{by Deb at Missives From Suburbia}

“Have a good day,” the guy says, as he pushes the button and closes the hatch, securing my groceries, my husband’s SCUBA gear, and a cacophony of motherhood-related paraphernalia that whispers to me about who I’ve become.

That guy — the one manning the drive-through grocery pick-up — doesn’t know what or who I once was, and it doesn’t matter. But the summer breeze carries the memories he doesn’t, and today it chides me. “I matter,” it says.

Even as I forget to take the long way home and avoid the lake traffic (such a simple thing to remember!), the vaguest details of my prior life waft through the open car windows and dance with a flurry of dog hair that springs from my dashboard. They badger me to go. Go again. Go now. Go fast. Just go.

My carriage, so natural then, still comes easily, but it’s a more practiced, more mindful pursuit, not quite forced. The cadence of my breath is an outpouring, no longer a meditation. Creaks and cricks pulse where none existed before. All as it should be; after all, I have run only once in the past four years.

I never liked the heat and how it smothered me, coaxing me to quit, snaking its way around my chest and daring me to take another breath. Today is not hot. Today is, in fact, perfect, and my shoes call to me.

I have cheated time. Yes, that’s a confession. A toe-touch away from 40 and a newly-minted mother to two late in life, I still have a runner’s build. The muscles return with little effort; they are not as twitchy as they once were, and they lie hidden under a layer of loosening skin and last night’s pasta, but they are still there and still formidable when pushed. Absolute truth be told and modesty aside, I’m not built much differently than I was in my late-20s, even if my body doesn’t fully remember those days and its accomplishments. But the trials of birth and mothering have armed me with a deliberate strength I never had before, a resolve that bridges the gap between what was and what is.

There are few photos of my previous life’s hobbies. I showed up on race day, sleep still in my eyes, did what had to be done, then puttered home to resume my normal life, with my hamstrings a little tighter and my mind a little freer. I went alone, because crossing the finish line is a solitary pursuit, and I have never had much interest in sharing my wins and losses. All but the most prized t-shirts have been discarded, along with a different marriage, a long career, and vast time to spare.

It will surprise some people to learn that I’ve run marathons. It seems laughable that I can’t remember how many, when they once represented so much to me. In that gap of memory, it seems that I’ve forgotten who I once was and what I did, no more knowledgeable about myself than the guy at the grocery store. But the breeze off Lake Calhoun reminded me today, and when this cough disappears (yet another affront to my youth), my body will remember, too. Even if I have to make it.

{by Erika from Be Gay About It}

The holiday season serves as a lap marker for me, that pristine line on the track where time is measured and recorded, where, at the end of the race, the ribbon snaps against the heaving torso of the runner, his arms splayed in euphoric victory, holding up the world.

We expect the race to end because that’s what races do.

*****

Five years ago, my brother began to swell. Fluid filled him from the bottom up, an army of ounces colonizing territory after territory in

his feet, his ankles, his calves,

his thighs, his waste, his abdomen, his chest.

Before he entered the hospital the first time, he visited me at my apartment, a sort of willful last act of normalcy and wellness. I remember that we sat on the floor because that was the only place comfortable enough for the sixty pounds of fluid that had inflated his trim, athletic frame. I don’t remember what we talked about that morning, just that we spent the time together.

That was before we knew what was happening. Before I knew the starting gun had fired.

In the weeks that followed, so did the tests and the doctors and the questions until, ultimately, our family lexicon had no choice but to admit cirrhosis, terminal, and transplant into membership. He spent four days in the hospital that first time and all I could do was try to cheer him up. I wheeled around his room in his wheelchair, crashing clownishly into the vinyl visitor chairs and tray table at every pivot. When he slept, I watched him, my eyes squinted in the flannel light of the over-the-sink fluorescent, wondering why he had been drafted for this particular marathon, while I had been spared.

{Originally published on Into the Rabbit Hole}

Tonight I put on my Express size 5/6 jeans again. I didn’t have to struggle, suck it in, or lay down to get them buttoned!

I never dreamed I would be able slide into these again. Since February, I’ve lost twenty pounds. That’s a lot, considering that I wasn’t fat to begin with. However, those twenty pounds were necessary, because now I definitely look better, feel healthier, and am more comfortable with my body.

Want to know my secret? Five simple words: “I love my beautiful body.”

Think about it! A person who loves their body will take care of it. If you were to body-sit for a loved one’s body, wouldn’t you do everything it needs, to make sure you return it happy and healthy? You’d feed it the most nutrient-rich, yummy food you could find, and you’d give it lots of exercise, and you’d never say things like, “You’re so fat,” or “God, if you could just lose fifteen pounds…” Hell no you wouldn’t say that!! If you were body-sitting, you would be kind and gentle, giving it everything it needed and telling it good things!

So, why is it that we don’t care for our bodies the way we know we need to?

I believe it’s has everything to do with how we think of our bodies. Instead of loving them, we put negative energy into our selves, wishing we could just lose (fill in the flaw)… or saying we’re not good enough until (fill in the ‘what am I lacking’)… Guess what! Thoughts like that affect our bodies.

You are what you think! And by changing the way I thought, I was able to bring forth to the outside of my body what it was that I thought from the inside of it. I wrote it in soap crayon on the tiles in my shower. I wrote it on my mirrors. Every time I turned the clasp on my necklace, I whispered, “I love my beautiful body.”

Eventually, I began to believe that. The power of your thoughts is everything. In order to break habitual thinking, or any habit for that matter, you must change that thought you express into something that is contradictory to what you have previously thought. For instance, when I quit smoking, I changed my self-perception into, “I am not a cigarette smoker.”

At first it was a struggle. “I love my beautiful body” conflicted with the original self image I had; it conflicted with the, I’m fats or I’m not pretty enoughs. That confliction is why I needed the reminders to change my thinking through out my day. I needed the necklace clasps and the soap crayons.

If you want to be beautiful from the outside, you must express beautiful things from the inside. Do not criticize your body; love it and care for it. Nurture it.

{Originally published on Mayberry Mom}

Yesterday afternoon my kids really wanted to go to the pool. Since I was already feeling peevish and whiny I refused. We actually have a really nice community pool here. It has an enormous shallow end with lots of fountains and sprayers and other fun stuff; it has two water slides, a huge grassy area, a big sand play area, a snack bar, and halfway decent locker rooms. It’s a five-minute walk from our house. Of course, the kids love it (anyway I think that’s a Little Kid Law, to love any and all swimming pools).

But yesterday I just wasn’t up for changing the clothes and slathering the sunscreen and packing the stuff and blah blah. And I especially wasn’t up for the post-pool herding of two children into the showers and back home (where I’d immediately have to move right into Dinner-Books-Bed mode).

So I brought out all my home-based water ammo: Let’s play with the volcano sprinkler! How about you guys can spray each other with hoses! I’ll blow up the little pool! They grudgingly agreed to the little pool. Which I then spent TWO HOURS trying to inflate with a bicycle pump. (Two hours, because I had to keep stopping to a] prevent myself from keeling over and b] check what mischief Opie was up to wandering around the house/yard by himself. Apparently, according to my husband we do have some kind of electric pump but all I could find was its tormentingly empty box.)

Of course the kids lost interest way before the pool was ever inflated. And my arms fell off and now I really don’t look good in a bathing suit even if you do overlook my stretchmarks and smushy belly.

And so the moral of the story is I should have just taken them to the pool that didn’t require inflating, mommy suit and all. Especially after last weekend’s visit to The Waterpark Capital of the WORLD (where people wander all over wearing next to nothing and believe me, some of them need just a little more something), I have come to terms with my tankinis and swim skirts. When I go to the pool, I accessorize my post-kid body with a couple of cute kids and that means a lot.

{Originally Published on This Woman’s Work}

I am blurry on the details. Both my parents were home, which makes me think it may have been a weekend. (My dad traveled most weekdays.) Also it was summer. I know this because I was in my underwear and a t-shirt. We were not a walk-around-in-your-underwear kind of family (not like my kids who regularly streak down the hall in little else) and I remember feeling quite daring for wearing a t-shirt and underwear to bed like my friend said she did. So I know I was already feeling a little over-exposed. And it must have been evening since I was (un)dressed for bed but I’m not sure how old I was. I want to say ten, maybe. Maybe eleven. It was before the divorce (because my dad was there) so let’s say ten.

I can’t remember — did my parents call me downstairs? Or did I come down to tell them something on my own? I also don’t remember exactly what they said but I do remember their worried, compassionate wrinkled brows and their assurances that they loved me. And I remember something vague about my dad having been a fat kid and how he didn’t want me to suffer the way he’d suffered. (But this adds to my confusion — maybe my father wasn’t there. Maybe he left it to my mom to tell me and I remember him being there because I remember my mom saying this. Or maybe she said this after this initial confrontation. It’s all a blur.)

I know they told me I was putting on a little too much weight, that maybe I needed to watch it a little because I was getting, well, I was getting chubby.

This is what stays with me: The cold, cold shame freezing my stomach and making my vision turn wide then small. My awareness of my physical vulnerability in my t-shirt and underwear. My want to disappear, pull a blanket over me. And my shock because no one — NO ONE — ever told me I was fat. No one had ever said these words to me. So the irony is that my parents wanted to protect me from the cruelty of other children but the only people who had ever told me I was fat were my parents who were telling me now. And this is also what stays with me: that spinning, empty feeling around my limbs as I realized that I did not know myself or my body. That my legs and arms and tummy were no longer close and familiar but were enemies bent on fooling me. Where I had felt strong and pretty, I now knew I had been mistaken and then I realized I had been a fool walking around in the world feeling good about myself because it was a secret from me, the way that other people saw me. And that was the shame that has, frankly, never left me. And this is a shame that I still feel around my family more than I feel it around anyone else because they were the ones to tell me.

{Originally published on Foment, Bee Lavender’s Journal}

For the most part I ignore my own dreary medical drama. There isn’t enough time in life to accommodate all the good stuff: adventure, travel, friends, love, lunacy.

This does not mean that I am exempt from fear and grief. I just save it up until the crisis has passed.

Riding the bus back to the city centre after my appointment, I could feel my heart racing, see my hands shaking.

Since I didn’t have my bicycle I could not literally ride away on a wave of anxiety, so I did the next best thing – talked to a friend who mocked me into a reasonably calm state.

Then I went searching for gifts for new babies, sweet boys, sick relatives.

At the toy store I queued up clutching a Playmobil figure without paying too much attention to my surroundings.

Apparently I had accidentally dropped in on a fashion conversation because the woman at the counter gestured and said Now this lady is chic.

I stared about in amazement since you would never normally see such a creature in this town but she was pointing at me.

Huh? What? I’m no lady (fill in your own vaudeville joke here) and my tattered sartorial state does not equate with ‘chic’ even on a good day.

I was not having a good day.

Though I have a special leftover childhood reserve of anxiety over what to wear to visit the doctor, this has in the last few years mainly translated to concepts like wear clean clothes that cover the tattoo.

{Originally posted on Fitness For Mommies}

A silly post for all the things I’d like to see invented for the active, athletic mom that I am.

1. I am an avid exerciser and need to wear my heart rate monitor when I run. HOWEVER, I always get nasty welts/blisters/chaff burns from the combination of the strap and the jog bra. The bra must be moisture-wicking, BOMB proof, and does not chaff my arm holes either. As yet, my best bra (CW-X extra Firm hold) does not solve the HR monitor strap problem.

2. A cup holder for my Mountain Bike. We do a lot of riding around town on the weekends and I’d surely would appreciate a way to cruise home with my speciality drink held securely on my bike. No spillage allowed.

3. Flash cards. I need flash cards that are laminated, BOMB proof (nobody can destroy them) for weight training. I have the equipment, I can carve out the time, but, I need routines written down and illustrated for me. Something I could grab and go do! Preferably the cards would come with multiple routines with various levels from beginner to advanced.

4. A DateBook. I need a datebook that has a calender, blank pages to write down all the food I put in my mouth, tracking of my workouts, as well as space for grocery lists, to do lists, etc.. It needs to be stylish looking on the outside- but very functional on the inside.

5. Stylish clothing for bike commuting that are also incredibly functional. My Lole top worked great today because I realized it had a pocket in the back for my cell phone. However, my really cute skort shorts were too short underneath- which lead to my inner legs to rub on the saddle- ouch!

{Originally published on Whoorl}

1. Enter Mother’s Market. Spend upwards of twenty minutes aimlessly walking around the store, feigning interest in various items while, in reality, you are too shy to ask the cute dude with dreads about the Neti Pot.

2. Locate a very tall Swedish man with a skinny plumber’s butt and ask for assistance locating the Neti Pots. Loudly knock over an organic tissue box display with your stroller.

3. Find and purchase Neti Pot.

4. Return home. Sit on couch. Take Neti Pot box out of the shopping bag.

5. Stare at Neti Pot box.

6. Repeat #5 several times.

7. Make dinner.

8. Finish dinner. Sit on couch.

9. Repeat #5.

10. Place Neti Pot box on the couch next to you, barely touching your leg. Pray that the physical contact alone will unleash the magical healing powers of the Neti Pot.

11. Realize magical Neti Pot diffusion isn’t happening. Decide to open the box.

12. While opening the box, notice the term “nasal douching” written on the side. Gag forcefully. Repeat #5.

Muffin Tin Monday = Lunch served in a Muffin Tin

The concept is not new, I’m sure many of you have seen this out in the mommy world of play dates and preschool. It’s a great way to break the monotony of daily lunch preparation. I also hope it will encourage me
to keep offering new foods to my kids – maybe they’ll even like one of them!

So, I officially declare Monday as Muffin Tin Monday. Join me!

{Originally published on Suburban Oblivion.}

What is it about the male ego? What is this inner drive they possess that makes them not just a normal person, but a sweat-soaked, testosterone-driven, strong as an ox, and hung like a bull, god-in-their-own-mind? And why do they turn into sniveling babies if anyone so much as hints they are anything less? And why are they so damn scared of skin care products??

I was in Target tonight when I happened to catch a glance at a new skin care line for men. I wouldn’t have even realized it was there had the words “Anti-Pale Skin Moisturizer” not jumped out at me. Anti-pale skin?? I’ve seen anti-redness creams, but never anti-pale stuff. Wtf? So I read further- “Provides gradual, natural looking color.” It took me a second to realize what I was actually looking at was sunless tanning lotion for men! Seems we have to be very careful with the wording, because I guess the male ego just could not handle using something with the words ‘tanning lotion’ in it? So now its not sunless tanning lotion, its anti-pale skin moisturizer. Riiiiiight. Anyone else find this funny? Just a little? Actually if you want a real good laugh, the directions further explain that you will see “maximum anti-pale, anti-pasty benefit within a week of twice-daily usage”. Gosh forbid ya just tell the guys they will start to see a little color on their face within a week. I checked my bottle of sunless tanning lotion, btw, and nowhere do the words “anti-pasty benefit” show up.

Naturally I had to check out this product line, and the madness continues. Men do not use things that make their skin fresh it seems, they use “Power Clean Anti-Dullness Face Wash”. (Sounds like something my husband would clean his car with.) Feeling dry? Try the “Hydrapower Invigorating Moisturizer”, or if you have combination skin, how about the “Oil Controller Anti-Oiliness Moisturizer”. And we must have our “Power Buff Anti-Ruffness Exfoliator”.

Is it just me or does all this stuff sound more like something you’d find in a garage than a medicine cabinet?