wow And Baby Makes Four

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Tuesday, August 5, 2014

In Which I Owe My Mother a Port-A-Pology

"I sure hope there isn't a homeless person sleeping in here."

This was running through my head as I yanked open the door to a port-a-potty last night. It was stationed outside of a neighborhood home undergoing renovations. It was twilight. I was out for a run. And there was pee running down my leg.

Follow me on twitter, and you'll see my description is "Sometimes I pee my pants." Cause, you know, back in the day, I occasionally had some laughter-induced incontinence. And there was that one time I was pregnant with the twins, sneezed, and effectively wet my pants in the middle of a Sam's Club and had to walk out of the store backwards.

But about a month ago, this peeing my pants was happening on the regular.

Sit ups?  Jumping jacks? Running sprints on the treadmill? Like R. Kelly's sheets - Pissssssss
I ran a 5K in June and I pretty much peed my way through all 3.1 miles.

I've had to start "wiping down" all the machinery I use at the gym under the guise of "ermahgerd I'm soo sweaty and muscular" when really I just had a little leaky issue.

I googled this and found out it's called Stress Based Incontinence. This happens when you're pushing yourself really hard and you also push out anything chilling in your bladder. EVEN IF you've gone to the restroom about a hundred times. I guess it happens to women after they have kids. And kegals don't really work for shit.

So, here's where I owe my mom limitless apologies. Because in my snot-nosed adolescent days when I sported a bladder made of steel, I'd roll my eyes every time she had to go to the restroom. She'd blame the fact that she carried two kids in her uterus, and I'd make some angst-ridden bladder elitist comment. Because having an intact bladder is the privileged class no one talks about.

Sorry mom.

Rest assured, karma is indeed of the bitchy persuasion. I now have to work out with a pad on or hope the nearest port-a-potty isn't housing a local transient.




Monday, June 2, 2014

Not Much Blog Fodder

There hasn't been much blog fodder in my life lately.

I'm living the monotony of a life full of demands - work, parenting, breaking up sibling fights, eat right, sleep, run. Then lather, rinse, and repeat.

But to prove we are actually up and alive around here, here are some picture that are a few months old. We made pasta with Brendan's very Italian uncle. And don't ask me about pasta recipes. I just took pictures. Here's the recipe as best as I could observe it:

* A shit load of flour
* A bunch of eggs
* Mix it together with your hands
* Add a few more eggs
* Put it in a machine
* Eat it! Yum!



And, can I just say for the record, STOP GROWING UP! Look at how much Finn has changed in a year.


Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Quick, Have Some Cake Before One of My Kids Throws Up

Bridget turned 2 on Sunday. We have terrible luck with birthdays and vacations. Inevitably, someone comes down with the flu or lands in the hospital. I think this dates back to my own birthday curse. I got Chicken Pox on my first birthday, Mount St. Helen's erupted on my second birthday, and other birthdays were characterized by stomach flus, break-ups, tornadoes, and medieval-like tortures such as hugging ant-infested trees at camp.

Fortunately, we outwitted the birthday Gods with a Saturday celebration with family. So, when Bridget started throwing up on Sunday, it was all good. You know, except for the part with all the puking.

I vacillate between loving this age (the talking, the cuddles, the baby fat rolly-polliness) and hating it (the tantrums, the tantrums, the tantrums).

I finally dusted off my camera for a few shots of this lady before she decides to go off to college or run for president. I'd apologize for the photo bomb but I don't feel like it. Bombs away!




 





Thursday, April 10, 2014

Battling My Vain Princess

You'd never know I'm vain. I don't wear much makeup. My wardrobe has devolved into sweats and ball caps. I don't look or act like someone who cares about my appearance. And I've worked hard to project a casual attitude about my looks. Because I really want to be a person with depth. I want to be the kind of person who radiates "I've got my shit together."

But here's the thing- I'm a superficial person. I'm a vain princess. And while my look is "casual," it's still put together (on a good day). Brendan could tell you it still takes an excess of minutes for me to get ready to leave the house, even if I'm only taking the kids to day care.

And this superficiality totally extends to my body and my weight. It extends to my pants size. To how I look in a dress. I have a mental list of cosmetic procedures I would consider getting (I know, I know). I have a goal weight. I catch myself looking longingly at other women's bodies.


I'm so vain. I probably think this selfie's about me.
I don't want to be this way. I want to be a role model of confidence, self-acceptance, and health for my children, especially my girls. I want to say my food choices, my running, my weight-lifting - They're 100% for my health. I want to say I don't give a shit about how I look or what the scale says. I mean, sure, I can say those things. But I'd be a lying liar who lies.

So, I put the scale away. I try not to fixate on my looks. I focus instead on how far I can run. How fast I can run. How my body feels. How much weight I can lift.

But then I start to fixate on how far I can run. How fast I can run. I beat myself up when I don't perform the way I hoped. My thoughts devolve like my wardrobe. I wonder if I've swapped one unhealthy measuring stick for another. I think maybe I'm full of myself, narcissistic, self-involved. I think maybe I'm failing myself and my girls.

I don't have the answer to all this existential navel-gazing. So, instead, I focus on my health. I hope I can kill my vain princess if I lie enough. If I love myself enough. I tell myself I don't care about the scale. I tell my body I love it. I thank it for carrying me a mile, two miles, five miles. I thank it for letting me carry my children. And I turn up my music. I keep running. And I try not to think about how my ass looks while I do it.



Thursday, April 3, 2014

What She Lacks For in Hair, She Makes Up For in Faces

I don't know what it is about the girls I make in my uterus. They don't grow hair.

Bridget just moved up to the 2 year-old class at daycare in anticipation of her birthday this month. (Unreal). It gets me all nostalgic each time I drop her off. It's the same class Finn and Cassidy were in. I used to take them there while I was on maternity leave with Bridget. I carried her into that class in her infant seat countless times. The two year-olds used to go crazy over Baby Bridget. Now she's one of them. 

But she looks so small. Being in the fifth percentile combined with being a baldy makes for a toddler who looks like a baby. In fact, people often say to me, "She's walking so well!" Which is hilarious to me, because she walks, run, talks, and climbs. After all, she's almost two.

In addition to all these wonderful daredevil toddler skills she's developing, Bridget has become adept at making faces. I wish I had a picture of this new face she has started to make. She looks like she's being really naughty and is super excited about it.

Until I manage to grab a picture of that, here are some of her other faces:









Wednesday, March 26, 2014

They Should Write Country Music Songs About Blogging

Warning: Existential Crisis and Abundant Whining follow

I have a love-hate relationship with this blog. These days, it's more hate than love.

It's ridiculous to blame my busy life. We're all busy. Complaining about how busy you are is like humble bragging for those who lack creativity. The truth is, I don't blog because I don't feel like it. There are things I'd rather be doing - Like spending time with my kids. Spending time with my husband or friends. Binge watching Fringe on Netflix.

Blogging is more than just tapping out some half-baked thoughts on my laptop and sending them out into the interwebs. It's social. Commenting, commenting back, reading other blogs, commenting there - on and on. Then there are people who are really into it- They link up, submit postings to other sites, read and comment like champs.

I'm not an ambitious blogger. I have no dreams of becoming famous or rich from my blog. I couldn't even tell you how many people visit this site (I mean, I could if I checked. I just don't care enough to check).

And that's the real issue. I don't care enough. It's not a priority. And maybe it's all driven by my general misanthropic approach to social media and the world in general. I have a handful of blogs I visit on the regular, but I'm not going to spend all my time trying to read and comment just so people can follow my breadcrumbs back to this neglected space. What for?



I was never hardcore about this blog. I went through phases where I wondered what might happen if I tried. I'd give it a month. Maybe two. Traffic followed but my heart never did.

But I'm still here. Something keeps me hanging on. I don't know. Maybe it's nice, just having this here. A bookmark for my thoughts.

How do you know when to cash it in? When to keep going? When to just "take a break?"

And, just because I love this movie so damn much, here's another GIF for you:


If you came to this blog's funeral, I hope you would wear really ugly clothes.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Searching For Redemption

"I better not be pregnant."

This is a statement I made as I talked on the phone to a friend, Wednesday. I was walking home after finishing the latest of a series of bad runs.  I was feeling defeated and confused. Over the past couple weeks, my split times and my mileage had gone to Hell. I couldn't figure out this fatigue.

I knew this was more than that inner voice telling me I can't. This was straight up physical. Something was going down. What else would explain deteriorating energy, speed, and endurance?

I'd gone from 12 minute miles to 12.5 minute miles to 13 minute miles.

2.5 years ago I was running regularly. I'd finally worked my way up to 2 miles and was feeling great about that mileage when I suddenly lost my mojo. I could barely get through a mile. Then it got worse. Pretty soon, I was barely making it through the first song on my play list. Turned out, I was pregnant with Bridget. Growing a human in your uterus can really interfere with a newbie runner.

Back to Wednesday- Pregnancy just didn't make sense. So, I looked at my food journal. My calories have been pretty low. Too low. 1200 low. And I'd only had around 700 calories before my run.

Yesterday, I was supposed to lift. But I wanted to test out my theory. I ate over 1000 calories, drove to the park, and psyched myself up.

I kept repeating in my head, "Redemption. Redemption. Redemption."

A half mile in I felt like stopping. But it was familiar. It was mental. My body felt strong.

Lo and behold, I finished 3.1 miles in under 36 minutes. Slow for most people. A personal best for me. In fact, my last mile was faster than my second. How about them apples?



Turns out, I'm not pregnant. Just hungry. And redemption? It tastes pretty damn good, too.