One night, Daren and I were in bed, and he was trying mercilessly to get me to get on board with the doing of the sexual things. I felt fat, overly so, and was very very snippy.

“You’re leaning on my hair,” I whined. I huffed, and shifted, and very nearly poked him in the eye as I pulled my hair out from under his elbow.

I really wasn’t into it, as you can tell. When I’m feeling unsexy, the last thing I want to do is show off my rolls and get all naked to roll around with my husband, even though he has seen it all over the last 13+ years that we’ve been together.

“My leg doesn’t bend that way,” I groaned. I kept moving around, unable to get comfortable, and kept sighing. Sexy huh?

“Fuck you complain a lot,” he muttered. He gave up, rolled over, and back-to-back, we both lay awake, angry with the other though neither one of us could verbalize why.

Obviously, I felt unattractive and grumpy and he felt rejected.

That was about 3 years ago. It was an isolated incident that is forever etched in my mind. I can go back to that night in my mind and feel the same things I felt at the time.

I can recall numerous times where I’ve snarled at my kids for well, being kids. I can remind myself of every whiny spell I’ve had where I’m complaining about stupid things like the laundry piling up or the toys I’m tripping over. I can vividly remember how I’ve felt around friends who I felt were prettier, skinnier, more financially stable, smarter than me. I’ll cancel plans simply to avoid my girlfriends seeing me look fat/tired/out of shape.

The insecurity that I feel a lot of the time ends up being something I metabolize into a bitchy attitude.

It always amazes me how I feel after being at the gym or going for a run. I’m happy, I see the good, I remain positive when dealing with criticism. Money? Pah. We’ll make more. Laundry? Pah. I’ll get to it.

Now, after less than a week of being back to running and about 2 months into regular exercise, I feel so good. I have more energy for my boys, I get my work done quicker, and I handle stress way better. Sure the laundry is still piling up, but that’s because I’m outside playing with my kids or at the gym! Fuck laundry!

I just don’t ever want to hear, “Fuck you complain a lot,” in that context, ever again. I don’t want to be one of those people who complain about every little thing. I’ve been friends with people like that and they are exhausting, draining souls. I know life isn’t all rainbows, but to complain constantly about waking up in the morning, about being a parent, about work and life and oxygen? Ugh. Who wants that for their life?

Now when Daren and I are kidding around, if one of us is getting whiny or whatever, the other will whisper, “Fuck you complain a lot.” Throws us into a fit of giggles every time.  And we’ve been giggling a lot more these days.

It’s 10 to 9 and the gym daycare opens at 9. I have a 3 hour window in which I could go run 5K this morning but I’m feeling VERY discouraged and crappy after stepping on the scale this morning and seeing a 2lb gain. I worked out for an HOUR yesterday morning, then cleaned/reorganized the boys’ rooms for FOUR HOURS.

You would think after all that activity I would see a drop, even just stay the same since I didn’t drink enough water yesterday. But no, my body decided to GAIN 2 FRACKING POUNDS.

I swear some days it’s just an uphill battle and I wish someone would tell me why I should even bother going to the gym this morning because my mojo is lost today and I need a good kick in the ass.

I’m going to get dressed – maybe my mojo is in my sports bra.

So this morning my friends R and J were waiting for me at the gym. I was still high from last night, and even higher since I stepped on the scale this morning and saw I had shed THREE POUNDS this week after kicking sugar!

Still, trepidation set in as this was about to be my first step class ever.

I don’t do well at classes. I try one, thinking it will be fun and a great workout and I get lost in the choreography and end up being very discouraged, never looking back.

The first 25 minutes were pretty good. I fumbled a couple times but nothing major, and I actually was thinking about Kimberle and her jazzercise and how much fun that would be. J told me she used to do jazzercise but that it’s not offered here in Pleasantville.

Which might be a good thing because…

The last 35 minutes of class my brain fired my legs to go opposite ways and even though there was a Motherbumper look-a-like in front of me to mimic (she was obviously a regular), I royally sucked. Still, R and J were first-timers as well and doing their best to keep going so I did too.

By the end I was really worn out and ready for a good old fashioned hose-down. I was soaked – the sign of a good workout I suppose, and despite looking like a dork in some spots, I’m pretty proud of myself.

Course, I could have just stayed home and done this:

Best Workout Ever – Watch more Funny Videos

I’m writing this totally high on the evening. After setting out stuff for dinner while Daren BBQ’d, I decided I wasn’t hungry. I was craving, WAIT FOR IT: EXERCISE.

WHAT THE WHAT?

Lemme back up a couple days – Haley, Leslie, Lotus and I were gabbing on Twitter and I forget which 2 or 3 of them came up with the hashtag #HotAssPact2009 but basically, each of them was giving up something that they loved in order to gain one very hot ass by BlogHer.

Ms. Cheaty Monkey herself, is a Chai Tea ADDICT to the maxitude. She is giving up her usual Starbucks Sin. It’s causing headache withdrawals that I could certainly sympathize with yesterday as I was KO’d with a doozy.

Lovely Lotus is giving up the MOONSHINE, er, alcohol. Moonshine = Muffintop and Lotus is determined to lose 20 lbs. I only WISH I had 20 to lose.

My favorite West Coast Hottie (who I doubt needs any help in the weight loss department, Flingers with the Zingers, is giving up sugar AND processed carbs. Girl. is. crazy.

Me?

Sugar.

Sugar and I are hot, nasty lovers. We crave each other – seek each other out – have torrid steamy affairs when no one is around to judge the pull of our love.

I quit running back in August/September when we moved to the crapartment. I’d love to blame all kinds of factors but the truth of the matter is I was being lazy. I had lost Homie G to the move (we both moved around the same time) and she really was an amazing driving force that got my ass moving on the darkest of days.

Since we moved to Pleasantville, I have been in a full-on disgusting all-day-every-day make-out session with sugar. Dude. It’s gross. Like the biggish bags of M&M peanuts? Gone in one sitting. Me, jammie-clad, searching for any kind of sugar late at night – the kid’s puddings, peanut butter on toast with cinnamon and sugar, a bowl of cereal here and there….oh HELLO FAT ASS.

Instead of losing weight with the It’s On Like Donkey Kong challenge, I gained. Shocker! The kicker is I have been going to the gym and seeing a new trainer (who is entirely too soft on me – I must discipline myself). So for over a month I’ve been working out, and eating like mad and of course, I gained 5 freaking pounds.

Yes, I’m kicking myself once again.

So. Pushing my way into #HotAssPact2009 is where I will get daily accountability. Tuesday was Day One. I did great – no sugar.
Day Two – one cupcake killed my resolve mid-day. Day Three – I sent the remaining cupcakes to Thomas’ class, and spent the day down for the count with a horrible migraine BUT no sugar. None. Ouchie. Head. Hurt. Withdrawal?

TODAY was Day Four: I started my day with fresh cherries and sugar-free vanilla yogurt. I drove into London and ended up having a Gyros on Wholewheat Pita loaded with veggies, feta and tzatziki. I had an apple late afternoon and decided today was the day I would start running again.

So I left Daren and the kids to eat together and hit the gym. Having gained my muffintop back, I have been really nervous about running at the new gym. I don’t know why, it’s not like I wasn’t WAY worse off the first time I started but it’s a small town – I really didn’t want anyone to see me.

I told myself to stop being such a stupid idiot and go.

Going in, I wasn’t sure if I’d find the balls to actually run. I mean, I’ve had the intention to run before and then chickened out. LAME. Where is the brave girl I once was?

The main gym was mostly empty, but I ventured into the women’s only section anyway. I was feeling sheepish when I saw the only two women in there were together, but I thought I’d better get over it – they probably could care less who I am or what I’m doing. In the women’s only there are 3 treadmills: one against the wall and the other two right beside that. Of course one of the girls was on the middle one. It’s funny, I imagine guys in a urinal crowding situation when I think of this and I’m all like should I go for the wall treadmill or the outer one?

I went for the wall. ‘BALLS TO THE WALL,’ I thought.

I started up the treadmill at 3.5 like I always do, and right away vowed to start running at 4 minutes in.

Tick tock.

3:30 went by…3:35…. so I got a song ready that I remembered I love to run to:

Yeah I know. And mine? Is the Kanye West version (Stronger). Shuddap.

So 4 minutes came along and I punched in 5.5. I ran. It left gooooooood.

My first goal was to run for 1 minute, but I made it to 2.

I walked for 2, ran for 2 more, then RAN FOR FOUR FREAKING MINUTES. It was like getting right back on a bicycle.

I did the walk/run thing for about 30 minutes (it’s hard to tell cuz the treadmills quit after 20 minutes which is STUPID, so I had to re-start the thing.) I was watching distance anyway, not really timing myself. After some quick math, I figured I could probably do 5K total.

And I DID.

Holy freaking frack, I DID IT. My FIRST time back to running, and OMG I did FIVE FREAKING KILOMETRES!

Having not seen my trainer in two weeks, I asked to leave a note:

“Dear J, Karen is BACK BABY. (Call me?) I ran 5K tonight. (holy crap.)”

I’m HIGH.

And I made it through the day without sugar.

Sweet Deals.

p.s. You can join the #HotAssPact2009 on Twitter or join us in our new forum:

p.p.s. I did a one minute plank after I was so high.

p.p.p.s. Yes, I remembered to stretch.

p.p.p.p.s. I’m going to a step class at 9 a.m. tomorrow with 2 friends. Can’t back outta that one!

If Max and Ruby’s mother had a blog:

Holy shit my daughter is annoying.  It’s great that she wants to watch Max for me all the time, especially since these hangovers are killer.  But the whiny demands are piercing my very soul!  No wonder I don’t want to spend any time with that child.  She sounds just like my mother.  Bossy, overbearing girl is going to drive her brother either: into the arms of a nagging wife who will emasculate what’s left of him within the 1st year; or he’ll be a serial killer.  Super.  I need another drink to drown out her tea party with that blobby kid from down the street.

Loonette’s mother’s MySpace (Big Comfy Couch):

WHY am I always finding dollies and toys under these damn couch cushions?  This is the third vacuum this year that has died from trying to clean up this mess.  What did I do to get such a weirdo kid?  My sister said clowns were creepy but she doesn’t know the half of it – I basically gave birth to one.  And what is with all of Loonette’s rules?  She performs a high-speed clean-up routine called the “Ten-Second Tidy”. If, however, there is no mess made, then it is called the “Ten-Second Untidy, Tidy” (where Loonette has to make a mess and then clean up afterwards). If the mess was already cleaned up, then it is called the “Ten-Second Silly” (where Loonette has to be silly for 10 seconds). If Loonette did not make a mess but Molly did, then Molly has to do the “Ten-Second Tidy” with Loonette’s help. I’d like 10 seconds of her not rolling around on the floor like a lumpy beach ball.  Or 10 seconds of her not talking to that weirdo Major Bedhead down the street.  I guess I shouldn’t have ‘Major Bedheaded’ that Carnie 34 years ago.  Having a 34 year old toddler…well you just don’t know what that’s like.  There aren’t mommy-groups for people like me.

Caillou’s Mother on Blogspot:

How did I end up being Mommy to such a bald 4 year old?  I mean the girl is cute as heck, but Calliou is a conundrum.  I guess things would be better if our house didn’t look like a kindergarten class with all the primary colours and if my husband would man up and tell Calliou to stop whining already.  I mean at the end of the day, all I want to do is crack open the wine and forget I basically married a giant wussyman. Hopefully Rosie will marry Calliou and straighten him out because clearly, his father is about to run away with the mailman and I can’t afford the therapy it will take to fix Whiny McWhinerpants.

Dora’s Daddy has something to say:

I keep packing her backpack with all the things she would need to explore her way the hell out of here.  She is more shrill than my mother-in-law and I’m sick of hearing her repeat everything she says.  Damn football headed child.  My wife’s beatbox will never be the same.  FML

And not only is it awesome, it’s beautiful and amazing and you will be floored by what you are capable of when faced with a bit of a crisis, even though you are surrounded by nurses and doctors who *could* take over, but they see that you are, in fact, handling the problem well and even though it’s like being outside of your body, watching yourself handle this situation, for a short while, you will look back on it and decide big things.

Or yanno, maybe that’s just me.

I’m trying very hard to keep details that aren’t mine to share, unshared.  So forgive me for only telling you that Mom and Baby are doing just fine.

Over the course of my life, many people have told me I’m a nurturer. There was a time after Thomas was born that was an exception to that (PPD consumed me), but that nurturing instinct is very much a part of who I am.  What I am discovering is that I’m also very capable of taking charge when need be.  In contrast, I seem to know when to let things take their course, and rather than try to steer people in a direction I think they should go, I’m able to help them reach decisions on their own accord.  Again, details are left out here, but let’s say Mama was very much in charge of her labour and I was merely there to hold her hand until she needed me to help steer.  Kapeesh?

For the last few months, I’ve been trying to decide if I want to be a paramedic or a nurse.  I’ve tossed every pro and con around, trying to figure out what my strengths and weaknesses are in order to come to a decision that makes sense for my family, for my next career, and for my age, which will be over 40 by the time I’m finished school.  *gulp*  As @debroby pointed out to me on Twitter, I’ll be 40 anyway, why not do something I have been dreaming of doing for years?

I have decided on nursing.  Ultimately, I want to be in L&D, Obstetrics or the NICU.  I think I’ve decided on the 4 year RN program, rather than the 2 year LPN/RPN Program, and I have to find out if I have to take the Pre-Health Program first, which would add an extra year.

I’ll be honest – going back to school at 35 is daunting, but Daren did that and just graduated (he’s 40 now).  Every time I think about it, I get really excited and my heart beats really fast.  I can’t wait.

Paging Nurse Sugarpants!

There are 5 babies coming into our lives this year, indirectly of course.

My cousin had the first, my best friend is due any day, Daren’s best friend & wife are due in June, my brother & his wife are due in October, and my oldest cousin is due in December. 
(Honorable mention goes to Loralee, who is birthing une petit elephant sometime in 2011.  Seriously it feels as though she has been pregnant forever, and her and I laugh about this all the time that she is actually going to have an elephant.)

In late 2004, mere months after Thomas was born, Mister Sugarpants took two little pills that loopified his demeanor, and I drove a very trippy husband to the snip-snip doctor to have his balls cut open and adjusted so as to not make any more baby batter.

It still is really funny to think about how those pills made him act.  The dude never so much as pops a Tylenol, so to see him on any sort of drug is odd.  I was lucky to get him in the car when I did because his head lolled around on his neck quite a bit as she snorted in and out of consciousness.

Slow spin of head, and a sudden:

SNORT!

“We should go parrrrty!”

“Uh no, hun, we have an appointment, remember…”

(oh.  he’s out again.  good.)

5 minutes later, his head rolls around and SNORT!

“Call Jim!  Call Jim and Scott and Jay!  We should go to the barrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Oh babe, no, remember we’re going to…”

(oh. he’s out again.  super.)

Lather, rinse repeat 4-5 more times, each time I’m worrying how I’m going to get my six-foot-two stoner out of the car and up to the doctor’s office once we do arrive.

Turns out, these happy pills were not unlike having your drunk on, and he could walk.  I felt like I was leading him into the lion’s den, with how messed up he was.  We made it to the doctor and as I found out tonight, nearly 5 years later, he watched the doctor cut open his chimichangas, tie off the tubage and sew him back up.

Wow, honey, that must have been quite the trip.

The trip he didn’t make?  Getting said operation checked in a follow up express delivery of special sauce.  Like, ever.  We had those orange-lidded medical cups in our bathroom drawer for at least a year before I tossed them in the Massive Decluttering ‘07 during preparation for selling the old house.

Fast forward to tonight, Sugarhubs and I are discussing the 5 babies making their way into our families’ and friends’ lives, and I casually mention that I met a woman who had 2 boys, was about to turn 35, who’s husband had a vasectomy 5 years prior.  Said woman found herself pregnant with a daughter very unexpectedly.

Also parallel to our lives:

- husband was 40.

- they had fertility problems with boy #2 because of her irregular cycle.

- her cycle returned to normal after birth of boy #2.

- her husband didn’t get his chowder tested either.

We went to bed a couple of hours ago, and an hour later, I woke up in a cold sweat. 
My first thought? I would love to have a daughter. 
My second?  Smarten up, Karen. We’re getting too old for this.  Babies are a shit-ton of work. You like to sleep.
My third? He promised he would get checked if I booked his physical to include that.
My fourth? Maybe I should just relax and see what happens.

Right now, everything is as damn near perfect as it could get.  Life is good.  The kids are growing like weeds and more self-sufficient every day. I’m thinking about going back to school and becoming a nurse. Sugarhubs’ career is on track and we’re happy. We’re sure not going to undo any operations here.  I do wonder if nature has other plans for us though, or if it’s just Baby Fever. Heh.

Yeah. I’ll be tracing back to Thought Numero Dos and book that appointment to put the kibosh on the kid kernels.

Regardless of all of that, I only recently found the music of Ben Folds and when I heard this song, it made me cry happy tears.  It’s exactly how I feel about Daren. 

The Luckiest – Ben Folds

I don’t get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

What if I’d been born fifty years before you
In a house on a street where you lived?
Maybe I’d be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?

And in a wide sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you

Next door there’s an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away

I’m sorry, I know that’s a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

Today was different. I’d recently been in an unshakable funk, and today was finally different. It began last night, really. I went over to Preggo’s* with the movie Taken and my purse loaded with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and M&M’s. I figured she had this night of freedom before baby comes. She looks as though he should be in her arms and not in her belly anymore.

When I arrived, there were two women unloading box after box in her house. Both had friendly faces and I offered, “can I help you guys? I’m a friend of Preggo.”

They both smiled at me. Big, trusting eyes, beautiful faces. We made our way into the house with the last of their load and introductions were made. They were long-time buddies of Preggo, from the church.

The boxes were overflowing with baby clothes. Knowing how much Preggo needed these clothes, tears welled up in my eyes. The 4 of us went through box after box, cooing over the smallness of the linen collared shirts and the softness of sleepers with feet. I instantly liked both these women, and any hesitation I had about religion was forgotten.

We came across the funniest onesies someone had painstakingly horribly ‘crafted,’ and I mentioned I would love to photograph them for my website. Whoops. Next thing I know I’m handing out my business card with my main website on it and telling them to look in the writing section to find the hilarity that is Craftastrophe. They’re intrigued, I’m hoping it’s not too offensive and that they’ll help me plan a shower for Preggo after they read Craftastrophe. *cringe*

Preggo and I stayed up way too late last night and I got home at 2 a.m. after many attempts to put her into labour. If fits of uncontrollable laughter with a girlfriend was a labour-inducer, she would have had 6 babies last night. Maybe more.  A whole gaggle of babies!

I brought home all those boxes of baby clothes and washed, dried, sorted, folded in between the day’s events.  Those little clothes made me so excited for Preggo.  I can’t wait to meet this little baby, and being her birth coach is going to be such an amazing experience.

This morning Thomas and I played with Lego after Dylan went to school, building and having these tender moments I would love to etch into my brain forever.  He is such a sensitive little guy and this morning really was a treasure.

The afternoon was spent with DJ Jazzy BarbDee and Thomas’ buddy from school at the park.  Maybe it was the sunshine, or the good company, but I came home feeling refreshed, full of warmth and love.

Pictures taken by mah homie, DJ Jazzy BarbDee.  And it was windy – I don’t really have 90’s bangs.

*not her real name, haha.

Now that the weather is getting better, I’m adding cycling to Ye Ol’ Exercise Routine.

But I don’t know where to start in terms of mileage. I’m relying on Gmaps to get me the stats I so lovingly crave. (Seriously, it’s a disease how much I love exercise stats. Yet I never write down what I eat, and I SO should.)

Any tips on how far to go, how fast to go, how many times a week to ride, what to eat, what not to eat, and how to make the damn bike seat not hurt my damn butt so much? Is that last one something you get used to? I have a decent bike – a really decent one, so I’m thinking it’s my butt and not the seat that is the problem.

Help?