A Little Peak

So many, many things going on, and so very little time to post.

In my last post, I talked about starting over in May (as if it were January). And I did good for like, a day.  Then I got some FANTASTIC news, and totally crapped out on my eating healthy and drinking only water.

I was offered (and promptly accepted) a position in a office setting.  I've worked three days, and I'm pretty happy with position, and the new opportunities that will (hopefully) be coming with it.

However, it also came with a 40 minute drive to and from work. I don't mind the drive, I did a drive that took the same amount of time when I was pregnant with T, for a job I didn't like nearly as much as I'm already liking this position.  And the drive gives me time to clear my head between home and work, and vice versa. So when I'm home I'm (even more so) fully present.

With the stressed that accompanies a new job, plus new hours/routines for said job has made giving up caffeine a near impossible, and dangerous, task. So this has been postponed, but will still remain a goal for one month in 2012.

I've also attempted to start FLYing. This is a housekeeping concept I found online, FLYlady.net.  The system (from what I understand) is based on routines. Creating routines, and doing what needs to be done rightnow and not procrastinating.  Also focusing on spending a limited time (15 minutes in most cases) focusing on a chore/room/area that needs to be decluttered/cleaned. And being satisified with what was done within the time constraints. The biggest thing I'm struggling with is the concept that imperfect housework still blesses your family. I'm kinda a perfectionist, hard to tell, I know, but 'tis true.

Just a glimpse into what's happening around here.

My Ex

You may remember in my last post that I vowed not to weigh myself for Lent, and to work on toning up my arms, and getting in all sixty-four ounces of water per day? Yeah... that post.  Well I'm hating that post.
Not because at the bottom is my 'before' picture (and that picture is the go to picture when you post a link) no, that's not the reason I hate it.

I hate it because I'm not weighing myself, because I'm attempting to keep my word (it's kind of a big deal for me). In 2011 I didn't use a scale. I detested the scale as much as it detested me, and I know it did because the numbers it showed me were detestable! But when I started this healthy lifestyle make over of 2012, I started using the scale. I started to measure everything by the scale. "Oh you remember that really great time we had on the day I weighed in uber light, right before I gained back the weight I'd lost because of my least favorite week? YEAH! That day."

I even had a habit formed (already!) that included weighing myself. First thing at work, get the paper, empty the bedside commode, weigh, continue with day. But now..

Now I find myself giving the bathroom with the scale sidelong glances. I force myself to look away. I think of it fondly, only remembering the positive parts of our relationship (you know, my weightLOSSES).

It reminds me, quite acurately, of breaking up with a boyfriend.  I only want to remember the positive parts.  I forget all the stupid fights (and weight gains).  I don't remember the late night crying on the phone (or eating the last of the ice cream). I just remeber good, solid hugs (and weight losses). 

I avoid rooms that give the scale a home. I don't want to fall off this wagon, it's entirely too early. However I do miss seeing the numbers (and having a measurable progress), I'm stickin to it!


Happy Lenten  Season Yall!!



PS- I've been doing (almost) decently at drinking enough water, however my exercise has taken a huge hit.  I hope to start going to atleast one Zumba a week in March and using some of the machines afterwards for more of an upper body work out.

PPS- You should totally be following my on Twitter!

Sometimes I Consider Thinking

When I made the decision to be a single mom, as in not continue unhealthy or craptacular relationships with the sperm donors who helped to make my active, mostly fun, and gorgeous children, I didn't think of a lot of things that have come up, especially recently.

I thought about having to explain that their "Daddy" wasn't their father.  What I didn't expect was not to be in a healthy relationship (married) when my daughter started asking. I also didn't expect her to start asking at the right bold age of three. THREE.  I just assumed she'd be too busy learning to potty or some little preschool ditty about colors in  the rainbow or tying shoes or something, not parents and families.

I thought about having to comfort, punish and be the security for my kids.  I did not think about the fact that they would both be just as stubborn as their aunt. Or that no one would ever been a decent substitute for me. On one hand that's all awe and sweet on the other its a plain ol' pain in the butt. Heaven forbid I shower, or use the rest room, or want to do something crazy like go to the WalMart sans kids.

I considered and appreciated that having my kids closer together meant that I was getting most of the child rearing done at one time (for the most part).  I didn't really consider their ages, and what that would mean. That my daughter would be going through this trial phase and learning her toddler body, while my son would be going through a starting interest in the bathroom or the stubborn 18+ months old. (They call it the terrible twos, my kids couldn't wait for 2 they started early!)

I thought about the chores that I'd be the only one responsible for once I moved out, laundry, dishes, mopping, dusting. I didn't think about how I'd have to try to have the energy reserved from working my 9 (sometimes 14) hour days to try and put the house to rights while the kids were up.  I didn't think about having to reserve even more energy to fight the kids to go to sleep, and then to stay up and finish whatever it was that I didn't get done before they went to sleep.

I didn't consider the mommy guilt that would come from trying to date on regular date nights.  I didn't think about how my heart would tear just a little bit every time my daughter accused me of leaving her, even if it was with my mom or brother, where she was definitely well cared for and loved.  I didn't think about how my soul would be pulled in different directions, one side wanting to be this amazing provider for myself and my kids, the other side wanting to just stay home and cook, clean, and be like those old school women who raised their kids, cattle, made clothes, cooked from sunup to sundown and still had an awesome relationship with their husband.

Sometimes I think that I may have been better off to stay in a craptacular relationship, just so someone else would be here to hold one screaming (spoiled) child while I deal with another screaming (spoiled) child.  I don't really think that, like.. 98% of the time I fully believe I've made the right, healthy, wonderful decision to raise these kids by myself, until God leads the man that I'm supposed to be with into my life and I trip right over him.   The other 2% of the time I really wish I'd 'made' someone, anyone stay around and help me.

But when that 2% of the time comes around, I do what I do when I'm on the treadmill and want to stop, I keep going until I my (undiagnosed and probably inaccurately self diagnosed) obsessive compulsion won't let me stop because I'm not at a whole/round number of time/miles/laps.  So I end up back in the 98% of the time, and kiss their heads and hug them tight and get over my single self.

I Don't Punch

I'm not much of a puncher, I just don't have the upper body strength for that kind of defense.  But somehow in my junior year of high school I punched through a window.

I know, crazy right? Wait til you hear how it happened!

I was inside cleaning, shocker right? And my sister and her friends were getting ready to go to the pool, the boys were outside waiting, impatiently, for the girls to change into swimsuits (Floridian girls and their swimsuits is a whole different post.).

So these impatient high school boys were waiting, and teenage girls being teenage girls had to redo, well, pretty much everything. So the boys decided to annoy me by knocking on the window where I was cleaning.
FUN!! A game. I can play games, I'm a cool big sister like that. So I knock back, why not? (I'm pretty sure you see where this is going.) They knock back a little more... well just more, louder, longer, there. Okay, fine, thats cool.  I knock back. Great all's good. They knock again. It's more, again. So I knock back more, again. Except when I go for my second "knock" my hand goes through the window.  I remember looking down and just thinking "Oh shit. I'm bleeding." Then it hurt.

I'm the daughter of a nurse, I got this.  I checked the wound, pulled out some remaining glass. Then wrapped that hand up with a (clean) dish towel and put a bag of frozen peas on my hand.  Raised my hand above my heart, then called my mom (and cried).

So, that's kind of like punching isn't it?