Ch-Ch-Changes

You know how sometimes you have this huge internal struggle that you wrestle with for months?

And when you finally, finally decide "The heck with it; I'm balls in" you can't wait for the opportunity to tell all those you love?

Because you *know* all those you love will be shocked at the leap of faith you are taking?

But when you publicly drop the life-altering, life-changing decision you toiled over, all your friends and family are like, "Yeah, I saw *that* coming a mile away," leaving you wondering, "Am I really such a foregone conclusion?"

So that happened this month.

Yes, I'm talking about the decision to compete in my first powerlifting meet.

(Y'all saw that coming, too, huh?)(Apparently I'm last to the party on this one.)

At a recent training session, Kemper valiantly tried to argue one more time for the merits of going into figure competition. I finally trumped all his subtle coercion with the ultimate deal-breaker for me: modesty. There is no way around that one if I was going to go into figure competition. (Mom Those who may be wondering, figure competition is the one where you put on a tiny bikini and heels and stand on a stage to show the results of your months of strict diet and hardcore training.) Kemper conceded if modesty was my main issue then, um, yeah, figure wasn't going to work for me.

But if not figure, then what did I really want to do? I've spent the last twelve weeks working Kemper's 5x5 strength training plan. It was a total blast and hella effective. Here are the results from twelve weeks training:

Me getting ready to squat 170 x 5
Also, apparently I squat low bar naturally.
Because my traps are weak delicate.

I started the plan at 147.9 pounds (I'm 5' 3.5" tall) and 23.6% body fat.

I benched 65 for reps with a 1 rep max of 95.
I squatted 95 for reps with a 1 rep max of 155.
I deadlifted 115 for reps with a 1 rep max of 165.

Last weigh in I weighed 146 with 20% body fat.

I bench 95 for reps.
I squat 170 for reps.
I deadlift 165 for reps.

I have yet to test my new 1 rep maxes*, but I think it's fair to say Kemper's strength training plan has been fruitful. So what's next?

It's for STRENGTH GAINZ, geez.

The decision to go into powerlifting was hard for one simple, ridiculous reason. The scale. For me it started and ended with knowing I was going to need to change my diet to support my powerlifting goals, which meant I had to be okay with maybe gaining weight. Kemper used fun terminology like "calorie progression" to talk about eating for strength gains but I knew that was really code for "let's make you a nice, strong Chunky Monkey totally fluffified in time for all your Christmas photos". (Confession. The thought of Kemper actually uttering the words "Chunky Monkey" or "fluffified" kinda sets me to snickering.)(But it would be rad.)

This looks nothing like Kemper.
But the expression? Dude.

(Also, Random Thought For Free = I made Brian watch Brian and I watched The Fault In Our Stars Saturday night and Kemper totally has a facial expression twin. The actor that plays Augustus makes so many Kemper faces it kept taking me out of the imaginary world of Hazel Grace and Augustus (that was absolutely destroying me anyway, let's be honest) because I would be all, "Where have I seen that look..." and be mystified for all of three seconds before I was like, "Kemper freaking Sosa."

So what I was trying to say before Augustus Waters hijacked my life yet again, is that it took a fair amount of internal debate and reflection to see if I'm in a place to be able to mentally handle any body image issues that may arise because of bulking  becoming a fluffified Chunky Monkey  calorie progression. Finally I decided, "Dude, stop being a freaking girl and just go for it." So Imma do it.

What's the plan?

Baby Sister/Police Officer Extraordinaire
Full disclosure: Her name is Cassie.
But what kind of second rate older
sister would let the golden opportunity
pass to drop the nickname "Casshole"?
Not this one.

Firstly, I'm taking a three week break just to have fun. I'm sticking with the general outline of my strength plan (Mondays = chest and arms, Tuesday = yoga and sometimes run, Wednesday - deadlift and back, Thursday = chest/arms/HIIT, Friday = rest, Saturday = LEG DAY, Sunday = abs and HIIT) but I'm trying out a bunch of new-to-me exercises and machines. I'm training with Rachel Who Looks Like Meg Ryan on Mondays (and some Thursdays) and Powerlifter Sara on some Wednesdays and Saturdays. I trained with my baby sister (the beautiful and strong Casshole) last Thursday at LA Fitness. I'm playing around with stances and grips and throwing up new weights just because I can. HOORAH.

I'll meet with Kemper the first week of October to go over THE NEW TRAINING PROGRAM. You know, the one that prepares me for my first ever powerlifting meet. *throws up in my mouth a little from fear* I found a meet in January that is relatively close by; unfortunately it is only a push/pull competition, which means I will only be doing bench press and deadlift. (No squatting this time.)(Which I actually think might be a nice way to ease into this sport.) I'll start The New Training Program October 13, which gives me roughly 12 weeks to prepare. I'm also attending a meet in Grand Rapids, Michigan on October 11 to see Powerlifter Sara compete, which will give me some idea of what to expect when it's my turn.

I'm nervous, guys. I'm freaking out a little. I'm worried I may be the weakest person there. I'm worried I won't make my lifts. But this is good freaking out, and healthy fear. This is the fear that pushes me to try new things, to be better. These are the nerves that challenge my Navy Seal dreams. Second place is FIRST LOSER.

In conclusion, (I love that dropping that phrase always makes me feel like I've actually made some cohesive points) here is a picture of me hitting a new PR for deadlift on Sunday morning that has nothing to do with any of this post, and everything with just wanting to post a ginormous picture of myself deadlifting TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.

True story about this picture: Lifetime Fitness is relatively empty at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, which made it the perfect time to play around with a sumo deadlift stance and see how much I could lift. I did some light sets of ten reps to warm up (at 95# and 115#) and then started rocking out two reps every 10#-20# increase. My previous 1 rep max lift was 165#; after Kemper's strength training plan I could do 2-3 sets of 5 reps each at 165#. But I'd never done more than that. When I got to 175# it was a big deal. A NEW PR! But I kept going. 185#. Then 190#. I was all, "THAT'S A 25# PR!" Then I thought, "A 30# PR would be nicer." So I did it. Then I reasoned, "I'm only 5 measly pounds away from 200 - which is a really nice number." So I pulled 200# and freaked the heck out.
 Then I proceeded to ask every single person within a fifty foot radius if they had a camera with them and would someone pretty please with a cherry on top take a picture (because: proof) and email it to me?!?!
Thankfully my new best friend Toni (a.k.a. previously a perfect stranger) ran down to the locker room (oh yes, she did) to grab her phone and take the lovely shot above which she emailed to me because she loves and supports other women who lift. And I am super, super grateful.
The End.

Blooper Reel - Take One

The beauty of the internet is that you can portray yourself any way you please. It's been likened many times as "displaying your highlight reel" (and is usually accompanied by the warning not to compare your own blooper reel against someone else's highlights). Thanks to this little blog I think I have been doing a stellar job of convincing everyone my daily life is as highlighted as they come. I mean, who wouldn't want to be the woman who is so good at parenting she kicked a hole in her kitchen wall? Or has the social graces to survive being conversationally accosted (*totally a real thing*) at Red Robin? 

But please know that I have my own moments. My life is so filled with gaffes that I'm beginning to see my life movie as one huge blooper reel ... without the chance for any retakes. (Which? Is pretty awesome because we can all agree that the blooper reel is the best part.) Here is one of mine from last week. You're welcome.

Scene: It is four minutes before Ezra's school begins. The lobby is pure chaos. There are about ten families milling around waiting for the teachers and aids to come claim the children for their classrooms. Ezra is standing next to me talking to his friend Cory. Cory is the youngest in the class, but also known as "the one whose DAD brings him".  (Cory's dad is infamous among the children because he works in customs and has a uniform that makes him look like a cop. He also looks a ton like a young Jason Statham, except with way more hair and tattoos.) Cory's dad is all sorts of cool and intimidates the heck out of me. This scene opens with him whispering to me as he tries to hand out invitations to Cory's birthday party.

Who is Erika? I never even knew they had a girl in their class. When did she show up? Should I invite her? Is that weird? Who is her mom?

MAMA. CORY HAS LIGHTENING.

Erika is that little girl with the blonde hair. *nonchalantly head nods* There. And that's her mom.

Cool. Thanks.

MAMA. CORY HAS LIGHTNING.

Awesome, Bud.

So this party thing. It's just a little thing at one of those jump house places. And we're celebrating after back at our house if you want to come by.

Sounds cool-

MAMA. CORY HAS LIGHTNING LIKE MINE.

Dude. That's amazing.

Oh, here's Hunter's mom. *Starts handing out the invitation* *realizes it's not filled completely out* DOES ANYONE HAVE A PEN?

I think I do-

MAMA-

Hold on, Bud. *reaches in purse*

*anxiously waiting as I root around* Yeah, any pen will do.

MAMA-

Dude. Just let me find this pen, baby.

*waiting* *waiting* *waiting*

MAMA-

Here you go *HANDS CORY'S DAD A TAMPON BY MISTAKE*







Aaaaaand I die.

End scene.

Stress Eating, Meningitis, and Taking It Back to 1990

Monday's post was meant to be the beginning of a weekend update, but I tend to forget that I'm a tad verbose and needed to cut it off at my Friday night wardrobe descriptions. So instead of offering the minutiae of the rest of my weekend, I've changed gears and now want to offer a completely helpful post about how I handle stress.

This weekend was a tad bit stressful. I fully handled it with an ample supply of tortilla chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant while on a rare day date with Brian. I followed that Food That Didn't Count with three hard shell tacos and two diet Cokes. I totally felt better for the hour I was there.

Later that evening, when Chris and Stacy came over with their kids even though I had mistakenly planned that it was our turn to go out, (and consequently was completely unprepared for four extra kids after being out all day long) I soothed with a hot dog, dill pickle chips, and some diet Cherry Pepsi. Also, cookies.

At that point, I was all in for March Nosh Fest.

In the spirit of "Go Big or Go Home", I continued my streak on Sunday with iced coffee (of course I did), a microwaveable breakfast burrito, a Hot Pocket with a pretzel crust and filled with cheese and bacon tomato, and ice cream.

It was a lovely and delicious two days. Then I remembered my Monday night weigh in with Kemper.

Call me a lot of things, but I'm not a liar. I do however, joke about hard things in order to alleviate tension.

*minor tangent*

(*Case in point* One of the hardest things this weekend was that my sister was hospitalized for meningitis. The first three days of her admission were spent waiting for the labs to get back with us about what kind she had. I visited Saturday afternoon and did the following things:

Hey girl, this mask you need to wear to avoid
sickness could never mask your beauty.

1. I immediately renamed her day nurse. This was because when I showed up I was greeted by the signage covering her door filled with horrifying doomsday proclamations about her condition and the precautions I had to take in order to enter. I went in search of her nurse so I could get the run down on contagious diseases and the mask I needed to don. I was waiting at the nurses station when her day nurse walked up. At first I thought I was being punked because it was like JACKSON FREAKING AVERY was talking to me about medical type things and surely someone was messing with me by trying to convince me I was living in Grey's Anatomy.

I'm just sayin' the boy was attractive.

When I finally saw Cassie, I commented, "Dude, he's not too bad looking." She replied, "Oh, Dan?" I answered, "Dan? You mean D@mn, as in 'D@mn that boy is fine," which is probably my favorite joke of the whole weekend. We even varied it, calling him Lieutenant D@mn before dissolving in fits of giggles like twelve year old girls.

2. After several nurses commented on what an easy patient my sister is, I decided they were not complimenting her. Clearly, these statements were veiled attempts to communicate that she needed to up her game. So we put together a game plan to be the most fun patient ever that probably involved a lot of jokes about poop. It was hysterical and inappropriate and exactly what we needed to get her through to her eventual diagnosis of Aseptic Meningitis which was the kind we all wanted. Phew.

*end tangent*

So, back to dealing with stress by joking. I tend to get away with some things because I joke about them. On Monday night when I found Kemper to weigh me in, I didn't lie at all. I said my planned greeting of, "Dude, I totally ate this weekend like it was the only way to get into Heaven." I expected Kemper would laugh and give me a psuedo-serious lecture about good decisions and having a plan for dealing with stress, but instead he looked crestfallen and said, "What happened?" before drilling me about everything I ate and how I exercised. He actually groaned when I mentioned my Mexican Feast. I started haltingly editing my verbal food diary as he looked more and more upset. I felt like I'd let down The Master.

The damage wasn't as bad as I expected. I gained a half a pound but also 1.6% body fat. Kemper spent close to a half hour talking with me about my goals (it totally felt like I was back in high school visiting with the school counselor) (except I'm a 34 year old GROWN UP and Kemper is 22 precious years old*) before offering to train me (FOR FREE) on Tuesday because he really felt like I needed to "lift heavy". (And I, of course, am just as skeptical about "lifting heavy" as I am about this high protein/high fat diet that works amazingly well when I follow it.)

(* this is how I know Kemper is 22. When I was being scanned for weight and body fat percentage I made a joke about feeling like I was in Total Recall, and Kemper looked a little blank. I was all, "Tell me you've seen Total Recall", and he was all, "I saw a few scenes of the remake," and I was all, "Dude, that will not do," because the original Total Recall was so terrible that it is amazing. I was all, "How old are you?" (did you totally just think of Twilight and read that in Bella's voice because if not you're doing it wrong) and he said, "22," and I died a little inside when I did the math and realized I could have babysat him. He was nine when I got married. Because I was then fully off my game I voiced those thoughts out loud before stammering, "I mean, I don't mean I could baby sit you now... I meant back then, you know, when you were a kid ..." before trailing off in stellar fashion. Kemper smirked, so I punched him on his baby fine skin. (Sike.)(That never happened.)(The punching thing, I mean.)

I'll write next on my experiences "lifting heavy" in a post I've titled "I thought I was in labor but I was just lifting heavy." Y'all come back now, 'ya hear?

Getting Old Sucks

Over Christmas we received a version of this catalog in the mail.

This exchange followed:

Brian: Don't tell me they are bringing the Walkman back.

Kelly: No, honey, those are robot vacuums.

Great Scott, Marty! It's the future!*

(*Proof you are old? You understood that reference.)
Happy Friday!

P.S. In some other housekeeping news (no, she did *not* drop a housekeeping pun during a vacuum joke post)(no, she did *not* drop a vacuum joke post), less than 2 percent of you that follow me through Facebook are receiving my notifications when I post*. (One way you can fix this travesty is to follow me via Bloglovin or Google Friend Connect. Just click on the fancy buttons on the right of your screen and voila! you are totally always in the know.) But if Facebook is truly where you check for stuff, please, go to my Facebook page, hover over the "Liked" button, and check "Get Notifications", not just "Show in News Feed". Please and thank you. I would be forever grateful.

P.P.S. *Mark Zuckerberg? More like Mark "Suck"erberg. 

I'm pretty sure this post qualifies me as a "Lifestyle Expert".

Lifestyle Expert Profile Picture
(totally looks legit, doesn't it?)

If you've ever wondered, "Gee, I could really use some advice on how to make my own bricks and glue using average household goods," I have the post for you.

With a bit of accidental ingenuity I have discovered the secret to thinking you are concocting delicious treats, but in reality are creating weapons and adhesives.

I've found the best way to do this is to notice the bananas on your counter are past their prime, and perfect for using in banana bread. Get out your trusty banana bread recipe (any one will do) and proceed to math. Be forewarned, this is the most time consuming part of the process. If the recipe calls for three bananas, and you have eight, go ahead and decide to triple the recipe, eight is totally close enough to nine to justify tripling. Eight and nine are neighbors.

Once you have correctly multiplied, employ a three year old to peel all the bananas while you gather the rest of the ingredients. Next, take a few minutes to unearth all the stringy peel leftovers that made their way into the banana bowl, and unleash the three year old to smash the ever loving daylight out of the bananas. When banana soup consistency is achieved, bribe the three year old to stop smashing with a promise he can hold the measuring spoon while you pour some lemon juice. Midway through measuring your tablespoon(s), your three year old will freak the heck out because he found some rogue banana guts still clinging to the inside of his wrist. Call upon your previously unknown skills as a hostage negotiator to convince the little terrorist dear child you will thoroughly clean his hands after you finish measuring and pouring the lemon juice.

Next, send your three year old on the world's most important mission to find the banana bread pan. Hurriedly measure and pour your oil before he can return and demand to "help" with this part. Make sure that in your haste you only measure enough oil for the original recipe, and not the tripled one. This part is crucial. If you are lucky you can add the (tripled) sugar before the completion of the bread pan mission, but unfortunately you probably selected the most competent bread pan retriever in the history of the world, so he will arrive just in time to aid in the addition of the sugar.

The sugar part is sweet. You will end up with a model of the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes composed entirely of Domino Sugar on the kitchen table. This is mostly because for a three year old, a ten inch target from one inch away is surprisingly difficult to nail when a cupful of sugar is involved.

Get out the mixer because now the real fun begins. This is the most spiritual part of making bricks and glue. You will practice what the Apostle Paul refers to as "pray without ceasing" while the three year old mans the hand mixer "ALL BY MYSELF, MAMA". Some phrases I found helpful were, "Please Jesus, let him keep it in the bowl", and "Oh Holy Spirit, please bless this child with a steady hand and an obedient heart." Feel free to use any alternate wording you've found to be helpful.

Once your wet ingredients are mixed, get out a separate bowl in which to combine your dry goods. Do some more math. Do it again, because you remember you are tripling - or was is quadrupling? - your recipe. Glance in the garbage can and guestimate how many banana peels you see. Deduce there are a crap-ton, which roughly means you used about twelve bananas for your recipe. That means you must have quadrupled the recipe. Pat yourself on the back because math just happened and it found you smart.

Quadruple the flour. If you are a food allergy family using a vegan banana bread recipe, quadruple the what germ. Quadruple the salt, baking powder, and the baking soda. Let the three year old stir.

How *you* doin'?

Dump the wet ingredients into the dry ones. The three year old will attempt to stir them together but will quickly give up because "it's too hard". Do not be deceived into thinking he's just quitting because his sisters started watching Monsters University in the other room. Yes, he is being seduced away by Mike and Sulley, but he was accurate in his assessment that it really is too hard to stir the banana bread mixture. Like, crazy hard. Like, "Uh-Oh I Did Something Majorly Wrong Here" hard.

Release the three year old to Monsters University. Decide to bake a trial run of six muffins. For twenty two minutes you will bake banana bricks. Eight minutes after they come out of the oven you will determine that banana bricks taste horrendous. Quietly dump the batter, but not before spilling some on a few Christmas cards and some unopened mail on the counter. (Don't worry, it wasn't your card. Your card is lovely and is being displayed prominently on my kitchen wall.)

Until you discover Banana Bread Glue.

Later that evening, as you are cleaning the kitchen before bed, discover the spilled batter when you try to clear the mail so you can wipe down the counter tops. The mail will not budge. It is stuck firmly to the surface by banana bread glue, which seemingly rivals Gorilla Glue in effectiveness.


If you faithfully follow the steps above, you too can make your own bricks and glue.

(I will gladly supply the three year old.)

Happy Baking Crafting!

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. ;-)

And they say that a hero could save us, I'm not gonna stand here and wait - Nickelback*

Eve: Mom, if I had a bunch of super powers, like, super strength and super flexibility, what would you do?

Kelly: Probably sell you. You'd be worth a lot of money.

Being a Super Hero is ruff.

If I was a Super Hero I would be Captain Patient Advocate (I'm still working on my name) and my super power would be Beating the System. It goes without saying that Rage Against the Machine would supply my theme music. I would be able to dance gracefully through red tape and get helpful, cheerful healthcare in a timely manner. (Feeling threatened yet, Big Insurance?) (Or, because I'm a non-partisan blogger, feeling threatened yet, Obamacare?)(Because *that* pot needed stirring, you know.)

I did not know there was such a void in our Super Hero collection until I experienced the need for such a hero. Superman is awesome, but can he get my husband an appointment with an actual physician on the same day we request one? And Ironman. Dude is amazingly good looking and aging remarkably well despite the *ahem* rough living in his past, but can he find a doctor who will take more than five minutes to treat my husband?

Thus the birth of a CPA* Super Hero dream.

*Now I'm truly convinced I need a new name. I'm taking suggestions immediately. The author of the chosen name receives: a sidekick costume that will rule, bragging rights, and a supporting role when the movie comes out.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining about all the care we've received just the "care" from our *Holy Ghost edit* Primary Care Physician. Even without Captain Patient Advocate we've sailed through the system with an ease I still cannot believe. Brian got sick on September 12th. That is the last day he worked, the last day he drove a car, and the last day he felt even remotely "normal". (Which is all relative, I know.)(I mean, the dude is married to me, so normal is subjective, right?) It is just under a month later and we have a diagnosis.

Brian has ... (this is where the Scooby-Doo reveal music goes) Vestibular Neuritis.

Vestibular Neuritis?! ZOINKS!

(Wow, drama much, Kel?)  (Um, have you ever read my blog?)

Basically, Brian caught a virus that attacked this tiny little nerve in his inner ear. This tiny little nerve controls balance for the entire body. This virus only took a few days to run it's course, but since it's departure he has been dealing with the damaging effects of the virus. And it's a destructive little sucker. If it were a volcano it would be Dante's Peak (which I totally watched this weekend).

Now Brian has to relearn balance. He is essentially learning to process all the stimuli his brain receives anew. No one knows how long this will take. The hope is that he will be retrained and return to a "new normal" within a month. (Although our doctor, because he is self-proclaimed hilarious, says, "Cancel your plans to walk a tightrope, because that will probably never happen." Haha.)(Whatever, Dude, you're not the boss of my Bucket List.)

The best way to retrain the brain is by resuming normal activities as much as possible. I immediately translated this to mean: Brian totally has to do the dishes again. Because honestly, we can all agree that has been the real trial here.

Thanks again for all the love and support. Thank you for words of encouragement, food, babysitting, and all the other forms of help that have been offered and delivered. We truly could not have survived this without all the help.


*Nickelback - I had to look up these lyrics because Nickelback sucks I don't fill my brain with crappy music other than the aforementioned Blurred Lines. I inadvertently left the web page of lyrics up and went to do some other business. That's when Brian sat down at the computer, found the Nickelback lyrics, and started planning an intervention. He confronted me with, "This is worse than finding porn, Kel." Point made, dear.

Kummerspeck: Because Cupcakes Always Love Me

Losing weight has taught me when to recognize when I am eating my feelings. And if you are wondering how I've been feeling lately, what with it being the last week before home school starts, I've been feeling = cupcakes. Specifically, carrot cake cupcakes. Oh, and chocolate cupcakes from Kroger with fluffy white frosting and yellow sprinkles. Because my feelings are both delicious and beautiful.

I've been justifying this because *guess who ran nine miles?!* and also because I've been so stressed out with doing lesson plans that I gave myself my period two weeks early. I'm pretty sure a doctor on Wikipedia would suggest consuming copious amounts of miniature cake to negate the stress of any situation so taxing it affects the natural rhythms of my reproductive cycle. But don't worry too much, I took note of my sweet weekend noshing and reined that mess back in.

How is lesson planning going? Fantastic. A few months ago I won a night's stay at the Hilton Garden Inn and I redeemed it Friday night. I locked myself up in my room with nothing but my school supplies, coffee from my friend Stacy, and Twister on cable television (starring Helen Hunt)(which I have almost memorized)(because I appreciate good cinema*) and knocked out a month of lesson plans. September is looking pretty rad, my friend.

(*Warrior has recently replaced Pump Up the Volume as my favorite movie of all time. This has less to do with my love of all things MMA (which doesn't exist) and more to do with my intense love for the Conlon brothers as they reconcile their relationship. Also: Tom Hardy and Joel Edgerton. You're welcome.)

In other news, did you hear the one about the girl who ran nine miles for the first time ever Sunday morning? 

It was totally me. 

I've decided my favorite part of half marathon training is that I have to remember mid-run to eat jelly beans. Or "sport beans" as true athletes call them. (I think I finally found my running fuel of choice. I can not handle the consistency of Gu, and protein bars are a bit too heavy for my tummy. Eating nothing made me light-headed and grumpy, and dried fruit combatted my iron supplement a bit too aggressively if you know what I'm sayin'.)

The weather has been hot, humid, and threatening thunderstorms, so I woke up really early and ran three miles to the gym (just beating the rain, score!) where I hopped on the treadmill and ran four more miles, and finished with two more on the indoor track. I "fueled" while I was walking in between running destinations. I only feel mildly ridiculous eating jelly beans while slightly out of breath and covered in sweat at the gym. I also still kind of feel like I should be able to run that long without any kind of fuel, but both Sarah and my friend Stephanie have talked with me about the importance of fueling for these longer runs, so I get it. However, that doesn't stop me from trying to shove what looks like candy into my yammer both quickly and discreetly so no one sees me and assumes I'm a complete junkie (which honestly only perpetuates the fat girl sneaking food mentality that already messes with my brain).

Today's agenda includes organizing the homeschool prep desk (be still my heart - I looooooove to organize), laminating (don't get too jealous), and a happy little three mile run. Also, we are having blt's for dinner, but I promise I'll keep myself from suffering Kummerspeck. Happy Labor Day!

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?

May the Fourth be with you*

*I already feel like this title has been beyond played out, but stay with me while I explain the relevancy.  Here in southern Michigan it has been raining for almost a week.  Solid.  Big stormy rain, the type with thunder and lightning and no hope of your yard being dry enough to mow.  I have been surviving this near constant deluge by allowing the children to watch a liberal amount of television in the form of movies from the library.  The kiddos were first introduced to the Star Wars franchise back in October at Disney World, and I finally got the original trilogy for them to watch this week.

It was going extremely well.  Then it wasn't.

In a house full of little girlies, matchmaking and wedding planning are some important happenings.  So imagine the absolute disgust and horror at the revelation of Luke and Princess Leia's shared biology. I don't know if they've fully recovered yet.

Brian and I at Disney World.  Awesome.

I'm not a big 4th of July person.  Don't get me wrong, I love me some liberty and I fully celebrate all the day stands for, but as far as holidays go, The Fourth rates somewhere around "meh" for me.  This might be because I have a ginormous aversion to the average Joe having access to exploding pyrotechnic projectiles but also that I question the merit of encouraging a child to hold a flaming stick named because it shoots off a shower of sparks to wave said wand of death around to "write your name".

The man I married, on the other hand, feels it is our God-given right as 'Murican's to purchase and combust as many rockets (or roman candles, or sparklers, or firecrackers, or mortars - what?! did I stutter? yes, mortars) as possible.

This is why I returned home from the gym Wednesday night to find the population of our neighborhood in our front yard (ok, just Chris and Stacy and their brood from down the street) gleefully awaiting nightfall so they could watch a fantastic display while I held my breath waiting for someone to blow off a limb in the process.

"Never, ever play with fire.  Unless I ok it in celebration of our liberation from the Brits. Then, throw that fire in the air and wave it around like you just don't care. But watch out for your brother."

Look at the boy's face; I'm totally having a Beavis and Butt-head moment here - "Fire! Fire!"

Man Heaven Partners in Crime.

Watching our daddies "blow stuff up".

Everyone (and their limbs and digits) survived the night unscathed, so I went to bed that night to the sound of everyone else in my suburban town shooting off rockets, blissful that it was finally over at my house.

Thankfully my children have listening to the Madagascar 3 soundtrack forty million times and can sing Katy Perry's Firework ad nauseum, so the day after this impromptu block party we were able to recall the memories of such a fantastic night of potential dismemberment and maiming.

On the actual Fourth of July I took the girlies to see Monster's University. (Totally worth seeing.)  It was a surprise to them. We "took a walk" and ended up at the theater a half mile away. It was awesome to watch them freak the heck out when they figured out what we were doing.  *Collects her Awesome Mom Points* 

Happy Friday! Go have a great weekend!