Monday on a Thursday

Ever had one of those days as a mom? It is like a Monday that happens on any given day. It begins before your Keurig can brew its first cup of morning coffee. Your oldest daughter comes to you ten minutes before she is suppose to be at school and says, "I have no clean pants." Your four year old interrupts to tattle on the ten year old for eating the last of the cereal and then throws herself into a dramatized coughing fit taking no measure to cover her mouth that has now become a germ cannon aimed directly at you and her one healthy sister who is certain that said cougher is trying to sabotage her perfect attendance record by systematically breaking down her immune system. She does legitimately have a cough to some degree, you can tell by the rough baritone note it is throwing, but she is coughing extra violently to make sure you know she has a cough. The too-smart-to-be-a-two-year-old behind her politely and articulately states she is choosing to fill her diaper rather than use the potty. Again. Though you barely hear her over the baby screaming from her crib with green snot smeared back to her ear. You silently plead to your husband who shrugs and looks down at the mis-matched pair of socks he is wearing for the third day in a row and suddenly your body temperature starts to rise. You can feel the heat start from your toes and rise up your body, your brows furrow and your eyes narrow. Your family starts to flinch back when your ears begin to redden and as you open your mouth they scatter like frightened woodland creatures at the echo of a shot gun blast. Now you don't even have anyone to cast your frustrations on so you stand there with your fists and teeth clenched until the heat goes away and you see clearly again.
Seeing clearly lasts only until you walk into your oldest daughter's closet and find what she actually meant was, "I don't have any clean skinny jeans and the rest of these I just don't feel like wearing- especially not the ones with the tags still on them!" That vision of seeing her walk out the door this February morning in shorts brings the red heat back and you begin pace on top of the pile of mostly folded clothes that you washed last week and set inside her room to be put away. They, of course, were never put away but, instead, scattered and stomped flat by a week's worth of foot traffic.
Right now. Now is when you want to throw in the towel. You send the scathing text to your husband at work reading, "You all suck. I quit." and you briefly entertain fantasies of driving to the airport. Destination: Anywherebuthere. You are certain that is a real place. But then you remember you have Parent/Teacher conferences scheduled tomorrow, a table full of women are expecting you at your bi-monthly MOPS meeting in the morning, you owe your mom money for the bountiful basket she is picking up for you on Saturday, and Sunday your husband has invited friends to watch the Patriots win yet another Super Bowl- an institution that he despises but still believes he should be able to partake in the cold beer and all-you-can-eat finger food. And, lets face it... that all-you-can-eat finger food does sound pretty good to you. You sigh and realize that even though nothing is being done satisfactorily now, nothing will be done at all if you make your run for it. Or worse, it will all be done more efficiently with one of your husbands systems he is always trying to implement where everyone wears the same uniform with name badges that just have an assigned number on them that matches the one that is displayed on his smart phone when he scans the QR code tattooed to your wrist. His notarized laminated blue prints outlining a structured daily routine of chores, scheduled potty breaks and meal replacement shakes are no joke. No, you cannot let that happen. You are the first and only line of defense against your husband's disturbing regime and it is a dangerous, thankless job. But if you focus on Sunday's finger food, and not that silver snot streak the baby just left on your micro-suede sofa cushion, you might survive the day and even be productive.
Now, you proclaim, it is time to tackle this Monday on a Thursday so that your husband is not disappointed to find that your I quit text was a hoax. You slam that Keurig cup of coffee, dole out the cough syrup, wipe the line of snotty noses, and climb the stairs to start on that laundry. Ready. Set. Go.

Butt Cheek Blues

I was sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor changing baby Vera's diaper when Jasper, my two year old, knelt behind me and began jabbing her index finger into my back fat which (I had not realized until that moment) was visibly spilling over my jeans and out of my shrinking t-shirt. Giggling, she sank her chubby peanut butter and jelly finger into my chubby side again and again. I was becoming increasingly self-conscious when she asked me something I will never forget, "Is dat you butt cheeks?"

I choked.

If the postcard I received in the mail that week from the local YMCA advertising "No Joining Fee" didn't speak to me, my extra set of butt cheeks certainly did.

I cannot say that I hadn't noticed my jeans were fitting too tight. I mean, I had to lay down on the bed to get them zipped and then do squats once they were buttoned in hopes to gain some maneuverability. My t-shirts had all become unsightly; that is why I had been rotating through my growing zippered hoodie collection. My entire wardrobe was coordinating layers. I guess I was hoping no one else noticed.

Staring at my No Joining Fee mailer, I reminisced on my past futile attempts at beginning a workout regimen. There was the time my friend and former co-worker, Polly, had talked me into Hot Yoga when I was six months pregnant with Lola. I had thought I might die that day. Who knew Hot Yoga as so... hot?

Two years later, I let Polly talk me into Zumba. I had watched her body transform into a rock hard vision of seduction during the two years since the yoga incident and I would have participated in anything she presented to me. Zumba was just loud music, rigorous dancing and a ton of sweat, almost like I was at a Ladies Only night club on my lunch break, and I felt really sexy until Polly asked me if I was Epileptic. (Gasp!) "I am not having a seizure! I am doing Zumba!" She didn't invite me back.

Most recently, my husband tricked me into a Spin class. What. A. Joke. We were late, because we are late for everything, so class had already started when we got there. I was stunned at how fast these people were peddling on their stationery bikes- like no one knew they were stationary. I looked to the back of the room to see who was chasing them. I had expected to see a gaggle uniformed cops back there running in place. There was not. Instead, there were two empty bikes and Oliver was already moving to claim them. Thirty minutes on my stationary bike and I was begging for Hot Yoga. My rear end and girl parts felt as though I had been assaulted. There is no delicate way to state that.

Snapped out of my reverie, I reluctantly placed my No Joining Fee mailer into my purse and drove across town to see about a membership at the Y.

Last evening, with my gym savvy husband coaching me, I completed my first work out. Oliver worked my legs and even my butt cheeks in the weight room until I staggered out of there on burning legs of jello. Today, I am sore from the tops of my shoulders to the tops of my knees and it feels fabulous. Mark my words, I will get my two original God-given butt cheeks back and they will be better than before.