While He Was Sleeping

Well, that New Year's resolution is shot to hell. No, not the one I made about regular exercise (although that one is teetering precariously). The one that has really been blown out of the water is the one I make every year - writing more often. Thanks to Christmas, my son's visit, an illness that will not die that has sapped every bit of energy I possess, and a trip to Mexico I have not written anything (including Christmas cards; sorry to all who enjoyed my pithy year end wrap-ups) in more than a month.

Pathetic.

It's not that I haven't had a wealth of material over the last thirty-three days. I could have waxed rhapsodically about the joys of spending two days a week with my beyond precious grandson, with a special chapter on the creative ways I manage to extricate myself off the floor (currently limited to variations of maneuvering myself to the nearest piece of furniture but soon to involve a small crane of some kind). I could also have detailed the joys of having my son back under our roof for the first time in four months with an entire paragraph dedicated to my shock and delight at his volunteering to join me for our church's Christmas Eve service. And then there was Mexico. What can I say about a seven day trip to paradise with six of the greatest friends on the planet taken during the coldest week of the year? Nothing. You don't won't to hear about it, do you? (But if you stop buy I'll be happy to show you a couple of the 1,147 pictures I took).

I could pull out the sympathy card. I am on my fifth box of Puffs. But who cares? Danielle Steel probably wrote an entire book every time she went into labor. And so what if I've been coughing loud enough to wake the neighbors (a couple of streets over). Who cares? Nora Roberts probably churned out her biggest bestseller when she had double pneumonia. No more excuses. I can do this. I can write this stupid blog once a week and I can finish editing that novel before I file for Social Security benefits. If nothing else, I can at least write something every time that sweet, adorable munchkin takes his naps every Tuesday and Thursday.

How much trouble can one little baby be?

He'll Be Home For Christmas

It's only December 23rd and I already know all about the best gift I'm going to get for Christmas. Before you rush off to report me to the Santa Police (wouldn't that be cool if there actually was such a thing?), I can assure you I haven't "accidentally" stumbled upon a box in the closet or "inadvertently" slipped the wrapping off a package under the tree. No, the best present of this or any other year is not going to be in any box. It is not going to be decorated with a giant bow (at least I don't think it will). It is going to arrive tonight around six o'clock and (I'm pretty sure) it won't be delivered by a guy in little brown shorts.

Four months and fourteen days ago, I watched my son drive off in a moving van. If I had had any idea it was going to be this long between hugs, there would have been one other item packed into one of those over-stuffed cartons making their way to Denver.

For the first time, we weren't together for Thanksgiving.  For the first time, I didn't get to make him his favorite birthday cake or watch him open his presents. He wasn't even able to be here to celebrate the birth of his sister's first child. For four and a half months we have had to make do with texts, e-mails and hastily arranged Skype chats - none of which afforded any opportunity for hugs. But all that ends today. He will be home for Christmas.

And unlike the song, it won't be only in my dreams.

Still At It

I think I read somewhere that it takes thirty days to establish a new habit. If that's the case, it looks like exercise is going to be a regular part of my life. That's right, people, six weeks and counting. Every day for the last month and a half I have walked on a treadmill, lifted weights, stretched impossibly tight hamstrings and glutes, and ticked off a hundred crunches on that damn inflatable ball. I haven't always made it to a mile; I haven't always pushed myself as hard as I could, and I certainly haven't eliminated all the crap out of my diet. (When celery tastes as good as McDonald's fries, we'll talk). But every day I have done something and that, in and of itself, is a miracle.

While this little milestone is encouraging,there is one small, teensy-weensy problem. I have yet to see much in the way of results. Scratch that. I do feel better. I think I have more energy. And I am starting to feel muscle springing up in my biceps - not anything Popeye would be showing off but, hey, he started somewhere, too. What hasn't happened yet is a visible change in the rest of my body. I know, I know. Rome wasn't built in a day; good things come to those who wait; patience is a virtue; don't give up; stay the course; everything worth having is worth waiting for. Words to live by. Then again, there's another saying from that wise philosopher, Tom Petty, that keeps going through my head.

The waiting is the hardest part.

The Guilt Trip

Maybe it has something to do with having been born Catholic but I usually walk around feeling guilty about something. I regularly beat myself up over stuff that I said that was insensitive/stupid/silly or moves that I made that were foolish/selfish/thoughtless or decisions that I didn't pull the trigger on that would have been smart/helpful/generous. It doesn't really matter. I'll find something. (Sister Mary Huberta would be so proud except I'm sure she's been dead for at least thirty years.)

While I have woulda/coulda/shoulda-ed myself on a variety of subjects often enough to regularly drive my husband to reach for that bottle of Cabernet, there is no area of my life that gets me hopping back on the good old Guilt Train more than motherhood. I'm like an actress who only believes the bad reviews.When I look back, I seem to fixate only on my "flops" and never my "hits". (Maybe that's why I'm so crazy about the moms on The Middle and The Goldbergs. Not all of us can be Clair Huxtable.)

I guess I should be thankful that one thing I never had to do was be a full-time working mom. I always thought I'd go back to teaching once the kids came but between our stint overseas and a husband that traveled a lot, I didn't end up doing much beyond a few consulting gigs. And even that was tough - finding a sitter, scrambling when the kids were sick, trying to talk to a client with someone tugging on your pants begging you for a Fudgesicle. I can only imagine what it would have been like if I had had to do it Monday thru Friday, fifty weeks a year.

Today my daughter's maternity leave is over. She is joining the ranks of the Working Mom. Luckily for her, she has a couple of grandmas that are eager to help and a job that allows her to bring her little guy with her whenever she needs to. He'll be in the room next door (she works in an early childhood educational facility) and she'll be able to pop in whenever she can. But that won't solve all her problems - getting on a schedule, bundling him in a snowsuit at 7:00 a.m., exhaustion, trying to find time for her husband (not to mention herself), paying child-care fees, and missing her baby like crazy will be obstacles she'll have to face for the foreseeable future. I know the next few weeks will be tough but I know she'll make it work.

And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn't feel guilty about a damn thing.

The First Year

Twenty-eight years ago, I had my first article published in Modern Bride magazine. I was eight and a half months pregnant when I waddled up to the cash register with the proof that someone other than my family actually thought I could write. The look on the cashier's face was priceless, I have to say. I shouldn't have said anything (except maybe that I was stopping next to pick up my veil) but I couldn't resist offering an explanation of why someone in my condition was purchasing a bridal magazine. Funny. He wasn't all that impressed when I pointed to my name in the table of contents. Maybe that's because he was all of seventeen and some crazy pregnant lady was losing her mind over an article called What a Difference a Year Makes. (Not my title. I wanted to go with something pithy like "Marriage Year One" or "Who the Hell Are You Anyway?" but those control freaks at Modern Bride wouldn't hear of it).

The reason I'm dredging up ancient history is today is my daughter's (the one that was with me in Aisle 4) first wedding anniversary. As I searched my filing cabinets for a copy of my insightful piece to share with her, I couldn't help wondering if she would even be able to relate. I was thirty when I got married. She was twenty-seven. So far, not too dissimilar. She moved into an apartment a few miles from both sets of in-laws. I moved across the ocean with no support system in sight. She got pregnant on her honeymoon. I, despite appearances mentioned earlier, didn't add a child to the mix for three years.

But as I read it, I realized that the first year of marriage, no matter what the circumstances, holds the same challenges now as it did then. Granted, I didn't have to adjust while dealing with a boatload of raging hormones but both of us had to learn to accommodate our new spouses, our new surroundings, get used to living 24/7 with another human being, juggle two jobs, and come to terms with two sets of different expectations. As Andy Rooney once said, "No one ever said that marriage was easy. And if anyone ever did say it, and I missed it, they were wrong."

Not easy. Definitely not easy. But so worth it.

Happy Anniversary, sweetie.

One More Time

Don't hate me for this but for most of my life, my weight was not an issue. I could eat what I wanted, when I wanted and still fit into the pants I wore in high school. Not that I would have ever wanted to do anything like that as most of those pants were butt ugly but I could have. And now? Now I can't even fit into the pants I wore last week. So here we go again.

This is Day Five of the new and improved exercise program - the one I am not going to give up on; the one that will make a difference; the one that will turn me into a lean, mean fighting machine. (Yikes! I have to stop watching The Biggest Loser).

My previous plan (one of them) to rid my diet of sugar lasted less than seventy-two hours and didn't really eliminate the evil white stuff beyond cookies, cupcakes, etc. I couldn't bring myself to give up my Frosted Mini-Wheats (I cannot eat eggs every day) or Skippy peanut butter (I know there are some without sugar but blech) but at least I restrained myself from activities like downing a half-bag of mini-donuts in one sitting.

This time around, I'm on the treadmill every morning, lifting weights every other day, doing 100 crunches, and trying to get my body to bend in ways it hasn't in quite a while. I'm trying to drink nothing but water and unsweetened tea. And I'm even giving that natural peanut butter another try. My late night snacking has been all but eliminated if you don't count the lone Nestle Crunch fun-size bar left over from Halloween. I know the upcoming holidays are going to be even tougher than that Trick-or-Treat bowl but nothing tastes as good as the first bite, right? And I plan on having several of those.

Where has all this renewed motivation to get in shape come from you may ask? Well. I have a new grandson and I'd like to be able to get down on the floor with him without needing a crane. So I've decided I'm going to do whatever it takes to feel better and stronger even if it means watching old Dr. Phil episodes while I'm pounding out that last quarter-mile or listening to Taylor Swift shake it off as I struggle with that last arm curl.

Hey, no matter what I do or how long I do it, I know it's unlikely that I'll ever go back to the size I was in high school and that's okay. In eight weeks, I hope to be an energetic sexagenarian with a little less flab and a little more muscle. I'll happily settle for that. Oh, and did I mention I've got a winter vacation coming up that involves a bathing suit.

Yeah. Getting on the floor to play with my grandson isn't my only motivation.

No Butts About It

If you haven’t been living in a submarine off the coast of Greenland or sailing down the Nile in a hollowed out canoe, you’ve undoubtedly heard about the pseudo-celebrity (who will remain nameless as uttering the devil’s name is just tempting fate) determined to break the Internet with images of her enormous, oiled-up derriere. If you’re as unfortunate as I am, you’ve even seen said images. I hope I’m wrong but I may never get that picture out of my head.

Let’s forget for a second that there is someone out there who is vain enough and spotlight-seeking enough to foist her dipped in butter tush onto our unsuspecting consciousness. What’s more disturbing is the fact that there’s such an insatiable demand for what this woman is selling. I know train wrecks are hard to ignore but if they were on the cover of every magazine short of Field and Stream, you would think the public might get a little tired of looking at them.

On top of the controversy over whether a mother should be behaving like a come-to-life version of an African fertility god, the Internet (when it recovered from being broken) blew up with a couple of interesting questions. Like: Why was a photo of Alyssa Milano breastfeeding her child so offensive to so many people when these photos of a contorted booty were not? And: how could the image of a woman doing something with her breasts that they were meant to do set off a mean-spirited Twitter stream when the image of a woman using her rear end as a coffee table did not?

I wish I had the answers.