Miss You Like Crazy

Wish I was there.

I haven't seen E in 23 hours. Every time we leave her with someone overnight...and I can count the number of times we've done it on one hand...it seems to get harder.

The first time was last April when we went to Vegas. Being surrounded by other couples who had also abandoned their offspring, unlimited quantities of free alcohol and incessant bright, shiny loudness was a fairly effective analgesic. We made it home relatively unscathed, as runaway parents go.

Then there were a couple of quick overnighters around the time of our move to Ottawa. They weren't too bad on account of their brevity, but the drive away from and back to her were riddled with thoughts of head-on collisions and roadside tragedies.

In May she went camping with her grandparents, and I came the closest I've been to aborting mission, simply because I missed her.

And now. Right now I imagine my sidekick is entertaining her grandma with bathtime shenanigans, urging grandpa to extricate himself from the comfort of his chair to Watch This! or Look At Me! And I'm here, 189km away, sitting on the deck, watching Ralph lick himself. I should have a mojito. That might fill the void. Of course it would help if my husband would come back from his stupid dinner with his stupid resident friends at their stupid conference. I'm not invited. The one night I could actually go. But don't feel too badly for me. J and I are going out for an anniversary dinner tomorrow night, by which time I will have been without my daughter for 47.5 hours and will have approximately 16.5 hours remaining until our reunion. So I have something to look forward to.

Believe it or not, I'm not one of those moms who lives solely for her child and spends each minute of each day positively immersed in all things juvenile, never needing a break or a drink or a deep breath. That's not me. I get excited when I think about these dalliances with childlessness. I turn off the alarm, I get last-minute facials, I eat chocolate out in the open. But, for some reason, I also spend a growing portion of each day desperately missing my baby. Because she is awesome. And absence does, in fact, make the child awesomer.

Today E went berry picking with grandma and grandpa, and I have the photographic evidence to prove that - at least at one point - she was alive and enjoying herself. I forced myself not to call, just in case. I will call tomorrow. And the next day I will hug her so tightly that she will beg me to get back in the car and drive away quickly.  Until then, I will do my best to enjoy this side of the fence.

My Fitness Pal is kind of a bitch

www.myfitnesspal.com

I have very little willpower. Very little. And I love to eat. Like really love it. If I didn't need to do it to survive I would probably eat more than I do now. Because I've never caught myself thinking...hmmm...I guess I have to eat something today in order to continue existing...now where did I put those grape nuts? That's never happened.

Anyhoo, any time I embark on a new nutrition and exercise program, the thing that always gets me is the eating. Specifically, the eating of junk food - generally to excess - in the after dinner/pre-bedtime window. I just can't not do it. At least not sustainably. Completely denying myself doesn't work, because I fixate...and fixate...and fixate...until I bake something ludicrous, eat far too much of it and feel horrible until I do it again the next day. And trying to limit myself is like trying to pee just a little bit before an ultrasound when your bladder is filled to super capacity. Impossible.

I did Weight Watchers once, to support a friend who had quite a bit to lose, and I actually found it to be one of the best ways for someone like myself to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Someone who doesn't like to be told that there are some foods I can't eat, who likes to fill out forms and get progress updates throughout the day to help me decide what I should/shouldn't eat and how many more minutes I need to exercise to get that ice cream bar. Someone who needs a fitness pal glued to her hip at all hours, not just while we're sweating through a workout or going out for a healthy meal.

Enter...My Fitness Pal.

Cousin-in-law K introduced us. Thanks K! It's an app on my iPhone where I enter all the food I eat and exercise I do throughout the day, and it's better than anything that has come before it because 1) it has EVERY food and EVERY form of exercise you could possibly bother to think of in EVERY increment, and 2) it keeps track of EVERY nutritional variable you might be interested in, and 3) it gives you a forecast of your progress at the end of each day. Now that last one got me into trouble on the first day, so MFP and I got off to a bit of a rocky start.

I want to lose 5-7 pounds. Ideally. But really I just want to stop the jiggle and prevent the spread. Nothing a good toning wouldn't take care of, but it would be nice to see numbers go down too. So imagine my displeasure when, on our very first date, MFP informed me that, according to my performance, I would gain 4 pounds in the next 5 weeks. Bitch. I told her to come out from behind the screen and say that. After that she was oddly silent. So I closed the app and smiled smugly to myself. Take that.

The next morning I was feeling renewed optimism, so I gave MFP another chance. I swear she rolled her eyes when I entered my breakfast info. Oooooh, good for you! You managed to make it to 9am without screwing it up! All day I plugged in my stellar food choices, my admirable 90 minutes spent gardening, and my responsible water consumption. Then there was a blur, in which I'm pretty sure I skipped dinner and ate 6 oreos. It's not my fault. My husband had gone grocery shopping with me that day and Oreos are the kind of thing that happen when he's allowed into the store. But that alone wouldn't have amounted to sabotage. He took it one step further by leaving an open bag of Oreos on the ottoman, staring me in the face as I sat down to unwind after work while he bathed the kid. I mean seriously, are my husband and MFP actually teaming up against me??

Well, I got the last laugh when I refused to eat dinner after the Oreo fiasco, just so I could force her to admit that it was possible to lose 3 pounds in 5 weeks by eating 6 Oreos a day.

And yesterday I knew I had her beat, because I was going for a run. And not only did I run, I ran 10.3km, and spent another 85 minutes walking. So I ate all my meals, a few snacks, and polished the day off with a President's Choice Peanut Butter Ice Cream Bar - 340 calories. And still came in under budget. Turns out that in 5 weeks I will have reached my goal.

I think MFP and I are becoming BFFs. Can you feel the love?

Good Dads

E's dad had to work today, on the one day a year when dads really matter. Of course, I'm being facetious, but not really. I mean, dads kinda do tend to get the - as my husband likes to call it - husband end of the stick sometimes. And I don't really know why. I mean, I know why, but I don't really know how it has gone on for so long. How is it that moms spend so much time trying to convince the world what a hard job it is (myself included), while there are all these dads just quietly plodding along with the business of being dad and still coming off like the guy who looks after the kid when mom is busy and probably can't be relied upon to do it right? A good dad may, on the surface, blend into the crowd and not attract too much attention, but their worth is not measured in points and trophies. Good dads make good people. Happy people. They make girls and boys who know they have a place in the world, and give them the strength to reach out from where they belong, to what they can achieve. There is no substitute for a good dad.

Tonight, while my daughter's dad is sitting by the bedsides of other people's children, his daughter is sleeping peacefully in the next room, and I am reflecting on what a truly wonderful man he is. 

When I am completely out of patience, he has a fresh supply. When I am sticking to my guns and going down with the ship, he's caving like a wet sandcastle - and defusing the situation. He never forgets sunscreen, he doesn't make mountains out of molehills, and when the two of them are on their own, they're guaranteed to have a good time. He is the yin to my yang, the Ricky to my Lucy. And as if my humble endorsement weren't enough, just ask the expert, who thinks that her dada is the "goodest dada ever".

To all of you good dads out there, today is your day. Soak it up. You deserve it. And may the memory of it keep you sane for the next 364 days of being asked if you're babysitting when you're at the park with your child, sans mama.

Quotable Quotes

While stroking her forearm: "I'm a little furry, amn't I?"

To the "doctor" on the "phone": "Are you still open? My dinosaur hurt himself and needs stitches. Aww *shrug* that's too bad. I'll just take the stitches out myself."

...et...la piece de resistance -

To the neighbour: "My mom puts mint in her drinks ALL THE TIME."

Yoga!

Since dance class has ended for the summer, E and I have found a kids' yoga class to keep ourselves occupied on Saturday mornings. It's at roughly the same time, and it's a whole hour of yogic goodness. The teacher is fantastic - eternally cheerful and patient - and after we bend and stretch our sillies out, we  play a little music and end each class with a craft. And as if that weren't lovely enough, the yoga studio happens to be situated directly behind this little slice of heaven. So the routine is yoga, then doughnuts. The perfect balance, if you ask moi.

E and I did a mom and baby yoga class from the time she was about 4 months old until we left Brooklyn last year. She loved it, and we've both missed it. I have a Wednesday night class that I make it to once in a blue moon, but *thankfully* the kidlets aren't allowed, and I've been hoping to get her into a class so that she can have an opportunity to channel her inner yogi. Since beginning the class, E has regularly been coming up with a series of new poses, and demonstrating them often.

There's gate pose, and tunnel pose, both designed as partner poses, where one partner holds a pose while the other goes through the gate/tunnel.

Gate 

Tunnel

There's magnet pose, which is essentially a downward dog with one leg wiggling around in the air. There's jell-o pose, which is also heavy on the wiggling, as you can imagine. There's turtle pose, which bears a striking resemblance to child's pose, with more shell. So maybe she's not winning any awards for originality, but the last time I checked yoga is a very individual practice. And that's my girl - she's an individual alright.

Fish!

We got a fish tank. Have I mentioned that? It has become my husband's obsession/raison d'etre/coping mechanism, although he swears it's for E. Suuuuuuure.

It all started when E started talking about the new fish tank in her classroom. Ms. Veronique loves fish, and explained how wonderful aquariums are for kids - relaxing and fun and educational all at the same time. So I suggested to J that we get a small fish tank for E's room. You know, a little bowl with a guppy or two. Something of this nature...or maybe something a little crazier, like this.

So naturally, we got this:

The newest additions to our family include:

Nemo (orange clownfish...original, I know)
Marlin (black clownfish...my daughter doesn't see colour)
Anabelle (yellow goby...named after bff)
Jacques (pistol shrimp...another Nemo reference)
Coral (blood shrimp...Nemo again)
Violet (orchid dottyback...we convinced her that Violet is a better name than Purple)
Scarlet (starfish...again, better than Red)
...and countless other hermit crabs, Halloween crabs, Bumblebee crabs...corals, sea urchins, snails, OMG IT DOESN'T EVER END!!!

For those of you who know my husband, this will not come as a surprise. What was intended to be (at least in my head) a fun, inexpensive little diversion for our daughter is in actuality a husband-sucking money pit. Pretty, yes. But that's little consolation when our living room is filled with buckets and hoses, and various kitchenware previously used to feed my family is now being misappropriated for all kinds of fishy business. If it weren't for the fact that J gets so much pleasure out of it, it would be on the curb. But, we must all find our happy place, and this is his. And with all the stress in his life these days, I'm glad he's found it.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Okay. My Clock is Yellow. Time to lighten things up around here...

It appears that I have to change the name of this blog. It has been 2 days since I've heard that familiar refrain first thing in the morning. And, despite my certainty that no one has ever experienced a cuter way to be woken up, I have to say that a telltale door squeak...a hesitant "Mommy?"...followed by a frantic scramble back to bed is a very close second. Or, as happened this morning, a little girl standing just inside her mostly closed door, surrounded by a dark room, brandishing a pocket flashlight that illuminates her feet, smiling up at me.

It really does just keep getting better.

And, for those keeping track, it only took 326 days for her to figure it out.

Adrienne

This afternoon I learned that a friend of mine has cancer. She's young, just starting her career, in great shape...a super cool girl loving life. All I keep thinking is BULLSHIT!!! It just sucks, and I'm mad, and I'm sad, and I'm helpless, and I'm really aggravated at my ability to complain about the most ridiculously irrelevant things.

I don't care that E doesn't listen the first three times I ask her to go and sit on the potty. I don't care that J is always late and can't find his own clean t-shirts. I don't care that Ralph steps on my bare toes with his sharpened claws once a week and never apologizes. I don't care that my dishwasher is the crappiest dishwasher on the planet, or that the backyard is full of weeds or that nothing in my dining room matches.

I am healthy, my family is healthy, and I'm not staring cancer and surgery and chemotherapy and my own mortality in the face tonight, like Adrienne is.

There is absolutely no point in wondering why and why not and what are the chances and what if. It's not fair, it's not logical, it's certainly not meant to be. It's life, and it's yours until it's not anymore. So there.

E and I went to yoga this morning, and the teacher plays the best folky tunes in class and I resolved to listen to the song Peace Like a River by Elizabeth Mitchell whenever I need a little peace. I love folk music. Did you know that about me? Anyway, tonight I'm dedicating it to my good, brave friend, in hopes that it helps her find the place inside her own head and heart where she needs to be.

...

Having said that, given the choice I think she'd probably prefer rocking out to something like this,

and I can't really blame her.

Peace, Love, and Rock 'n' Roll.

I am proud of myself today. Heck, I've been proud of myself all week. It's a nice feeling. 

Today I ran 6 kilometres. That's not a lot for some, and for others it might as well be ten million marathons. For me, it's a bit mind boggling. 

You see, I haven't run for a while. I haven't really done anything for a while. And even when I was at my ship-shapiest, daily-gymiest, nothing-to-do-on-a-caribbean-island-but-drink-rum-and-workout-iest, I've never ran more than oh, about 6 kilometres. Maybe 6.5. Right before I got pregnant I was the rock-solidest, fittest version of myself. I even liked my thighs. And all through my pregnancy I rocked the gym and the pool...and the ocean...swimming 60 laps at 32 weeks, and doing incline abs on the stability ball at 37 weeks. The first time I went to the gym after E was born I got stuck on my first sit-up. The first time I went swimming I nearly had an asthma attack after 10 laps, and I don't have asthma. So I got pissed off and got back into shape. Not quite where I was before, but breastfeeding, baby-carrying and walking all over the damn place kept the thighs - and most other parts - relatively under control. Besides, let's be honest, as a new mom I was dodging mirrors whenever possible anyway.

Then the baby turned into a kid and went to school, I turned into a working mom and our move to Ottawa left me with a lot less walking, stair climbing and grocery lugging to keep me honest. Things were starting to jiggle. And spread. But still, it's so much easier to lament your decline from health and fitness while canoodling on the couch with a vat of Breyer's than to physically extricate yourself from such a cozy environment. An environment that routinely makes you feel like garbage...but I did mention how cozy it is, right? 

I guess a few things came together in the last week. First of all, I made a conscious decision on the weekend to do things differently this week. In very broad strokes. Basically to do the opposite of everything I normally do. Less internet. Less time on the couch. More water. Less junk food. More activity. More getting things done. Less thinking and more doing. I reminded myself that if this week totally sucks I have a lifetime of weeks left to go back to eating ice cream on the couch and thinking about my to-do list at 2am. It's just a week.

I also received my new running shoes with orthotics. They're grey and purple and very, very pretty.

Then I read my cousin-in-law's blog posts about her return to the land of fitness by walking her tired self into the gym for the first time in a long time. And it resonated, big time. I felt like I was reading something I had written. Except that I hadn't actually been to the gym. And one thing in particular that she wrote was especially brilliant:

"I went into the gym feeling exhausted and I left feeling great."

Yes. Because I generally feel as though I haven't enough energy to get to bedtime, let alone any spare reserves for physical activity that is not related to fleeing from life-threatening situations. But...BUT - I always feel fantastic after working out. No matter what. So why wouldn't  I want to feel fantastic? 

I still needed a final kick. Which came in the form of an old high school friend and her accomplishment in running a race despite body parts that would prefer to be iced and rested rather than pounded and brutalized. I've been lucky to have lived a relatively injury-free existence, and knowing that I am avoiding creating my own accomplishments out of sheer laziness or fear of failure just sounds terribly lame, now that I think of it.

So. On Tuesday, I strapped on my sparkly new running shoes with their cushioney orthotics, charged up my iPod and went for it. And I ran 5k. I couldn't believe it. I really didn't know if I would be able to run 2k. But I mapped out a 5k run, hoping just to keep running as long as I could and then walk the rest. I got halfway without too much trouble, spurred on by a good soundtrack and the fact that it was mostly downhill. But then the thing that kept me going was just plain old pride. I wanted to say that I had done it. I didn't want to have to qualify anything with "I only had to stop to walk once" or "I did 4.3k". I really wanted to run 5k. And I did. 

And then. I expected to be sore. Really sore. Like, I'm NEVER doing that again sore. But, apart from some hip tightness on Tuesday night, I was fine. I couldn't believe it. So this morning, I went for a repeat. I took a slightly different route just for fun, expecting that it would be about the same distance. When I got home I looked it up and I had run 6k! A whole extra kilometre my second time out! 

Here's the thing. I'm not old. But I'm not 18 and made of rubber anymore either. Let's be honest. My cousin-in-law K.D., my friend Lesley and I are all women, mothers, who have been forced to confront our aging bodies, and to accept that what was once easy will no longer be, what was once leisure now requires care and precaution and limitation. But that doesn't mean we're going down, by any means. I made a decision today, somewhere in the 2nd or 3rd kilometre when I was still feeling fairly feisty, that I will not grow old, fat and lazy gracefully, peeling myself off the couch every night and going to bed bloated on snacks. We have goals to achieve and examples to set. We have each stared down the future and decided to sweat and push and kick and fight our way towards it. 

And stereotypes be damned, that's sexy.

First Recital!

So, in this new millenium of ours, where photographing, videotaping or otherwise documenting the lives of tiny persons under the age of 18, particularly when they are parading around in their sparkly, tutu-ed goodness - with the obvious exception of those whose mothers who deem it appropriate to make them the victims of reality television - is considered akin to admitting to pedophilia, preserving the adorable memories of my daughter's very first recital was decidedly difficult.

We are currently awaiting the "official" dvd that we ordered and that will be ready in as early as 6-8 weeks, and in the meantime we are poring over our grainy photos and reminding ourselves of how she was the very cutest and clearly the most talented dancer of the lot.

Costumes arrive! 

Profesh photos are exhausting. 

Dress Rehearsal! 

What's up girls? How about those clowns back

there with the tutus on their heads!

Unfortunately, I have no stage pictures, but the routine was to this song:

...and the next time you see us, if you ask nicely, we might perform it for you. Yes, we. In a stunning and rather unexpected burst of stage-mom-itis, I memorized the routine and we practiced for weeks leading up to the show. 

What? Is that weird?