Run for your life.

Today I ran day #3 of the Couch to 5K plan.

I look like a moron when I'm out there running/struggling to make myself run/jog/walk/continue to put one foot in front of the other.

I still can't start running every time my app tells me to start running.

Guess what, though...???

I don't care.

I'm out there, I'm going to continue to get out there, and I will work my way up to my goals, slowly but surely.

Here's part of the inspiration that got me started: a friend posted this link to her facebook wall. It was exactly what I needed, EXACTLY what I needed in order to haul myself up off the couch and go. It was cold outside. I didn't own a good pair of running shoes, a sports bra, a fancy contraption to hold my smartphone, or anything else I might have formerly told myself I needed in order to start running. All I had was this big, fat, out-of-shape body and my frustration with it. I took it, and I ran with it.

This year I'm finally doing ME, and I am determined not to care what that looks like to other people. Sometimes it isn't easy.

I did my first two runs in silence, thinking I would just use the time to clear my head. It was nice, in a way; as my feet pounded the pavement, I let my mind run off ahead. I kept my eyes down, both out of embarrassment and because I didn't want to trip and face plant into the sidewalk. I thought about what I probably looked like to passersby. I'm only around 5'6'', and I weigh close to 200 lbs. I have a small frame, with narrow shoulders, and for my height and build, 200 lbs. is a lot of weight to be carrying around.

I imagined everyone antagonistic, jeering at me through their car windshields. Then, I thought about how I feel when I see fat people out running or walking. I realized my thoughts are never antagonistic. Usually, I'm thinking, "Damn! Good for him (or her). I wish that was me out there." Then I thought, okay, so more realistically, people are probably thinking,"Oh, how sweet! That pregnant lady is trying to keep exercising, even at 9 months!" Then I thought, okay, even more realistically, people probably don't even notice me out here or think anything about it if they do. The attitudes I attribute to people in my head are really just excuses to tear myself down, to hide myself away, to think less of myself. Then I thought, "Hmm...next time I'm going to make a playlist, so that I don't think so much..."

The point is, I started with nothing, not even a playlist to accompany me. I started out wearing stretchy maternity yoga pants (My only child is 4 years old, by the way.), my beloved purple New Balance tennis shoes, a raggedly t-shirt, and a black knit cap that makes me look remarkably like Angus Young. I duct taped my phone to my waistband because my pants didn't have pockets.

The important thing is that I started at all, and that I'm determined to keep going.

Today I ran along to Pandora Radio. So in addition to the maternity pants and duct tape, I was singing Nelly under my breath: "Andele, andele, mami, E I E I Oh, oh!" Certainly no less ridiculous, but a little more confident. I'll let anyone I meet think what they will. It's MY life I'm running for, after all.

A testament to how badly we need to change our meal habits.

Today, I made a simple lunch of sandwiches, raw carrots with dip, and applesauce and called Eliot into the kitchen to eat. His first puzzled response was, "Why are we eating in the kitchen?" I told him we're making a few changes around here and we're going to eat at home more often and the kitchen table is where we eat meals. He sat down and took a bite of his ham, lettuce, cheese, and mayonnaise sandwich.

"Oh, Mom!" he exclaimed, smiling, "This tastes just like when we eat at Swubway! You should make these all day long!"

;)

It's my life. It's now or never.

I finally hit bottom this week. Everyone's bottom is different. (hehehe. No, seriously.) I thought I'd been to mine many times, but no situation was ever alarming enough to motivate me to make actual change in my life. I've made some pretty stupid choices, choices that make some great stories I'll never tell my grandkids, and you'd think some of those times would have been my bottom, but no.

My bottom = On January 1, 2012, I maxxed out my credit card. I have $14,000.00 worth of credit card debt, and no idea how I'm going to pay it back.

Now, once again, in comparison to some of the stupid shit I've done in the past six months, hitting my credit card limit may not seem like it would be that big of a deal. But it is.

And here's why: being in debt scares me like I've never been scared before.

I'm terrible at managing money. I'm not overly fond of "things" or possessions: I don't drive a flashy car; I don't wear designer clothes; I live a pretty modest lifestyle. But I fritter away money like it's a talent, and I don't make much money to begin with. Ever since my first divorce, I've used my credit card to supplement my income; meaning at whatever point I run out of money for the month, I just switch over to ye olde magical Visa. And yes, I think I DO want to go to NYC! VISA. Las Vegas?! VISA. Chicago? VISA. Oh, don't worry, I'll pick up the tab for our pizza/beer/movie tickets! VISA. Put that Roc's tab on my VISA! Let's treat ourselves to Cracker Barrel/Red Lobster/Olive Garden/KoFusion/What's Cookin every single weekend! VISA. Four dollar coffee everyday, sometimes twice day! VISA. Yahoo! It's not REAL money! It's just my VISA!

The reality has finally kicked in that this little card is not a limitless fountain of money. I have been charging more than I've been paying on it for some time, and now my time is up. No more easy out. Nowhere to turn if it's only the 5th and I'm already broke. I've known for a long time that I need to change my spending habits, but I've known it in a back-of-my-head way, the same way I know I should probably lose weight, and I should really start keeping my house cleaner, and really, I should probably eat out less often. Ending my reliance on my credit card has been just one in a very long list of things I'm going to do, you know...when I get my shit together...someday. In some bright, shiny future, where I'm a better version of myself, I'll have my credit card paid off. I'm sure of it.

It never really occurred to me in a visceral, real way that in order for that bright, shiny future, better version of me to manifest, I actually have to make changes NOW. I can wait around for the benevolent faeries to come at night and pay my credit card bill and clean my house, and cook great meals, and give me liposuction while I sleep, but...chances are I'll be waiting a damn long time. It ain't gonna happen unless I make it happen.

It has finally sunk in that if I expect to grow, I need to first plant seeds. So here are my seeds:

1. I cut up my credit card.
2. I started the Couch to 5K program in a bid to get more (and by "more" I mean "any at all") exercise and maybe even shed some of these extra pounds.
3. I went grocery shopping for real food and have vowed not to eat out more than once a week.
4. I've made a vow not to date anyone until I've reached some of my life goals and am happy with my self first. No more losing myself in someone else so that I can ignore the work I need to do on me.

If I don't plant the seeds now and do the work to help them sprout and grow, my future me is going to be the same as my past me. I've met her, and frankly, I don't really like her all that much.

Here's to Rachel 2.0. Working towards a better version of me.

In Twenty-Twelve.

Is it too early to start thinking about 2012? Or too late?
In any case, today I'm pondering the new year and what is to come, and I have a few predictions and a couple of resolutions to share:

In the year 2012, I'm pretty sure I won't return my library books or DVDs on time.
I will forget to put the trash out on Wednesday night.
I won't refill my prescriptions before they run out.

I will lock myself out of the house at least once.
I will go way over on my oil change.
I will neglect to clean my tennis shoes, telling myself that the mud/dirt/dog poo will get walked off anyway.
I will leave leftovers in my refrigerator until they are unrecognizable in texture, color, and smell.

I will set a bad example for my son.
I will disappoint my parents.

I will get a parking ticket.
I will not pay my parking ticket.

I will fold a lot of clean laundry.
I will throw a lot of dirty laundry on my bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen floor.

I will sing along with the radio while driving my car.
I will be crying too hard to sing along with the radio while driving my car.

I will hold a newborn baby who isn't mine.
I will promptly hand her back to her momma when she starts to cry.

I will apologize for things that aren't my fault.

I will get my hair professionally cut once and then neglect to have any maintenance done on the style, even though I love it.

I will get a pedicure.

I will remain single.
I will write my (first) memoir.

I will be full of hope.
I will be disappointed.

I will be overflowing with creativity.
I won't have any words.

Eep.

Eliot: "Isn't it funny that my brother turned out to be a boy?! What if he was a girl?"
Mommy: "Well, if he were a girl, he'd be your sister."
Eliot: "Hahahaha. That's funny. How is he a boy?"
Mommy: "Oh, I dunno. Some people turn out to be boys and some people turn out to be girls."
Eliot: "Mom, how are babies made?"
Mommy: *gulp* Oh, you know...Mommies and Daddies make babies.
Eliot: "I know THAT, but I mean HOW do they make a baby?"
Mommy: They just get together and they...well...It's...uh...kind of complicated. I'll explain it in more detail when you're a little older.

I was SO not prepared for that question. :)

When preschoolers attack.

He doesn't look like a boy who is being traumatized by school three times a week, does he?

I really thought we might be able to do the drop-off this morning without tears, and though he was brave, when faced with entrance to the classroom, he lost it.

His behavior was hideous all day yesterday, just wild and whiny and demanding of my attention all day long. And then at 7:00 in the evening, he started fake crying and boo-hoo-ing. Sure enough, he was already bulled up about school. I tried to engage him in a conversation about school. "What is it about school that you don't like?" I asked, gently.

Eventually, he told me that he doesn't like it when they're in the gym or on the playground and there are too many kids and he's afraid one of them is going to attack him. That's what he said. "I'm just afraid a bigger kid is going to attack me." (Accompanied by sniffs). Now. This is ridiculous. But, it could be true. Eliot is a tall but slender, wiry little kid. He's "slight," we'll say. He's not exactly timid, but he is a thinker. He thinks things through before acting. He was (and remains) the only baby I've ever seen who would stack blocks on top of one another to build a tower and then carefully dismantle the tower block by block rather than knocking it down. He does not like chaos, unless it's a carefully controlled chaos of his own making. So I can understand how a gym full of running, yelling, playing 4 yr-olds not only offends his sensibilities, but scares the living shit out of him. I totally get that.

 I assured him that while accidents happen, no one is out to attack him. I reminded him that the other kids were telling him it would be okay and trying to help him to feel better. I reminded him that Miss_____ is there to make sure everyone is safe. We talked about how kids can sometimes be rowdy and that people do sometimes end up getting hurt. I had a tough time determining if this was a legitimate concern of his or just one more made up reason why he hates school, the real reason being separation anxiety.

I told him I would give him something of mine to always carry with him so that when he gets sad, he can look at it, and touch it, and think of how Mommy will be there soon. We looked around my craft room and decided on a "special Mommy bracelet," which is a piece of embroidery floss tied around his wrist. Every school day, he gets to choose a color of Mommy's floss and wear the special Mommy bracelet, and he thought that was a pretty cool idea.

It was an idea that got us all the way out to the car, through the grocery store for a special breakfast donut, and all the way into the very school building. Once in sight of the classroom, however, the special Mommy bracelet was powerless against his sorrow.

I'm looking forward to picking him up this afternoon and hearing how his day went. Maybe the bracelet helped a little? I hope he had a good day. I hope he got to be the line leader, or better yet, the person who feeds the fish! And on Monday, we'll try again.

After all, if this is a kid who requests a pear for a snack when he's hungry,  ("Don't cut it up, Mom, just wash it and give it to me." My kid eats fruit! On purpose! I have photographic evidence!) I'm convinced he can do anything.

I'm too sad to go to school.

My child is desperate not to be left at preschool. Over the summer, he was excited about the prospect of going to school in the fall. We talked about how he would make new friends and learn more about the alphabet and counting, and he was pretty positive about all of that. Once we visited the classroom, he couldn't wait for school to start. Now that the time has come (this is his second week of school), he does not want to go. Well, he DOES want to go, he just wants me to come with him. And stay with him. And if I'm not there, he doesn't want any part of it. I have heard all of the excuses listed below, in addition, I'm sure, to some I'm forgetting:

But what if I have a fever?
I'm too sad to go to school.
How will I ever find you when you come to pick me up?
Does my teacher even know your phone number?
I have a headache.
I can't do it.
I don't like school.
We don't learn anything there.
It's not even a REAL school, like big kids go to. It's not even kindergarten!
I'll just stay home by myself.
I'll just come to work with you.--You can leave me in your office while you teach.
What is my dad doing today?
Can't we just ask someone we like to babysit me?

Three times a week, I carry him into the building and down the hall to his classroom. He refuses to walk into the building. He refuses to stand up. Three times a week, his teacher, Miss____ gets the job of physically peeling him off of my body as he cries hot tears and snot onto my shoulder. This morning he snagged his foot in my knee-length skirt and accidentally flipped it up over my hips, giving the entire 4 yr-old room a nice long peek at the tie-dyed men's underwear I was wearing. (Don't judge! Men's underwear are comfortable, and tie-dying them makes them pretty, too.)

I know that Eliot enjoys at least some part of preschool. When I come to pick him up in the afternoons, he is invariably sitting alone, waiting for me with red-rimmed, watery eyes, BUT there is also proof that he has not cried all day long. After he shakes off the sorrow and injustice of parental abandonment, he smiles and holds my hand and calmly walks out to our car telling me stories about his day. He proudly tells me he was the calendar person, or the lunch person, or the line leader. He made a ladybug with googly eyes (!), or he drew his name in glitter, or he beat the first level of an "I Spy" computer game. He had a corn dog for lunch, and he dipped it in ketchup.

He told me on his second day that he had made friends, "a girl friend, and a boy friend," and that they had tried to make him feel better. Unfortunately, "their ideas didn't work," he reported, shaking his head. So it isn't as if the other kids aren't nice to him, or that he doesn't like his teacher, or even that he doesn't enjoy the classroom. He has no trouble with lunch. He reports that he uses the bathroom on his own just fine, and Miss _____ helps him with zips and snaps if he needs help. The problem seems to be that he is just absolutely determined not to like preschool. Just because. Probably, it is due to the fact that, like all children, his purpose in life is to break his mother's heart into tiny pieces. Repeatedly.

I hope it gets better.

I'm sure it will get better.

It has to get better.