What Do You Get When You Cross Jillian Michaels With Richard Simmons? My Daughter.
Published January 31, 2011 | As any parent knows, working out at home with young children can be a nightmare challenging time: they require potty assistance during crunches; lunges are interrupted by demands for goldfish crackers; and push-ups are replaced with horsey rides.
Trying to exercise with my three-year-old daughter involves these things and more. Much more. She puts on a spectacle that is part marine drill sergeant, part Vegas showgirl. Allow me to explain…
It starts before I even decide to work out when my kid starts with variations of the following: “Mommmeeee, time to exerciiiiiise…”
Then comes the work out gear. If I’m doing hot yoga at a studio I’ll make an effort, appearance-wise, but for Tabata intervals in my basement? I’m all about the sports bra and yoga pants (try and contain yourselves, fellas).
My daughter always comments on my “pretty exercise costume” (this is a testament to how low I set the sartorial bar when I’m not exercising) while I comment that the basement is cold and she should put on some clothes. To appease me, she then dons a red witch’s hat and carries a rope (from my son’s monk costume…but that’s another post).
I start the online timer and begin my workout, doing a series of intense intervals while my daughter circles me in a full sprint, cheering me on with, “Great job, mommy!” and “You’re so strong!” which is actually quite helpful.
When I stop to rest, she does, too. Then she proceeds to WHIP ME WITH HER ROPE, saying, “Faster, mommy! Why’re you quitting?!” This is somewhat less helpful, but I’m usually panting too hard to get her to stop.
After I’m finished, she’ll cajole me into doing one more thing (“Why you no do pushups?!?!”), the result of which makes me feel like a kick-ass-workout-ninja. Until she joins me for some final pushups and puts me to shame with her plank, while I cheat with my knees on the ground.
She is inspiring. She is indefatigable. She is three.
A dramatic interpretation of my life.
26 CommentsWhat I’d Tell My Sixteen-Year-Old Self
Published January 28, 2011 | I don’t like to live with many regrets. I figure that every experience – especially the really crappy kind –makes me, for better or worse, me. But if I could write a letter to my younger self, there are a few nuggets I’d like to impart:
Don’t worry how your ass looks in that bikini. It looks amazing. Get out there is work it while you can.
Be nicer to your sister. She’s the only one you’ve got.
Same goes for your mother.
And your knees.
He’s not worth it.
Ugh – neither is he.
When you’re pregnant (waaaay into your thirties) and the doctor advises you to do Kegel exercises? Do them. A lot.
Pay more attention in grade 12 math. Summer school sucks.
Once you have kids you’ll end up sounding like your mom quite often. It’s not that bad.
Take risks – mistakes just show that you’re trying.
Those supposed cool kids will end up being such losers after graduation.
Short hair is not and never will be a good look for you (particularly when pregnant).
Dear Lori: this too shall pass...
What would you tell your teenaged self?
Hamsters and Waffles and Snakes! Oh My!
Published January 26, 2011 | At one point in my childhood, my family housed two cats, two dogs, a couple of hamsters, a bunch of fish and a newt. My husband also had a pet-filled childhood, including some goats and chickens (I know – hardcore, right?), so it’s odd that we don’t have more animals in our life (unless you count our kids – rimshot!).
We had a lovely, crazy cat named Dude, but he went to the great litter box in the sky shortly after we had our son. Near the end he was peeing all over the place, so I’m worried a new cat would declare open season on my furniture. We also tried three goldfish (Goldie, Goldie and Goldie) but after a few months Goldie had cannibalized his buddies.
I only notice the absence of animals in our home during winter, when neighbours trudge past our house dragging their mutts in the snow, usually while we’re watching Mad Men re-runs in front of a fire. But lately there have been signs that even if I don’t want a pet, apparently I need one. Desperately.
Most children have stuffed animals or dolls that they imagine to be pets, but not my kid: last year my daughter dragged a waffle iron around by the cord calling it “Woofie” for months.
Sit. Good boy.
This year she is Woofie, demanding that we walk her around the house with a skipping rope tied around her waist – but I draw the line at feeding her from a bowl on the floor.
My son’s ideal pet varies from snakes (not gonna happen) to parrots (I’d rather have a snake) to hamsters (I remember sneaking around with my mom to replace my sister’s dead hamsters on what felt like a weekly basis…no thank you).
I blame Bolt.
Both kids have taken to harassing any poor animal that comes within arm’s reach. This was particularly evident when we were in Serbia last summer: in a 48-hour period, they’d adopted three barn cats, two chickens, a cow and some dead bugs.
Since this city slicker doesn’t do the whole farm animal thing, I figure that we need to get a dog this year. Either that or I’m gonna need a new waffle maker.
23 CommentsDiary of a Hot Yoga Workout
Published January 24, 2011 | 5:10 pm
Put dinner on table for ingrates family. Refute son’s claim that his pasta smells like pig’s butt and remind him that mommy is not a short order cook. Ignore rumbling belly that hasn’t been tended to since lunch so as to avoid puking in class.
5:15 pm
Load dishwasher, change laundry, make lunches and search frantically for yoga mat. Simultaneously.
5:20 pm
Find yoga mat/flying carpet in three-year-old daughter’s closet. Hastily throw on yoga gear.
5:25 pm
Leave house completely frazzled, tossing red gym bag (so stuffed with towels, clothes, etc that it resembles Santa’s sack) in the car and peel out of the driveway. Swear at other motorists for duration of the drive. Vow to relax.
5:40 pm
Arrive at yoga studio and realize wallet (with driver’s license and yoga pass card) is at home. With bra.
5:45 pm
Open door to dimly-lit hot yoga room and gasp at the intolerable heat. Find space away from prone bodies splayed about the room. Place mat, towel, extra towel and water on the floor and lie down.
5:46 pm
Close eyes.
5:47 pm
Breathe deeply.
5:48 pm
Fall asleep.
6:00 pm
Eyes snap open as yoga instructor’s voice welcomes everyone to the class. Look around groggily and realize dozens of people sneaked in during nap-time. Now have lady with aversion to shaving her pits encroaching on one side and dude with aversion to underwear of any kind in front.
6:01 pm
Even more off-putting: lithe yoga instructor, whose ass looks like two coconuts tied to a telephone pole. Decide to look in mirror at her instead of self.
6:02 – 7:00 pm
And so it begins: bending, sweating, balancing, sweating, stretching, aligning, sweating and, for a brief moment during dancer’s pose, a hint of barfing.
7:05 pm
Wobble out of the class feeling equal parts exhilarated and exhausted, with a raging case of “yoga brain” (i.e. extreme dopiness…see also: dummy mummy, aka mother-of-a-newborn).
7:10 pm
Have a shower in the spa-like change-room, taking advantage of the one chance this week to shave legs without three-year-old daughter trying to wrench shaver away.
7:25 pm
Stumble to the car (careful to cover freewheeling breasticles) feeling ten pounds lighter.
7:30 pm
Drive home, bemoaning forgetfulness of wallet as Dairy Queen (with Blizzard sale!) comes into view.
7:45 pm
Enter house to find it cleaned up, with both kids tucked into bed, fast asleep. Have best sleep in recent memory. Vow to do hot yoga every day for rest of life.
Why yes, that is me.
Happy Biiiiirthday, Mr. Serrrrb
Published January 21, 2011 | I love birthdays. If it were up to me, my birthday would be a national – or at least civic – holiday, complete with parades and fireworks (apparently I think I am my own country). I long for surprise parties and being whisked away to destinations unknown. “Go big or go home” is the approach you want to take when it comes to my birthday. Another one is “you can never have enough cheesecake.”
My husband, The Serb, hates big, attention-grabbing surprises. I’m fairly certain he would divorce me if I planned a huge party for him. I know this because he’s told me repeatedly. Yesterday was his birthday and with the stench of his botched Father’s Day still lingering, he milked the occasion by commencing the celebrations a few days early, with variations of the following conversation:
Me: “Dearest husband, can you please take out the garbage for me?”
Him: “It’s my birthday.”
Me: “Oh darling, your humour is but one of my favourite things about you; however you birthday is, in fact, next week.”
Him: “It’s my birthday weekend.”
Me: “Of course. You’re right – let me do it and when I return I’ll give you a foot rub.”*
My fella may not want a massive birthday bash, but he still likes a big deal to be made over him, just in a smaller setting, like our kitchen. Since my inner event planner cannot be suppressed, we had a party of sorts:
There was a cake:
It was teeny because I need to get out of my muumuu and into a caftan by March Break.
And there was a kick-ass present that took three months to research, have shipped to my parents (so it didn’t arrive at our house), and keep hidden from my nosy husband kids:
This is what his fancy-pants, solar-powered, depth-measuring dive watch came in.
I was anticipating a huge reaction from him – maybe not tears, but some minor hyperventilating would’ve been nice. Alas, my thunder was stolen by the present our three-year-old daughter gave him. Something that she informed him she’d picked out and wrapped herself (about 20 minutes before he came home):
Hint: It’s a piece of her favourite Disney puzzle. How the heck was I supposed to compete with that?
The rest of the night was great: the new babysitter is fantastic; our dinner sans booster seat was delicious; and, although the Serb will deny it, once he realized his new watch automatically goes into diving mode when submerged in water, I’m pretty sure I saw a quivery lip.
* Some minor artistic license was involved in this re-enactment. Also, I may have thrown a shoe at him.
21 CommentsDeath By Grass
Published January 19, 2011 | A few months ago I saw an allergist. He did that scratch test thingy* where a drop of serum is swabbed on your skin and if it reacts, you have an allergy. I had three rows of tiny cuts running from my wrist up my forearm and the results were irrefutable: I am allergic to nature.
He prescribed me an array of ointments, sprays and drops while offering such pearls of wisdom as, “avoid rural areas, grass and trees between March and September.” It should be noted that I live in a fairly ruralish area…with a backyard…and my kids attend a hippie school that’s surrounded by freaking woods.
A lot of people would be saddened upon hearing the doctor’s directive, but not me. You see, being told that I’m allergic to nature explains and validates the complicated relationship I have with it.
The entire time I was visiting my husband’s family in Bosnia, I looked like this:
Without Jackie O sunglasses, I would’ve been quarantined.
But I didn’t have to be in the middle of a cornfield in Nowheresville, Bosnia to be affected.
I’ve been called the Freddy Kruger of the plant world: nothing in my house or yard is safe from my cursed ministrations (the most recent example involves an oregano plant that was bought last Wednesday and thrown out the following Sunday). Aside from dead herbs, I haven’t kept flora in my home since the mid-nineties, when I had a roommate with a green thumb.
I now realize, however, that my sucky horticultural ways were merely nature’s way of keeping us apart; I just wasn’t taking the hint. It also explains why I’d rather get an enema of boiling tar than mow the lawn.
My epitaph.
*My knowledge of all things medical is very sophisticated.
What Was I Saying?
Published January 17, 2011 | Two mornings a week my three-year-old daughter attends pre-school and picking her up is normally the highlight of my day: she runs and launches herself into my arms, covering me in kisses and showing me her artwork. Last week she saw me, planted her hands on her hips and immediately demanded to know where her cheese stick was. One that I’d bought her the week before, then eaten after dropping her off at school.
She also regularly reminds me that we took the number eight bus when we were in Dubrovnik five months ago. And I suspect she’ll be ruminating over The Great Ice Cream Cone Heist of 2010 for years to come (actually, so will I – her meltdown was epic). Yet despite her extraordinary memory, my daughter still can’t remember the simple things. Like wearing clothes.
Her seven-year-old brother is more of a mixed bag. Last November, he begged my husband to take him to the hardware store. When they arrived, my husband saw that my son was wearing only socks on his feet. Our second grade son had walked outside our home to the car, in November in Ontario, and still, he forgot his shoes.
But then a few days later, he asked why the cotton candy we’d bought him at an amusement park in Calgary three years ago didn’t come on a stick, like it did in a story I was reading him. I’m hoping it’s a case of extreme genius (apparently Albert Einstein was a shoe- forgetter), but a more likely explanation is that they take after me in the brain-fart department.
I struggle to remember if I had a shower yesterday (most likely answer: nope) and once put a package of mushrooms in the dryer. I regularly lose my keys, cell phone and – during one memorable snowstorm a few days before Christmas – my car (mall security had to drive me and my newborn around the parking lot for an hour).
Thankfully, the Serb has a great memory and shows no signs of losing it (even in his old age – zing!). If his memory goes we’re totally screwed, because he’d likely revert to his native tongue and the only Serbian I know would get me arrested.
I wish these came in onesies.
(Mis)Adventures in Babysitting
Published January 14, 2011 | When I was a teenager I used to babysit regularly. For two dollars an hour and unlimited Doritos, I would gladly change diapers and play Candy Land all night long (fun fact: the first time I saw the movie Halloween I was babysitting…on Halloween!). My business model was simple and straightforward: wait for a mom to call saying she’d received my number from another mom.
Today’s babysitters are savvy entrepreneurs who probably earn more than I do in a year. They advertise their services online, charge double-digits per hour and must be booked weeks in advance for the prime nights (i.e. New Year’s). Parents hoard good babysitters like Lindsay Lohan hoards rehab vouchers. I’ve known mothers who stalk responsible-looking teenaged girls at parks after school in the hopes of securing a quality babysitter.
Our first babysitter (then fourteen-years-old) was more responsible than the Serb and I put together: she showed up with a questionnaire for us to fill out and kept a binder full of pertinent information regarding her clients. For three years she babysat for us and we loved her. When she moved away our only babysitting options were visiting relatives, so we didn’t go out after dark for six months.
Recently we dipped our collective toe back into the babysitting pool. The Serb’s fortieth birthday is coming up and I’ll need to do some wining and dining. The first girl we interviewed looked like Lisbeth Salander from the Dragon Tattoo books, which didn’t bode well for us ever again leaving the house without our kids.
This past weekend we met another girl and struck gold – she came with her mother, looks like Emma Roberts, doesn’t have a boyfriend and charges three dollars less an hour than anyone else. The only potential issue is getting her to come back to our house. When she arrived, my kids were scarfing down two-week-old leftover gingerbread house candy. From the floor.
"Hi, I'm here to look after your kids..."
24 CommentsGymnastics Bring Out My Inner Jerry Springer
Published January 12, 2011 | Organized sports aren’t really my thing. I like getting together with like-minded ladies for a bowl of Pho, or even a hot yoga class. But running after each other trying to catch a Frisbee or kick a ball? No thank you.
I am, therefore, the antithesis of the hockey/soccer/whatever-blows-your-skirt-up parent. As long as my kid has fun, mission accomplished.
Case in point: when my then four-year-old played Blast Ball (a precursor to T-ball) a few years ago. He spent his time in the outfield talking on his “cell phone” (a rock) so much that his coach had to implore him to, “Hang up and call them back later.”
Waiting on the bench when his team was at bat, he convinced the other kids to join him in kneeling on the bench with their heads to the ground, butts in the air, (literally) playing possum.
He only lasted one season and since then he’s pursued more solitary sports, so I haven’t had the displeasure of running into douchey parents. Until yesterday.
My three-year-old started gymnastics and she was pumped: pink leotard with sparkles? Check. Matching scrunchy? Check. Lightning McQueen tattoos on her forearms? Check and check.
She was led onto the floor and parents settled in the viewing area behind glass windows (p.s. when kids are participating in sports, I think their parents should always be separated from them by massive sheets of glass). My daughter was awesomely hilarious and the Serb and I giggled like lunatics at her unbearable cuteness for a full hour.
The best – and by that I mean worst – part was the lady beside me. Ms. Stick Up Her Ass was simultaneously bossing her twin boys around while watching her five-year-old daughter, muttering things like, “You’re supposed to be jumping, not falling.”
She then turned on a sweet little girl who was toddling around the viewing area with a slight cold (i.e. like every kid everywhere in the history of forever):
“Please stop putting your fingers in your mouth and touching our toys.”
“Stop coughing in our direction.”
“Find your own toys.”
“Where are your snacks?”
“Put down those toys. Now.”
I’d hoped that my, “Oh my gawd” with accompanying eye roll would discourage her priggish ways, but in the change room afterwards we saw her lecturing the sniffly kid’s mom about hygiene.
If that cow is there next week, gymnastics just might become a contact sport.
Kill. Me. Now.
19 CommentsSh*t My Kids Say
Published January 10, 2011 | Sometimes I think my children have been reincarnated, but only halfway. That is, they look like youngish, kid-type people, but they sound like smart-ass frat boys. They don’t actually swear (although with me as their mother, it’s a f***ing miracle), but the one-liners they come up with astound me. Here is but a small sample of their greatest hits:
Blah, blah, blah – who cares?
Three-year-old daughter to anyone who pisses her off
Mommy, you’d look just like Wonder Women if you had breasts.
Seven-year-old son (whom I nursed 24/7 for a year) to me as I donned my bathing suit
I need private time.
Three-year-old as she closes the bathroom door in my face
Him: Grandma, have you been here for a week?
Her: Yes, dear.
Him: Huh. Seems like longer.
My son to my mom as she was leaving for the airport
Mommy, why are your armpits crying?
Daughter to me as I was working out
We do the usual stuff: wake up, make coffee, go for a walk. It’s pretty boring, actually.
Son explaining how he and his two girlfriends (twins!) play “house”
You’re not a lady; you’re a mommy.
Daughter to me on numerous occasions
Jeez – my breath smells like my uncle’s farts.
Son to himself in the mirror (it should be noted that he doesn’t technically have an uncle)
Daughter: Do you like my mittens?
Classmate: No.
Daughter: You don’t know what you’re talking about!
Classmate: (Stunned silence)
Daughter: No thank you! (turns and flounces off)
As related to me – breathlessly – by my daughter throughout November
I imagine my daughter being like Dorothy Michaels ("I said good day, sir!")
My son is the George Carlin of grade two.
23 Comments
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