Outnumbered Two to One

What’s this HASAY all about?

My darling teen had been dropping hints for weeks.

She wanted a treadmill. A treadmill would make exercising easier. A treadmill would make exercising fun. A treadmill was all that stood between her and her lofty fitness goals, goals that once attained would make her a happier, more pleasant person to be around. Riiiiight…

The Wii Fit wasn’t good enough.

The multitude of shelved aerobics DVDs were lame.

The stationary bike was for losers.

Only a treadmill would do.

Unfortunately for her a treadmill wasn’t in the budget.

Enter my lovely sister with a crowded garage and a dusty, but perfectly functional treadmill that was at the time being used as toy shelving. One mom’s castoff is another mom’s clutter.

As of yesterday, we are the proud owners of one space saver treadmill with complimentary hand weights and a convenient water bottle holder. I suppose you could fit a bottle of pretty much anything in there, but for the purposes of this post we’ll assume it’s water. 

So far all of the children have tested the treadmill at least once. And today, I revisited my abandoned fitness endeavor and hopped on that baby for a thirty minute interval work out. It made me realize, once again, how out of shape I really am, when one minute of light jogging makes me feel like my heart is going to burst. That’s a good thing right? That means it’s working, doesn’t it?

Fortunately I avoided the coronary and live to jog another day. And my teen has also ventured on a couple of times. Whether she’s happier or more pleasant remains to be seen.

I’m hoping the treadmill stays active though, as soon as it starts collecting dust I’m going to have to find another relative to donate it to.

As a mom, I never want my kids to get sick. Ever. If it were up to me, I would intercept each and every nasty cold and flu germ and take it upon myself to weather the illness for them. The reasoning is only one part martyrdom and two parts self preservation. Sick kids are hard to take care of, number one. Number two, worrying about my sick kids is way more difficult to treat than say, clogged up sinuses or a nagging cough. They sell over the counter medication for that stuff.

Thursday after my last post, my two-year old’s temperature rose to about 103 degrees under his arm. That in itself was concerning enough. Worse still was the sound he made when he was breathing, a rattling wheeze that affected both his inhales and exhales. The cough was clearly croupy, but sitting in a steamed bathroom barely improved it and the steroid nebulizer treatment I’d given him before bed yielded similar results.

I called the Dr.’s answering service at about 10:30. When he didn’t call back, my husband packed the baby up and took him to the ER where he was promptly seen and treated. His oxygen saturation levels were a little low and they kept him for about three hours for observation, but he was home, breathing easier by 4 am.

My doctor’s office called me at about 9 am the next morning. Almost 12 hours after my original call to the answering service.

“The doctor tried to call you last night,” the receptionist said over the phone, “but couldn’t get through because of the call block.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I don’t have call block on my phone, that’s not possible.”

“His call was blocked, that’s why he couldn’t get through.”

“We don’t have that feature on our home phone, why wouldn’t he have been able to get through?”

“So tell me how your son is feeling?” she asked me, completely disregarding my befuddlement and the argument at hand. The rest of the conversation was brief, and my pediatrician never once got on the telephone with me. Coward.

I was already in the process of switching doctors, but this whole exchange just kind of reinforced my decision.

Needless to say, it’s been a long weekend. My six year old is fully recovered from his flu outbreak and my two year old is on the mend, still drippy nosed and coughing, but much improved. Thanks to everyone for the concern and support. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to read and comment much in the past few days, but hopefully I’ll be able to catch up with my pal Google Reader during the coming week. I mean, all four of my kids will be home, but I’m sure I’ll have plenty of free time. Right?

It didn’t take a crystal ball to foretell that one sick and contagious child was only the beginning of my woes. Especially when said plague bearer was continually hacking unrestrained bits of toxic phlegm in to his younger brother’s previously healthy face. Not to mention the inadvertent cup sharing, face licking, and finger sucking.

The  dominoes are falling, one by one, into influenza’s sinister clutches.

The two-year-old, my diapered bundle of harnessed electricity, is currently a bleary eyed feverish mess. It is compounded by the fact that his ability to communicate is not quite as evolved as his older brother’s. Complaints and requests are usually shrieked at an inaudible pitch, possibly one only dogs can hear. Trying to decipher the words is another thing altogether. It’s almost like playing a really angry version of charades with someone from another country where language and hand gestures are completely reversed - holding your stomach means you want to be carried, rubbing your eyes means you’re cold, throwing up in Mommy’s bed means…well, that one is self explanatory.

So of course, mostly capable Mom, is for the interim, reduced to a worried, neurotic, scatterbrained lunatic. I’m agonizing over every cough, every whimper, every uneaten bite of Jello and unsipped cup of water. It makes me short tempered and irritable and generally unpleasant to live with…just ask the rest of the family.

It’s going to be a long weekend.

My neighbor and I have been walking.

Three days a week we meet outside my house, each of us behind our respective strollers and we walk. It takes us approximately thirty minutes to make it around the neighborhood lake at a fairly moderate pace. As we go we chit-chat about this or that. Sometimes we stop to check on her baby who usually by the midway point is pretty irate. It’s nice for the most part - people are at work, the streets are fairly deserted, and everything is quiet save for the occasional barking dog…and the wailing newborn of course.

We’re moving and it’s good that we’re moving. The problem is I don’t really feel like I’m exercising.

Sometimes I sweat, but I think it’s less from actual exertion and more from the rising atmospheric temperature. There’s no real muscle fatigue, no soreness the next day. By the time I get home, I kind of shrug, change my clothes and go about my business (usually in a sitting position). I actually think I’ve gained a pound or two, although I’m reluctant to climb on the scale, I know several of my pants are a little more snug at the waist, my muffin top a little more fluffy.

Could the walking be adding inches instead of melting them away?

Either way, I think it’s pretty obvious that just a leisurely, gossipy walk, isn’t going to get me the results I’m looking for. While the walks are a nice activity (not to mention informative), I can’t depend on them to build muscle or burn fat, unless I increase either the intensity or the distance. Something that’s a little tougher to do when you have a partner. So, while her presence has been somewhat of a motivator, I’ve come to the realization that it’s still ultimately up to me to change what needs changing, and sacrifice what needs sacrificing.

I’m not getting any younger.

On the horizon is decreased muscle mass, compromised bone density, a slower metabolism. Sure I’m walking…but so are the senior citizens that spend the better part of their morning pacing at the mall.

Before I know it I’ll be complaining about my sciatica, eating my dinners at 4:30, and trying to figure out how to get more fiber in my diet.

Well, I guess I could use more fiber in my diet…

Goals for this week…realizing the walk is more of a warm-up vs. the central activity of my exercise routine. So even though I’ll still go the thrice a week strolls, coming home will mean incorporating strength exercises, or possibly a visit with my Wii Fit, or if worse comes to worst…I’ll visit with my old pal Jillian and her Shred routine. Just thinking about it makes me tired.

If HASAY were Jeopardy, I’d be that mousy contestant who doesn’t know any of the answers and whose score occasionally dips in to the negative digits. You know the one I’m talking about - the one who can’t even participate in Final Jeopardy cause she’s got nothing to wager.

It’s sad, I know.

Since joining up with this online group fitness endeavor, it seems my motivation has consistently waned to the point of nonexistence. My occasional spurts of exercise and activity are superseded by my need to compulsively snack or sit at my computer for marathon stretches.

My failure is never more apparent than when I am in the fitting room of any major department store. Maybe it’s the awkward fluorescent lighting or the weird curve of the full length mirror, but I’m never more disheartened by my reflection than when it’s undressed and sadly staring back at me in those dreary close quarters. I think to myself, “Jeezus, I’m walking around in public like that.” My complexion always looks weird, my hair has that I’ve-been-caught-in-a-wind-tunnel look, and the belly I’ve assumed has been retracted in to my rib cage is bulging obscenely over the top of my pants.

Ugh. Double ugh.

What’s a girl to do?

Shop online obviously, but besides that…

My neighbor who recently delivered her baby boy is eager to get herself back in shape. She has enlisted me to be her walking buddy. I’m hoping the obligation will at least get me to commit to a routine that I might otherwise shrug off in favor of less strenuous work - like watching my nails grow. I’m hoping this will be the push I need to keep me consistent.

In the meantime, I’ll make a mental not to stay out of these…because I have enough self esteem issues as it is.

Exercise, thy name is HASAY . If that doesn’t ring a bell, go here .

No, no. Don’t get too close.

I think I have a sinus infection and possibly an ear infection.

I’m also pretty sure the cartoon rendition you see above is a very close facsimile of the appalling bacteria I’m harboring in my nasal cavities. It’s aggravating. I don’t even remember the last time I was able to breathe comfortably through my nose. I’ve become on of those annoying mouth breathers whose Ms sound like Bs and whose Ns sound like Ds.

(I’b sorry id advadce to all you bouth breathers out there. Do offedse.)

What does it all mean to my fitness goals?

It means I didn’t exercise…uhm…again.

I’m sure there are plenty of you die hard workout types out there in blogoland that will hop on to your treadmills even if you’ve just lost a limb. You strap on a tourniquet with your teeth and push through the pain.

I’m not one of those. When my head feels like it’s going to explode and my ears are ringing and nothing tastes right because it feels like there are two corks in my nostrils, I am just not doing it. The panting, the elevated heart rate, the sweating. Just getting out of bed in the morning is taking some concentrated effort.

What I need right now, isn’t a pep talk. It’s antibiotics.

What I need right now is a bubble I can put around my kids when they go to school, so they can stop bringing their diseases home to me.

What I need right now is a little sympathy.

Or not. Either way I still feel like crap.

Try me again next week.

What’s that you HASAY ? Figure it out for yourself.

Even as I sat down this evening to type out my update, I heard the tiny little coughs echoing from down the hall. My fingers frozen over the keyboard, as I waited for them to subside. Instead they increased in volume and strength - from a mild clearing of the throat to a violent hacking.

Of course, I knew what would come next.

I pushed the laptop away and darted to my son’s bedroom where he lay sleeping and coughing, coughing, coughing, the final phlegmy vestige triggering at last that gag reflex I’ve come to know and loathe love. I lifted him swiftly from his crib and held him away from my body as I tried to make it to the bath tub before the first…

HURL.

Too late.

I made it as far as the dining room before a full eight ounces of Very Vanilla soy milk erupted out of him. The little yellow bits were corn, whole unchewed kernels of it.

Yay.

Perhaps this is what I needed. Because after I got down on my hands and knees to clean up barf, then tucked my tender little kidling in for his night-night, my appetite, that hankering I had for a Valentine’s day iced sugar cookie…it was no more.

Too bad I can’t say that for the rest of my week.

But with my blahs and the cold bug and the cold snap, my exercise routine has been pretty inconsistent, my healthy eating, mediocre at best.

Would it be better to not say anything at all?

I’m sure my Wii Fit and I will have plenty to talk about tomorrow…as long as the kids are keeping their foods down that is.

When I joined up with club HASAY I fully expected to follow through with my goals to improve my eating habits, exercise daily, get leaner, and become stronger. Unfortunately sometime in December I got sidetracked. Not even a new year with all its bright shiny optimism could lure me from my funk. It was a funky funk, complete with junk food binges, apathy, and couch-potato-ish laziness.

I’m honestly out of excuses. Or am I?

I couldn’t exercise this week because…

all my workout DVDs spontaneously combusted.

my only pair of cross training sneakers were stolen from my closet by a band of doughy masked bandits.

mind controlling aliens have confined me to my sofa and sapped all the strength from my legs.

my children are holding me hostage and forcing me to play Lego Batman on the PS2 against my will.

my muscles have formed a strange alliance with my cellulite and are working against me to increase my pant size.

I’m severely allergic to my own sweat.

Truth be told an awkward encounter with a complete stranger has served as somewhat of a reality check for me. While there’s nothing wrong with sporting a second trimester swell when you’re a beautiful, glowing, pregnant woman. Having someone assume you’re carrying around another person in your pants does nothing for your self-esteem.

So this week, rather than resign myself to a life of poor eating and flaccid musculature, I will once again climb on the HASAY wagon with the rest of the club’s more determined members and resolve to make some permanent changes. Starting Monday I will begin to log in to my Sparkpeople food journal and keep track of what I’m putting in my mouth on a daily basis. I’m also cutting out the junk…goldfish, cupcakes, potato chips and dip…you get the idea. And the revised exercise goal is minimum three days a week of activity to start. Hopefully I’ll be able to increase that goal somewhat but I’ve got to start small lest I get discouraged yet again.

I’m on it people. Now if I could just figure out what those bandits did with my sneakers.

Advice to myself this week…

If you’re out of the loop and club HASAY is a mystery to you, visit Casey and she’ll give you the rundown, she might make you do some laps while you’re at it, but don’t let that frighten you away.

Now on to the mockery…

This week I was in jubilant spirits.

Motivation was my middle name.  Mrs. Motivation Bear.

I exercised every. single. day. while my children played quietly in the background. They all respected my personal space and the time I’ve carved out for myself to accomplish my fitness goals.

They’re happy for me. They cheer me on in respectable tones.

This week, I did not spend any time rooted to my sofa finishing the Stephen King book I checked out from the library.

I did not polish off a bag of extra cheddar goldfish as I blew through the second half of the novel.

I did not fall asleep with my clothes on some nights because I was completely and utterly exhausted.

This week I was full of energy, brimming with it, energy was busting out of my seams.

This week I did not gain two pounds, nor was I ever seen displaying a “muffin top” or any other baked goods related analogies to describe my soft middle.

I did not by any means eat a bunch of fried food, or fast food, or sugary foods, or any combination thereof.

I had a successful week. I was really feeling it, the gumption, the stick-to-it-iveness, the go-gettum-osity.  I’ve never wanted to exercise more in my life.

Yay.

Next week can’t get any better than this!

No regrets. No shame here. None whatsoever.

Did I mention the rice krispie treats? That’s because I did not make any.

For those of you getting ready to congratulate me, be sure to read the title…wink, wink, nudge, nudge…

If I had a puke umbrella, it would have seen quite a bit of use the past few days.

Saturday, my five-year-old son, who I had assumed was over the worst of his (0ur) flu, began throwing up. He was lethargic on and off all day between bouts of vomiting. I was sure he would be too sick to attend school (thus successfully ruining my dreams of a mostly empty house) but by Monday, he was absolutely fine despite his assurances that *koff, koff, groan, groan* he was still very ill.

I can spot a faker when I see one…he is number three in a family of quite dramatically gifted children.

But yesterday the other shoe fell, and my toddler, my sweet hellion of a child, proceeded to throw up on or near my person a whopping total of five times. There’s only so much barf a mother can get on herself before she starts to take it personally, before she begins to think it’s some sort of gross conspiracy designed with the sole purpose of breaking her spirit…

So of course, it being a weekday, we whisked our sick little cherub to the pediatrician’s where he quickly diagnosed him with nothing other than some irritating bug that will eventually run its course.

Well, duh.

Also, we should not feed our baby dairy, or soy, or anything that he normally eats.

In case you have never met a toddler, let me fill you in. There is no reasoning with a two-year-old. Their language is limited, their patience is nil, and their capacity for shrieking is otherworldly.

Now, say a sibling pulls out a bag of Cheetos and starts munching away in said toddler’s vicinity. The results, my friends, are EXPLOSIVE. Perhaps not nuclear, but pretty darn destructive in their own right. I won’t even touch the powdered donut fiasco.

Another down-side…and you responsible parents might want to cover your ears eyes for this next segment. My toddler, my two-year-old child, falls asleep every night happily sucking on a bottle of soy milk. Without the bottle, there is no bedtime routine, he will not put his sweet little head on his pillow without that silicone nipple propped in his mouth.

This is going to require some improvisation, as well as creativity I doubt I can muster after the night we had. Let’s just say said throw-uppy baby ended up in his parent’s bed, his little boy feet pressed alternately against his mother’s ribs, her spine and her neck. I’ve got muscle aches places I didn’t even know there was muscle tissue.

Hopefully we’re seeing the tail end of this thing, this ongoing plague. Even still, I think that puke umbrella is a good investment.

You’d buy one, wouldn’t  you?