It's been kind of crazy this month.
My dad had surgery. It was elective surgery and we had been planning for weeks for it to be a certain day, which was good because he had time to get out-of-state family help (otherwise it's just me) and I had time to arrange childcare for four kids on the big day. Except he was offered a two week bump up in queue. And he took it. Which meant he had no extra out of state help and I was left scrambling for childcare.
Thank God my in-laws are The Jam and cheerfully helped me out of one.
But it was a week full of logistical headaches as I tried to figure out how to help out the patriarch while still holding up my responsibilities at home. (His surgery went well. My highlights included sitting with him for five and a half hours in a 100 bed recovery bay, but not on the chair with wheels because "you might get hurt." The nurse could not be swayed by my argument that I am a 33 year old college graduate routinely left with four children in her care; simply put, I pose too much of a danger with a cushion-y chair on wheels. Apparently I could handle a hard plastic folding chair with a tiny seat
(Also, I forgot to eat lunch because I was rushing to the hospital so when I left the hospital at dinner time I went to the closest fast food joint and ordered some little fried chicken sandwiches, because obviously when fatty food is smaller you can order more of it. That's how nutrition works, y'all.)(The best part of my KFC experience was that I didn't know how the money exchange part works in a drive-thru when bulletproof glass in involved. I'm so suburban. It's not like my soccer mom outfit and father-in-law's hot Ford Flex with Sirius Satellite Radio were helping me look more street.)(But the Midwest gang sign I threw as I was leaving totally did.)(The Midwest gang sign is like the sign for "Westside" but it's just upside down. You know, like an "M".)(I was going to go with the actual sign language sign for "corn" but it's a little suggestive when you don't know actual sign language.)
Also, I quit Jillian. This stresses me out but I know it was the right decision. The whole point of a personal exercise challenge is to keep me interested in exercise. I realized I was dreading her video to the point that I chose to skip it. It wasn't that it was too hard (although it was totally hard, for sure) but more that I do really badly working out on my own. My pride is simply too big and flourishes under public forms of exercise. You know, like running down the street, knowing everyone on my block has dropped what they are doing in order to judge my form, pace, and stamina. Or taking a class with people who are spending every second of their own workout checking out my progress. Clearly. So the next challenge is a 10K in a few weeks. That is training I will stick to. And enjoy
Then Esther had an incident. You know, the kind where she jumped on the indoor trampoline (don't judge me) and flew face first into the coffee table. (This was prior to the current game of Jump from the Kitchen Counter Onto the Couch.) Which meant a trip to Urgent Care with the four kiddos. At lunch time. When Ezra had speech in an hour. 40 minutes away. (Thank God again for the in-laws.)
She ended up needing two stitches in her lip.
I ended the stress of the week by using a Groupon I had for Jungle Java to provide an outlet for my little darlings, and a couch and cup of sugary caffeinated deliciousness for me. This is where Ezra had access to three stories of fun climbing things, slides, and padded walls and floors, but instead opted to sprint to the cafe kitchen, restrooms, and water fountain whenever my head was turned. He also took full advantage of the uncovered power outlets which he doesn't give the time of day at home. Sheesh, son. All I wanted to do was sit. And drink expensive coffee while I sat. And not really do anything other than...sit. But thank you for all the dashing, squatting, and lifting you put me through because it just gave me the best business idea ever.
Toddler Tone: Personal Training for Real Life.
This is the plan. You hire me to be your personal trainer. We meet at Jungle Java, where I unleash my girlies to wreak havoc to their heart's content. I pass along responsibility of Ezra to you, and you chase him for one hour. I can guarantee a calorie burn of around 300, along with increase in muscle fibers, the testing of reflexes, and most importantly, the knowledge that it will officially be over in an hour. You don't have to survive until bedtime. (That alone is priceless.)
All I ask is you learn three simple phrases to aid in communicating with your Training Assistant:
1. "That's not your juice box."
2."We don't touch the potty/outlet/refrigerator
3."Say please, Dude*."
*'Dude' is optional per your personal taste.
I think I finally found my million dollar idea.
So, thanks for making it this far in my "I'm a big fat whiiiiiiiiiiner post." As your reward:
|Dear Faithful Reader, |
I'm heading for brighter days. I know this mainly because: