Here's mud in my eye.

Today I took another step in my never-ending quest towards health and a bangin' beach body.  Okay, by "never-ending" I mean ever-beginning, with no real middle to speak of, thereby precluding an actual end.  And by bangin' beach body, I mean I'd be a mom approaching 40 without a bathing suit that equates to a tank top and a plus sized bottom, with a ruffly skirt, that we can both pretend is tricking you about what is going on underneath it.

You see, I love to eat. Especially the 3 main food groups: Cheese, Chocolate, and wine. Thankfully, I also love going to the gym.  Rather, I love getting to the gym. I'm pumped when I pull out of my driveway.  I'm one of those hair done, made-up, matchy outfit people with a Louis Vitton gym bag. I can actually hold onto this delusion until I get in front of one of those warped gym mirrors.  Someone should really have them looked at. But, the ride there is none-the-less motivating, and only surpassed in joy by that of the ride home.

Don't get me wrong.  I pay a LOT of money for the gym I belong to because it's really amazing there. It doesn't smell anything like a foot, and they offer everything, including a million classes.  Before Isla was born, I used to take 2 classes a day there.  Kickboxing, Zumba, Yoga...I was unstoppable.

I recently found myself in my first Zumba class in 3 years.  People like to tell you that you won't forget how to do it after having a baby.  That it's like riding a bike.  I guess it is.  Only the bike is a teeny tiny tricycle. And it's almost impossible to get your arms and legs to do different things at the same time since you haven't really slept in 18 months.  And your rear end probably doesn't fit on the tiny little seat. And you might pee your pants a bit if you hit a bump. But this is the kind of stuff we do to keep it together.

Here's the thing. A year and a half after Isla's birth, I still don't fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes.  Today, I realized I'm going to have to do something drastic.  So, I did the only rational thing I could do. I committed to running 5 miles that are separated by mud and walls and ditches, in the dead of summer.  I signed up with a bunch of lunatics that I like to call family.  They like to call themselves the "Crummy Cuzzins."

We settled on the "Rock Solid Mud Run" in August. In an effort to stay "glass half full" about this disaster waiting to happen, I've been working on a few mantras.  So far, I've got: "Heat Exhaustion is more fun than Hypothermia" and "At least we don't have to be electrocuted." That last one just fills me with joy.  If this mud run/obstacle course thing is as foreign to you as it was to me 3 months ago, you might think I'm exaggerating.  Nope.

In the end, I'll be REALLY proud if I can get through this with out embarassing or killing myself. The truth is that a little exercise never killed anyone.  Well, maybe it has, but it's certainly not going to kill me.  Well, I guess maybe it could.  But at least I don't have do be electrocuted.

Making Lemonade from Lemmings

I don't usually watch the news.  A week ago, I would have told you it's because I get all of the information I need from Dora and Yo Gabba  Gabba.  Don't bite your friends, check.  If you don't know which way to go, ask your map.  Because it speaks English.

When I used to commute to work, I would stay up on current events by listening to the Howard Stern show.  At least then I could have normal, topical conversations that didn't sound like this:

Person with life outside of Mommying: That's really something about the ship that capsized off of the coast of Italy.

Me:  A ship capsized off of the coast of Italy?

Sometimes it's nice to have somewhat of an idea of what's going on outside the bubble of your home.  Now, if you are a republican, the odds are you look to Fox for your news.  If you are a democrat, you may prefer MSNBC.  Unless you are a Mom.  Something happens when you become a mom that renders all news programs other than the Today show useless.  If Matt Lauer isn't discussing it with Anne Curry, it's just not relevant.

About a week ago, I was feeling particularly out of the loop.  Isla was still asleep. I guess the right way to say it is "asleep again, finally." She was rewarding me with a half hour of peace to enjoy a cup of coffee and catch up on current events.  Mug in hand, I turned on the TV.

I learned three things that morning.  Firstly, despite years of coating butter with sugar prior to deep frying it, Paula Dean has inexplicably contracted diabetes.  This is surprising to a lot of people.  Secondly, McLovin from Superbad was apparently based on Mitt Romney's high school yearbook picture.  You're going to want to google that one.

The only word I can find to describe the last thing is "scary".  It's all kinds of scary.  In a town called LeRoy, New York, 12 girls came down with what basically equates to Tourette's Syndrome.  They came down with it in the same way that I had a pneumonia when I was in the 6th grade.  They just woke up with it one day.  I can't even begin to imagine their fear, or that of their parents.  My mother told me about this the week before (being a mom herself, she had seen one of the girls being interviewed by Anne Curry.) This week they were following up with the findings of a doctor who had seemingly solved the mystery of where it came from.  He said (somehow with a straight face) it was a form of something called "conversion disorder." He compared it to mass hysteria, or what I like to call "all in their mind."  I guess it's not even a possibility that the freight train accident in 1970 that spilled 35000 gallons of trichlorethylene and a ton of cyanide near the school could be the culprit.  I'm not saying that it is.  I just believe these families deserve more than "you'll get over it, honey."  The only thing I can think of more ridiculous than that as an answer, is anyone thinking that someone should be satisfied with that as an answer.

 I don't fault the today show for this one.  Granted, I was a little annoyed during Giada's cooking segment where she appeared to be using one of Paula Dean's recipes while wearing size 0 skinny jeans.  At least Paula eats what she makes. It is what it is. Yields 4 servings, 20 pounds, and diabetes. No surprises there. I don't know that Giada's cooking actually ever makes it into her mouth.

What I realized that morning is that we've set the bar as low as it will go when it comes to what we accept as viable information we use to navigate through our lives.  When Dr. Oz says "If you're struggling with under arm odor, look for a deoderant with 'extra aluminum'" we head to Target like lemmings.  Too bad it's also the same ingredient someone might suggest if you are struggling with not having breast cancer yet. 

The options we have are governed by the choices we make. It's about where we spend our money (and upon whose recommendation.)The FDA saying something is okay is no longer enough. Now they make splenda with vitamins.  How many other pesticides can say that? Our skin care is full of toxins (parabens, sulfates and pthalates) when our skin is as much of an organ as our liver.  Children's products made by the same company have different regulations in different countries. Why is any of this okay?

As a working mom, I don't have time to change the world. Trust me, I know what it's like to google "genetically modified organisms" and come up with 50 websites that each have their own agenda. But, one less status update on Facebook could be time spent on finding out the difference between "organic" and "non-organic."  Knowledge is power, and we owe it to ourselves and our children to be armed with as much as possible. It is our responsibility to seek out information about these things from as many different sources as we can.  The revolution will not be televised.  

A tiger mom and the jungle

When your first child is born, it is easy to assume that every milestone and every experience plays out the same way for everyone.  Your parenting advice will work for everyone because it worked for you.  Sometimes that's true, and sometimes it's not.  Sometimes, when you see something happening, it's easy to say "I would never do that."  Sometimes that's not true.  This time, I'm pretty sure it is.

Last Wednesday, we took Isla to Junglerrriffic.  If you've never been to Junglerrriffic, think Gymboree, in the Jungle, with lots of stuff to climb on.  Unfortunately, Isla isn't old enough to fully take advantage of all that these places have to offer.  In fact, when we got there, she ran passed the jungle gym, ignored the mini rollercoaster, and came to a screeching halt in front of a small car that you can either push or ride.  The excitement on her face would lead you to believe she didn't have the exact same one in our living room.

What we don't have in our living room is 30 other kids clamoring for the same toys.  She mostly gets "mommy time."  When mommy is at work, it's supplemented by Daddy, Aunt Judy, B, and Supergrams time.  She'll share with us, but anyone else is getting clocked if they try to perform a duet on the tiny piano with her.

Even though Isla couldn't care less about the mini rollercoaster, I was intrigued.  She was going to ride it, and she was going to like it. I brought her over to the middle of the playroom, where the rollercoaster was.  It was situated directly in front of one of the sitting areas.  As Isla was contemplating the coaster, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.   There was a mom in the sitting area.  I was having trouble figuring out whose mom, because she had some sort of condition that made it impossible for her to look anywhere other than at her hand.  Good thing there was an iPhone in it or she might have gotten really bored.  She stared at that phone as if it was the only thing that mattered in the whole world.  Every once in a while she would laugh, then furiously type, but never wavered in her commitment to her hand.  Somewhere in this jungle her child was playing, apparently completely unattended.

If it was a movie, this would be the part where you see everything slow motion. The part where everyone's voice drops three decibels, and you are sure you can move fast enough to avoid disaster.  Two boys (both entirely too old to enjoy the Junglerrriffic experience) ran in front of me.  One of them pushed the other.  Isla, the coaster car, and boy number two (that I will Mikey) all collided and landed in a pile.  Isla was at the bottom.  The reason that I know his name was Mikey is because his mom immediately yelled "MIKEY! YOU APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!" I thought that was nice.  After all, he was the one who was pushed. I still don't know boy number one's name.  I was, however, starting to get an idea of who his mom might be.

Isla was fine.  Me, not so much.  "I'm not cut out for this", I told TJ.  I knew the look in his eyes.  I had seen it once before at Sesame Place when I started a fight with a four year old that was disagreeing with everything Isla said. "That's not a ball, it's a Christmas light!" "His name isn't Melmo.  It's Elmo."

"She can call him Bob if she wants to." Isla didn't have to take his crap.  TJ just shook his head.  "You do realize that you are arguing with a four year old." I did realize.  But, I didn't care.

This time my fury wasn't directed at Mikey, or boy number one...yet. These things happen, right? I picked up Isla and put her back in the toddler area.  She was safer there, even if all of the little toys were covered in some other kid's saliva.

I couldn't believe what I saw next.  Boy number one was WALKING ON THE WALL that separated the two areas.  He was wobbling right above Isla's head, about to fall.  I lost it. It was Sesame place all over again.  "If my kid gets hurt, I'm not going to be happy."  TJ told me that I should just protect Isla and not yell at the other kid. "I'm not yelling at him.  I'm trying to get his mom to make it stop."  I don't have to tell you how successful I was.  She didn't say a word. She just smiled at him. I think she was proud of his balancing abilities.  Hey...whatever gives her another minute with her hand.

I shouldn't have let her steal my Zen.  We were having some great family time. On the other hand, if your child is old enough to run around without being monitored for an hour, he's too old for a place like this.   Trust me, I get it. If you've been locked in a house with him all day, every day, for a week you are due for a break.  Schedule a karate class for him.  Or, in this case, a gymnastics class would probably do nicely.  Don't take him somewhere, set him loose, and flick off your mom switch. Maybe it's just me. I would never do that.

Let's Get Quantam Physical

You can only be so interested in the power of positive thinking before the movie "The Secret" ends up in your Netflix queue.  The first time you watch it, you will have yourself convinced that one day you will be cashing a postdated check that you've written to yourself in the amount of $1,000,000.00.  By the time you've read the book, you will be sure that it was your negative attitude that caused the accident, that caused the traffic, that made you late for work.  (Even if you were still in your kitchen when it happened.)

OK. I was having a bad day.  From what I learned during my brief stint as a quantam physics expert, it was my own fault.  The words "this is going to be a bad day" were only present in my mind for a brief second as I opened the cabinet door.  My favorite coffee cup launched itself out of the cabinet, taking down two wine glasses, before they were all comingled in a sad pile at the bottom of my sink.

Did I break all three glasses with my crappy attitude?  Did I will the wine glasses broken because they were a bad ju-ju gift that made me cringe with every sip of shiraz?  Not sure.  But I do know that the "bad day" bell is really hard to unring.  So, I tried to be positive.  "It's not going to be a bad day." Enter the second rule of quantam physics: The universe hears everything in the affirmative.  The "not" is useless.  You do the math.  Has anyone seen my keys??? And so the frantic search for my keys began. "Good day good day good day good day." I found my keys, but was more than a little afraid to use them. "I should probably just go back to bed." But I went shopping anyway.

As I chipped away at my to do list, I thought "things are looking up!" I was getting stuff done, and my mom was going to watch Isla for a little while as I cleaned up the house. "This isn't such a bad day after all"  I thought as I emptied the car in a mad rush to get Isla over to B's.  (That is what Isla calls her grandmother, and who am I to argue with an 18 month old.) Uh oh. I'm pretty sure I just said "bad day" again.  At that moment, I spilled an entire bag of quinoa on my living room floor.  The cat didn't seem to be too upset by this.  Why would she be? A second, more accessible litter box was long overdue in our house.

If I went on to tell you about the very large, very hot cup of tea that I dropped in my lap, or how I spent 20 minutes waiting for TJ in the parking lot of Enterprise Rental Car (two towns away from the Enterprise where I was supposed to be picking him up) you would think I was exaggerating.  Nope.  Or how Isla (who was asleep by 8:00 in the car) was awake again at 10:30 when I finally decided to call it quits on the day.

At least it's tomorrow.  So, I'm a little tired.  So what?  Nothing that happened was life threatening. What is the lesson that I learned from all of this?  In the same way that I cause enormous, traffic inducing accidents with the sheer force of my words "I hope I'm not late", I'm going to think everything that happened yesterday was my doing.  Afterall, I can buy new a new coffee cup and wine glasses when I cash my $1,000,000.00 check.

Resolutions Shmesolutions.

To someone who "sort of" knows me, the thought of me titling a blog "Zen-Mama" wouldn't be too surprising.  My last two vacations were at a yoga retreat, I haven't eaten meat since I was 24, and my 18 month old, Isla (who somehow made it into this world naturally), has never had formula, let alone a cookie or a chicken nugget.  I try to know about what's toxic and avoid it.  Good luck though, living in New Jersey.


Someone who REALLY knows me, however, would probably see a good deal of irony in me even hinting at something titled Zen Anything.  Especially if they were wacthing me type this right now-while making pancakes, drinking coffee out of a 24 ounce cup, and  having a dance party surrounded by 12 furry books about whether or not lions are ticklish, by the light of the Christmas tree.  In January.  Wearing one of three outfits that has fit me since Isla was born. (Outfit being a relative term...I just went out in it, and it sort of fits.)


Big changes are obviously needed here.  Big, annoying, tiring, time consuming, and most likely expensive changes.  While the ball was dropping on New Years Eve, well, I was asleep.   I've never really been one for New Year's Resolutions.  Or Goals.  Or intentions.  People seem to call them all sorts of things these days, but no one ever calls them what they really are: things people tell themselves to make it seem like this year will be less annoying than the last one. Let's just say that my epiphany coincided with the new year.  Coincidently.  Here goes: I'm going to get healthy and have fun.  And hopefully have fun getting healthy.


Clearly, weight loss is needed.  My downward dog is a bad scene. Yoga is a total disaster when you're fidgeting the whole time trying to make sure that your shirt is covering your butt.  The good news is that I lost 6 pounds before Christmas thanks to a week of diligent "point counting."  To be followed by a week of diligent face stuffing (where I found them).  A wash, and a success as far as I'm concerned.  I'm back on the wagon now, without having to worry about the 5 extra pounds I gained during the holidays.

It's also sort of helpful that I'm engaged to evil knevil; a motorcycle riding, surfing, mountain biking, snow boarding, running, ice skating, Tough Mudder, (google that one for a laugh) lunatic.  Isla can't be far behind, and I want to be the fun mom who can keep up with her. She already jumps off of anything we let her.  Okay, so far that only consists of a welcome mat and a two inch step in my parents' kitchen.  But trust me, I'm in for it with that kid.

I know I can do this.  I'm on the path.  For the time being, though, if you run into me at a yoga class, you may want to put your mat anywhere but behind mine.