Monthly Archives: July 2011

Running For My Life by Cindy

I started running a couple years back because I had to do SOMEthing. I couldn’t sit around anymore. I didn’t want my kids to see me so blah. I reached that point in parenthood where you start questioning what happened to yourself. I didn’t know what I liked anymore. I didn’t really know anything other than Feed Baby, Change Baby, Bring Child to Bus Stop, Make Dinner, etc… it was time.  When my sister-in-law asked me to run a 1/2 marathon with her, I laughed so hard…I think I even did a spit take right in her face!  She is a physically fit specimen…played soccer her whole life.  Joined a women’s rugby team.  She is in constant motion.  At that point in my life, I was a slug.  The very thought of running 13.1 miles in a row was so foreign to me I let it flow right out the ear it came in on.

But, guess what?  A little of that thought stuck with me and I started running… and I ran a little more.  Then more.  Then last year I ran my first 1/2 marathon!   It really feels good to run.  It has helped me find myself again.  And in the process, I think it has helped me be a better mom for my family.  Here’s why:

1. My kids see that being physically fit is an easy thing to do.  You just have to run… that’s what they do best!

2. I can escape just long enough to miss being with them.  I get a small break – freedom- from being a caregiver.  I can run as fast or as slow as I want.  I don’t have to abide by anyone else’s whims.

3. I can listen to music with swears in it.  That makes me happy.  Well, not necessarily the swears, but the fact that it’s not the Bubble Guppies theme song…again.

4. I do my long runs on Sundays which forces me to go to sleep at a decent hour on Saturday nights.  I don’t have “just one more” Mike’s Hard Lemonade because I don’t want to be dehydrated for my run the next morning.  Bonus:  That not only saves my waistline, but it saves money for the family!  😉

5. My 7 year old daughter decided that if I can do it, so can she.  She signed up and ran a 5K last month.  She did great!  She even got a medal for “1st Place Woman in the 12 and Under Category.”  I was so proud of her…all the pictures of her crossing the finish line are beautiful .  The ones of me are terrible because I’m bawling my eyes out with pride.

6. Running has given me much more energy.  It’s much easier to deal with kids when you have energy.  Especially the little ones…they never ever stop.

7.  It also helps with my 3 year old son’s seperation anxiety.  He knows I’ll be gone for a bit, but I’ll be back.  I’ll be sweaty, but I’ll be back.

8.  Most importantly, running makes me happy.  It gives me a pride in myself that I never really had before.  I think showing my kids that I’m happy is a good thing.

I never thought I could do it.  I never thought when my sis-in-law asked me about that race that I could seriously do it.  But I was wrong.  I am more than just some kids’ mom.  I am me and I can run.


Summer camp? More like summer cramp. by Cindy

I thought signing my 3 year old son up for summer camp would be a good thing. My daughter always loved it and still does. She loves the prospect of doing endless crafts and playing games and seeing people other than her family every day. She loves packing her snack bag with whatever she wants (within reason) and opening it up in front of everyone at camp.  She loves telling me about everything she did that day when I pick her up.  She can’t wait to go back every day.

Everything I just wrote about?…My son HATES.  Well, except the snack bag part.  We took a trip to Target the other day specifically for him to pick out his very own snack bag.  He picked out a cute little elephant one with a matching elephant icepack.  He played with the ice pack and even let his sister borrow it after he punched her in the arm.  He was happy.

He remained happy all the way from that moment until Tuesday morning at 8:55. Tuesday wasn’t the first day of camp, either…it was Day 2.  Monday, he was ok.  I think distraction played a big part…he walked right over to the head counselor and let her lead him into the room.  They told me he cried a bit when they first got into the room, but he was fine soon after.  When I went to pick him up Monday, I saw him before he saw me.  He was a model camper!  Running over to his spot on the rug and sitting down criss-cross applesauce.  I went in and he ran to me…showing me the cool crown and sceptor he made.  My little prince!

Tuesday morning I figured he’d be excited to go.  Nope.  Tuesday morning, he wanted nothing to do with it and started with the koala bear full body strangulation hug at 7AM.  “Mommy, I don’t want to go to camp anymore.  I miss you when I’m there.”  My heart started yelling at me to tell him he didn’t have to go anymore and that we could spend the day hugging instead.  But, I couldn’t breath, so I figured I’d better take him to camp so someone could pry him off me.  Picking him up that day wasn’t as magical as the first day…he ran to me and said, “Let’s get outta here.”

Every day got progressively worse.  7AM strangulation hugs turned into 6:45, then 6:30…then by Thursday night he was already trying to get out of Friday.  He had mastered his grip, too.  You know that little bugger almost pulled my pants down right in front of all the camp counselors?  The entire week he cried for me for at LEAST 15 minutes after I dropped him off.  I know this, cuz like a jerk I stood outside the door (out of sight) until he stopped everyday.  If there’s any advice I can give with this story, don’t do that!

When I went to pick him up on the last day, I peeked in the room.  All the kids were sitting nicely on the rug listening to a cute little story.  All smiles and happy.  But, I couldn’t quite see my son.  Maybe it was just the sun glare off the glass?  No, it was because he wasn’t there.  My sister-in-law (who came with me for moral support) then said, “Oh there he is…over there at the table.”  The little guy had decided he had enough.  I asked the head counselor how he did.  You know it’s not good when a trained professional scrunches her face and says, “Well…..”

So now I have a week’s worth of crafts that the counselors made, because my son wanted nothing to do with making them.  And I also have a slight tear in my heart for making him go through that.  But I think it was good in a weird sort of way.  Even though he didn’t like it, he completed it.  And he made a couple little friends.  And he learned how to play Duck Duck Goose.  So that right there was worth it.

Your Epidermis is Showing! by Cindy

It’s always been a nice thing to be able to hand stuff down from generation to generation. To keep traditions going…to be able to say stuff like, “This was my grandma’s. She had this when she was a kid!”  Little trinkets…maybe clothing…maybe a doll or diary. But then there are the other things that get handed down that just flat out suck.  In our family, it’s bad skin.  I don’t mean like teenage acne either…I mean BAD skin.  The worst.  The kind you want to rip off and leave in a heap somewhere for some other family.  Yes, that leaves a nasty visual, and I’m sorry, but it’s really THAT bad.

Excema, psoriasis, calluses, sensitive skin, allergies…you name it, we got it.  I don’t know exactly how many different medicines and lotions we’ve had to use over the years, but right now I can name 14 that we have in the house at this very moment.  Just tonight I counted 4 lotions I had to put on my son for 4 different flare ups he’s having.  This has been going on for generations.  My grandfather’s hands looked like rocks!  Big strong cracked up rocks.  He never complained.  I don’t mean to either, but when I watch my little 3 year old son scratch and scratch and scratch so much that he bleeds…it hurts my heart.  I need to complain, just a little.

And thinking of my 7 year old daughter…and then thinking of what I went through as an angst-y teenager…I worry for her.  It’s enough pressure to just BE in high school.  Having something that’s different about you – and not different in a good way- is hard.  Right now she doesn’t care that she has to have greasy lotion all over her face when we go to an amusement park.  But she IS starting to wear longer shorts to cover up her red cracked skin on her knees.  When she turns 14, what do I do for her?  Do I tell her what I used to do?  That I would make up lies because I was embarrassed?  I would tell everyone that my knees & elbows looked all banged up because I fell a lot on the basketball court.  I don’t how that lie was better than just saying “I have psoriasis”, but in my teenage mind I guess it was.

I am 37 years old and JUST came to the realization that it really doesn’t matter…friends don’t care what your skin looks like.  And if it hurts, they will help you.  But I still worry for my kids, because it’s a long time till they’re 37.  I hope they can both keep the attitudes they have right now and save the angst for boyfriend/girlfriend troubles.

Oh My Blank! by Cindy

Had a discussion today with my kids about certain words and phrases that I’d rather they don’t say. It started because my son blurted out “Oh My God…watch this!” and then squirted his sister in the face with a water gun. I told him, “Please don’t say that. That’s like yelling up to God to have him stop what he’s doing and check you out. He’s busy up there! Let him do his thing and only call him like that when you really need him.” So my son then asked if it’s ok to say “Oh My Pants!” I said, “I guess so.”  Right? I mean, God’s smart…does he know that even though my son said Pants, he really meant God? Is that just as wrong? Nah…I’ll let that one slide.

But then he started asking about using other words in place of God like ” Oh My Balls”…and “Oh My Cans.” He meant it innocently, but c’mon!  I can’t let him go around saying that!  I told him to stick with Pants.  But then my older daughter asked “Why?  What’s wrong with cans?”  So I then had to explain how some people call breasts “cans”.  (OK, some people including me.)  So of course, the next question was from my son, “Well then is Oh My Boobies ok?”  Nope.  Sorry, son.

After another few minutes of inserting normal words into the phrase and having them sound just as dirty, I gave up.  If you hear a couple little kids blurting out “Oh My Sausage!” just please remember I tried.

The Lovely Number 4 by Cindy

I was just reading a post by my friend (and fellow loserpie) Jamie on about the urge to have more children. It got me really thinking. How do I write about this without sounding like the worst mother in the entire world? How do I actually write down that I do NOT want anymore children- definitively- without making other moms banish me from their babysitting phone lists? I don’t know, but there it is…I don’t want any more children.

I have 2 right now who are my world.  My daughter is 7 and may as well be 20 with her wide open mind.  She has a brain like no other and her wit is fantastic.  She gets jokes…she MAKES jokes… she is a whip.  My son just turned 3 and is the cutest little charmer.  He tells jokes, too, but they could be nonsense and I’d still laugh because of his delivery.  Always with a twinkly smile. I can’t believe they are mine.  It blows my mind every time I look at them and see them do normal human things.  They are what makes our family 100% whole.

But on the flip-side, it is HARD WORK.  Much harder than I ever anticipated.  On the best days of parenting, I still go to bed exhausted.  On the worst days, exhausted happens, but sleep doesn’t.  The tremendous worry that goes along with having children overwhelms me sometimes.  Without sounding like a sappy Lifetime movie character, I feel like my kids are little pieces of my heart walking around out there.  I know I’m not the only parent who gets upset leaving the kids for a night out, but I’ll tell ya…it’s really hard for me.

And I don’t know if I’m good at it, either.  There is no way to tell.  I think my kids are good…they have manners, they eat their vegetables, they love me.  I know that’s all that really matters in the long run, but is it?  I don’t know.  I always wanted to be a mom…for as long as I can remember, that was going to be my job title.  (Well, except for that short stint when I wanted to be a dentist for other dentists because I couldn’t figure out who cleaned THEIR teeth.) And I always thought it would be hard, but do-able.  And it is.  And I’m doing it.  And I love it.  And my family is complete.

I’m sure there are many different branches to this tree that could be discussed, but this is just the trunk of the thing.  Do I love kids?  Yes.  Would I be upset if an “accident” were to happen and another baby came into the picture?  No, because that would just be what was meant to be.  All I’m stating here is that if I have the choice, I like my family number at 4.