dadvmom

Walking Henry

 

We live in a world of immediacy.

Just do it.

Seize the moment.

Why put off until tomorrow what you can do today?

But parenthood is all about laters, not-nows, and tomorrows. Both for the kids and for us.

I microwaved my cup of coffee so many times today that it became funny. Every time I went to take a sip, someone pooped or screamed or cried.

Ken turned to me at dinner and said, “I was going to tell you something important, and now I’m too tired to remember what it was.”

Raising kids is a kind of blessed torture. There is no immediate end in sight.

Sure, there are some cool days: the first soccer goal; the first bike ride; the first caught fish. But without the kids, those days probably would have been pretty cool anyway. Us married, but childless, kicking around South America or maybe relaxing on a cruise.

Plus, with kids, there are all these really stupid days, days when even the simplest endeavor – ducking into the supermarket or driving home from church — is excruciating.

CHILD 1: “Dad, you have to roll down the window. I can’t breathe back here.”

Dad rolls down the window.

CHILD 2: “I’m freezing.”

Dad rolls up the window.

CHILD 1: “Seriously, I can’t breathe.”

Rolls it down.

CHILD 2: “I can’t feel my toes. I’m so cold.”

Rolls it up.

All the way home.

The only way to get through a lifetime of days like this, or at least twenty or so years of days like these, is to be willing to put off until tomorrow what you were quite simply unable to do today.

Even drinking a cup of coffee.

Looking around, I realize I should have done my hair. This is not an exercise class. It is an audition. And I am bombing.

Can I run a mile? All at once? No.

I’m sorry, did you say twenty push-ups? How about three?

Chin-ups? Definitely not. But if you slide over that janitor’s bucket, I bet I can hang from the bar.

I can tell by the look on the trainer’s face, she wishes I would go home. If I asked to buy a shirt with the gym logo on it, she would probably pretend they were out of my size. That is, if they even stock my size.

It is no fun being the fatty at the gym.

In ten years as a mom, I have gained and lost hundreds of pounds. When I am pregnant, I eat too much cake. When I am breastfeeding, I sport triple Ds. But I have weaned my last baby and donated my maternity clothes. The yo-yo of pregnancy weight gain and loss is over (I hope). I am ready to reclaim my body. Except this gym doesn’t seem interested in my kind of body at all.

On the membership application, there should be a disclaimer: Don’t join this gym until you first join another gym to prepare you for this gym.

Despite the rowing machines and the multitude of dumbbells, this is not a place to get in shape. This is a place where people who are already in shape come to work out. It is a place for beautiful people to congregate and look awesome together. Don’t get me wrong: I would love to be a member of this club.

Except I can’t. I am never going to be a size zero. I wear jeans with an elastic waistband. They wear cross back halters and bedazzled yoga pants. I am happy when I find shorts that don’t chafe my thighs. I am the sweatiest person in here by a factor of ten. And I only did seven crunches.

A little shame isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes it can be helpful to work out with folks who embody the goals I have for myself. But my gym mates all appear to be on perpetual juice cleanses. It would be nice to walk in and lift with someone who looks like me, someone else battling her way back from the baby-making brink.

So big women of the world, unite. I don’t care if your belly jiggles or your butt sags. Find the sexiest, coolest gym you can, and go there with gusto. And if you happen to live in Southern California, I will meet you there. I will be the one in the corner with frizzy hair and sweat rings down my back, but I promise to make you look good. I will pace you during the mile run and give you a boost to reach that chin-up bar. No one should have to do this alone.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/annmarie-kellyharbaugh/on-being-the-fat-girl-at-_b_5649778.html

To the juggler we watched yesterday afternoon for halting his flaming club trick when 2-year-old Henry climbed up and ran across the stage.

We got there early.  We found the perfect spot.  We set up blankets.

And they slept through the whole thing.

 

Daddy, we should lock our doors at night.

Why?

Because.

Because why?

Because . . . hobos.

[funny look on Dad’s face]

Hobos are real, Daddy.

 

And they’re coming.

 

What I planned for dinner:

What we actually ate:

Also ice cream.

 

 

In which my nine-year-old daughter volunteers, steps up to a microphone, and sings an impromptu solo in front of 500 people.

And in which I demonstrate my failings as a videographer.

Katie 100

Mom -22

SingingKatie

We gave away Lizzie’s Barbie house.  It was one of dozens of toys that did not make the move.  She has been missing it lately.

So Katie helped her build a new one today.  They called it Barbie Mall.

“We sell horses and dresses,” Lizzie told me.

“And also Prom accessories,” Katie added.

Ken thought it looked lame, but I think it’s lovely.

There is toothpaste on the floor.  Again.  There are Barbies sunbathing on the dining room table and horses lined up on the window sill in full promenade.  There is a laundry basket in nearly every room of the house. Some clean clothes, some dirty, some folded, most not.

The house smells like feet.

I know it is virtually inexcusable.  I am a stay-at-home mom.  Cleaning house is certainly in my job description.  But I only seem capable of squalor.  I think part of the problem is that the mess doesn’t bother me enough.

I love that Lizzie built a ‘hotel’ in the living room, removing every cushion from the couch and every pillow from our beds.  I love that Katie sewed her sister a dress out of three old shirts, even if all the fabric remnants are still on the floor.  I love that Henry plays with puzzles now, even though he has chosen to unsolve all of them on the entryway rug.

It’s not total dishevelment.  We have a few boundaries.  Their rooms need to be picked up before computer time.  Their clothes should be put away before church.  We don’t have bedbugs (anymore) or head lice (yet).  Most of the mice are living outside again.  And we sent our chickens to live with friends.  But I’m still not sure I’ve ever visited anyone whose house is as chaotic as ours.

Is it wrong that I find godliness in our lack of cleanliness?  Probably.  I should at least go wipe up that toothpaste.