Repost -- because we're going thru it again. Same kid, same symptoms. Originally published 12/22/10
Number 2 son woke up last night with a fever & sore throat.
I am sure there are moms who dose the kid with Tylenol, give him a kiss on the forehead and go back to sleep. It's only a fever. Fevers are good -- they build the immune system and fight invaders. In an otherwise healthy kid, they are nothing to worry about. But I am a worrier.
After the Tylenol and the kiss, he says "Will you sleep with me Mama?" Of course I will sleep with you, baby.
I don't care that there isn't room for me and that I won't be able to fall asleep. I will lay there, listening to his ragged breathing through his congested nose and worry that the fever is the first sign of Meningitis. I will worry about whether his shots are up to date (they are) and wonder how contagious he is. I will worry about his brothers and wonder if they are incubating fevers of their own.
And he will reach over to me and slip his hot little hand under the sleeve of my nightgown so he can snuggle my arms. The arms that keep me from going sleeveless. After working out for six months, they are strong now, and the muscles are hard beneath the jiggly layer of fat. But it's the jiggly part that he needs to make him feel better when he's sick.
And for once, I am grateful for snuggly arms.
Showing posts with label Re-post. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Re-post. Show all posts
Monday, March 19, 2012
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Repost: O to be a child again. . . .
Because I can't think of anything new to say, I looked through old posts to see if I felt like re-posting anything. This one was posted on August 28, 2010. Funny how some things have changed and some remain the same.
Yesterday my 2 older boys stayed home from school. They weren't sick or anything -- Joseph's pet jellyfish were being delivered yesterday, and they wanted to make sure to be home for delivery.
Yeah, we have jellyfish for pets. (They're dead now.)
After the pets made it into their tank safely, I wanted to work out.
I actually wanted to. Weird, right?
We packed a bag full of toys & books and headed out to V-Fit.
The toys and books amused the boys for 25 seconds.
Hardly anyone was there, so it was OK for them to walk around a bit. I was doing jump squats. Jump squats aren't my favorite. Especially when I have to do 4 sets of 25. Especially when the boys thought the squats looked like fun, so they decided to do it too. (4 setsof 25???? Bwahahahhahahah)
When I do jump squats, I jump-squat-grunt. Sometimes I jump-grunt-squat. (yeah. still do that)
When my boys do jump squats, they jump-say WHEE-squat-giggle.Then they say "Look, I can go fast!" and do about 30 in quick succession with perfect form and don't sweat.
Then it was time to do these horrible things where I sit on the floor, balance on my butt, keep my feet 6 inches off the floor, and take a 4 lb medicine ball and weave it in a figure 8 around my legs. When you do it right, it looks really, really smooth. When you've had 3 C-Sections, it doesn't look quite so pretty. (still not pretty)
Plus, it's hard to keep everything in. In other words, I go grunt-weave-pfft-grunt-weave-repeat. The "pfft" part made my boys laugh hysterically. Especially because I have always told them that going pfft is very rude.
Only Daddies go "pfft".
Never mommies. (no comment)
Next I did leg presses on the machine. Luke wanted to sit on my lap, but I said no.
"Is it because it will make you fart again?"
"No! Just go play for 5 minutes, willya?"
Finally it was time to do the pit. My boys love the pit. They run down, say "Chase me Mama!" and scoot back up. Over and over. Laughing and giggling while I wheeze and huff.
"Mama - remember when you were playing with that ball and you farted? That was funny!" said Joe, as if it happened years ago and not just 30 minutes ago.
Finally it was time to leave.
We see Victor on the way out. Victor cut his hair short, which really brings out his big brown eyes, his lantern jaw and shows the sinewy muscles of his neck. Sigh.
Victor says "Hey! How was the work out?!"
Luke says "Mama farted!"
That kid is lucky to still be alive
Yesterday my 2 older boys stayed home from school. They weren't sick or anything -- Joseph's pet jellyfish were being delivered yesterday, and they wanted to make sure to be home for delivery.
Yeah, we have jellyfish for pets. (They're dead now.)
After the pets made it into their tank safely, I wanted to work out.
I actually wanted to. Weird, right?
We packed a bag full of toys & books and headed out to V-Fit.
The toys and books amused the boys for 25 seconds.
Hardly anyone was there, so it was OK for them to walk around a bit. I was doing jump squats. Jump squats aren't my favorite. Especially when I have to do 4 sets of 25. Especially when the boys thought the squats looked like fun, so they decided to do it too. (4 setsof 25???? Bwahahahhahahah)
When I do jump squats, I jump-squat-grunt. Sometimes I jump-grunt-squat. (yeah. still do that)
When my boys do jump squats, they jump-say WHEE-squat-giggle.Then they say "Look, I can go fast!" and do about 30 in quick succession with perfect form and don't sweat.
Then it was time to do these horrible things where I sit on the floor, balance on my butt, keep my feet 6 inches off the floor, and take a 4 lb medicine ball and weave it in a figure 8 around my legs. When you do it right, it looks really, really smooth. When you've had 3 C-Sections, it doesn't look quite so pretty. (still not pretty)
Plus, it's hard to keep everything in. In other words, I go grunt-weave-pfft-grunt-weave-repeat. The "pfft" part made my boys laugh hysterically. Especially because I have always told them that going pfft is very rude.
Only Daddies go "pfft".
Never mommies. (no comment)
Next I did leg presses on the machine. Luke wanted to sit on my lap, but I said no.
"Is it because it will make you fart again?"
"No! Just go play for 5 minutes, willya?"
Finally it was time to do the pit. My boys love the pit. They run down, say "Chase me Mama!" and scoot back up. Over and over. Laughing and giggling while I wheeze and huff.
"Mama - remember when you were playing with that ball and you farted? That was funny!" said Joe, as if it happened years ago and not just 30 minutes ago.
Finally it was time to leave.
We see Victor on the way out. Victor cut his hair short, which really brings out his big brown eyes, his lantern jaw and shows the sinewy muscles of his neck. Sigh.
Victor says "Hey! How was the work out?!"
Luke says "Mama farted!"
That kid is lucky to still be alive
Thursday, September 1, 2011
A Repost: Tenacity
Originally posted June 2010:
For some reason, I hate to be told I can't do something.
It's childish, really.
But it has worked to my advantage.
My mom used to tell me "not to feel bad" if I tried something & failed. "Don't feel bad if you don't get picked for the team", "Don't feel bad if you don't get asked to the dance", "Don't feel bad if you don't win the election". . . .When I tried & failed, she usually would say "You didn't want to do that anyway", or "He'll never amount to anything anyway", or "They are all stuck up."
But when I tried & succeeded, she was always excited . . . . and surprised.
Because Mom thought that fat girls couldn't do everything thin girls could do. She never said so, and I am sure she would deny it even now. My mom loves me. When I hurt, she hurt. It's not that she didn't believe in me, she was just trying to spare me pain & humiliation.
But for some reason, pain & humiliation never bothered me much. I guess I was used to it.
I knew I would never get anywhere by relying on my looks, my brains, or my connections. I'm attractive, but not beautiful; bright, but not brilliant; and I'm not exactly an A-lister.
But I'm funny. And I don't give up.
One of my favorite quotes is something I found in a sales journal years ago:
Don't Quit.
Is that what you want to do? Quit?
It takes no talent, it takes no guts.
It is exactly what your adversaries want you to do.
So get your facts straight.
Know what you are talking about.
And keep going.
I don't know who wrote it, but I have never forgotten it.
My other favorite quote is from Theodore Roosevelt:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”
So, I don't quit.
When I was 16, I worked for Osco Drugs. It was supposed to be a great job. I made more than minimum wage, I was inside, didn't have to mop floors or serve food. But I hated that job. The management was vile. There was one little man who made it his personal mission to belittle & insult the teenagers who worked there.
I hated it so much, that I used to wish I'd get hit by a car on my way to work so I wouldn't have to go in. (psycho, right?). For some reason, I felt I couldn't quit until I worked there at least six months.
As soon as I hit six months, I quit and went to work at Showbiz Pizza Place. (It was a precursor to Chuck E. Cheese). I worked at Showbiz for about 3 years, making pizzas, mopping floors, dressing up like Billy Bob Bear for the birthday parties.
It was WAY better than working at Osco.
For some reason, I hate to be told I can't do something.
It's childish, really.
But it has worked to my advantage.
My mom used to tell me "not to feel bad" if I tried something & failed. "Don't feel bad if you don't get picked for the team", "Don't feel bad if you don't get asked to the dance", "Don't feel bad if you don't win the election". . . .When I tried & failed, she usually would say "You didn't want to do that anyway", or "He'll never amount to anything anyway", or "They are all stuck up."
But when I tried & succeeded, she was always excited . . . . and surprised.
Because Mom thought that fat girls couldn't do everything thin girls could do. She never said so, and I am sure she would deny it even now. My mom loves me. When I hurt, she hurt. It's not that she didn't believe in me, she was just trying to spare me pain & humiliation.
But for some reason, pain & humiliation never bothered me much. I guess I was used to it.
I knew I would never get anywhere by relying on my looks, my brains, or my connections. I'm attractive, but not beautiful; bright, but not brilliant; and I'm not exactly an A-lister.
But I'm funny. And I don't give up.
One of my favorite quotes is something I found in a sales journal years ago:
Don't Quit.
Is that what you want to do? Quit?
It takes no talent, it takes no guts.
It is exactly what your adversaries want you to do.
So get your facts straight.
Know what you are talking about.
And keep going.
I don't know who wrote it, but I have never forgotten it.
My other favorite quote is from Theodore Roosevelt:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”
So, I don't quit.
When I was 16, I worked for Osco Drugs. It was supposed to be a great job. I made more than minimum wage, I was inside, didn't have to mop floors or serve food. But I hated that job. The management was vile. There was one little man who made it his personal mission to belittle & insult the teenagers who worked there.
I hated it so much, that I used to wish I'd get hit by a car on my way to work so I wouldn't have to go in. (psycho, right?). For some reason, I felt I couldn't quit until I worked there at least six months.
As soon as I hit six months, I quit and went to work at Showbiz Pizza Place. (It was a precursor to Chuck E. Cheese). I worked at Showbiz for about 3 years, making pizzas, mopping floors, dressing up like Billy Bob Bear for the birthday parties.
It was WAY better than working at Osco.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Re-Post - Not all Fat Girls are Self Loathing Hoarders
Having bloggers block, so I thought I'd re-post an oldie titled Not All Fat Girls are Self Loathing Hoarders:
Yes Jillian Michaels, I am talking to YOU.
I've seen the previews for your new show.
I watched your intense kohl-lined eyes framed by perfectly tousled tresses stare into the pink, sweaty & makeup-free face of your "client". Whatever. I look just like that girl when I work out except I don't cry like an idiot. When I work out (2 miles yesterday thankyouverymuch!), my hair is back in a chongo (which is South Texican for ponytail. Awesome word, right??), I'm wearing glasses instead of contacts, and my face is bright red.
I watched the blonde, composed and beautifully made up doctor chastise the pink-faced crying girl about her weight. I heard her say something like "If you don't do something about this, you are going to have to make arrangements for someone else to take care of your kids!" Excuse me? She IS doing something about it. She's at the doctor. (I'll rant about doctors and weight loss in a minute).
Then I watched Jillian & her tight abs walk through a very cluttered room, while Pinkface sobs in the background.
That's the preview.
Can't wait to see the show.
Know what? I am not going to watch it. And I am going to ask you not to watch it.
Why?
Because as far as I can see, this show is about perpetuating the myth that one can only truly be happy when they are fit, thin and clutter free.
I am sure the pink faced crying girl is going to have a happy ending. I am sure she has real issues. And I know a lot of us feel like you do, Pinky. But you're not helping us by letting Jillian humiliate you publicly.
When Dr. Model chastises you, you need to look her calmly in the eye and say "I understand there are significant health implications. That's why I am here. I don't appreciate your condescending tone. I am not stupid."
I am sure that Dr. Model doesn't berate her other clients with chronic health conditions. I am sure her asthma patients aren't told that they have character issues because of their condition. Does she tell patients with eczema that they need to make arrangements to have someone care for their families? No. She treats them. With respect.
I asked my doctor (who is also beautiful, but not condescending) why she couldn't treat my weight like she would any other chronic illness. Know why? Insurance. So she sent me to Weight Watchers. The only way my weight can be treated by a physician is if I have gastric bypass surgery.
Is it just me, or is there something horribly wrong with a system that expects for-profit companies to treat an illness, and then when it doesn't work, they will pay to have a major organ amputated?
I'm not up for gastric bypass -- at least not now. But it would be better than having Jillian Michaels humiliate me in front of a TV Audience.
*******UPDATE***********
Is that show still on??
Isn't it funny that I obviously DON'T like J.M., but her ads pop up all over my blog?
Great way to sell your shit, Jillian! (You know she has her name google-alerted) Oh, and Jillian? Eat something.
Yes Jillian Michaels, I am talking to YOU.
I've seen the previews for your new show.
I watched your intense kohl-lined eyes framed by perfectly tousled tresses stare into the pink, sweaty & makeup-free face of your "client". Whatever. I look just like that girl when I work out except I don't cry like an idiot. When I work out (2 miles yesterday thankyouverymuch!), my hair is back in a chongo (which is South Texican for ponytail. Awesome word, right??), I'm wearing glasses instead of contacts, and my face is bright red.
I watched the blonde, composed and beautifully made up doctor chastise the pink-faced crying girl about her weight. I heard her say something like "If you don't do something about this, you are going to have to make arrangements for someone else to take care of your kids!" Excuse me? She IS doing something about it. She's at the doctor. (I'll rant about doctors and weight loss in a minute).
Then I watched Jillian & her tight abs walk through a very cluttered room, while Pinkface sobs in the background.
That's the preview.
Can't wait to see the show.
Know what? I am not going to watch it. And I am going to ask you not to watch it.
Why?
Because as far as I can see, this show is about perpetuating the myth that one can only truly be happy when they are fit, thin and clutter free.
I am sure the pink faced crying girl is going to have a happy ending. I am sure she has real issues. And I know a lot of us feel like you do, Pinky. But you're not helping us by letting Jillian humiliate you publicly.
When Dr. Model chastises you, you need to look her calmly in the eye and say "I understand there are significant health implications. That's why I am here. I don't appreciate your condescending tone. I am not stupid."
I am sure that Dr. Model doesn't berate her other clients with chronic health conditions. I am sure her asthma patients aren't told that they have character issues because of their condition. Does she tell patients with eczema that they need to make arrangements to have someone care for their families? No. She treats them. With respect.
I asked my doctor (who is also beautiful, but not condescending) why she couldn't treat my weight like she would any other chronic illness. Know why? Insurance. So she sent me to Weight Watchers. The only way my weight can be treated by a physician is if I have gastric bypass surgery.
Is it just me, or is there something horribly wrong with a system that expects for-profit companies to treat an illness, and then when it doesn't work, they will pay to have a major organ amputated?
I'm not up for gastric bypass -- at least not now. But it would be better than having Jillian Michaels humiliate me in front of a TV Audience.
*******UPDATE***********
Is that show still on??
Isn't it funny that I obviously DON'T like J.M., but her ads pop up all over my blog?
Great way to sell your shit, Jillian! (You know she has her name google-alerted) Oh, and Jillian? Eat something.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Hey Councilman Leroy G. Comrie Jr.! LEAVE HAPPY MEALS ALONE!
They are doing it again.
Taking a Stand against Happy Meals.
Because New York doesn't have other things to TAKE A STAND on. Like violence against women (hello??? -- Girlz Gone Wild??? ), or drug addiction, or fiscal issues.
Let's get the fat people. Today my blog idol The Bitchy Waiter posted a well thought out (and funny) piece on this issue. Read it, OK?
I posted a well thought out (and funny) piece three months ago.
So, to reaffirm my position on this issue, I am re-posting The Happy Meal Debate, originally published on Thursday, January 6, 2011.
Enjoy.
I wasn't going to make a statement about the whole Banning Happy Meals issue. Because you KNOW I wouldn't support that even if they gave me free fries for life.
First of all, I love McDonald's. Worked there for a summer in college -- had a blast. I grew up very near Hamburger U & believe me, I support their corporate culture.
Also, anyone who thinks Happy Meals promote childhood obesity has obviously never sat near a kid with a Happy Meal.
A few weeks ago, we went to the beach. (We live in South Texas and the beach in November is AWESOME!). Afterwards, we picked up lunch. A Quarter Pound of yummy for me, Greg & Joe (with fries and a real coke. MMMMMM), happy meals for the littles. Quality family time. With fries. But we were at the beach first. Running, swimming and playing. Very active.
Here is an example of my end of the conversation:
Me: Look, a Bakugan Toy! Good. Let's put it away until after lunch.
Me: I said AFTER lunch.
Me: AFTER.
Me: I will throw that damn thing in the trash if you don't take a bite of your sandwich right now.
Me: Just eat three fries.
Me: Three.
Me. You asked for the nuggets, now eat them.
Me: He gets the cheeseburger because he asked for it. You asked for chicken, now eat it.
Me: No -- he cannot have your cheeseburger. You eat it.
Me: You don't have to eat all the fries. Just a few.
Me: I will eat the rest of the fries. Don't worry. Just take a few bites of chicken.
Me: Can't you eat the whole nugget?
Me: I told you AFTER lunch. You have to eat it. You can't just wait until we're done.
Me: Fine. But if you're hungry later, too bad.
See, kids don't eat Happy Meals. Some moms (like me) finish Happy Meals. So Happy Meals do not promote childhood obesity. They just make moms fatter.
THIS is what kids want to do with Happy Meals.
I rest my case.
Taking a Stand against Happy Meals.
Because New York doesn't have other things to TAKE A STAND on. Like violence against women (hello??? -- Girlz Gone Wild??? ), or drug addiction, or fiscal issues.
Let's get the fat people. Today my blog idol The Bitchy Waiter posted a well thought out (and funny) piece on this issue. Read it, OK?
I posted a well thought out (and funny) piece three months ago.
So, to reaffirm my position on this issue, I am re-posting The Happy Meal Debate, originally published on Thursday, January 6, 2011.
Enjoy.
I wasn't going to make a statement about the whole Banning Happy Meals issue. Because you KNOW I wouldn't support that even if they gave me free fries for life.
First of all, I love McDonald's. Worked there for a summer in college -- had a blast. I grew up very near Hamburger U & believe me, I support their corporate culture.
Also, anyone who thinks Happy Meals promote childhood obesity has obviously never sat near a kid with a Happy Meal.
A few weeks ago, we went to the beach. (We live in South Texas and the beach in November is AWESOME!). Afterwards, we picked up lunch. A Quarter Pound of yummy for me, Greg & Joe (with fries and a real coke. MMMMMM), happy meals for the littles. Quality family time. With fries. But we were at the beach first. Running, swimming and playing. Very active.
Here is an example of my end of the conversation:
Me: Look, a Bakugan Toy! Good. Let's put it away until after lunch.
Me: I said AFTER lunch.
Me: AFTER.
Me: I will throw that damn thing in the trash if you don't take a bite of your sandwich right now.
Me: Just eat three fries.
Me: Three.
Me. You asked for the nuggets, now eat them.
Me: He gets the cheeseburger because he asked for it. You asked for chicken, now eat it.
Me: No -- he cannot have your cheeseburger. You eat it.
Me: You don't have to eat all the fries. Just a few.
Me: I will eat the rest of the fries. Don't worry. Just take a few bites of chicken.
Me: Can't you eat the whole nugget?
Me: I told you AFTER lunch. You have to eat it. You can't just wait until we're done.
Me: Fine. But if you're hungry later, too bad.
See, kids don't eat Happy Meals. Some moms (like me) finish Happy Meals. So Happy Meals do not promote childhood obesity. They just make moms fatter.
THIS is what kids want to do with Happy Meals.
I rest my case.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
A Sunday Re-Post
It's Sunday. I have nothing new. So here's an old favorite.
We went to the Last Chance Mass on Sunday – 6pm. For us Catholics, keeping the Sabbath holy means getting to mass on Sunday. (We also strive to rest, meditate, do good deeds, spend time with family . . . but most importantly – get your ass to mass!)
Because it was the Last Chance Mass, it was also the “Come as You Are” Mass. In other words – jeans are fine. Just wipe the peanut butter off the kids and strap them in the car seat because we gotta go.
Please know: this is not a complaint. I love going to mass. I love it. I love the fellowship, I love the mystery, the prayer . . . I love spending time with my Jesus surrounded by my family. I am a Catholic by birth, yes. More importantly, I am a Catholic by choice.
One of the things I LOVE about my tribe is that we have so many opportunities to get to mass. You can go late Saturday, early Sunday, not-so-early Sunday, noon Sunday, or Late Sunday. This week, we chose late Sunday.
Because our kiddos are little, we generally split our masses. Greg likes going late Sunday, I like going Sunday morning. That way we don’t always have to take the 5 year old & 2 year old. To kids that age, a 45 minute mass is eternity. If a certain priest is giving the homily, make that eternity plus 15 minutes. (Sorry Father, but it’s the truth.)
This week, we didn’t divide and conquer. We took everybody.
When we take whole family, my husband goes into the pew first. The 8 year old is next. Then the 5 year old, me & the 2 year old bring up the rear. We kneel and say a pre-mass prayer. At this point the 5 year old – who will never admit to being tired under any other circumstance – is suddenly exhausted. He immediately lies down on my lap. The 8 year old will decide that sitting upright is too much of an effort, so he leans against my other side. The 2 year old then proceeds to climb me like a jungle gym. Meanwhile, my husband is sitting a little apart, comfortably listening to the readings.
When it’s time to stand, I pick up 2 year old and nudge the older boys reluctantly to their feet. Then 2 year old decides he’s had enough and shimmies down. As soon as his feet touch the terrazzo floor, he begins to climb again. And on we go.
We’re not unique – look around and every family with small children is doing some variation of the same dance.
This Sunday, there was a new twist to the mass dance.
As 5 year old leaned and 2 year old climbed, my jeans started to scoot south. I hitched them up as best as I could, retrieved 2 year old from his 10 seconds on the floor and tried to listen to the gospel. Bored with his 20 seconds in my arms, 2 year old climbed down again. And took my jeans with him.
My 2 year old literally pulled my pants off during mass.
That means that half the church plus the choir loft saw my blue-polka-dot-boy-shorts from Lane Bryant.
Thank GOD I didn’t wear a thong.
We went to the Last Chance Mass on Sunday – 6pm. For us Catholics, keeping the Sabbath holy means getting to mass on Sunday. (We also strive to rest, meditate, do good deeds, spend time with family . . . but most importantly – get your ass to mass!)
Because it was the Last Chance Mass, it was also the “Come as You Are” Mass. In other words – jeans are fine. Just wipe the peanut butter off the kids and strap them in the car seat because we gotta go.
Please know: this is not a complaint. I love going to mass. I love it. I love the fellowship, I love the mystery, the prayer . . . I love spending time with my Jesus surrounded by my family. I am a Catholic by birth, yes. More importantly, I am a Catholic by choice.
One of the things I LOVE about my tribe is that we have so many opportunities to get to mass. You can go late Saturday, early Sunday, not-so-early Sunday, noon Sunday, or Late Sunday. This week, we chose late Sunday.
Because our kiddos are little, we generally split our masses. Greg likes going late Sunday, I like going Sunday morning. That way we don’t always have to take the 5 year old & 2 year old. To kids that age, a 45 minute mass is eternity. If a certain priest is giving the homily, make that eternity plus 15 minutes. (Sorry Father, but it’s the truth.)
This week, we didn’t divide and conquer. We took everybody.
When we take whole family, my husband goes into the pew first. The 8 year old is next. Then the 5 year old, me & the 2 year old bring up the rear. We kneel and say a pre-mass prayer. At this point the 5 year old – who will never admit to being tired under any other circumstance – is suddenly exhausted. He immediately lies down on my lap. The 8 year old will decide that sitting upright is too much of an effort, so he leans against my other side. The 2 year old then proceeds to climb me like a jungle gym. Meanwhile, my husband is sitting a little apart, comfortably listening to the readings.
When it’s time to stand, I pick up 2 year old and nudge the older boys reluctantly to their feet. Then 2 year old decides he’s had enough and shimmies down. As soon as his feet touch the terrazzo floor, he begins to climb again. And on we go.
We’re not unique – look around and every family with small children is doing some variation of the same dance.
This Sunday, there was a new twist to the mass dance.
As 5 year old leaned and 2 year old climbed, my jeans started to scoot south. I hitched them up as best as I could, retrieved 2 year old from his 10 seconds on the floor and tried to listen to the gospel. Bored with his 20 seconds in my arms, 2 year old climbed down again. And took my jeans with him.
My 2 year old literally pulled my pants off during mass.
That means that half the church plus the choir loft saw my blue-polka-dot-boy-shorts from Lane Bryant.
Thank GOD I didn’t wear a thong.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
A Repost
Too lazy to come up with something new, I am re-posting an oldie. I liked this one, but my mom says I swear too much. So, if swearing offends you, please don't read this, 'kay?
I don't know why this bugs me so much, but it does.
I mean RANKLES. Annoys. Irritates. Bothers. Frustrates. Grates, peeves and vexes.
A few times a year, I decide enough is enough and I work on my fitness. I vow to eat better, exercise more and embrace a healthier lifestyle. My goal is health, you understand. If I am a few dress sizes smaller, so be it.
Fitness shows. It shows in the way your clothes fit. It shows in what you eat & drink. It shows in how you feel. It shows.
And when people compliment me on it, I want to scream.
Specifically:
"Oh my God you are getting so skinny!" (I am a size twenty-fucking-two. On what universe is that skinny?)
"You look great! Keep it up!" (Keep it up? If you like someones hair color, would you tell them to keep it up? "Love the blond, Carmen! Keep it up girl! Don't let those roots creep back down! Get yourself to the stylist! And don't forget to condition!!" Seriously? Seriously. Pisses me off.)
"You are so good!" ( Well, fuck you very much. Know what? Fitness is not a moral issue. I am no better than I was 10 lbs ago. Mother Teresa was good. I'm just doing my best.)
And then there are the affiliators. These are the people who want to make sure you know that they understand. They've been there. Unless you've lived a good part of your life as a size 20 or larger? You haven't been here. Affiliators say shit like this:
"I just lost 20 lbs -- I was disgusting!" ( Pedophiles are disgusting. Fat people are not.)
"What worked for me was I just cut my fruit up as soon as I came home from the grocery store & put it in the fridge, so my snack was all ready." (The person who makes this comment is always someone who went from a size 6 to a size 4. Always. No wonder I am a size 24. My fucking fruit isn't cut up.)
"If I need to lose a few lbs, I just don't eat lunch for a few days." (That's my husband. He's a man. He's Japanese -- well, technically, he's Okinawan -- I mean ethnically he's Okinawan because he was born in California. But back to the point. Japanese-Okinawan MEN do not have weight problems so shuthefuckup.)
I guess what I am trying to say is: I am going to be exercising. I am modifying my food choices. I am going to look different. If you like it, tell me I look fabulous.
Then shut up.
P.S. - do I still feel this way, even after all my working out? Yes. Shaddap. But thanks for the support.
I don't know why this bugs me so much, but it does.
I mean RANKLES. Annoys. Irritates. Bothers. Frustrates. Grates, peeves and vexes.
A few times a year, I decide enough is enough and I work on my fitness. I vow to eat better, exercise more and embrace a healthier lifestyle. My goal is health, you understand. If I am a few dress sizes smaller, so be it.
Fitness shows. It shows in the way your clothes fit. It shows in what you eat & drink. It shows in how you feel. It shows.
And when people compliment me on it, I want to scream.
Specifically:
"Oh my God you are getting so skinny!" (I am a size twenty-fucking-two. On what universe is that skinny?)
"You look great! Keep it up!" (Keep it up? If you like someones hair color, would you tell them to keep it up? "Love the blond, Carmen! Keep it up girl! Don't let those roots creep back down! Get yourself to the stylist! And don't forget to condition!!" Seriously? Seriously. Pisses me off.)
"You are so good!" ( Well, fuck you very much. Know what? Fitness is not a moral issue. I am no better than I was 10 lbs ago. Mother Teresa was good. I'm just doing my best.)
And then there are the affiliators. These are the people who want to make sure you know that they understand. They've been there. Unless you've lived a good part of your life as a size 20 or larger? You haven't been here. Affiliators say shit like this:
"I just lost 20 lbs -- I was disgusting!" ( Pedophiles are disgusting. Fat people are not.)
"What worked for me was I just cut my fruit up as soon as I came home from the grocery store & put it in the fridge, so my snack was all ready." (The person who makes this comment is always someone who went from a size 6 to a size 4. Always. No wonder I am a size 24. My fucking fruit isn't cut up.)
"If I need to lose a few lbs, I just don't eat lunch for a few days." (That's my husband. He's a man. He's Japanese -- well, technically, he's Okinawan -- I mean ethnically he's Okinawan because he was born in California. But back to the point. Japanese-Okinawan MEN do not have weight problems so shuthefuckup.)
I guess what I am trying to say is: I am going to be exercising. I am modifying my food choices. I am going to look different. If you like it, tell me I look fabulous.
Then shut up.
P.S. - do I still feel this way, even after all my working out? Yes. Shaddap. But thanks for the support.
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