When most girls become women and start having families the first thing they tell themselves is that they will not raise their kids like they were brought up. They vow to be the "cool parents" and do all the things with their kids that they were deprived of. In other words, we will not be like our mothers! One husband and two kids later I realize that I am in fact becoming everything I promised myself I wouldn't be, my mother. I really mean no offense to my mom. She did what she had to do to keep us in line and to keep herself sane. I'm almost positive she did it without any hard drugs too. She had four to raise, I only have two and I'm secretly hoping to find a secret stash of mind-numbing paraphernalia that Patrick hid in the house during his college days (or semester in his case.)
Yesterday we lost our Time Warner connection, meaning no cable (Nickelodeon in our case,) no internet and no telephone. The kids, and Patrick, had no idea what to do with themselves. I eventually found Patrick hiding out in his regular spot in front of the computer, except getting his internet fix on his phone (thank God for 3G) and the kids going from room to room, trying each television to see if it worked.
"But Mommy, we can't watch t.v., what can we do?"
"I don't know. Play with your Lego's or something."
"But I know Victorious is on and I really want to watch it!"
"The cable is out so we can't watch t.v.."
*Huffs and puffs* "There's nothing to do!"
Now keep in mind that these kids have about 928,496,290 Lego's, about 500 movies, two XBox's, a Playstation, a Nintendo DS and a Kindle Fire, along with all their other toys, books and games. There is no lack of stuff to do inside the compounds of this house. I finally convinced them to each go in their own rooms and watch a movie (and yes, they each have their own television.) Alexis must have came in to our bedroom about six times to check and see if the cable was on yet. I'm starting to think that we rely entirely too much on technology.
Back to my original topic, turning in to my mom. Aside from the physical qualities I started to acquire after turning 30, like the expanding hips and a butt that went from non-existent to "I can't get my jeans over my ass" big, I am noticing some emotional attributes that remind me of my mom. I vaguely remember her turning 30 and I swore I would never get THAT OLD. I was seven at the time so anything over twenty was ancient. Now that I'm almost 31 I can only look back and think, "was I ever THAT YOUNG?"
When I got married and had my devil spawn I constantly told myself that I was going to be the totally cool parent. My kids were going to have everything that I went without. The coolest toys, all the newest games, movies, etc. and friends over whenever they wanted. I would not communicate with them by yelling and I would be close to them so they could tell me anything without fear of repercussions. I most definitely would not constantly nag them about keeping their rooms clean or picking up their toys. In theory I would be so cool that they would respect me and would automatically do those things to make me happy. I would not be mean like my mom was, or I thought she was at the time.
Reality.
I've stepped on one too many Lego's and find myself hollering for Logan to "get his ass down here and clean up his toys" at least three times a day, on a good day. His favorite phrase is, "mommy, you're mean!" His room regularly looks like it was picked up, flipped upside down and shook. Just last night he managed to sneak downstairs to the kitchen and eat the leftover mashed potatoes I had in a container for Patrick's lunch. I only found this out when I went down to get a drink and I stepped in a half of stick of butter that he dropped on the ground and didn't pick up and the contents of the rest of Patrick's would-be lunch on the counter, minus the potatoes he ate and the chicken he fed the dog. He left the corn at least. I did one of my famous, "Logan, get your ass down here" roars and only after he paused his game, conferred with his father and probably went pee for all I know, did he meander down the stairs to me. I asked him why the butter was on the floor and where daddy's lunch was and he replied, "The dog ate the chicken!" So I asked him about the butter on the floor, again, and he replies, "I forgot." Those are going to be his famous last words. I counted to about 1,000 and not so calmly told him to go to his room, turn everything off and go to sleep.
That was just ONE example of ONE of the spawn of Lucifer that live here. The other one, Alexis, is my punishment for everything I ever did wrong. She is the diva to my tomboy, she cries if you look at her funny, throws a temper tantrum if she can't have something she wants, hates me for it and claims I don't love her and insist she doesn't like Simon (the family cat) because he's too fat and she wants a kitty she can carry around. I hear my mom laughing in my head every time I make lasagna and Alexis cries and says she doesn't like it and proceeds to just eat the noodles. To back peddle, as a kid I absolutely hated lasagna and would scrape everything off the noodles and eat them like that. I'm pretty sure it made my mom want to beat me with those noodles. Same with spaghetti. I hated the sauce and would only eat plain noodles with butter. Alexis says she hates hamburg and refuses to eat it even though I basically have to shove it down her throat (one of those things I vowed never to do.) I've even explained that hamburg is in tacos, which she loves, but she claims it's not the same thing.
If I would have known that all those horrible things I did would come back and bite me in the ass I probably would have thought twice about doing them. Now I hear myself telling my kids to close their mouth when they eat because I didn't raise a bunch of cows, clean their rooms because I didn't raise a bunch of pigs and to eat their damn dinner "because I said so!" That's probably my favorite saying that gets passed down from mother to child to child as a mother. In reality it should prevent more fighting but through experience I know it only causes more questions of "why?"
As I sit here typing this up, I am actively ignoring my children who just ate but claim they are starving and want more chicken patties. They are now sumo-wrestling on the couch with the dog reffing on the coffee table. I've come to the conclusion that there are no amount of drugs, legal or not, that can make a mother sane and I have just a bit more respect for my own mom because she produced double the spawn I did. My Grandmother had seven but at least in those days you could force hard, physical child labor on them and beat their butts if they misbehaved without fear of having the authorities on your tail.
Now I'm off to shower the cream of wheat and pudding off me so I can go to my paid happy place for five hours, work.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Running, again.
A couple months ago I started running again. I say "again" because when I was in high school I ran cross-country and track. At that time it was the uncool sport. I don't know how many times I got picked on because apparently there was no challenge to the sport and in the case of track all we did was "run around in a circle." I ran cross-country from 7th grade to 11th grade and I did track a couple years in there somewhere. Now everywhere I look people are doing marathons and running for the fun of it. I guess it's what all the cool kids do.
So, yeah, it's been about 13 years since I last ran a 5k. Starting up again has managed to be a challenge in itself. The first time I tried I messed up my knees so bad I couldn't walk five feet without almost passing out from the pain. I don't think I've felt that old in my life. All I could think was that my knees were just going to fall off and I would look like Hank Hill's father. Big bummer. As much as I wanted to work through the pain it was impossible. I took about a month off to recover and come to my senses. Maybe I would realize that I'm too old to start doing something that I did when I was 14. I'd start thinking that and then I would step on the scale and see how much weight I've gained in the past year. To be honest, I have never gained that much weight in such a short amount of time. Not even when I was pregnant. At least when I was pregnant it was a slow gain. This time it was one moment I was 100 pounds and 5 months later I was 130 pounds. I can blame a variety of things on the weight gain - new medicine, a new job, even happiness - but I couldn't help but blame it on myself, like my lack of control towards food and absolutely no exercise. I can see myself turning in to a giant blob in a matter of weeks if I don't do something about it soon.
Two weeks ago I started up, again, for the third time. Needless to say my knees felt like jello every time I went out. It felt like someone was stabbing me under each knee repeatedly. Sounds fun, huh? Not really. I tried to take it a little slower this time for the sake of my sanity and my health. Last night I did my fastest 1.74 miles and was pretty damn proud of myself. Hell, I'll take an eight and a half minute mile any day. I'm no marathoner and I'm still over a mile shy of doing a 5k, but it's a start.
When I think of the stages of my run I obviously can't do it in terms of miles, so I do it in terms of quarter miles. The first quarter mile is horrible. I think I throw up a little in my mouth every time and I swear my heart stopped once or twice. Getting started is actually the worst for me. The next quarter mile my legs are getting warmed up and I feel a bit better because I realized that my heart did not in fact stop. The middle mile feels absolutely fantastic, especially at night. I love running at night. There are fewer eyes watching me look like a fool and then there's the obvious, it's cooler. I think the last stretch only seems hard because I know it's the end and by that time I just want to be done so I can stretch my muscles.
I don't consider myself a runner like I use to because I don't compete and I don't ever plan to again. I have one goal and that's to be able to run three miles straight like I could at one time. I keep telling myself that speed and time shouldn't make a difference but the competitive side of me feel pretty good when I can make them count.
It's only been two weeks and I've only averaged about one and a half miles at a time. I'm trying to be good and not blow out my knees and cripple myself again, but in all honesty it feels good to be active again. I just don't feel like I'm doing anything productive unless I'm sweating like a pig, my muscles are screaming and I'm praying that I'll make it to the end with out collapsing. Common sense knows that's not the case. But damn it, it makes perfect sense in my head!
So if you see my out-of-shape self hobbling down the side walks of Rouses Point with a white dog trying to sprint herself out of her leash just ignore the sad, pathetic sight and move on. I will most likely be to tired to wave and will definitely not have the extra breath to say hello. But hey, I'm one of the cool kids now!
So, yeah, it's been about 13 years since I last ran a 5k. Starting up again has managed to be a challenge in itself. The first time I tried I messed up my knees so bad I couldn't walk five feet without almost passing out from the pain. I don't think I've felt that old in my life. All I could think was that my knees were just going to fall off and I would look like Hank Hill's father. Big bummer. As much as I wanted to work through the pain it was impossible. I took about a month off to recover and come to my senses. Maybe I would realize that I'm too old to start doing something that I did when I was 14. I'd start thinking that and then I would step on the scale and see how much weight I've gained in the past year. To be honest, I have never gained that much weight in such a short amount of time. Not even when I was pregnant. At least when I was pregnant it was a slow gain. This time it was one moment I was 100 pounds and 5 months later I was 130 pounds. I can blame a variety of things on the weight gain - new medicine, a new job, even happiness - but I couldn't help but blame it on myself, like my lack of control towards food and absolutely no exercise. I can see myself turning in to a giant blob in a matter of weeks if I don't do something about it soon.
Two weeks ago I started up, again, for the third time. Needless to say my knees felt like jello every time I went out. It felt like someone was stabbing me under each knee repeatedly. Sounds fun, huh? Not really. I tried to take it a little slower this time for the sake of my sanity and my health. Last night I did my fastest 1.74 miles and was pretty damn proud of myself. Hell, I'll take an eight and a half minute mile any day. I'm no marathoner and I'm still over a mile shy of doing a 5k, but it's a start.
When I think of the stages of my run I obviously can't do it in terms of miles, so I do it in terms of quarter miles. The first quarter mile is horrible. I think I throw up a little in my mouth every time and I swear my heart stopped once or twice. Getting started is actually the worst for me. The next quarter mile my legs are getting warmed up and I feel a bit better because I realized that my heart did not in fact stop. The middle mile feels absolutely fantastic, especially at night. I love running at night. There are fewer eyes watching me look like a fool and then there's the obvious, it's cooler. I think the last stretch only seems hard because I know it's the end and by that time I just want to be done so I can stretch my muscles.
I don't consider myself a runner like I use to because I don't compete and I don't ever plan to again. I have one goal and that's to be able to run three miles straight like I could at one time. I keep telling myself that speed and time shouldn't make a difference but the competitive side of me feel pretty good when I can make them count.
It's only been two weeks and I've only averaged about one and a half miles at a time. I'm trying to be good and not blow out my knees and cripple myself again, but in all honesty it feels good to be active again. I just don't feel like I'm doing anything productive unless I'm sweating like a pig, my muscles are screaming and I'm praying that I'll make it to the end with out collapsing. Common sense knows that's not the case. But damn it, it makes perfect sense in my head!
So if you see my out-of-shape self hobbling down the side walks of Rouses Point with a white dog trying to sprint herself out of her leash just ignore the sad, pathetic sight and move on. I will most likely be to tired to wave and will definitely not have the extra breath to say hello. But hey, I'm one of the cool kids now!
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Second Beginning
The start of this story doesn't necessarily start at the beginning, it starts at what I like to call "the second beginning."
My family is my life, as strange as it is. The household contains two adults, two children, a cat, a dog, a turtle, a couple of crayfish, a crab and numerous fish. It sounds completely normal, right? Wrong. Patrick and I have been together 9 years this December, but, and it's a big but, we have to subtract the year I basically had a nervous breakdown and demanded a divorce and moved out for a year. I put everyone through hell, including myself. I missed a year of the kids lives and made one stupid mistake after another. A year ago this month I was able to come home because of a life-changing decision made by my ex-better half. So now we are whole again. We live together as a happily divorced couple, raising our two kids. I can't deny that I wish we were married but I am the one at fault for requesting the paperwork be filed. So I will probably never be married to Patrick again, but I can live with the fact that we are a couple without the legality. The kids are happy to have mommy home and Patrick accepts my idiotcy. What more could I ask for?
So to make a long story short, I am one of the lucky ones that was able to start over and get a second chance at the things I messed up.
The sole purpose of this blog is that it has no purpose. I have always loved to write. When I was younger I had journals that helped me through my childhood. And when I was older it was a way to express myself without worrying about what others thought. This time is obviously different because I'm not writing for myself, I'm "blogging." In the world of the Internet nothing is really private anymore anyway, so why not just let the facts come from the source instead of second, third or fourth hand. I don't plan to "air my dirty laundry," but I would like to show the world that if I can survive and be happy anything is possible. I plan on taking this blog only forward and as far away from the past as I can. I hope all who read what I write enjoy it and find something small that they can take from it. I'm not asking for much. Just read, think what you want, but don't judge me. Everything that has happened in my life has brought me here, to this exact moment, and I can and will never regret it. Because, as I write this, there is a little girl sitting on the other side of the room with a purple mouth from the popsicle she's eating and an over-active seven-year old who's bouncing across the livingroom with an over-active puppy on his tail. As silly as it sounds, this is bliss.
My family is my life, as strange as it is. The household contains two adults, two children, a cat, a dog, a turtle, a couple of crayfish, a crab and numerous fish. It sounds completely normal, right? Wrong. Patrick and I have been together 9 years this December, but, and it's a big but, we have to subtract the year I basically had a nervous breakdown and demanded a divorce and moved out for a year. I put everyone through hell, including myself. I missed a year of the kids lives and made one stupid mistake after another. A year ago this month I was able to come home because of a life-changing decision made by my ex-better half. So now we are whole again. We live together as a happily divorced couple, raising our two kids. I can't deny that I wish we were married but I am the one at fault for requesting the paperwork be filed. So I will probably never be married to Patrick again, but I can live with the fact that we are a couple without the legality. The kids are happy to have mommy home and Patrick accepts my idiotcy. What more could I ask for?
So to make a long story short, I am one of the lucky ones that was able to start over and get a second chance at the things I messed up.
The sole purpose of this blog is that it has no purpose. I have always loved to write. When I was younger I had journals that helped me through my childhood. And when I was older it was a way to express myself without worrying about what others thought. This time is obviously different because I'm not writing for myself, I'm "blogging." In the world of the Internet nothing is really private anymore anyway, so why not just let the facts come from the source instead of second, third or fourth hand. I don't plan to "air my dirty laundry," but I would like to show the world that if I can survive and be happy anything is possible. I plan on taking this blog only forward and as far away from the past as I can. I hope all who read what I write enjoy it and find something small that they can take from it. I'm not asking for much. Just read, think what you want, but don't judge me. Everything that has happened in my life has brought me here, to this exact moment, and I can and will never regret it. Because, as I write this, there is a little girl sitting on the other side of the room with a purple mouth from the popsicle she's eating and an over-active seven-year old who's bouncing across the livingroom with an over-active puppy on his tail. As silly as it sounds, this is bliss.
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