to buffer her up, but really, that’s a tough one.  I just can’t believe the nerve of some people. 


So, dear readers, let this be a lesson to you and one to share with your nearest and dearest.  Never, never, NEVER ask a woman if she’s pregnant.  


Ever!  


Not even if you heard it from her husband/boyfriend/lover/sperm donor/whomever! 


Don’t.


Even if you see the baby crowning between the woman’s legs, don’t ask her if she’s pregnant!


Tell her she looks gorgeous and keep on moving. 






 

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IN: ON: July 22, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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You Gotta Hand it to Her

Sunday Morning. 7:56am.

Guilty pleasure: I’m still in bed.

I hear two sets of small feet hit the floor and pitter-pat to the bathroom.

Conversation ensues.

Morgan: No, Coever, no! I’m going potty first.

Coever (tears in her voice): It’s my turn to go potty! I have to go-o-o-o!

Morgan: You have to take off your pull up and I’m already on the potty.

More feet pattering around and the slam of the trash can lid.

Coever: Hey! I know! We can use the potty together!

Morgan: Um, okay.

*silence*

Coever: Morgan, will you wipe me?

When I told Morgan that there would be times, as outlined in her job description as big sister, she would need to lend a hand to her sister.  I don’t think this is what either of us had in mind.

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IN: ON: July 19, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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My Cup Runneth Over

On Wednesday it was hot.  Like the pit of Hades hot, frying eggs on the sidewalk, don’t even look at me because it just makes me sweat kind of hot.    So hot that I considered going sans bra for a bit.  That didn’t come to pass — we are involved in a number of family activities, after all — but you can bet your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders that I whipped that joker off as soon as we got home.

After another day of running here, there, and everywhere, when we got in the door, I just dropped our stuff, sat down, unsnapped, and let the girls breathe.  I left the bra sitting on the table while I sorted through the mail and the other detritus that had accumulated over the past few days.

Morgan, in one of her many laps around the house, rolled on through the room, stopping short when she saw my bra keeping me company.

“Whoa!” she said, eyeing the upright cups.  “Is that your bra? That’s really big. I mean those things right there.  Those round parts. They’re really big.  Kind of like two hats attached together, kind of like a visor.  Or like a really big hat.  Yeah, like a really big hat.  Can I watch a show?”

I’m sporting a pretty average size Wacoal bra, but to her 4 year old eyes, must have looked like this:

I need to count my blessings that she just caught sight of my bra and not my underwear. 

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IN: ON: July 9, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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And then. . .and then. . .and then. . .

When people ask me what I do, I prefer to say that I work at home with my kids.  I’m not ashamed to be at home; in fact, I’m beyond lucky to be able to do so.  The thing is, I try not to say that I’m a “stay-at-home-mom” because, I’m really rarely at home. 

I’m up well before the kids, having tackled a multitude of tasks that keep this well-oiled household performing at peak condition.  By the time the girls have gotten up, I’ve ticked off several things on my to-do list, given my day planner a thorough once over, mapped out the best routes from A to Z and points in between, and have packed at least two bags with snacks, changes of clothes, and assorted books and toys to keep everyone sane and entertained.

On any given day, we’ve got something to do, somewhere to be and usually someone to share that fun with us.  Maybe it’s swimming lessons, maybe it’s the zoo, maybe it’s Paint Your Own Pottery *shudder* or some other arts & craps.  I’ve got us so scheduled and committed to playdates that Morgan not only asks, “What are we doing today?”, but “Who’s going to be there?” Heaven forbid I tell her that it’s just going to be us three. I don’t think my ego can take the look of disappointment mixed with resignation on her face.

But now, Morgan added yet another question into the mix.  Her new follow-up is, “And then what are we going to do?” 

As if breakfast, dentist appointment, soccer camp, lunch with a friend, swimming lessons, a trip to Target, a trip to Trader Joe’s, a trip to the Dollar Tree, home, shower, hair do’s, playtime outside with the neighbors, playtime inside, a quick episode of Charlie and Lola, dinner, time with Daddy, and getting ready for bed isn’t enough. 

I’m worn out just looking at that list.

There are times when I want to just turn around (because I’m inevitably driving down the road) and say, “Really? Aren’t you tired?”  Sometimes, even when I know exactly what the next two or three activities are, I beg off and say, “Let’s just play it by ear.”  If I provided her with an itemized, color coded, cross-reference comprehensive itinerary,  I still think she’d be asking me what’s next on the agenda. Other times, I honestly don’t know what’s next.  I know what I’d like to do (hello, nap like Rip Van Winkle), but it’s doubtful that what I’d like is going to win out.  I’m working towards win-win situations.  I’ll keep you posted on how that is working out.

The other day, the girls had summer camp in the morning, lunch with a friend, a long trip to Busch Gardens, then an extended playdate that lasted well into the evening.  By the time we picked the girls up at 11pm, I figured they’d be down for the count.  Both of them were still going full tilt, without having had the benefit of naps.  Outside in their pajamas, they were ricocheting off of eachother and their best buddy as we wrangled their carseats into the car.  No sooner was everyone buckled in and the key in the ignition, did Morgan ask, “Now what are we going to do?”

Hello! It’s 11 o’clock at night. I am so tired I could carry home groceries in the bags under my eyes.  So here’s what we’re going to do.  We’re going home to board the SleepyTime Express and I’m going to put pedal to the metal because that’s one train you little heffs need to be on.

I didn’t say that, not out loud anyway.  I was too tired to deal with the Pavlovian-esque response that comes with mentioning the words sleep and/or bed (i.e. tears). I just said, “Let’s just play it by ear,” and drove off into the night.

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IN: ON: July 7, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Something I’ve Been Thinking About. . .

Yesterday,  as I was uploading 173 of my 434 vacation photos on FaceBook, I was wondering how it is we got here.  By here, I mean, this continual streaming of news and information to friends, family and networks.  Bear with me for a second because what I’m about to type is purely off the top of my head (redundancy may abound).

Do we plan our activities because we truly want to do things? Do we make plans to fulfill a desire to socialize, to interact, to build our knowledge on a social and intellectual level? Or do we do things simply to check them off of a giant list of basic human  “things we should do” because :

1. That’s what I think I should do.
2. That’s what I’m entitled to do.
3. That’s what someone told me to do.
4. That’s what other people in my demographic are doing.
5. If I don’t do it, how will I know I’ve “made it”, I’ve lived my best life, I’ve earned it?

Do we do things just to be able to update our status to reflect it? Do we do things just to twat Tweet about it? Do we do things so we can see ourselves on YouTube (some of those videos are mad funny).

I found myself really thinking about this as we drove around MV, going to various beaches and activities.  Armed with my camera, I took more photos of the girls than I have in a long time.Vacation is a chance to slow down and be on your own schedule, which for those of you who know me, I’m always on a schedule.  To be able to snap away,  to capture memories was great.  In my head, I was concocting all of these projects that I would create with the images.  I would make separate albums for the girls based on the activities we did. Or maybe I would build a collection of albums of only our family vacations to the island. No! I’d make a photo collage of our trips to the beach and then put it in a shadow box with the sand and shells that made it home with us in the bottom of our beach cooler. Ooooh! Oooh! I’ll make a progressive book of the girls in their bathing suits every summer, so that when you flip it real fast, you can watch them grow right before your eyes!

And of course, somewhere in the back of my mind, didn’t I consider which ones I would upload to Shutterfly? Which one I wanted to use as my Facebook profile picture? Which one I would send to DH so he could put it on his wall or tweet about how much fun we were having?

That last thought was the one that made me pump the brakes.  Instead of tweeting about how much fun we’re having, why don’t we have some fun?  Even by blogging about it, am I perpetuating the cycle? Where is the line between simple sharing and constant new feeding? How can we really enjoy what we are doing if we spend our time rushing through it just to tell others about it?

DH gently reminded me that before all this Twittering, FaceBooking, MySpacing and the like, people showed home movies and sent pictures to family and friends about their vacations.  Nothing has changed.  The need to share and include others is still pervasive and prevalent.   The fact is, we are just able to share that much quickly thanks to technology.

 I like leafing through photo albums and hearing stories that will be laughed about for a good long while.  I guess I’m old fashioned that way.  But I’m forward thinking enough to know the best and easiest way to share what’s been going on, how we’ve been getting on and all parts in between is to put it out there.  Isn’t that the whole point of these social networking sites?

I think I’ve just spent the last hour chasing my own tail about this.  Hang on while I upload the picture.

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IN: ON: July 4, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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I Wanted an Alpaca, but my dad said, “No!”

 Last week, while we were on vacation, we took the girls to Island Alpaca, an alpaca farm on Martha’s Vineyard.  For $5 a person, you could take a self-guided tour through the farm, then head into the barn to see some alpacas.  You finish up your tour by visiting the alpaca gift shop where they had all things alpaca and all things made from alpaca parts — well, from their fur.  Or is it wool? I forget. Whatever it is, it’s super plush and uber warm.  You can make all kinds of things out of it, from mittens and scarves to neck warmers and hats — as the girls were kind enough to model.

I had heard of alpacas before, probably as in, “I’m going to need a Sherpa and an alpaca to get all this crap from here to there”.  Or maybe I made that up the first time I hauled our daily dose of crap from the house to the car.  But I digress.

We lucked out the day we went because one of the alpacas had given birth just hours before we arrived.

 I swear, I thought that thing was dead.  The owner of the farm was on the phone when we came through the gift shop.   She stopped chatting long enough to tell us about the newborn and said she’d be out in a sec.  Well, she took her sweet time, and as Mo and Co wait for no man, so we moseyed outside.  Thankfully, I went out first because when I saw that limp noodle, I thought, “Oh, how in the world am I going to explain this?”  I mean, well, look at it!  It was just laying there!
I didn’t expect the mother alpaca to be cuddling it or  reading “Good Night, Moon” in a gliding rocker, but I expected a little bit of levity or something.  My relief came quickly, however, because the lil’ baby sat up a few minutes after we arrived.


Awwww, so cute.  And surprisingly, un-smelly.  At least, not as smelly as the one’s in the barn.

This one was particularly fragrant and Morgan wasted no time telling us just how stinky he was.

 I think her face actually says it all. . .

Alpacas look a lot like llamas and spit like llamas, too.  Two of them actually got into it while we were there.  They had their necks twisted ’round each other, they were braying or whatever sound an alpaca makes, they were doing it.  And the spit was flying.  I opted not to get any shots of that.  Gotta protect the camera and all.  One of the signs on the tour said that they were “cousins” and from the camelid family, so I guess the camel is up in their family tree, too.  Yeah, I learned quite a bit in our brief little encounter, but the best part was yet to come.

Morgan was really taken with the experience and she talked about it for the rest of the day.  She talked about it for the rest of the week, as a matter of fact.  She even made up a song about alpacas and how she wanted one for a pet.  The song has had many revisions since the first version (see below)

“I went to the farm to get me an alpaca as a pet. 
The farm was closed, so I stole it anyway 
and I brought it to my house. 
But then the police came 
and said, ‘Hey do you have an alpaca as a pet?’
And I said ‘Yes, I do.’
So they took me to jail, but I got out
and I brought the alpaca back to the farm.
And the lady gave it to me anyway.
So now I have an alpaca as a pet.”

There wasn’t any discernible tune, but she made it work.  By the time we got back to VA, she came up with another version.

I’m sure there will be a remix featuring Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj by the end of the week.  Look for it on iTunes.

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IN: ON: June 30, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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