C has developed a curious strategy for avoiding naps. And quite frankly, it's working beautifully.
The day I discover that nap time will no longer be a simple routine, C seems to go down as normal, shouting his usual, "night-night, mama," as I quietly tiptoe out of the room and close the door. As I walk downstairs to play with his big sister, I can hear him chattering and singing, his normal self-soothe routines. About ten minutes into Chutes and Ladders, though, I hear loud shouts of "help, mama, help!" Not overly alarmed, but curious, I peek my head into his room and expect to see his puppy or night-night on the floor. That was the optimist in me; instead, what stands before me is my son, completely naked (which he had not been when I placed him there) pointing to the floor, showing mommy where he had pottied into the floor through the bars of his crib. I am greeted by a, "Look, mama. I did it." I couldn't have said it better myself. By the time I clean him, his bed linens, and the floor, I realize nap time is over, so throwing my hands up in defeat, I take C downstairs so he can play games with A and me.
Not wanting to make too big a deal out of the previous day's nap time debacle, the next day I follow our normal nap routine. Two books, followed by singing: Jesus Loves Me, Jesus Loves the Little Children, and He's Got the Whole World in His Hands, complete with verses about Lightning McQueen, Mater, Thomas, and Percy because as the song says, He's got the whole world, and that includes toys. I rock him for a few minutes then place him in his crib, say "night-night," and quietly exit the room. Ten minutes later, I hear, "Help, mama." At least he's consistent. Curious as to how consistent I rush upstairs, open his door, and see diapers everywhere. I am so baffled by all the diapers that I don't notice at first that my little exhibitionist has again stripped down to his birthday suit. "C, what are you doing?" I ask. "Look, mama," he says looking over his diaper display proudly. "Were you trying to change your diaper all by yourself?" Again, I take him out of the crib, and this time, changing my strategy a bit, put him in his zip-up footie pajamas with the button at the top. I clean up the diapers, placing them in the diaper holder hanging on the side of his crib and for a second, contemplate moving it. That can wait, right now my nap window is shrinking, and A is downstairs eager for time with mom. I place him back in his crib, cover him up, and whisper "night-night" over my shoulder as I am closing his door. Twenty minutes later, silence, and one sleeping toddler.
A few days later, thinking surely my once eager little napper is through his jaybird phase, I prepare him for his nap. This time I stay upstairs for a few minutes, just to see if I can hear any of the commotion, so I can quickly intervene. After a few minutes of silence, I walk downstairs to watch a movie with A then as if on cue, I hear, "Mama." With more urgency, "MAMA!" "Oh, dear," I wonder and walk upstairs not knowing what to expect from my boy. I open the door to find him lying in his crib, still covered up, holding his puppy. Thrilled, I say, "Night-night, buddy." He throws off his blanket, stands up and says, "I done, mama, I not tired." Shaking my head, I pick him up, and once again, admit that I've been outsmarted by a two-year old determined not to miss whatever adventure he thinks mom and A are currently having downstairs. Oh, well, as a famous, probably exhausted, Southern woman once said, "tomorrow is another day."
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
I Resolve
This year I resolve to write more. It has been almost a year since I last blogged, and I miss writing. It's a part of who I am and what I love to do, and it's absence has left me feeling a bit incomplete. I'm not quite sure why I've taken such a hiatus; it wasn't planned. I'm sure part of it is time, but I think more realistically perhaps part of me is afraid that someone might not like what I say. Ridiculous, I know, but maybe I haven't felt as free to write what I'm thinking, so I've just chosen to remain mum on things I've really yearned to give voice to. So, I guess I'm also resolving to be me, hopefully, entertaining, frank, yet funny, thought-provoking and at times, hysterical, at least that's the goal. God has blessed me with a gift of and a love for writing, and it's time I exercised that gift for myself and for my audience of (let's be optimistic) ten, granted most of those are related either by blood or marriage. So, this year, I resolve to write!
I also resolve to worry less, stress less, and simplify more. I resolve to let go of those things that clutter, rather than enhance my life or the lives of those around me. I resolve to learn how to say, "No," respectfully and kindly. I resolve to be more "in the moment" with my husband and children and not let the concerns of what I "should" be doing interfere with the only thing in the world worth doing at all. I want my children to look back on their time home with mom and say, "I don't know when my mom cleaned the house. She was always playing games with us or playing dolls or playing ball." I want our time to be meaningful, special, magical, even.
I resolve to be a better wife; to be more fun, to relax, to be less serious, and to take myself less seriously. More smiles, fewer scowls. I resolve to stop comparing myself, my parenting, my athleticism (stop laughing), my business sense, my "successes", my fill in the blank, with those of others and to stop worrying about what others think. Galatians 4:5 in The Message reads, "Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that. Don't be impressed with yourself. Don't compare yourself to others. Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life." I love that, and I resolve to do just that this year. Finally, I resolve to let go and let God.
I also resolve to worry less, stress less, and simplify more. I resolve to let go of those things that clutter, rather than enhance my life or the lives of those around me. I resolve to learn how to say, "No," respectfully and kindly. I resolve to be more "in the moment" with my husband and children and not let the concerns of what I "should" be doing interfere with the only thing in the world worth doing at all. I want my children to look back on their time home with mom and say, "I don't know when my mom cleaned the house. She was always playing games with us or playing dolls or playing ball." I want our time to be meaningful, special, magical, even.
I resolve to be a better wife; to be more fun, to relax, to be less serious, and to take myself less seriously. More smiles, fewer scowls. I resolve to stop comparing myself, my parenting, my athleticism (stop laughing), my business sense, my "successes", my fill in the blank, with those of others and to stop worrying about what others think. Galatians 4:5 in The Message reads, "Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that. Don't be impressed with yourself. Don't compare yourself to others. Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life." I love that, and I resolve to do just that this year. Finally, I resolve to let go and let God.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
How Lovely Is Your Dwelling Place
I am a woman, so it might not come as a groundbreaking revelation to discover that I have struggled with body image. Who am I kidding? Struggle is a mild understatement, declared all-out war on my body might be a more apt description. In high school and college, I would spend months eating nothing all day, or sometimes would allow my self a pretzel and glass of water. My 5'8" frame, at one time, carried a mere 108 lbs. Looking back, it was not attractive, but to me, thin meant beautiful.
What led to this trip down memory lane? My morning bible study. I'm completing a study written by Jennifer Rothschild, who, this morning, focused on what we say to ourselves about our body. Hmmm...what do I say to myself about my body? For years, I beat myself up for eating too much or for not working out enough. I derided my lack of self-control and discipline. I even prayed for help to make it to my idea of an ideal weight, influenced by airbrushed pictures of models who had live-in chefs and personal trainers. I spent a lot of time consumed with.....myself. And I discovered that obsession with body image is really an obsession with self. How selfish?!
I've since made peace with my body. It's been a long, hard road fueled by prayer, by bible study, and by learning about what this body is truly capable of regardless of its weight. (I also quit reading fashion magazines.) As a matter of fact, after running and training for marathons and having two children, I now view my body as a magnificent miracle capable of so much. There are still days I fret too long in the mirror about cellulite or wrinkles. But my goal is to no longer judge my body for its appearance; I'm learning the art of moderation in both food and exercise and have discovered that life is about so much more than weight and inches. It's about so much more than me.
And because of my study today, I'm learning to look at my body in yet another light. I've long been familiar with the following verses: "Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?" 1 Cor. 3:16 and "Or do you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?" 1 Cor. 6:19. And very often, when studying these scriptures, the lesson has centered on drug or alcohol abouse or on taking care of yourself but rarely have I been prompted to think about these verses in light of body image. Today, I was challenged to also view my body as God's dwelling place. The place God chooses to house his Holy Spirit.
Rothschild tells the story of discovering another verse to medidate on in light of the above two while sweating it out on her treadmill. She heard, while working out, this from her bible on tape: "How lovely are your dwelling places O Lord of hosts!" Psalm 84:1. So, let me get this straight. My body is a dwelling place for the Lord, AND it is lovely. Lovely. No matter what it weighs, how cut my abs and biceps are, or no matter what size jeans I wear. My body is lovely because it is the dwelling place of God. What freedom is there in that!
It pains me to see so many wonderful women of all shapes and sizes live and die by what the scale or some label in their clothing says. We are so much more than that; we are mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, women who nurture, love, give, and have so much to offer no matter what we look like. Most importantly, we are God's handiwork.
No more self-loathing. It's about Him, not me, and there are no brownie points in heaven for beating myself up. When we self-hate, we still center on self and put down the place Christ chooses to dwell. Of course, the flip side is loving ourselves too much, but I don't know too many women who over-love their bodies. Being in the place where I am completely obsessed with self, in a loving or hateful manner, in any capacity, is a lonely place to be.
I am finding the realization of my body being a temple of the Lord and applying that to how I view and treat my own body to be such a life-changing discovery. Of course, because of that realization, there is a responsibility to care for our bodies but with common sense. Something I lacked all those years ago. I've discovered like so many things in life; it is about finding balance and about focusing on the Creator of my body, not my body itself.
What led to this trip down memory lane? My morning bible study. I'm completing a study written by Jennifer Rothschild, who, this morning, focused on what we say to ourselves about our body. Hmmm...what do I say to myself about my body? For years, I beat myself up for eating too much or for not working out enough. I derided my lack of self-control and discipline. I even prayed for help to make it to my idea of an ideal weight, influenced by airbrushed pictures of models who had live-in chefs and personal trainers. I spent a lot of time consumed with.....myself. And I discovered that obsession with body image is really an obsession with self. How selfish?!
I've since made peace with my body. It's been a long, hard road fueled by prayer, by bible study, and by learning about what this body is truly capable of regardless of its weight. (I also quit reading fashion magazines.) As a matter of fact, after running and training for marathons and having two children, I now view my body as a magnificent miracle capable of so much. There are still days I fret too long in the mirror about cellulite or wrinkles. But my goal is to no longer judge my body for its appearance; I'm learning the art of moderation in both food and exercise and have discovered that life is about so much more than weight and inches. It's about so much more than me.
And because of my study today, I'm learning to look at my body in yet another light. I've long been familiar with the following verses: "Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?" 1 Cor. 3:16 and "Or do you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?" 1 Cor. 6:19. And very often, when studying these scriptures, the lesson has centered on drug or alcohol abouse or on taking care of yourself but rarely have I been prompted to think about these verses in light of body image. Today, I was challenged to also view my body as God's dwelling place. The place God chooses to house his Holy Spirit.
Rothschild tells the story of discovering another verse to medidate on in light of the above two while sweating it out on her treadmill. She heard, while working out, this from her bible on tape: "How lovely are your dwelling places O Lord of hosts!" Psalm 84:1. So, let me get this straight. My body is a dwelling place for the Lord, AND it is lovely. Lovely. No matter what it weighs, how cut my abs and biceps are, or no matter what size jeans I wear. My body is lovely because it is the dwelling place of God. What freedom is there in that!
It pains me to see so many wonderful women of all shapes and sizes live and die by what the scale or some label in their clothing says. We are so much more than that; we are mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, women who nurture, love, give, and have so much to offer no matter what we look like. Most importantly, we are God's handiwork.
No more self-loathing. It's about Him, not me, and there are no brownie points in heaven for beating myself up. When we self-hate, we still center on self and put down the place Christ chooses to dwell. Of course, the flip side is loving ourselves too much, but I don't know too many women who over-love their bodies. Being in the place where I am completely obsessed with self, in a loving or hateful manner, in any capacity, is a lonely place to be.
I am finding the realization of my body being a temple of the Lord and applying that to how I view and treat my own body to be such a life-changing discovery. Of course, because of that realization, there is a responsibility to care for our bodies but with common sense. Something I lacked all those years ago. I've discovered like so many things in life; it is about finding balance and about focusing on the Creator of my body, not my body itself.
Meal Time Fun
Dinner seems like it would be a pretty benign experience. You make a meal, you serve a meal, you eat a meal. Ahhh...but add a few sweet little ones into the mix and mealtime becomes more of an adventure, full of unexpected surprises.
When A was C's age, she was still eating baby food, and even when she started solid food, it was mostly discovering what items she would actually put into her mouth and eat. I think by the time she was 18 months, we had actually convinced her to eat 8 different foods. C, on the other hand, has been eating solid food since he was 9 months old and would have started earlier, if we had allowed him to. He loves to eat. Of course, now eating has become a game where C drops his food in the floor, looks over his high chair, looks up to you, then back down to the floor, points and says, "Me?" "Yes, buddy, you dropped it." "Me?" Repeat process.
C eats a little earlier than the rest of the family, since he can't seem to wait until dinner is served. Normally, we'll place him in the dining room floor with some toys, while we eat dinner. Recently, though, C has learned a few new tricks from the family dog. Begging. He crawls up to me first, pulls himself to a standing position, points to my plate, and begs, "Me?" Being a good mom, I hand him vegetables. He promptly lowers himself to a crawling position and makes his way over to his father. "Me?" Not satisfied with dad's selection, he finally crawls to A's chair, pulls himself up and repeats his plea, "Me? ME!" Usually, his sister giggles, but I'm sure she's more than eager to unload a few pieces of broccoli or carrot.
A is a different story. Her favorite response to an offering of veggies or a "questionable" new food is, "Not right now, Mommy. I'll try it when I'm older." To which I usually respond, "One bite rule or no dessert." "No zert, but I don't like broccoli." You get the picture. I'm just waiting for A to let me know the appropriate age for eating creamed spinach and broccoli with cheese. I'm not holding my breath that it will be anytime before her 16th birthday.
The real meal challenge is that our dining room is adjacent to the kids' playroom. My husband and I spend most of our time corraling children back to their seats. But, I'm counting that as enough extra calories burned for "zert," preferably ice cream.
When A was C's age, she was still eating baby food, and even when she started solid food, it was mostly discovering what items she would actually put into her mouth and eat. I think by the time she was 18 months, we had actually convinced her to eat 8 different foods. C, on the other hand, has been eating solid food since he was 9 months old and would have started earlier, if we had allowed him to. He loves to eat. Of course, now eating has become a game where C drops his food in the floor, looks over his high chair, looks up to you, then back down to the floor, points and says, "Me?" "Yes, buddy, you dropped it." "Me?" Repeat process.
C eats a little earlier than the rest of the family, since he can't seem to wait until dinner is served. Normally, we'll place him in the dining room floor with some toys, while we eat dinner. Recently, though, C has learned a few new tricks from the family dog. Begging. He crawls up to me first, pulls himself to a standing position, points to my plate, and begs, "Me?" Being a good mom, I hand him vegetables. He promptly lowers himself to a crawling position and makes his way over to his father. "Me?" Not satisfied with dad's selection, he finally crawls to A's chair, pulls himself up and repeats his plea, "Me? ME!" Usually, his sister giggles, but I'm sure she's more than eager to unload a few pieces of broccoli or carrot.
A is a different story. Her favorite response to an offering of veggies or a "questionable" new food is, "Not right now, Mommy. I'll try it when I'm older." To which I usually respond, "One bite rule or no dessert." "No zert, but I don't like broccoli." You get the picture. I'm just waiting for A to let me know the appropriate age for eating creamed spinach and broccoli with cheese. I'm not holding my breath that it will be anytime before her 16th birthday.
The real meal challenge is that our dining room is adjacent to the kids' playroom. My husband and I spend most of our time corraling children back to their seats. But, I'm counting that as enough extra calories burned for "zert," preferably ice cream.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
New Workout
The Mercedes Marathon is next week, and I can't run. I had wanted to run the half with my sister, who is running her first half, but my IT band has said, "NO!" I was okay with it until I started hearing people talking about 10 and 11 milers and training runs, and I'll admit, I turned a little green with envy. I know, how could someone be envious of someone else running 10 miles, but as a runner, there's something about training and knowing the reward is crossing the finish line of a marathon. I thought after taking off a year from running, I'd be able to train with no problems, but it seems right now, four miles is the magic number then my IT band begins to shout, "STOP."
So, to ease my non-training blues, I decided to try a new class at the gym: Boot camp. That's right, boot camp. Scary name and yes, scary class. I haven't felt as awkward as I did in this class, since sixth grade, when I had Annie Orphan curls, braces, my limbs were long and gangly, and I was actually wondering why I couldn't get a date to my first dance. Then when a poor guy agreed to attend the band dance with me, I rewarded him by wearing a white sweater with sparkly silver threads, on which my mom decided to sew a sequin saxophone, because, hey, I played the alto saxophone in band. I completed the ensemble with a silver skirt and white and silver granny boots. I don't recall a second date. Anyway, haven't felt that awkward again until I walked into boot camp.
The first thing I see is a very fit instructor with a whistle, who appears to have actually conducted boot camp out in the real world, shouting commands. "Grab your weights, do 1 lap of walking lunges, then 1 lap on the track. We'll do four repeats." I hope by repeats he doesn't mean repeating the entire process four times. He did. I return from my last lap winded with my legs already shaking. A glance at the clock revealed we were only ten minutes into the class. "Yipee!"
I can't really remember what happened after that. I'm pretty sure there were tortuous sit-ups, not regular crunches, but some sort of angling and pulling your knees to the side while lifting your torso off the ground. And there were push-ups, yes, lots of push-ups. I stumble up from my last push-up to hear, "Now we're going to do burpies." "Did he say hurt-mes because that's exactly what he should have said." From burpies we move on to squat jumping jacks right into triceps dips with leg lifts. Repeat three times. And now I actually see him demonstrate the following for our next move. He squats low and proceeds to do bicep curls from the squatting position. We follow and don't stand until we've done three sets from the squat. At least we weren't "supposed" to stand. By now my body is screaming and there are still 15 minutes left in class. I'm quickly learning lifting your son out of the crib does not count as an upper body workout.
I finally finish my first boot camp experience and am walking out the door, when the instructor runs up and hands me a t-shirt. You get the prize for working out the hardest today. (Apparently, prizes are common in boot camp class, or else I can't imagine many people would attend.) What?! There's a prize! Is the prize for working out the hardest or because the instructor felt sorry for me because he thought I was going to pass out? I'm not sure; all I know is I survived, and if I can walk by next Friday, I'll try again.
So, to ease my non-training blues, I decided to try a new class at the gym: Boot camp. That's right, boot camp. Scary name and yes, scary class. I haven't felt as awkward as I did in this class, since sixth grade, when I had Annie Orphan curls, braces, my limbs were long and gangly, and I was actually wondering why I couldn't get a date to my first dance. Then when a poor guy agreed to attend the band dance with me, I rewarded him by wearing a white sweater with sparkly silver threads, on which my mom decided to sew a sequin saxophone, because, hey, I played the alto saxophone in band. I completed the ensemble with a silver skirt and white and silver granny boots. I don't recall a second date. Anyway, haven't felt that awkward again until I walked into boot camp.
The first thing I see is a very fit instructor with a whistle, who appears to have actually conducted boot camp out in the real world, shouting commands. "Grab your weights, do 1 lap of walking lunges, then 1 lap on the track. We'll do four repeats." I hope by repeats he doesn't mean repeating the entire process four times. He did. I return from my last lap winded with my legs already shaking. A glance at the clock revealed we were only ten minutes into the class. "Yipee!"
I can't really remember what happened after that. I'm pretty sure there were tortuous sit-ups, not regular crunches, but some sort of angling and pulling your knees to the side while lifting your torso off the ground. And there were push-ups, yes, lots of push-ups. I stumble up from my last push-up to hear, "Now we're going to do burpies." "Did he say hurt-mes because that's exactly what he should have said." From burpies we move on to squat jumping jacks right into triceps dips with leg lifts. Repeat three times. And now I actually see him demonstrate the following for our next move. He squats low and proceeds to do bicep curls from the squatting position. We follow and don't stand until we've done three sets from the squat. At least we weren't "supposed" to stand. By now my body is screaming and there are still 15 minutes left in class. I'm quickly learning lifting your son out of the crib does not count as an upper body workout.
I finally finish my first boot camp experience and am walking out the door, when the instructor runs up and hands me a t-shirt. You get the prize for working out the hardest today. (Apparently, prizes are common in boot camp class, or else I can't imagine many people would attend.) What?! There's a prize! Is the prize for working out the hardest or because the instructor felt sorry for me because he thought I was going to pass out? I'm not sure; all I know is I survived, and if I can walk by next Friday, I'll try again.
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