My thanks to Erma Bombeck, Queen of Chick Lit

 

When I married Prince Charming, I didn’t expect to marry other people, too. That’s another dirty secret nobody tells little girls who dream of Ever After. For instance, I inherited a brother who talks all of the time and his wife who hates me. The first Christmas of my marriage union was such a delight. I had 3 new brothers who had 3 new wives, all jealous of one another, watching each other open gifts and comparing who got more of what. Fun times. To top it off, my mother-in-law (as if I needed another mother) gave me the strangest of gifts. A set of Erma Bombeck novels with a personalized note: “This is how I survived my first few years of marriage. Enjoy!” How insulting! She didn’t know me at all. I was in Newlywed Heaven, and I didn’t need to survive anything (except my time with her). To show that lady just how evil she was, I put those books in a box and forgot about them until last week.

 

From At Wit’s End:

It’s those rotten kids. It’s their fault wake up every morning feeling so depressed.

“I think she hears us. Her eyelids fluttered.”

“Wait till she turns over, then everybody cough.”

“Why don’t we just punch her and ask her what we want to know…”

I don’t know how long it will be before one of them discovers that by taking my pulse they will be able to figure out by its rapid beat if I am faking it or not, but it will come.

 

***

Of course, none of these things would bother me if I had an understanding husband. Mother was right. I should have married that little literature major who broke out in a rash every time he read Thoreau. But no, I had to pick the nut standing out in the driveway yelling at the top of his voice, “I am thirty-nine years old… I will not carry a Donald Duck thermos to the office!” Boy, he wouldn’t yell at me if my upper arms weren’t flabby. He never used to yell at me like that. He should worry. He doesn’t have to throw himself across the washer during “spin” to keep it from walking out of the utility room. He doesn’t have to flirt with a hernia making bunk beds.

 

 

What was I thinking?! Erma Bombeck is to Chick Lit what George Washington is to America. How did I not know about her? (OK. I placed her books in a box for years. Sue me.)  How was I supposed to know that those books revealed the unspoken secrets of marriage and children? (OK. My other mother tried to warn me.)

 

I spent years thinking my husband’s mother was the source of my misery, only to discover that she’s actually a smarter, more helpful, slightly-less-cynical version of me.

 

Hmmmm.

Happily Ever After

            Kate sits in her favorite chair, wine glass in hand, cushy velvet slippers adorning her feet, and sips slowly from the glass. The living room is spotless, and a peaceful quiet fills the air. She wonders for a moment how she got to this place of tranquility and remembers with a grin. Ah, yes. Kevin. The man of her dreams. It was fate who brought her to this very moment.

             Ha.

             I’m Kate, and I’m in my living room sipping a quick cocktail because my six-year-old just yelled, “You’re not the boss of me!” then hit me. The wine glass is a façade, really, a ploy that momentarily tricks me into thinking my life is serene and majestic.

And, yes, I’m a good mother.

 

            I don’t typically resort to numbing life’s pain with alcohol. Life is all about pain, and I face it head on! It’s just that facing a ticked off kindergartner is a little scary sometimes.

            So here I sit, in blissful silence. Blissful. Silence. Well, blissful’s correct, but the silent part may be a tad inaccurate. “Mommy!” stomp, stomp. “Mommy! I need you!” stomp, stomp. I didn’t know the ceiling could talk. I’m sure it will apologize soon for hitting me. I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive the ceiling just yet.

            (Yes, the word ceiling is a metaphor for my little princess.)I know you’re thinking that parents aren’t supposed to judge their children, that we can discipline with love and be the “adults” who don’t hold grudges or stoop down to a child’s level. I believe that – I really do. It’s just that right now, sitting in my living room all alone, I have to wonder why I ever agreed to pay for TaeKwonDo lessons. I mean, who does she really need to defend herself against? It’s the rest of us who need protecting.

            And Kevin. Dear, sweet, Kevin. My very own Prince Charming; the man I chose. I-CHOSE-HIM. I repeat those words slowly time and again, my mantra; a reminder of that happy day that changed my life.

            He’s a prince.

            Absolutely.

            In fact, moments before Isabella asserted her independence, my prince shared in the joy of our marital union by watching our favorite t.v. show with me. Albeit, we had to watch it on the laptop because our DVR is broken, but that made the moment more cozy. We actually had to touch each other. It was pure bliss!

           Sadly, our cuddle time was harshly interrupted by a calamity of proportions so large, my knight yelled, “Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, *!*!” To utter that word, something disastrous must have happened. I jumped up, knowing that Kevin just witnessed a tragic accident through the front window. As he did, I felt a wetness creeping around my waist. Great.

            “Honey? What is it?”

            “I spilled my drink.” Hmmmm. I don’t recall him even having a drink, and I say so. He smiles the smile of true love and says, “I had shoulder pain, so I balanced the can on my neck. It was cold.”

            He had a pain in the neck? Oh, the irony!!

            Yes, the man I daydreamed about all of my childhood placed an open canned beverage on his neck while watching a t.v. show on our computer. The can tipped over (who could have seen that one coming?!) and rolled off his neck, drizzling the cushions of our couch.

            I love, honor, and cherish this man. 

            I really do.

Motivated, shmotivated!

I worked out this morning, so I should be invigorated. Instead, I am wrapped up in my snuggliest blanket, watching the Today Show. Good times.

Cardio: 60 minute walk

Kettlebell sets: 2-arm swing – 3 sets of 20; 1-arm swing – 2 sets of 15; arm presses – 3 sets of 6; squats – 2 sets of 10

The kettlebell felt really good today, particularly in my shoulders. I find that I have ZERO flexibility and that some of my muscles, even though I walk, remain stiff. I’m only now seeing just how long I’ve trained my body to do nothing. Doing the presses felt like a really great stretch. Perhaps I will look into yoga.

My goal: bend over and touch my toes, flat-handed. I can squat now without pain, so I’m on my way!

When your child’s probation officer calls your child a nut case, that’s not a good thing.

Why do some parents ignore warning signs that scream out to everyone else? It blows my mind how much a parent is willing to ignore-gloss.over-tolerate-pretend.doesn’t.happen! I just listened to an someone tell me about her child’s arrest for possession of an illegal substance. Never mind that the substance was illegal. I’m a rule follower, so the law is enough to deter me. Apparently, not all people follow this simple philosophy. The child is a minor (but not by much), and she “knows [the child] uses it occaisionally” and that she is “okay with that.” She went on and on about how the police officer didn’t have probable cause to search  her child and that she’ll fight it.

IS SHE NUTS??!!!

This is the same kid who threw a chair at an adult in his/her high school last year. This is the same kid who was handcuffed by a law-enforcement-relative for out-of-control behavior. This is the same kid who knew his/her severely ill mother was having a critical medical situation and did nothing to help her. More than once.

Does she think that by some miracle this child will change? Wake up responsible at 18? Actually move out?

When your child’s probation officer calls your child a nut case, that’s not a good thing.

It’s a miracle!

Okay, miracle is a slight exaggeration. But only slight.

With a heavy heart, I passed the skeleton that was once my neighborhood Starbucks. Already work crews were there, converting the space into something else. My eyes were hooded, hesitant to look, but I managed a glance, ever-so-slowly, and Eureka! A large white sign displayed, “Remodeling under way. Starbucks will re-open in 8 days.”

Wa-hoo!

Easy Meatloaf

1 1/2 pounds ground beef

1packet onion soup mix

1/4 cup diced onion

1 – 2 dashes worcestershire

1/4 cup ketchup

2 Tbl. mustard

1 egg

8 Ritz crackers, crumbled 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix wet ingredients together in a large bowl. Add dry ingredients and mix well. (A metal potato masher works great, but your digits are best.) Place into loaf pan and bake for 1 to 1 1/4 hrs.

Yum!

What the guilt is going on?

I miss my kettlebell! Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration; perhaps it’s the guilt. Not guilt, actually, because guilt involves ”should” followed by a big swig of “avoidance.” I’ve been working out three days a week with the kettlebell – Mon/Wed/Fri - and I haven’t used it in 6 days. We took a mini-holiday over the weekend, so I worked out on Thursday. Playing, fishing, sunning, and surf occupied my weekend, so I knew that I’d miss Monday, leaving today as my kettlebell day. Well, I pulled my shoulder while lifting my daughter out of the waves, so no kettlebell for me. The shoulder feels fine today, but I don’t want to reinjure it. I did walk for 50 minutes, so I got my cardio in.

It’s amazing, actually, that there’s very little guilt about not working out.

I’m a guilt-driven person. I feel guilty when I don’t let my child play with friends. Guilt when I want to just sit and veg. Guilt at spending too much money. Guilt at taking time for myself. Guilt at stopping for the moment to file my nails. The big joke in my family is that it takes me 20 minutes to pick out a potato. I even feel guilty when I don’t let a driver pull into the flow of traffic from a commercial driveway. I justify it by telling myself that there are more drivers behind me, so more people benefit from my inconsiderate ways. What the guilt is going on??!~!

Boundaries … I’m learning about them. Apparently, I didn’t have many. I let what others think (or what I thought they think) rule my life. Incredible - I’ve spent years consumed by guilt, slowly aging myself without realizing it. No wonder my body has suffered. I’ve bottled up so many things and been ruled by guilt for so long that I’ve suffered panic attacks… I knew logically that my life was good, but I was so unhappy.

I’ve reached a turning point.

Really.

Starbucks and General Hospital

The Starbucks down the street is closing.

 

Large, white PODS are parked in front of it, and the inside is empty.

 

I never thought I’d see the day when the mecca of all things hip wasn’t hip enough, kind of like a junior high kid trying to fit in at a high school party. Where else will I get my grande carmel frappuccino, no-whip-extra pump? Pulling into the lot, I thought it peculiar  that a garbage can and red chair were parked in line at the drive-thru, but it is Starbucks, after all, and free spirits reign. Rounding the corner were two trucks and me, all confused and looking for our caffeine fix. We pulled back into the stream of traffic, lost and bewildered, heading for McD’s. Sad, really.

 

Surely Sonny’s coffee import business will sky-rocket now that his competitor is closing stores.

I’m evolving …

I’m not having a mid-life crisis. That, I know. I’m just ready for change. I’m essentially a couch potato who is married to Mr. Workout- gotta-do-something-always-never-sit-down. I used to view myself as lazy, but I’m finding that’s not true. I have a demanding job, I’m a great mom… It’s just that sedentary activities have filled my down time: TV, reading, munching on crunchy, salty foods….

Lately, though, I realize that my limit-my-exercise-because-it’s-hard ways are catching up with me. No real strength to speak of — walking up stairs winds me– tired all of the time, walking around with pinched shoulders… I took the Real Age test and found that my real age was 43. Not bad if you’re 43, but I’m 37. Mr. Workout, on the other hand, has a Real Age of 32. He’s 37 as well. According to his Real Age results, his secret is basically this: working out, having a strong social network, and having a happy marriage. Unfortunately, he likes crunchy, salty foods, too.

Well, I don’t work out, I don’t make time for my friends, and how can he be happily married if I’m not???

I’d already been working on my psyche, which I suppose is why I was ready to take the Real Age test to begin with. My results were eye-opening, but I can honestly say that I wasn’t surprised to find that my hubby is aging better than me… he still has a 6-pack and the same body that he had when we were 20. I was, however, surprised to find that my body was six years older than my real age. I was surprised to find that he is happily married. I was surprised to find that my I’m-a-martyr negative attitude was directly influencing my health. I do not want to spend my elderly years hunched over and frail because I didn’t take care of myself while I could.

A friend called and said, “Let’s walk,” so I did. This was several months ago, and it has changed my life. I am NOT an exercise buff. I LOVE MY COUCH!!! Nonetheless, I can’t deny what’s happening to me. The stress is melting away and my psyche is shaping up. No, the pounds aren’t dropping off, but I’m maintaining a 20-pound weight loss from a year ago while still supporting my fast food habit. I just have more energy… a cliche, I know. It didn’t happen overnight, but I’m now seeing the benefits. Plus, I get to have insta-therapy every morning with a girlfriend.

So… how am I evolving?

I’ve found kettlebells, and I’m three weeks in. I’m hooked! Amazing since I’m afraid of weights. Actually afraid. I took body measurements and plan on charting my progress. This is a huge step for me, considering I once left a gym crying after throwing my guts up.

I’m working on my issues rather than pretending they don’t exist.

I’m making time for my friends, thus making time for me.

I have less mommy guilt.

I’m realizing that I can be happily married.

I can’t wait to see what happens next.