I was at the little work-out room at our apartment complex today, running on the treadmill. Yes, running! Five minutes fast, ten minutes walking and so on until I completed the 5K program I had punched in. I’m going to start training for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Virginia Beach. It’s in October, so I’ve got plenty of time.
I’ve been trying to fill my iPod with lots of tunes to get me motivated, no easy task, let me tell you. I feel like everything on there, I’ve listened too so many times already. I just need to hear the opening bars of a song and guaranteed, my finger is toggling forward to the next one. I did create a playlist for running, called “Run It” (my creativitiy knows no bounds) and one for when I jump rope (that another story) called “Roped Up”. They’re pretty much the same list with a few slight changes. Still, running and jumping rope require some seriously pumping music.
Anyway, I’m watching the Top 100 songs of the ’80’s while I run since burned through my playlists earlier this week. I had to give it a rest or I wasn’t going to make it through the work-out. So, the commentators on VH1 are pretty funny, and the music that is making the list is even better. I’m feeling really good, kicking up the speed during the best songs like “I Want Candy”, “Walking on Sunshine”, “Word Up!” “Rock Me Amadeus,” and so on. It’s funny because those are songs I would never have downloaded on my own.
You know how you hear a song from the past and it sounds SO good right then and you are singing it at the top of your lungs, rolling down the windows of your car, letting your arm dangle out the window while your hand surfs the breeze and you get that pulling in your chest when your mind and your heart meet for latte’s while the talk about that high school week-end when you and a friend jumped the subway to NYC to meet the boy you liked who lived in the city and it was the coolest thing ever because this was the way to live, just walking up and down the streets while life happened with you, around you, and you had such a great time that you forgot he couldn’t get on the subway with you, so you kissed him through the fencing as the train whooshed into the station and almost left without you, and how you swore you would remember this day forever because it was the best out of your 16 years on Earth, and you would absolutely DIE if you forgot any single detail, and that was pretty much the extent of your worries, none of this crappola like mortgages, cholesterol, Geraldine Ferarro, and 401ks? Do you know that feeling? Yeah, me too.
I can’t remember which exact song that was #1 on Z100 that week, nor can I even remember a song that we heard that day, but I can remember that feeling. I had it today while I was panting along on the treadmill. Unrelated from the memory, from the day, but totally connected to the feeling. Joy, thanks for being my wingman, Jason L, thanks for the memory. For your listening pleasure and be sure to turn your speakers up. Way up.
So on Tuesday, I’m coming out the YMCA with Coever in my arms, Morgan in tow and a huge gym bag slung across my body causing me to kind of limp my way down the sidewalk. I decided to carry Coever because that carseat contraption ain’t getting any lighter and because she likes to see and be seen. It’s kind of stupid on my part though, because of said gym bag that slows us down. Inevitably, somebody wants to stop to say hello to Morgan or Coever or both (I’m just the assistant, evidently), and comment on how big they are getting, how pretty they are, how they are doing, their respective opinions on this debacle called the Race for the White House 2008. You know, the usual.
So this (insert your own expletive) says, “Wow, six months! It just seems like yesterday you were waddling around here all pregnant.”
But, that’s not what I said. I replied, “Hahaha, thanks.”
I’m not quick on the barbs, I never have been. Oh, two minutes lates, I’m a chock full of snappy responses, but in the instant it’s called for, no dice. I’d like to say my mommy instinct kicked in, effectively blocking all synapes firing offensive, off color and raunchy language that would have set that sucker straight, but scarred the girls for life. We all know the truth. I froze. The minute he was out of eyesight and earshot, it was all I could do to stop the barrage of verbal fisticuffs wanting to escape from my mouth, but what good did that do me? I’ve got to have a crib sheet or something handy so that I can just roll out the quick hits when stuff like that happens. Either that or I’m just going to have to walk around answering every comment, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Yeah, that’s going to go over real well.
You know how on Animal Planet or Discovery Channel, when they are doing a segment on life in the Serengeti, they often times show the pride of lions stalking an unsuspecting gazelle through the grasses? C’mon, you know what I’m talking about — the lions are on their bellies, crawling stealthily forward, the gazelle is munching grass, totally unawares. The music starts to crescendo as the lion surges towards the gazelle who is caught in the camera lens with a look like, “Oh, crap.” followed by “Run, Forrest, Run!” The pursuit ensues, through the brush, over streams and around the lone tree on the tundra until either the gazelle is caught or the lion(s), energy spent, sulk off as if to say, “I didn’t want that stringy ass gazelle anyway.”
I saw this very same scenario play out early this morning during the highly anticipated community children’s clothing consignment sale here in Norfolk. Of course, you are thinking, “Surely, you jest.” First of all, I’m dead serious, and secondly, don’t call me Shirley.
This consignment sale is oft talked about and highly anticipated. We’ve lived here almost two years and I have missed every time it’s been held. Not this time, I resolved. I had my cash ready, the promise from Craig to watch the kids, and I was out the door by 7:30 to get there early.
It was 40 degrees this morning, so I was toasty in my car, the first one in the lot as a matter of fact. Other people started coming and lo’ they got out of their cars to stand in line in front of the closed door. In 40 degree weather. Some with no coats!! Not to be outdone, I got out of my car, too. When the doors opened, it was like Moses had parted the Red Sea and the Israelites fled across the exposed ocean floor. People ran down the stairs into the room, freezing for just a split second to get the lay of the land. Linens and baby items to the left – toys, Halloween costumes to the right — clothes (a.k.a. the Mother lode) dead ahead! It was Chaos and Pandemonium dressed in Ann Taylor casual separates!
I knew that I wanted to get Morgan some dresses and maybe pick up a few things for Coever to get us over this weird weather spell that we’ve been having. So, I head for the 9-12 month girl rack and start to pick. Now, I’ve never been a good shopper at TJ Maxx or Marshalls. Havin go through every item on a rack isn’t fun for me. I don’t consider it the thrill of the hunt, but there I was, up to my elbows in children’s clothes, jockeying for position.
I saw this semi-cute dress covered in umbrellas that I thought would be nice for Coever, but then I thought better of it and put it down (remember this, it’s important). I then decided I’d spent enough time over in this section and I made my way to the 3T section. I worked my way down from one end of the rack to the other, trying to be courteous of my fellow shoppers at all times. I think there about a half dozen of us who brought our manners with us today. So I’m looking, I’m looking and hey! There’s that same umbrella dress in a 3T! How cute would Mo and Co be in matching dresses? And for $5 a piece?! But then I faced a dilemma. Do I go back for the smaller size and miss out on other possible goodies on the 3T rack or do I keep shopping and just focus my thoughts on willing that smaller size to remain on the 9-12 month rack? I went with the former and Morgan should be kissing my face for all the goods I racked up for her.
In the midst of the shopping, I ran into other moms I know, all leaden with bags and armfuls of clothes like suburban Sherpas. The fact that we could converse without making eye contact because we were too engrossed in finding clothes says quite a bit.
When I exhausted the clothes, I picked my way over the toys and books which were in a separte room. YOu would have thought they were giving away the toy du jour (Cabbage Patch kids in the ’80s, Beanie Babies in the ’90s, whatever the devil is popular these days). The room was crammed with board books, stuffed animals, play yards, an Atari (hello!), Little People playsets, rocking horse bouncers from wayyyyyy back in the day. Unbeliveable. I snagged a Bee Bop Band that I had been coveting on Morgan’s behalf since Thanksgiving and then extricated myself from the fray to re-evaluate my finds.
Hunched down in a small corner between the Halloween costumes and the pile of “sold” items, I felt like Gollum going through my bag. “Precious . . .my precious”, I know I muttered as I mentally patted myself on the back for snagging primo Gap dresses and Gymboree outfits at fraction prices. I ran into another friend and her mother, did a little comparison shopping and then decided to actually return the items I didn’t want to their proper places. That was my good deed of the day. Then, to go stand in line.
Holy mother of pearl. The line was RIDICULOUS!! I spent more time in line getting to the check out than in my entire shopping experience. Still, once some of the consignment volunteers went through the ranks suggesting we remove the hangers from out items in order to speed things up, the line did move much faster. All told, I easily got over $100 worth of merchandise, and some fodder for this blog, for a scant $37.50 — and I can’t wait for the next one.
Incidentally, there was another consignment sale this morning at one of the local elementary schools, but I begged off on that one. Like the lions, I was spent, and besides, I heard that one wasn’t nearly as good as this first one. Yeah, whatever helps you to sleep at night 🙂
To my fellow moms:
Even if you don’t decoupage, scrapbook, journal, blog, knit, make your own muffins, put homemade potpourri into crocheted sachets, or jar your own spaghetti sauce made from the tomatoes, onions, and basil you grew in the mini-greenhouse you keep on your windowsill, never, ever doubt how clever and crafty you truly are.
Morgan, since she could talk, has always had a good mastery of the English lanuage, Things that trip up most two-year olds, she says with ease. When I was her age, my brother, Christopher, became “Kick-oh-four”, or “Crest” (for Chris). Morgan says Uncle Christopher , no problem. My own name never gave me any trouble, but lots of little ones turn Hilary into “Heh-we-wee”, “Hil-a-lee”, hickory, even celery.
Despite her linguistic proficency, Morgan does have a few words and phrases that trip her up, bringing smiles and chuckles to those around her. Will I correct her? Absolutely, we already do. Of course, I’d be lying if I said, I’m going to miss them when they go.
Poffet: puppet
Abo-cabo: avocado
Arts & Craps: arts & crafts
Bert mart: birth mark
Cranger: manger, as in “Away in a cranger, no crib for a bed. . .” Bad Mammy Jammers: the Carl Carlton song, “Bad Mama Jamma”, our current most requested iPod song.
I definitely need this today. We went looking at houses and this one realtor asked me if I was pregnant. Pardon me? I’ve got Morgan by the hand, Coever in the car seat and if she really wants me to buy this house, she’ll ask me what I think of the crown moulding, not whether or not I’m expecting. You should never, ever, ever, ever, EVER ask a woman if she is pregnant, not even if you see the baby emerging from betwixt her legs! EVER!
I know, the only way someone’s words can have power over you is if you actually respect that person. Still, it’s nice to have an ego boost.
or maybe this. . .
We’ve been home bound for the past two days, a result of Morgan bringing home yet another bug or some kind of cough/cold/green snot causing thing from preschool. I am on more intimate terms with the phrase cabin fever, and if I have to wipe one more snotty nose or poop encrusted pair of buns, I’m really going to lose it.
Sure, this is all part and parcel of being a mom, and now, more than ever, I applaud moms everywhere. To all of the single moms, the working moms who come home and work inside the house, the moms who don’t have help, the moms who do have help but are too proud to ask for it (no, I’m not talking about myself), the moms who put school/work/other ambitions on hold to run the house, the moms who have to get out there every day for the benefit of their families, the moms who get up in the middle of the night to get glasses of water, take someone to the bathroom, make cupcakes for the class, finish sewing costumes for the school play and on and on and on. For the moms who do all of these things and everything in between — thank you, I appreciate you, I admire you. Seriously, motherhood, in whatever form it takes, is not for the faint of heart.
It’s hard to be all things to all people all of the time, and why I continue down that road, I can only chalk it up to my Virgo tendencies and my Type A personality. Letting go is hard to do, especially when it’s control that is the thing clutched in your grip.
When I get a chance to get on the computer — ten minutes here, five minutes there — I often visit other blogs and websites that I like such as http://www.truemomconfessions.com/. I like finding out that I’m not the only one who worries that having my children watch a half an hour of tv is going to undo all of the careful alphabet and number installation I have done, or that if neither one of them will become a homicidal maniac if I just leave one in the crib and one in the playpen for a couple or 15 minutes after they wake-up. They’ll still have strong bones if they eat goldfish and Cheerios for lunch because they don’t want to eat anything else. They don’t care that the laundry is still “soaking” in the washer, that the dishwasher still needs to be emptied, that the trash is still waiting to go out or that Mommy hasn’t put sheets on her bed in about two weeks (hey, at least I got them off the bed!). The featured post on TMC today was this:
I want to thank my mom for not losing herself in marriage or motherhood. She’s more beautiful now after 25 years of marriage and 2 kids because of it.
Thanks mom for knowing you don’t become just a wife when you get married and you don’t become just a mom when you have children.
I know that 25 years from now, I can look back on my marriage and revel in its strength. I can look back on how I have raised my children and be proud of what I see and humble in when I describe it to others. But you know what? Twenty-five years from now is too long to wait to sit back and admire my handiwork. I need to look at what I am doing now, right now, and be proud. I gotta go; time’s a wasting.