Shreddin' Like a Felon

So I haven't blogged much this week. Why, you ask? Because every muscle in my body, including the ones in my fingers, are searing. I decided to embark upon the 30 Day Shred thing by Jillian Michaels.

Yes, I've become a Shred Head.

I started eight days ago, and it's been going well. I've been working out almost daily since Maggs turned two months old, but haven't been seeing any changes on the scale. So I've been trying to keep with my regular workouts at the Y, and then I add in the shred either right when we get home or once the kids are "napping" in the afternoon. It's a bit intense some days, but it seems to be getting the job done. I'm just worried about traumatizing my neighbors as I do jumping jacks in my dining room.

Plus I've been trying to really, actually watch what I eat. You know, instead of simply staring at the pizza I'm about to devour and calling it 'watching what I'm eating.' I bought some Quaker weight control instant oatmeal and I have to give it two enthusiastic thumbs up. I make it for breakfast around 8am and don't get hungry again until almost 2pm. And it tastes pretty good as well. I've also started cutting out all booze Sunday through Thursday. I don't need the extra calories in a glass of wine (or three) on the daily. So far, so good.

So I hope you'll forgive the silence. I need to get to a point where my Wii Fit balance board doesn't groan when I step onto it. And when Sam doesn't ask if the baby in my belly is a boy. And when at least half of the clothes in my wardrobe fit again.

Wardrobe Malfunction

So I've been having this problem lately and I was wondering if any of ye wise old internets could help a pregnant lady out. What I'm about to reveal is a bit personal and embarrassing, but weighing the options, I'd rather find a solution to my problem than spend the next three months battling my issue.

Almost every weekday I work out at the Y. My wardrobe consists of a mixture of maternity clothes and regular clothes that can accommodate my belly. And every single pair of workout pants or shorts I own give me the world's worst camel toe.

Now I've heard that some might find this kind of look attractive. I can see the appeal on someone like Jessica Simpson in a white bikini. But on a 27 week, sweaty pregnant lady who was a few pounds above ideal before she began gestating? Well, only the major sickos out there would get their jollies off of my unfortunate pants situation.

As it stands now, I spend about a third of my workout tugging at the crotch of my pants. None of which are skin tight, I might add. I think it's just a tragic combo of my baby belly and my hips forcing my pants to sit just so on my body for maxim toe-age. The only maternity pants that don't give me this trouble are the ones that have the waist up in the armpits and jeans, neither of which are suitable for exercising. There is no hope for any of my non-maternity pants. They might just end up staying in the drawer for the next 3 to 4 months.

So what do I do? Should I just buy a bunch of drop crotch pants and MC Hammer pants and call it a day? Skip the workouts all together? Wear a dress? Or should I just suck it up and force the universe to suffer the sight of my camel toe for another 92 days, give or take? Be honest. I can take it!

Calling All Campers!

Yesterday was Sam's first day at YMCA day camp. I dropped him off at 8:30, went down to the locker room, called my mom and had a little cry. 

The Y was a huge part of my life growing up. Most of my childhood memories that aren't home or school oriented are either from church or the Y. My mom worked there, so we always had a membership. One of my first jobs was babysitting during aerobics classes, which paid me a whopping $2 per hour! One of my first boyfriends was a super-cute Y lifeguard named Jeff. When I turned 13 I became a junior camp counselor (an unpaid position, I might add) and I continued to work summer camp until after my freshman year in college. I got paid when I got older, by the way. 

Even though the campers I worked with were older, I know the ins and outs of 'little camp' pretty well as my best friend and mom both worked with the little guys. There would be singing, swimming, arts and crafts and general running-around-crazy-play time. 

I was a crazed maniac little anxious in regards to the swimming. I thought I was keeping my own neuroses under control until Sam informed me that he was 'nervous' about swimming without me. His. Exact. Words. While it took the effort of a thousand men, I was able to refrain from asking the camp director if any kids had ever drowned on their watch. I did, however, inquire about the time of the swimming. My reasoning being that if I knew swimming would be over by a certain time, I could relax a smidgen at that appointed hour because the danger would be over. Of course, when my sister-in-law called right after the swim session began, I just about laid an egg. 

But, of course, all of my worries were for naught. He loves the swimming with all of his tiny heart. He also loves playing tag, or as he explained, 'that game where I run up and touch you on your back and then you run up and touch me on my back!' In fact, he loves tag so much that he peed in his pants because he didn't want to go inside to use the restroom. But his favorite part of the day would have to be the very beginning. The kids get dropped off in the gym, so while they wait for everyone else to arrive there is general mayhem. Correction: general mayhem with basketballs. Real basketballs and real basketball hoops. Not that he even stands a chance of making a basket, mind you. But he tries so very, very hard. 

Although I hate to say it, it certainly is fun to play at the YMCA. 

The Pianist

She is an old woman. Her dyed red hair is thin enough to see her scalp. Her hands are wrinkled and covered with purplish veins. They are fragile looking hands that belie their abilities. 

Every day she comes for a swim, and when she is finished, she drapes her cardigan sweater over her bony shoulders and sits at the bench. There is a moment of silence when you can only hear the cover slip over the keys, and then the music comes forth in bright, bold peals. If you sit long enough and close your eyes, you could be in any great concert house. Piece after piece, she plays with her whole aged body moving along to the rhythms, some slow, some quick, her head dipping and swaying. The hands you thought couldn't fasten a button zip over the black and white so quickly they are a blur. 

She stops after a while, and you wipe a tear from your cheek. No amount of thanks could ever be adequate, so you simply bow your head as she looks back and you. 

On Motions, and Going Through Them

Shall I bore you to death with the details of my latest episode of sleeplessness? No? How about I regale you with the tale of last night's 11:30pm puke party in Sam's room? Wait, strike that. It's basically the precursor to the insomnia story, which you already said you didn't want to hear.

Shall I tell you then of my hopes and desires to have another little chubby baby girl? You know, for my Lulu to boss around and my Sammy to protect one day? And how each month that passes makes me think that those new, sweet baby cheeks are somehow fading and slipping ever so slowly though my fingertips? No? Too depressing? Ok then, moving on.

How about a story about the half nekkid 300 pound lady at the gym? She hopped on the elliptical machine to my right and every two minutes removed an article of clothing until I was ready to bolt. Luckily she stopped at the sports bra and biker shorts. And that was just on the right side of me. On the left side was a young jock-ish type who kept touching his junk with just his index and middle finger. Over and over and over. 

Not that interesting either, right?

I'm going back to bed. Wake me up in 2009.

I Forgot To Mention This...

And you know what makes it even sweeter?


The three bills that came along with the certificate! I was very happy with the final results. I officially lost 17 pounds during this contest, but if I were a betting woman I would wager that I gained at least a few back on vacation. The woman who came in first place was so far and away ahead of everyone else I knew there was no way I could catch her. She works at the front desk and is the nicest. lady. ever. so if I had to lose to someone I'm glad it was her! I'm still far, far away from my ultimate goal, but that's ok. With my past weigh loss endeavors, the slow and steady losses were the ones that stuck better. The Y is going to do another Biggest Loser beginning in January and my goal is not to participate. Because I'm already all skinny-fied, see?

Wish me luck!

Remeber that Time I Had to Forcibly Remove Sam from Swim Class? That Was Fun.

Oh, today was a fun one.

Ever since we got home on Saturday both kids have been like little Jekyll and Hyde's. One moment sweet and loving, the next instant making curse the day they were born. My mother-in-law came for a visit on Sunday afternoon, which, while fun, only added to the chaos for the kiddos. All morning Sam was on good behavior, so I should have known I was in for it. But the cock-eyed optimist in me was hoping the trend of goodness would continue.

WRONG!

As soon as we got outside to leave for swimming he took off through the yard, attempting to slip through the small space in the fence that leads to the neighbor's yard. You know, the space that I, or any other adult, could never fit through but that a 2 year old could slip through with ease. Yeah, that one. Luckily I caught him in the nick of time. He's really been into running away from us lately, and god help me I'm going to end up giving him a separated shoulder. I usually just barely manage to grab him by one arm just before he darts into traffic, slips through fence holes, falls down the steps, etc. So I grab him up and we pack into the car.

As soon as we got into the pool I calmed down. He was so excited that the water wasn't freezing (like at the beach) that he kept laughing and telling me that the water was hot! Yay! But when our regular teacher didn't show up and the fill in was instructing from the deck, things got ugly.

He started by grabbing my hair, clumped into a bun on top of my head so as to keep it dry, and yanked it as hard as he could to get me to put my face into the water. All the while he's screaming 'Mommy do! Mommy do!' None of the other kids, naturally, are trying to drown their mothers, so they are all giving me the stink eye over the yelling.

Later in the class the kids get little toys to throw and swim to. Usually Sam is really good during this portion of class because there is this one particular toy he adores. It's a cup that is shaped like a monkey head (a very realistic monkey head, I might add) that has a handle and a spout at the mouth. He calls it the whoo-whoo bucket, and if given the choice he prefers a yellow one. For a few minutes he was pleasant and cooperative. However, when it was time to put the whoo-whoo bucket away, things got ugly. Specifically, he took the whoo-whoo bucket and used it to smack me in the face as hard as he could. Almost instantly I could feel my lip starting to swell. I pulled him in close, explained that he gave mommy a big boo-boo, and that if he had one more incident of bad behavior we were leaving class early.

Well, that's what I meant to say. What I actually said probably wasn't that, um, nice.

Not even two minutes later all of us mommies were putting the kids on the deck for their jumping exercises when Sam spied the lap lane dividers. Occasionally someone will want to swim laps during our class time and the lifeguards will pull the lap dividers into the pool, and Sam is just fascinated by this. As soon as he saw them, he started moving towards them, all the while watching my face. I used my 'nice but threatening' voice to call him back over, but he was already too far gone. 'Mommy, NO!' he exclaimed, and when he turned to run he ended up pushing the little girl next to us into the pool. Thank god her mother was right there to catch her. And that the woman who teaches the class right before ours was still there, because she grabbed up Sam before he could hurt anyone else or himself. The water is almost five feet deep where we were, and it's is almost a foot below the deck so I was having trouble climbing out. She offered to hand him back to me down in the pool, but I just shook my head, climbed out and headed us off to the showers.

Unfortunately the bad behavior didn't end there. There were several tantrums thrown, and at one point he slammed our locker door while my head was inside, giving me a nice bump to add to my fat lip. I had intended to squeeze a small workout in after swimming class, but he was being too rotten for the babysitters too, so we headed home.

During the entirety of our ten minute drive he kept repeating 'Sorry Mommy. Mommy, sorry.' I could tell from his voice and his face that he meant it, too. It was breaking my heart just a little. As soon as we got home I put him in his bed even though it was almost two hours before his regular nap time. He was asleep in less than two minutes.

Two hours later he is still asleep.

Two hours later and my swollen lip has gone down.

Two hours later and I am keeping my fingers crossed that I get my sweet Sammy back after this nap. And maybe that I can get in a workout sometime this afternoon.

More Proof That I Am Old

This morning Sam and I went to his weekly swimming class aqua-tots. This is also knows as '30 minutes for mommy to ogle the cute-as-a-button 20 year old swim instructor Tyler' class. Since we go to the oldest Y in the western hemisphere, the pool is frequently unusable due to unstable chemical levels or pump failure. Today was no exception. In the past they simply canceled the class and told us they'd refund the money to our accounts, which then never did. I guess people (besides me) caught on and complained, so they've worked out a deal with the township to use the pool at the local high school when the Y pool isn't safe.

We got there with plenty of time to spare. Since I wasn't 100% sure where I was going I left extra early. Naturally we found the proper location and doors in record time so we had almost 20 minutes to kill waiting for our class to begin. So we sat in the locker room and counted to 25 a bunch of times.

While we were counting, an alarm started to go off. Startled, I jumped up and grabbed Sam and our things from the locker. I threw a towel around him, slipped on my shoes and headed for the nearest exit. Just before I was about to walk out I looked around and noticed that no one else was making a move. The lifeguards were perched in their chairs and the elderly aquacise class was paddling along cheerfully. Then I heard the sound of a thousand teenagers jamming their way through the corridors. It wasn't until that moment that I realized that it wasn't a fire alarm I had heard.

The bell had rung.

It's Fun to Play at the YMCA!

Sam and I have been taking swimming lessons for almost a month now at our local Y. He is really getting into it. Just yesterday I had to hold him on my lap to keep him from climbing into the pool while we waited for the ExerSwim class to end. You don't mess with the ladies in the ExerSwim class. This is a huge change from the earlier weeks when he would cling to my neck for dear life. Now he'll float on his back with my hands beneath him, he'll jump in from a seated position on the wall and he'll swim on his belly with my hands supporting him. He looks forward to swim day so much it's hard not to get excited on Tuesday mornings.

However, I get excited for a slightly different reason.

Sam's swim teacher, Mr. Tyler, is A-dorable. I've always had A Thing for swimmers, hockey players and geeks. And any combination of the three drives me absolutely bonkers with lust. Mr. Tyler is a lovely blend of swimmer and geek, from what I can deduce. He makes up all sorts of delightful songs for the kids, like 'If you're happy in the water splash your hands.' Plus, he bears more than a passing resemblance to a boyfriend I had in 10th grade who was also a YMCA swim instructor and life guard. And also dreamy. The best part is that he has no idea he has this effect on me, making said effect even stronger.

But given that the name Tyler didn't even appear on the 'top 100 names' list until the 80's, I think it's safe to say that Mr. Tyler is a wee bit young for me. He's at least out of high school since he teaches our class on Tuesdays at 10am, but I doubt he's done with college.

Now, we've all had innocent crushes. This is not the kind of thing where I plan on having a clandestine love affair with the Y pool boy. But for some reason I feel a little dirty. Maybe it's the age thing. Although I honestly doubt I'm more than 10 years older than him, so it's really not that bad. I guess it's the difference in relative age. Even a minor age difference seems major when one party has two kids and a mortgage. I feel like a cougar simply because I'm there with my toddler.

So I'll try and get over my crush on Mr. Tyler. That way my motivation to jump in the pool won't be to wash away the skanky feeling I get when I see him, but instead to help teach my son to swim.

Except maybe for those nights when SOB is on call...

Today I went to the gym. Everything started out normally, but I ended up leaving the place in tears.

Because the Y we belong to is in an ancient building, the two main workout areas are in separate locations. There is a room upstairs with some of the cardio equipment, and the weight lifting machines and rest of the cardio machines are down in the basement. They explained when I joined that people liked having some of the treadmills and stuff upstairs where there are windows, unlike the basement room where they actually have plastic films with clouds and sky covering the fluorescent lights.

I went downstairs first since it was leg lifting day. I noticed a man working out nearby. He was old, and very frail looking. He also had every inch of his body covered except for his face, and he took great care to immediately cover any part that may have accidentally become exposed. For example, he had on gloves, and if he moved his arms in such a way that some skin at his wrists was revealed, he would quickly pull his gloves up and his shirt sleeves down. He also cleaned every piece of equipment before using it, whereas most people wipe them down after they're finished. I just shrugged him off as a germophobe and went about my business.

After I finished lifting, I headed upstairs to jump on an elliptical machine. The room upstairs is usually much more quiet, and I often bring something to read. There was another woman in there, someone that I've seen several times before. We usually exchange pleasantries and then continue with our workouts. The Y has recently decided to move all of the cardio machines down into the basement, and since we both seem to prefer the current arrangement, we started chatting about our displeasure with the new plans. During our talk I discovered that another reason we both like working out in that room is because of its proximity to the child care area. Her daughter is older, but she still likes to be nearby.

All of a sudden the frail, germophobe man walks in and starts talking to her. I assumed he was her father because of his physical appearance, however when he left the room, she told me that he was her husband. He is suffering from stage 4 colon cancer. And they have a 4 year old daughter. She started to get a little choked up. She said that coming to work out has been some kind of a sanctuary for her through her husband's illness. She told me that she finds more solace in looking at the trees than she does at church, and when they move everything to the basement next week, she doesn't know what she's going to do. I told her I'd pray for her family, and even though I'm generally not a praying person, I meant it.

Most days I try and remember how lucky I am. Today there is no way I could forget.

Graduation Day

On Tuesday afternoon, after the snot had been wiped clean and some tylenol had been administered, I carted Sam off to the YMCA. After spending nearly 24 hours alone with a sick-ish baby, I needed a bit of a break in the form of some weight lifting. I purposely chose an hour where, in the past, there have been few kids in the child care center as to avoid spreading his snot face around. We hadn't been there in over a week, so the staff was unaware of Sam's new walking ability. Well, one person in particular was extremely happy about Sam's new talent. As soon as she saw him chasing me around the room, she jumped all 300 pounds of herself out of the rocking chair and declared that he was walking well enough to move up a 'class'. At first I was nervous about sending him off with new 'teachers' when he wasn't feeling well, but all the shiny new toys were enough to distract him, and he played, happy as a clam, for a little over an hour. When I came to gather him up, he didn't want to leave. It took almost three months, but I'm so relieved we're finally free of the lazy ladies!

To Complain, Or Not To Complain

Recently, I've been fretting over a little dilemma, and I thought to myself, why not let the internet weigh in on it? They're always so helpful, right?

I joined the YMCA a few weeks back so that I could get in shape before I got pregnant again (HA!). A huge selling point for me was the child care facilities and staff, who all seemed friendly and energetic. However, since we've been home from Pittsburgh, we've encountered a problem. There are two women who work there who are older than the rest of the bunch by at least twenty years. As a former YMCA employee, I know that the pay isn't great, and since a degree isn't required to work in the child care center, it's probably even lower. I have only ever seen these two women work with babies, and honestly I think it's because they don't really like their jobs. The babies are the easiest group to deal with. They don't do much and since there are usually fewer babies than the groups with older children, it's usually one on one or less for these women. There are two baby groups, the infants and the crawlers. If there are infants there, they are always in that room. Unfortunately, there are not always infants and so they end up with the crawlers, which is Sam's group.

Now I've had jobs in the past that I kept solely to pay the bills, and I remember the attitude I carried with me about the job. I can understand where these ladies are coming from. The trouble is, their apathy is having a major effect on my kid. As soon as I leave the room, they park his ass in a swing (a swing he appears to be six inches too tall for, I might add) and leave him there for the hour that I'm working out. He is surrounded by piles of fabulous shiny toys and he isn't allowed to play with a thing. And if there are other babies, they get strapped in a swing as well. Once when I came to get him there were four kids in a row swinging in unison. It was creepy. As you might imagine, this seems to be very frustrating for Sammy. After a few visits with these two, he started to get wise, and now he wails and clings to me every time he sees them. Yesterday I took him in and a different girl was there. He was happy as a clam. But by the time I was finished the bad ladies were back, he was in the swing, and he burst into tears the instant he saw me walk in the room.

I've been thinking about filing a complaint with the management, but I hesitate for several reasons. First of all, I am a big old chicken. There aren't many kids in Sam's group that I've seen, and I'm scared that the ladies will figure out that I was the squealer and be mean to me. They can't be too mean to Sam because they are on camera at all times. (I was so relieved when I figured that out, because I was worried they were pinching him or something.) But they are in control of my workout, because if Sam starts crying, they can either try and comfort him or come and get me. If I nix the swinging, I have a feeling my workouts are going to be cut short a lot more often. Also, Sam is thisclose to walking, and once that happens, he'll be moved to a different group away from the bad ladies. I'm just worried that if he spends the next month or two hating on the Y, that even when he is moved up, he'll have such an aversion that the freak outs will continue.

For the time being, we're going to start going at a different time of day and hope that the bad ladies only work in the morning. If anyone has any suggestions or ideas, please do tell because I'm going insane over this!

In other unfortunate gym-related situations, during my workout yesterday I was being followed by an old man with bowel incontinence. (Side note: I probably should post this over at The People Under the Stairmasters!) I'm all for the elderly getting some exercise. Hell, I encouraged my grammy to join Silver Sneakers. But if you have to wear Depends because you shit your pants a little every time you lift a weight, perhaps you should do your workouts at home and not at the Y. Or at least come at an off time of day instead of lunch hour when the place is packed. Heightened sense of smell due to pregnancy plus an old dude with a load in his pants are not the makings of a pleasant workout, let me tell you.