The Kids Made Me Fat

Huffington Post Pick-Up

2013-05-20T14:24:00.003-04:00

Well this is fun! The Huffington Post published my blog post entitled High Hopes on the front page of their Parent's section. You can read it here on The Kids Made Me Fat, or if you're feeling adventurous, you can wonder on over to the Post and check it out!

www.huffingtonpost.com/parents

Happy Mother's Day.

2013-05-13T09:25:00.001-04:00

The day after Hadley was born, there was a moment in the hospital where I allowed myself to imagine her growing older.

The idea was unbearable, and I started to cry. Suddenly this 6lb baby girl seemed incredibly heavy and holding her was like holding the weight of world in my arms.

I loved her. Really really loved her.

I loved her so much and I was instantly terrified. I was afraid.

I feared for her and all of pain that she would inevitably feel - the pain of name-calling, the pain of being picked last in gym, the pain of a broken heart, the pain of disappointment, and just all the pains of being human.

I couldn't bear that she would feel any of it. I wanted nothing but joy for her - anything else seemed unacceptable.

Justin took a picture of that moment when I was holding my daughter and crying like a banshee. When he showed it to me, I said it would never see the light of day - I looked hideous. Well, motherhood is the cure for vanity.

I recently came across that picture on our hard drive and, I wasn't horrified by my puffy face or my streaming tears but felt lucky to have that momemt captured on fim. That was the moment that my heart opened up to love her - my new daughter. That was the moment that she became a piece of me.

Happy Mother's Day.

There Goes The Neighborhood

2013-05-02T22:27:00.003-04:00

Justin and the children examining The Hole.

So, we're building a house. No, I mean we're not building it - can you imagine? Justin and I with hammers and 2x4s? We'd probably beat each other with both before we ever managed to assemble any sort of structure. We struggle to assemble a nightly meal. So I suppose a more accurate statement would be: We're having a house built.

I lovingly, and accurately, refer to it as the hole. As it stands today, it is a hole in the ground....soon it will have walls, a roof, a porch - but today it is a hole which is quite fitting as I feel, perhaps, I am falling into a hole - an uncertain future - perhaps one containing divorce and foreclosure. Or perhaps, this hole will be our happily ever after. But today, it is a just a hole and one that is completely overwhelming me.

Today, after a big budget breaking bomb was dropped in my lap, I thought seriously about calling the whole thing off. Could they just fill the hole back up? Could I change my mind? I'm really fine where I am...there's a roof over my head - what more could I want?

But I think it's full steam ahead, and with any luck, my mind and budget will stay on track. Framing starts next week.

Today I went to check out the hole and met our future neighbor. Nice guy. Talented guy.

ME: Where do you work?

NEIGHBOR: Oh, I'm a mental health professional. So is my wife.

ME: Oh hot damn! Are you serious? When can I get drunk and come over? I have a few issues.

NEIGHBOR.......Silence. Followed by a worried stare.

I might have scared him off - for now - but I'm super stoked. I've got my own mental health professional right in my backyard - this has got to be a sign that God, does, indeed, provide.

Say I do actually lose it and decide to throw myself in our hole? Well, maybe the neighbor, if he's feeling at all neighborly, can just talk me right off the ledge.

Later, I found out that not only are the new neighbors mental health professionals, but one of them specializes in children. Hot diggity dog, we have hit the new neighbor lottery!

Its about time I got some professional help raising these kids.

The neighbors will now be my ace-in-the-hole threat.

"Really? Another tantrum? That's it. I'm sending you to the neighbor's. He'll talk some sense into you."

I think I might have to bring this lovely couple a baked good of sorts and welcome myself to their neighborhood. I also think I'll give them a card - signed as follows:

"So nice to meet you and we're so happy that we're going to be neighbors. If you hear any loud screaming - don't concern yourself too much - my kids do that - often. Speaking of the kids, if one happens to get loose, you can return them or keep them for awhile - whatever works. Hope you're ready, because here comes crazy."

Yours - The Rumbach Family

High Hopes

2013-04-22T09:59:00.000-04:00

A lot of scary, awful shit goes down in our mini-van. There's yelling, there's arguing, there are sippy cups being thrown, there's the complaining....Oh, the complaining - it's too hot, too cold, we're never going to get there, my seat belt's too tight, the van smells bad - the list goes on and on.

In regards to the van smelling bad - yeah, I'd like to complain about that too...I'm not sure what in the world the kids do in there but they're gross and they make my van stink.

However, every now and then the girls have actual conversations while we're cruising down the road, my favorite among them being "What are you going to be when you grow up?"

These conversations are so filled with hope and promise my heart nearly bursts. They are going to be dancers and singers and doctors and teachers and fashion designers. There is nothing out of reach. Nothing they can't do. Everything is possible. These are the conversations I try to burn into my memory so when I'm old, feeble and sitting alone in my nursing home, I'll be able to recall their tiny voices - their tiny voices and big dreams.

Was there ever a time that I felt like this? A time where I felt I could do anything? If such a time existed, I can't remember having it nor can I remember losing it - yet I miss having it - that feeling - that feeling that I could be anything - do anything.

Long gone are the days of my childhood dream where I thought I could be an Olympic gymnast. That dream was crushed by my inability to throw my ass over my head in any sort of graceful way.

However, the girls childhood dreams are alive and well and on any given day they can be anything.

Yesterday, however, Cameron grew anxious about her chosen profession as a fashion designer.

"What if I change my mind," she said. "I wrote I was going to be a fashion designer on my paper at school but is it okay if I change it later?"

I assured her that she could change her mind. I told her that people evolve and their interests change and she could grow and change with them. I told her that I, myself, was still deciding what I wanted to "be" when I grew up. This blew her little mind.

"But Mommy, you're already sooooo old," she said.

Concerned about my career path, or lack thereof, Hadley offered a suggestion.

"Mom," she said. "I think you should be a waitress. Yes, a waitress. That would be a fun job."

Cameron said, "Oh Hadley. That is not a good job for Mommy. Mommy could not EVER handle that job."

Well, shit. I get it - being a waitress is damn hard, but she's clearly missed the part of her life where I've waited on her nonstop for 6 years, either that or she really doesn't think I'm very good at it.

So I'm left wondering, what will I "be?" What is my dream?

Is it possible I'm living it? I might be. Driving the smelly mini-van down the road listening to the girls dream out loud - yes, this could be it. It's quite possible I've arrived at everything I've ever dreamed of and it smells like baby poop and has automatic sliding doors. Yet, dream big girls. Mommy is counting on a super sweet nursing home.

Poppin' Fresh Dough

2013-03-18T11:53:00.000-04:00

The biscuits were burnt.

Disappointed, Justin and I stared at the charred, not-so-flakey, but rather crispy, carbohydrates. But we didn't stare for long because there was some blaming to be done.

ME: "Justin! I told you not to turn the temperature up!"

Justin didn't think the biscuits were cooking fast enough, so he cranked the oven up to 475 degrees. I told him the temperature wasn't the problem and took matters into my own oven mitts as I moved them from the top to the bottom rack.

JUSTIN: "Abbie, look at these things! I told you not to move them to the bottom rack."

Now, these biscuits were not supposed to be complicated. These were a place-and-bake Great Value variety that come popping out of the can. Justin won't open the can. He has poppinfreshdoughaphobia - meaning that he squeals, screams and jumps up onto a chair when the dough pops free from the tube. Though he has no problem popping the finished baked product into his mouth. That is, unless they're burnt. Then we have a problem.

While we were blaming each other for our baking blunder, I recalled a sweet story I had recently read on a friend's Facebook wall. The story went something like this:

"A loving husband sat down to dinner with burned biscuits that his wife had made. Their daughter noticed that her father ate every bite of the biscuit paying no attention to the fact that they'd been charbroiled. Later the father explained that he ate the biscuits because, in life, everyone makes mistakes and that a burned biscuit isn't all that important."

Well, bullshit.

In my house, you burn a biscuit - you better have a damn good explanation.

I relayed the story to Justin and told him that we should think about the lessons we're teaching our children and that, like the loving couple in the story, we should strive for tolerance.

He grumbled and sat down to eat his drunken pork chops. Yes, drunken pork chops. Apparently, there are farmers somewhere drinking moonshine with their livestock. Sounds like a party I'd like to go to, that is, until all the slaughtering begins.

Anyways, I resolved that I would take the lead. I would teach him by example. Surely, over time, he would mimic my loving nature and patience and we would set an example that our children would someday write about.

"Abbie," Justin said, "Try these pork chops. They're really good."

I took a bite off his fork. Chewed a bit. Then let that drunken pig meat fall right out of my mouth onto the plate.

"I'm sorry but that tastes like vomit."

Yes, someday, these are the stories my children will tell.....Mommy used to make us burnt biscuits. Daddy used to get drunk with pigs and we all lived, mostly, happily ever after.

Screaming and Self-Help

2013-02-19T14:24:00.000-05:00

I've become the mom I never thought I'd be. I've become the mom I have always judged so harshly. I've become the worst version of myself. I've become a screamer.

I scream in the morning for the kids to get out of bed. I scream for them to get their shoes on. I scream at them for fighting with each other. I scream at them to pick up their toys. I scream and scream and scream and SCREAM!

Just to be clear, I'm not psychotic nor do I have turrets. However, I clearly have kids with hearing impairments. My first, second or third set of instructions tend to fall useless on their little ears. It is only when faced with a yelling psychotic banshee do they actually take action. They do not hear or acknowledge me until I'm completely stroking out. Veins and eyeballs start bulging from my head, which spins out of control in circles.

Can I hire someone else to be the yelling psychotic banshee? I don't want to do it. I want to be the loving, caring, cookie-baking mom. Yet I've become a beast - a beast who doesn't bake and seems more likely to eat her young. Feeling like an ineffective bad mother sucks. It's been bringing me down, and I'm sure the kids are on the verge of nightmares. So, I've taken action.

I did a little research and found this book:

When the package came in the mail, turns out I didn't order the physical book. I had ordered the audio CD.

I knew I'd never get around to returning the CD, so I decided to keep it and listen to it daily in the minivan after I dropped the girls off at school. If someone had told me 15 years ago while I was cruising around in my Dodge Daytona smoking Marlboro lights while listening to jam bands that my future held a minivan that smelled of sour milk and self-help audio books, I might have permanently joined up with the jam band hippies and taken off on tour to sell burritos.

However, I really did enjoy this book. It had a lot of good, practical advice and I started to make little changes that appeared to be working. After a couple of weeks of applying my new zen mommy attitude, I could feel the tide starting to change. The entire family seemed more at peace. That is, until this:

While I was downstairs, Hadley decided that she needed her own room. So she took ALL of the toys out of the toy room, threw them in the hall, took ALL of her clothes, shoes and books and threw them into the toy room. She also pulled her mattress off the bed frame.

Justin was at work. I was on my own.

I would not scream. I would not yell. The $12.00 I spent on the audio book for my minivan would not be in vain. I was going to hold it together and be the mom I knew I could be.

I turned and found this in the sink:

I turned and then found this:

While I was accessing the damage, Jack put a box of tissues in the sink and then helped himself to a block of cheese.

It was all unraveling. It was all falling apart. I was losing my mind. This was not being late for school. This was pandemonium. I could feel my banshee beast awakening, but I reached down deep for my inner Mrs. Brady and asked to speak to Hadley in my room.

I asked her why she decided to move her room and asked her what she was feeling. Yes, of course, the self-help book is big on feelings.

She explained and I listened. I did not lecture, offer advice or cry. I listened. When she was finished I told her that the toy room could be her room but she would have to help find new places for everything and we'd have to work on it together.

That's when she told me, "Well, I put all of my things away - so I'm finished."

Deep breathes. I told her that while that was true, she had also left a gigantic mess that she was responsible for.

That's when Hadley lost it. She proclaimed she would NOT help clean the mess and in her own way, told me to go to hell.

About this time, Justin came home. He told me not to worry about the mess, that we'd get it all put back together and that he was hoping he could squeeze a nap in in a bit.

KABOOM!

Justin lit my fuse. My inner banshee awoke.

A NAP? The toddler had a block of cheese, there was now an entire roll of toilet paper in the toilet, Hadley had drug her mattress into the hall and my husband wanted to take a nap. A NAP????

We were clearly not on the same page. Not even the same book. He was in a book of Nursery Rhymes, and I was in Dante's Inferno.

I could feel my blood boiling. I felt helpless and surrounded by crazy.

I let loose. I screamed at Justin that he would not be taking a nap. I screamed at Hadley for moving her room. I would have screamed at Cameron but I couldn't find her (My smart girl was probably hiding) And just to put the exclamation point on my fit, I yanked the cheese away from baby.

There done. The mess remained but I felt better.

In the days to come, I resumed my inner-zen self-help mommy routine. In regards to the screaming fit about the big bedroom move, I resolved to not feel guilty. It was, after-all, Justin who lit my fuse. Totally his fault. Nowhere in the audio book does it say you shouldn't scream at your husband.

So much of my time as a mother is spent searching for patience. Sometimes, I find it and yet, sometimes I lose my cool and hurl words in extremely loud decibels.

Instead of loading myself with guilt every time my patience has been lost, I'm simply going to resolve to do better - be better - to keep reminding myself that there is another way to be.

I will also continue to remember that my children are amazing and they love me happy, sad, screaming or mad - just as I love them.

Cameron's Mom Has Got it Goin' On....Duh.

2013-01-24T17:21:00.000-05:00

In our house, there is a rule that the kids may have birthday parties where their school friends are invited every other year. On "off" years, the poor babies must suffer through the celebration with only their family.

This year, though she had suffered through the flu on her actual birthday, in the week that followed, she had a 'Glamour Party' at the local arts center with all of her friends.

The girls had a great time. They did their hair & make-up. They danced and ate cake. If cocktails were included, I would SO be having my own birthday party there.

Except, during the party, I realized that I wasn't cool enough to have my party there, I was barely cool enough to attend Cameron's party.

I didn't know a single song blasting from the KidzBop CD. When I asked one glamour girl whether the song playing was Justin Bieber, she laughed at me and said, "No! This is a One Direction song - Duh!" Oh holy shit. I just got "Duh-ed" by a six-year-old.

While they were having their hair spray-painted, my references to Rainbow-Brite were met with blank stares. They had no idea. None. Rainbow who???

Even my snacks proved uncool. I brought baked Cheetos for a them to snack on thinking I was being a semi-heatlh conscious mom - yet, a few girls said that their Cheetos tasted rotten.

Every other year only every other year.

Hadley's birthday is coming up in April, so I figure I still have time to brush up on my KidzBop. She is going to think it's so awesome that her mom will not only know all the words to today's hottest hits, but will also be able to loudly sing along.

Pool Party in June!

2013-01-08T14:21:00.003-05:00

Boot camp ended with a bang. A huge bang. Like a bang being fired out my ass.

It started with a rumble in my stomach. I'm used to a rumbling stomach as I'm always hungry, however, this rumble was different. This rumble wasn't kind. This rumble meant I had a stomach bug.

I tried to ignore it. I choked down some Imodium and set off to work, thinking possibly it was a fluke thing. Fluke it was not.

I text my husband: I think I'm sick. I think I need to leave work.

Husband: Like sick how?

Me: Like the big D.

Husband: Just tell them you're sick, and you have to leave.

Me: I'm embarrassed.

Husband: You're going to be a lot more embarrassed if you shit your pants.

Sometimes, my husband it just so right on.

I left and drove quickly home. Puking began shortly after I arrived, and I conceded the fight, I was sick.

Christmas was still a week away. Surely I would kick this little bug by then. I tried to look on the bright side. I've heard of people paying for colonics - a procedure done in a spa that cleanses your colon. Well, courtesy of boot camp, I just got a colonic for free! Score!

I kicked the stomach bug quickly enough only to find that Cameron had a fever. Diagnosis: Influenza a.

This seemed unfair. This poor kid's birthday was just a few days away, and I was fairly certain she wouldn't be able to celebrate.

I was right. She opened her presents during a coughing fit while spitting up into a bowl. Then she headed into the ER.

Cameron being treated in the ER on her 6th Birthday.

She was released a few hours later with a breathing machine and some stronger drugs to help her kick the virus.

With my immune system having been compromised by the boot camp bug, I, too, fell to the flu.

I haven't had to flu in years, and I had forgotten how horrible it felt. The coughing like knives to the chest. The stuffy nose. The body aches. The fever.

At one point as my fever reached 103 degrees, I went numb. Nothing hurt anymore. I actually felt peaceful. I questioned whether this was death. I felt nothing.

A few hours later, I felt everything. I was drowning in my own face. Sleeping with my mouth open, I awoke with so much drool and snot on myself that I practically needed a floatie on my head to sit up.

Christmas Day, Justin took the healthy children to my parents and Cameron and I stayed behind.

My mother brought over our food and our presents. Cam and I dined on steak, potatoes and asparagus. It might as well have been dog food, because I had lost my sense of taste - ok, now this was death.

As I sat with Cameron on my lap, it felt a little like 6 years ago, when my little girl, who was born on Christmas eve, layed with me in the hospital while the rest of the world was celebrating. It wasn't Christmas, but it was the greatest gift I could have received.

Cameron Noelle. A few days old. 2006.

Christmas passed, and we missed it. We missed it all, however, we had each other. Home Alone on TV. A box of tissues. A warm blanket. Though it wasn't a traditional Christmas, this year, it was our Christmas, and we were thankful.

Flu-victims.

PS. Cameron is getting a super huge pool party in June!

Don't Stop Believin'

2012-12-31T14:42:00.000-05:00

My family was having dinner or rather what masquerades as dinner.Justin was soaking up spilled milk with newspaper because we had run out of paper towels. Jack was crying because he had spilled the milk. Hadley was trying to steal fruit from Cameron's plate while Cameron loudly sang the Barney Theme Song in an attempt to stop Jack from crying. I wondered if she had any songs she could sing for me? I felt like crying.

Then suddenly, I felt like throwing up as Hadley said to me, "Hey Mom - after dinner, I need to talk to you - privately."

Christmas had been in full-swing at our house for about a week. The tree was up, the stockings were hung and though we were a mere few days into December, we had already visited Santa twice. Also, our Elf on the Shelf had appeared which made it official - the holidays had began.

Hadley's face appeared serious. I appeared horrified. Hadley had never asked to speak to me privately about anything. My gut told me this was it. Santa was no longer real. She no longer believed.

After dinner, I consulted Justin.

ME: Oh. My. God. She wants to talk to me privately! This is it. She knows about Santa. What do I tell her?

JUSTIN: What are you talking about? Privately? Who?

ME: Hadley! Did you not hear her - during dinner?

JUSTIN: Is that supposed to be a joke?

ME: No! She wants to talk to me privately. I think she knows about Santa.

JUSTIN: Well, if she asks, I don't think you should lie to her.

ME: Well then you do it - you talk to her. I don't want to.

JUSTIN: You're going to have to man up here Abbie - if you can't break the news about Santa, how are you ever going to explain the birds and the bees?

ME: I hate you.

I spent the rest of the evening avoiding Hadley. She'd walk into a room, and I'd duck out. She'd yell out "Hey Mom!" and I'd pretend I didn't hear. If this is any indication of how future sex talks might go, she's going to be featured on Sixteen and Pregnant.

Eventually, she found me hiding in her closet. I hide there a lot as I pretend to put away laundry. Apparently that gig's up.

"Mom" she started.

Oh here we go I thought. This is the end. No more Santa. No more magic. No more eyes filled with wonder on Christmas morning. Her time had passed. I should have watched her more closely last year. I should have bottled her bewildered expressions in my memory as there would be no more of them.

I took a deep breath. Looked at her tiny face and sighed knowing that these would be the last few moments she would believe. I couldn't lie to her….at least not when asked directly. Telling her the fish sticks are really chicken is totally different. This was totally serious.

HADLEY: Mom, do you hide Elfie? Sara told me that she found her elf in her Mom's drawer and that her mom hides him every night. Is that true?

Was that it? All that anxiety for that damn elf. I didn't care if she didn't believe in the elf. I hate the elf. It's a pain in the ass. Elfie is is laziest elf ever, because I can never remember to move him. Last year, I had him quit for a week because, quite frankly, the girls were being a-holes, and I was tired.

ME: What do you think? Do you think I hide Elfie?

HADLEY: Yeah, I do. Tell me the truth.

ME: Yes, I hide Elfie.

HADLEY: You don't do a good job. Sara's mom has Elfie do fun stuff - like toilet paper the tree.

ME: Well, you can hide him for Cameron and Jack if you promise not to tell them you're doing it.

HADLEY: Yes! I'll do it - I'll hide him!

Whew, crisis averted and the elf burden lifted.

HADLEY: Oh and mom - about Santa….

My eyes grew big…oh no!!!!

HADLEY: So….Santa writes a note puts it in the elf's box and tells parents to move him?

ME: Yep - that's exactly right.

She hadn't quite connected the dots and that was all right with me. She still believes. It's a paper-thin belief, but this Christmas, at our house, Santa still exists.

Merry Christmas

2012-12-25T18:56:00.000-05:00

A belief in a holy birth.

Tiny hands carefully placing cookies for Santa.

Candles raised during Silent Night.

Little eyes full of wonder and hearts that believe.

This is Christmas.

That is what we celebrate.

Wishing you the merriest of Holidays.

The Crib.

2012-12-04T13:36:00.000-05:00

Seven years ago, I bought a simple, understated yet pretty cherry-stained pine crib to place my new baby in. Last week, Justin placed the crib in the back of his truck and drove it away…

Jack's small bedroom had been quite crowded. For many months, it had housed both a twin bed and a crib. Jack wasn't quite ready to make the move from a caged animal to a free-wheeling tyrannical toddler so we had decided to let him make the transition gradually.

We placed Jack in his new bed a few times but he would tell us, "I go der" while pointing to his crib. Awww. Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe I had bought him a new bed too soon. I thought maybe I'd just keep him in his crib - at least until he was old enough to vote.

However, as weeks passed, I knew I held borrowed time. My "baby" would soon be moving out of his crib. My borrowed time collected quickly, and soon Jack's nights in his twin bed far outnumbered his nights in his crib. It came time to let it go.

Seeing as that I did not want to be featured on Hoarders huddling in a corner holding everything from old baby socks to baby's first banana peel, I decided that having a crib when I no longer had babies seemed ridiculous.The crib was done. There would be no more babies to put in it. At least not any babies of my own. The crib would be going to another family who was expecting.

As Justin drove the crib away, I felt sad. How would it be over? How could those three babies have grown so quickly?

Hadley...It was her bed first. I chose it for her. I hung my tired body over the rails and watched her breathe. Terrified, as a new mother, that she would stop breathing if I left her side.

Cameron...She would hug my shoulders as I hunched down next to the crib to say good night. "Ding gong!" she would say, and I'd sing her a goodnight song.

Jack...He loved his crib more than the girls. Perhaps he took his cues from his sentimental mother, but he never really seemed sure he wanted to leave his baby bed. He'd often hoist his leg up over the rail like he was going to go up and over, but he never made the climb. We, eventually, made this climb for him and moved him to the bed.

Today, Jack seems restless in his big bed. He tosses and turns - trying to make his new bed seem like home. He's trying to find his place. I watch each restless kick on the monitor as I too am unable to sleep feeling as though something has been lost.

Rolls, Rice, Jesus and Love

2012-11-21T09:53:00.000-05:00

From my little Turkeys...

Jack...A turkey he made at Sunday School. He was proud. So was I. He gobbled. I laughed.

From Hadley....A card she made at school. This is amazing. This fills my heart with gratitude. This is Thanksgiving.

From Cameron...A Pilgrim. She wrote what she was thankful for across the cap. I think my job with Cameron is done - I think she's pretty much got life figured out.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Dear God, It's me Abbie.

2012-11-06T14:24:00.000-05:00

I heard a car horn honk in my driveway. My friend had arrived to pick me up. It was time. I walked slowly out the door, feeling every bit as if I were walking the green mile to my death. I was headed to boot camp. Dun, Dun, Dun.

We arrived, and all of the boot campers seemed happy - way too happy. They were laughing and joking around like it was happy hour at the bar. WAIT! Had I missed cocktail hour? What were they so damn happy about? Did they not know that mountain climbers were surely in their near future?

This was no time for jokes. This was time for prayer.

Dear God: Please give me the strength to survive the next hour. Also please strengthen my bladder and restrict my gas. Amen.

I scoured the room looking for the boot camp sergeant. Having no idea who she might be, I was looking for a real bad-ass. Then there she was - all 80lbs of her. Nothing about her was remotely intimidating. She looked sweet like maybe we could be friends. Then she told me to go weigh myself - ok, forget it, I hate her.

She then handed me a measuring tape and asked for my measurements. Would that tape work to hang myself? Death seemed preferable to wrapping it around my hips and reading aloud a number. Then to drive the point home - that I was indeed chubby and needed her help - she had me place my hands around a device that provided her with numbers to officially deem me overweight.

Dear God: Please help me shrink those numbers. I do not know exactly what they mean but the skinny boot camp sergeant recorded them in my chubby chart. Oh and please help me eliminate the need for a chubby chart. Amen.

Then it all began. A blur of leg lifts, jumping jacks, push ups and planks. I remember it starting, but I think I must have slowly lost oxygen as most of it is hard to recall. The boot camp sergeant barked orders at us to go a little faster - to lift the knees a little higher and I admired her bravery. But feared for her safety.

Dear God: Please protect the tiny bootcamp sergeant. She does seem nice. She's screaming at a bunch of overweight, out-of-breath women and I'm afraid at any moment they might revolt. The sergeant, I fear, is in danger. Oh and I might be dying - so see you soon.

Then it was over. I had lived. I was proud I had made it through and terrified that I had 6 more weeks to go.

In the days that followed, I lost function in both legs. I had pulled muscles so badly that I was unable to put on my pants without lying down on my bed. I was unable to lift my legs up. I had been greatly wounded in boot camp battle. A purple heart? No thanks, but I would take a Big Mac.

Dear God: Please help me make it through bootcamp with the use of all of my limbs. Also, if it's not too much to ask, please remove all calories from Big Macs, Bud Lights and chocolate. Amen.

Happy Halloween!

2012-10-31T17:13:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, in preparation to scare my children, my 87-year old grandmother dressed herself in a white sheet and covered her face with a semi-transparent white hockey mask.

She then drove across town, parked two blocks away and walked to my house - fully costumed.

She then snuck in the back door and all hell broke loose. I'm quite certain Cameron will never sleep in her own bed again.

She might very well be crazy but if this is what crazy looks like - sign me up. Crazy is so much fun.

Happy Halloween!

PS. Watch out locals - She's not finished yet. She'll be out on the town tonight - she wants to go 'spook' people.

Boot Camp

2012-10-25T14:05:00.000-04:00

Jillian Michaels and I are breaking up. Maybe not forever but for now. She has taken me as far as she can. She has helped me take the baby-weight off, but now I'm stuck.

I've reached what is known as a weight-loss plateau. Now, in terms of exercise, the idea of a plateau seems nice - it's flat, easy, and serene. If I were running, a plateau would would be my hands-down favorite terrain. However, I'm not running. I'm not doing much of anything. I'm stuck. Going nowhere. My weight-loss has stalled out. I can't lose an ounce.

So I'm ready to abandon TVs toughest trainer. I'm ready to take serious action. Before the Halloween candy arrives, before the Thanksgiving celebration begins and before the Christmas festivities take up residence on my thighs, I've decided to take get serious. I've enrolled in a 6-week boot camp.

Typing those words - boot camp - makes me nervous. Really, terrified is a more appropriate word. Just thinking about boot camp leaves me soaking with anxiety produced sweat.

I do not exercise in public - the humiliation risk is too high. I have mean angry fat. My fat, when I jump, slaps against other pieces of fat and produces a flap, flap, flap sound. My own fat mocks me. My fat isn't just fat - it's mean. Flap, flap, flap.

Also, I am uncoordinated, overweight and have a leaky bladder.

I can almost guarantee the following things will occur:

1. I'll pee myself

2. I'll trip

3. I'll fart

It is also almost guaranteed that all three of those thing will occur at once.

In my greatest nightmare, I can not make it through the class, pass out, while peeing and farting. The paramedics then have to be called to pick me up, and my fellow boot campers will tell the them, "we're not sure what happened but we heard a strange flapping sound."

Perhaps boot camp will be like my now defunct Bunco dice game group. We always intended to play the game, however, somehow forgot most nights and ended up drinking and eating appetizers. Maybe I can lure the boot camp crew to abandon exercise for some Bud Lights and some spinach dip? I rock with Bud Lights and spinach dip. Now, while that will not accomplish any fitness goals, I'm pretty sure Bud Light and spinach dip can cleanse any stressed-out soul.

As if public exercise weren't intimidating enough, this boot camp also requires weekly food logs and weigh-ins.

I won't tell anyone my weight - sometimes I can't even face it myself as I stand backwards on the scale at the doctor's office while they scribble something about needing a psych consult in my chart. Only in the midst of the most harrowing circumstances - child-birth - have I ever revealed my weight to anyone. And that was to the anesthesiologist because he held all the good drugs. In fact, I think I even added a few pounds so he would up the dosage.

My food log will surely be disappointing to the boot camp sergeants - I hate dieting. Being hungry makes me extremely uncomfortable and well, I'll say it, bitchy. I've tried Weight Watchers twice and both times it nearly ended my marriage as I constantly bit my husband's head off - and then tried to eat it.

So, yes, clearly I need to break up with Jillian and give this boot camp a go. However, I will begin this 6-week odyssey prepared with the necessary tools: a diaper, gas-x and a marriage counselor.

If my tools fail me, I'll throw it all away for some Bud Light and spinach dip. Flap, flap, flap isn't so bad. Bunco anyone?

Okay With Being Done

2012-10-21T22:25:00.003-04:00

Nearly every desperate and completely unoriginal parent (I include myself among them) teaches their children the lesson about jumping off the bridge. You know the story — the one where if all your friends jump off the bridge, you shouldn't follow. There are a lot of problems with that story, like why are all of your friends suicidal? Was it something you said? However, despite the troubling example, the message is this: be yourself, go your own way and be smart enough not to throw yourself off a bridge.

This lesson has never been so applicable to my life as it is right now. I reiterate the bridge lesson every day in my head. I tell myself over and over "don't jump, don't jump."

You see, six — yes, SIX of my very closest friends are pregnant. Everywhere I turn, I'm hit with a swollen uterus. If pregnancy were a contagious disease, I'm sure I would have caught it by now and I'm quite certain it would have killed me.

My general baby/pregnancy/labor stats aren't great. Take preeclampsia, for example — I'm two for three on my pregnancies. I'm batting 100% when it comes to gestational diabetes. Out of of three attempts with an epidural during labor, I've had just one success. And on the other end, two of my three children fussed and spit up for months with reflux and colic. As a bonus to all that fun, I gained 40-, 45- and 55-pounds respectively with each pregnancy, a grand total of 140-pounds that I gained and then had to lose.

Yet, as my friends all plan for their new arrivals I find myself settled in a strange place between envy and relief.

Envy says: Awe, they're going to have a baby. The day the baby is born will be the best day of their lives. It really is so amazing. I want to do that again.

Relief says: Shut the hell up! Labor is awful. Do you remember threatening to jump out hospital window last time?

Envy says: Babies are so sweet and tiny. I want to sit in the glider and hold another one on my chest as we both fall asleep.

Relief says: You're crazy. That happened, like, maybe once. Your babies don't sleep. They leave you in a half-crazed, semi-delusional state for almost a solid year.

Envy says: I love little baby clothes.

Relief says: That's just more piles of laundry to deal with every, single day.

Envy says: Watching them grow in the first year of life is so amazing. They change so fast and it really is such a miracle to see them become little people.

Relief says: Abbie, you have plenty of little people to care for and most days, let's be honest, you struggle.

In the end, there is only really one conversation that matters and it goes something like this.

Me: Justin, are you sure we're done? Are you sure there isn't just one more pair of little feet missing from this family?

Justin: Are you crazy? Have you seen the pile of shoes by the front door? If we have any more feet in this house, we won't be able to get out of the house - ever!

In the end, I know he's right. Someone stab a fork in this uterus — it's done. No really, someone stab me. I don't want to take any chances.

It's bittersweet knowing there won't be anymore babies to bring home, or any more first words, first steps or first birthdays. But I'm at peace knowing that though I would do it all over again, I don't have to do it one more time.

Be Still My Heart

2012-10-08T09:50:00.000-04:00

* I found this in my drafts folder. I forgot to publish it. So - here is it - one year late. That sounds about right. *

Last year, Hadley was apprehensive about starting Kindergarten, and by apprehensive I mean she spent hours and hours sobbing in the days leading up to the first day of school.

My efforts to console and calm her were met with no success.

So I decided I'd have to ~~bribe~~ buy her a nice little back to school gift.

Hadley's Back-To-School Necklace.

She seemed to like it, but when the first day of school arrived, she didn't want to wear it. That was fine with me - I wasn't going to push it. I would be thrilled to just have her walk through the doors.

I had forgotten about the necklace until recently when Hadley was showing me all of the jewelry in her jewelry box.

Hadley is a hoarder, um, I mean meticulous about her things - so, I was taken aback when her 'Be You' necklace wasn't amongst her treasures. I asked her about it...

ME: Hadley, where is your 'Be You' necklace?

HADLEY: Oh, it's in a drawer.

ME: Why isn't it in your jewelry box? Why don't you ever wear it?

HADLEY: Well, mom, it's uh, kind of embarrassing.

ME: What!?! Why is it embarrassing?

HADLEY: I don't know mom. It just is - its all like 'Be You.' A necklace that says something? It's weird.

ME: Oh ok, well you don't have to wear it. It's fine.

Secretly, I was crushed! She didn't just not like my gift - she was embarrassed by it. So embarrassed that she wouldn't even include it amongst her other jewelry - it had gotten shoved in the back of the underwear drawer. Sheesh!

A few weeks later, Hadley was playing with her American Girl Doll and asked me if I could be the teacher.

I said sure. This requires absolutely NO effort on my part. This is one of my favorite games. She spends a significant amount of time readying her doll for school and then "drops her off" with me, the teacher. Hadley then runs off to play while I "teach" the doll.

I set her doll up on the counter and opened up the backpack that Hadley had packed for her to find this:

Hadley's note to her doll.

Even though her six-year old taste had deemed the necklace all wrong, the message was just right.

It had sunk in. She got it.

She was sharing the message with her doll as she sent her off to school. Hadley probably figured she'd need some encouragement since she'd be facing such a mean teacher.

Hadley's little note of encouragement to her doll, in turn, encouraged me. The message being: Keep going. Keep trying. You're getting through. In small amounts and in small doses, she's hearing you.

It was a small victory - but I'll take it and hold onto it and if I lose it, I'll know to check the underwear drawer.

The Shining

2012-09-25T13:41:00.001-04:00

This summer we took not one but TWO 13 hour drives in the minivan with the children. Why??? Because one 13 hour trek in the minivan wasn't quite enough, so we decided to drive 13 hours in the opposite direction a mere two weeks after our Florida trip to visit our dear friends in Michigan. Dear God.

When we began our Florida trip, I was shiny-happy mommy. Totally prepared with snacks, boredom busting games and cleaning supplies. This time, having had the shiny knocked right out of me, I told the kids to get in the damn van and we'd get there the "old-fashioned way" by using the DVD player the entire trip.

We strapped the kids in the car and took off with 13 hours worth of minivan fun ahead of us. About an hour and a half into the trip, we stopped to eat in Martinsville, Indiana.

Now, if you're a faithful reader of this blog, you'll remember that last year on our trip to Michigan, we also stopped in Martinsville and Justin found himself in an undershirt shopping for fireworks.

Well, this year, it was Hadley who was without proper apparel.

As we were tumbling out of the van, I noticed that Hadley didn't have her shoes on.

I told her to go grab her shoes because she couldn't go inside the KFC without them. It is to be noted that we chose to eat at the KFC because I thought it would please Hadley - the world's pickiest, most horrible eater. This is a hands-down, not-to-be-contested fact. She eats about five foods. It drives me crazy, yet it also drove me to the KFC where I thought since she loved Grandy's, she might like something from its fast-food cousin, KFC.

Anyways, back to the shoes. She looks at me and says, "I didn't wear any shoes."

I respond, "What do you mean you didn't wear any shoes?"

Hadley says, "I didn't put any on."

I explode, "So, you mean to tell me that you got in the van, knowing that we were leaving for a full week and didn't put any shoes on your feet????"

"You didn't tell me to put on my shoes!" she exploded right back.

This blew my mind. Literally I could feel little pops in my head. I had to walk away from the van, the children, the husband, the KFC. Justin stared after me as I walked towards an open field - then yelled, "Are you coming back? What do we do?"

At seven years old, I thought I didn't have to tell her to wear shoes to leave the house - well, shame on me. This was clearly my fault. I had packed her flip-flops but they were in the car-top carrier - nearly impossible to get to.

I walked back to the van and decided I would carry her inside and set her in a booth while we ordered.

We got inside and Hadley decided that KFC was nothing like Grandys and she would not be trying anything they had to offer. Shiny-happy mommy now looked something from The Shining:

I was ready to lose it. I was ready to bail. Justin told me to go sit in the van - I needed a time out. Hell, I needed a drink - wish I had stashed that bottle of wine in the glove compartment.

Yes, our vacation was going well. We were an hour and a half in, I was in time-out jonesing for a drink, Hadley was starving without shoes and Justin was chasing Jack through the KFC. Poor Cameron - pretty sure she's my favorite.

Yet we soldiered on determined to make it. I had learned a few things since our last trip…mainly about having to pee without waking a sleeping baby.

On our last trip, if you will recall or perhaps you've tried to forget, I peed in a diaper without success. After posting about my misfortune, a friend suggested to me that next time I just try to pee in a cup. Well, kudos friend, I'll have you know that a cup works much better than a diaper! This, I believe, is progress. Things were looking up.

We stopped later again to eat at a McDonalds with a Playland, figuring that Hadley would be okay without shoes there.

It was after the McDonalds stop when we stopped again to stretch our legs that our shoe-less curse struck again.

Justin: Where are Jack's shoes?

Me: Didn't you grab them? You carried him out to the car.

Justin: No! I told you to get them - I said, "I'm taking Jack to the car - Abbie grab the shoes."

Me: "No - you said, I'm taking Jack to the car - Abbie I have the shoes."

Fantastic. We now had two children who were on "vacation" without shoes.

I felt like the damn Beverly Hillbillies. Probably time to class it up a little by peeing in another cup and stashing some liquor in the glove compartment.

Worry not - A few miles down the road, we found a red dot sale and some shoes.

Party On!

2012-09-13T21:17:00.000-04:00

Is it time for this already? Am I that old? Are they that old? Is it really time for me start caring for my crazy elderly parents? Correction - parent - singular.

Late Saturday night, I got a text from a friend with this picture.

Yep - that's my dad. Out on the town on a Saturday night.

He's wearing goggles. In public. Not a public pool - just public.

Well, party on Dad. Party On.

The Compliment

2012-09-06T20:50:00.001-04:00

Most of my Wal-Mart experiences have left me or my children with psychological scars, however this past trip was little different.

I drug the kids there, because I had run out of deoderant on the hottest day of the year. With threatening temperatures of 105, it wasn't the time to risk a bare armpit.

As I was nearing the checkout, I ran into a friend and stopped to chat.

That's when a really incredible thing happened. A woman, who I did not know, (perhaps in her late 60s, early 70s), came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You look really nice." Then she walked away.

I was completely stunned. I think I muttered thank-you, but I can't be sure. It was a drive-by compliment.

I made my way through the check-out and then loaded my car while my head circulated a million question.

"Was she making fun of me?"

"Was she crazy?"

"Maybe she was senile?"

"Maybe she was blind?"

As all of these questions and doubts swirled about, I realized that perhaps I was the crazy one? Was it that hard for me to accept a compliment? No, it wasn't the compliment. It was the kindness that had me puzzled.

Such kindness from an absolute stranger really just baffled me. It just seemed unbelievable that someone would go out of their way to make me feel good about myself. I found it remarkable - especially in Wal-Mart - a place where all decency is readily abananded. Can you imagine if everyone in Wal-Mart paid just one other person a compliment? It would be such a different place.

So, well, kudos to the kind woman who managed to bring her humanity through the doors of Wal-Mart.

Lady, you really got it going on.

P.S.

I later told Justin about my encounter.

ME: Some woman told me I looked nice at Wal-Mart.

JUSTIN: Did she have you confused with someone else?

ME: Nice. Don't you think it would be great if everyone in Wal-Mart paid just one other person a compliment? I think I should start a movement of sorts...

JUSTIN: HELL NO! I think that's the worst thing I've ever heard. I don't want anyone in Wal-Mart to talk to me. Ever.

Oh Holy WHAT?

2012-08-21T16:51:00.000-04:00

My parents have attended the same church for the past 30 years. At this point, I think they're pretty comfortable. My dad, perhaps too comfortable.

Last Sunday after we sang the hymn, "All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name," the minister asked if anyone had wondered about the obscure biblical reference in the hymn.

She was referring to the lyric that mentioned the "stem of Jesse's rod." She went on to explain the reference and started to proceed with the rest of the service when my dad decided to pipe up.

Just a crazy old man in a church pew, and
my amused husband ducking out of the way.

He yells from the pew, "Hey - What about the angels having prostates?"

Silence.

Whoa.

He did not.

Oh dear God, he did.

The minister stared straight ahead. I think she was silently praying for God's help with her unruly congregant. I was silently praying to disappear.

The minister decided to address him. She explained that the lyric was "Let angels prostrate fall" - meaning to fall before God. The word was prostrate not prostate.

My dad said responded with, "Yeah OK, well whatever."

What concerns me is that Dad is supposed to be on his best behavior at church. If screaming wildly about prostates before clergy is this guys idea of good behavior - what in the world is he doing when left on his own in public? Mom - you might want to consider a sitter. I know a few good ones I could recommend.

I'm surprised Dad is still allowed to attend services - between wearing sweatpants to sing with the choir and yelling out about prostates. I suspect they are now just tolerating him because he provides special music once in awhile.

Hallelujah. Glory be to God and the Prostates. Amen.

PS. And God Bless Mom.

Vroom!

2012-08-10T18:14:00.001-04:00

The past seven years of raising children has really taken its toll - on my body, my house, my finances, my marriage but perhaps most severely on my mind.

I need to do some cross-word puzzles or take some fish-oil because I operate most of my days in a complete mommy-stuper.

What is a mommy-stuper? Well, its kind of like a drunken-stuper except it feels more like the hangover than the high-times with drinks.

A mommy-stuper trying to remember what you walked up the stairs to get while the baby is crying, your phone is ringing and your older kids are cutting up library books to make crafts (yes, this really happened).

Most days I have trouble remembering what I did yesterday, but I think it's probably because I'm blocking it out.

Or maybe I had a stroke somewhere along the way and nobody noticed. Maybe it was the day this happened? (Click here if you need help remembering :))

Well, whatever happened to my mind be it the kids or a stroke, I hit a new low this week at the grocery store.

I was grabbing a few things I needed for dinner while pushing Jack in the cart while also playing cars with him and texting. Hence, the mommy stuper.

I grabbed noodles and sauce while running a matchbox car along the shelf. He found this hilarious and clapped his chubby hands everytime I made a "Vroom" sound as I rolled the toy car along the cart. This is the reason why I've kept this kid around - he thinks I'm awesome.

We made it to the check-out line, and I reached for my debit card to pay for my groceries. I loudly exclaimed, "Vroom!" as I swiped my card through the reader. What the hell? Did I just "Vroom" by debit card?

Clearly I'd lost it.

The check-out woman first looked at me as if I might be dangerous, but then leaned over and whispered, "You know, honey, we have a really good wine selection. Maybe you should grab a bottle."

Guzzle Guzzle Amen.

Home Run!

2012-08-02T12:28:00.000-04:00

I have just won the Blogger World Series! I'm not going to Disney World but I'm pretty stoked. Check it out... Click Here!

How Was Your Trip? - What I Tell My Closest Friends...

2012-07-26T22:26:00.002-04:00

Friend: How was your trip?

Me: Well, it was great. We had a really good time. The kids did about as well as could be expected, though it was me who peed in the car.

Friend:

What????? What are you talking about????

Me:

Well, the baby was finally sleeping and I had to go BAD, but I would sooner piss myself than wake that baby so I grabbed a diaper.

Friend:

What did Justin say?

Me:

He was completely horrified. Completely.

Friend:

And the girls?

Me:

They are oblivious to anything not directly affecting them. They are sociopaths, but anyways, turns out that an adult bladder produces much more than a baby's bladder, and I peed all over the place.

Friend:

Oh holy shit!

Me:

No pee! And of course, I didn't pack a change of underwear for myself because I've been potty-trained for 31 years but whatever, I had to sit in piss until the baby woke up, or of course pissing myself would've all been in vain.

Friend:

This is hilarious.

Me:

No, this is disgusting and just to spite me, the baby woke up about ten minutes later.

Friend:

Well, was the vacation fun?

Me:

Oh yeah, we did the coolest thing - we took the girls on a pirate cruise. It was really neat, the pirates totally took care of the kids. The girls had their faces painted, swabbed the deck, had water gun and sword fights. I drank rum punch - a lot of it.

Friend:

They had a bar?

Me:

Yeah and the pirates told us to sit back and enjoy it while they entertained the kids. It was fantastic. They told the kids a story about a pirate treasure and then later they spotted the treasure chest floating in the ocean, and the kids "heaved and hoed" it out of the water. They opened it up and there was all sorts of kids goodies in it. To be honest, I got kind of teary because it was really so magical.

Friend:

Are you sure it wasn't the punch that was magical?

Me:

Well the punch was awesome, but no it was really the sweetest thing to see the kids so excited about the treasure. Oh and did I tell you? My dad, no joke, rented a nacho cheese machine so we had nacho cheese on-tap all week. I was cheesing up everything!

Friend:

Well I'm glad you had fun.

Me:

I really did.

PCB 2012. Thanks for the good times (and for paying!) Mom and Dad.

Road Warrior

2012-07-10T11:38:00.002-04:00

Dear Children,

I have spent the week preparing for battle, and tomorrow the war begins.

No, not a real battle - not a real war. We're going on vacation.

We're driving - so you should know that we'll be spending about 12 hours in the car.
How long is 12 hours? Well, the whole day or like 24 Phineas and Ferb episodes.

It's a long time, but you don't have to worry. I've got it covered.

I've packed bags filled with stickers, movies, games, books, paper, pencils, ipods, and more!

I dare you to tell me you're bored. Impossible! You're mom is way to awesome to
let boredom creep into her mini-van.

Hungry? I've got a cooler packed with your favorites.

Injured? A spill? Need to toss a wrapper?
I've got a first-aid kit, a roll of paper towels and a trash container.

Did McDonalds forget your ketchup? Your straw? I've got that right here.

Piss yourself? I've got extra underwear in the glove compartment.

Are you throwing up? I've got a gun to put to my head.

I'm ready kids - bring it on. Bring on the fits, bring on the tears - I'm armed for battle.
You will not defeat me.
I will win this damn road trip.
I will win this damn vacation and damn it, you will have fun! You got it? Okay. Let's roll.

Love,

Mom