If I only had the time...no wait, I mean the motivation!

Just after I had my darling H via cesarean, the best thing that could have happened was a phone call that I received from a fellow new mom. She asked if I would like to go walking with her sometime, although she understood if I wanted to give it another couple weeks. I told her that I'd love to start now, although I was only 2 weeks post-partum. At the time, I was living in Portland, OR, where the Starbucks are plentiful and sidewalks with great stroller access are even more so. (Since moving to New England, I found that were no sidewalks or walking access from my home, and I was a little disheartened.)


Before our first meeting, I attempted to shove my feet into the pair of tenny's that I had prior to being in my last trimester and no matter how much Step-sister to Cinderella style shoving I did, I could not make them fit comfortably.

I packed Baby H into his seat and off to the mall we went. At Lady Footlocker, I found the perfect pair; they were cute Ryka's with pink and silver detailing in a size 9 and a half...1.5 sizes larger than my pre-baby feet, but I was ready and my feet were comfy. I tried on those same shoes about 6 months ago, and they were sloppy and big as my feet had returned to a more normal (for me) size, so I bought a different pair.

That first day, we walked about half of a mile to the first Starbucks, where we stopped inside to chat, have a latte, nurse and relax. Each time we went, we picked a Starbucks that was a little farther from our starting point, and really got to enjoy the early fall weather and each other's company.

Time went on, I returned to work, she returne to medical school, and those walks got fewer and further between as the daily demands associated with being a full-time working mom mounted. I continued to enter into runs and walks, such as the Race for the Cure in Portland, Oregon (pictured above) pushing Henry in a jogging stroller with all my co-workers, but the walks with my friend slipped away.

I think that it's often not the FITting it in that's so hard, it's the getting Fit again and making it a routine. However, when I look back, I was the happiest during those walks because I was doing it with a friend. The most important thing, for me, about an exercise routine is to find something that you really enjoy (I know, you've heard it a million times, but there's a reason for that), and that will make you feel relaxed and happy when it's done. Find someone that's not competetive with you, and makes you feel good, and make a commitment to yourself to always find time to "FIT it in."

This blog was inspired by the Blog Blast sponsored by The Parent Bloggers Network and Ryka. Ryka will be giving away 50 pairs of shoes every day during the month of October! If you'd like the chance to win a pair of Ryka sneakers, or a whole outfit, click on the link to PBN above to find out how. (Or don't, so I'll have a better chance of winning :) )

Ding Dong, the Toddler Bed...

The parenting milestone that I've been dreading more than potty-training has arrived. The transition from crib to toddler bed is proving to be a difficult one. Yesterday, my husband (J)walked in to find H flopping his leg over the crib railing and then straddled it, saying "Motorcycle". This is something he has been doing to everything lately; the arm of the couch, the table leg, the edge of the bookcase. It's quite charming.

We immediately removed the side rail of the crib, as it's touted to be a convertible bed. Turns out, it's not really a very functional toddler bed, it's wobbly and pretty high off the ground with no railing to prevent "fall-out", so it was off to craigslist I went, searching for the perfectly priced toddler bed. Although I had said before that I would never buy a toddler bed out of fiscal conservativism (which I've not shown in any other aspect of my life), it turns out that they're not such a bad idea...shocker! I found a really great toddler bed in less than two hours, and scheduled a pick-up time.

Putting him to bed last night went great, and I really felt like the battle was over....then 2am rolled around. I walked in to find H sitting on the floor, crying for me, with his blankie and quilt beside him. I sat at the edge of his bed and stroked his head for close to an hour, with each time I attempted to creep away resulting in his big brown eyes popping open, and saying 'Mommy, ROCK!"

Finally, out of a horribly selfish need for sleep(not really, because if you know me, my sleep benefits everyone), I did what I know you're not supposed to do and said, "Do you just want to go to sleep with Mommy and Daddy?" The crying instantly stopped and he nodded his head saying "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Well, I may have done long-term damage to his night-time routine, but he slept with me until 8am, so we'll save tomorrow's troubles for...oh yea, TODAY.

Naptime rolled around, and I put him in his bed, then put him in his bed, then put him in his bed...was I having dejavu or was H seriously not staying in his bed?! Finally, I said "Do I need to get your playpen out so that you'll stay in your bed for nap?" "YEAH!"...so I did...and he fell asleep...and now, I'm not sure what to do because he can't just sleep in the pack-n-play forever.

Seriously, these are the questions that make you re-evaluate your education and your prior career, and think, did I learn nothing? Why can't I troubleshoot the little things? So, if you have a great tip or trick, feel free to leave a comment, because I may just end up being the Wicked Witch of the West if this doesn't end.

Ode to Tom...

Mmmm...in case any of you were wondering when the sex, of sex and the knitty was going to enter into this blog, here he is!

Today, my husband and I are watching our first Patriots game as New Englanders. While I enjoy watching football, I don't have a full understanding of all the rules or nuances of the game...just the basics. I was a football cheerleader after all (go ahead, laugh it up chuckles), so I understood that the Defense was supposed to "Push 'em back, Push 'em back, waaaaaaaaay back." And that the offense was supposed to get the ball forward 10 yards, and that they had four tries (okay, "downs") to do so. I will admit that I didn't realize for about three years of watching NFL games that the yellow line on the screen....it's not really on the field, it's digital.

But there has been one constant in my semi-aware, football-watching life; I have always been a big fan of Tom Brady. Back in the day, I was cutting out pictures of him in his college uniform (along with Notre Dame's Ron Powlus) when I was supposed to be clipping current events in Social Studies at good ole UHS. He exudes that male-ness that makes most women (notice I didn't say all, because I try to stay away from absolutes, but it would be a pretty safe statement in this case) stop what they're doing and just gaze a little.

When my husband and I decided it would be fun to start watching football together, I immediately called my recently converted football fan sister (FFS), to ask if I could borrow her new bible; Get Your Own Damn Beer, I'm Watching the Game! by Holly Robinson Peete. My FFS has moved to Iowa, and I don't know if you've heard, but the Midwest is kind of into their college (and high school) football teams. Ms Robinson Peete has written an amazing guide to understanding and loving NFL games.

Of course, there is always the little bonus that the pads continue to get more 'aerodynamic' leaving just enough to the imagination. Watch on ladies, the season has begun, and I've got the best home team advantage!

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

Recently, I received an email from a fellow blogging mama, letting me know that there was a contest being put on by Parent Blogger Network, which was sponsored by Harper Collins' new book Little Black Book of Style by Nina Garcia. The challenge is to blog about your most hideous wardrobe remnant. The prize? A $250 gift certificate to Coach will be awarded to a randomly selected entrant! That's worth any humiliation brought on by openly talking about my ineptness in fashion.

When I first read it, I thought, "I just purged all my nasty stuff when we left Oregon." But then I really looked at my closet and my current wardrobe. I have always been that girl who can put together a killer outfit in my mind, but when it gets on my 5' 10", two-bills-plus frame (thank you Sweden), it just never materializes (no pun intended). Thigh to bra Spanx are a staple for me.

While I was never a fashion icon, I did have a career there and dressed in more than Capri's and T's with semi-coordinating flip-flops. This summer my husband, two-year-old son and I moved cross-country and I became a stay at home mom. When purging in Oregon, I was preparing for a life of sweatsuits and sippy cups. I sifted through my clothes again, and gasped in horror...I am a mom now! No, wait...I am MY mom!!!

Throughout my childhood, and still today, her wardrobe consisted of about 50 pairs of cotton twill-denim-ish pants with an equal quantity of striped and solid T-shirts. My older sister used to laugh and call them her adult Garanimals. She had no muss, no fuss short hair that was permed about every other week, wore no make-up, and used a brush-style curling iron as a blow dryer/comb/styling tool. With that said, I have great memories of my childhood. My mom always got right in with us. Plus, she has OCD, undiagnosed until all of us were out of the house, and so had to have the flexibility to compulsively bend and clean at any given moment.

I have yet to lose my baby weight and my child is two years old. Add to this that this non-style allows me to be a little less of a freak. I would be like Mommie Dearest if I were wearing cashmere jogging suits, or one of the other not-so-practical suggestions that have been offered, and my little darling put his ketchup-smeared hands on it. I don't have the funds to purchase that once, let alone to have it dry-cleaned or replaced.

I kind of like that I wear clothes that won't cause me to have an aneurism when my kiddo wants a hug and then ends up getting muddy footprints on me. In my mind there is always the promise that this is temporary, and that my true sense of style, attempted or achieved, will come back to the forefront when I no longer have toddlers. I do have some good, stylish, peices that I wear to non-toddler functions. I still get my hair foiled regularly at a salon that is not walk-in only, and am an independant skincare and cosmetic consultant. I know how to get dolled up when the occasion calls. I say all this so you won't think I'm a total loser when you read what comes next.

At the beginning of Summer, I went shopping for some seasonal clothes. Realizing that I no longer have legs that are worthy of either Nair or its short shorts, I decided that I would be most safe selecting a multitude of Capri pants in different prints that I could pair with my plethora of solid T's from Targ-aay.

After trying on about 10 pairs with my child in the shopping cart (yes, I said shopping cart which means that I was not in a Stacy and Clinton approved store) and feeling like I wanted to cry because they were just not fitting right, I saw them. It was as if the store's lighting all went out, save for one rack, with a choir of angels drawing me to the perfect pants.

There they were; available in 5 colors (including 3 shades of khaki). Mid-calf denim-twill-cotton-ish pants with an ELASTIC WAIST BAND AND DRAWSTRING. I'm not talking about the breezy linen drawstring pants that you see in J.Jill or Eddie Bauer; these were full-on mom pants. I bought them immediately in one size too large so that I would be comfortable, although tightening the drawstring to make them fit causes a front butt and other unflattering silhouette issues. But I didn't care because I felt like I was wearing sweats, only slightly more socially acceptable.

And I didn't stop there. A few others, including a pair of butterfly camo Bermudas and Black camo rip-stop cotton capris with drawstring rouching up the leg (don't worry, I haven't worn those out of the house yet), somehow made it to the counter and into my sad little bag of purchases. All of which were one size too large, because "What if they shrink?"

As I flipped through the stacks of my clothes tonight, trying to find some inspiration for this blog, I reflected on the little wooden sign which hangs neatly in my bathroom..."Mirror, Mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all."

Everybody Poops

For those of you who know me, poop is a ready topic of conversation. From the time I was little and my mom was making "Sara's Raisinless Granola" and "Honey Whole Wheat Bread" to ensure good BM's to the days of a malfunctioning gall bladder, my life has been ruled by poo.

How fun, then, for me to discover that it is also a favorite topic for toddlers. Every noise and gurgle elicits the same response from my darling toddler; "Mommy, I poop 'gin." By this point, I don't really pay much attention, because it usually means nothing, and my nose does a much better job of separating the wheat from that chaf than do my ears.

He had become the little boy who cried poop, so I took little notice when I heard that phrase yesterday as I was letting him know that I was going downstairs to check our mailbox.

I looked in his room, and he was making an odd motion with his hands...it was then that I realized what he had on his hands, and had subsequently rubbed on the carpet. It was, in fact, doo doo. I said "Oh No!" Jumped over the gate (yes, I baby-gate my child in his room occasionally to encourage "imaginitve play time"), grabbed his hands together in one of mine, got the lock to open the dresser with diaper-changing supplies with the other, wiped off his hands, covered them with about a gallon of sanitizer, changed his diaper (in which, luckily, the rest of it was contained) changed his clothes, and took him to wash his hands thoroughly with soap and warm water (no, I didn't just use sanitizer and call it good).

I then deposited him in his crib for a nap, for clearly only the desperately tired would stick their hand in their diaper and rub the contents on the carpet of their bedroom.

I cleaned the carpet, then treated it with oxyclean, and all was well.

Crisis averted...I closed his blinds, pushed play on a CD of soothing music from the Island of Maui, and walked out of the room humming a new lullaby to myself "Wash your hands after going to the bathroom, wash your hands after changing baby too. 'Cuz you don't want to get hep-a-titis, and we don't want hepatitis to get you. And YOU!" (You do remember that PSA from the 80's don't you?) Ahhhh, the joys of motherhood!