It.Was.Bananas. - How to Lose SIX Pounds in One Night

It all started with a craving for a banana.

I don't eat a lot of fruit. When I do partake it's usually in the form of raspberries or blueberries because they are delicious lower on the glycemic index. I watch my blood sugar kind of closely and count the mess outta carbs, so bananas have been on my "not an everyday food" list for a while. This has not really impacted my life in any great way, since before I started training with Kemper my favorite way to eat a banana was baked in some quick bread and topped with Nutella. Because duh. But Friday found me craving a fresh, real banana in the worst way.

***Minor Tangent totally related to this story***

Pigeon pose with a fold.
Also, if I did yoga outside the chances of me
getting into pigeon pose and *not* getting pooped
on by an actual pigeon are slim. Because I am a
bird poop magnet. (You need to click that link.)

I've noticed lately that I've been having muscle cramps in my abdominals* whenever I try to forward fold during yoga or stretch after a workout. (*Confession = it happened at my last training session with Kemper. As I was contorting my body into a variety of delightful positions to try to loosen the cramp - picture me hula hooping without an actual hoop or any discernible rhythm - I was all (enter my "I'm totally trying not to freak out but this kinda sorta really hurts and I'm worried I might FREEZE UP LIKE THIS FOREVER" voice), "KEMPER WHAT IS THIS THAT IS CRAMPING?!" as I jabbed repeatedly at my abdomen. Kemper was all, "Your abdominals, Dummy." Have I mentioned how good I am at logic?) I've also noticed that my feet are cramping up when I do pigeon pose. (On a really fun day I get into a folded pigeon pose and then it's a giant party because everything cramps at once.) Since I used to get muscle cramps quite frequently during triathlon training, I assumed this meant one of two things: either I was dehydrated or I needed some potassium. With the dawn of the banana craving on Friday, I deduced potassium and decided to listen to my body, making plans to consume a banana sometime in the following day.

Big mistake. Huge. Because y'all? My body is a big fat liar. 

Mine was consumed at 72.5 hours.

It started out a very promising endeavor. Friday is my grocery shopping day, so I bought the most perfectly ripe banana with the plan to have it with my dinner. It was bright yellow, firm, and smelled so fresh. I entered it into MyFitnessPal and arranged all my other food around this one luscious piece of fruit. I counted down the hours until dinnertime when I could enjoy it. Then I received a phone call.

*lightning flashes and the lights dim dramatically because it's time to foreshadow the trauma of the night*

Brian was calling from work to let me know he was going to be home really late. He'd hurt his back again (this happens about once a year) and needed to go to the company clinic after his day ended. "No problem, Babe, you take care of you," I said naively, still unaware of the hellish nightmare in my future.

With the timetable of the night suddenly a bit different, I had to rework the timing of my original food plan. Now I would eat the banana as a snack around 5:00 p.m., take the older girlies to their Friday night teen group, and come home to eat dinner with the littles around 6:45 p.m. 

When 5:00 rolled around I savored the heck out of that banana. It was amazeballs. And I'm not even the type of person who said amazeballs even when it was still current. But that banana was worth every hour I waited for it ... until about 5:30 p.m. when it liquefied every hint of matter residing in my gastrointestinal tract and demanded immediate release from the captivity in my body.

There are no words to describe the next eight hours of my life. I drove the girlies to their event solely because I had no room for rational thought when my brain was just pleading for death for the horrible stomach pain to stop. By the time I got home with Esther and Ezra all I could do was stumble back and forth from the bathroom to the couch, whimpering incoherently all the while.

Esther was a complete rock star during this time. She made sure Ezra had everything he needed as he ate his dinner, and then challenged him to a pajama contest. Which was a genius way for her to get his pajamas on. I hovered in and out of consciousness, but did hear Brian walk in the door around 8:00.

"Oh, Babe, what can I do for you?" he wondered in concern.

"Don't make me talk," I croaked from under a blanket.

Kevin Smith, you gave us Clerks so Imma extend
you a little bit of trust here...don't do me wrong.

The next few hours were a blur. There was a lot of Drama Queen moaning while The Horrible Sickness controlled my body. Finally, around 11:30 p.m., just in time for Jimmy Fallon, I started to feel some relief. I rolled over onto my side without feeling as if I were reclining on broken glass. I smiled at some of Jimmy's antics. I started sipping water, and, because Jimmy Fallon, I even laughed out loud at the ridiculousness that is Justin Long's new movie Tusk. (A man kidnaps another man and turns him into a walrus?! Whut.)

"Say Yes to the Best"
It's like I had no choice.

By 12:30 I felt well enough to try some cereal because I was suddenly hungry as all get out. (Yes, Kemper, the bad cereal on top of my fridge that I feed my children.)(But it was organic cocoa crispies, so it was healthy sugar.)(#hownutritionworks) It must have been healthy because I kept it down (#proof) and I went to bed at 1:00 a.m. because Seth Myers is a terrible late night host.


Saturday morning I woke up at 8:30 and felt completely fine. But when I stepped on the scale later that day I discovered I had lost six pounds in one night. (And yes, of course I gained it back by the next day once I was rehydrated, but can we take a moment to celebrate the only upside (albeit a short lived one) to the misery I endured on Friday night?)

So friends, that is how you lose six pounds in one night.

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.

That time I did squats with Eminem back when he was just Marshall

Totally the birthplace of a CHAMPION squatter.
BootKemp.

Kemper's last day at Lifetime Fitness was about three weeks ago, which means I have been anticipating working out with him for roughly 21 days. When I say "anticipate" I mean I was equal parts seriously excited to learn to squat and see Kemper but also horribly terrified of the workout because Kemper said once in passing that training with him would be "really hard". I may have been projecting my own fears into that innocent statement, but I found myself looking forward to this training session the way I "looked forward" to childbirth: just survive the process so you can enjoy the results.

I mentally prepared for the workout by listening to Beastie Boys Ill Communication in the Ford Flex on the drive over. I cranked it up as high as it would go and white girl rapped along because, just like Mike D.,  "I freak a funky beat like the stuff* was in a blender." 

(*stuff - suburban mom edit.)

(I also got lost on the way because I don't have GPS I got off on the wrong exit and took a lovely little tour of Detroit Metro Airport. Also on the unscheduled stop list: 7-11 because I drink a crapton of water and have a nervous bladder so I had to freaking use a 7-11 bathroom which means I probably now have flesh-eating virus, hepatitis A, and E.coli.)(Also, don't ever Google diseases you can get using a public restroom.)(There are things out there you can't unlearn.)

I knew right away when I drove past Kemper's house because there was a giant tire in his driveway. (I immediately cemented an inner vow to one day flip that tire over while pretending Elliott Hulse's camera people were filming me for Strength Camp videos.) Kemper trains out of his garage, which ups the excitement factor considerably, because already I would be that much more removed from my normal life at Lifetime, and that much closer to being best friends with Elliott Hulse and training barefoot without air conditioning like a beast.

When I walked into the garage Kemper was all, "Well, here it is," and as I looked

around, do you know how I felt? I felt like I was watching Eminem perform at the Shelter in '97. If that makes no sense to you whatsoever, you probably don't live in Michigan. (Haha - it probably doesn't make sense to people who live in Michigan either.)(Welcome to my brain.) Eminem used to rap in local clubs (like the Shelter) before he got big. Whenever I daydream about owning a time machine (what everybody daydreams about, right?) I think about going back and seeing Eminem before he became EMINEM. (And also meeting Jesus in the flesh. I'm not a total heathen.)(Yes I am.)(But I'm totally saved by grace and would use the time machine to meet Jesus first so don't worry, Sister Wife Rose who will call me out on all this.)

Standing in Kemper's garage, seeing how he has created this full working gym with his stamp on it, and it's so clean and organized, and even though he was playing crappy music music I would not have chosen* (which hey, we can forgive him for because he was born in the 90's when all the great music was already coming out)(*mental note to buy Kemper some Rage Against the Machine, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Green Day, Weezer, Pearl freaking Jam, and I can not even start on the great hip hop of that time)(yes I can - Notorious B.I.G., Cypress Hill, Warren G and Nate Dogg, House of Pain, and *guilty pleasure* COOLIO because GANGSTA'S PARADISE - NEED I SAY MORE?) I felt like, standing there, I was getting to experience the beginnings of something ... big. Because when you take the kind of drive Kemper has and mix it with his passion for fitness and genuine care for his clients - well, I really believe this guy is going to succeed far above the average suburban trainer. I felt like I was getting to experience something special; the humble beginnings of a dude that could one day command $500+ an hour for training services. So being in Kemper's gym it was like I was watching Eminem perform at the Shelter back in '97 - get it?

Of course I was totally overwhelmed by all those thoughts (and I had to go to the bathroom again) and so all I said was , "Wow, this is really cool, Kemper," or something else entirely lame that didn't give away ALLTHETHOUGHTS crowding my brain.

Kemper had me warmup with some jogging in place and jumping jacks. Then he had me do some leg swings (I'm sure that's the technical term) to loosen up my hips and legs so I could do what I came to do: SQUAT.

Squatting. Was. Amazing.

It was seriously everything I wanted it to be. 

Someday, Meatheads, someday.

I did a few light sets while Kemper corrected my form (I have a tendency to tuck my pelvis under right before I come up) and then he started piling on the weight. The most I squatted at Lifetime was 50 pounds. The Olympic bar alone is 45 pounds. Kemper upped it to 65. Then 85. Then 95. I did my final set of 8 reps at 105 pounds.

I still haven't stopped smiling, and I can't wait to do it again at Lifetime.

After squatting Kemper had me do a variation of a Romanian deadlift using a 45 pound plate and superset it with something I lovingly call "The Mermaid". I'm sure this particular exercise has a real name, but it involves laying on your stomach with a stability ball squeezed between your feet and raising your feet up and down while you curse at Kemper in your head. The best part of this whole move was that when I got up, my entire silhouette was outlined in sweat on the mat below. 

It was super attractive.

woah.

Next I did some reverse lunges with kettlebells superset with 30 seconds of plie squat jumps. By this time I had to take off my glasses because I was sweating too much to keep them on. Also, they were fogging up. No joke. Probably my biggest nerd moment in history. Werkin' it.

Kemper ended our session with some corrective squatting with a band around my legs (above my knees) while holding onto the squat rack to help fix my propensity to overcompensate for my bad left hip flexor by using my right leg in all sorts of funky ways. We used this time to chat about our mutual love for Elliott Hulse and fangirled together.

Then Kemper said something totally misleading like, "It's time to stretch," and I assumed the hard part was over. 

Now, the man knows I have hip flexor issues. We also talked a little bit about tight quads being the root of the twinge I feel in my left leg when I do lunges. So, being the amazing trainer he is, he set out to help relieve that tightness with a stretch straight from Hell.

The first one wasn't so bad. It targeted my hamstrings and glutes and was uncomfortable but alright. Next he had me take a runner's lunge position. He took my foot that was on the floor and raised it behind me until I yelled, "UNCLE!" it was at the limit. Next, he had me push my foot against his hand for a count of three, deceptively let me relax and then raised it even higher. He did this twice. Then he repeated the whole thing on the other side. 

It was then I knew that Kemper was lucky I was incapacitated because I'm pretty sure even though he is strong enough to take me under normal circumstances I was fueled by enough OHMYWORDIHATEYOUSOMUCHRIGHTNOW pain that I could have kicked his A all the way to Toledo. Which? Was about a 45 minute drive away.

But afterwards my legs felt fantastic and I forgave him immediately, so don't worry, we're still boyz.

We ended our session with him looking through my food journal because for the second week in a row I gained .2 of a pound and I'm not playing around with that mess. (Can I just say that there is no use with secrets once someone has seen your food journal? It's easily one of the most humbling experiences I've ever had.)(I feel like I have Tourettes while he is looking at it because I'm constantly yelling out things like, "BUT I DIDN'T EAT THE BUN!" and "I KNOW IT WAS MCDONALD'S BUT I GOT THE SALAD!" as his eyes scan the page.)(Awesome.)

The general consensus is that I need to eat more. I'll plan on adding a few hundred calories of good quality food on the days I work out twice. Twist my arm.

So there you have it. I came, I saw, I squatted. Life is beautiful.



(*Kemper, your music doesn't suck that much.)(Seriously, what do I know? I'm an old lady with awesome taste in music.) *insert smiley face emoticon so you know I'm messing with you*

Directions to the Meth House**

source

Facebook Status: I just got carded while buying cold medicine because apparently you have to be 21 to make meth.

We've been a bit sidelined this week. Some unexpected house guests dropped by, and wanted to hang around for about a week. While I firmly believe being hospitable is a necessary part of loving others, I was ready to kick our visitors to the curb after a mere 24 hours. I'm giving you a heads up because they might still be traveling together and looking for a new home to invade  take down  destroy visit, so keep your eyes open (but DEAR LORD don't touch them, and then wash your hands for good measure anyway) and lock your doors if you hear from the trifecta of Pink Eye, Croup, and the Common Cold*.

-begin rant-

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*Does anyone else feel like the common cold is the most underwhelming and inaccurate name possible? Usually it's even paired with the word "just". Like, "it's just the common cold." What a misnomer. I vote we rename it something worthly of it's characteristics and capabilities. Something like, "I've come down with a case of Wanting To Claw My Sinuses Out". Or, "The doctor told me it's just the Swallowed the Blades of Ten Thousand Samurai Swords sickness that's going around". Or even "I've been diagnosed with HAHA Good Luck Getting Out of Bed Today".  

-rant continued-

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I also think that the tissue companies should be a bit more honest in their product descriptions. The Cadillac of Tissue (A.K.A. Puff's Plus with Lotion)(Not an affiliate link because I suck at marketing) has a tagline that reads "A face in need deserves Puffs indeed." On the first day of the Common Cold (I've decided that's the name it's PR team came up with to try and make it "family friendly") I'm all, "These tissues are like a down blanket of happiness against my septum." By the fourth day my nose was a red and raw chapped mess (#hot) and I was thinking of the movie Seven where that woman chose the pills over the phone because her nose was gone. Day four found me crying at the tissue box, "MY FACE IS IN NEEEEEEEED!" because I'm definitely not more of a Drama Queen when I'm sick missing my down blanket of happiness in the form of a lotion filled tissue. I've decided tissues need more of an accurate expectation for performance. Something like, "Lotion-filled tissues - great for a sprint - but not trained for endurance." I know, it needs some work. But, honest.

-end rant-

So, in case you missed the point, last week my house contained pink eye, croup, and the common cold all at once. I'm making myself a "I Survived the Illness Trifecta of 2014" t-shirt to layer with my "I Survived the Polar Vortex of 2014" t-shirt. (Have you seen the Time article yet about Detroit being hit hardest by the cold weather? No? Lucky for you I am linking it here. You're welcome. And please send electric blankets and boxes of Bigelow Vanilla Caramel tea ASAP.)

**Story for free - in our old house the backyard connected kitty-corner to the backyard of a house we lovingly referred to as "The Meth House." This was mostly a joke name only because the bushes were overgrown and the curtains were drawn all the time, so we weren't stereotyping at all. The grass was always barely within legal limit of length and the "foliage" in the back corner of the lot (that connected to our yard) was chest high and contained a lot of mint plants. (That was a clue for all you CSI fans.) We seldom saw people go in or out but we lived in a suburb of the Motor City - home of the third shift and people working on the line - so that could have been explained easily enough. What really cemented the name "The Meth House" is when the SWAT TEAM showed up. Best part of this whole story? IT'S A FREAKING CLIFF-HANGER. I never found out the true story behind the SWAT team. Welcome to my private pain. Feel free to speculate with me for the rest of your natural life. Happy Monday.

You're All on HIGH ALERT

I know as a professing Christian I'm supposed to be filled with grace and mercy. However, as we are suffering day five of the most violent stomach bug I have experienced (with my sweet six year old getting the worst of it) I send out this as a warning to whomever spread this virus our way and to the virus invading our lives:

I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.

Are you scared yet? Good.

Oh, and Happy week before Thanksgiving, y'all. I hope it's a blessed time filled with being thankful that you are not throwing up. ;-)

Camping - Days 1 and 2, and the precursor to the EIGHT POINT ONE SIX mile run.

As I previously mentioned, we spent part of last week ... camping *gasp*.  Those of you who have been around for awhile may remember that camping was on last year's Summer Bucket List as one of those things that I never, ever wanted to do but felt like I should at least experience.  Oh, and did I experience it.  It was, quite possibly, the World's Worst Camping Trip. You can read about when history's first landlocked tsunami soaked our entire campground and we were sleeping with the fishes in the way that Tony Soprano (may he rest in peace) never meant to be taken literally at all.  And maybe I did leave the campground in tears that first night, but I also returned only to be told the most horrifying chamber pot story and coincidentally, the only chamber pot story in my repertoire. Also, the sweet little stroll in the woods with my eight year old just barely missed being turned into the fodder for Blair Witch Project II.

After all that craziness, what in the world could possess me to go camping again? In a word, peer pressure. (Dude, I totally know that was two words.)(But "in a phrase" just doesn't have the same flow.)(Story for free? Anytime I say the word "flow" I think "flo" in my head (redundant much, Kel, or do you sometimes think outside your head?)(shoosh your face*, Grammar Nazi) because it's just like Jonah Hill in Superbad - which I totally saw at the gym while I was running on the treadmill last night - when he says, "fo' sho, fo' sho" because he is so white boy ghetto and cool, all the same things I am in my head.)

So, back to camping due to intense peer pressure.  This peer pressure is the kind where everyone you know is going and your kiddos have been saying for a full year, "When we go to the church camping trip ..." and you just can't disappoint them about that. Disappoint them that, yes, we are having pot roast for dinner = yes.  But, no, we are not going to the camping trip because Mama prefers her bed and also electricity = no. That's just how parenting works, apparently. (Kelly must totally rock at Boggle.)(I do.)

We bought our own tent this year and took three cots; I totally finagled the big cot for myself.  It used to belong to Brian's dad and is an XL. The thing is the same size as an XL twin bed. So it totally made sense that the grown up who is 5'3" should sleep on it as opposed to the 6'+ man of the family. (For the record, I only had it one night. Then I gave it up so the hubs could stretch out because love and marriage, y'all.)

The weather was absolutely perfect.  It turns out that the weather actually affects how much fun you will have and the ease at which you will camp.

We arrived Thursday morning, set up our campsite, and ate some rockin' soynut butter and jam sandwiches. (Don't get too jealous of our peanut allergy, er'body.) We toured the campgrounds, mostly visiting with the other families that had already arrived, and I made sure we visited one family in particular.

Derek and Asako are the closest thing to professional campers that I know.  They cook everything over the fire, chop their own wood, and, most importantly, wake up early enough to entertain Esther so that she doesn't wake up the entire campground because maybe her internal volume is stuck at 10. (Dude, I'm not even kidding. When we had Ezra, all the kiddos came to the hospital to help transport us home and one of the nurses, after spending a few minutes with us going over my discharge papers asked if Esther had hearing problems. She's *that* loud.) While at Derek and Asako's campsite the kiddos do fun things like:

Dance while Derek plays a jig on his violin.

Chop wood.

After visiting, we spent some time at the beach, letting the kiddos run back and forth between the water, sand, and the playground.  It was exhausting fun. It was so exhausting fun that when we returned to the campsite to cook our dinner this happened:

Oh.my.lanta. So cute. This is after the pre-nap tantrum that involved Ezra completely losing his marbles over  "Mama hold me!"  *picks up Ezra*   "Mama NO hold me!"  *puts down Ezra*   "MAMA NO LOOK AT ME!"  *turns and walks slowly away*   "MAMA HOLD ME!" (Repeat)

After pounding a campfire grilled hamburger I put on my trail runners and hit the road. I normally only wear that particular pair of shoes when I am biking or taking a fitness class, but I thought I'd pack them for my campground runs. The campground was insanely hilly, and most of my run was going to be on dirt road. I'd mapped out a 4 mile run on Map My Run and set off with a full belly and gorgeous scenery.

It's always nice running in a new environment, especially one that peaceful.  I was back in the woods for a while and saw a pond and heard a hidden stream. Around mile two I felt the rock in my shoe.  It felt small and I only had two more miles to run, so I decided to tough it out and just finish my run.  By the third mile I decided that was a stupid plan, stopped, and took off my shoe and sock.  There was no rock. It was like a phantom rock. At that point I was pretty sure that I'd been bitten by a tick, you know, deep inside my shoe between my pinky toe and the one next to it (ring toe?) because weird pain in the woods is usually linked to Lyme Disease and we all know that is the Drama Queen logical conclusion to draw when your toe hurts. I finished my run confused but fairly certain life as I knew it was over.

Then I got back to camp, took off my shoes, and forgot about my toe pain because it went away.

The next day was full of fun.  I went to Wal-Mart right away because I didn't get the memo where you are supposed to bring junk food on a camping trip, and I was tired of my kiddos begging the families with delicious snack food to love your brother as yourself and share your Kit Kat's. (The good old church kid guilt trip, one mini candy bar at a time.) I stocked up on food that would win back my children's loyalties (except for Ezra because my friend Carrie has thoroughly stolen his affection with her amazing homemade cookies), and drove back to camp, passing the greatest temptation of my life.

180 miles of yard sales. On my route back to camp. I had two dollars cash on my person.

(One hundred eighty miles= minimum 50 sales between Wal-Mart and the campgrounds.)

The family was waiting for processed sugar me back at the campsite. I grudgingly returned thinking, "I'll just go tomorrow. I'm sure Sister Wife Rachel will go with me." (For the record? Totally never happened.)(Moral of the Story? Always carry at least $20 in Emergency Yard Sale money at all times.)(Because really, that's just being responsible.)

Day Two of camping was filled with adventures.  Stay tuned for Monday and the story of how I was almost Eaten By the Deadliest Arachnid within a two foot perimeter of where I was sitting. Thank God I lived to tell the tale. (On Monday, that is.) Also how I ran EIGHT POINT ONE SIX miles (because have I mentioned that anywhere yet?).

Have a great weekend!

*"Shoosh your face" - probably my new favorite expression and brought to you by Sue Diamond-Phillips, Diapers ... or Wine?

Case of the Mondays: Fresh. Or not so much.

Esther, after using the latrines at the trail head before our hike. "They don't smell that bad, guys.  They kind of smell like Mama's deodorant."

Awesome.

The Best Resource Since Web MD

Those who suffer from regular migraines know that they are much more than "really bad headaches" and have a management plan already in place.  They follow preventative measures, surely, but even those are not guaranteed to succeed.  Migraine sufferers can sense the early stages of the throbbing sensation and aim to curb it before it becomes debilitating.

For those that have had exactly three migraines in their entire life and have no set plan, I offer some suggestions for dealing with that pesky little headache that blurs your vision has you just wanting to die puke already.

The first thing you will want to do is deny you have a migraine. You will go about your regular day reasoning, Hey, you're a homeschooler, the children need their education.  Math will be especially awesome when you have to focus on converting millimeters to centimeters and cannot see the decimal point because it won't stand still.

Next, you will admit you have a bit of a headache and search for some Excedrin to take the edge off the pain.  You will also remember that dehydration causes slight headaches and you had a decent trail ride the evening prior; so you'll just down a few liters of agua and know you'll totally be fine.

After school is done - where you've done a stellar job and only had to take scissors away from the two year old one time and also maybe need to scrape twenty-two princess stickers off the kitchen table because Ezra was quiet during Eve's math lesson because he was busy redecorating - you will notice the children are a bit loud.  In fact, they are so loud that maybe they are causing the stress that is surely the cause of this tiny headache that is making you a bit dizzy.  The correct response to this diagnosis is that you need some "me" time.  The kiddos are happily playing Library (this is where they get out every book, cd, dvd, and stuffed animal they own and display them around the living room) so you head outside to mow the lawn.

The noise from the lawn mower is actually considerably less than the noise from your children and the mower totally isn't demanding mac and cheese for lunch again and so initially this is a good move on your part.  It's only about a minute in when the sun has intensified a thousand percent that you question the merit of this plan.  But by then you are committed.  Giving your two year old a mohawk was perfectly acceptable; giving the lawn a mohawk just confesses to the entire neighborhood that you are lackadaisical about your lawn maintenance.  In fact, the outside of your home reflects the state of the inside, so if you leave your lawn all willy-nilly, people will probably assume you are a hoarder.  Like a real life "A&E Hoarders" hoarder; one with dead squirrels buried in the mountains of decaying takeout cartons that fill your living room.  A tiny little headache is not going to let the neighbors think you harbor deceased vermin in your domicile.

Ten minutes into this chore, you will hate your neighbors.  Who are they, anyway, to assume you are a hoarder?  And seriously, while Don and Kelly to the left always edged their lawn, Eric and Stephanie to the right never did.  Which made it totally cool that you could slack in that department.  You loved Eric and Stephanie.  But then Eric had to go and get "seasonal allergies so bad he could no longer mow the lawn himself" and hire a service who consider edging the lawn something you do every time you stop by for a quick trim, which only highlights the fact that you do not edge your own lawn with nearly enough frequency for it to seem like you do it at all.  So now, here you are, mowing your lawn in a zigzag because you can't walk straight pissed off because the stakes have been raised because of pollen.  Forget you, Pollen.

Lunch time means you will figure maybe you are just hungry.  It's merely a hunger headache that is causing the lights to get so bright your eyes are reduced to slits even indoors.  The kids totally win and get mac-n-cheese because for the love of God why are they being so loud?!  You will have a Weight Watchers frozen meal and tell yourself it's healthy because it is calorie controlled and includes spinach.  Spinach is good for your eyes, right?  Or is that carrots?  Either way it's a vegetable, so, there's that.

After lunch you will cuddle some kids on the couch while your eight year old reads a storybook because there is no way you can handle that mess.  You will decide that scrunching your face up - eyes tightly shut, nose like a rabbit sniffing, and mouth puckered - is the best method of pain management currently available, and you will sit like that for the duration of story hour.

At nap time you will finally admit you have a migraine.  You will take a shower and pray to throw up, and after that, lie quietly on the couch until the kiddos come creeping out.  This is where your genius will truly reveal itself.

You will convince the five year old to play Sports Medicine.  She will be the trainer responsible for gently massaging every muscle in your body from the neck down.  The ten year old will be a Scalp Masseuse.  You won't even know if this is a thing, but if you say it with enough authority it totally becomes a thing.  She will gently rub your scalp as you stress the importance of whispering in the presence of a client.  How this morphs into a game of Examine the Pregnancy Stretch Marks and Assign Possession to Each Child, you have no idea.  But soon the five year old and ten year old are appraising both the color and depth of each mark and declaring whose era of pregnancy to which they belong.  As you lift your head in disbelief to witness this game, you engage your abdominal muscles, which raises your entire abdominal area because you are a hardcore athlete with only a smallish layer of chub resting on top of your rock hard abs, causing the five year old to shriek in delight, "It's like bread dough!  It's rising like bread dough!" and sink her hands lovingly into the flesh while kneading away.

As awesome as that is, you will sigh in relief when the neighborhood kids return home from school, and your brood bolts outside to play with them.  This signals not only the start of a quiet house but also that reinforcements, in the form of your spouse, are coming home to take over soon.

When the spouse comes home, retreat to your bedroom, draw the shades, get into bed, and dream about a McDonald's hot fudge sundae.

(Disclaimer: The information found on this site is provided as a resource for viewers and is NOT intended as medical recommendations or professional advice ... but I'm pretty sure a real life doctor would recommend the exact same thing.)

"The water cooler is all the way in the basement but I want hot tea without going down the stairs" (and other first world problems).

I've been a Cranky McCrankivich this week.  I think it's just because now that we are all recovered from the flu (Thank Ya, Jesus!) I realize how much has gone undone lately.  Two weeks of no real cleaning, cooking, shopping, and *ahem* steady routine for the kiddos (other than 'stay in your jammies and watch tv') has given me quite the To-Do List.  Oh, and have I mentioned school?  We ended up taking two full weeks off school (don't panic, we homeschool), but added to the week off from our Disney trip in October, three weeks of school make-up feels like a monstrous hill to climb.

I've been coping with this stress by being super thankful that we are no longer sick  reminding myself of all the ridiculous things that suck about my life.  Which, as everyone knows, is the most obvious way to lift one from the depths of being overwhelmed, and really helps to turn that frown upside down.


So far, I have noted the following:

1. My wrist is sore from playing Bejeweled Blitz on my iPad.

2. I promised the kids we would go to the McDonald's play land at lunch, but all the parking spaces were taken.  We had to park in the adjacent lot ten yards away.

3. I want Tim Horton's for breakfast but that means I can't have Subway for lunch.

4. It's snowing and the snow plow came and plowed my neighborhood before the storm was finished.  Now there's almost an inch of unplowed snow at the bottom of my driveway.

5. My favorite coffee mug is in the clean dishwasher but if I take it out I'll feel guilty for not unloading the whole thing.

5. The only treadmill left at the gym only faces three televisions instead of six.

6. Someone was using my favorite shower at the gym.  The other shower heads spray all wonky.

7.  I forgot that the car had seat warmers and I spent a few nervous minutes wondering if I peed my pants.

8. I really wanted toast with peanut butter and banana but I used all the bananas to make banana muffins so I had to eat a banana muffin with peanut butter instead.


Sometimes being ridiculous is the only way to cope, amIright?  Now I'm gonna go cheer up and come to you much more smiley after a solid weekend of Bustin' My Tush to Get Crap Done. Happy Weekend Y'all!

Me.  If I was yellow.  And round(er).  Like an M&M.

Um, YEAH, I totally meant my ovaries.

It turns out that me feeling so much better on Saturday was a total fake out.  It was merely a reprieve as my body unknowingly prepared for experiencing why some people use "violently" as an adverb with "ill".  I have never felt so sick in my entire life.

That's how I ended up at Urgent Care Sunday evening crying into my Throw Up Bowl (run to the bathroom?  Ain't nobody got time for that) fully convinced I was going to be the first case in history of some crazy hybrid flu that made even the hardest of doctors sympathetic to my misery.  I would be the woman the staff gather around to garner bragging rights that they were the first to see "Sublurban Mama Close to Death Flu" in southeastern Michigan, 2013.

I had the best nurse.  Her name was Rebekah, and she is the youngest of five, and a triplet. The first thing she did after my hour and a half wait yielded me a trip back into the coveted land where there are Actual Nurses and Doctors was transfer me to a room with a gurney so I could lie down.  Rebekah, because she is an awesome nurse, knew being in a room with just an exam table was not going to do the job.  (Although, in the interest of full disclosure: I totally crashed on the floor in the waiting room because I have no shame I'm not that picky.)(And the waiting room was full of chairs and love seats that were deceptive in the way they looked like they could handle a curled up 5'3" woman.)(But they couldn't.)(Handle me.)(Don't worry, the floor stepped up.)(Or rather, I stepped down.)(Okay, I slid.)(Pouty faced and pathetic.)(The important part is that I rested and did not throw up in public.)

Rebekah was 100% supportive in all the right ways, even though I was probably the fiftieth case of the flu she had dealt with that day, and each case knew theirs was the worst case Rebekah had ever seen in her career. (Sorry guys, mine was the worst.  True story.)  She got me water and warm blankets and didn't make me feel like an idiot that I came to Urgent Care even though I knew no one could do anything but Dear God, make it stop I was desperate.  She even suggested I get an official pregnancy test since Aunt Flo is running a little behind schedule this month. (Negative on the bun in the oven.) She also totally made up for Dr. P, who was a (Holy Ghost edit).

Dr. P was not 100% supportive.  This is the story of our relationship.

Scene:  Kelly is on a gurney, probably dying of a weird flu that will be named after her. There is a sharp knock at the door, and as Kelly is registering sound (although not processing the source) the door sweeps open and in storms a young, tall, attractive man.

Man: How are you? I'm Dr P. (Keeps talking.)(Dude is like a freight train of talking.)
Kelly:  (still on first question, interrupts)  I've been better.
Dr. P: (looks confused - is she talking to me?)
(this man has no sense of humor)
Dr. P: So what's wrong?
Kelly:  I have the flu and it hurts everywhere.
Dr. P: Well, you have the flu.  It can hurt.  Sit up.
Kelly: (tries to sit up and gets tangled in the blanket.)(Is also still wearing her coat zipped and hood on.)
Dr. P: Where does it hurt?
Kelly: Everywhere. But mostly... (pantomimes rubbing her abdomen.)
Dr. P: Show me exactly.
Kelly: (unzips her coat at the speed of molasses.)(Thinks she is being the fastest coat unzipper-er ever.)(Jabs at a specific spot in her stomach.  But since she's a mom who has lost 100 pounds and is hunched over on a gurney, it's not nearly specific enough for Dr. P.)
Dr. P: Lay down and show me.
Kelly: (Has enough brain power to register that maybe she should be embarrassed that she is not wearing a bra that could have been some kind of veiled reference to the Mama Gut she is still rocking.)(Gets offended that she is really sick and this doctor just barely by the craziest interpretation possible kind of called her fat.)(Also, maybe when Kelly feels picked on she starts verbally spewing any excuse of justification that comes to mind.)

(I'm explaining the motivation of the character here.)(That was totally a character note, Dude.)(This is like, a professional level screenplay dialogue.)

(Back to Kelly feeling the need to seem smarter and more altogether ... together than current situation would suggest.)

Kelly: I'm a triathlete.  I mean, I know what it means to persevere.  You know, when you're in pain. I'm not a wuss.  So I don't really know anatomy, but I'm pretty sure it's my kidneys. Can we just rip those out?
Dr. P: Show me.
Kelly: (Juts her hips in the air and digs her fingers in to the spot of torture.)

This is a picture of my reenactment once I felt better the next day (because if I were President the first thing I would do is give every household Zofran.  And complimentary fiber.  Holy Side Effects, Batman.)  If you know anatomy this picture is already hilarious.  If not, don't worry, I'll explain soon.

Dr. P: (Steps back.)(NO EXPRESSION WHATSOEVER.)
Dr. P: Anywhere else?
Kelly:  Just my whole stomach hurts.
Dr. P: (Steps closer and begins to probe.) Tell me if it hurts.
Kelly:  (Is in full panic because now she is worried that 1. it's going to hurt and 2. she might throw up.  This realization brings that panic that 3. she has never throw up without pooping at the same time, and now she has to try to accurately assess a pain level and not throw up and poop on this doctor who already thinks she is a hypochondriac retard.) (Finally answers) It's all ... sensitive.
Dr. P: Okay, we'll put you on an IV for dehydration and give you Zofran for nausea.
Kelly: My mouth tastes like metal. (What she means is, "Hey Dr. House, here's a weird symptom that you can add to your puzzle in order to correctly diagnose and treat me. Because I am too sick to have the normal flu.)
Dr. P: Yes. You're dehydrated.
Kelly: (Desperate) And my hips and knees are killing me. (C'mon, House, work your magic.)
Dr. P : Dehydration. (Leaves the room.)

End scene.  Well, not exactly.

The next day, having received my IV and Zofran from Rebekah the Angel Nurse and feeling almost close to normal (just a lot worn out) I also was able to fully distinguish a flu-like stomach ache from period cramps.  And then when Aunt Flo visited around noon I finally put together that when I asked Dr. P to rip out my kidneys?  You know, these kidneys?

The kidneys all the way in my lower abdomen that were trying to kill me?  The kidneys that I asked Dr. P to rip out were really my ovaries.

So yeah, I *did* have some weird hybrid flu.  Pee Em Ess Flu, Dude.  Don't hate.

Awesome.

Nothing says "love" like VD*

I have dreams of being *that* mom; you know, the one who actually does all the crap she pins on Pinterest, whose children have amazing memories of themed breakfasts and color coordinated holiday desserts, but who also gracefully handles normal life with aplomb.

But instead I'm the kind of mom that actually has kids.

However, this year was going to be different.  I had my Valentine's Day game ON.  I picked a Pinterest craft to make for my beloveds:

and even started saving toilet paper rolls like, two weeks ago, which, in my sweet little family of six means I have a collection of about 25 in my immediate possession. (Which also now puts me on the Black Market Hit List for every elementary school art teacher in my vicinity.)  I bought candy with which to fill the bombs, and, because I know the perils of too much junk in the trunk, I also bought some heart pencils and rulers.

I don't even know how it happened but I finagled my way into an invite to a homeschooler party that I wouldn't need to plan at all.  I could just show up with a treat or two and have the kiddos prepared to hand out cards.  Which? I also had the foresight to purchase last week. Cards with stickers and pop out cardboard jewelry.  (Oh my goodness.  I get the chills just thinking about how ahead of the freaking game I was.)

My whole "This Year I Will Be An Awesome Mom" Valentine's Day plan was going so well.

Enter Saturday night.

Kelly: Dude.  I don't feel so good. (The exact wording may have been a bit different because maybe I feel Brian doesn't take me seriously unless it seems I am dying.)(So it probably was more like, "Briiiiiaaaaan.  I feel like I'm gonna diiiieee. Seriously, Babe.  I've never felt so sick in my Whole. Entire. Liiiiiiiiife.  Except that one time in our old house - remember then?  When my limbs were so painful that I couldn't even lift the sheet off the bed and you had to stay home from work because there was no way I could lift two children in and out of cribs let alone be expected to change any diapers? That time was worse.  But thiiiiis is reeeally bad, toooooooo.")(I'm paraphrasing, of course.)

The next few five days were a blur.  A blur of the worst moments of my life.  (Really, Drama Queen?)(Um, yes.)  Because not only did Mama get the FLU FROM HELL (symptoms include high fevers  - averaging 103.5 because we are not underachievers - extreme body/muscle aches, fatigue, chills - and night sweats, score! - sore throat, headache, nausea - maybe I even took a pregnancy test because this wretchedness could not all possibly be just the flu, right? - sinus pain, etc.) but all four kids got it as well.

Brian came home from work most days to discover me cashed out on the pullout couch, covered in four feverish children.  I think we were all whimpering.

I do know this week included copious amounts of television.  And the viewing of the entire "Buddies" puppy movie catalog.  And probably the Spy Kids franchise as well.  We consumed exactly four sleeves of saltine crackers, one and a half gallons of apple juice, and 19 berry flavored Minute Maid juice boxes.  The highlight of the week was undoubtedly this:

Facebook Status:  Thanks to the wretched flu, tonight was my first attempt at dinner in 4 days. About 30 seconds after I realized the Greek yogurt I drizzled all over our Greek pizzas was spoiled, the doorbell rang, and there stood my friend Carrie with homemade chicken noodle soup and warm bread. It was the happiest moment I've had in a long time. I feel so loved :)

Best chicken noodle soup of my life.

So, in conclusion, Next Year I Will Be An Awesome Mom for Valentine's Day.  Unless there is a tornado.  Or something else as equally unplanned and horrifically destructive as this flu. Until then, well, I guess our St. Patrick's Day is gonna be piiiiimp.


*"Nothing says 'love' like VD" is the name of my Valentine's Day board on Pinterest.  It makes you totally want to follow me on Pinterest, amIright?  Good news for you, click on the P over at the top right and you are all set.

Ain't no party like a cold and flu party 'cuz a cold and flu party don't stop

Someone stayed in bed all day yesterday wrapped in two cozy quilts with a space heater running while she moaned piteously every time a whiny child concerned family member stood outside the bedroom door demanding something voicing their concern over her well being.

She may have taken copious amounts of Aleve and Tylenol (don't ask why it's her cocktail of choice) and played unending rounds of Bejeweled Blitz on her iPad while her hubby took over the education of the offspring.


You know you are a mom when a day miserable in bed feels like vacation.


There may have also been some deep midday naps filled with awesome dreams that felt like starring in action movies.  And one dream heavily influenced by recent internet exposure.

(Conversation between the hubs and I after said dream:

Kelly:  I had a dream today we moved to Texas and I met Megan from that one blog I read and we worked out together and she taught me to love chevron.

Brian:  That's why they call them "dreams".

Kelly:  You know, dreams are just 'a goal without a plan'.

Brian:  Dreams are delusional pastimes by those who refuse to live in reality.

Kelly:  Way to crush my soul, Destroyer of All that is Fun.)


Actually, being sick is the one time I feel* it's physically beneficial to my body to eat a McFlurry for dinner.  So, thank you sore throat for justifying 670 calories of cold, soothing, wetness as a healing balm.

*"I feel" = "not necessary true at all".

(*Also, a rant for free = Why don't I ever get the puking-my-brains-out/lose-seven-pounds-in-two-days sickness?  I always get the your-throat-will-feel-so-much-better-if-there-is-constantly-something-sliding-against-it-as-long-as-it's-not-calorie-free-water sickness that makes me lay in bed and just gain weight.)(Also, did I just complain about not puking? Where is my brain?)

Yesterday I posted about the kids' rooms makeovers.  You saw Eve and Hosanna's room and clearly understood that I'm a SAHM and not an Extreme Makover: Home Edition designer by choice, and not because I haven't been in high demand for my ah-may-zing garbage picking finds. Here are some pictures of Esther and Ezra's room.  They went from a crib and a toddler bed to this:

Is that a BIG BOY BED?

Prints from Kenya from Grandma and Grandpa's last missionary trip.

A table and chairs Brian's dad made him as a little boy.

Mad organizational skillz.  Notice the same shoe organizer that Eve and Hosanna have? Don't fix what ain't broke, y'all.

Under the bed storage.  Two laundry baskets of dress up clothes, one laundry basket of dolls and stuffed animals.  And the IKEA rug that every home with children owns.

I have seriously happy kiddos with their new bedrooms.  And I am seriously happy I don't have to worry think about that project anymore.  Now ... what's next?