2011 – Pending Hotness . . . again

Like the vast majority of humans in the world, I went ahead and vowed to re-commit to fitness at the start of the new year – and followed the herd to join the Beachbody coaching ranks and save myself some cash on Shakeology.  To those of you still hanging in there with your resolution after 3 whole days, this probably doesn’t seem like anything fancy.  But, be proud of yourself.  A good 30% of people have already given up.  Of course, I totally pulled that stat straight out of nowhere, but you know A LOT of people have already “screwed up” and thrown in the towel.

My personal plan is to use a combo of P90X and running to jump start my fitness situation.  Once I master this round of P90X, I’ll be doing a P90X/INSANITY hybrid, which, for the record, makes me want to hurl my TV out the window.  And, I haven’t even looked at an INSANITY video in months.

I’ve already done several successful rounds of P90X, and I’ve run two half marathons.  So, I know my body is physically capable of handling what I’m putting it through.  You may not have that same level of confidence.  But, 5 years ago, I couldn’t run a full mile without stopping.  As recently as 3 years ago, I couldn’t handle a 5k.  It takes some serious dedication and the ability to talk yourself out of the mind games your brain wants to play with you.  Assuming no serious injuries or ailments, the human body is capable of amazing things.  I’m relatively certain that you can conquer P90X and run some half marathons if I can (so get off your ass and do it already, slackers!).

Knowing I CAN do it takes away the convenience of a major excuse.  I can’t tell myself it’s too hard or that I’d be putting too much strain on my body.  I’d know I was lying, and I don’t like liars.  So, I’m stuck following through with this plan.  If you’re not in the same boat, if you aren’t tackling a routine you’ve already completed in the past, you might be hesitant.  Chicken, even.  You might spend your days telling yourself the same things I told myself for years – “I’m just not a runner”, “My body wasn’t made for weight lifting”, “My back is too weak for push ups”. . . or whatever other bullshit you feed yourself to justify avoiding a serious fitness regimine.

Here’s the thing, though.  Until you force yourself out of that mentality, until you drag yourself off the sofa, until you conquer a hardcore program like P90X, you’ll never be in my comfort zone. You’ll never have the motivation and the security of knowing you CAN do it if you MAKE yourself do it.

I promise it only takes about a week of FORCING yourself to work it into your daily grind before it becomes something you look forward to, something you don’t want to miss.  That first week will be brutal, no matter what you’re getting into, because it’s change.  It’s a change from your normal routine of sitting around doing nothing.  But, after two weeks, it becomes habit.  And, then sitting around doing nothing will become the uncomfortable thing to do, and that’s when things get fun.  That’s when your energy starts to skyrocket and you start bouncing around on your toes in anticipation of the next workout.  That’s when you start WANTING to skip happy hour so you can get a run in around Town Lake.  THAT’S where you want to be.

So, today, instead of thinking in grand terms of how much you have to accomplish in the whole year to reach your fitness goals, start with the next 2 weeks.  Start with getting into that habit.  Start with promising to force yourself to move, to run, to dance every day for the next 2 weeks, and then worry about the 2 weeks after that.  And, if you need someone to tell you to get off your ass and move, let me know.  I like to yell.

(if you have questions about Turbo Jam, P90X, INSANITY, Shakeology, or Beachbody in general, I will gladly tell you what I know, in a normal volumed voice)

Happy new year!

Kid Vacation

Sorry. I should have mentioned it earlier. I’m on kid vacation. Which basically means I’m on vacation from everything. Except my house. Which is slowly drowning me in paint.

Since our DC/NYC trip, I’ve been home 3 weeks now, without kids. It’s been so quiet. So peaceful. SO CLEAN.

I have only 2 weeks left of this reality, and then kiddos return and it’s back to the chaotic routine. Which, strangely, is actually less chaotic than the past 3 weeks have been. The point is, in 2 weeks, plus one more week of Mom being in town, I’ll be back to some version of normal and blogging will happen again.

In fact, MORE blogging than ever before will happen, as I’ll be launching a whole new, unrelated, spiffy blog any day now. You know, when I get the guts to actually launch. For a sneaky preview, feel free to go stalk me there and weigh in with thoughts on the project: http://www.challenge52.com.

I’m gonna be honest, the past 3 weeks have brought more surprises than expected, and it’s thrown "the plan" off center just a bit. So, I hesitate to make too many big promises. But, I will return to the telling of this story, because it’s important. And, I will launch C52. And, I will do another big thing that I can’t tell you about. And, I will get back to some sort of fitness habit (being as I’ve fallen completely off the wagon since I left town a month ago, bah!).

But, for now, here’s a quick recap of the past month-ish:

Medical drama. Again. No answers yet, but lots of super fun testing and poking and prodding and missing of work. Our friendly radiological co. seriously better send me a Christmas card this year. Just sayin’.

House drama. I always think I’m super capable of house stuff. And, then I do it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it slowly kills the electricity in the house, one room at a time. Enter the electrician. Oh, wait. That assumes he actually shows up as scheduled. Ha! More missing of work. Boo.

Family drama. Dudes. Don’t. Even. You’d think sending the kids off for awhile would lessen my familial drama load. You’d be wrong. So, so wrong.

VACATION! It certainly wasn’t relaxing and the food poisoning right out of the gate seriously sucked the big one. But, we saw as much as 4 humans could possibly see in the time we were there. I got to see tons of friends, dating back 10+ years, and for me, that was absolutely the best part. The kids were exceptionally disappointed that they spotted not a single huge rat in the city. But, overall, I think their first real vacation ever was a success. Go me!

I’d tell you all about the crazy good times I’m having, but mostly, I’m painting and installing doorknobs and switching out outlets and obsessive compulsively checking on my garden. This is what I’ve become. Boring. Old. Lame.

Hey, but I’m getting more sleep than usual. So that’s something.

And, I think I might win an award for most pointless blog entry ever with this one, so there’s something else.

Ciao, suckers!

The kids and I leave town tomorrow to grab Mom and head out on a road trip that will surely not end with me driving us all off a bridge. We’ll be exploring DC and NYC and I couldn’t be happier about it, mostly because it involves a substantial amount of socializing with people I really like. It’s not weird that most of those people are from Austin and I have to go on vacation to see them.

In case you were thinking you’d break into my house while we’re gone, you should know that I’ve got a house/dog sitter staying there for the duration of our trip. Plus, we really don’t have anything worth stealing, so please stop casing the joint.

We’ll have very brief time in Indy and I was foolishly thinking I could somehow cram in some visits with folks there, but then I looked at our schedule and realized we’ll be there for all of about 8 hours on the front end, and a good 7.5 of those will be spent sleeping. . . and then I’ll maybe have another 12 hours on the back end, and sorry, but my baby sis gets that time. So, once again, I suck and won’t stop to say hello to my Indiana friends while I’m in town.

I’ve really become a crappy long-distance friend. Sorry!

That being said, you’re more than welcome to come visit me in Austin, and I’ll have a month and a half of kid-free time to run around and be silly with you. So, it’s really YOU who is the crappy friend now, isn’t it? Unless you book a flight. Then, you’re fine.

Anyway. Happy vacation to me! The end.

Why tell the story?

As we get ready to head on a week long road trip with Mom, and I think about all of the things I need to find and pack so that we have all of the information we need to draft a solid outline for the telling of the rest of the story, I still question whether I should be broadcasting our business to the world. Why tell our story?

If I had to bet, I’d guess a solid portion of my family wishes I’d just shut the hell up already (hi, Dad!) and leave it alone. Which seems easy enough, right? Just move forward and pretend like nothing bad ever happened. We’re all sunshine and puppy dogs and rainbows! Forever! And, we ride unicorns to work every day!

Good, bad, or otherwise, I just don’t operate that way. I never have.

There are a lot of reasons I’ve decided to tell this story, some of them selfish, some of them not. I’ve spent years trying to decide whether or not to share it with the world because, really, it’s not a nice story. God willing, it will have a happy ending, but to get to where we are, there’s a lot of ugliness and a lot of shame. It’s uncomfortable – for me, for my family, and for all of you, I’m sure. And, it’s certainly not how I want to define my life or my kids’ lives. But, at the end of the day, it’s our truth. Running from it doesn’t make it go away. Pretending nothing ever happened doesn’t heal the wounds. Acting like everything is perfectly normal makes me a big, fat liar. Everything is not perfectly normal. Everything is FINE, but it’s not NORMAL.

I’ve maintained, since the onset of all of this, that I will be honest with the kids about what happened. I will answer their questions as honestly as I can with the information I have. I will shield them from any details that are too gory for them to handle right now, but I won’t ever mislead them about what happened. I don’t ever want to be the one who fooled them into believing that there was just some big misunderstanding so that they’re blind sided by the truth when they find it.

As time passes, more of the details escape my memory. For awhile, I welcomed the forgetting. I thought it was a lot easier to forget what happened than to be constantly reminded. I’d forget a detail, and then I’d catch a glimpse of a court document and be reminded and the emotional reaction would hit me again, just as hard as it did the first time I got the information. Forgetting became more exhausting than remembering.

Before I lose any more of the details, I want to tell our story so that it’s a more accurate reflection of what occurred than my mind will be able to recall in 10 years, 15 years. I need to record the details as I know them now, so that I won’t have to rely on memory clouded by time when the kids are grown and demand a more thorough understanding of why.

Of course, I don’t have to share those details with the world. Many people wouldn’t. But, again, that’s just not me.

Selfishly, I’m sick of feeling like the bad guy. I’m tired of constantly being on the defense with family, always trying to prove that I didn’t steal anyone’s kids away, forever attemping to make you all understand that this is not the life I asked for. This is not what I wanted. At no time did I ever wish that my sister would get knocked up, twice, fall into an abusive relationship, battle mental health issues, and succumb to drugs and alcohol so that I might get custody of and raise her children. I know it’s hard to believe, but this was never how I imagined my life unfolding. I did not ask for this.

I’m tired of feeling a divide, like it’s either her side or mine, and no matter how nice we all are at Christmas, feeling that you secretly feel sorry for her and wonder how I could have done this to her. I’m sick of the imposed feelings of guilt, and I’m fed up with the victim act that so many of you have fallen for with her.

I want you to understand how unbelievable the reality of the situation is. I want you to comprehend that I could not have forced any of this to happen. There’s no way I could have just declared a desire to have her kids and caused the whole chain of events that led to that eventual reality. I want you to know how many – very many – chances she had to make it right, and how hard I tried to help her do just that. I want you to realize the gravity of the situation, the made-for-tv-movie kind of script that caused things to get this far, and the unfathomable decisions that were putting my kids’ lives in danger. I want you to fully know why this was necessary, how the process works, and how hard we had to fight to make sure the kids stayed in our family. I want you to understand how unpleasant it was, how intrusive and burdensome it was, and how much easier it would have been to stay distanced and uninvolved in my little utopia in Texas, away from the drama and chaos and just let it all happen some other way. I want you to stop questioning my love for my sister and start believing in my love for these kids. And, I want to stop feeling like the bad guy in this story.

The big push, though. . . the shove that made me start writing was this: I want to share our experience as a family navigating some of the serious issues that come with adopting kids from a child protective services case. I want to help people understand the challenges we face on a daily basis as a result of the environment that a lot of people think my kids were too young to be affected by. I want people to get a small feel for how much strength and discipline it takes to maintain patience with a child who doesn’t understand why he’s so defiant and angry and uncontrollable. I want you to get a sense for how heartbreaking it is to have to make decisions that seemingly punish an angel of a child just to maintain consistency and structure with the other child. I want you to see how seriously much a little guy can be molded and affected in the first 18 months of his life, how much it carries forward, and how hard it is to explain to a 5 year old WHY he feels the way he does when he was too young to actually remember any of the moments that made him who he is.

I want you to get a small sense of the reality of our situation, and maybe develop some compassion for the parents who CHOOSE to put themselves through this for the sake of forgotten children, and I want you to maybe gain a tiny bit of perspective that might help you start to understand, just an itty bitty bit, how a woman could throw a kid on a plane to Russia after she realized what she’d gotten herself into(but I still want you to believe that it was a bad decision!).

And, if somehow, in the telling of our story, someone else out there can relate and not feel so damned alone, to me, it will have been more than worth the effort.

If it’s too much for you, don’t read it. Simple enough.

INSANITY Challenge

I’m in the second phase of INSANITY and as much as I’d like to tell you that it’s awesome and I love it, I simply can’t. I hate it. I really, really hate it. It makes me cry. I plodded through the first month and I didn’t love it then, but I didn’t hate it. This week is when that reality set in.

This phase brings longer workouts. They’re similar to the first month’s workouts, except more phenomenally insane, which any sensible person would have argued was impossible. Where the crap this guy comes up with this shit is entirely beyond me. Who is sitting around thinking, “push ups are good. . . jumping jacks are good. . . balancing on one toe and one finger is good. . . crossing your eyes is good. . . and . . . singing Yankee Doodle Went to Town is good. . . let’s do them all together!”. FREAKING PSYCHOPATHS, THAT’S WHO.

Someone needs to get Shaun T. some help. That boy ain’t right.

As I start to see the light, three more weeks in front of me, I’m encouraged to be more than halfway through the program. I’m extra encouraged to not be dead from it. I have yet to make it through an entire workout without stopping to take extra breaks. I have collapsed onto the floor after every single workout to date. I have sworn more and talked myself down to prevent ruining a perfectly good television on multiple occasions. I have done white pages searches for Shaun T. so that I might find out where he lives and fork his yard. But, I have not made it through a workout.

Which means I have to do it again.

Sometimes I really hate my personality.

If I’m gonna put myself through this Hell again, on purpose, I figure it only fitting to offer you the same Hell. I’m seeking facilities to accommodate a group INSANITY class starting mid-June. If you’re in the Austin area and are interested, let me know. If you happen to know of any wide open space that might let us all jump around together for an hour a day, let me know.

Misery loves company, and I can tell you I’ll be a lot happier putting myself through this when I can see some sort of collaborative agreement among other humans when I scream “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” at the TV.

3 more weeks, RAWR!

You’ve got a little Tiger Woods on your hands. . .

There are so many things wrong with this title. There are so many more things wrong with someone saying it out loud. There are even that many more things wrong with it when you’re a youth soccer coach saying it to one of your player’s moms.

First of all, I don’t want a little Tiger Woods on or near my hands. Gross.

Second of all, comparing my son to Tiger Woods. . . not a compliment. Maybe – maybe - if you were talking to a boy’s father, that might have flown. Not with mama.

The more important point here, though, is that a soccer coach thinks my five year old kid is good. Like really good. He said he moves like an athlete, he strategizes, he knows how to negotiate the ball. He said all of those things! About my kid! He moves like an athlete. !!!

I never thought I’d be so proud of athletic ability. I thought we’d go to games and we’d enjoy it, but we’d be the NORMAL family who got that it’s all for fun and it doesn’t matter if you win or lose or if your kid sucks, as long as they’re all having a good time. And, then MY kid became the rock star (and I’m not just saying that because he’s my kid, I’m saying it because out of 28 total goals scored in his games, 20+ of them were his – and all of his were in the RIGHT GOAL).

I fully expected this season to be the one where he got his soccer legs. Where he maybe grasped the concept of not using his hands to play. I thought he’d probably be the social butterfly and make new friends and that would be more important to him than the game, and that would be fine.

Ha! HA HA! Nope. That kid went out there, every week, with his game face on. He wasn’t screwing around. He was focused and really, really good. After a couple of games, we talked about sportsmanship and how to help the other kids understand the game. . . and he did it. He high fived and applauded other kids when they did a good job – even if they were on the other team! He cheered for his teammates from the sidelines and he played fair, not at all acting like the cocky star athlete who knows he’s the only one who can save the game.

I am so proud of him, I just can’t stand it.

He wasn’t the biggest kid on the team. He wasn’t the kid with two parents who coach high school sports. He wasn’t even the kid who showed up 15 minutes early every Saturday to practice. And, he was still badass. More badass than all of the above mentioned kids. And, for no apparent reason. His soccer education came from a 5 minute prep session with his 8 year old sister on the way to his first game. That’s it.

When his coach approached me after his last game and told me I need to get him into a more challenging program. . . that he needs to play with older kids and have actual skills training. . . that he sees amazing things coming for MY KID, I acted super cool, like I knew that all along and we were just playing in this little league to give him a break from all of the “serious” training he does year-round (*blink*). And, then I walked away and tried really hard not to cry.

As I delve further into the story about their adoption and all of the struggles this little guy has faced, you’ll have a better understanding of why this is such a big freaking deal. I mean, it’s awesome without their history attached. But, when I explain his history to you and point you back to this story and let you watch him continue down this path, you’ll probably cry, too.

Five years ago, when this one was just a tiny baby, you could feel the anger radiate from his tiny body. Four years ago, when he was moved into a stable environment, his limitations became painfully obvious. Two and a half years ago, all I could see in him was rage and defiance. . . and I didn’t know how we were all going to survive it. Today might not seem like much to you, but to us, where we are is a huge victory. And, if this is how far we’ve come, just imagine how far we’ll go!

And, for the record, we’ll get there without Tiger Woods ever touching any part of my body. Ever.

May 19

Sometimes I remember today, sometimes I don’t. This year, it’s been sitting in my head for a week.

10 years ago today, I got married.

It doesn’t seem like that long ago. . . and at the same time, it seems like so much longer. I still marvel at who I was back then and how, thank God, seriously much I’ve changed.

For the first few years after the divorce, I was so apathetic about the whole thing, that this date flew right by without a thought. Until a few weeks later, I’d realize I’d missed it and wonder if I was supposed to feel bad. Was I supposed to remember? Was I supposed to acknowledge it somehow? But, the old, selfish me would shrug it off and decide it wasn’t worth the energy worrying what anyone else thought. On with the day! On with my life! On with whatever trivial thing was bringing me happiness that was so much more important than reflecting on my past!

It wasn’t until a good 5 years later that it nagged at me more. And, then, I think it was only because we were finally back in touch. Not out of friendship. Not out of forgiveness or bygones. Not out of love. Not out of anything pleasant, in fact. We were back in touch out of necessity.

MY necessity.

By this time, I had already started to learn valuable lessons about life and kindness and making a positive difference in the world. All things I hadn’t given a second thought at the ripe old age of 23 when I married him. All things he probably never thought I’d grasp.

I had moved half a country away from my entire life and developed an entirely new existence. I had become a person I was proud to be. I had defied all expectations and abandoned the negativity and hate that had for so long been my entire identity. I had marched out into the world, claimed responsibility for my life, and made the changes necessary to leave the past where it belonged. And, I was happy. So freaking happy.

He had no idea. All he knew was the angry, bitter shrew he had married. The one who was molested as a child. The one who had accepted abuse as a standard of living. The one who hated the world because the world was so harsh. The one who took all of the pain and disappointment and anger and fear of all of those experiences out on him because he was the easiest target. The safest target. The only target. He knew the me who lived to make someone else miserable. . . to make HIM miserable . . . to somehow make up for all of the misery that other people had thrust upon her.

He knew the me whose only objective in life was to get back some of what was taken from her. The very selfish me who felt justified in being so amazingly selfish. The me who wouldn’t have kids with him because it would mean less money for clothes or electronics, less time for vacation or relaxation, less attention from him and his family. The me who set a ridiculously high bar for extravagant gifts and extraordinary displays of love and expected it to be exceeded every year. The me who thought only of herself and spent a solid majority of her time fighting to have more because somehow, more stuff, more money, more love was supposed to buy happiness.

So. . . when I called him, out of the blue, 5 years after I had walked out to ask him for a favor, it wasn’t all that surprising that his response was “GO TO HELL”. Well, ok, fine. It WAS surprising. I spent nearly 10 years getting my way, no matter what. On the occasion that he’d get a wild hair and disagree with me about something, I’d fight to the death – whether I was right or wrong – and wind up getting my way. So, while I fully expected it to be difficult to get his help, I definitely expected it to at least be a negotiation.

I had failed to take into consideration the fact that he might have changed over the years, too.

The problem was, I needed a favor whose importance far exceeded even the most serious issues of our past. The bigger problem was, I had spent my entire life orchestrating it such that I would never need anything from anyone. . . and especially not from him. So, I had no idea how to even begin asking for his help, and I had long since forgotten how to fight him for it.

Our first conversation was tough. It was a lot of “I don’t care. Go to Hell. Don’t call me again”. It was me in tears, partially because I didn’t know what to do, and partially because holy shit, he doesn’t live for the chance to be my hero anymore. I’m not gonna lie, that was a tough reality to face. Especially when I had spent forever believing that that’s exactly what he was put on this earth to do (I know! I was horrible! I’ve tried to tell you!).

Our next conversation changed everything I believed about the world and the people in it. The conversation where he called back and agreed to help.

WHAT?! Who IS THIS and what have you done with my ex-husband?!

He definitely made sure we were all super clear that he wasn’t doing it for ME. But, he agreed to do it. And, then we talked. For hours. And hours. And, I tried so hard to make him see how much I’ve changed, how lucky we both are for how things worked out, how ending that marriage was what set us both on the new paths that had brought us both so much more happiness than we ever would have had together. . . I tried to convince him that I was happy! Really! Happy! And, it was awesome! Who knew? Happiness is AWESOME! And, I learned to lighten up and have a few drinks every now and then! And, I don’t bitch at other people when they do the same! And, I don’t throw things or scream or hate people for having more stuff than I do! I run! I sing! I dance! I laugh! I have friends! I leave the house! I LIVE! I tried to cram into that 4 hour conversation every possible tidbit of proof that I am an entirely different person than the poor, tortured soul he married, and I tried to force him to comprehend how lucky he is that I left before our mutual hatred for the world ate us both alive.

I apologized for who I was. I was completely fine with his inability to apologize back, and even willing to tolerate his jabs when he saw an opening to get them in. I beamed with pride at everything he’s accomplished since I left, and I knew that he never would have done it if I had stayed.

We had the most comfortable conversation, even after 5 years of no contact, that any two people could have. Because no matter what has happened, no matter how much time has passed, there will always be love between us. We will always know that neither one of us would have made it through some of the worst times of our lives without each other, and we will always have a bond because of it. That’s how I knew he’d answer the phone, and that’s how I knew he’d help (though I doubt he ever thought I’d swallow my pride enough to ask).

And, at the end of it all, he helped change the entire course of my life yet again. He changed my faith in humanity. He changed my belief that people are inherently self-serving, mean-spirited people who are just waiting for the opportunity to hurt someone. He demolished my perception of who he is, and at the same time, changed my perception of the world.

The May 19 that followed all of that was the first time I remember remembering our anniversary.

The next one, I forgot.

The NEXT one is what set this date in my head permanently.

On May 19, 2009, out of paralyzing fear and the desperate need for someone I believed to tell me everything would be ok , I left a voicemail for him that said basically this: “Happy Anniversary. Oh, and I might have cancer”.

He, being the only person in my life who has ever seen me so vulnerable, was the only person I felt comfortable leaning so heavily on. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. I have amazing friends who refused to let me drive to the biopsy appointment myself and forced me to laugh at lunch immediately thereafter. Who called me A LOT to check on me while I waited for results. Who listened to me freak the hell out for hours at a time. Who sincerely could not have been more supportive. Who I just wouldn’t let see me fall to pieces (I like to pretend like they never know it’s happening as long as I pretend like it’s not happening).

I shouldn’t have called. He didn’t have to call back. But, for 30 minutes, he patiently listened while I drowned myself in a puddle of my own tears, and he quietly promised that everything would be ok, and he insisted that I let him know as soon as I got the results.

I can’t explain why he was the only one who could chill me the fuck out. I can’t explain why he was willing to. I can’t explain how that is the case, how we know each other so well after so much time. And, I can’t explain how both of us find it perfectly acceptable that I texted him the results and we haven’t spoken since. We’re weird that way. But, we BOTH are, so it’s fine.

I don’t know how that bond remains after all these years, but I bet it has a lot to do with having grown up together. The person I was all those years ago would never believe that I ever needed him. . . and that he has never needed me. Because that person saw that entire relationship in a completely opposite light – and was pretty darn resentful about it. I’m glad the person I am now sees the person that he is now. I’m glad we’ve had my circumstances as an excuse to reconnect so that we could know each other as we are without each other. I’m glad to know the guy has a heart.

When May 19 rolls around these days, I can’t help but remember what it means. Instead of rolling my eyes and groaning about the years I spent wasted in a failed marriage. . . I smile and thank the universe for all of the ways his presence in my life altered my path, I embrace the memories of the good times, and I thank God I married a man who, despite a very sincere effort to be mean and hateful, simply couldn’t abandon me the way I abandoned him all those years ago. And, I reflect on that lesson.

Happy May 19, Internet. May you be so blessed.

So here’s the thing.

There’s been a slight delay in my continuation of this story. . . not because I don’t have enough to say (hahahahaha!), but because it’s really hard to figure out what to say next.  I knew at the time that I should have been blogging privately to keep track of everything, but I was just so afraid of it somehow being published and getting myself in more trouble than I could get out of.  I know it was the right decision at the time, given how it all went down, but holy crap, it would have been so much easier to tell the story then!

I need to chat with my mom and pull out all of my notes from back then and create a timeline and remember the stories that I’ve sent to the dark corners of my mind in hopes of them going away somehow.  I need to decide how much of the kids’ perspective I want to share. . . because we’re all very open and honest in this house, and even though it breaks the hell out of my heart, I’ve encouraged them to share what bits they randomly remember of their old life.  You simply wouldn’t believe some of the things they say (like “I don’t like daddies. . . daddies sneak vegetables into your food. . . daddies sneak spinach into your brownies” – oh, it happened, it soooo happened.  In public!  Really loudly!  And, it took all I had not to announce that I adopted these kids and “Daddy” isn’t anyone I’ve ever been connected to in any way!). 

So, just hold tight.  I’m working on getting my thoughts in order so I don’t go spouting off about what happened yesterday without giving you all of the information leading up to yesterday. 

In the meantime, INSANITY is still kicking my ass.  I’ve just completed 4 weeks and while I don’t FEEL any skinnier or stronger or at all like any of the torture I’ve endured for the past month has been worth a damned thing, the pictures tell another story, so woohoo!  I mean, I’m still not shoving myself into a bikini anytime soon, but at least I can shove myself into some pants. 

Also, I do have house projects to update you on.  The garden!  It’s still growing!  Well, most of it anyway.  And, the coat closet!  Try to imagine the amazing things I did to the coat closet!  I know.  It’s hard to believe.  That this much uncontrollable awesomeness is happening in one person’s life, but it is.   Indeed, it is.

A sharp left, right into the toilet.

I think it’s important to note that my sister has spent a good part of her adolescent and adult life dealing with depression and anxiety.  I think it’s important because it’s the only explanation that helps me reconcile her intentions and her love for her kids with everything that has happened.  It’s the only thing that lets me forgive her for the hell she put her kids and our family through.  It’s the one fact that I cling to, like a buoy, in the vastness of the circumstances, that gives me reason to believe that she didn’t mean for any of this to happen, she just didn’t know how not to let it happen.

That, combined with her recreational drug use, are also the only possible semi-explanations for why she let him come back into their lives. . .and why she kept clinging more and  more tightly to him as things spiraled further out of control.

No sane and sober person would have tolerated him for a full 24 hours.  She somehow managed years.

If I had to point to any one thing that really forced the downward spiral, it was him.  It’s not even hard to say so.  It doesn’t make me flinch at all out of the tiniest bit of question about whether or not it’s true.  I don’t hesitate for any portion of a second, wondering whether it’s the whole truth.  I (choose to) firmly believe that she would have made it if he hadn’t come back into the picture.

To my best recollection, my sister had been working full-time and supporting her household for about two years when he came back.  She had an apartment.  It may have been small and it may not have been in the best part of town, but it was hers.  She paid for day care and food and utilities and car insurance.  She struggled, no doubt.  She had more completely exhausting days than not.  And, knowing what I know now, I’d guess she cried herself to sleep a lot more often than I would ever have supposed.  But, she was doing it.  By herself.  I wish I would have known at the time what a huge accomplishment that really was. 

It started as an awkward shift in her relationships with all of us.  There’ s no way she was going to openly brag about his return.  She knew what we thought about him.  She had given us all of the information that led us to that conclusion.  He had disappeared and left her and their baby to fend for themselves.  You might mistakenly think he had a change of heart and wanted to right his wrongs, but you’d be so very wrong.  He had no business coming back.  He most definitely had no business coming back and moving into their apartment and giving her another mouth to feed.

Eventually, of course, we all found out what was going on.  We heard from her less, saw the baby less.  She’d avoid phone calls and forget to call us back.  I’m sure she didn’t want to hear us lecture her about the bad decisions she seemed to continually make when he was around.  But, how could we not? 

He was back, and he was controlling her every move.  We were irritated.  We hated to see her take a sharp left, right into the toilet, when she had held it together for so long.  But, you can’t reason with an addict and you can’t talk sense into a victim.  Being the sickening, eternal optimist I am, I held onto the tiniest sliver of hope that they’d both wake up one day and get it right.  Clearly, that never happened.

INSANITY – Week 3

I’ve finished Week 3 of this INSANITY business and I have never so desperately wanted to be done with anything ever in my life.  This is not easy.  I thought P90X was brutal, but I don’t remember ever collapsing from fatigue and praying out loud that I won’t actually vomit.  It’s not funny anymore.  The first week, I laughed and thought to myself, “Self, you are NOT in very good shape!  hahahaha!  What made you think you could do this?”.  The third week, I’ve been thinking, “Self, what is more important?  Being in great shape in a pile on your living room floor OR BEING HAPPY AND ALIVE?!!”.  Not a very good attitude, eh? 

So, Week 3 starts with the Fit Test again.  I improved.  Not by much, but I improved.  And, it’s a good thing, too, because my measurements didn’t budge.  At all.  So, all of that fitting into my jeans better must have been in my head.  Whatever works!

It’s a wee bit discouraging to bust one’s ass for three solid weeks and see no visible results.  But, let me just tell you what a huge feeling of accomplishment it was to finally get through a warm up without stopping.  You think I’m kidding.  I’m so not.  I plowed through that day’s workout with a huge smile on my face because that was progress.  HUGE progress. 

I’m hoping to see some more tangible improvement next week.  I fear I might smash the tv if this drags on much longer, but if my ass fits nicely into a bikini, it will all be worth it in the end.  (right?)

I maintain that I will hang in there with this program through the 60 days to see what happens.  At a bare minimum, I’m pretty sure running will be easier, and that always helps.  Especially with all these bears here in Texas. . .

Mother’s Day

My first year as a mama was crazy.  Well, I mean, DUH, everyone’s first year is crazy, but I mean Mother’s Day was crazy.  I cried most of the day because I kept being reminded, every few minutes, how unbelievable my friends are.  I tend to befriend guys more often than not, and guys just aren’t known for being all mushy and sweet. . . but MY guys are simply amazing.  I got phone calls all day long.  Texts.  Cards – like in the real mail, y’all. 

For someone (me) who hadn’t really ever gotten into all of the Hallmark holidays, who never really gave them much thought or attention, who thought the day would come and go without significance whether I had kids or not, I pretty seriously turned into a pathetic ball of mush on my first Mother’s Day.

If you have kids, you probably get it.  If you don’t, you probably don’t.

Being a mom is not easy.  At all.  Ever.  I doubt that’s news, but if you don’t have kids, you just don’t know.  You might think you know, but you don’t.  I thought I knew, and then I got kids.  And, holy shit.  Talk about being humbled.

Not only is it not easy, it’s the most thankless job in the world.  And, they don’t just not thank you, they HATE YOU a good part of the time FOR BEING A MOM.  And, it’s not always easy to keep being a mom – a fully engaged, discipline doling, dinner cooking, laundry folding, floor vacuuming, homework checking, advice giving, friend babysitting, party throwing, soccer game going, teacher tolerating, story reading, boo boo bandaging, 3am bad dream consoling, active mom – when the little people you’re doing all of that for routinely stomp out of the room because you made salmon florentine with brown rice for dinner instead of Spaghettios, or your favorite color today is his sister’s favorite color instead of his, or you don’t have the energy to allow all of the girls in her make-believe band to spend the night this weekend.

But, as hard as it is, there are little moments that make it all worthwhile.  And, while most of those moments come in the form of Mother’s Day breakfast in bed (burnt toast and a protein bar today), or finger guns and an “I love you, babycakes”, or the occasional “You’re the best mom ever!”. . . the rare moments when someone outside your daily routine takes the time to recognize your efforts – especially someone who doesn’t have kids, who you would never expect to even notice -  just makes the most amazing difference.  It almost validates everything you do, and while I’d venture to guess that most moms would continue to rock it with or without that validation, I know that it’s a little easier to rock it with a smile no matter how exhausted and worn down you might be on the rare day that someone has given you a thumbs up.

So, for that, for waking me this morning with a flurry of Mother’s Day texts and giving me the extra oomph to eat that burnt toast and pretend like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and for giving me the little boost to scrap the day’s very carefully laid out plans to work, work, work and spend the morning playing Hide & Seek with the kids, thank you.  It means more than you know, and it makes this crazy adventure that I’ve gotten us all into feel a lot less like work.

Oh, and uuuuh, Mom. . . sorry for being such a huge pain in the ass.  I can’t believe you hung in there with all of us (and continue to do so).  Thank you!!!

And, then. . .

The next year or so were relatively uneventful in terms of my sister. I was busy getting a divorce and jumping into my rebound relationship way too early, way too fast. The divorce seemed to drag on forever and was just a comedy of errors from start to finish. If I had known then to listen to the universe, I probably would still be married. My attorney was horrible, and managed to turn what should have been a 60 day process into a 10 month process. The paperwork got lost. The paperwork got found but then filed incorrectly. The paperwork got refiled but forgot to state that I wasn’t pregnant. The court lost the paperwork. It was crazy and it was excrutiating, for both of us. Except, I acted like it was fine. Everything’s fine! I’m fine! Look how fine I am! And, the more he’d act like he was most definitely not anywhere close to fine, the more I’d feel the need to prove that it’s fine! Everything is perfectly fine! See? You’ll be fine! You just have to believe it!

I successfully convinced myself that I was making all of the right decisions, that I had done everything I could to save that marriage, and that it simply wasn’t salvageable. . . or worth salvaging. I created my own little reality, that had little basis in actual reality, and marched directly away from everything that even hinted at a piece of my past. Even with the benefit of hindsight, I can’t tell you if I wish I had done things differently. I was brutal. I was heartless. I was stone cold and I didn’t look back for second. I could have tried harder. I could have acknowledged some share of the blame. I could have been an adult about it instead of a spoiled brat who expected everything to always go her way. I absolutely should have been more kind.

I don’t know that it would have made any difference. Most of me really believes it wouldn’t have, but if I had tried, at least I wouldn’t wonder. One thing I do know, is that I would never be where I am today – I wouldn’t have these kids – if I hadn’t walked away from my life then. . . and when I try to imagine where I would be if I had stayed, it weighs very heavily on my heart. I am so lucky for the life I have now, and I’m even luckier to know that.

Most of my joy during that year +/- was in spending time with my niece. As she grew from a baby into a walking, talking, silly little girl, my heart grew by leaps and bounds. I have banks full of such tiny memories that made such lasting impressions. My favorite is the time I picked her up from daycare, and after being asked if I was her grandma (WTeverlovingF, jerks?!!), I dropped to my knees and spread my arms to hug her as she came running across the room. She threw herself full force into my arms and we were laughing and squealing . . . and before I knew it every other kid in that place was piling into that hug. I remember driving away from daycare that day wondering how I ever thought I would live my whole life and never have kids.

I often gave my sister pep talks, insisting that she could handle it. She could do it. She was struggling, but she was making it. Women everywhere do it every day. She could raise that little girl by herself. She just had to keep going. I knew she was having a hard time, but I also believed that she could get through it, and that each day would be easier than the day before.

I babysat a ton. We’d spend weekends at the zoo or running through the sprinkler in my backyard, or at the state fair. . . and I loved that kid more than I’ve ever loved anyone. My mom babysat a ton, too. And, looking back, it’s a little easier to understand why she has fared the tragedies of her early childhood so well. She’s always known love. Always. Without question.

At some point, it started to feel like my sister was dumping her daughter off with anyone who would take her at any given opportunity. We grew tired of her expectation that we would babysit, especially when it was starting to feel like we were spending more time with her daughter than she was. We talked to her about it. We had uncomfortable conversations that felt accusatory and mean. But, we wanted her to engage in her daughter’s life. We wanted her to see what was happening, and we wanted her to care. From where we were standing, she just didn’t. She was worried about herself, and her child was a pretty major inconvenience.

It seemed to be an ongoing conversation. We’d talk about it, nothing would change. We loved, loved, loved having that little girl around because she was just delightful – very well-behaved, very polite, and just as sweet as can be, so we didn’t really fight too hard on the issue. Our irritation was more out of hope that my sister would recognize her role and step up, and not at all out of any desire to spend less time babysitting

No matter how frank those discussions became, and no matter how frustrated we all got with one another, we remained close. Until he came back. The father.