Well first, let me clarify. There hasn't been A thing that has led to another thing in a while. I love how movies like to cut short "love" scenes (I'll be less graphic here in my descriptions to save a certain mother's "virgin" ears..) but narrating "and one thing led to another" as a couple fumble on the couch with sharp cut to scene couple wearing sheet over themselves with messy hair.
I was thinking the other night that, along with many changes children bring in our lives, another change is that there is no longer room for " and one thing led to another..." One thing leads to another when nap time has been scheduled between a load of laundry put on, dryer running and the door locked, then one thing is scheduled to lead to another in plenty of time to finish the laundry and avoid being interrupted by a nap cut short.
Usually, now, one thing leads to another when I run to the mall for a quick half hour lunch break to pick up a pair of pants for my almost 4 year old, I happen to stop by the store that reads "today only 40% off" and find a gorgeous jacket, for the 40% off as described, my peripherals catch a glimpse of a fabulous pair of matching boots, that quite frankly, I've needed all season long and with this new jacket, it really sinches (sp?) the deal, and while waiting at the check out, I see a long sleeved t shirt I can't possibly live without in at least 3 different colors to be sure I am comfortable at all times, yet color coordinated. And, one thing leads to another, my half hour lunch break has turned into a mini-half day 2.5 hour absence, and my visa bill is significantly larger than last month.
I'm fond of using the phrase when inexplicably behind deadline at work for something that should have taken half the amount of time planned. "I was filling logs, then got caught in a deep conversation with the news director, had to leave for that lunch meeting (perhaps the above mentioned task?..) got caught in traffic and well, one thing led to another and here we are 3 weeks later and my one thing led to another line is pretty much all I've got." Obviously, one is not impressed. That line is very helpful, though it doesn't please my boss when describing my inability to complete tasks, or my husband when both trying to explain away why I haven't done an ounce of housework in 3 weeks, but managed to increase our monthly visa bill minimum payment by at least 20%.
Children, the price you have to pay for not having one thing lead to another anymore. Or giving that phrase a whole new meaning and different set of applicable circumstances. A small sacrifice, I remind myself that at almost 4, it is probably only 6 more years before my littlest man is itching to get out of his house and play at cooler friend's houses so that I'll once again have time on my hands for one thing to lead to another. It's only a short term absence of that small amount of freedom that lead me to producing this particular freedom killing offspring.
After all, one thing led to another and now I'm a parent and one thing doesn't ever lead to another anymore or at least, until there's nap time.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
2.57
That's what I ran today in 28 degree weather. Outside.
Dear Running, how I have missed thee, let me count the ways. But not right now, I have some more gloating to do.
I haven't run since approximately November 5th. Or earlier. I can't remember it has been so long. Due to the fact that Paul had been away and that it is getting dark at 4pm, and I don't have a gym membership, I can only run outside. I have also used getting fat and being pregnant as my major excuse.
I exercised for almost 35 minutes and that was my run time. Mostly because I had to walk a major leg of that run in tippy toe eggshell movements so not to break my arse on black ice and also because the first 400 meters or so I walked just in case I wanted to talk myself out of running, fat and pregnant, in 28 degree weather, outside in tighter-than-they-should-be running pants. I didn't talk myself out of it, I walked .5 miles or so, then took that first glorious step, it was in slow motion, like I was taking those first long slow motion running leaps toward my long lost lover on the beach at sunset. It was pure joy.
I listened to my "Running 101" soundtrack, ACDC, techno and a bunch of 90s and popular music I'd rather not list publicly so as not to ruin my "cooler than you" trademark reputation I have so carefully tried to build over the years.... I was pumped, I was actually doing this, running in the cold, attempting to get back out there, I was pumped and I'm still feeling pretty pumped about it. I realize that this was almost like an adrenaline run, I was just so damn excited to get back out there that my run was like floating on clouds, leaping like a gazelle from one soft fluffy cloud to the next, that I understand any subsequential runs I choose to take in the near future, will be the more difficult ones. I am prepared. This was too much enjoyment and I missed it all too much to just stop it all together. I must get a gym membership, I must do something about it. I must keep running.
I really think my pace was pretty good too, though I don't actually know, since I didn't have my stop watch to time the periods I actually was running, but it felt normal, not like where I was, but not like a 20 minute mile.
And just like the chocolate junkie I am, I can't wait to get my next running fix, I've just started coming down from this running high, I'm trying to figure out when I can get my next one.
Love it.
Dear Running, how I have missed thee, let me count the ways. But not right now, I have some more gloating to do.
I haven't run since approximately November 5th. Or earlier. I can't remember it has been so long. Due to the fact that Paul had been away and that it is getting dark at 4pm, and I don't have a gym membership, I can only run outside. I have also used getting fat and being pregnant as my major excuse.
I exercised for almost 35 minutes and that was my run time. Mostly because I had to walk a major leg of that run in tippy toe eggshell movements so not to break my arse on black ice and also because the first 400 meters or so I walked just in case I wanted to talk myself out of running, fat and pregnant, in 28 degree weather, outside in tighter-than-they-should-be running pants. I didn't talk myself out of it, I walked .5 miles or so, then took that first glorious step, it was in slow motion, like I was taking those first long slow motion running leaps toward my long lost lover on the beach at sunset. It was pure joy.
I listened to my "Running 101" soundtrack, ACDC, techno and a bunch of 90s and popular music I'd rather not list publicly so as not to ruin my "cooler than you" trademark reputation I have so carefully tried to build over the years.... I was pumped, I was actually doing this, running in the cold, attempting to get back out there, I was pumped and I'm still feeling pretty pumped about it. I realize that this was almost like an adrenaline run, I was just so damn excited to get back out there that my run was like floating on clouds, leaping like a gazelle from one soft fluffy cloud to the next, that I understand any subsequential runs I choose to take in the near future, will be the more difficult ones. I am prepared. This was too much enjoyment and I missed it all too much to just stop it all together. I must get a gym membership, I must do something about it. I must keep running.
I really think my pace was pretty good too, though I don't actually know, since I didn't have my stop watch to time the periods I actually was running, but it felt normal, not like where I was, but not like a 20 minute mile.
And just like the chocolate junkie I am, I can't wait to get my next running fix, I've just started coming down from this running high, I'm trying to figure out when I can get my next one.
Love it.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Chances are, that the odds are going to be good, are at about 60%
Playing the odds game. Every single one of us does it everday, consciously or not. Some play the lottery, very consciously, and the odds of winning are crazy low, but random people, everyday, do win, and win big.
Everyday I take a gamble, as I approach the stop light, do I change lanes and get behind the one big truck, or sit in my lane behind 5 cars? I gamble which lane is going to get out of the gate faster to get me to work approximately 3.8 seconds faster than if I had chosen wrong. This is a lame example, but I do this, almost subconsciously. Why do I want to get to work faster? I'm worried about being 5 more minutes over the 10 minutes I am already late everyday? Really?
I've been encountering some very different odds lately. It started with my low hCG levels (Remember, folks? The Human gonad hormone?.. I'm obviously paraphrasing...)
Yes, it's going to be a pregnancy post, fellas, stick around...
Low enough for my doctor to order a follow up ultrasound and blood work. Turned out to be nothing.. so far. That happens to precisely 10% of women, 10% are NOT textbook cases and I was one of them. 10% of women just have low hCG levels when they start out (for no apparent reason) and end up with perfectly healthy babies. That's me (again, I say, so far). How lucky is that?
Joseph was born ON his due date, that happens to approximately 5% of pregnant women. I was one of those too. At these odds, I should play the lottery, and I think today I might just waste $5 bucks and do it.
Playing these odds and winning isn't always how it turns out though. This is the reason behind bad odds. Chances are, if you have a 30% chance of living after being diagnosed with some sort of terrible cancer, 70% says you aren't going to make it. Because, that's the history of previous cases. But maybe, just sometimes, the law of averages kicks in for a few lucky people and a few lucky people get to play such devastating odds, only to miraculously beat them, reign champion over them and throw up their middle finger in the face of all 30% chances everywhere. F*$# you, 30%, f**k you.
In pregnancy, everything is played with odds. Unless you married a nuclear physicist, chances are your kid is going to be of relative intelligence. And those chances are really low, because, who's going to jump into bed with a nuclear physicist? Do they even leave their uranium isotopes long enough to consider dating outside of nuclear fusion? Those guys maintain a higher intellectual level than all of us at all times, so how awkward is that silence going to be on that date with that nuclear physicist? This, is why smart guys with loads of money marry hot chicks with no brains. Who needs a hot chick to talk? Just stand there and let me look at you babe. And here's a benjamin for standing there for so long. Go buy yourself something sexy. I bet those guys spend so much time operating their brains at alien space quantum level, that they are a real ambulance stretcher when it comes to the sack. So chances are EVEN LOWER that smart kids are going to be born.
Authors side note: To all Nuclear Physicists, my opinion is meant in no way to diminish your much more important impact on the lives and stability of the future of all human beings everywhere, versus your lack of assumed sparkling grades in between the sheets. I mean, rednecks with half a testicle, little to no brain cells reproduce everyday (sometimes several times a day, they just don't find out about it until the 200th episode of "Who's the baby Daddy? This is my 10th attempt at finding the father" on Maury.) And unfortunately it is THEM who reproduce and NOT the nuclear physicists which is exactly why our society is doomed.
Chances with most pregnancies that you play the odds, exhibit reasonably responsible behaviour while carrying another human that has absolutely no say in what you do or eat or drink. And it will turn out ok. That's always been my approach and really always will be. This goes without saying that I will WebMD any slight suspicion I have of anything going awry with the baby, but I will try to remember my level headed statement and "woosah" myself out of a panic attack and leave my freak out session for a much less reasonable occasion, such as, when Price chooses to take out the garbage and I ignore that very manly and expected task and freak out in ballistic mode because I just dumped a paper towel in the garbage that doesn't IMMEDIATELY have a new liner in it. Yes, I will choose my battles wisely and save my psychotic energy for my undeserving (mostly) husband.
It's all playing the odds as I see it. Don't drink a fifth of tequila, shoot anything into your veins, snort a bunch of coke or really do anything just plain stupid and it'll be ok. If it doesn't turn out exactly how you'd hoped, that's how playing the odds works. So I might over do it on the chocolate mini eggs, I try to be good elsewhere. Now, if my kid turns comes out looking like a chocolate baby, I've got a whole other set of problems I'm sure Price would need to talk to me about.
BECAUSE OF THE MINI EGGS PEOPLE, THE CADBURY MINI EGGS. Not because of anything else. SHEESH.
Everyday I take a gamble, as I approach the stop light, do I change lanes and get behind the one big truck, or sit in my lane behind 5 cars? I gamble which lane is going to get out of the gate faster to get me to work approximately 3.8 seconds faster than if I had chosen wrong. This is a lame example, but I do this, almost subconsciously. Why do I want to get to work faster? I'm worried about being 5 more minutes over the 10 minutes I am already late everyday? Really?
I've been encountering some very different odds lately. It started with my low hCG levels (Remember, folks? The Human gonad hormone?.. I'm obviously paraphrasing...)
Yes, it's going to be a pregnancy post, fellas, stick around...
Low enough for my doctor to order a follow up ultrasound and blood work. Turned out to be nothing.. so far. That happens to precisely 10% of women, 10% are NOT textbook cases and I was one of them. 10% of women just have low hCG levels when they start out (for no apparent reason) and end up with perfectly healthy babies. That's me (again, I say, so far). How lucky is that?
Joseph was born ON his due date, that happens to approximately 5% of pregnant women. I was one of those too. At these odds, I should play the lottery, and I think today I might just waste $5 bucks and do it.
Playing these odds and winning isn't always how it turns out though. This is the reason behind bad odds. Chances are, if you have a 30% chance of living after being diagnosed with some sort of terrible cancer, 70% says you aren't going to make it. Because, that's the history of previous cases. But maybe, just sometimes, the law of averages kicks in for a few lucky people and a few lucky people get to play such devastating odds, only to miraculously beat them, reign champion over them and throw up their middle finger in the face of all 30% chances everywhere. F*$# you, 30%, f**k you.
In pregnancy, everything is played with odds. Unless you married a nuclear physicist, chances are your kid is going to be of relative intelligence. And those chances are really low, because, who's going to jump into bed with a nuclear physicist? Do they even leave their uranium isotopes long enough to consider dating outside of nuclear fusion? Those guys maintain a higher intellectual level than all of us at all times, so how awkward is that silence going to be on that date with that nuclear physicist? This, is why smart guys with loads of money marry hot chicks with no brains. Who needs a hot chick to talk? Just stand there and let me look at you babe. And here's a benjamin for standing there for so long. Go buy yourself something sexy. I bet those guys spend so much time operating their brains at alien space quantum level, that they are a real ambulance stretcher when it comes to the sack. So chances are EVEN LOWER that smart kids are going to be born.
Authors side note: To all Nuclear Physicists, my opinion is meant in no way to diminish your much more important impact on the lives and stability of the future of all human beings everywhere, versus your lack of assumed sparkling grades in between the sheets. I mean, rednecks with half a testicle, little to no brain cells reproduce everyday (sometimes several times a day, they just don't find out about it until the 200th episode of "Who's the baby Daddy? This is my 10th attempt at finding the father" on Maury.) And unfortunately it is THEM who reproduce and NOT the nuclear physicists which is exactly why our society is doomed.
Chances with most pregnancies that you play the odds, exhibit reasonably responsible behaviour while carrying another human that has absolutely no say in what you do or eat or drink. And it will turn out ok. That's always been my approach and really always will be. This goes without saying that I will WebMD any slight suspicion I have of anything going awry with the baby, but I will try to remember my level headed statement and "woosah" myself out of a panic attack and leave my freak out session for a much less reasonable occasion, such as, when Price chooses to take out the garbage and I ignore that very manly and expected task and freak out in ballistic mode because I just dumped a paper towel in the garbage that doesn't IMMEDIATELY have a new liner in it. Yes, I will choose my battles wisely and save my psychotic energy for my undeserving (mostly) husband.
It's all playing the odds as I see it. Don't drink a fifth of tequila, shoot anything into your veins, snort a bunch of coke or really do anything just plain stupid and it'll be ok. If it doesn't turn out exactly how you'd hoped, that's how playing the odds works. So I might over do it on the chocolate mini eggs, I try to be good elsewhere. Now, if my kid turns comes out looking like a chocolate baby, I've got a whole other set of problems I'm sure Price would need to talk to me about.
BECAUSE OF THE MINI EGGS PEOPLE, THE CADBURY MINI EGGS. Not because of anything else. SHEESH.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The many uses of elastic hair bands
1) wrist accessory
2) reminder to do something when you get home, that you forget to do as you pull it off your wrist and tie up your annoyingly long hair.
3) 3D glasses tightner-contraption when the movie theater doesn't have kid sized 3D glasses, you improvise, pulling the glasses tighter together so that it attempts to stay on your child's head.
and let's not forget...
4) Waist band extender maximizer and mid region comfort friend.
It happened. Yesterday, 7:10am, December 1st. I put on my usually kind-of baggy fitting jeans to find that when the buttons were done up, it was considerably more painful than usual, more painful than, for example, right after I'd finished a chow down at my local Olive Garden that included more salad, a second serving of breadsticks, I'll tell you when and don't hold your breath on the romano cheese, you might want to get comfortable.. and dessert, kind of feeling.
10 weeks and I'm maximizing my waist comfort level. I panicked about how that was too early for such a thing, then thought back to my first pregnancy and calculated that, that happened, at about the same time then also. PHEW. Not so much more fatter this time...yet.
My co-worker, so generously pointed out, that it could also just be the 2 bags of recently (and joyously over delighted discovery!!!) consumed Christmas Mini Eggs that I'm eating each day. Yes, each day. Yes, Mini eggs at Christmas. I will save this most joyous discovery and elated feeling for another post. Cadbury mini eggs at least deserve that.
I've yet to go through my closet and do the dreaded "ok, so this doesn't fit anymore" song and dance where I end rocking myself back and forth facing a wall, crying screming in my head why I did this to myself, as Paul wonders if he should interrupt me or just cut to the chase and call the people with white jackets that live in the houses with padded walls. Usually cadbury mini eggs are delivered, and I manage to pull myself out of a close called, full blown psychosomatic lapse into emotional darkness. A little dramatic, yes, but you must understand how melodramatic a girl can be when faced with zero to none wardrobe options over the course of at least the next 10 months and a growing mid section that she KNOWS is inevitable.
Thank you Elle Magazine, Cosmopolitan and every commercial advertisment all over this planet that has forced me to continue my body image stresses into pregnancy when you are SUPPOSED to get fat. I am now going to surround myself with only pregnancy related images and I WILL not obsess and google photos of other women at the same stage of pregnancy as me and over analyze for hours if I look bigger than they do, all while eating cadbury mini eggs. Yes, more mini eggs. No, I'm not doing that exact thing right now at all... you can't see me right?
Ahem..
So now begins when I should embrace my "pooch" my "puffed mid section" and the continual growing of the human that will occupy a large part of my inside and manage to squish evey single one of my vital organs before it decides that, that, is not enough and it's time to come out and decide that very same thing out in the oxygen breathing world.
Now, to go home, and find my most comfortable stretchy pair of jeans, located in the depths of my plastic storage bins, complimented by a 4 inch wide snuggle like huggable elastic band, that I can sit on the couch in and continue to consume my body weight in Cadbury Christmas Mini Eggs.
2) reminder to do something when you get home, that you forget to do as you pull it off your wrist and tie up your annoyingly long hair.
3) 3D glasses tightner-contraption when the movie theater doesn't have kid sized 3D glasses, you improvise, pulling the glasses tighter together so that it attempts to stay on your child's head.
and let's not forget...
4) Waist band extender maximizer and mid region comfort friend.
It happened. Yesterday, 7:10am, December 1st. I put on my usually kind-of baggy fitting jeans to find that when the buttons were done up, it was considerably more painful than usual, more painful than, for example, right after I'd finished a chow down at my local Olive Garden that included more salad, a second serving of breadsticks, I'll tell you when and don't hold your breath on the romano cheese, you might want to get comfortable.. and dessert, kind of feeling.
10 weeks and I'm maximizing my waist comfort level. I panicked about how that was too early for such a thing, then thought back to my first pregnancy and calculated that, that happened, at about the same time then also. PHEW. Not so much more fatter this time...yet.
My co-worker, so generously pointed out, that it could also just be the 2 bags of recently (and joyously over delighted discovery!!!) consumed Christmas Mini Eggs that I'm eating each day. Yes, each day. Yes, Mini eggs at Christmas. I will save this most joyous discovery and elated feeling for another post. Cadbury mini eggs at least deserve that.
I've yet to go through my closet and do the dreaded "ok, so this doesn't fit anymore" song and dance where I end rocking myself back and forth facing a wall, crying screming in my head why I did this to myself, as Paul wonders if he should interrupt me or just cut to the chase and call the people with white jackets that live in the houses with padded walls. Usually cadbury mini eggs are delivered, and I manage to pull myself out of a close called, full blown psychosomatic lapse into emotional darkness. A little dramatic, yes, but you must understand how melodramatic a girl can be when faced with zero to none wardrobe options over the course of at least the next 10 months and a growing mid section that she KNOWS is inevitable.
Thank you Elle Magazine, Cosmopolitan and every commercial advertisment all over this planet that has forced me to continue my body image stresses into pregnancy when you are SUPPOSED to get fat. I am now going to surround myself with only pregnancy related images and I WILL not obsess and google photos of other women at the same stage of pregnancy as me and over analyze for hours if I look bigger than they do, all while eating cadbury mini eggs. Yes, more mini eggs. No, I'm not doing that exact thing right now at all... you can't see me right?
Ahem..
So now begins when I should embrace my "pooch" my "puffed mid section" and the continual growing of the human that will occupy a large part of my inside and manage to squish evey single one of my vital organs before it decides that, that, is not enough and it's time to come out and decide that very same thing out in the oxygen breathing world.
Now, to go home, and find my most comfortable stretchy pair of jeans, located in the depths of my plastic storage bins, complimented by a 4 inch wide snuggle like huggable elastic band, that I can sit on the couch in and continue to consume my body weight in Cadbury Christmas Mini Eggs.
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