Tag: life

Back to Business

Yesterday, V was feeling under the weather and I didn’t want to share the wealth with the wee ones in ChildWatch, so we stayed home.  I was feeling really round and pretty sure that were I to get a paper cut or something, copious amounts of grease would come oozing out of my veins.  To say that I overindulged this past week-end would be an understatement.  The worst part? It wasn’t even good!  I mean, it was good, because I kept eating, but it wasn’t like one of those eating benders that you have at Thanksgiving time.  I was just hungry and there was nothing in the house that was satisfying my simulatneous need for sugar and salt.  Does that speak to a vitamin deficinency on my part? Sodium and Chlorine I get, but Vitamin Sugar? Not so much.

Anyway, my brain was exerting some serious mind control yesterday morning. I donned my workout wear even though I didn’t plan on going to the gym. I kept telling myself that I would take a walk with V bundled up in the jogging stroller, or that I would grab my bells and swing for 45 minutes on the back porch. I kept coming up with ways to move my bod and get back on the fitness wagon as I got the big girls up, dressed, and out the door for school. 

When I got back from the carpool run, V had fallen asleep.  It was too cold to swing outside, let along bundle her up for a walk.  It was 8:45 in the morning and I was determined to get my heart rate up above resting.  So, I opened the TV cabinet, reached inside and pulled out this. . .

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I know, I know.  Tony Horton and I are back together.  Well, at least we were yesterday.  This is by no means any indication that this is going to be a long term relationship.  Of course, in the process of finding an image to post, I saw all of these before and after pictures.  Maybe I could do it again for 30 days.   The weather will eventually turn nasty and I  hate having to venture out in the elements. I’ll probably be firing this crap back up.  *le sigh*  Anyway, I figured I’d do the 90 minute yoga workout.  I could use a good stretch and this is some power yoga that had me sweating when I was at my peak. 

I went hard in the paint for a good hour.  With 29:32 left to go, which is right around when they switch from the Ashtanga Sun Salutations to impossible, pretzel contortions like Extended Right Triangle Pose with Wrap Around. Still, I felt pretty good that I even put the disc in the machine (and turned it on!) let alone made is a solid hour.  There’s a big difference between slogging it out on an elliptical machine, hauling tail up a stair master, or even doing drills in a lap pool.  You’re using different muscle groups in different ways.  Jumping back into P90 was like jumping into the cold lap pool.  Doesn’t matter if you’ve already been doing other things, you weren’t doing this.

This morning, I got out of bed like a creaky, crackly old lady.  Oh sure, I sat up just fine, but when I started walking to the bathroom? Snap! Crackle! Pop!  and that was just the first step.  I have always enjoyed the muscle burn that comes with having done a strong workout.  This morning was no exception; it was just a surprise.  Like, a “Oh, I didn’t know I even had a muscle there!” kind of surprise.

Today, V is much better, so we went back to the Y. I was trying to decide whether or not to use the ellipitcal the whole time or split it my work out between that and the pool.  Seeing as there were some lanes open (don’t get me started on lane sharing), I spent 45 minutes doing lap drills. While my muscles were singing in protest (probably from all those push-ups in between upward dog and plank from yesterday), I felt as strong as I ever have.  Am I ready for Plyometrics? Not just yet, but I have a feeling it may happen.  Gah! and on that disc, this one guy does it on a prosthesis that looks like it’s made out of K’Nex.

Alright, Mr. Horton.  I’ll be seeing you . . .

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IN: ON: October 29, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Swim, Swam, Swum

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I got in the pool for the first time in 8 weeks today. The minute I was submerged, I just relaxed.  I heard myself sigh underwater and felt my muscles go slack as they were bouyed up.  The water was cold and the pool had recently been cleaned.  When I opened my eyes, through my goggles,  I could see the lane ahead stretching out ahead of me, urging me to it’s depths. 

In the water, I am weightless.  I am unfettered. Everything slides away except my focus to breathe, kick, and stroke.  I am thinking when I begin, but a shift occurs when the brain and the long muscles of my body undergo a changing of the guard.

I  was so excited.  I just sunk, literally and figuratively, into the water and felt it embrace me, envelope me, a chilly reunion to be sure.  I just felt so good as I began my warm up.  When that was done, I readjusted my goggles, giddily pushing off from the wall.

I felt strong.

I felt my shoulders and my arms working in harmony.  I felt my legs moving, churning in synchronicity.  In my minds eye,  I could see the tendons extending and flexing. I could see the muscles tighten and relax, feel them swell with energy.  Everything was working as it should.

I felt strong.

With each lap completed, I felt like I could do anything. I saw myself cutting through the water, the rotator cuff of my shoulder, vigorous and hard.  My hands sliced through that surface, pulled down  down towards my thighs as I propelled myself forward, forward, forward.  I pushed my face further into the water, breaking waves over my head, adding to my speed.  Faint, but present, was my instructor’s voice in my head reminding me to cup my hands just slightly, to kick with my whole leg, to breathe every third stroke, a subtle soundtrack that centered my focus.  The unity with which my body was moving, I felt like I could have chopped down a forest, busted down a brick wall, lifted a car off of a trapped child.  I could do some amazing feat of strength because I . . .because I could. 

I could.
I felt strong.

After 8 weeks of recuperating and taking it slow, I got the clearance to swim.  Three weeks ago, my doc said I could any type of physical activity except swim (wound healing). 

“I know you want to swim, but let’s wait on that. You can start running again!”

But I don’t want to run!  I mean, running is great exercise, but I don’t want to.  I’m afraid. I’m afraid of falling. I’m afraid of tearing something, ripping something, undoing all of this hard work.  When I’m in the water, submerged in that chlorinated embrace, everything is strong, nothing is broken, nothing is lacerated or shattered or less than. 

I just — I can do anything.

My lungs were burning for oxygen, my nose was burning from some inhaled chlorine. Sure, I scuffed up my pedicure trying to navigate a flip turn, but I don’t care. My eyes were raccoon ringed from the pressure of my goggles and my hair is in need of a deep condition, but I don’t care.

I was moving through the water, cutting down the lane like the prow of a ship. I felt strong. I haven’t felt that way in a while.

When I came out, I was tired.  I was hungry. I was cold and wet.   I  pushed myself, pushed my muscles and relied on their memory to keep me from sinking down, down, down.  I was glad of that. 

I felt strong.

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IN: ON: September 4, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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recipes

Milestones

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This upcoming week-end has been on my mind for a while.
Saturday will mark the one year anniversary of the great ankle debacle.
Sunday I’m turning 35.
I’m not really sure how I feel about either of these things.

It’s mixed emotions to be sure.  As far as the ankle goes, I’m going to bypass the negative and start with gratitude.  Grateful that I have had such a great recovery. Grateful that my team of docs, when faced with a bizarre injury such as my own, rose to the challenge to make sure that my mobility returned, but also that the lingering scar would be as minimal as possible.  Grateful for all of the help and support that was offered and that I had the common sense to accept.

My family and friends circled the wagons and enabled me to rest up while secure in the knowledge that everything else had been taken care of.  There were days when it was a one-man pity party going on over here, and there were days when it wasn’t so bad.  When faced with the option of an additional surgery to ameliorate some aching and release an ensnared tendon, I was kind of reluctant.  Surgery meant being off my feet, literally. Two weeks of the boot, crutches, not working out, relying on others.  That last one was the biggest impediment to my making a rush decision.  In the end, the chance for increased mobility outweighed anything else.  Sure, my career as a foot and leg model may be over — it never really got off the ground — but I’m walking.  I doubt I’ll ever take that for granted again.

As for the upcoming birthday, it’s significant for a few reasons. First of all, seeing as how my whole ankle thing happened the day before my birthday last year, I really need this one to be less traumatic.  Secondly, while 35 isn’t 40, it’s still kind of big deal.

My mom was 35 when she had me. Her mom was 35 she had her.  At 35, I’ve know the Hubs half of my life.  35, for me at least, feels like I’m firmly and irrevocably an adult.  My youth is pretty much behind me (that ain’t all that’s behind me). I know that I don’t look 35 — what’s that supposed to look like anyway? I don’t feel 35 — what’s that supposed to feel like? I’ll spare you the introspection of what I should have accomplished in my life thus far and the self congratulations of what I have already successfully achieved.  There are equal notches on both sides of that tally sheet. 

For the past six years, I’ve shared my birthday with Co; she was scheduled to be delivered on the 10th, but I went into labor (and denial) on the 7th around noon, holding out hope it was merely indigestion.  Come 1am, we were en route to the hospital and shortly thereafter, Co made her debut.  From that point on, September 8th has been “Co’s birthday”.

Suffice it to say that this year, I kind of don’t want to share. I mean, yeah, yeah, Happy Birthday, kiddo, but — and I’m going to be honest — I’m feeling a little selfish and would like to be fêted on my own.  Yes, I’d like for it to be all about me.  I know, that sounds like I’m turning 5 not 35, but nyah, nyah, nyah!

My dad asked me today what I’d like for my birthday and I about dropped the phone, I was so giddy with delight.  I can’t really recall when I was last asked that question.  In fact, I really had nothing to suggest by way of a gift.  Thankfully, Dad gave me some time to think about it before solidly retracting the offer.  I need to come up with something, pronto.  I hear the tick-tock of the gift clock running down and given the speed with which time is passing, I’ll be turning 36 before I get my hands on something to unwrap. 

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IN: recipes ON: September 4, 2013 TAGS: , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Home Again, Home Again.

It’s Thursday, a rainy, humid day here in VA.  Just one short week ago, I was Vegas bound. I landed, immediately embraced by high temps and a shining sun. 

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Time is moving way to fast for me.  My trip to Vegas hardly feels like it happened it all! My sorority sisters and I spent several days out in Nevada, catching up and kicking back.  There were casinos, there were clubs, there were shows.  There was drinking and gambling and laughing and lounging.  I’m not going to spill all the gory detailsYou know what they say, “What happens in Vegas. . .”  I’ll let you use your imagination. 

hee hee!
view from the hotel.  really amazing.

poolside. *le sigh*

whomp, whomp!

It was a much needed break.  I think all of us were in much need of a respite from the day to day goings on that occupy our lives. 

And now, here I am, back in the thick of things.  Seriously, there is no rest for the weary. My plane landed on Monday evening and I came home to happy kids, my tired parents, and a mountain of laundry that my mom had attempted to scale. I admire her effort, but as well know, laundry is a Herculean task.  Tuesday was going to be the girls’ second day of school with me at the helm of drop off and pick up.  Yes, I missed the first day of school as I was cavorting out in Nevada — truth be told, I was making my way home all day Monday. . .all.daggone.day.

While I didn’t snap the first day of school photo, it did get taken and for that I’m grateful.

a 3rd grader and a kindergartener? already?

The Hubs parting words to me on Tuesday morning were, “Try to ease into things.”  Yeah, have you met me? Have you met my kids? So much for that.  Tuesday morning after drop off found me back in the gym, working off all the imbing from the previous four days.  V and I came home, had lunch, wrangled the laundry into something manageable.  I stripped beds and changed sheets.  I prepped dinner and made lunches for the following day. I got us together and on time for after school pick up.  Just as Mo and Co got buckled into their seats, I got a call from my cousin P who was in town for work. I haven’t seen P in five years, at least.  She’s never met the girls, so it’s probably more like 10 years.  Could I get together with her now?  Of course!  We made a pit stop at the house before heading downtown to scoop P up from her hotel. En route, Co says that her chest was hurting her when she took a deep breath. I asked her when did that start?

“Just now,” she says.  So, I told her not to take breaths and just breathe normally. She shrugged and we were on our way.  We get P and decide to head over to Carytown to walk around a bit.  As we’re driving, Co gets progressively worse.  In a matter of minutes, she’s doubled over in the back seat, globes of tears burbling out of her eyes.  By the time we find a parking space, I’m visibly calm, but inwardly freaking out.  I lift her shirt, palpate her chest, finding nothing.  Her crying is not helping as she sucking in big gulps of air.  I’m not seeing anything but my sweet girl in pain and tears.  I get back in the car, turn to P and say, “I gotta take you back to the hotel.”

Which of course is in the opposite direction of the doctor’s office.  I’m on the phone with the doc, navigating back to school traffic around VCU’s campus, trying to keep Co calm and keeping one eye on the gas gauge which is winking at me as it dwindles down towads empty.  When we get within eyesight of the hotel, I basically slow down enough for kick P out (sorry, P) and hightail it back towards our part of town and the doc.  By the time we arrive, my bloodpressure is high enough to cause my hair to straighten. Co is calmer, though she’s keeping one hand on her chest as though to press the discomfort away and out of sight.  She’s taken back right away, with Mo and Vivi on her heels.  I retell the situation to the doc, who then examines Co.  Suffice it to say, your girl had a bad case of gas.

The relief I felt was nothing short of miracle.  The treatment prescribed? Soda to help her burp.  Co picked up on that and was all smiles.  By the time I had gathered our stuff, the nurses were plying the girls with lollypops and stickers, smiles all around.  The girls were bickering as I checked out and full of yelling at one another as they buckled themselves in the car. Crisis averted, everything back to normal.  I looked at my watch.

I had been back home for less than 24 hours. 

My phone pinged an incoming text message from one of my girls who went to Vegas with me: “All I have to say is today felt like this past weekend never happened.”  Looks like I’m not the only one who had a rough re-entry.

So here it is, a few days later.  I’m finding my groove (coffee is helping considerably).  The laundry is almost done. V is napping while I’m writing.  I’m winning more now that I did in Vegas.

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IN: ON: August 29, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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The Homestretch

I am drawing upon some previously unknown reserves to finagle a few minutes to sit down and cough this up.  We are in the homestretch!

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Summer vacation is just about done and we made it.  It’s not like it was a huge obstacle to overcome, but I was a little uncertain at the beginning of June when the weeks and week stretched ahead of us, shimmering with tentative plans and chlorine.

Interestingly enough, the girls are ready to go back to school this year.  We had a good run with our activities and playdates.  We have spent so much time at the library, the girls have taken to re-shelving books when they’re done making their selections. 

This week, I started the unwelcome task of putting the wee ones to bed at a reasonable time, only to wake them up when the day just starts to break.  I can’t fathom trying to hit the ground running next Monday on the first day of school (well, I can fathom it, but I’ll be out of town and won’t get to experience it) without having had a few warm-up drills.  The orientations that the girls have this week have served nicely as a raison d’etre to get up and at ’em the past few days.  On top of the that, Mo is turning 8 on Friday and is practically vibrating with excitement.  No, not practically .. . is.  She is vibrating with excited.  Back to school shopping done! New first day of school outfit ready! Orientation! Birthday! It’s a wonder she hasn’t combusted from it all.

As for me, I’m quietly putting things in a suitcase as I prepare to make my escape departure for a long week-end in Las Vegas with my sorors.  *ahem* I mean, my saw-rahhhhhhhhhhs!  This trip has been in the works for a while, plus the fact that I get to have some quality time with seven of my sisters?! No kids? No spouses? No kidding, it’s about to go down! 

My parents and the Hubs are acting like I’m coming up for parole. “Just hang on for a few more days,” has been the constant refrain whenever I start to get the look.  You know, this one. . .

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Oh, I give the stinkeye like it’s my side hustle.  It’s a wonder my face hasn’t frozen like that.  But, I digress.  I’m looking at my planner to see what all must be done between now and the time I throw my bag into the waiting taxi.  Quite simply, a crap-ton. I’m not worried about it, though.  Your girl here is a list maker and a planner.  It’s all handled.  And come the first day of school, I’ll flip my “Summer Vacation 2013” folder inside out, take a Sharpie to it to write “Summer Vacation 2014” and gear up for the next go ’round.

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IN: ON: August 21, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Levelling Up

This past week-end, I was fortunate enough to attend an “Eat, Drink and Be Married” celebration for two of my college friends, both of whom had gotten married within months of one another.  It was a great time spent with a handful of folks from my college days, their spouses, stories about what we’ve all been doing over the past handful of years and so on.

Despite the abundance of seating throughout the house, we all congregated in the kitchen.  It never fails; host a party and the crowd is drawn to the heart of the house buoyed along by laughter and the promise of food and drinks.  As I stood around, sipping on a delightful vodka limeade, I watched my friends engaged in conversations, sharing iPhone photos of their little ones and reminiscing about “that one time, at the delis. . .”.  Looking at these little pockets of catching up,  I realized, that no one’s parents were in attendance.  I mean, someone’s parents were in attendance; all of us there were parents, but our parents were conspiciously absent.  We’ve become “the parents”; we’ve leveled up.

I had a second drink on which to mull that over.

One of the ladies must have seen the wry smile on my face because she asked me what I was thinking about. I shared with her my observation, to which a look of “buzzkill” flitted across her eyes before she shook her head in acknowledgement of my observation.  She hated to admit it, but I was right. 

“God, that’s so weird,” she remarked, pressing a hand to her abdomen as if she couldn’t even digest the thought. “I still feel like I’m 17!”

Oh yeah, I get that.  I don’t feel like I’ve got 13 years between me and my last day of college. I don’t feel like I’m old enough to have an 8 year old (I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like, actually).  I don’t feel like I’m old enough to be standing around someone’s kitchen a la The Big Chill for the 2013.

After I left the party, I headed home to help The Hubs get ready to entertain some friends of ours who were coming over for dinner.  We got the girls fed, scrubbed, and pajamma-ed just as our guest arrived.  The girls said their hellos, and beat a hasty retreat to their rooms to play until they were called to go to bed.  As The Hubs and I sat around the table with our friends, we were laughing, debating, pouring wine and just enjoying adult conversation.  It shouldn’t have surprised me when C materialized at my elbow saying that she was tired and could she just go to bed now, but it did.  It was deja vu in several ways. 

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 I can distinctly remember being 7 or 8, having been summarily dismissed by my parents as they nibbled wine and cheese with their friends.  After a good 30 minutes or so, I would creep back downstairs to observe them doing whatever it was they were doing (usually eating, playing cards and talking shit), before striding into the room to announce that I could not sleep and could they please keep it down. Somewhere between that announcement and my being escorted back to bed, I filched some chips or nuts or whatever munchies were on hand, maybe a sip of my mom’s drink, or a dollar from the pocket of a generous neighbor. 

There were definite perks of being the youngest kid in the house and of my parents’ social circle.

Now, here I was on the other side of that circle, giving C a taste of my dessert before showing her back to her bed. Surreal just touches the tip of how I felt.

When you level up in a video game, there’s usually some booming announcer voice, or some blinking icon dancing across the screen, bleating “Level Completed! Level Completed!”   When you notice the change in perspective —  instead of peering through the forest of panty hose clad or chino encased legs as you fight back yawns with a teddy tucked securely under your arm,  you’re smoothing the panty hose on your leg or brushing a crumb from your husbands chinos, picking up a teddy to place back onto some Hello Kitty or Star Wars Bed comforter —  that’s when you know you’ve leveled up.

Chances are, you probably didn’t press right arrow, left arrow, X +Y to get there, either.

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IN: ON: August 5, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Just Cause


The other day, as I was ferrying groceries from the car to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the pantry and from the kitchen to the upstairs, I started thinking about the cycle I’ve found myself in. I don’t get political on my little piece of the blogosphere.  I don’t raunchy, get up on a soapbox, beat my chest or tear my clothes.  I keep things light and entertaining.

I have, in my possession, more than a little bit of useless information that will serve me well on Family Feud or Jeopardy one day.  I put the well-being of myself, my husband and children at the forefront, making sure that everyone is well fed, well-groomed and well mannered before setting them free into the world.  I find, though, that there’s a little flame sputtering inside of me, gasping for some air so it can blossom into something more.   That little flame is a desire to be fully invested in a cause, a campaign, something that is permanent and worthwhile. Something that has some weight behind it.

I can remember reading various magazines that profiled everyday people and celebs who, after being faced with a serious disease, become champions for awareness and eradication of said disease.  Call me a cynic, but if they never fell ill in the first place, would they have come to be such a supporter after all?  Through my membership in various organizations, I’ve given money, time, and energy to the March of Dimes, CASA, Heifer International, and Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure.  Thankfully, my family — nuclear and extended — has been healthy. The biggest challenge we’ve faced so far is a bout of contact dermatitis and while we’ve worked through it, I’m not called to be the face of prevention and care.

I do want to invest in something, though.  I want to roll up my sleeves and become fully immersed in a subject and the ways volunteers can spread the word about it.  Maybe because I recently re-wrote my will, I started thinking about my legacy and I want it to mean something. 

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I saw the above quote while trolling through tumblr one day and felt like the words reached through the screen, wrapped themselves around my heart and squeezed really, really hard.  I try to be a role  model for my children, for my friends children, for my friend even.  I don’t set out to do it every morning, mind you. I just do the best that I can with what I’ve been given. I’m fallible. I make mistakes. I snap at my kids, let my husband make is own dinner, and eat Cookie Butter right out of the jar with my fingers.  Yeah, really.  But I keep coming back to this flame flickering inside of me, this urge to want to do something, learn something, embrace something that gives me a sense of satisfaction that I’m not getting right now.  I know that I’m capable of great things. I do great things every day.  I also know that I’m capable of something more.  I just have to find out what it is.  I am desperate to know, because I truly want someone to look at me and say, “Because of you, I didn’t give up.”

There had been an article in Real Simple (my go-to mag) about how to ensure your charitable contributions are actually received and disseminated to their intended recipients.  When you see things about sending five cents for clean water, or 20 cents a day feeding a hungry child, how do you really know where your money goes? 

The real question is, what do I feel passionate about (clearly it’s not grammatical correctness)? The usual suspects when it comes to charity and volunteering boil down the these:

1. Environment
2. Arts & Culture
3. Hunger
4. Education
5. Children and Families
6. Grassroots Initiatives (which I had to look up because it was SO not what I thought it was)
7. Animals
8. Health
9. Water and Sanitation
10. Disaster Relief

They’re all important. I can tie to myself to any and all of them, no matter how thin the thread.  Which of them, though, is the one that speaks to me? Which of them is the one that will reach out and squeeze my heart so that I will give, participate,  and not give up?

If there is a cause that speaks to you, please share it in the comments.

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IN: ON: July 29, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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