A sick day took him.

He didn’t need to take a sick day.  After all, he had nowhere to be, but with me. He had no way to call in sick, unless you count him coming up to me on Thursday afternoon, hands held out dramatically, with a glorious, thick streamer of snot hanging from his nose, saying, “Um. Mommy? I have a snot.”

Thursday night was full of the stuff nightmares are made of: he puked up part of his dinner because he was gagging on mucous, came to bed with me after his second screaming awakening made it clear I’d be running to his room all night long otherwise, kicked me repeatedly for the next 8 hours, woke at least once an hour screaming and crying, telling me it hurt and yelling “NO NO NO”, accused me of making his throat hurt (ouch, dude), refused to drink anything, and rounded it all out by peeing in the bed in the morning and then telling me to get up and make his breakfast.

I was so tired.  And so very grumpy.  Then, while I was peeling his wet underpants off of him, I suddenly smiled. I thought about how I had patted his back over and over again all night long. It reminded me so much of long nights when he was this little kid baby:

That was March ’08. I can’t believe it was that long ago. It seems like just yesterday.

But yesterday was forever ago. And it will never be again.

I looked at him, shivering before me after I got him out of the wet clothing. He looked back at me solemnly, and then reached his arms around my neck, climbing into my lap. He held on tight, snuggling his head into the curve of my neck, and we just rocked for a little while, together.

I mostly think that colds are from the very Devil himself; they are miserable, horrible things that torture us and make us feel as though a close cousin of death has crawled inside our faces and set up camp.  And when our kids are sick, it is the worst.  It is so awful to watch them suffer.

But sometimes I experience these tiny moments when I wonder if they are some kind of weird gifts to parents – obviously not in the times of worry and pain, but during those moments when our kids slow down and just want to be held again, loved again, rocked in our arms, or when they just nap in our laps again. These are gifts, even though given in sickness, and it is these little capsules of memories gone suddenly burst open, and a chance to teleport to another moment in time again, for just awhile, that make me smile even as he sniffles.

A sick day took him.

I was there where it delivered him, all day long.

Braden: “Mommy, I need to be fixed.”
Me: “You need to be fixed? Why, are you broken?”
Braden: “Yes, Mommy. I’m broken with sick.”

I am his designated fixer, and he is the spark of magic in my life.  I’m reminded, again, that whatever age he is right now, it’s my favorite one.

Running from my problems. Literally.

Some of you may remember the post waaaaay earlier this year where I admitted to you something that really was no surprise, considering I have mentioned how gross and lazy I have been on a regular basis.  Yeah, I’m talking about the one where I basically said, “I smell like forty ripe asses rotting in the sun.  Oh, and I have fat rolls that have fat rolls and their fat rolls are bigger than their fat rolls’ fat rolls.”  I’m not sure if that even makes any sense, but I wrote it out anyway, because I like the way it sounds.  You do too, you just don’t know it.

The point is that I had gained quite a bit of weight (enough to aggravate my joints and make my fat pants tight on me) and I wasn’t caring enough about myself to bathe regularly.  Unless you’d say once every week or two is regularly.  I guess it is, since I regularly waited that long to scrape the accumulated layers of sediment off of my body. (I swear I found a tiny, fossilized animal in one of the layers once. It was from the Cretaceous Time Period. I’d be rich if I hadn’t dropped it down the drain.)

By May, I was carrying a good amount of weight…

By the end of May, I was sick of myself.  I made a lot of changes (that really needed to be made) and turned my life onto a healthier track again.  Instead of drinking the local liquor store and grocery beer aisles dry practically every other day, I stopped drinking entirely for a whole month.

I hated every fucking one of you bitches that talked about drinking on Twitter during that time.  I wanted to stab you in the face.

Hahaha, just kidding!

No, really.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, in all honesty.  And during that month, I dropped junk food and excessive carbs, as well as late night eating.  You know what else?  I started moving.  And I had some support: people who motivated me by talking to me about what they were doing, listening to what I was doing, and just being there.  They lifted me up when I was dragging, and they celebrated my successes with me when I was floating.  That kind of support from friends is instrumental for me.  Thank you so much Leslie, Haley, & Karen.   I got my ass in gear and I started doing The Shred – downloaded it right to my computer and did it almost every day.  I added in some Yoga, too.

And the real killer for me?  I went to bed at a decent hour more often than not.  It was like a sign of the Apocalypse.  Or flying pigs.  Or that monkeys streaming out of your butt thing.

But mostly, it was a whole heap of positive change in my life that both cleared my head and dropped pounds of fat off of my body.

I lost 15 lbs in just a couple of months.

Then I started traveling.  Oy!  Chicago first, then NC, and before I knew it I was drinking and eating excessively again, and not exercising.  And sleeping? Hah, what was that?  I was up into the wee hours again.  For some reason, I love the wee hours.

I was still making half-assed efforts to exercise once I got back home, but it wasn’t adding up because I was being really inconsistent, and the other bad habits were still hanging on, blossoming even.

By mid-September, I was saying, “hello again!” to the last 8lbs I had dropped.  (And by “hello again” I mean, “awwww, shit, you again? Damn.”)

But I was in a funk.  The sloth in me was in charge.

By mid-October I had reached a point again where I realized this crappy way of whipping myself back and forth has got to stop.

I called on the cavalry again:  I’ve got Haley, Leslie, and now Mishi motivating me in a Skype chat regularly (thank you, ladies! I love you.).  And I’m trying this novel concept: moderation!

I cut way back on drinking, but I still have one drink most nights.  Junk food is out again, and healthy food is in.  But “cheats?”  Oh yeah, they’re around about once a week.

I’m *trying* to go to bed at a decent hour (most nights, and sometimes I’m actually successful) and I’m moving again.  I’ve been doing different things to keep it fresh -  Shred, Yoga, Dance, Walking.  I’ve lost that ugly 8 I gained back, and then some.  I’m feeling better again… lighter, smoother, and quicker.

Just this week, I started pushing myself to jog and run.

And then a little birdie named Leslie got on my proverbial shoulder and whispered in my Skype Chat ear: “Fiiiiive Kaaaaaay?”

And I said, “What, me? Surely not.”

But later in the day I said, “Why not? I can do that.  I am *going* to do that.”

And that’s where I am right now.  In total, I’m down 21lbs (and counting!) from my May 09 top weight, and I’ve built some muscle.  It’s time to tone, train, and build endurance.  I have a plan, some tools, and at least one friend to do this with.  I’m about to bust crazy and go for something I’ve never attempted before.

And I’m not talking about going one whole day without saying, “fuckbuckles!” (What, you don’t say that every day?)

It’s time to train for a 5K, my friends.

I plan on leaving a little piece of my funk behind me with every step.

Short but heartfelt letters.

Dear Hashimoto’s,
Thanks for making every day harder. You’re a dick.

Dear PMS,
I do not like you. You do not actually make me more powerful, you just make me want to break people in half all day long. You do not help me deal with my emotions more effectively, you just make me cry at things that should not be cried at (the fight scene in Ice Age? Really? No. Really?) You do not make my son’s toddler habits easier to deal with, you make me want to run screaming from his presence. You are like a disorder all unto yourself. I am tired of you, officially.

Dear Braden,
Yes, it’s true. Your “farts are stinky like poopoo,” indeed. The amount of joy you bring into my life with simply silly things like that cannot be measured. Oh, but please don’t kick me in the eye again. That was the opposite of joy.

Dear Birthday,
I see you lurking there. I know, I know. I’m almost officially a whole year older. It’s really not even exciting anymore. It just validates the white hairs and the callouses. If you were really as awesome as you claim to be, you’d give me my old bewbies back. Now THAT’S a happy birthday.

Dear John,
I know you miss being at home. To make sure you feel welcome upon your return weeks from now, I am saving you all sorts of chores to complete! Nothing says loving like that, right?

Dear Debt Collectors,
Thank you for the recent letter demanding the thousands due in medical bills, immediately. The way the entire sheet of paper was pink truly made me feel the threat inherent in your message.

Dear Property Management,
I’m guessing the magic number for phone calls before you come and fix the light in the kitchen is something higher than 3. Even if you have promised “someone will be out tomorrow,” they won’t. You don’t really mean it. It was a joke – you were just kidding! I get it now. I hope you get explosive, burning diarrhea on your birthday.

Dear Jillian Michaels:
When I do the “butt kicks,” instead of holding my hands in fists in front of me, I hold out both my middle fingers. It totally helps me make it through. I’m not flipping you off, though. You are the toughest bitch I’ve ever not known but loved. In a completely platonic, non-I think of you naked when I’m in the shower kind of way. (Really.)

Dear Mexican (our dog),
Please just stop being gross. Seriously.
PS: I know. Watch your back.

Dear Body,
I know that you are tired. I know that you hurt. I know that it’s not your fault. I know that you feel bad because I always hate you. I am sorry. I’m still pushing and I’m trying really hard to get you healthy again. Please hang in there and work with me on this, damnit.

Dear Hair,
Did you hear what I said to Body? You are leaving me, and it’s making me frantic. I know you are just really tired of the antibodies in my bloodstream and the Hashimoto’s that is the result. I feel embarrassed that you are so important to me, in a way, but it’s true. You are important to me and I have cried several times already now, noticing how you are taking leave of me steadily. I do not like to see my scalp. Please reconsider. Please stay.

Dear Health Care Industry,
Please just fix it. Please stop telling me there is nothing you can do to help me. I am broken and you are supposed to be able to fix me.
You are supposed to.
So when I come in this next time, please do not turn me away again, telling me to keep waiting. I am done waiting. Ok?

Dear Reality Television,
You are still really, really stupid. Stop tricking people who I know are otherwise really smart.

Dear Halloween,
I hate the temptation of your endless bags of delicious candy. I love your ghouls and goblins, witches, werewolves, vampires, and ghosts. I delight in feeling your spirit as I watch horrible movies about undead monsters. As you approach, I tilt my head back in the dark and utter a high pitched cackle. When you are gone, please make any leftover candy disappear. My ass does not want to be dressed up as an elephant for the rest of the year.

Dear People Who Drive,
YOUR BRAIN. USE IT.

Dear You Guys,
Thanks for still coming here.

Do you feel the burn?

When sloth and apathy has set in for months, it’s hard to get your ass moving again.  And even once you’ve passed the hurdle of actually making yourself START moving with effort once more, you face that initial battle of trying to stop screaming out in pain and agony at every little leg lift find your strength again.

Exercise takes strength.  And strength is built via exercise.  Chicken. Egg.  Circle, circle, circle.

So when you’re trying to get back on track with a healthy lifestyle, you have to force yourself through that beginning time, when the shit is HARD.  And you have to keep going until you can hack it.

And sometimes it’s hard, in the middle of a workout, to feel confident that you can do that.  Especially when all you want to do is power jumps on the instructor’s face.  What?  I am NOT full of anger and bitterness, and if you even hint that I am, I will eat your face. (I’m sure it’s full of lean protein.)

What I really love is when a workout instructor is saying some shit to me like, “You should be feeling some heat in your thighs now… almost a little burn!“  right around the time when I’m looking down in bewilderment because my left thigh literally just exploded and peppered the wall next to me with clots of flesh and my right thigh currently has a 4 foot flame shooting from it.  And my ass just sent me a memo that said, “Really?  You’re serious?  Just checking.  Because… really???”

Yeah.  Almost a little burn.

Whore.

Look, lady… did you forget what it was like when you were fat?  Before you became this little waif of a thing that is now cheerfully telling me to, “see if you can push it just a little bit deeper each time!”

Oh, I am, cutie-pie, I am.  I’m pushing the imaginary knife blade just a little bit deeper into your upper torso (can you feel the BURN!?) every time I stab you with it inside my head.

Maybe she was never fat.  Maybe she has always been so skinny that her nipples existed on her chest completely independent of the titty base they are generally known to reside on in females. (And no, I have nothing against boobies of any size, but just let me rant here, ok?)

I’m sorry, I just can’t not see them.  In that tight-ass yoga top they are like little rocket missiles under a tight stretched tarp and I’m hearing the countdown in my head at full volume.  They are moments from firing and I don’t want to get hit, okay?  Someone needs to deactivate the launch sequence.  Who readies missiles that are still in storage anyway?

Where the hell is Jack Bauer when you really need him?

Clearly, she is excited about the burn.

I’m excited about making it through this without dying.  Which I’m not entirely sure yet is going to be happening, but I like to delude myself like that.

Wait.  What did she just say to me?  “Really challenge yourself.”  Were you not here just now when I said I was going to try to make it through this alive, woman? Clearly you do not understand that is a challenge in and of itself.

Shit, it is a challenge for me not to come over and take a bite out of your ass cheek.  I haven’t had a burger in weeks.

And if she says, “for an extra challenge…” one more time, I think I might just choke on all the cuss words that want to fly out of my mouth because YEAH.  Really, trust me, I don’t need anything extra at this point.

Unless it’s pickles.  On the ass burger I’m about to take from you.

And still, I’m doing this.  And I want to do this (hahaha) and I am going to do it again.  Because I know that over time it will get easier and I will hate her less and less.

Wait, she just said, “I don’t know about you but I’m really starting to feel my legs!”

*insert mental image of me SHITTING MYSELF I’M LAUGHING SO HARD*

If I could FEEL them anymore, I’d actually be able to “control it” like you keep telling me to do and then I wouldn’t be shaking, and tripping over my own two feet every five seconds, woman.  But thanks for letting me know that YOU can feel YOUR legs.  I am so proud of you.  You are doing great!  Soon you’ll be even MORE sexy and attractive than you already are!  And then there can be an even greater, more stark contrast between the two of us.

Really, the hilt of the knife couldn’t go any deeper.  I need to invest in an imaginary pitch fork or something.  Axe?  Hm.

And if you’re disturbed by this?  Me having immature, malicious thoughts towards my workout instructors is really nothing new.  See here.  While this makes things no less disturbing, at least you can see that I am consistently whacked out.

Oh, but now she’s saying something that makes me love her.  A lot.  (And it wasn’t, “Would you like ab fries with that ass burger?”)

“Last one.”

Okay, Miss Itty Bitty Everything.  I think I can forgive you.

But right now I need to go see what I can do about my right eyebrow.  That four foot flame really took me by surprise.

A Whole Lotta Hodge Podge, Yo.

So, for today, you get a hodge-podge of totally random crap, just because it’s floating around in my head.  Aren’t you lucky!?

Why yes, yes you are.  (Just smile and nod in agreement.  Don’t disagree with the crazy lady.)

So, first off, when I did the post with the video of Braden and the Bubble Machine, several of you asked about the bubble machine.  IT IS AWESOME.  Just my humble opinion.  Braden has loved it from the very first time we used it, and, I will childishly admit that so have I.  I’m a sucker for a bubble – that’s why I call them tiny packages of happy – and a machine that spits them out non-stop is a machine Momma likes.

It’s from Summer Infant.  I first saw it from OneStepAhead, but you can buy it cheaper at Walmart.  (Those last 2 links go right to the product, btw.)  I picked ours up at a local Walmart, so no shipping and the base price was lower.  I made sure to tell you about both, though: for the cheapies (like me) and the Walmart Haters (like me, but who aren’t cheapies).

***

Next up, I wanted to mention that “Operation Potty Familiarize” has begun.  No, we aren’t exactly expecting Braden to be Potty Trained at 15 months.  What we do expect is that familiarizing him with it now will make things much easier in the future.  And?  He has peed a nice long pee in the potty twice this week.  YAY!

(And do you care? I dunno. But I like to talk about poop and pee, so there you have it.)

We have this Baby Björn potty:

given to us by my sister (the one he’s peed in twice), and we just bought this Graco potty:

for its many cool features (like cushioned seat, easy to clean collection bowl, and removeable ring for use on toilet) and b/c Veronica at Toddled Dredge said good things about it in her potty review.

***

For those of you who are following my Hashimotos Thyroiditis Escapades from me revealing my problems to the lab work and how my vagina fell off, and then on to finally hearing back on my tests… the latest news is that:

1) I still haven’t paid my lab bill of $387.  Better pay it.  We’re about to incur even MORE expenses…

2) I FINALLY heard back on an appointment with the Endocrinologist (after waiting for only a week and a half – yay for prompt medical attention!) and I have an appointment scheduled for January 28th.

I would like to mention that neither my doctor, nor any of the nurses, have decided to give a shit that I walked into that office and told them that I have been feeling very depressed lately.  I was told that I would not be receiving an anti-depressant to help with that since the underlying medical problem could be the cause.  Of course, they didn’t refer me to a therapist or counselor of any kind either.  Just have to wait over a month to even have an appointment to get that checked is all… sure hope you don’t kill yourself or anything in the meanwhile… Is that responsible patient care? Just wondering.

***

While responding in e-mail to comments left on the Screamie McGee post on Monday, I found myself sharing a gem with a couple of folks (MP and Bill), and I decided I’d pass it on to all of you, because it made me chuckle.  So, it follows:

[As per Braden's screaming lately:]

John and I have decided that we are partly to blame.  Braden sees us yell when we get mad.

Me to dog: “NO! NO! BAD DOG! GO GET IN YOUR BED! LIE DOWN! STAY!

John to TV: “NO, NO NO… YOU IDIOTS! BLITZ! OOOOHHHH, THAT WAS A HORRIBLE CALL! I HOPE YOU DIE!”

Me to John: “STOP YELLING AT THE TV, DAMNIT!”

Both of us to Braden: “STOP SCREAMING, THAT’S SO ANNOYING!!!!!!!!!”

It’s like, uh, spanking your kids for hitting? Heh.

So, part of our battle plan [to rid us of The Shriek] is a kinder and gentler John & Lotus.  No more yelling to solve our problems.

Damnit @ kids making us be better people!

***

Are you clicking all the links?  Don’t make me record your ISP and find out where you live, only to hunt you down and obsessively watch you through the window of your home, while clenching a hunting knife between my teeth.

Cause, I will SO totally use it to cut through your cable line.  So there.

Now, go vote for me in some of those categories on the right sidebar.  Not because I’m threatening you or anything, but because you honestly think I’m funny, like my parenting tidbits, dig my photography, and find me to be a hot mommy.  Even though I have a muffin-top and backfat.

Dance your way… dead.

I wanted to join Dawn’s new thing, Showin’ Off on Saturday, and in light of recent events, I thought it would be perfect to try one of my new work-out DVDs today, take pictures, and show off how I tried something new this week (which is what she has challenged us all to do).

Yesterday, I purchased “Billy Blanks, Tae Bo Cardio” and “Prevention: drop it with dance, w/Tabitha D’umo.”  I’m a little bit scared of the Tae Bo video for starting off, so I decided to see if I could get my groove on with Tabitha.  Which was stupid of me to start off with, because, I’m so WHITE, rice is jealous.  I? cannot get my groove on.  Period.  I trip and fall if I just THINK about walking across the room.

It was difficult to even get started, because apparently, putting anything other than Baby Einstein in the DVD player brings about ARMAGEDDON.  After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I decided that Kevin & Leroy are a serious enough issue for me to go through Armageddon.

In went the “drop it with dance” DVD.

But, Eh-Muuuuuhhhmmmmm…. I don’t WANT you to do the dance exercises!!!

Ohhh, Braden.  Mommy doesn’t WANT to do the dance exercises either, but she HAS to do them.  Isn’t that yucky?

Ok. I’m ready, I think.  But a little unsure of myself… and I have a half-naked child attached to me.

No, wait. Clearly, I am supposed to be wearing shoes! Ack! Shoes!

No shoes. Not ready!

Okay! I’m ready! I have shoes!

No, wait.  I’m not ready, I have a half-naked child attached to me again.

Okay! I’m ready! I have shoes and I am half-naked child free (momentarily)!

DUDE. SLOW DOWN. She expects me to keep up with this?

WTH.  She wants me to do what???

Feels like I’m just pushing my boobs out. Is that exercise?

Um. Okay, I think I can do this part…

OMG, DID MY BACK JUST MAKE THAT SOUND???

(Or did I just fart?)

Ok.  Did she really just say that she wants this part to bring out my sassy side? Honey, a glass of wine will bring out my sassy side.  THIS?  Just makes me want to commit homicide.

Hey… this isn’t so bad… and the half-naked baby isn’t even cramping my style.

No. I was wrong, this IS so bad.  How do those cooters do this crap so fast?

Let me try one more time.

No, it was like this…

Ugh.

Braden and I decided that we both really like this kind of exercise a lot better.

My favorite part was near the end.  When Tabitha D’umo said, “Are you tired!? Well, I don’t care! Keep going!”

Oh.Tabitha.No.You.Di’nt.

That skinny b*tch…

Theme for January 12th, 2008: “Skinny”

That’s right, I said it. Look at her, when she was just a kid:

Um. Where did those long, skinny legs go!?

(Please try to ignore the very, very poor fashion choices.  Please.)

*

And then, just a couple of years ago! *gasp*

Just ridiculous…

And did you know she thought she was too chubby THEN!

That stupid, skinny b*tch.

Kevin & Leroy?

They laugh in the face of that stupid, skinny b*tch’s replacement.

They slap their knees (Don’t see knees, huh? They’re covered in a gelatinous substance.) and they GUFFAW.

Well. I’ve got news for you, Kevin & Leroy. Today? I bought a couple of workout DVDs. I’m going to dance (as recommended) and kick (with Billy Blanks, awwww yeah!) myself thin.

I hear you crying, my backfat buddies.  And it sounds so sweet to me.

I wanna be a stupid, skinny b*tch again!

PS: I have done you all a public service tonight by conducting physical research on the perfect pose to hide unwanted fat.

Apparently, in order to camouflage ass, gut, and waddle fat, this is the perfect pose (don’t forget to suck in EVERYTHING POSSIBLE):

What? It’s completely possible to stand this way and act natural.