I'm pretty sure Jake is a meth dealer.

Delt and Trap inhibitor taping
Kinesio tape 4 lyfe

I'm equally in awe and super pissed at the complexity of the human shoulder. There are a lot of little muscles, tendons, arteries and such streaming allllll through that mess. I've discovered that they are all a bit interconnected. If you make one angry they can collectively gang up on you in group protest, because apparently they have unionized and know the power of collective bargaining. Like, "Oh, Kel, you messing with ROTATOR CUFF? Let me introduce you to Rotator's friends: Pec Major, Pec Minor, Long Bicep, Delt, and Tri. Under the superb leadership of Captain Trapezius they will no longer be working for you. Until, of course, you take care of Rotator Cuff who is a giant PITA and made up of a billion (or four - whatever) tendons."

In related news, that shoulder injury I mentioned in passing a few months ago? IS SLOWLY KILLING ME. When it wasn't healing on its own (i.e. me complaining about it and icing it sporadically) I ended up at physical therapy three times a week where they actually had a plan in place to fix my rotator cuff (and pec major, pec minor, and long bicep)(because they are all in on it). This plan involved rehabilitation that included not only a therapist and a team of techs but also the instructions that I not lift anything outside of therapy.

I'll let that sink in a moment.

No lifting. No training for my powerlifting meet. No access to my favorite (and most effective) method of stress management. No getting stronger or sculpting my body. No lifting.

My first session should have been a heads up that I was going to need to be in this for the long haul. My assessment was with my new physical therapist Jake (who fully embraced Movember by growing a wicked 'stache and saying the words "testicular cancer" way too frequently) (and also scarily reminded me of Walter White from Breaking Bad with his shaved head and reddish mustache) (the obvious conclusion is that Jake is a meth dealer) (I'm pretty sure). He also totally reminds me of my little brother in that he doesn't think I'm funny at all let me get away with ANYTHING.

Our first session went well. By well I mean I fully expected to be rehabilitated and back lifting my maxes in less than a week and Jake understood the reality of the situation and CRUSHED MY SOUL with the truth.

An average therapy session starts with 15 minutes of heat, then moves on to a bunch of exercises to strengthen my back and the muscles in my shoulder. I do these exercises under the supervision of one of three techs: Matteo, Tim, or Shane. At home I call them The White Hats because they remind me of the easy-going jock frat boys from college. Their primary job is to make sure I am doing each exercise safely and effectively tell on me to Jake when I ask to up my weights again. These guys are so much fun.

Next is 20 minutes of hands on therapy with Jake while we fight about what I can and can't do at the gym, a short ultrasound treatment (that I'm convinced is going to give me super powers a la Peter Parker and the radioactive spider bite), and finishes with 15 of the best minutes of my life spent in a machine called GAME READY *angel chorus sings*.

"Darling, it pains me that you can't deadlift."

Game Ready is a cold and compression machine that feels like swimming in McDonald's iced coffee while Tom Hiddleston reads you poetry and calls you "darling" in Loki's voice. I get velcroed (totally a verb) in an arm/shoulder sling and sit while it pulses icy water all around and squeezes my poor, tortured muscles. It feels incredible.

There will be Game Ready in heaven.

So therapy is both awesome and terrible. Awesome because I love the people at the rehab clinic (even Jake but don't tell him), and terrible because they give me one pound dumbbells and I have to make myself *not* act like a disdainfully smug jerk holding them. Also, the ban on lifting has been obeyed by me completely at all times. (That sentence is a lie.)

It's hella hard to watch the months of hard work I put in at the gym disappear. I feel like I'm deflating. I spent the first two months of therapy nodding along to the rules Jake gave me and then going and doing whatever I wanted at the gym. That, of course, is the real reason I'm still hurt.

I'm the worst patient ever and also my own greatest enemy, because me ignoring my therapist has only resulted in him being crazily frustrated with me (picture him super pissed and actually hanging his head while he says, "IT'S JUST THAT YOU ARE CONSTANTLY PUSHING BOUNDARIES" as I sit like a lectured toddler while my bottom lip quivers but also like a petulant teenager while my heart screams, "BUT JAKE, YOU DON'T KNOW MY PAIN." (Of course I mean my figurative pain of being banned from lifting. Duh.)

If you missed the 90's I feel for you.
Because: this meme doe

Jake says, "Maaaaaaaybe you can try some wall push ups if you are careful," and I'm all, "I think what Jake meant was bench pressing heavy weight with full range of motion is now approved."  *Enter Lisa Loeb singing, "You say I only hear what I want to."*

About a month ago Kemper put his foot down and basically told me my only job right now is to heal my shoulder. Any muscle building/strength training would have to be secondary to getting my shoulder/chest back. And amazingly, listening to Kemper's directive to rest my shoulder (which Jake had been telling me for *literally* months) actually worked. I'm on the real road to recovery. Finally. Hoorah.

Disney World, Bootkemp, Day-Trippin', the return of The Walking Dead, and an Injury: A short tale

We on a Disney boat, y'all!

One of the great ironies of vacationing with children is often that you need a vacation to recover from the vacation once it is finished. We arrived home last Tuesday night after ten glorious days at Disney World and spent the next three days doing laundry and getting back to normal life. (i.e. consuming copious amounts of water and vegetables that the children were begging for.)("Begging for" is the new way I'm describing "being forced to ingest" as they whiningly requested the mac and cheese and chocolate chip cookies that comprised the majority of their diet for the preceding week and a half.)

We also resumed homeschool bright and early Wednesday morning, which was as enjoyable as you can imagine returning to the real world after doing ALLTHEFUNTHINGS could be. Thankfully we returned home to find our internet was out, so we were forced to school at the public library where we could steal their wifi the fear of an audience of strangers kept the children from completely melting down in their defiance of learning.

On Wednesday and Thursday I hit up the gym because as wonderful and all-inclusive as my Disney experience was, it lacked greatly in the powerlifting equipment area, and I was itching to grab a hold of the barbell. On Wednesday I deadlifted and did back and biceps, and on Thursday I benched and did upper body.

That's when I admitted something was going on. (*enter dramatic suspense music*) This is how it went down:

Me to Ironman Sarah who works in orthopaedics: Dude, my shoulder is being all weird. Like, it totally hurts when I shoulder press. When I'm lifting, once I get it passed my ear I'm totally fine but from my shoulder to that point it totally hurts. I even lightened my weights in front of ALLTHEBOYZ because I was scared I was going to really hurt myself.

Ironman Sarah: It sounds like your rotator cuff. I'll check it out later and be able to tell for sure.

Me: Cool.

*Later on, as I was checking in with Powerlifter Sara and her trainer, Trainer Corey*

Me: So is it cool to lift normally if I have a messed up rotator cuff?

Trainer Corey who specializes in rehabilitation training: HELL NO YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING FUN OR PRODUCTIVE HERE IN THE GYM UNTIL YOU HAVE A SPECIALIST LOOK AT YOUR SHOULDER. I FORBID YOU AND BAN YOU FROM DOING ANYTHING AND YOU ARE PROBABLY GOING TO GET TOTALLY FAT AND LOSE ALL YOUR STRENGTH WITH THIS INJURY.

(Ok, so maybe that is more of what I heard. What he actually said was something like this:)

Trainer Corey: Nope. You need to see a doctor. You could really hurt yourself. If your rotator cuff is torn you could need surgery. If it's not torn but just inflamed and you don't let it heal it could tear. You could be setting yourself up for a lifelong problem if you're not careful. So don't lift anything until you know for sure.

Kelly: THIS IS BS. I HAVE TO LIFT. ME ME ME ME ME ME ME. THAT IS ALL THAT IS IMPORTANT. ME. TRAINER COREY, WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE???!!!

(Again, maybe this is more of how I was feeling. The actual conversation was something like this:)

Kelly: *stares incredulously* But only shoulder press hurts. Can I bench? *Corey shakes head negatively* *Kelly's voice goes up in pitch* Can I squat? *Corey's head again denies* *Kelly's voice goes even higher* Can I deadlift?

Trainer Corey: Not until you know for sure. You could really hurt yourself.

Kelly: I hate you right now. Why do you have to be so good at your job? (Yep. Verbatim.)

This blog gettin' all medical.

The next day I visited Ironman Sarah in her office where she examined me and declared my rotator cuff was not torn, but was indeed inflamed. I got a prescription to deal with the inflammation, and some worksheets full of rehabilitation exercises to do. That night I trained with Kemper. I'll write a full report of that later (because some FANTASTIC things happened there) and he did more of his voodoo magic manipulations and determined the rotator cuff injury was specifically affecting my Supraspinatus muscle and one other muscle. (I only remember the first one because I was all, "Trust me to hurt my SUPERspinatus muscle because I'm so SUPER," and Kemper was all, "It's SUPRA, Kel.")

Right now drugs, ice, and yes, upper body rest are my besties. I hate it. But you do what you gotta do, you know.

Saturday I attended (as a spectator) my first ever powerlifting meet. I drove a few hours to see Powerlifter Sara compete in the Michigan APF Fall Open. I saw 53 competitors of all ages and sizes squat, bench, and deadlift their maxes. Two days later and I'm still out of superlatives to adequately describe how it was. It was a very good thing. A game-changer, if you will. I will also write a full report on that experience, because the pics alone are worth your time even if you hate powerlifting. Trust me.

Yesterday we went to church, ate a special family lunch at Moe's (dem burrito bowls doe), and, after we settled the kiddos in bed, watched the much anticipated return of The Walking Dead.

It has been a crazy three weeks around here. I had so much fun, but I'm glad to be home. *clicks my Dorothy heels together* Happy Monday!

When you *totally* fall off the wagon. Like, way off. Like, fall off the wagon and then get on another wagon headed straight down Gluttony Avenue.

This is the deal.

There are times it's awesome to be a weight loss blogger. When the scale is in your favor, your "after" pictures get accolades, or when people ask for advice and you feel like you have something helpful to share - it's great to be a weight loss blogger.

But.

There are days moments when you fall completely off the wagon and you feel powerless to stop it. In the back of your brain you think, "I'm going to have to blog this crap," because you can't pretend it didn't happen, and you think about allllllll the people that you are accountable to through your little corner of the internet. Instead of feeling inspired you feel crushed by the accountability and guilty that you may be letting someone down.

A DEFENSE MECHANISM.

But here it is: I had a terrible week, and I ate to cope. I ate a lot. And I ate a lot of foods I never eat. Like, once I ate a piece of leftover pizza while dishing out Chinese food because I couldn't wait the thirty seconds it would take to get fried rice in my pie hole. If you are what you eat then this last weekend I was Birthday Cake wrapped in pizza while wearing Lucky Charms and sweating Sweet and Sour sauce. (A.K.A. Everyone's Best Friend.) (Sorry. I know it's not funny, Kemper.)(But I joke around when I'm uncomfortable.)(IT'S A DEFENSE MECHANISM.)

So, how much did I truly eat? I ate a weight gain of four pounds in three days much. It was so bad that at one point Brian, who has never policed my food (even when I've asked), actually took hold of me by both shoulders, looked me in the eyes and said, "KEL. Snap out of this."

I am so disappointed in myself. I was at 143, so close to my Holy Grail of 140. Now I'm hanging out back at 147. This is literally the story of my life.

I hate excuses. An excuse leaves no room for responsibility. An excuse says, "Look at what happened to me," and not, "Look at the choice I made in response to my circumstance." Excuses cut out any opportunity for growth, and excuses foster weakness. They are a way to say, "Don't worry, you poor thing. It's not your fault. Anyone would have reacted that way."

That's a big fat lie. I am not powerless over my thoughts. I am not held prisoner by my emotions. And *I* am the boss of how I react to difficult situations. Huzzah.

I do believe in reasons. I want to know the reasons behind the choices I make. Knowing these reasons teaches me, and helps to prepare me for handling situations, should they reoccur. And they always do.

So, Reasons I ATEALLTHETHINGS last week:

1. I was discouraged. It can all be boiled down to that. I had some really crappy workouts last week. I felt weak, I felt tired, I felt fat, and I felt like I was sick and tired of working my tush off just to be "normal". (Can I get an Amen from all my FAT MOM sisters out there?!) I don't want to look like Barbie. I don't want to be a figure competitor. I just freaking want to *not* look fluffy. Why do I have to work so hard to accomplish this? (*the world's smallest violin is playing in the background*)

I came home from Wednesday's awful workout to indulge in the worst timed cheat meal in the history of the world. I cheat meal every Wednesday night. In hindsight following the plan was not the best decision this time. Next time I'm discouraged I will reschedule cheat meal. I already know cheat meals for me are a really sensitive thing. The occasional indulgence helps keep me on track, but they also have the potential to usher in a tsunami of binge eating, which is exactly what happened this time. My cheat meal turned into a three day nosh fest.

Then a friend's mom died very unexpectedly Thursday morning. She was only 49. Instead of being all, "Wow, I should look at life as a gift and live it to the fullest," I was like, "What's the freaking point of going to all this trouble to track my macros/deny myself pizza/work at the gym? At the end of the day I'm still fat and I could die at any moment." I didn't feel out of control. I felt defiant. I felt like no matter what I do I'm never there. There seems to be this mythical land where I am no longer the Fat Mom, and I work my heart out and it shows on both the scale and my body. I get momentary glimpses of there in my daily life, and normally those glimpses give me the hope I need to persevere. But feeling so discouraged made me want to RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE. It's like my brain decided to show my body who was boss by eating my rapidly gaining weight in Combos. Because logic.

"Kel, THEHECK is this?"
That, my friends, is a vegan vanilla LEGO cake with
vegan soy buttercream frosting. And it's purple,
per the birthday girl's request. This is what happens
when you try to get fancy because vegan cake
crumbles, my kids are allergic to fondant, and vegan
buttercream refuses to set.

2. Baking. One of my kiddos had her birthday party on Saturday. Since she is one of my sweet "food allergy" kids, I had to bake her cake from scratch. Then I had to make her frosting from scratch. Then I had to decorate her cake. (Which, I'm not going to lie, was a spectacular Pinterest fail.) Then I had to cut and serve cake and ice cream to 15 people. That's a lot of opportunity for bites, licks, and nibbles. (Or, giant slices of cake eaten when self-control finally reaches it's threshold after you've touched cake and ice cream fifteen times.) Next time I'll chew gum while I'm decorating and ask Brian to cut and serve.

3. I was physically in need of some rest and recovery. I needed to pay attention to my body and take some notes from Wednesday's workout. Eventually I did. I took two full rest days (Thursday and Friday) and went light on Saturday. I ended up squatting my 5x5 program, but only did 135 pounds. I lightened my leg press, hamstring curls, and lunges each to about 75%. I messaged Kemper about deloading, and he told me what I needed to do, which was not actually lighten my weight, but decrease my volume.

I actually wrote Kemper a joke about eating a ton of simple carbs being a part of a proper deload and he wrote back "Haha, I don't think so." I sat and looked at his response for five minutes wondering how I could communicate that I was serious and falling the heck apart. But at the end of the day Kemper is not my babysitter. He's not my AA sponsor. I am a grown-@ss woman and cannot cry to my trainer when I'm in a spiral. I can't expect him to drop his life to hold my hand and tell me not to eat crap food. (Although, now that I think of it, gyms really need emergency training sessions and/or hotlines for people in this situation. #milliondollarideaoftheday)(Kemper, you can have that one for BootKemp for free.)(You're welcome.)(Lollipop gift.)

I know - because I've read my share of weight loss blogs - that this is a common post to read, but it's not one I've ever had to write. It is scary, embarrassing, and shameful. And it's not okay. I know what I want. I know my goals. I know the path to get there. I am worth the time, effort, and hardship it will take to get there. It's not fair that I have to work so hard for something that comes naturally to other people, but that's life. Everyone struggles with something. This is my thing.

I feel like I need to announce, "My name is Kelly and I'm three days back on track," or something. Getting out of bed at 5:30 on Sunday morning to go do abs and HIIT was sooooooooo hard. But I did it, and everything else seems to be following suit. On Sunday I planned and prepped my food, and for three days now I've followed/enjoyed the plan. (*Check my new Pinterest board "dem macros doe" for the most amazing Parmesan Meatballs ever.*) Monday's bench day was awesome; I felt really good so I did my normal training plan, and even did 3x6 at 30# per dumbbell for shoulder press. I dropped in on a yoga class on Tuesday. I feel like I'm me again. It's still hard, but I think it always will be.

I survived this one, friends.

Thanks for the accountability, Internet.


Linking up today for Weigh-in Wednesday with Heather, Ash, and Erin.

Housekeeping!

"How did she master the over the shoulder
pose at such a young age?"
Don't question genius, y'all.
Kelly@Sublurban Mama, class of '97

If you look up a little you may notice a new tab on my blog. For those of you that haven't been around for the whole ride, you may wonder "Who the heck is Kemper?" every time you read a post. Well, click on that tab and there is your answer. (Or, just click here.) I've included lots of pictures that I stole re-purposed from Kemper's personal Facebook account*, so there will finally be a face to put with the name for all you visual people out there.

*I guess I'd never truly Facebook-stalked Kemper before. I know, I'm a bit disappointed in me, too. I spent about an hour this weekend going through Kemper's photos to find some to use for this post and ohmylanta, what an education. Since he is 22 precious years old, high school was literally less than five years ago. People mature a lot** in that time, and Kemper is no exception.

(**For your viewing pleasure, and since this is a throw-away post that's really about another real post I'm sharing, here are some lovely high school pics of yours truly. Please, take a moment to enjoy the 90's in all their none- of-us-had-cell-phones-but-we-did-have-pagers glory.

CROSS. FREAKING. COLOURS, YO.

Kristen, Corrie Beth, and me. And we are totally just posing like this, not dancing (this was way before teenage girls danced like they are starring in porn)
Homecoming circa 95(?)

If only I could find an outfit that summarized the 90's ... pffft, I'd probably need to find white denim overalls and then cut them off. Sibling love, y'all. Dressing alike, it's not just for toddlers.

This picture is really an accusation. All my friends and family = DOES NO ONE LOVE ME?!?! You all let me keep that haircut for YEARS. Also, holy weight gain, batman.
(Please note the dog tag necklace and gaged earrings as I was trying to stretch my ears)(Because I was sooooooooooo hardcore.)

There you have it, folks. For this week I'm working on another new tab with all the info about what I've changed in my diet and exercise since I wrote the "How to Lose 100 Pounds" tab, and a few other posts about assorted general awesomeness (totally a word). My friend Rachel Who Looks Like Meg Ryan is coming to the gym with me tonight which means two things: one, I'll have a bench press spotter!!!! and two, two hot mama's will be getting STRONGER tonight. Hoorah.

Happy Monday!

Case of the Mondays: It got on my shoes but not my pillow.

Suuuuuummertiiiiime and the livin' is eeeeeasy.

I freaking love this weather so much. It has been gorgeous here in southeastern Michigan. Bright blue skies, sunshine, slight breezes, and temperatures in the 80's. It's like the weather is trying to apologize for all those subzero "you'll die if you go outside" days we suffered this winter.

You keep this up, weather, and all is forgiven.

I have been incredibly busy filling my days with as many outdoor activities as possible. Our lawn has been mowed within an inch of its life, I've swept and rearranged the patio, cleaned the patio furniture, and finally, just because it was all that was left to do, sat in the sunshine and read a book. It's been awesome.

And because usually in life you have to take the good with the bad, I've also spent a fair amount of time this week cleaning up puke and poop. Because here is a quick lesson in probability. If you have four kids and one of them gets a stomach virus, the probability of the other three catching that same virus is really high. While I've found the best way to deal with sick kiddos is to mainline iced coffee and plug them into Disney movies just soldier on and get through it, I have been tempted at times to ship them all away and let someone else deal with it. Summer camp, anyone?

That's when I came across this blog by Liesl Testwuide, along with an AMAZING letter from her kid who was away at summer camp. I WANT TO ADOPT THIS KID. He could be my long lost child.

"It got on my shoes but not my pillow."

For the full blog post, click here. 

Happy Monday, y'all!

More on Monday (not to be confused with Moron Monday)(which I can see you assuming because you've read my blog before)

Since I skipped Five on Friday, I am going to do a short but sweet More on Monday post for you because alliteration.

One = I am totally a winner

Everybody hands go up

AND THEY STAY THERE

Like, for real a winner. I was entered in a raffle at Lifetime Fitness for a month of free personal training when I did my last weigh in for the 90 Day Challenge (results with pics coming soon). Guys? I WON. I meet with a trainer twice a week for a month starting tomorrow. I asked Kemper about the trainer I was assigned because ain't no one messing with what Kemper is doing with me, but he's never heard of him. I probably got the newest newbie on the block but that's okay because IT'S FREE PERSONAL TRAINING FOR A MONTH. I'm going to give this new trainer my current workout schedule and "suggest" what I'd like to do during our time together. Is that rude? I don't even care. I really really really hope he's a meathead.

Two = I am totally sore

After my last session with Kemper I was all, "Maybe I can lift heavier than I have been," especially since he told me the last rep or two of every single set should be hard, and not just the final set as I had been basing my weights on. So I've been working my tush off at the gym with heavier weights (I upped my deadlift from 85 pounds to 105 pounds and my squat from 105 to 115) and ohmylanta does my body appreciate it. I can tell it is appreciation my body feels because it has been screaming in gratitude from my chest down. I even hit up the bottle of Aleve so I wouldn't take it out on the sweet kiddos that never aleve me the heck alone, even when my level of pain indicates I'm probably over exaggerating  being a giant weenie dying.

Three= I am totally tired

1. Don't get too jealous of my awesome baseball hair.
2. Yes, that's my friend Rick of our camping trip fame
photobombing this picture of me and two of my
lovelies.
3. I packed a protein bar for a snack when everyone
else got oreos and candy. I BETTER LOSE
WEIGHT THIS WEEK.

Clue number one that Brian and I are getting sooooooo old? After our weekend we are both fried. Like, "getting prepped to cage match over who got to take a nap Sunday afternoon" fried. (Brian totally won.)(But only because I had another event.) Friday we drove down to Toledo to see the Mudhens get destroyed by another minor league team who I cannot name to save my life. (Confession? I hate watching baseball. It has to be the slowest game in the history of sports. I love going to see the Mudhens once a year because we go with our church and buy out almost a whole section. This is fun because visiting and not watching the game.) Afterwards there were fireworks. We got home with four kiddos a little after midnight.

Saturday was a wedding of some dear family friends two hours away. We got home just in time for me to take off my heels and go grocery shopping. I did some paperwork and hit the hay because Sunday was church, errands, and a concert. Wonder what 34 years old is like? Being exhausted by the previous few days events where the latest one was midnight.

Four = I am totally ready to kill my neighbor

My favorite part of music school was a little amenity called "Practice Rooms". Practice rooms were little soundproof spaces where one could take a nap  make out with someone like that one time at Band Camp  practice their instrument without bothering anyone else. Some may think, as I am someone who majored in music, that I enjoy hearing it regularly. You would be wrong. I am very particular about noise level and do not appreciate the same two measures of practiced trumpet music for fifteen minutes. Which is exactly what my neighbor is now sharing. And is an improvement over the thirty minutes of scales that were the prequel to the main attraction.

OHMYLANTA NOW HE'S DOING THEM STACCATO.

I'm about to yell, "GET A ROOM!" and he will totally understand what I mean.

Five = I am totally premenstrual

Chocolate is not your friend, Kelly.

Chocolate does not share your goals, Kelly.

(repeat ad nauseam until Cheat Meal)

(whoever says Cheat Meal can't include the last Reese's Peanut Butter egg left from Easter I will cut you.)

STEP AWAY FROM THE TRUMPET AND NO ONE GETS HURT.

Doctor Mario and the Super Heroes

I get a lot of emails from companies that mainly want me to hock their crap for free. I delete about 99 percent of them. I don't blog in order to sell wraps, or pills, or nutrition supplements. I blog because it's fun. I don't even pursue the possibility of this becoming a paying gig because I'm too lazy. I don't really market myself at all, and have relied mainly on word of mouth to grow the population on my little corner of the internet. (So far? Stellar plan.)

However. I received an email from a man named Dr. Mario Trucillo, the Managing Editor of a new health and wellness site called American Recall Center that I could not throw away. (Not an affiliate link, not a sponsored post.) My initial thought upon seeing an email from Dr. Mario was of course Nintendo, which encouraged me to read the first two paragraphs. After that, I then knew I was all in.

I was asked to write a post about my health hero as a part of their Who Keeps You Healthy? campaign. An entire post giving props to the people that have helped me lose and keep off one hundred pounds. What an opportunity!

I thought of all the obvious people.

These faces? Seriously.

My children, because what better motivation to be healthy than being able to stick around for most of their lives? What better motivation than making those years that I'm around be years of quality so I can be the mom who can run and play at the park, or get down on the floor to put together the Winnie the Pooh puzzle for the four thousandth time, or make up dances with the girlies after lunch? My children are definitely my Health Heroes.

still the only picture of us *not* in our lovely tri suits

Then I thought of Sarah. Most of you know Sarah as my friend/triathlon training partner. Sarah is so much more than that to me. Sarah is my family. She took me under her wings after we met in a triathlon swim class. She sacrificed her own training times in order to take me on my first road bike ride. She organized and got me through my first open water swim. She paced me during my first practice triathlon, all while letting me use her road bike. She is soooooo much faster than me, and yet she ran with me while I could barely breathe and even made stupid small talk (which she hates) during my first 10k so I could just get through it. She's gifted me in enumerable ways with equipment and other material resources that made it possible for me to enjoy one of the more expensive sports out there. And that's just our past relationship.

Currently, Sarah pushes me. Constantly. She meets me at the gym and tells me I can do just a little bit more. She encourages me and is interested in my fitness even if it's away from the sport of triathlon. (Although she is the only reason I am still swimming in that awful frigid water at Lifetime Fitness.) She's even started "lifting heavy" because Kemper is a drug I peddle to anyone who will listen. So Sarah is definitely my Health Hero.

But how can I forget Kemper? Anyone who has read this blog over the past two months knows what Kemper has done in my life. I met him in late February, weighing 168 pounds with a 37% body fat composition. He sat with me and talked about making changes in my diet because I was about to lose my mind in frustration. (You can read about that conversation here.) I often tell people that Kemper "adopted" me. He didn't try to sell me anything - training sessions, supplements, or detox plans. He just gave me the gift of his time and knowledge. He told me how to eat and he showed me how to workout. He introduced me to lifting weights (which I freaking LOVE). He took an interest in my health and I give him so much credit for my success. My last weigh in showed me at 153 pounds and 27% body fat. Those are huge results. Kemper continues to support me even though he's left my gym, and has made himself available to me if when I have questions. Kemper is my Health Hero.

But then I thought of one person who trumps everybody else.

Almost 13 years of marriage and 4 kids
Still mostly sane.
Still crazy in love.

This man right here is the reason I am able to chase after the dream of a healthy body. My husband Brian has loved me at 5'3" tall and 253 pounds. He didn't love me "in spite of" my weight. Honestly, when he looks back at pictures of the old me it's apparent that he didn't even see the weight at the time. He loves me now, at 5'3.5" tall and 153 pounds, and I know he will continue to love me whatever size the future (and my choices) may bring. My husband Brian is the sole reason that I can live the life I do. 

Brian supports my food choices even when I'm being a PITA about them it's not fun. He works to figure out how to buy certain foods even though they are more expensive choices because I feel it is important. He makes it as easy as possible for me to maintain my dietary lifestyle, asking if I have a plan about what I am going to eat if we go out or travel, and how he can help with it.

Brian also works 11-12 hour days and then comes home and does dinner clean up and bedtime with the kiddos so that I can go to the gym. On Saturday and Sunday mornings he gets up with kids because I am already at the gym. He has surprised me with money to go get new workout clothes. He budgets to be able to afford my gym membership. He never complains that there are dumbbells on our dresser, or foam rollers by our bed, or that I hang my swim cap and goggles on the bathroom door handle to dry.

He actively listens to monologues filled with details about deadlift form, protein sources, and my speedwork on the treadmill even though he cares NOTHING about any of those things. He can quote Elliott Hulse and Kemper because he always asks about what I'm learning. In short, he is my partner in everything I do - whether he actively participates with me - or not.

Brian is truly my biggest Health Hero.


So a great big, giant, fat THANK YOU to all my Health Heroes. I love you all to pieces, you are all in my heart, and I am forever grateful for all you have been and done in my life.

Five on Friday - Automatic Responses

Here are a few common situations I face in my life and the ways I automatically respond to them.


1. Scene: Entering Lifetime Fitness - Every time I enter the gym I see this sign on the glass in the lobby:

Automatic response: I think, "not these guns." *mentally flexes my biceps*


2. Scene: At least one child every.single.day. whines, "Mo-om! I can't find my ______."

Automatic response: I think, "It's up your butt and around the corner." You can take the girl away from the 80's, but you can't take the 80's from the girl.

A perm, a boombox, and throwing up peace signs? It's like the 80's puked allllll over this mess.
I think we can all agree the 80's were good to me.

3. Scene: Hears birds chirping before the sunrise.

Automatic response: I think of breastfeeding. This is mainly because the first time I consistently heard birds ring in the new day it was during the hellish period of adjusting to a newborn while bonding with the tiny life I'd created as I nourished her from my own body. Now it's almost a Pavlovian response.
(Now *you* will forever associate pre-dawn bird chirping with breastfeeding. I'm like the gift that keeps on giving.)


4. Brian's new favorite video - Jim Rome on Gym Guy:

Scene: I walk in the house upon returning from the gym.

Brian's automatic response: "KELLY! Hurry and get in your protein! YOU DO NOT MAKE YOUR MUSCLES WAIT FOR PROTEIN! GET THAT PROTEIN NOOOOOOOOOW."

(Don't worry - I totally did already in the car on the way home.)


5. Scene: Jason Derulo sings "Talk Respectfully* to Me" (*how this young man should speak to a SAHM mama) while I'm driving the Ford Flex.

Automatic response: My freaking hips take over my body and I become the best dancer in the entire world. There is something truly magical about Jason telling me my "booty don't need explaining" that makes me throw all caution to the wind and let it do it's thang. YOU DO YOU, BOOTY.
(Lest you think I'm exaggerating in standard Sublurban Mama form the driver of the car next to me last night totally affirmed my effort with a gigantic smile.)

See you Monday when I share the extensive report on how I enjoyed the Reese's Peanut Butter Egg I am saving for after my LEG DAY workout Sunday morning. It will keep you on the edge of your seat. (Almost like me, barely able to be on the edge of my seat after Leg Day.) Happy Friday! Happy Easter!

Linking up with Clare at Fitting It All In.

Weekend Update - Tuesday is the New Monday

*Insert dramatic proclamation about the intensity of the weather and the havoc it is wreaking upon my life*

TL;DR = It's been coooooooold.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. I feel so much better now.

Friday I braved the sub-zero temps to take four children to the grocery store to pick up a few essentials. That night was our turn to babysit (we swap with Chris and Stacy down the street) and with the prospect of eight children under the age of ten (six under the age of six!) "essentials" meant hot dogs and bakery cookies. 

I'm a really great babysitter.

Once we filled the kiddos up with those nutritional powerhouses the only thing left to do was dress up and have a dance party. (The girlies dressed up. The little boys wrestled with each other the only way two little boys each with three sisters can wrestle. That is, fervently.) Everyone got in on the dance action, including the one year old, who would raise her arms in the air and then crawl in a circle when the feeling got really intense. And a dance party to Switchfoot is always a bit intense.

When we completely tuckered out the kiddos, we plugged them all into a video. I snuggled with baby Anastasia while I fed her a bottle (and my ovaries exploded a little) and then hung out with Chris and Stacy when they got back from their date while the kiddos finished their movie.

I got up early Saturday to do the rest of the grocery shopping (because although hot dogs and bakery cookies sound divine as a week long meal plan, Brian made me go get vegetables being a responsible adult I knew we needed some healthy choices as well).

(Lately I've been grocery shopping at 6:00 on Saturday morning. I'm a morning person so this is not as horrendous as it sounds. There are pros and cons to shopping this early. A pro? Store is about empty of customers. Con? The aisles are filled with boxes as employees restock. Another con - my store only has self-checkout available that early. Can I just say that their is nothing quite as stressful as doing self-checkout when you are buying your weekly groceries? I've never felt so incompetent in my life. I am now thoroughly convinced cashiers have secret powers for scanning the barcode the first go around.)

I hit the gym at 9:30. I met Sarah on the treadmill. I did a five minute warm up while we chatted a bit, and then I left to bike. My heel has been acting up ever since my four minute run cycle, so I took a week off from running to see if it will calm the heck down. I was pleasantly surprised to pull a 16 mph ride out of my tush (ha - literally), and logged 9.7 miles on the bike before Sarah put me through a torturous arm workout.

(I was all stretched and ready to shower when Sarah was all, "I'm just going to do this quick arm workout; want to join me?" For those of you who are confused and think that quick means something that happens in a short amount of time, there is a new element to the definition of quick; quick = it will wreck your triceps and shoulders for the next three days. We did some planking, pushups, tricep dips, shoulder presses, and bicep curls. I tried not to look miserable and like I could totally keep up with Sarah the whole time.)(I'm a really great actor.)(Sike.)

Saturday night we were invited to Colleen and Andy's house for dinner. They have three little boys so Ezra was in heaven. We had fajitas and Colleen made from scratch brownies that made me realize how delusional I am about box mixes. Never again, Duncan Hines. The thing I love most about Colleen and Andy is that I feel like we all click with one another. It's awesome to be able to chat with any adult in the room like they are your family.

Sunday started too early. I got up with the kiddos, but Eve ended up needing to stay home from church because of calf pain. I totally googled her symptoms and diagnosed her with BACM because apparently I'm an internet doctor. She spent all day drinking water and lounging around on the couch. I did lesson plans, laundry, and organized my Pinterest boards, so yeah, it was a party.

Sunday night we celebrated Lauren's birthday. I dressed up by showering. Kidding. (But for real, I *did* shower.) I also put on adult clothes and a bit of makeup. We had dinner with Lauren, her husband, and a few other couples at a restaurant nearby. I had the best sweet potato fries. For those that missed it, LAUREN IS PREGNANT AND IT IS A GIRL! (Can you tell I am excited?)

That's it for my weekend escapades. Thanks for pretending it is still Monday and not late Tuesday night so this post makes a little bit of sense. (But tomorrow you can totally resume business as usually.)(Because we do not want to miss Wednesday.)

Never gets old. Except when it does.

Heinz 57 (the post where we ketchup)

Seriously. I've been doing stuff and things.

This is how relationships die.

You're plugging along, living life, enjoying the relationships you've be blessed with, and suddenly busyness locks you in a choke hold. Not even fun busyness either, but the time consumption that comes from putting out a dozen little fires daily.

By the time you've survived the day, you lie* in bed at night (*totally correct - I Grammar Girled that mess) thinking of all the things you didn't get to, and communicating with loved ones falls into that category. "Tomorrow," you hazily think as you collapse into blissful unconsciousness.

The problem is that eventually too many "tomorrows" pile up, making the amount of sharing needing to happen grow into a monster sized accumulation of correspondence. This is wholly overwhelming, and cannot be undertaken in five minute bites and chews.

"I can't call because I only have twenty minutes and wouldn't know where even to begin with that amount of time." "This weekend I'll set aside a whole day just to catch up," and Saturday finds you grocery shopping at 5:00 a.m. just because you can't fit it in anywhere else in the entire day. (Hypothetically.)

This is where I find myself with blogging. How can I write a post about my return to running if I haven't even written that I NOW BELONG TO LIFETIME FITNESS?! How can I write about potty training when I haven't finished writing my post on grieving my GRANDfather, which includes the dawn of our potty training saga? How can I speak on dealing with weight gain when I haven't even written about BLACK FRIDAY* and the experiences in the dressing room which were the catalyst for admitting said weight gain?

(*I'm pretty sure we can agree that the Black Friday Recap Post ship has sailed. I mean, I'm pretty flexible about the unwritten blogging rules, (i.e. I make mine up as I go along) but I think a good general rule is to write about something within the same calendar year it happened.)

My brain can't consolidate any of that stuff, I get totally overwhelmed, and I'm left with the mantra (usually said in corpse position)(while under my covers in bed at night)(it's my own personal yoga studio)(#healthnut) "I'll blog tomorrow."

I don't want our relationship to die. So here is my Heinz 57 post. (I briefly thought about writing 57 bullet points of updates but then I had the epiphany of fifty seven bullet points, so I bailed on that plan.)(You're welcome.)

1. Ezra is sloooowly learning to pee in the potty. This was, of course, up until he got sick yesterday. He spent a miserable day dozing on the couch, with frequent breaks to throw up and/or scream for me to hold his hand. His fever has been a pretty consistent 101 degrees, so I'm not too worried. After having to physically carry him to the potty the third time, The Best Mom in the World said, "Forget this", and put him in a diaper. Smartest decision I made all day. (Which says a lot about the rest of the day.)(Or my decision making ability.) He asked, "I have diaper on?" every half an hour or so, effectively giving him the go-ahead to pee while still reclining on the couch, so, under certain standards, it was a pretty great day for him.

2. I had my first post-injury run on Saturday. It was brutal. I'm a hot mess. I'm writing a post called, "Bouncing Back from Injury". (Sike. I don't know what it will be called yet. Probably something sensationalist that really misleads the reader because I'm a creative genius.)

3. Lauren is PREGNANT. My bestie is having her first kid. My oldest will be able to babysit her oldest (in about two years). I'm gonna be an aunt! (A friend-like-a-sister aunt.)

4. My master plan to finally get cable totally backfired. I got Brian hooked on back seasons of The Walking Dead. Because we don't have cable our internet connection is snail like. After watching season 4, episodes 6 and 7 via Brian's iPhone, his data for the month ran out. I thought, "This is it. I'm finally getting cable. We have the mid-season cliffhanger finale left before the show resumes in February. One stinkin' little episode is going to get me cable!" I started daydreaming about House Hunter marathons, the deep clean my kitchen receives after watching Hoarders, and not messing any longer with rabbit ear antenna. Brian crushed my dreams by upgrading his iPhone data plan.

We huddled around his iPhone like fiends and watched the finale all zombie-like. (Yeah, I went there.) The current dilemma is what we do on February 9 when the shows returns.

Unrelated: Is creating a Kickstarter fund to raise money for cable out of the question? Asking for a friend.

I wish I had a fancy way to finish this post, but it's simply that my allocated time to write is gone, so I have to wrap it up. Esther and Ezra just woke up and they are discussing the merits of different methods of vomiting. That's a good place to end for today, don't you think?

Thanks for visiting. Let's do this again soon, OK?

Case of the Mondays: Merry Christmas! Love, The Internet

Friends, it's been a rough season of life. Thanks for hanging in there with me as I mostly get out these "Case of the Mondays" posts and very little else. Life is beginning to ease up, so I am looking forward to the new year when I can regale you with tales of my physical therapist, surviving weight gain, and how (knock on wood) I totally potty trained Ezra is just two weeks like a rock star mama. (We begin December 26. Pray for me, y'all.)

Since I'm adding Christmas Cards to the list of "Crap I Never Got Done This Christmas", I wanted to share the next best thing with you. This is how the Internet sends out some holiday cheer. Enjoy!

This year when I took the kiddos to see Santa, he looked right at 6 year old Esther and said, "What do you want for Christmas, little girl?" Esther firmly stated, "A maid."
That's how it's done.

Everything about this man makes me giggle.

I'm putting "Friends like these" on my Christmas wish list.
UPDATE: It's like the Internet is Santa Claus. The woman who made this card contacted me so I would source her work back to her like I'm supposed to because she totally answered the call on my Christmas wish list. You can visit her at: www.melissamarie.co

I would add "Friends like these" to my list as well (because do you see the festivity of those sweaters?!), but I don't do well with lap goats. Which she is holding.

Close your eyes, Kids.

These people are doing our Christmas card next year.

Love, The Johnsons

Merry Christmas!

'Tis the Season to be a Hot Mess And a Rant For FREE

Guess who got prescribed a muscle relaxer?

This girl did.

I've been faithfully attending physical therapy three times a week for a neck, shoulder, and upper back pain. The pain started as stiffness in my neck towards the end of October and morphed into a pretty impressive headache (not in intensity, but in longevity), and by the end of November I couldn't tilt my head back to wash my hair, and looked like I was doing the Robot whenever I was asked to look sideways.

I knew I needed some sort of physical therapy when my self-treatment (a.k.a. Googling videos of people stretching themselves out and doing massage with tennis balls) proved ineffective, but first I needed a referral from my Primary Care Physician because that extra appointment scheduled two weeks out doesn't waste time at all.

After all we went through with Brian's PCP, may I take a moment to love on my PCP? She is amazing. First, her name is Carol King, which is pretty sweet. Second, her husband is an Ironman, so she is well versed in the sport of triathlon. When I went to her and said, "I can't do any of my normal activities," meaning swim, bike, and run, she knew that was kinda sorta a big deal for me. The first thing she did was tell me to take more drugs if I was comfortable doing that (twist my arm), and then she referred me to a physical therapist.

The drugs are awesome. The Ibuprofen is dealing with the pain and inflammation, and the muscle relaxers are making me sleep um, very relaxing.

The hardest part of physical therapy is finding child care so I can go. I've been trying to schedule as many sessions as possible during Ezra's school, but I still have to take the three girlies with me. One day when I had Ezra all day, Stacy down the street took my littles, and a friend from church is watching all of the kiddos during my Friday sessions. (Those sessions are longer because they include massage therapy.)(Like, it's been medically prescribed for me to get a massage once a week.)(Yep, if it wasn't for the knowledge that I'm dealing with constant pain, I'd hate me too.)

I've only been seen a little over a week, but I have faith it's helping. My therapist told me she needs a jackhammer to loosen up my trapezius muscle, but she's been making do with her bare hands because she is a beast.

In other news, I'm a little miffed at Facebook. Roughly half of my blog page views come from people who have personally chosen to follow me on Facebook with the sole purpose of getting updates when I post them. Facebook is now charging fan pages to show their updates to everyone who follows them, resulting in a 60% decline in my Facebook blog traffic. (Because I math-ed that mess, y'all.)(That's how you know it's a serious issue for me - the occurrence of voluntary ciphering.)

You know what? I'm a stay at home mom with four kids. One of my kiddos is in (really expensive) therapy. Another takes (really expensive) medication. I have this teeny-tiny blog as a means of preserving my own sanity in this season of life, as well as carving out a space in this world to capture the craziness of raising my children. All so I can remember it and be thankful when I'm old. I really can't afford to spend money on a recreational blog.

But blogging does take time. Sometimes it takes a lot of time. And especially because I'm teeny-tiny in size I treasure every person who takes time out of their day to read whatever drivel I'm peddling. If they have signed up to read it, all the better; I treasure these people because it's like a promise they will be returning. But when Facebook won't let me post to everyone unless I pay at least $5 each and every time, well, that's some buh-loney right there.

In conclusion, I have no idea yet what to do about this. But I needed to rant, so thank you. Have a lovely day, and, if you read this from Facebook, throw me a "like" or a comment to let me know you are among the treasured few. Please and thank you.

A Case of the Mondays: The Privilege to Whine

When you see it ...

My internet is currently working in 3-4 minute windows. I want to go all rage-fest about this, but I don't know enough about computers to know if this is a modem, router, or provider problem, which leaves me completely without a target to blame. Instead I've chosen to be pissed at the world in general, because suddenly my life has become 1996 all over again, which honestly (with the obvious exception of Coolio's Gangsta's Paradise) was not that great the first time around. In the last few days I've been forced to call someone for directions, use a cookbook to make dinner, and physically drive to the library to look up a book in person.

I'm sure my lack of computer usage is becoming a problem for you. I'm sure those that follow me on Pinterest are like, "What the heck? Did Pinterest shut down?" due to the decrease of new pins in your feed. I'm sorry. I assure you I am working on it. Especially if "working on it" means unplugging my computer 50 times a day and whining to Brian to FIX IT ALREADY.

Since my first two paragraphs were probably the most First World Paragraphs in the history of modern civilization, I'd like to dedicate the rest of my post to the men and women serving to protect the privilege I have to live in a place where shoddy internet connectivity is viewed as a travesty problem.

I am quite thankful to be an American, in all of our flawed glory. I do not take for granted the lifestyle and luxuries I have been afforded, simply because of my nationality. I never worry my children will have enough food. I can go to church, or to temple, or to mosque, because I have the freedom to choose who/where I worship. The only bombs my children have been exposed to are in the context of my amazingly resilient 90's slang. (Which? *Was* da bomb, yo.) All these freedoms were put in place by our forefathers and are protected by the men and women in uniform.

Thank you for your choice to serve, your time, and your dedication. Thank you for your lives.

The early worm breaks her foot falling into the sunken living room because it's too.dang.early to remember the layout of her house.

This is my "Dude, seriously?" face

Motherhood is about making sacrifices. I think a good 75% of those sacrifices involve a sleep offering.

I find that when I need some extra time I'm most productive when I wake up before the rest of the family. Sometimes I plan lessons, sometimes I do food prep, and sometimes I surf Pinterest blog. At ten years on the job, I'm pretty familiar with the sounds of birds chirping in the rising of the sun while I catch up on chores.

Sunday morning was no exception.

I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. with the expectation that I would blog a bit, go for a run, and then get ready with my family before it was time to leave for church. It all started according to plan. Then ... children.

We have a rule in our house. No getting out of bed before 7:00 a.m. It's one of the hard and fast rules we employ. Sure, there are exceptions (ain't nobody want to clean up a pee bed because it wasn't time yet to leave your bedroom and use the bathroom) but this rule remains largely unbroken. Until the kiddos are old enough to tell time, we manage this with nightlights set to timers. Every day at 7:00 a.m. a sweet little timer switches on the nightlight, signalling that it is okay to roam freely about.

I'm a huge proponent of the solitary crack of dawn start to my day, but really hate an o'dark thirty house party comprised of prepubescent guests. This "stay in your room until 7:00" plan really works for us. Well, until *someone* plays with the timer and *completely on accident* sets it for 5:45 a.m. the same day I set my alarm to go off an hour and a half early to get some work done.

So on Sunday morning as I was finally settling into my writing groove and heard the stomp-clomp-stomp of children hoofing it down the hallway accompanied by the excited cry of, "OUR LIGHT WENT ON!" I was like:

Duuuuuuuude.
No.
Way.

Maybe I stomped-clomped-stomped to the hall and cried, "WHHHHHHHHHY IS YOUR LIGHT ON?" (Because I knew everyone else was still asleep and was certainly doing my best to maintain a peaceful atmosphere for those still blessed with slumber.) "NO WAAAAAY IS IT TIME TO GET UP. GET BACK IN BED."

*Enter mass chaos*

Okay, I get it. Routine clearly dictates that when the lights come on it's game on for milk or apple juice and snuggles on the couch. And here I was, freaking out like a banshee because OHMYLANTA I WOKE UP EARLY TO GET WORK DONE AND I CAN'T GIIIIIIIIIIIVE ANYMORE HERE. (Top 5 Parenting Moment, for sure.)

This is when Brian rescued me, promising to snuggle with Ezra and Esther until it was time to get up. I left them all in the bedroom, equally thankful and pissed that Brian was going to be of service. Because while of course I'd rather be tangled up in a heap of cozy quilts and darling kiddos, snoozing an extra hour or two, I had important crap to do. (Are you hearing my Martyr Violin Concerto playing in the background?)

I stomp-clomp-stomped my way down the hallway and through the kitchen, promptly forgot we have a sunken living room, and plunged almost to my death. (Okay, that was a bit dramatic.) The truth is I stumbled fantastically down one step, pulling a kitchen chair with me to break my fall. (The kitchen chair did nothing but provide a laudable and resounding soundtrack to my spill, BTW.) I ended up on the floor, not that hurt, still a little pissed, and almost laughed because of course that just happened.

I went over to the computer and worked for an hour, thinking if I hurried I could get in a short run before I needed to be back home to do our morning routine. I tried to stand and sat back down. It.hurt.so.freaking.badly. I was at Urgent Care in less than an hour.

Guess who treated me? Remember the doctor I saw in February with the worst flu in the history of the world? I wrote about it in a post called "Um, YEAH, I totally meant my ovaries". You can read it by clicking here. I was reunited with Dr. P.

He totally didn't remember me, which both irritated me and relieved me. I had the same reaction to him as I did last time; namely, I felt like an inferior idiot who had to prove that I was really hurt. And totally not just looking for drugs like last time, you know.

Dr. P :*storms in and mumbles a question*
Kelly: *in my head, "Dude, what's with all the storming?"*
Dr. P : *stares blankly at me*
Kelly: *realizes he asked me something* Um ... what?
Dr. P : ... You hurt your foot?
Kelly: *immediately defensive because I am a smart, capable woman and not a hypochondriac which is of course what his question implies, right?* Yes, my right foot. I can't bear any weight on it.
Dr. P: *starts to probe my foot*
Kelly: *starts to panic, because I'm suddenly sure I'm just overreacting even though I can't walk and he's going to prove it with his magic doctor fingers* Also, my foot feels really hot to the touch.
*because I read once that serious injuries feel hot to the touch**and then I remember the nurse has been making me ice it while I've been at Urgent Care so I clumsily speak again*
Kelly: Except it doesn't feel hot now, because, you know, the ice. *Smoooooooth*
Dr. P: We have to do an X-ray. *leaves the room*

At this point Brian calls me and we arrange for him to bring Ezra to me so he and the girlies can go to church. I go get my X-rays done.

X-ray Tech: Could you be pregnant?
Kelly: Nope. No way. Not a chance. Just finished up my period. (Good thing I mentioned that.)(Now I feel I need to redeem myself) It's a good thing I hurt my right leg because it's the leg I chose to shave yesterday. So, that's like a gift to me and you. (Ohmylanta, really, Kel?)
X-ray Tech: *has the decency to at least laugh* I always tease my daughter because she takes such good care to shave her legs but always forgets to shave her toes. *looks pointedly at my very hairy big toe*
Kelly: *she did not just call me out on my toe hair* ....
X-ray Tech: Don't worry, it's a sign of good circulation.

I do have really good circulation.

While I was waiting for Dr. P to read my x-rays, Brian brought Ezra to my room. This is how I discovered Dr. P's kryptonite.

Dr. P is totally uncomfortable with little children. (Or, at least, children who appear out of the blue.)

I may have used this to gain the upper hand in our relationship.

Dr. P: *storms in the room* Well, you have a br-- *sees Ezra, looks confused*
Kelly: *waits patiently*
Dr. P: - a broken bone spur in your heel. We don't usually see this. It's an odd break.
Ezra: Doctor, husodhteeeefnkalfkalfkalkveeeee?
*Ezra has apraxia, and while he is getting so much better with his speech, there are times even I can't decipher what he is saying*
Dr. P: *looks desperately at me* Uuuuuummm, what, Buuuuuudy?
Ezra: DOCTOR,  hisodihfiosteeeeendslfidsoifoveeeee?
Dr. P: *giggles nervously, stares at me pleadingly* Um ... I'm not sure ....
Kelly: *that's right, ME! TO! THE! RESCUE!* He has apraxia. He's asking where the t.v. is, because they usually put us in a room with the t.v.
Dr. P: Oh. Down the hall, Buddy.

In the end, I have a broken bone spur in my heel. Sarah has doctor privileges at the treatment center where I was seen, so she pulled my x-rays and is just as confused as everyone else as to how this happened. I have been told to follow the RICE plan (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) and to see how it feels in about a week. By then I should be able to walk on it. After I can walk I can return to biking and elliptical, but no running for about 6 weeks. No Turkey Trot this year :(

Yep. Toenails painted circa August 2013. In the background? The offending step down into the living room.

Pouty sad face.

I declined pain meds at Urgent Care because I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I sensibly chose the next best option:

740 calories of Tim Horton's goodness.
That works out to about 1 smile per calorie. Oh Happy Day.

So much crap on the refrigerator.
Iced Capp.

Timmy Ho's for pain management.

I think I just won health care.