Go shawty, it's your birthday, we gonna party like it's .... well, your ordinary Wednesday night, actually.

Zeke and I were talking last night as I lay with him at bedtime.  I said, "you know what?  Only three more sleeps until Mimi and Papa come!"

"Only three?  That's so cool!" he said.

"And you know what else?  You know what day tomorrow is?"

"What?"

"It's my birthday."

"It's your birthday?"

"Uh-huh."

Suddenly he sat up.  "What day is it tomorrow?  Is it a school day tomorrow?"

"It's Wednesday.  It's a school day."

"But I don't want to go to school!  I want to go to your birthday!"

He was very upset.

Because to him, all birthdays involve big outings to museums or trampoline parks and parties with cake and ice cream and goodie bags.  And he didn't want to miss out.

"Honey, you're not going to miss anything.  I have to go to work and you have to go to school, so maybe we can do something after school.  Would you like to bake a cake with me?  We can have birthday cake and blow out candles."

"Can I eat the cake?"

"Sure."

"OK."

So I'm 42 today.  And I'm not having a big party with trampolines and balloons or anything, but I'm having a lovely day nonetheless.  I have received over 80 emails and/or Facebook messages wishing me a happy birthday.  My friend and co-worker took me out to lunch.  Zeke and Josie and I will make cake tonight.

And I'm doing the little things that I love and routinely do on my birthday.  I'm wearing a snazzy amethyst cocktail ring that belonged to my Grandma Ruth - it's my birthstone and it makes me feel closer to her.

My mom and I had our annual telephone conversation in which she told me about the day I was born.  My dad and I talked about it as well, and he told me how much he loves me and how he's been over the moon for me since the day I was born.  My children were sweet and relatively compliant this morning, and J called to wish me a happy birthday and, as an added bonus, told me about how he pulled a woman from her truck this morning after she lost control and it flipped on the highway and landed upside down.  She was miraculously unharmed, but understandably freaking out and couldn't take off her seat belt or get out of the upside-down truck, so he crawled in, got her out, and carried her to his van and waited with her until the rescue vehicles came.  My husband, the hero.

And life feels very, very good.  Work (my 9-5 job) is going great.  My Beachbody business is going great and is so much more fun and rewarding than I ever would have thought possible - tomorrow I will advance in rank in the company and I'm making more money every month.  My kids are healthy and happy.  J and I are healthy and happy.  Both physically and emotionally, I feel kind of awesome (and loving the juicing, by the way!).

Life always has its crests and troughs.  Right now feels like a crest. 

Even without a big birthday party.

Thursday Tidbits

• We got a juicer.  

Over the weekend, J and I were chilling out on the couch and started watching Sick, Fat and Nearly Dead, a documentary about Joe, an Australian guy who goes on a 60-day juice fast when he finally reaches a breaking point with his shitty health - he was 300 pounds, exhausted, and had some sort of auto-immune skin disease that caused him to break out in itchy rashes all the time.  He films himself doing the fast as he travels across the U.S. talking to people about health and healthy eating, and by the end of the fast, he's lost a shit-ton of weight (something like 90 pounds), feels amazing, and has been taken off all the prednisone he was on for his disease because he's no longer having flare-ups.  Along the way, he meets Phil, a truck-driver who weighs 420 pounds and is a cheeseburger away from a heart-attack, and Phil is inspired and decides to follow Joe's lead and starts his own juice fast and healthy living plan (all of this is under the supervision of a doctor).  By the end of the movie, he's lost almost 180 pounds and his life is transformed.

I eat this stuff up.  My fitness business is all about getting people to just *start* living healthier, and take it a day at a time.  So I was truly verklempt watching Phil's transformation, and J and I were so inspired by the whole thing (plus, we're totally lemmings) that I had gone onto Amazon.com and ordered a juicer before the movie was even over.  Neither of us needs to go on a 60 day juice fast, but we're going to work homemade fruit and veggie juices into our diets, and do 3-5 day juice fasts on a regular basis, maybe once a month or so.  We signed up for a CSA delivery that starts on Monday, and I'm off to the grocery store with a list that includes kale, beets, ginger root, celery, apples, and all kinds of other stuff that we'll be juicing.

And yes, I know I'm a geek. 

• Josie has hit the Terrible Twos. 

Zeke never really went through the Terrible Twos.  His were more the Terrible Threes.  So when Josie suddenly went from being a sweet, agreeable little monkey to a whiny, bossy asshole, we were a bit taken aback. 

In her defense, she's not an asshole all the time.  Just a lot of the time.  Fussing, bitching, throwing things, crying over nothing.  But, it'll pass.  Zeke, conversely, went from being a moody asshole to an absolute delight (except for the constant poop and fart talk, but I'll deal).  I guess it's the universe's way of balancing things out.

• Zeke is headed to big-boy school (sort of).

I submitted Zeke's application for pre-kindergarten a couple of weeks ago (he'll be 5 this year, but because his birthday is after the October 1 cut-off, he'll start kindergarten when he's nearly 6).  I look at him and he's not a baby or even a toddler.  He's a kid. 

I don't understand how this happened.

• The light at the end of the tunnel.

The move from Hawaii put us in a HUGE financial hole.  Huge.  I had to cash out a 401(K), then I fucked up the taxes on it so we were slammed with a $10K tax bill 2 years ago.  Our tenants in our Hawaii house then abandoned their lease early, so we had to stop paying the mortgage 14 months ago.  We're trying to get rid of the house in a short sale, but we've been under contract twice and twice the buyers have walked away for various and sundry reasons.  I'm hopeful that third time will be the charm (and that we'll manage to close before the HOA forecloses as they've been threatening to do).  Plus we've had (and still have) about $2K a month in daycare expenses, J had hernia surgery then lost his job, one of our cars kept breaking down, our pipes froze last winter, the A/C broke in the summer, etcetera etcetera.

But.  The huge weight I've felt in my chest is starting to lighten.  Last year's tax refund paid off the previous year's deficit, and this year's we actually get to keep!  And we're selling one of the cars.  And my Beachbody business is starting to earn me some real money (not enough to quit my job - yet - but enough that it can make a difference in our lives and our financial stability)*.  So we'll be able to pay off two loans altogether, and start paying down another debt, and maybe actually start to save a little bit. 

It's so nice to have a little bit of relief after feeling for over 3 years that we were drowning.

• Vegas, baby.

I'm going to Vegas in June for Beachbody's big annual coach's convention.  The money I'm making from the business allows me to afford the trip.  I will be rooming with my friend Ferreh, who is hilarious.  If she and I lived in the same city, we would get in a lot of trouble together.  And I've never been to Vegas. 

Can. Not. Wait.

I've got a flex day tomorrow, so I will be hitting the slopes on my new skis.  Have a good weekend, all!

*Seriously - if you're unemployed, underemployed, looking for a side gig to provide some extra cash flow, email me.  Not only is there money to be made, but it is so much fun to help people get healthy. 

Economy of language

Every night, I put Josie in her bed and I sit in a little chair next to it and read her stories.  Lately The Snowy Day and Llama Llama Misses Mama have been in heavy rotation.

The Snowy Day is one of my all-time favorites.  I read it to my children a lot, and every time I do, I find it magical.  I never get tired of it.  I love the illustrations, the way the book conveys the beauty and wonder a child finds in heading out to play in the snow, and the simplicity of the language.  (Plus, it's very free-range -- Peter lives in the city and goes out to play all day long by himself, though he's obviously fairly young -- too young for snowball fights with the big boys, after all).

Well, Josie may have one up on Ezra Jack Keats in the simplicity department.  Lately she has taken to reading the books to me ("Mama, I read it!").  This is The Snowy Day, Josie-fied.

"There's a boy.  And he's outside and there's LOTS of snow!"

"Crunch crunch crunch! He walk in the snow with his toes."

"Whee!  He goes down a hill!"

"There's his mother!"

"Night Night!  The end."

She slams the book shut.

"Song, mama?"

I turn off the light and sing.

Everybody's got a random

Sometimes in maintaining a blog, I get too into the notion of themes -- of telling stories that have some overriding point, or of depicting life in a way that betrays some grand plan. Because it makes for more interesting writing (and reading).

But truthfully, I think that's all bullshit.  Most of life is totally random.

Like the other day I was on the bus coming home from work.  Sitting across the aisle from me was this huge guy that looked a bit vagrant-ish.  Not quite homeless, but certainly someone who has seen brighter days.  I got the sense that he spent a lot of time riding the bus and striking up conversation with people, just to pass the time.

Which, whatever, ya know?  More power to him, I guess.

Except that I am not one for idle conversation with strangers.

Every once in a while the planets will align and I will enter into a conversation on a plane or whereever with a seatmate, and it will be genuinely interesting.  But this is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and not something that I actively seek out.

So this guy across from me on the bus has been bothering some poor guy who was in a Navy uniform, so Almost Homeless Dude starts in with the, "oh, you're a Navy man, eh?  Did you know [some obscure fact about the Navy that may or may not have been true, but was a way to ingratiate himself with the dude in the uniform] blah blah blah." Navy Guy humored him for a while, but finally reached his stop and practically flung himself off the bus, he was so overtly happy to be free of Almost Homeless Dude's conversational stylings.

I could practically feel Almost Homeless Dude searching around for some new shlub to talk to.  And eventually he settled on me.

I stared straight ahead, and then was stunned to be smacked across the face with a scarf, which Almost Homeless Dude had flicked at me, like a 10th grade boy smacking ass in the communal shower after gym class, in an effort to get my attention.

I whipped my head around and glared at him.  He sort of chuckled and said, "oh, I'm so sorry," as if it had been an accident.  I frowned.  He tried to talk to me, saying things like, "oh, I see your ID badge, where do you work?" but I grunted one-word answers until I reached my stop and got off the bus.

And there isn't any grand point to this story. It's just an example of a random encounter that is a part of commuting on public transportation.  One that I would never remember, if I didn't record it for posterity here  on the internet.

And the day had been sort of random like that.  I spent the day going from meeting to meeting, never quite getting my bearings with a big project -- just small encounters and questions that were unrelated.  I felt kind of disjointed and off-kilter all day.

The day ended randomly as well.

I was lying in bed with Zeke, snuggling with him to help him get to sleep.  He had been quiet for awhile, so I thought he was settling down and falling asleep.  But I should have known better.  My mother once remarked that when she thinks about Zeke she's reminded of those machines that measure brain activity -- the red areas show areas of heightened cerebral activity.  She envisions Zeke's brain as all red, firing on all cylinders at all times.

I don't disagree.

We were lying there in the dark, quiet and cozy.  Suddenly, he lifted his head and exclaimed, "Mama!"  He sounded very excited.

"What is it, honey?" I asked.

"Mama!  Have you ever heard of the number 139?"

I chuckled.  "Yes, I have heard of that number."

"You have??"  He seemed incredulous.

"Yes.  I've pretty much heard of all the numbers."

"Oh."  He sounded skeptical.

He put his head back down on the pillow, his little brain continuing to fire away.  I put an arm over him and pulled him close.

Eventually we both fell asleep.

Me love you long time

Let me start by saying that my mother is a highly intelligent, sophisticated, worldly individual.  She is extremely well read and has traveled all over the world.  I would never describe her as naive or sheltered.

Which makes this story that much funnier.

She's been away on business the past few weeks, traveling in China, Vietnam and Cambodia (there might be other places, but I don't remember). Mostly she worked, but from time to time she and her coworkers had a few hours here and there to do some shopping and sample the local culture.\

She arrived home and immediately called me. We usually speak on the phone at LEAST once a day, and we had only a brief 5 minute chat the entire 2 weeks she was gone, so we were jonesing for that mother-daughter connection. She was telling me about how the trip went, some random friend of my dad's that she ran into in the hotel restaurant in Cambodia, and the various tchotchkes she bought for the kids.

"Oh, and I got the cutest t-shirt in Beijing!"

"Oh, yeah? What does it look like?" I asked.

"It says 'I love BJ' on it, you know, with a heart. In honor of your dad."

Before your head explodes, let me clarify that my father's initials are "B.J."

"You bought a shirt that says 'I love BJ' on it?"

"Yeah, you know, 'BJ' for Beijing. Only really for your dad." She sounded very cute and proud. It made me sad to have to break it to her.

"Mom, if you wear that shirt in the United States, do you realize what people are going to think it means?"

"What? Uh-oh." Her voice took on a somber tone.

"'I love blow-jobs.'"

"Oh, no! Really? Come on!"

"Really."

"Dammit!"

"Yeah. But hey, you would have been really popular if you had worn it out in public!"

"That's really what it means?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Shit. I guess I'll just use it as a sleep shirt."

I think that would be best for everyone involved.

Or maybe I'll just get my dad one of those super-classy "Free Mustache Rides" shirts, and set them both loose on society.

Give me an earworm, toot suite!

There's a lot of talk about tooting in my house.  We're all quite adept at it, and we all think it's funny.

Immature, yes.  But funny.

"Mama, I tooted," is uttered by one or both of the children multiple times a day, followed by giggles and exclamations of "that stinks!" from the non-perpetrator.  I generally join in the giggles.  And I've discovered that a sure-fire way to get my kids to pay attention and mind me in the morning is to talk in an accent like Borat's.  I get far fewer objections and grumbles from them if, instead of saying, "come ON, for the fiftieth time, PUT ON YOUR UNDERPANTS!" I say, in a silly accent, "Come on-a, now, Meester Zeke, we need to put on your-a underpants (pronounced, AHN-dare-ponts), we need to-a cover up a-your tooty-booty."

Go ahead.  Say "tooty-booty" in a vaguely Eastern-European-mixed-with-Father-Guido-Sarducci accent.  It's fucking hilarious.  The children giggle their butts off -- and are amazingly compliant.

So there's this song by Breathe Carolina, a local Denver band, that has received quite a bit of airplay in these parts.  I have no idea if it's popular elsewhere in the country, but their song Blackout is on, like, all the time.  And it's kind of catchy.

I spend virtually no time in the car, save for the 4 minute drives to drop the kids at school and then go back home to catch my bus.  So I'm not really up on what's on the radio.  But J does a fair bit of driving and generally pays more attention to what's on the radio than I do, so he's up on what the kids are listening to.*  And one day when after he picked the kids up from school, they were driving around and Blackout came on the radio.  It has a chorus that goes like this:

I’m only getting started, I won't blackout
This time I got nothing to waste
Let’s go a little harder
I’m on fire, I won't blackout
I’m on my way

So J, being J, cleverly replaced the lyrics thusly:

I think that Josie farted, she backed one out
It smells like poop in here
I think that Josie farted
She farted, it came out of her butt
We've gotta get away...

They proceeded to sing this for the next 30 minutes.  They gleefully told me about it when they got home, and taught me the song as well.

It has now become something of a family anthem.  When we hear the song on the radio, we automatically replace the lyrics.  Quite honestly, I prefer them to whatever they're saying in the song. 

The kids have even started singing it when they toot.  The other day Josie was in another room.

"Mama!"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I tooted, Mama!"

"That's wonderful, honey."

Then she starts singing.  "I think Josie farted, she back one out, it smells like poop in here...*giggle giggle*"

That's my girl.

For your listening pleasure...and by all means, sing along and change it to the toot version.  It's much more fun.


_________________________________________________________
*Not our kids, necessarily, just kids generally.

The Real World: Colorado

This is the true story...of 4 people (well, mostly 3 of them) in a family...are forced to spend time together, all day, every day, for 10 days...here's what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting real.

[Various shots of Denver in rapid sequence, finally settling on a crooked shot of a dilapidated Victorian in Congress Park.  LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem plays over the sequence]

Day 1:  Everyone is happy and in a good mood.  Whee!  We're on vacation!  We're heading to the mountains to see our cousins!  We've never been to Carbondale!  It's pretty! Yaaay!

Three hour car ride proceeds uneventfully.  Kids sleep through much of it.  We admire the scenery driving through Glenwood Canyon.

We arrive at the cousins' house, and Zeke and Josie reunite with the cousins' 2-year-old and everyone plays and has fun.  We go for a walk down by the river.  The children throw rocks and run around.  We have the traditional Jewish Christmas eve dinner of Chinese food.  Cousins are alarmed by how much J eats.  "Welcome to my world," I tell them.

Cousins are slightly horrified by my childrens' bedtime habits, or lack thereof.  Their kid goes to bed at 7:30.  Our kids are still up and partying like rock stars at 9.  I make them go to bed and we watch Bridesmaids.  Josie and Zeke keep popping out of the room to try to join us.  We finally get them to settle down.

[Shots of mountains, the town of Carbondale, and Aspen, especially women in ugly fur coats, leggings and boots, and horrifying plastic surgery.  Pink's Stupid Girls plays.]

Mt. Sopris.  Pretty.

Day 2:  Christmas Day.  As Jews, we do nothing to commemorate the holiday except to say, "hey, it's Christmas! Merry Christmas!" and then go about our day.  The children play nicely.  The guys take the kids into Aspen to go to a park.  Cousin and I get some quiet time (she's 7 1/2 months pregnant and could use the rest).  I exercise.  We drive into Aspen to meet everyone.

Josie is fussy.  Zeke is obnoxious.  The guys seem harried.  Aspen is vulgar.  We go to lunch at a diner.  We manage to contain the children long enough to scarf down a turkey reuben (me) and a club sandwich (cousin).  The guys go skiing/snowboarding, and we take the kids home.  Cousin's kid naps.  Mine don't.

We walk by the river again.  Kids play and wear themselves out, but the lack of naps means they are acting like assholes much of the time.  We light Hannukah candles.  We make lasagna for dinner.  It is yummy.  Zeke proclaims it to be the best thing he's ever eaten.  Everyone is, again, astonished by J's ability to inhale ridiculous amounts of food.  "Tell me about it," I say.

Bedtime.  Cousin's kid passes out at 7:15 without a fuss.  At 8:00, Zeke proceeds to have a total meltdown.  He loses his shit.  I lie down with him to try to calm him down and we all fall asleep at 8:30.

[Shots of kids sleeping, then slowly waking up.  Shots of toys all over the floor.  More mountain shots.  Chorus of Rocky Mountain High plays.]

Day 3:  Everyone wakes up happy, having gotten lots of sleep.  The children play nicely together.  Zeke tells his little cousin, "you're a really nice baby!"  Josie pushes her doll stroller around.  I take Zeke down by the river again so he can throw rocks and sticks.  He digs this.  We see a bald eagle flying around, which is really cool.

We pack up the car and head home.  I can tell the cousins are happy to be rid of us and our noise.

The kids sleep on the drive home.  The rest of the day we chill out, unpack, watch movies. 

So far, so good, mostly.  But the true test starts tomorrow, when J goes back to work.

[Shots of traffic on Colorado Boulevard, people walking in and out of the coffee shop on 12th Avenue, finally settling on the crooked shot of the dilapidated Victorian.  Drake's Unstoppable plays.]

Day 4:  Everyone sleeps in.  We get up, have some breakfast, and watch some Pink Panther episodes on Netflix.  We don't have diddly in the fridge, so I load the kids into the car and we go to Target to go grocery shopping.  Josie sits in the seat part of the grocery cart, Zeke sits in the basket because all of the double-kid-seat carts are taken.  He is remarkably good natured as I proceed to bury him in groceries, no doubt helped by the fact that I buy his cooperation with animal crackers and little mini boxes of goldfish.  And a new box of crayons. 

We head home and have lunch, then the kids are sent to their rooms for quiet time.  Josie naps, Zeke hangs out on his bed and plays Angry Bird on his new Kindle Fire (a present from my mother -- doesn't every 4-year-old need one?), and I exercise.  The day is going well.

Later we color and play with trains, then a friend of Zeke's stops by and invites us to go sledding, so we put on our snow gear and head out to the sledding hill.

We go home and light the Hannukah candles -- it's the 8th night so the menorah is full and beautiful.

Everyone is happy.  I feel like a success as a mother.

Day 5:  I've still got some tricks up my sleeve.  We go to the indoor community pool, the one with the big water slide.  Josie, who thinks she can swim even though she really can't, requires all of my attention, so Zeke ends up swimming much more independently than I would otherwise be comfortable with.  He ends up going down the big water slide by himself a number of times and then swimming to the side of the pool alone - the first time he has ever done this.

We make it out of the rec center without anyone drowning.

[Neighborhood footage.  Overcast skies.  Eminem's Things Get Worse plays.]

Day 6: The wheels start to fall off the wagon.  Everyone is getting tired of being around everyone else.  I try to rally the kids to do something -- anything -- but no one will get dressed and everyone is whining and no one wants to do much but lie around, watch TV, play on the Kindle and make a mess.

Both children are going through very bossy phases, particularly towards each other.  At one point, Zeke is annoyed with Josie because he keeps telling her to do something and she won't.

"You're not her boss, Zeke.  She doesn't have to do what you want.  Stop ordering her around," I tell him.

"Go away, Zekey. Leave me alone," Josie says.

"Josie, stop telling people what to do!" Zeke yells.

He clearly has an under-developed sense of irony.

By late in the afternoon, I'm losing it.  I'm supposed to go to a retirement party for a coworker, but J gets called out on an emergency job so I have to stay home with the kids.  The one thing that I'm clinging to is J's promise to take the kids to Jump Street when he gets home so I can have my weekly banjo lesson without the monkeys interrupting me.

He walks in at 5:45.  "Oh, man, I guess it's too late for Jump Street," he laments.

"Nooooo!  Please! You have to take them out of here!"  I'm practically in tears.

He does me a solid and hustles the kids out the door in under 15 minutes.  I have a good lesson and I get some peace.

I'm all Scarlett O'Hara, thinking, "tomorrow is another day."

[Shots of cultural points around Denver - the zoo, City Park, Mile High Stadium, the Museum of Science and Nature. Howard Jones's Things Can Only Get Better plays.]

Day 7:  Determined to avoid the disaster of the previous day, as soon as the kids are up and fed, I hustle them off to the science museum.  We go see the real dinosaur exhibit, then look at the wild animal dioramas, then we go to the kids' center.  They run around and play hard for 3 hours, then go home for lunch and a rest. J gets off work early, and my time as a stay-at-home mom officially comes to an end.

That night, one of the daycare teachers comes over to babysit and J and I go see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  It's really great (the movie, too!).

Day 8:  I had been planning to take a solo ski day, but the weather is shitty -- crazy gale force winds that end up forcing most of the ski resorts to close their lifts -- plus my uncle and his family are in town and invite us to have lunch with them at the Four Seasons.  We take the kids and manage to eat and get out of the hotel without anyone getting injured or summoning the fire brigade.

That night it's New Year's Eve.  We had been planning to go up to Frisco for the weekend to stay in a friend's condo, but the condo is under renovation so we can't use it.  We go over and visit some friends in the neighborhood around dinner time, but go home at 7:30.  J and I are asleep by 10:30.  Woop-dee-freakin'-doo.

We do, however, manage to take a picture of us kissing for the cover of our 2011 yearbook.  Every year since we've been married, we have made a yearbook and the cover shot has always been one of us kissing. This year, we had never taken a kissing shot, so we got it in under the wire.

[Interior shots of a messy house.  Toys on the floor. Crumbs on the floor. Garbage pails needing to be changed.  Matchbox 20's How Far We've Come plays.]

Day 9:  Another write-off of a day.  Nobody has slept well.  Everyone is tired and grumpy.  I try to clean the house.  I spend all day cleaning, and every time I turn around, a child is making a mess behind me.  Even when they're ostensibly trying to help.  I clean the kitchen 3 times and it's still a mess.

I manage to get out of the house to pick up my new skis, which have been in the shop getting bindings put on.  Come hell or high water, I am taking a ski day before going back to work.

[Shots of the Rocky Mountains and cars driving on the highway in the early morning.  The end of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech, where he says, "free at last" is playing in a voice-over.]

Day 10:  I leave the house by 6 and get to Copper Mountain by 8.  I have a cup of coffee and head out to the lift when it opens.  I proceed to ski my ass off for the next 3 1/2 hours.  The lift lines are non-existent and I rarely stop to rest, so I'm just going up and down and up and down the mountain.  My new skis are awesome.  I'm flying.

Heading up the Super Bee lift.

My legs turn to jelly by around 12:45, so I head back to the car and go home.

I'm happy to see my children again.  We go for walks and watch football and get to bed early, ready to begin the new year in earnest.

[Shot of the kids under closing credits.  Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World plays.]

Join me in getting my butt in gear (and smaller)

One of the things I'm been trying to build my coaching business around is the concept of motivation - how to help people form healthy exercise and nutrition habits and to stay motivated to stick with them.  I go through periods of struggling with motivation as much as the next person.  My "down" periods tend to coincide with my depression cycles, so they're actually more difficult to battle because they're so chemically based.  But at least I'm at the point of being able to recognize how I'm feeling, and I've developed strategies to help me push through the depression until the cycle passes.

Something that seems to help is to be very short-term-goal oriented.  And I think people generally respond well to short-term challenges, so I've been putting together regular fitness challenges, every month or so, to help people focus on reaching their fitness goals.  Some of them I participate in, others I just guide.

The next big one is one that I'm going to be doing along with my challengers - a 90 day New Year's resolution challenge involving a fitness program and replacing one meal a day with Shakeology.  I've already filled up one challenge group of five participants, and I've got a couple of others on a waiting list -- if I get a few more, I'll do a second group.

I'm going to be doing P90X2.  It's the follow up to P90X, and it's based on training techniques that the pros use - core and pelvic stability exercises, developing agility and explosive power.  Becoming not just stronger and leaner, but a better athlete, with better range of motion and greater protection against injury.  I figure it will help me become a better skier.  Plus it's always fun to try a new program.

So I'm putting the word out here as well as on my coaching blog -- is one of your New Year's resolutions to get in shape?  Would you like to give it a shot with the benefits of a structured program, a group of like-minded people encouraging and supporting you, and a coach (i.e., me) guiding the way? It's a proven formula -- everyone knows that exercise and proper eating are the keys to fitness, but what people don't often realize is that having the support of peers is equally important.  People to cheer your triumphs, encourage you when you're feeling unmotivated, support you when you need a lift.

If you're ready to give it a shot (and really, if you don't do it now, when will you?), let me know.  I would love to help you succeed.

You can't have everything... where would you put it?*

We've reached that time of year when I'm hyper-aware of being different from the rest of society.

Not because I'm Jewish and I don't celebrate Christmas.  I got over that a long time ago.  In fact, I'm not sure it ever really bothered me at all. 

No, it's because I hate the whole focus on buying shit and giving gifts. 

Honestly, the last thing most of us need is more stuff. 

I don't need chocolate or candies or baked goods wrapped up in celophane.  I appreciate people's thoughtfulness, but I don't eat it.  It goes in the office breakroom or in the trash. 

I don't need tchotchkes or jewelry.  I don't wear jewelry.  I don't put out tchochkes (with a few exceptions -- love my Romanian pottery, mom!). 

My children don't need more toys or electronics.  (Clothes are a different story - they grow like weeds).  They already have obscene quantities of *things* and they barely play with the stuff they have.  Most of their toys end up with missing pieces or sit languishing in the bottom of a box. 

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not an ascetic.  I like nice things and I am actively trying to grow a business so I can make more money.  I'd like a newer car.  Nothing flashy, but something that is newer than 11 years old (we don't have a car newer than that), so I'm not always waiting for the next thing to break and cost me a shit-ton on repairs.  I'd like to be able to replace the windows on my house, because the old ones are ancient and barely functional.  I'd like to get out of debt.

But the main thing I want is more time.  More freedom.   Time to read, time to practice my banjo, time to ski, time to spend with my children and my friends and my family.  Freedom to travel or take classes or volunteer.  I'm getting there, bit by bit, day by day.  Not there yet, but I will be.

On that note, Happy Hannukah, all!  I wish you health and happiness and joy and love and music and dancing and fun.  Not so much on more stuff.

What about you? Do you get into the holiday gift-giving spirit, or are you a scrooge like me? 

*This quote is from the comedian Stephen Wright.

Talk to me so you can see, oh, what's going on...

"Hello... [tap tap tap] ... is this thing on?"

It's been a weird month or so.  For a while I felt very fragmented and unfocused, largely because of depression cycle that I went through.  But I powered through it and it passed, followed by a period of great clarity.

was 

Like Thorough at Walden Pond, I'm trying to live deliberately.  Which is great, in terms of my desire to focus on my goals and tackle them, and in particular build my coaching business.

But kind of boring in terms of any interesting resulting blog posts.  I go through periods when every little thing that happens to me brings to mind a funny (I hope) or engaging way to tell a funny story in this space I'm occupying here.  But right now is not one of those periods.  

I did have a kickass ski day up at Copper Mountain last Friday.  I was 10 minutes away from the mountain when I realized I had forgotten my ski boots.  

"Fuck it, I guess I'm renting today."

Then I thought about the fact that my skis are 8 or 9 years old -- dinosaurs, in terms of the advances that have been made in ski design and technology lately.  "Hell, if I'm going to rent, I might as well demo some new skis and see what all the fuss is about."

So the nice young hippie working at the ski shop fitted me out in a pair of brand new K2 Superburnins.  And I proceeded to have the time of my life, while realizing what the fuss is indeed all about.

It's about precision and control.  

I am a good athlete, and I am a decent skier, particularly given that I didn't learn how to do it until I was 28.  And what I really like to do is go really fast down steep inclines.  But I've always felt that notwithstanding my willingness to let myself fall down the mountain the way I do, I haven't been exactly safe -- I've had the sense of skirting a very fine line between fast, fun skiing and crashing horribly out of control.  

No longer.  On these skis, I was still really fast, but totally in control and carving turns in a way I've never been able to before.  It was a totally different skiing experience.

I obsessed about the skis all day Saturday, doing Google searches and finding last year's model (which is essentially the same ski) for sale at a number of different places.  Including one retailer in Seattle that was having a close-out on the skis in my size, which I guess isn't that popular a seller because I'm such a shrimp.  What started out as a $850 pair of skis was eventually marked down to $370, by the time they took all the discounts at checkout.

So I bought them.  

And was able to afford them because of my new-found focus on building my coaching business.  I'm really, really determined to grow it to the point that in two years, I will be able to pay off all debts, fix up my million-year-old house, and no longer have to work full time if I don't want to.  I've signed a bunch of new coaches recently and am very excited about helping them build *their* businesses so they can achieve their goals as well.  It's pretty cool.  And it's working - every month I earn more than the previous month, so I'm chipping away at my target, bit by bit.

You can read more about it here.

So that's what's going on with me lately.

Six years ago today...

According to the interwebs, the traditional 6th anniversary gift is candy or iron.  Random. 

Or perhaps not.  Because after 6 years, marriage can be sweet, or it can be very, very hard.  Or both.

Free ranging right off the farm...

I definitely subscribe to the parenting school of thought referred to by my friend Lisa as "benign neglect."  I love my children, I care for them, I make sure they go to a good school, I feed them, I take them to museums and the zoo and the park and all that good stuff.  But I do not hover.  My kids can be upstairs when I am downstairs.  They can be in the bathtub without me in the room.  They can play in the back yard without my supervision. They can go to a friend's house or a birthday party without me staying.  When they are 6, they will be allowed to fly unaccompanied to go visit their grandparents.

But the prevailing parenting ethos these days is very much counter to this philosophy.  There seems to be a trend towards infantalizing children, insisting that every move they make be monitored and tracked and supervised, even for kids well into their teens. 

And then people wonder why kids get to college and are incapable of fending for themselves or taking any responsibility for their actions.

I follow a blog called Free Range Kids, and the more I read, the more I resolve to allow my kids appropriate levels of independence, the freedom to explore and make mistakes and learn from them.  It's how I was raised, and I firmly believe that it's the way to go.

I'm kind of bummed that I wasn't awake during a recent episode which might have tested my resolve.

My parents live on a decent-sized plot of land set back from the road in a very quiet and safe neighborhood.  And the weather in DC last week was lovely -- a bit rainy and damp early on -- but perfectly suited to playing outside, especially if playing in the mud is your thing.  So the kids played outside and enjoyed accompanying us on walks around the neighborhood, including a very short loop that leaves via the front of my parents's house and then follows the sidewalk around to a quiet road that goes along the back of their property, where you can cut back into the yard.

Zeke was allowed to play outside by himself to his heart's content, with the caveat that he needed to tell us where he was and stay in the yard (which is huge, so this was not an onerous request).  But he was really enjoying being outside by himself and having all that woodsy space to roam in (we live in the city, so our yard is postage-stamp-sized and mostly covered with brick patio stones).  So knowing the little out-the-front-of-the-house-around-the-sidewalk-in-the-back-yard loop, he took a little stroll.

But didn't tell anyone where he was going.

I was taking a nap with Josie at the time, so I missed all the hubbub.  But J kind of freaked.  Zeke was home shortly thereafter, being "escorted" by a neighbor who was driving by -- the neighbor wisely didn't invite him into the car, but ascertained where he was going and then drove alongside of him as he walked.

Everyone told me about it afterwards when I woke up, and I guess they expected me to be all upset.  But I really wasn't.  I talked to Zeke and told him that he needed to tell a grownup before he goes outside, and definitely if he's going to go for a walk, but my immediate thought was that Zeke isn't stupid (and in fact, he's both incredibly smart AND very cautious and thoughtful with regard to his own safety).  The neighborhood is quiet and safe and there's virtually no traffic, and he knew where he was going and was never in any danger. 

Yes, four is a little young to be going off on walks alone, if only because he is not quite able to control his urge to throw things into the street (like rocks, which could hit cars, which could cause damage and piss off drivers).  But I was secretly kind of proud of his desire for, and enjoyment of, a little bit of independence.

When I was little, I walked to school by myself at the age of 6 (and was responsible for escorting my 5 year old little brother).  All my other friends did, too.  It was not a big deal at all.  I flew alone on an international flight when I was 5.  Throughout my childhood and my teens, I was given enormous freedom by my parents, who raised me to have common sense and then trusted me to use it. 

I would like to impart that same gift to my children, the judgment of the helicopter parents of my generation be damned.  The world is a much safer place than most people are willing to acknowledge.  And life is much more fun and enjoyable when you don't approach it with the assumption that there is evil and awfulness around every corner.

Are you a "free range" parent?  Do you think I'm nuts?  What were you allowed to do as a kid that you would never let your kids do today?

The goats in the vicinity were disappointed

Our Thanksgiving travel last week provided an unexpected - and much welcome - glimmer of the light at the end of the tunnel.  Since having children, and particularly since having two, the mere thought of navigating an airport and getting through security and surviving a plane ride has filled me with dread.  First, there's the sheer amount of stuff that you have to take - diapers and wipes and toys and books and sippy cups and snacks and car seats - that is overwhelming.  And then you're dealing with one kid running one way while the other runs the other, or someone doesn't want to sit in the stroller, or someone decides they have to go potty when you're in the middle of a 25 minute security line, or someone runs around the scanner and causes a TSA agent to have a stroke, or someone jumps on the luggage carousel because it seems like the fun thing to do.  Either that, or you're waiting for one of things to happens - so the kids could be perfectly well-behaved but you're still all stressed out because the other shoe always feels like it's on the verge of dropping.

But Josie is now two, and her language and socialization are both developing at an amazing pace, so I can give her an instruction and she a) understands me, and b) knows how to comply.  And Zeke is a full-on, intelligible, semi-rational person, particularly in his response to threats and/or bribery ("if you don't behave on the plane, we're not going to the Air and Space Museum tomorrow").  So all of a sudden, traveling with them isn't so terrible.  It's still not great -- there's still all the stuff, and there's always the possibility of a meltdown -- but we're getting closer to the point of being able to count on them to behave.

Plus, we were flying Frontier, which has individual TV monitors for each seat, and for $6, you can get DirecTV for the entire flight.

"Aw, pretty please?"

I said to J, "I'll happily pay $6 to get some kid's show that will keep them quiet during the flight."

"Oh, hell yes.  If it would keep them quiet and occupied, I'd blow a goat."

Lucky for J, such extreme measures were unnecessary.

The month in review; also, go the fuck to sleep

I know that I am in the minority in that most Mondays, I am thrilled to come back to work after the weekend.  I like the structure of getting up and having a schedule to maintain and someplace to go.  Because outside of work, life is very chaotic.  I am tired.

First I was sick.  Then I got better, but we had the kids' parent-teacher conferences.  Josie's went fine - she's right on track, everyone loves her, she's a delight to have in class, blah blah blah. 

Zeke's was more unnerving.  Apparently, he's smart as hell ("scary smart" was how the director of the school described it) and doing fine in all areas of development except for social-emotional.  The teacher is concerned because occasionally he has bad temper tantrums.  (Um, he's four?)  So she recommended I have him evaluated. 

First, this was a total surprise.  Sure, there have been days when the daily progress report was, "he didn't have a great day," but that's true of everyone from time to time.  Mostly, the reports are all good.  Second, I've been practicing special education law for 12 years, so I know a little bit about evaluations.

"OK," I said.  "What sort of evaluation should I seek out?  Do you think he has an emotional disability?  Should I take him to a psychologist?"

"No, I don't think so.  But I couldn't really say what kind of evaluation to get.  I think you should have him assessed by an occupational therapist."

"Why an OT?  Wouldn't an OT look at sensory issues or gross or fine motor skills?  I don't understand what an OT has to do with evaluating emotional or behavioral concerns."

She couldn't really explain it further.  So I went home frustrated and upset.*

Then we had the craziness of Halloween to deal with.  Which was awesome, but not exactly relaxing.  Zeke and Josie both decided to go as pirates (or rather, Zeke was a pirate, and Josie wanted to do what Zeke did).  So I'm all ready to go with their costumes for the Halloween parade at school, except that Zeke announces, "I want to be a gorilla for Halloween."  Mind you, this is maybe 10 minutes before we're ready to leave for school on Halloween day.

"No.  You said you wanted to be a pirate, so I've got a pirate costume for you.  I don't have a gorilla costume."

"Oh.  You don't have a gorilla costume?"

He has a habit of taking the last thing I say and turning it into a question.  "No."

"Why?"

This is also par for the course.  "Because.  Now here's your sword and your eyepatch."

I am nothing if not full of rational explanations.

So they put their costumes on and looked all adorable and then had an absolute blast when we went trick-or-treating that night.  Seriously, Zeke was so damned happy I thought his head was going to explode.  Josie was bored with her costume at that point, so she went sans.  But they still killed with the cute, knocking on doors and yelling "TRICK-OR-TREAT!" and then giggling and saying "thank you" 85 times.


Josie went as a beat poet.

Then two days later I went to Omaha, Nebraska, for a legal conference.  Which was fine, except that I've essentially been to the same conference twice already this year.  I mean, literally, the same presenters doing the same presentations with the same handouts.  But at least I got two nights in a hotel room to get caught up on horrendously bad reality TV (Braxton Family Values makes Jersey Shore look like Masterpiece Theatre) and sleep without anyone waking me up in the middle of the night or wanting me to snuggle with them so that their night-time pull-ups then leaked pee all over me. 

Then two nights later we were headed to IKEA to get Zeke's new big boy bed.  We drove the SUV and went down to J's office in Littleton to pick up the Civic, where he had left it because he drove his work van home.  We found the Civic and turned off the truck while J found his keys and we prepared to move a booster seat because Zeke wanted to ride with Daddy.  When I tried to turn the truck back on, it wouldn't start.**  So we all piled into the tiny little Civic and went to IKEA anyway, because Zeke needed a bed.  By the time we got home and I started to put the bed together (I am the designated assembler of furniture in the family, which is fine because I love doing it), it was 8:15 p.m.  And whereas most pieces of IKEA furniture are really easy to put together, this one presented more of a challenge.  So it was 11:15 by the time I was finished and Zeke and I could both go to bed.


Touche', Kura bed.  Touche'.  Fucker.

The one bright spot in the last few weeks was this past Friday, when I had my first Friday flex day of ski season.  Copper opened a couple of weeks ago, and only a few trails and runs are open, but it was still a blast.  I went with my friend Christin and her kids, and it was a beautiful day and the conditions were pretty decent.  I found that all the weight training I've been doing has made me really strong, so I had none of the initial wobbliness in my legs as I got used to using them on really steep inclines.  Christen even suggested that I enter some ski races. The truth is, I ski really fast because I'm not as safe as I should be -- I tend to skirt the line between being speedy and hurtling downhill out of control.  But I'm intrigued by the notion of entering a race, especially if it means I have an excuse to wear one of those funky racing suits that looks like it's covered with spider webs.

But then I spent the weekend being sick again.  The top of my windpipe is sore and tickly, so I'm constantly coughing and I sound all frog-y.  It would have been really nice to get a decent night's sleep before heading back to work. 

Alas, this was last night:

9:00 p.m. - I lie down with Josie in her bed (which is a junior bed, so it's both shorter and narrower than a twin) and we read Goodnight Moon.  Then we both fall asleep. 
12:20 a.m. - I wake up all achy because I'm asleep with my ribs pressing on the thin wooden frame on the side of her bed.  I get up to go back to my own bed.  Josie wakes up and starts to cry.  I figure, "sorry, hon, you're on your own," and I go to bed in my room.
12:45 a.m. - she's still crying.  I go into her room and she's standing in the middle of the room, in the dark, sobbing, "Mama!  Maaamaaaa!"  I pick her up and take her back to bed with me.  She promptly snuggles in and falls asleep.
1:30 a.m. - I'm still awake.  Zeke wakes up and starts crying, which is odd for him.  I wait to see if he'll put himself back to sleep.
1:50 a.m. - Zeke's still crying.  I go to his room and climb up into the bunk with him.  His bed's a twin, so there's actually room for both of us.  He puts his head on my shoulder and calms down a little bit.  "What's the matter, sweetie?"  I ask.  When the crying has diminished so that he can speak articulately, he says, "I neeeed a hu-u-uuug."  So I give him a hug.  He promptly calms down and falls asleep on my shoulder.  I nod off as well.
5:00 a.m. - J gets up and starts getting ready for work.
5:30 a.m. - I get up and start getting ready to exercise.
5:45 a.m. - Josie wakes up and starts to cry.  "Get up?" she says.  "No, sweetie, you need some more sleep."  "Snuggle mama."  So I bag my workout and get back into bed with her.

So, yeah.  I'm a little tired.  Thankfully, I work through Thursday, Friday I'm giving a short speech in the morning, and then I'm off for the Thanksgiving holiday.  We fly to DC on Sunday, where we will spend the holiday with my parents, my brothers and their significant others, and my nieces.  On the agenda are hockey games, visits with friends and cousins, the Day After Thanksgiving Pie, the Turkey Trot, football, and much fun and merriment.

Six more sleeps.  That is, assuming my kids allow it.
________________________________
*I emailed Zeke's pediatrician when I got home.  She said that she's never seen anything in him that gave her any kind of concern, and that she suspects that he's just highly intelligent and his maturity level hasn't caught up with the rest of his brain, which is not unusual for super-smart kids.  I love her.  I also talked to the director of the school, who agreed with the pediatrician.  Which begs the question of why I was referred to child find if no one suspects him of having a disability, but whatever.  In any event, I'll have him screened, but I think it's a load of bullshit.

**We got it back $1600 and a new fuel pump later...

My (admittedly lame) excuse is that my defenses were down

The past week has been kind of a nightmare, with some points of light thrown in, in the form of my parents' visit and Zeke's birthday party.  To which I forgot to take my camera and thus got no pictures.  Pfft.

So last Wednesday I was in the middle of doing a workout and holding 25 pounds weights in each hand while bending forward at the waist.  It's a hamstring exercise - you keep your back flat and let your legs do all the work as you lift and lower your torso.  And I was maintaining proper form, not even letting my arms dangle, but rather keeping them slightly engaged so as not to pull on my back too much.  But then all of a sudden I felt a little pull right in the middle of my back on the left side, about level with the bottom of my shoulder blade, and then the rest of my torso started to spasm and I couldn't move without excruciating pain. 

I put my weights down and managed to find an ice pack in the freezer and lie down on it on the couch.  J brought me a bunch of Advil and an Aleve, so I took them and waited for the pain to subside while I worried about how I was going to function over the next couple of days. 

Finally the medicine kicked in and I was able to get around without doubling over in pain every few seconds, so I showered and dressed and got the kids off to school.

The next two days were spent at a big annual convention for all of the state special education directors.  I gave a speech on Thursday, which went fine, but Thursday night I started feeling a tickle in my throat and Friday my tonsils and my neck glands were definitely acting up.  I went to the conference for a little while, but by around 11 a.m. I was feeling really shitty and I didn't really need to stay, so I went home.

My parents arrived a couple of hours later, to spend Zeke's birthday weekend with us.  Unfortunately, I spend the bulk of the time feeling crappy and lying on the couch, nursing a virus that mimicked strep in every regard -- extremely painful sore throat, swollen glands, and fever -- but wasn't *actually* strep, meaning that the doctor wouldn't give me any antibiotics for it.  Plus my strained back muscle was still acting up, so I was a pathetic mess.  I felt well enough to make it to Zeke's party on Sunday morning, which was really fun -- we went to a little dinosaur museum over in Morrison that has great hands-on exhibits and activities for kids -- but by the end of the weekend I was spent.

Monday I stayed home from work and slept and caught up on my DVR'd shows.  J went to work, but also had a court date at 1:15 in Jefferson County because he got pulled over a couple of months ago for having expired tags - I thought he had renewed them and he thought I had.  No big deal, right?  All he had to do was show up with the renewed registration and maybe pay a little fine.

Now, I've mentioned in the past that Australians in general, and my husband in particular, are notorious practical jokers.  And I grew up in a family of bullshit artists, so I tend to be pretty good at ferreting out the nonsense. 

But I guess I was tired.  And in pain.  And grumpy. 

And thus obviously unprepared when I received this text message from J approximately 5 minutes after he was due in court:  "$1000 and 10 days jail"

Because I freaked. 

If someone were telling me a story like this about someone else, I would have been all, "Oh, ha ha, good one."

But J has a history of getting kicked around by law enforcement.  So my initial reaction was, "NO!  WHAT THE FUCK??  REALLY??"  followed by furious efforts to call him.  But he didn't pick up his phone and I got more and more worked up and finally I just called the court.

CLERK:  Hello, Jefferson County Court, Criminal and Traffic Division.

ME:  Yeah, hi.  Uh, my husband had a court date this morning for a traffic ticket and I was just trying to find out what was going on with his case. 

[I give her the ticket number.]

CLERK:  Yep, here it is.  Looks like the DA dismissed it.

ME:  Really?  I'm so confused.  I got a text from my husband saying that he was assessed a huge fine and jail time, and I don't get it because it doesn't seem like failing to renew your registration on time would be a jailable offense.

CLERK:  Ma'am, I think he was just messing with you.

Ya think??

Goodnight, nobody

Josie threw herself out of her crib last week, so last Friday I went to IKEA and got her her birthday present from her grandparents - new big girl (or should I say, little girl) furniture.  She and Zeke both love it so every night we sit on the couch in her room, turn off the overhead light, turn on the little pink flower light over her bed, and read books together.

It really is a different room now.  It flows better, it's more comfortable.  I don't know anything about feng shui, but my sense is, this room has it.  With the new furniture and new layout, everyone wants to be in there.

Last night's book selection was Goodnight, Moon.  Josie loves the part about "goodnight, mush" because she thinks the word "mush" is hilarious, and the part about the old lady whispering "hush," because we love to whisper the word "hush" together.

When we got to the end, "goodnight noises everywhere," Josie looked at the picture, with everything dark and quiet, the little rabbit asleep, and the old lady gone from her chair, and said, "where's the old lady?"

"She must have gone to her room to go night-night," I surmised.  Josie pondered that for a couple of seconds.

Then Zeke said, "I think she passed away," and cracked up laughing.  Josie started giggling and saying, "passed away! Passed away!"

I totally lost it, and soon all three of us were laughing uncontrollable.

Poor old lady.  And poor me, because clearly, neither of these goofy monkeys was going to sleep any time soon.

Here's what I've been up to...

Today I finish a 90-day exercise program.  It is by far my favorite of all the Beachbody programs I've ever done -- and that's saying something.  Read all about (including before-and-after pics of me in a bathing suit) here.

And if it means I must prepare to shoulder burdens with a worried air, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up, not me.

"Mama?"

"Yes, Zekey?"

"It's hard to be little.  I don't want to be a kid."

"You don't?  What do you want to be?"

"I want to be a man like Daddy."

"Well, you'll get there someday.  You're growing and you'll keep growing and someday you'll be like Daddy."

"Yeah."

"In the meantime, you get to do all kinds of fun things like play with your friends, and ride your bike, and learn how to swim, and learn how to read.  You've got some really cool stuff going on."

"Yeah."

"But I know that things are hard sometimes and that it can be scary to be little.  But you know what?  It's hard to be a grownup, too."

"It is???"

"It really is."

"Why?"

"Well, because Daddy and I have lots of things that we have to take care of.  We have to go to work so that we can have enough money to pay for our house and our cars and stuff.  We have to make sure that you and Josie have clothes and food and toys, and we have to make sure you're safe."

"And you need to buy dinosaur shoes."

"Well, Papa takes care of that for you, but we have to buy other stuff."

"Like bananas."

"Yep. And underpants."

"And oranges, too, right, Mama?"

"All kinds of food."

"And toothbrushes."

"And washcloths."

He snuggled into my arm.

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, sweet boy."

Guest Blog: It Ain't Just About Fitting Into Your Skinny Jeans

I received an email this morning from a guy who found my fitness blog and was interested in guest-posting an article about the importance and benefits of physical fitness for cancer patients (or cancer survivors).  I think it's an incredibly important message, so I decided to post the article on this blog as well.  I've had so many acquaintances, friends and relatives suffer with or die of cancer lately, it's a subject that is very much on my mind these days.

Physical Fitness and Cancer
                   ~ by David Haas
Almost everyone can improve his or her life with a moderate, consistent physical fitness program. The physiological and psychological benefits from physical fitness simply cannot be overstated. As the treatment for and prognosis of cancer patients has greatly improved over the last decade, it has become clear that physical fitness can greatly improve the quality of life and energy levels of cancer survivors. There are two different types of physical fitness. Aerobic activity requires oxygen and helps build up stamina and endurance. Aerobic activities include walking, jogging, riding a bike and hiking. The second type of physical fitness is referred to as anaerobic. Anaerobic exercise includes weightlifting and stretching. These activities increase strength and flexibility.

According to the National Cancer Institute, research indicates that physical activity after a diagnosis of breast cancer may be beneficial in improving quality of life, reducing fatigue and assisting with energy balance. Physical fitness may be an important component of lymphoma treatment, mesothelioma treatment and the treatment of a number of different types of cancer. Physical fitness may also benefit survivors of mesothelioma, lymphoma and prostate, testicular and colorectal cancers after their disease has went into remission.

The physiological benefits of physical fitness include:

1. Increased blood flow to the extremities and improved circulation

2. Increased levels of energy

3. Increased levels of strength

4. Improved stamina and endurance

5. Improved oxygen utilization

6. Decreased level of fatigue daytime exhaustion
The psychological health of anyone going through cancer diagnosis, treatment and remission can be severely challenged. Let's face it, cancer of any type is a very frustrating and scary disease. In those who survive, the psychological toll that the disease has on their minds can linger for years. The psychological benefits of physical exercise in cancer survivors include, but are not limited to:
1. Decrease in levels of anxiety

2. Decrease in levels of feelings associated with depression

3. Increase in feelings of inner strength and well-being

4. Decreased stress and tension

5. Decreased levels of insomnia and daytime fatigue

Of course, I recommend checking with your primary care physician or oncologist before beginning any exercise routine. This is extremely important because there are some inherent risks with physical fitness and the general health of a person with cancer can certainly be compromised. Physical Fitness can certainly be a beneficial component of any cancer treatment program and can also help the person who has survived cancer.

Take care of yourselves, people.

Aussie Word of the Day: Motivational edition

**Just a little warning -- this is kind of a long one.  You might want to go pee or top off your coffee before you start reading.**

Pull your finger out:  Aussie for "get on with it; stop wasting time."*  Shortened form of "pull your finger out of your ass" (apparently, having your finger up your ass interferes with efficiency).

It's been an insane week.  Things are really busy at work and I'm doing this big 90 day push to grow my Beachbody business that involves weekly webinars and daily check-ins with an accountability partner (who is awesome -- hi Ferreh!!) and I'm trying to plan Zeke's birthday party and make it fun without being too too much and this weekend is Yom Kippur and next weekend we're going to a wedding reception and I've got a presentation that I'm doing at a big statewide conference and holy shit.

On the plus side, ski season starts in less than a month, and opening day at Copper Mountain coincides with a flex day, so I've got that to look forward to.

So yesterday at 6:15 in the morning I was in my room doing a workout -- I was in the middle of a set of pushups, to be exact -- when J walked in.  This was a bit of a shock, considering that he had left for work an hour before. 

He's been having some problems with one of the guys on the job -- a former friend (Greg) who was promoted to foreman and immediately turned into a raging asshole at the first whiff of power.  Screaming, yelling, swearing at people -- just generally being incredibly abusive and awful to the guys on the job, and given that the construction industry is notorious for treating guys like dog shit, it's saying something that this guy's behavior really went above and beyond.  Everybody hated him, everybody was miserable.  J would tell him to back off and watch his mouth, and Greg tended to tone it down somewhat with J, but he was still a major douchebag. 

Apparently, a couple of days ago, it got really, really bad.  Guys were completely up in arms, an apprentice was so mad he was throwing things, and the entire job site was tense and miserable.  So J went to have a talk with the head of the company.  In a very calm and rational way, he explained what was going on and that it was negatively impacting everyone, that if the yelling and screaming was meant to be some kind of motivational tool, it was having the opposite effect, and that if something didn't change, guys would be leaving en masse.  The boss, being an asshole himself, kind of blew it off and insinuated that J was being a pussy and just couldn't take the heat.

This is pretty much par for the course.  This company is awful -- they don't pay shit, they provide no benefits, they insist guys work overtime and then mysteriously have "payroll problems" that cause the overtime pay to be absent from paychecks.  They suck.  And in a non-union state like Colorado, there's very little recourse.  It's a tough economy, everyone's grateful to have a job, so the companies make the guys eat shit because they can -- they hold all the cards. 

Fight the power, yo.

So yesterday morning, J made the decision -- probably not so smart in hindsight -- to try to have a calm discussion with Greg and explain why his behavior was inappropriate and counterproductive.  Greg responded by yelling and screaming at J, getting up in his face.  J responded, "Fuck you."  Greg said, "you just quit."  So J came home.

Notice how Greg immediately framed it (and subsequently put it in an email to the boss) that J had quit, rather than been fired?  So as to set up a factual dispute that would make it harder for J to file an unemployment claim? 

Evil fuckers.

Anyway, I'm literally mid-pushup when J walks into the room.  And I'm continuing to do pushups while trying to talk to J to figure out what happened.  This is difficult enough, but J was so angry and shaking and freaked out that it was hard for him to even form a sentence, so I told him to go downstairs and make some coffee and calm down and I'd be there to talk to him in a few minutes after I finished my workout.

We sat in the living room. 

"So what happened?"

"I tried to talk to him, but he kept getting in my face and I just snapped.  I just can't take being treated like that anymore."

"Well, I know you hate it there, and I don't want to pile on, but we can't afford for you to be out of work right now.  We're operating on a razor-thin margin as it is."

"I know.  I know.  I'll find another job."

"Is there any way you can go back?"

"I can't.  I just can't."  He was practically in tears.

I nodded, took a deep breath and got up and went into the next room.  I got a pad of paper and a pen out of a drawer and brought them to him.

"OK.  Then here's what you're going to do.  Write down the name of every single person you can think of that might be able to help you find a new job.  Call Steve [the guy who has done a bunch of work on our house] -- maybe he knows somebody or needs some electrical work on some of his jobs.  Vicki manages a bunch of properties -- call her.  Joe manages a company that does residential electrical stuff -- give him a call.  Guys you've worked with.  That friend of my dad's.  That placement guy that keeps calling you. I'll put the word out to everyone I know and also see if anyone needs any odd jobs done."  He started writing and I continued to rattle off names, which then went on the list.  "Now start calling, texting, and emailing.  We need the money, so start hustling.  Everything's going to be fine, but you need to focus.  Pull your finger out and get it done."

And he did.  He made some calls and sent some texts.  We got the kids up and took them to school, and then he drove me to work.  By the time he dropped me off, he had already gotten the names of some companies that were hiring and had an interview lined up.  I was giving him a pep talk and helping him plan his day, and he was feeling much better.

"This is awesome.  You're really amazing," he told me.

"You married the right woman," I agreed, and I gave him a kiss, got out of the car and went up to my building. 

Within an hour, 6 people in my office had responded to an email I sent out, telling me that they had electrical work they needed done but didn't know anyone reputable to call.  By 10 in the morning, he had another job interview lined up and side jobs to take him through the weekend.  And this morning, he's already had two calls from companies that got his name from friends of his.  So we're thinking that he'll have something solid lined up soon.

In the meantime, he and I have been texting back and forth.  I've been trying to give him little e-pep talks.  At one point, he texted me back:  "Tony Robbins called.  He wanted me to tell you to to back the fuck off."

I don't know.  I may be on to something.
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* I know this expression isn't used only by Aussies, but I never really heard it used in great abundance until I married J.  In the U.S., people tend to use the entire phrase, i.e., "pull your finger out of your ass."  But Aussies feel compelled to abbreviate and shorten everything, so I feel like "pull your finger out" is the Aussie-fied version.

Someday she'll make a great Jewish mother

Josie is going through a massive language explosion all of a sudden.  It's been building slowly for a while -- she's been picking up new words and figuring out how to use them -- but in the past week or so she has been putting sentences together and really expressing herself. 

It's so awesome.  One of the most amazing things about living with the short people (TM Elizabeth) is watching their language acquisition, both because it is fascinating to see it in action and also because when kids start to talk, that's when they get exponentially more fun and interesting (in my opinion). 

This huge change has coincided with Josie's move from the Twinkles class to the Little Dippers* class -- she is now with kids who are talking more than the kids she had been with, and the curriculum is more advanced and language-based.  And she's doing great -- every day when we pick her up, all we get are reports about how engaged she is and how much fun she has.

But -- and again, this is not unexpected or atypical -- she's still struggling with the transition.  She was with the Twinkles for a year and the teachers were wonderful and warm and cuddly and sweet, and by the end of her time there, she was unquestionably the queen bee, so it was a hard place to leave. 

And she obviously thinks about it a LOT.  Because yesterday, as we were heading downstairs to do something, she said to me, "Mama, I don't want Dipper.  I not Dipper."

"Really, honey?"

"Mm-hmmm.  I not Dipper."

"What are you, then?"

"I go Twinkle.  I a Twinkle."

"Oh.  Well, that's interesting."  I refused to confirm her view of the world, but it also did not strike me as worthy of an argument, so I was non-commital.

"I not a Dipper, Mama.  I a Twinkle.  Okay?  Okay??"

"Hmmmm.  Well, we'll see, baby.  We don't have to worry about it right now."

She wasn't assuaged.

"Mama!  I not Dipper.  I go Dipper and I cry.  Okay?  I cry!"

This seriously went on for the next hour.  She was determined to have her point heard, particularly the part about the crying.

It started again when we pulled up at the school when I was dropping the kids off.  I got Josie out of her car seat and was carrying her into the building when she reminded me, "I not a Dipper, Mama."

And when we turned to go into the Dipper room, she lost her shit.  Her whole face crumbled and she buried it in her hands.  "Nooo!  No Dippers!  Noooooo!"

She did indeed cry, just as she promised.

I gave her a big hug and a kiss and assured her that she would be fine.  Her teacher, Miss Jessica (who is great), took her and did the same.  Zeke and I left and went to his classroom to deposit him for the day.

By the time I came out of Zeke's room 5 minutes later, Josie had stopped crying.  Because after all, if I wasn't there to witness it, what was the point?

The girl's got a great future in piling on the guilt.
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*Her school is called "Bright Star," and the different classrooms all have star-related names.  The Twinkles are the 1-year-olds, the Little Dippers are the 2-year-olds and the Cosmos (where Zeke is) are the 3-5 year olds.