Who doesn't love shoes?

There is a stereotype out there.  I don't know if it is true, but I definitely fall into it.  I love shoes.  I do.  I look at other women's shoes.  I dream of which shoes to wear with which outfits. I send my husband links to the shoes I love in hopes that he may oblige me.  I lust over pictures in magazines.

But then, well, here's where I guess I break from the stereotype:  I don't wear any of them.  I don't wear shoes.  Not really.  Oh, when I go to work I'll put on a pair of heels-- but typically the same pair all the time.  The comfortable ones with a bit of a heel, a bit of a style, but the ones that aren't going to make it a problem for me to walk across campus and then lecture standing for another two hours.  And when it comes to running errands and doing pretty much anything else it's either my one comfortable pair of sneakers (New Balance, of course) or, occasionally, my brown knit Uggs (gift Christmas of '08).  In summer, it's flipflops-  the $2 ones I picked up on my honeymoon in Cancun, most often, if I bother to put shoes on at all.  (My husband teases me (I think he's teasing) that my feet are blacker than his.)  And sure, I'll occasionally mix it up and throw on a different pair of flip flops or a pair of black leather boots for lectures, but most of the time, well, I'm a comfy shoes only type of girl.  Heck, I even got married barefoot.  My choices at the last minute were to either try not to slip and teeter down the pine needle-coated aisle in three inch white silk sandals (I got married outside-- we did not bring pine needles into the church) or to go shoeless, comfortable, and not have to worry about throwing myself at my husband's feet on our wedding day.  You know which I chose.  I'm not sure if my husband would have married me if he'd known I ditched my shoes last minute (thank goodness for long wedding dresses), but it's too late now.  

The irony is that, like many, if not most, women, I have a lot of shoes.  A LOT of shoes.  You see, not only do I love shoes, but my HUSBAND loves shoes.  Women's shoes, that is.  No, not enough to wear them (perverts), but definitely enough that this is his present to me--every single holiday/ birthday/ gift occasion for the last ten years.  

You see, I love to look at shoes, but knowing that I don't wear shoes, I am logical enough to not buy them for myself.  Prior to meeting my husband, I may have had five pairs of shoes, and most of them were ten years old, since I don't throw shoes away.  I still have a pair of Skechers from back when Skechers were the alternative kid's shoe of choice (one year in college, I think).  I'm saving them for when Kayton can wear a size 8.   

But when I met my husband, well, he decided to capitalize on the "my wife likes shoes, she says; I like shoes... I'll buy her shoes."  And buy me shoes he did.  

I haven't bought myself a pair of shoes in 10 years, and yet I have probably 100 pairs of shoes now. Here's where the problem comes in.  The super hot shoes that my husband and I both love in the magazines are not, well.... let me put this another way:  I can't push a grocery cart, walk a dog, and chase four children in four different directions, run up and down two flights of stairs with full laundry baskets and mow the lawn while wearing five inch platform slingback pumps.  Just not possible.  For me, at least.  Maybe for you, but not for me.  And that's all my husband buys.  The sexy shoe.  The hot shoe. The newest style shoe.  The (dare I say it?) "stripper shoe".  Not the sneaker/flipflop.   Either my husband has A/ forgotten that I am a 33 year old, comfortably dressed mother of four because I'm pretty darn sexy  or B/ is trying desperately to turn me from a 33 year old, comfortably dressed mother of four into something pretty darn sexy.  

And while sometimes I get a little depressed at the lack of surprise in opening gifts from him-- "Happy Anniversary, Honey!  More Shoes?  Yeah!  Oh-- these look SUPER sexy and uncomfortable. I'll definitely wear these next time you and I go out dancing all night like we did back before, well... uhm.... once..."-- other times, I appreciate his consistency.  

So this past Mother's Day I decided to, at least, use the holiday to my advantage.  So about a week before Mother's Day I sent an email to my husband, including a link to a pair of cutesy sandals with a flat heel but a decorative design, saying "these would look great with my jeans this summer".  Be preemptive without ruining the surprise, right?  And I waited.

Mother's Day arrived.  My husband showed his love for me by making me coffee for the first time in our entire relationship.  (I love him for trying.  I didn't love the coffee.)  And after receiving the variety of homemade cards and pictures and I love yous from the children, he presented me with a wrapped box and a sheepish "I got you a little something."  Of course, my kids insisted I close my eyes and guess what it was as I unwrapped the box... took off the lid... and, eyes still closed, felt inside.... hmmm... rope design (good start), strappy (cute),  aaaaannnndddddd...   Yup.  There it is.  The six inch heel.  

So I opened my eyes, thanked my husband effusively for super cute shoes that I absolutely loved, strapped them on, and toddled off to a soccer game, slightly too tall now to hold Micah's hand, unable to balance a cooler and a lawn chair, and convinced that each step would be my last, but looking darn good in my shoes.  My husband said so.    

Work it out.

This weekend I convinced my husband to go to the gym with me.  Believe it or not, we've never been to the gym together in the four weeks I've had a membership, so needless to say, I thought it would be romantic... or at the very least, quality time together, as we sweated and laughed and chatted about our children and how great it felt to work out.
And I admit, I envisioned a scene from an 80's movie as we entered the gym together:  cue bomp-bomp-badow  music, wind machine, and slow motion movement as we enter the gym door... all eyes turning to us "who is this beautiful couple that is entering this place?" But it didn't really work out like that.  
For one, he doesn't like being told what to do.  
Once the kids were properly in place in their daycare, I attempted to start our workout regimen. (side note, I do not like the new daycare person:  what type of woman sits there staring vacantly at a child as they cry with their arms outstretched?  If you don't like kids, get a different job.  If you've got this one, pick up my sobbing baby so I can work out!  That's what I'm paying you for!)


So I lead JMahl over to the ellipticals.  
First, we're going to do this for 20 minutes to work up a sweat and work off some calories.
No, we're not.
Yes, we are.  This is what I do.
Well, I don't like the eliptical.  I'm going to ride the bike.
The bike isn't as good for you as this machine.  
You realize I'm a grown man, right?  You realize I can choose my own workout, right?
Well, Honey, I've been coming here twice a week for the last four weeks, so I do think I know what we should be doing.   (Because, truly, this makes me practically an expert.)


At this point I get the look- the long look up and down my body.  I'm going to choose to believe that this was a look of lust (or at the very least, affection), but chances are good that it was more a look of "if you'd dropped six inches in the last four weeks, I might buy that argument, but since you didn't, I'll stick with my own plan".  And with that, he walked off to the bikes.


The next- and last- I saw of him was his reflection in the wall-length mirror as he lifted weights- and I continued to sweat on the elliptical until the un-helpful daycare provider informed me Micah would not stop crying and needed me.  


So, needless to say, while I didn't get the wind-blowing, giggling experience of running side by side on the treadmills together into some imagined sunset, at least I could ogle him from across the gym, so it wasn't all bad. 


Truth be told, it was a pretty good weekend.  We went roller-skating with the kids.  Another attempt to align my visions with reality that completely fell through.  In the movies, JMahl, the kids and I would all swing effortlessly around the ring, holding hands and smiling beatifically at each other-- no wind machine needed due to our speed and gracefulness on the floor.  In reality, I plodded, bent double, gripping the wall, scared to death of falling while trying to convince Mason, plodding with me, that "there's no need to be afraid!  It won't hurt if you fall!"  (the things we lie to our children about).   Kayton passed me about six times for my every lap around the ring; Mason was surpassing my speed within minutes (he fell alot, but didn't cry once); and Kolbie refused to even set a foot in the rink.  Or put on the skates for more than 30 seconds-- as long as it took for her to realize that this was not going to be the fun I'd promised her it would be.  JMahl sat on the sidelines (other than one sneakered trip into the center of the ring to get Mason on his feet) and held Micah-- who just stared at us as if we'd all lost our marbles-- which maybe we had.


And while Kayton and Mason loved skating, I realized rather quickly that it would be a few years before that was the full-family-fun activity I'd dreamed of it being; so, following the rather frustrated advice from my husband, we regrouped and refocused, and went to Old Navy.


Here, my husband made an almost fatal mistake-- miscalculating the maturity of Kayton's shopping drive.  ie.  Don't ever tell any female-- even an 8 yr old girl-- to "just pick out whatever you want".  It was like a scene from Pretty Woman (minus the 80s music, again... I really need to set up an iPod playlist to accentuate my life.)  Kayton was running around the store, grabbing things off the shelf and throwing them in my arms.  At some point, I don't even think she realized what she was grabbing-- (although, maybe she really loved the white jean jacket and pants ensemble with bright pink sequins, but I choose not to believe that- yes, I, too, am shocked that Old Navy actually had that.)  JMahl was right, though. This was a great family activity, since even Mason and Kolbie got into it.  Mason's technique was a little different, though.  He found one pair of shorts that he liked, and proceeded to bring me every single pattern of that style of shorts (about 12, to my count), then found the $5 t-shirt shelf and thought that one of each would also be perfect.  Kolbie was content to just find one dress, attempt to slip it on over her clothes, then follow me around for the next thirty minutes repeating "can I have this dress, Mommy?  can I  have this dress, Mommy?  can I have this dress, Mommy?".  


At some point my father-in-law showed up- I suppose I told him where we were going, although he has a tendency to just appear wherever the kids are, as though he's got a sixth-sense for grandchildren's where-abouts- and he just sat back with a smile on his face enjoying the bedlam.  If I could read his mind, it probably would have told me something like "glad they're not my problem, but they sure are cute when they're having fun." It didn't help that he started slipping them quarters without my knowledge so they could retrieve bouncing balls from the gum ball machine-- which then meant that I was, Micah in one arm, piles of clothes in the other, attempting to read price tags, send bikinis back to their shelves, hide the overly-graphic graphic tees and grab potentially-deadly bouncing balls before they caused a wipe out-- all the while Granddaddy was just smiling at the fun the kids were having, and JMahl was applauding the kids' choices in clothes.  I think he'd gone into "just make it through without losing your temper" mode-- at which point a parent just gives up trying to maintain any control and just shuts down in order to avoid an over-frying of the brain from the stress of attempting to have well-behaved kids in public.  


We made it out of the store eventually without shoplifting any clothes that Kolbie was trying to wear home, with t-shirts fit for a seven year old, no bikinis, and only one over-priced sweater that managed to fool me into thinking it was part of an ensemble.
But the kids were happy.
The husband was happy.
The granddaddy was very happy.  


And me, well, I was happy that everyone else was happy.  But honestly, I think I was sweating more from stress and balancing/ grabbing acts in that Old Navy than I was on the elliptical at the gym.  So maybe JMahl's right.  Maybe he does know the best way to work out.  

You may be right... I may be crazy.

"But it just might be a lunatic you're looking for...."  If you're anything like me, you can't say the words "I may be crazy" without breaking into song.  And no, this does not mean you are crazy.  Although it also does not mean you are not crazy.  


My husband thinks I am crazy.  Granted, he has many examples for why this is true, most of which I am not going to share with you today, although I believe I have discussed some in prior postings, but the primary reason he thinks I am crazy is that I like to make up stories in my head.  And no, not the good old bedtime stories that a mother is required to tell her children so they can stay up just a few minutes longer.  But real stories.  Manipulations on life.


Now, I think I come by this trait naturally.  It runs in my family, I do believe.  For example, as a child, the best part of Thanksgiving was all the children (16 in that generation) cramming into a bedroom, lights out, to listen to my Uncle Dan regale us with stories of Jonathon the Great.  Oh, we loved Jonathon the Great (never once, in all the stories, shortened to just "Jonathon".  It was always "Jonathon the Great went to the Tower of Stones" and "Jonathon the Great rescued the Princess" and "Jonathon the Great found the magic feather".)  There's something to be said about consistency, constant affirmation of Jonathon's greatness, and my Uncle's imagination and dedication.  I often wonder now how much he dreaded being roped into these hours long story-telling sessions and if he breathed a sigh of relief when we'd all outgrown the stories, although now we've got a whole new generation of children (19 so far, with only half of the original 16 married and producing) dying to hear Jonathon the Great stories, despite the fact that I don't believe, when eavesdropping, that this generation of stories is anywhere near as great as the ones I was raised on.  


My father is also storyteller.  In some post soon I will share with you his talks with the Elves. He is a story teller with a conscious.  A modern day Grimm brother or Hans Christian Anderson.  His stories have value, purpose, and a moral... not just entertainment, but a higher calling.  But I'll share those stories in a later post.  My father has actually written a book on storytelling within organizations; granted, I haven't actually read his dissertation (yet, Dad, yet), and he would probably define it very differently, but in my head, that's the premise.


Many people in my family write- whether drafting novels, marketing blogs, or weekly news-filled letters and emails-- and I think I've learned that the written word is often more powerful than the spoken word.  (There is also likely to be another post on "Mommy letters"-- our affectionate (?) term for the long tirades my brothers and I (and our spouses) would receive from my Mother when she was not pleased with something we had done.)  And hyperbole is definitely a hereditary trait...just ask my father, my brother's wife, or my husband... but sometimes the details of what happened are just more interesting when you embellish them.  (My husband has picked up on this and when I tell him a story he'll typically follow it with "Now tell me what really happened.")


But it is not the hyperbole or the written word that concerns my husband (except for the times I send him emails he does not want to read at work-- and I'm not talking about the risque ones).  The story telling that concerns him- well, I say "concerns", but I really mean "makes him think I'm crazy"-- are the stories that go on in my head.  The long conversations I have with people-- with strangers in the grocery store, with family members with whom I am having an "issue", with him, with my children's teachers, pediatricians, fellow gym members (typically these conversations revolve around how great I look after only seven visits to the gym and how they wish they could be as svelte, stylish, in shape as I am), therapists (should anyone in my family ever need a therapist, those conversations have already been prepared).   I constantly have a conversation ongoing in my head.  Sometimes I create these conversations out of boredom.  Sometimes they are begun because I have something I want to say and no one has asked me my opinion, so I just tell it to the person in my head who asked me (often a prestigious political A-lister who is then so impressed with my level of understanding of the issues that they offer me a job and I am catapulted to instant success; sometimes Dr. Phil or Oprah- same result of instant success, but also including instant fame and wealth).  Sometimes, I really want to propose a specific theory or brag on my children, so those conversations have to come up somehow.  And sometimes, I'm just tired of talking to children and there are no adults around, so, voila, an adult conversation!  It just so happens to be in my imagination, but at least I'm getting some mature and intelligent discussion going.


I've read articles on interviewing (heck, I've WRITTEN articles on interviewing) and they all say the same thing "prepare for your interview before hand by going over your answers to the questions the interviewer may ask you".  Sound advice.  I do do this.  But I do it even when I don't have an interview scheduled.  I just carry on a full interview in my head while doing the laundry.  And yes, they always offer me the job.  


And sometimes, I need to make some very powerful points to my husband about the things he should or should not be doing.  These conversations can get very intense, and this is where the line (in my husband's opinion) gets crossed from normal to crazy.  Because, while it does not happen often, there have been times-- maybe one or two, three at the most-- that I've sort of, somewhat, kinda forgotten whether or not the conversation was real or in my head.  Now, I know this can not be all that unusual. It can't possibly be.  It's just that my imagination is so vivid and our conversations are so intense, and since I know my husband so well, I can pretty accurately determine what he is going to say in a real conversation and, therefore, recreate it in my head.  So when he tells me "That conversation was all in your head"... sometimes I've had to stop, think, and say "oh, yeah.  You're right"; while other times I vehemently deny it... which leads to one of those fights I discussed in a prior post.  But sometimes I can just say to him, "You know what?  Maybe it was.  But it's something you WOULD have said if we had had that conversation in real life".  At which point he is forced to stop, think, and say "oh, yeah.  You're right."


So he may be right, I may be crazy (cue singing)... or maybe I'm a genius.  And if I ever doubt this, I'll just ask someone.  And if I want to get an intelligent and informative take on my own level of genius versus potential craziness, who better to ask than myself?  

Organize. That's how a Mom of four does it.

For those of you who do not already know, I am a Master Organizer. I actually have a bonafide, accredited degree to validate this point (Masters of Organizational Management).  Since I am not currently in the workforce (and even when I was no one seemed to care), I am not using this degree as it was originally intended; however, this does not mean these amazing (documented on a piece of paper with an embossed logo) skills go to waste.  Because I am a Master Organizer.  My husband likes to quote that old saying to me "A place for everything, and everything in its place."  I'm on the ball with that one, honey.  


You ask me where something goes, and I can tell you.  
You ask me where something is, and I always know right away where to look.  
I know where things belong.  
And I've got excel sheets galore:  all my logons and passwords to various accounts;  all my bill accounts with links to the payment page and a year by year spread of each months payments: each in a properly labeled file in a properly labeled folder. 
My father asked me the other day if I kept a car maintenance log-- and yes, Daddy, I do.  
I keep all my medical receipts in one manila envelope, all my tax receipts in another.
All business cards and other important phone numbers-- yup, I've got a place for them.
I have a responsibility chart for my children.  
I have a schedule of chores to be done on a daily/ weekly/ monthly basis- for me and the kids both.  Follow my chart, and you'll always keep a clean house. 
I have an allowance regimen for the children, based on their obedience and assistance around the house.   
I even stole an idea from a neighbor who keeps a weekly dinner schedule, and now I actually can shop for the items I need to create the meals I've pre-planned weekly.  
I have a chart on the wall to update each week with doctors appointments and extra-curricular events and birthday parties.  I used to just keep it on a calendar, but I've found that it's more manageable when the kids can see what they are expected to do daily.  


Other mothers often ask me (I doubt they care, but they ask me anyway) "how do you do it with four kids?"  I usually laugh and say something along the lines of "it's not as hard as you'd think" or "what's one more?"  (Someone once told me going from 2 to 3 was the hardest transition.  He only has three kids, so really, what does he know about going to four?  But he was right.  Three to four wasn't hard at all.  (So for anyone out there debating adding another...)  Or other mothers will see me balancing two kids at the library and offer to carry my books for me and I'll laugh and say "oh, this is nothing... I'm at half-effort today".  But the truth of the matter is, I can handle my four children because I'm a Master Organizer.  


And, as you can probably tell, I'm very proud of my Organizational skills.  What I need to work on is my follow-through.  My maintainability... My consistency... My utilization of these excellent organizational skills of mine.  

You ask me where something goes, and I can tell you. It just may never get there-- which is why there's typically an overflow of items to be put away "waiting to go upstairs", just hanging out on top of my tv cabinet, or on the dining room table-- or maybe having made it to the bottom stair for my next trip up. 

You ask me where something is, and I always know right away where to look.  It just may not be there... in which case, check the top of the tv cabinet, or the dining room table-- oh wait, it's probably on the stairs waiting to go up.

I know where things belong.  They just aren't always where they belong.

And I've got excel sheets galore:  but sometimes I'm just in too much of a hurry to update the file appropriately-- and sometimes that means a bill gets overpaid- which also sometimes means a bill gets skipped.  (Luckily, this doesn't happen too often.)

Yes, Daddy, I do keep a car maintenance log.  It's in the folder labeled "Cars", the file labeled "Dodge".  See?  One entry for "purchased: 8/21/2009: 11,000 miles"

I keep all my medical receipts in one manila envelope, all my tax receipts in another.  But sometimes I just stash all receipts together in my pretty wooden stationary box that I keep on my desk-- I'll sort them all out later.  All business cards and other important phone numbers-- yup, I've got a place for them-- that same pretty wooden stationary box.  I also keep my stationary in that, along with the address labels that we receive four times a week from various charities and anything else that I need to save but don't want to see cluttering my desk.

I have a responsibility chart for my children.  It still has a star for Kayton next to "Feed Tronga"-- our rabbit who died a good eight months ago.

I have a schedule of chores to be done on a daily/ weekly/ monthly basis- for me and the kids both.  Follow my chart, and you'll always keep a clean house. Don't follow the chart, and your house will look like, well, mine.  Except for the days I get really really motivated and run around like a mad woman checking things off the box until JMahl gets home and I sigh, throw myself on the couch and say "oh, honey, I'm so tired... I've been working so hard today-- and I got everything done except for folding the laundry... which I'll do tomorrow.  I PROMISE."

I even have an allowance regimen for the children, based on their obedience and assistance around the house.   Each child labeled and decorated a cup that we keep on the microwave next to a jar of coins.  The cups look pretty.  Every few months I call the children together and advise them that STARTING TODAY we are really going to be using these cups!  

As for the weekly dinner schedule--  Oh stuff it.  There's no way you can expect me to follow that chart on the day I ran around like crazy.  I'm exhausted, and the last thing I'm going to do is make lasagna when JMahl's not coming home til late and the kids prefer mac and cheese anyway!

So don't ever question my organization.  It's there.  It really is.  But the follow-through is another story.  I admit it.  And while my house is only spotless on a once-a-week basis (maybe), it's relatively clean by the time JMahl gets home from work most days.  And we seldom miss a payment or an appointment or a birthday party... so I'm not doing so badly in that area.  The area that I really hurt in is discipline.

I have come up with SO many different techniques to discipline my children-- and many of them work amazingly well-- when I use them.  My problem is, I forget.  For example, a few months ago I implemented a "One is a Warning; Two is Ten Minutes" (by ten minutes, I mean going to bed ten minutes earlier that night).  This worked amazingly well for the two older children.  It was gorgeous!  The moment a bit of a quibble broke out, all I had to say was ONE... and the kids would shush immediately.  I loved this.  The kids liked it (I wasn't yelling as much), JMahl liked it (I wasn't yelling and the kids were well-behaved).  It was a great technique.  And then, somehow, I just forgot about it.  Stopped doing it.  Don't really remember how or why-- but I do occasionally remember how well it worked and think that I need to start doing that again (like now).  Time outs on the tall green stool?  Work well for Kolbie, but am I consistent with it?  Nope-- because I forget.  It's much easier to yell.  

Rewarding kids is as important to me as discipline, but I have a tendency to waffle when it comes to using tv as a punishment or a reward.  Meaning grounding (Kayton usually) from tv if she's bad one day, then the next day telling her she can only watch tv after she's done this that and the other. Then JMahl will come home and ask has Kayton cleaned her room and, if not, why is she watching tv, and I respond with "because she's tired and I haven't reminded her to clean her room and don't punish her-- she didn't do anything wrong!" (while Kayton stares at the tv hoping we'll get distracted and forget about her- which does often happen).

Sometimes JMahl gets frustrated with me. "Consistency is key" is another of his favorite quotes (and as an only child, he is the parenting expert, of course).  But sometimes I get just plain out and out frustrated with my children and give them the "from now on, I'm not putting up with anything.  You will just get spanked!".  It's amazing that that threat still does anything, because when they next act up all I'm thinking is "do I really want to stop what I'm doing to wrestle with Mason for the next eight minutes trying to get him to stand still with his hands on the counter so I can spank him, all the while trying to not let Micah see what I'm doing (she's too young to understand) and trying to ignore Kolbie who is crying and begging 'Don't spank Mason, Mommy!  Mommies are supposed to be nice and hug, not spank!', and when ignoring her doesn't work, trying to hold Micah back with one foot while explaining to Kolbie over a screaming and hysterically begging and struggling Mason that Mommy is only doing this because she loves Mason and needs him to learn that hitting is bad." Geeze, I'm a proponent of spanking, and yet even I can see the confusion for a kid in that scenario. 

And, as mentioned, I also believe in the importance of rewarding children for good behavior-- thus the responsibility chart and associated allowance cups.  But again, I'll remember to reward them for a few days, maybe a week, and then they forget or I forget and they sit, with three our four nickels in them... waiting to be added to... until I need to give the kids milk money for lunch and empty the cups into my hand when they aren't looking.  Hey, in many countries chocolate milk is a luxury, and should, therefore, be considered a reward.

This lack of consistency is one of the things that frustrates JMahl most about my parenting techniques (or lack thereof-- hey, I never claimed to have a degree in Early Childhood Education)... but honestly, he doesn't have a lot of room to talk.  He'll get on a kick early one morning about how the kids need to make their beds before they go to school-- and then he'll forget about it (and, of course, I've forgotten about it) for about two weeks before walking into a bedroom early on a Tuesday morning and asking a confused child why they haven't made their bed-- you KNOW you're supposed to do it. Are you surprised that, no, they don't know this? 

But, you know, somehow we muddle through.  Somehow, we do have dinner on the table every night and our credit is good;  our kids wear clean clothes, take baths when it's obvious they need them, and seldom miss a sleepover.  Sure, I've had to throw together a last minute gift a few times, and we are notoriously late for church (which is why I gave a $150 donation to the church last year in order to win a "jump to the front of the childcare line for a year" pass... it expires next month.. ugh), and the windows only get washed when I'm looking for something to keep the kids busy.  But we do make it.  And my kids are pretty good kids.  No, not perfect.  And I'm sure they'd be much better (and less confused) were I to stick to a discipline/ reward plan for longer than a week... but they know right from wrong, and they are learning what is expected from them, even when I forget to tell them on a daily basis.  

But, most importantly, they get that one thing that takes no organization, no management, no remembering or consistency, that one thing that just happens twenty, thirty, forty times a day and slips out of my mouth, out of my arms, without thinking- regardless of how bad my day is or how high my dirty laundry pile is.  Regardless of how bad they've been or how many nickels are or aren't in their money cup.  They get Love. They get hugs and kisses and tucked into bed with prayers. They get congratulations for jobs well done and support for the challenges they face they next day (because, yes, Kayton, I know it's hard to like your brother sometimes. Believe me, I know.).  So if I only give them one thing consistently, thank goodness it's love.  Because if they didn't get that, they'd have no idea what to make of the rest of this mess.  

Back Row Blues

To those of you who await eagerly the details of my exercise regimen, here it is:  Today, at 5:30, I got out of bed and picked up Micah one time.  Then, still holding her, I stumbled back to bed, avoiding the seven piles (one for each person and a pile of leaning towels) of folded laundry scattered haphazardly on the floor last night, when I attempted to go to bed without remembering that I'd folded the laundry on my bed, but not yet put it away.  This is my version of an obstacle course, similar to what you see in movies about boot camp.  If you don't think I can compare these two things, try it.  Keep your eyes closed, hold a 20lb weight if you don't have a baby, be groggy-- if not tired, get drunk first-- and don't knock over any of the piles, since you'll just have to refold them in the morning if you do.


Granted, by the time I got out of bed at 7:30, still holding Micah, JMahl had been up for hours, gone to the gym, showered, and got dressed for work-- all without any heed for my piles.  And Kolbie had come in to see if I was awake yet-- another pile gone.  And Mason, looking for his favorite sweater that he wears three times a week-well, yet another pile gone.  You know what I'll be doing today-- refolding laundry that I just folded yesterday!  yeah!  My favorite!  


And since I have laundry to fold and I've already done my exercise for the day, there's no need for me to go to the gym today.  Because, yes, I have been going to the gym.  Twice since I got my membership last week, so I think I'm on a bit of a roll.  And here is what I've discovered about the gym:


There are two types of people who frequent the gym:  overweight, out-of-shape people and Extremely Fit, Tanned-even-in-March, Attractive people.  I'm not sure what happens to the in-betweens.  The ones who are moderately in shape but didn't manage to maintain their tan, or the ones that are unattractive, yet fit.... I guess they quit going to the gym until they can very easily be catagorized, since there are only two categories-- something that is firmly set in stone... or set in heavy work out equipment.  Because the lines are drawn- quite literally- in the gym.  


You see, your gym may be different, but my gym has the  mandatory big windows so everyone outside can see you, and inside, there are two rows of treadmills.  One row facing the windows, the other row staring at the Extremely Fit, Tanned, Attractive behinds of the people in the row facing the windows.   Because only the truly EFTA are allowed to work out in the front row.  And I get it.  If you've got people walking past the gym, you don't want them to see the overweight, sweating and huffing after three minutes of walking on the treadmill members.  You want them to see the Extremely Fit, Tanned, Attractive members.  And there they are, in all their glory... running for 45 straight minutes with a smile on their face, casually chatting to whatever EFTA is running beside them.  They are so happy.  So beautiful.  You want to be up there with them.  But no, you are in the back row.  


And the back row is for those of us who A/ are not allowed in the front row; B/ don't want other people looking at us as we sweat and stumble; and C/ like to look at the EFTA behinds in the front row.  Now, I may fall in categories A and B of that example, but I will not admit to category C.  That is reserved for the slightly dumpy middle-aged men who work out next to me.  Because it never fails that there is, in the front row, a beautiful girl wearing a sports bra and nothing else on top-- and she fills her sports bra well.  And she's got tight bicycle shorts on-- and she fills them well too.  And she sweats very sexually.  In fact, she doesn't sweat- she glows...  And she tosses her head around as she runs in slow motion (only the front row has slow-mo treadmills) and her hair is shiny and glorious.  And she smells like vanilla and cinnamon (I'm sure)... and the men in the second row stare...  And stare... And stare... as she runs on her treadmill, bouncing in all the right places and none of the wrong. Aw heck, I'll admit it.  I even stare.  It's impossible not to!  


This girl is what occasionally causes an EFTA male to move back to the second row.  He'll enter the gym and walk to the front row, going up and down speaking to all the other Ones, do the secret handshake, clap on the back what-have-you, laugh about just how much fun it is to be at the gym again today!, and then you'll casually hear him say "I prefer the treadmill right behind you... it makes my pecs even bigger" (or something like that), and then he'll come back to the second row-- repeating his excuse so that we realize he does not belong here and that he's just here temporarily-- and he'll proceed to stare at the front row's behind for the next 30 minutes before moving on to EFTA location number 2--the free weights.  To be allowed in the free weights section you have to be Extremely Fit, Tanned, Attractive AND walk as though you've got a  medicine ball in your underwear.  Hey, maybe you do.  I'm a married woman... can't really check that, can I?  To my knowledge, no woman is allowed in the free weights area, although they are allowed to stand on the outskirts and admire their shape in the mirror as they play with little hand-weights and give the men someone to show off for-- when showing off for each other isn't enough.  


I have no desire to be allowed in the free weights section, as I have no desire to be crushed to death.  But ah.. .one day, one day I hope to walk into the gym and have the gym manager walk over to me and say "why don't you try out one of our treadmills on the front row?  I'm sure you'll find them to your liking".  And I can already feel the stares boring into my behind as I run without panting and bounce in only the right places-- as little girls heading to the ($3!) childcare while their mothers head to the back row point at me and say "Mommy!  I want to look like HER!"  Ah...One day, that EFTA will be me.  


But, until that day comes, I will do my 20 minutes of exhausted, wobbly knees and pounding heart fast-paced walking in the back row at the gym, then come home and do an equally wobbly, groggy obstacle course through my bedroom with a baby in my arms- where at least I know my husband is looking at my behind.  


(Of course, after explaining this EFTA syndrome to my husband last night, I should not have been surprised at how eagerly he got up and headed to the gym at 6am this morning. He would say that my gym membership is motivating him to renew his focus on health, but we both know how enthralled he was with my description of the super-hot, half-naked woman working out on the front row treadmill.  And while my husband is super-hot as well, I'm willing to bet he made a conscious decision to work out on the back row this morning.)

Yoga Bare

No, no... before you start wondering if this is "that" type of blog, I was not naked.  My husband insists that I could make quite a bit of money if this were that type of website, but I tell him we should revisit that subject at a later date when my body is back to its former stellar form (My memory is surely biased.)  And by "revisit this subject" I do not mean to imply that there will ever be such a website out there-- especially since my mother, brothers, and various other relatives out there may be reading this-- but sometimes with husbands I've learned that a "maybe later" (especially in the realm of husband-wife exercise) is a lot better received than a resounding "No!"... often followed by a "Who do you think I am? What type of woman do you think you married?  I'm your wife, not some girl you picked up at a college party."  The things we do for love (in this case, let them believe there's a slight chance out there that that particular fantasy might come true...)


So I was not naked, but both of my exercise buddies were.  (and are, as I type this).  Kolbie is going through a phase (if phase can be defined as going on two years now) in which she likes to be naked.  Oh, she'll put her clothes on, but slowly, throughout the morning, they start to come off. Then, after a few hours of me: "Go get dressed, Kolbie" and her: "No, Mommy.  I don't want clothes", she'll put a new outfit on, only to begin slowly shedding it over the next hour or so.  
This morning she started out in a cute little pink dress with purple stockings, but by the time we started our exercise, she had used the bathroom once (and who wants to put back on your stockings after taking them completely off to use the loo?) and within twelve seconds of exercise she discovered that her cute pink dress was getting in the way of her flexibility.  So off it came.
I wish I could strip naked and have increased flexibility, but I think that only works at her age...


Being the good mommy I am, and recognizing that you may be getting bored on day three of the same old exercises, I asked Kolbie what exercise she wanted to do.  Her answer:  eat cereal.  So that we did. Hey, breakfast is important.  By this time Micah had already eaten four breakfasts, so she was impatiently waiting for us.  So I distracted her by giving her breakfast number 5.  But she got distracted during the feeding, turned her head, and breakfast landed all over her pjs.  Which explains why she was naked.  She, at least, was wearing a diaper.


After Kolbie had eaten the standard four bites of her full bowl of cheerios (I will never learn), I repeated my question.  She actually thought about it for a second before opening the game cabinet (which is really the bottom half of the $1100 tv cabinet that my husband fell in love with and insisted on buying about six years ago before middle-class-peons such as ourselves could afford flat screen tvs.  Soon after the purchase, flat screen tvs became affordable, and I have since listened to JMahl complain constantly about why we can't get a wall-mounted flat screen for the living room- to which I reply "because you insisted on buying an $1100 tv cabinet and, by golly, I'm going to get my money's worth!)  and settling on, of all things, yoga.  And before you question how yoga fits in the bottom half of my tv cabinet, I will explain.


You may be already aware that our seven year old son, Mason, was born with bilateral clubfeet.  (Bilateral means Both).  We discovered this via ultrasound when I was 20 weeks pregnant.  If you've been through something similar, you will understand the immense pain, to which little else compares, of knowing that the child you are bringing into the world will be crippled.  All the doctors telling you that "this can be corrected" does not make up for the crushing fear and pain- and guilt- of knowing your child is hurt in this way. You know how when your baby is born you can't help but do the cliche "count fingers, count toes- Perfect!"?  Well, with Mason we didn't get to do this.  Within an hour of his birth (and due to his prematurity, he was whisked away after a quick peep to prove I had a son) his feet were in casts- starting the journey of his lifetime. Literally.


Fast forward through years of casting, minor surgery, bending, braces, more casting, more bending, etc., when Mason was five, we decided to go ahead and try some physical therapy.  We checked with our insurance company and found a local pediatrics PT clinic.  I'm going to name neither the clinic nor the PT, but suffice it to say, it was quite a waste of my 3 day a week, $20 copays.  But, before learning this, I was in the throes of "this is going to help him!" and when the PT suggested we try yoga, I went out and purchased Yoga Pretzels flash cards.  Now-- for the purposes of yoga, well, I guess that's more my fault than the fault of the cards.  But for a fun game with the kiddos- yoga pretzels is the best.  Basically, we take turns picking out brightly colored flashcards of fun yoga positions like "Warrior", "Lizard on a Rock", or "Plank", and having the other person do that position.  Kolbie loves this.  She has better flexibility, but I'm the only one of us that actually follows the step-by-step instructions on the back of the cards.  We intersperse the stretches with relaxing cards like "Elephant Breath" and "Like a Rainbow", and don't really get much exercise or stretching done.  But for the purposes of this blog, it counts! 
(If you prefer exercising with your spouse and don't have yoga cards, the Kama Sutra will work just as well.)


While Kolbie and I opened our minds and released our bodies according to the instructions on the card, Micah crawled around gleefully throwing the flashcards this way and that.  I think her exercise was called something like "scatter the cards as fast as you can before Mommy can get out of that position and pick them back up".  Made for quite the fun time... and messy living room.
Yup- -still some cards under the couch.


In conclusion, I did take some measurements this morning (two days down, I was optimistic), and I have lost 1/2 inch around my waist.  Or maybe I was sucking it in...


P.S.  Since the time of the waste-of-time PT, Mason has gone through major corrective surgery on both feet-- determined to be successful by Dr. Stephen Tuck of Shady Grove Orthopedics-- Strong recommendation!  -- and has been undergoing non-waste-of-time Physical Therapy with Mr. Kelly Sykes of Touchstone Therapy and Wellness.  If you're looking for a great PT, give him a call-- although, he has not yet recommended yoga as a cure for clubfoot.  

The morning after...

I was surprised to wake up this morning with a sore stomach.  Yes, I know.  You just realized that I only did 2.5 minutes of exercise (and that's 2(point)5,  not 25) minutes, and I am sore.  This should serve as your reminder about quality over quantity-- or at least give you more proof of just how out of shape I am.  So my stomach muscles were sore, but I consider this a good thing, since that means my 2.5 minutes were beneficial.  Yeah!  


It took me a while to get around to my exercises this morning.  Primarily because I was reading a relatively good book (L. Pitts, Jr. "Before I Forget"), about a man struggling with his diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer's and trying to get things right with his family before he forgets (see where the title comes from?  such smart people write books.)  Alzheimer's, as most of you know, hits home for my family. Some people have cancer, others have diabetes and heart disease-- we have Alzheimer's.  And it's a B$#TCH, I tell you.  Less so for me than for my mother, her siblings, and my grandfather, but not easy at all.  To see a person you love forget that you love them... that they love you.  That they even know you.  It's a hard thing to watch, and I constantly remind my mother that she'd better be good to my father now.  She in turn reminds me of the same.  I believe JMahl (my husband) is taking notes and at some point down the road will sit down with tea and gold-rimmed reading glasses.  He will have grown out a full beard at this point because he thinks it makes him look distinguished.  He'll remove a thick binder of notes from his mahogany desk drawer and, speaking mostly to himself, say "ok, she made dinner every night, but no credit for experimental recipes.  Deduction for not ironing my shirts with starch the way I like them, but credit for me always having clean underwear.  Credit for sex and for children... deduction for four children total.... The nagging costs her some, but overall, she was a good wife... so....I think she's earned a moderate to nice Alzheimer's home... wait, not covered by medicare?  Well, she did constantly throw my socks in the big basket with all the kids socks which I told her not to do... so I can definitely justify putting her in gov't assisted care."


This reminds me, I need to start cleaning as soon as I'm done with this post...
But back to my exercise regime.  I finished the book and immediately took up position on the floor with the kids.  Micah was already giggling by this point; Kolbie just wanted to play Scrabble.  (By play, she means take turns reading the letters on the tiles and putting them haphazardly on the board-- where SHE wants them of course.)


First exercise was bum crunches.  Feet up on couch, Micah placed giggling on my belly, and I began to lift.  Reps of 14-11-15-5.  Because that's how many I could manage each time.  Sometimes because I was tired; sometimes because my baby was falling off.  50 total.


Next exercise was crunches.  Still on my back with my knees touching my chest, I lay Micah across my shins, holding onto my knees, and I did 30 crunches.  To do this exercise properly you have to either kiss the baby's head or stick out your tongue or yell boo or something to that effect every time your face approaches hers.  Which, if you are properly crunching, should happen.
That was fun.  But tiring.  I have a feeling I held my neck wrong and will probably have a sore neck in the morning.


Last floor exercise was a double whammy.  I placed Kolbie on my shins (where Micah was previously) and lifted Micah in my arms. I extended my legs out as far as I could (keep in mind, Kolbie is almost 30 lbs) while extending my arms over my head-- while holding Micah.  This one is fun for the two kids to kiss and head butt and yell boo at each other.  Keep in mind, though, the more excited the kids get about this exercise, the more likely the chance of A/ one of them falling and B/ you getting a mouth full of happy drool.  Be prepared to move quickly either way (in which case the drool will just drizzle down your cheek and neck) or suck it up.  Literally.  Not recommended.  
I can't remember how many of these I did- I think only 15.  I was tired.


And then, because we all know that you can only firm up so much-- sometimes you've got to get cardio involved, I decided to go for a jog. With Micah held longways, snuggled against my chest.  
Now, for some reason I've found that the house shakes less if you jog on your tippy toes.  So, for three minutes, I jogged around the downstairs, on tippy toes, holding Micah with both arms tightly against my chest.  Holding her this way accomplishes three things:  1/ it fulfills the unstated necessity to have a child involved in each exercise; 2/ it removes the risk of shaken-baby syndrome; and 3/ I was not wearing a bra.  
Now, to the third point, this may have not been ideal, since she was being held in breastfeed position with only a thin t-shirt separating her from the source of life's purpose (to her).  This meant that I was constantly pulling her little hands away from my shirt, which was moving upward at a miraculous speed, and trying to remove her nose from beneath my shirt- little pug nose that knows how to get where it needs to be-- all while jogging on tip-toes.  But I don't include THAT as part of this exercise- unless, of course, some hoity-tv doctor comes out and says that nursing while exercising will quadruple your rate of weight loss.  In which case, you heard it here first!  

Ten months out...

I am a 32 year old wife and mother to four children, ages 8, 7, 3, and 10 months. Five, if you count my 10 month old dog.  Six, if you count my 36 year old husband-- which I do at times.  I have a Masters in Management, a Bachelors in English, and career experience-- but these days I pretty much do nothing that I couldn't have done for $60k less straight out of high school. Heck, who am I kidding?  You don't even need to go to HS to have kids, do laundry, and make dinner.  Ahhh... one day... one day I'll be back in business suits and using big words (without having to define them)... 


But to the point of this blog:   I am tired of hearing people say (in an entirely complimentary way, of course) "You look great for having four kids!"  OR "Don't be too hard on yourself, you have had four kids, you know!"  (Yes, I know.  I was there for all four of them.)  So, I'm ready to work toward "looking great (period)".  Ie,  I want to hear someone say "There's no way you have four kids-- you look like a supermodel!"  Oh, not because I really want to be skinny.  I haven't been skinny since I hit puberty and my breasts decided to try for a marathon without any prep or warm-up before hand.  And not because my husband likes the supermodel thin body.  He actually prefers me with some cushion for the... baby's head to lay on.  No, I'm doing this because I can not afford to buy a whole new closet of larger sized clothes and, darn it!, I like (some of) the clothes I already own and can no longer fit into.  And because muffin tops just aren't cute, no matter how much cushion your husband is into.  


So I'm starting this blog as a motivator.  And as a record of my weight loss plan.  Which includes my kids (if you read the title of this blog, you've probably already figured that out.)  And no, I am not going to get rid of some of the kids, although that option does cross my mind on occasion.  


All right.  So, introductions complete, let's have at it.  My two oldest children go to school every day, therefore they are mostly exempt from the activities that will be discussed on this blog.  It is, therefore, my 3 year old and my 10 month old that have the luck to be used in place of a medicine ball.  And let's start off the honesty here by saying they love it!  Heck, what kid doesn't like being tossed around by his/ her mom?  (unless the tossing lands them into a wall, but I've learned my lesson since then)


And I do need to insert in here a quick comment-- after my second child (my only son) was born, I was at a great weight.  Probably my best/ healthiest ever.  So it's only fitting that my two youngest children get used as barbells, since they are to blame for the current state of my body.  
And use them as barbells.. and medicine balls... and hand weights I will indeed.  And they'll love it. They'd better.


Another quick comment before I start giving stats:  I'm too cheap to go to a gym that offers childcare, I don't use strollers-- besides the price of a double stroller, I can't go for a walk without my dog (feel guilty about that) and I can't manage a stroller and a leash, and it's often too cold, snowy, wet to take two kids out-- so walking is out.  I don't have an indoor gym system, other than a bike that annoys me, and while I was persuaded to buy a pilates video from tv once, I can't do that (or yoga) without being climbed on by one or more of the kids... which leads me to my current exercise plan called 
"Who needs a medicine ball when you have a baby?".  Also known as "medicine baby" and "baby ball" and "who needs a baby?" and, by 8pm, "who needs medication right about now?".


This blog is going to keep track of my measurements, and I'm going to describe just what I did each day in the form of exercise (with my kiddos).  
Please don't expect results and don't swear by this plan until we see results.
And I will be honest.  To prove how honest, I'm going to post a naked picture of myself right now, and again in six months.  Just joking.  That would violate my terms with Google Blogger.  But I did take a very unflattering underwear picture that I will hold in reserve until we have an "after" picture to compare it to.


But, to prove my honesty, I have taken my measurements as of 9:30 this morning.  Ten months out from baby #4.  


32 years old
5 feet 8 inches tall
167 pounds naked


waist 33"
hips 42"
thigh (just one) 24"
chest (under the breasts) 32"
chest (over the breast/ under arms) 37.5"
breasts (breast-feeding breasts) 41"
upper arm 12"
around bum 43"


Now, some could argue that those are perfect hourglass figures, but when I'm still trying to squeeze into a size 8/10, that hourglass gets a little bumpy.


After taking all those measurements (nothing motivates you and depresses you at the same time like taking your measurements), I lie down on the floor with the kiddos-- one hand holding my 50lb tension weight (our 10 month old black lab puppy, also known as "Dugan") who thought this was daddy-dog wrestle time-- and started my exercise regimen for today:


30 leg lifts-- flat on back, with 3 year old (28lb) child sitting on my feet and hugging my knees, I extended my legs out as far as I could, then brought them back into my chest.  I ended this exercise by flipping her upside down over my head and onto my couch.  From here on out, we'll refer to 28lb, 3yr old weight as "Kolbie".  She wanted me to do more, but I physically could not. 


Then, while holding Kolbie in the same position, legs partially extended (since that's all I could manage), I did 10 presses with my 10 month old, 16lb weight, who we will refer to as "Micah".  I would have done more, but she started to squirm.  


Last exercise of the day was to schooch on over to the couch, put my feet on it, Micah on my belly, and do 50 bum-lifts.  I actually did 30, then took a break for a few seconds, then 18 more.  Then two more.  Micah loved that.  She continued to bounce up and down on my belly as I gasped on the floor.  


Keep in mind that these were all done with one hand holding Dugan back from the party.  So that's day one of this agenda and post one of this blog. We'll try to make it to 2-2 tomorrow!