So I did do my second day of C25K. It was even in a timely fashion, too. Nothing in particular stood out this time. There weren't many people there. I wasn't freaking out.
However...
I did start feeling some pain, though, in the lower front part of my calf...and just below my right knee in the front. So I figured it would be a good idea to experiment with my form. If it hurts to run a certain way, run another way, right? It seemed like a sound idea to me.
So I ran with pressure more on the outside of my foot, which stopped the pain. Then I would zone out, forget, and not realize I had changed my form until my leg started hurting again. So I switched styles back and forth. I did my time and headed for the locker room. Halfway down the hall I could already tell something was different. The first thing in my mind was shin splints. But having never experienced this joy of running, it was simply a guess. And as we all know what causes shin splints is doing too much too fast. How could I be doing too much? It's no more than usual. Maybe it was my new and improved striking style? I didn't want to jump to any conclusions just yet. It might be nothing.
I got home and looked up shin splints and it sounded fairly accurate. Medial shin splints was what it said. I was perplexed to say the least. How all of a sudden did I get this? Then I read that it supposedly gets worse overnight. So, expecting the worst for the morning I went to bed. Well, I could barely walk the next day. It was almost as if my knees had called the union and gone on bending strike. That's what it felt like. Later at work, I realized what fun squatting with shin splints was.
I skipped a day and it's mostly gone, but now I'm terrified to go run today.
I will but I'm not thrilled about it.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
SoThat Was Scrambled, Right?
I do enjoy the weekends. Occasionally I get to sleep until at least 8. Such a guilty pleasure. Ha.
This morning before I felt the usual sensation of fresh baby knees pummeling my face, I heard something. I dismissed it, being half asleep and generally lazy. Then I heard a little voice. And through my bathroom wall I heard "Oggies! Oggies! Mommy! Oggies!" Oh, God. My eyes snapped open and I bolted out of bed, leaving a trail of babies and spouses in my wake.
As I reached the kitchen, I saw the following:
This morning before I felt the usual sensation of fresh baby knees pummeling my face, I heard something. I dismissed it, being half asleep and generally lazy. Then I heard a little voice. And through my bathroom wall I heard "Oggies! Oggies! Mommy! Oggies!" Oh, God. My eyes snapped open and I bolted out of bed, leaving a trail of babies and spouses in my wake.
As I reached the kitchen, I saw the following:
Friday, March 19, 2010
World's Shortest Escape Artists
These are the cohorts you may have seen tearing through your local Wal-Mart."Toddler in Aisle 9...Aisle 10..."
I have two small children and anyone with two kids can tell you that taking them places alone is not always easy. Luckily, I have never had that much difficulty the few times I’ve done it. So I took both the boys to Wal-Mart last night. We needed some stuff so we went. Dave was busy playing a church somewhere. Don’t ask.
Shortly after arriving I have to go to the bathroom. So we went to the back of the store where there is a family bathroom. It was locked so I waited a few minutes. Despite the toilet flushing three times no one ever came out. I thought perhaps I didn’t want to go into an enclosed room that needed the toilet flushed that many times. I got both boys out of the buggy and took them with me into the ladies’ room. I went all the way to the last stall which is typically a handicapped facility so it’s roomy. No sooner then I had sat down than Connor got on his hands and knees and vacated the stall. Through clenched teeth, trying not to yell, I growled that he had better get his tushie back here. Then Sully started trying to get out. I pulled my pants back up and started collecting my children as Connor crawled back under from the next stall over.
Then I thought, I sure hope there wasn’t anyone in there. That’s just what I need; my two year old crawling from stall to stall, weaving between women’s legs, punctuated by the occasional piping of “’cha doin’?” Luckily, there was no one else in the bathroom. I scooped up the baby who was still trying to get his head under the stall door and grabbed Connor as I headed for the door. I plunked them both back in the buggy and headed for Customer Service as I had something to return.
I did what needed to be done while Connor flirted with the lady behind us who thought Connor’s cries of ‘Daniel-Hannah’ was him saying Pochahontas. So close. Once that was taken care of I still had to go to the bathroom seeing as how I hadn’t gotten to go previously. So I parked the buggy outside the nearest bathroom. Connor refused to stand up to get out of the buggy and since I was already holding the baby I couldn’t make him get up. After several threatening remarks and Connor still not moving I put the baby down and ripped Connor out of the buggy.
Again, I went down to the last stall. Perhaps you see where this is going. This time I made the mistake of actually starting to use the bathroom. Well, the big difference in this bathroom and the other one is...the other one had a door. So despite my yelling, both Connor and Sully took off. Again, there was no one else in the bathroom to hear my pleading cries of “Someone grab my kids!”
I righted myself as fast as I could all the while hearing Connor squealing at least fifty feet away from the bathroom where I was struggling to get out of the stall. And those weren’t I’m-lost-and-scared squeals, those were I’m-loose-and-no-one’s-chasing-me-and I’m-in-so-much-trouble-that-I-don’t-realize-my-mama’s-going-to-beat-the-tar-out-of-me-when-she-catches-me squeals. Yes, those.
I tore out of the bathroom in time to see Sully toddling as fast as he could down a checkout lane; Connor was nowhere in sight. That’s when I saw the looks. I didn’t focus on any in particular due to the fact that I was a tad preoccupied, but I could feel them. The stares of onlookers, judging me. The disparaging glares of the holier-than-thous. Those people who either don’t have kids or have never experienced having one run off from them. The ones who don’t know. So instantly as I flung the diaper bag into the buggy I was a bad parent. I felt the stares and heard the questions attached to them, “Don’t you know how to control your own children?” “Do you just let them run around like that?” “Someone should take those children from you.” However, there were also some people who were pretty amused by the situation. I ran and grabbed Sully as he tried to loot a candy display. Connor was streaking through Women’s clothes squealing with unconcealed glee as I ran after him. The chase ceased in Menswear where he tripped and fell. Turning, he looked at me and said ‘what happened?’
I snatched him up out of the floor and dragged him like a sack of potatoes back to the buggy, half a store away. The same stares beat down on me, but I glared back at them this time. I had triumphed; I had caught my children and once again corralled them. Two little girls about six years old stared at me as they pretended to get a drink of water from the fountain. Yeah, I know you’re not really drinking when you don’t open your mouth but continue to stare at me. Finally I got tired of it and said “What?!” They ran off. Don’t judge me, you little punks.
Unfortunately, I still had shopping to do. I accomplished what I believe to be the fastest Wal-Mart shopping ever. It was just under ten minutes. I screeched to a halt at the self check-out knowing that I was going to be faster than anyone else at that time. I started scanning stuff and Connor holds something up to me and says “I’ll help you, Mommy.”
Go ahead and ‘awww’ all you want to, that did not change anything. Sure it was cute but he had also just treated himself to a free-for-all through Wal-Mart. Yes, I was still pissed. When we left, though, I did get him a Happy Meal at McDonalds. However, when we got home I realized that I don’t have a key to our new house.
And I still had to pee.
Shortly after arriving I have to go to the bathroom. So we went to the back of the store where there is a family bathroom. It was locked so I waited a few minutes. Despite the toilet flushing three times no one ever came out. I thought perhaps I didn’t want to go into an enclosed room that needed the toilet flushed that many times. I got both boys out of the buggy and took them with me into the ladies’ room. I went all the way to the last stall which is typically a handicapped facility so it’s roomy. No sooner then I had sat down than Connor got on his hands and knees and vacated the stall. Through clenched teeth, trying not to yell, I growled that he had better get his tushie back here. Then Sully started trying to get out. I pulled my pants back up and started collecting my children as Connor crawled back under from the next stall over.
Then I thought, I sure hope there wasn’t anyone in there. That’s just what I need; my two year old crawling from stall to stall, weaving between women’s legs, punctuated by the occasional piping of “’cha doin’?” Luckily, there was no one else in the bathroom. I scooped up the baby who was still trying to get his head under the stall door and grabbed Connor as I headed for the door. I plunked them both back in the buggy and headed for Customer Service as I had something to return.
I did what needed to be done while Connor flirted with the lady behind us who thought Connor’s cries of ‘Daniel-Hannah’ was him saying Pochahontas. So close. Once that was taken care of I still had to go to the bathroom seeing as how I hadn’t gotten to go previously. So I parked the buggy outside the nearest bathroom. Connor refused to stand up to get out of the buggy and since I was already holding the baby I couldn’t make him get up. After several threatening remarks and Connor still not moving I put the baby down and ripped Connor out of the buggy.
Again, I went down to the last stall. Perhaps you see where this is going. This time I made the mistake of actually starting to use the bathroom. Well, the big difference in this bathroom and the other one is...the other one had a door. So despite my yelling, both Connor and Sully took off. Again, there was no one else in the bathroom to hear my pleading cries of “Someone grab my kids!”
I righted myself as fast as I could all the while hearing Connor squealing at least fifty feet away from the bathroom where I was struggling to get out of the stall. And those weren’t I’m-lost-and-scared squeals, those were I’m-loose-and-no-one’s-chasing-me-and I’m-in-so-much-trouble-that-I-don’t-realize-my-mama’s-going-to-beat-the-tar-out-of-me-when-she-catches-me squeals. Yes, those.
I tore out of the bathroom in time to see Sully toddling as fast as he could down a checkout lane; Connor was nowhere in sight. That’s when I saw the looks. I didn’t focus on any in particular due to the fact that I was a tad preoccupied, but I could feel them. The stares of onlookers, judging me. The disparaging glares of the holier-than-thous. Those people who either don’t have kids or have never experienced having one run off from them. The ones who don’t know. So instantly as I flung the diaper bag into the buggy I was a bad parent. I felt the stares and heard the questions attached to them, “Don’t you know how to control your own children?” “Do you just let them run around like that?” “Someone should take those children from you.” However, there were also some people who were pretty amused by the situation. I ran and grabbed Sully as he tried to loot a candy display. Connor was streaking through Women’s clothes squealing with unconcealed glee as I ran after him. The chase ceased in Menswear where he tripped and fell. Turning, he looked at me and said ‘what happened?’
I snatched him up out of the floor and dragged him like a sack of potatoes back to the buggy, half a store away. The same stares beat down on me, but I glared back at them this time. I had triumphed; I had caught my children and once again corralled them. Two little girls about six years old stared at me as they pretended to get a drink of water from the fountain. Yeah, I know you’re not really drinking when you don’t open your mouth but continue to stare at me. Finally I got tired of it and said “What?!” They ran off. Don’t judge me, you little punks.
Unfortunately, I still had shopping to do. I accomplished what I believe to be the fastest Wal-Mart shopping ever. It was just under ten minutes. I screeched to a halt at the self check-out knowing that I was going to be faster than anyone else at that time. I started scanning stuff and Connor holds something up to me and says “I’ll help you, Mommy.”
Go ahead and ‘awww’ all you want to, that did not change anything. Sure it was cute but he had also just treated himself to a free-for-all through Wal-Mart. Yes, I was still pissed. When we left, though, I did get him a Happy Meal at McDonalds. However, when we got home I realized that I don’t have a key to our new house.
And I still had to pee.
True To Life Barbie?
I’m about to do something a little different than normal. I’m going to pass over the funny and focus on something else. Bear with me. The funny will be back.
I was reading the blog Storked! on Glamour.com, written by Christine Coppa, as I do every day. There was a guest blogger today as there may be from time to time. She wrote about how her daughter, all of five years old, was already conscious of differences in body type. Kids notice stuff, dude. They can differentiate between big and little. She said that her five year old asked, in a burst of childhood innocence, why Barbie’s tummy looks the way it does. This woman panicked, or at least it seemed like she did. She was already picturing a long, hard road of body dysmorphia for her child, dependent on her response to said question.
What was her reply? That Barbie’s aren’t real and that some real women’s stomachs aren’t flat. Well-played and true. Personally I would have said something similar but basically saying that everyone is different. Barbie’s are made from a mold and we aren’t. After the blogger sidestepped that landmine, she complained about the lack of dolls with body issues, Cellulite Barbie and Pot-Belly Barbie for example. Is that really what you want to see? You want to buy your daughter a Barbie with big ol’cottage cheese thighs? You want to teach her that heavily dimpled skin is preferable?
What I can’t figure out is why you would want there to be a Barbie with cellulite. It seems kind of like hoping that the cheerleaders in high school got fat. I guess Barbie has just had it too good for too long and now we, the flesh and blood women, want revenge. Give her excessive pockets of fat! That’ll show that plastic bitch. Smirk at me, will you? Is it just that we hate those who have the things we wish we had? Smooth thighs for example?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we need to promote Barbie as a body role model and say that’s the only way to be. I know it may sound like that’s what I’m getting at. That’s not what I mean. Ellen asked why there aren’t dolls who look like real life women. Hey, much as we may hate them, there are a percentage of women who don’t have cellulite. Should we just leave them out? Purportedly, fifteen percent of women do not have cellulite. Maybe Barbie is true to life for them.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m also not saying that we should be teaching girls that having fat is unacceptable and wrong. I’m also not saying that we should encourage attitudes like the woman recently in the news for attempting to become the World’s Fattest Woman. I’ll bet ten bucks that she doesn’t get a doll in her image either.
Having cellulite is ok. It’s not preferable and it shouldn’t be something to aspire to, but it’s ok.
Barbies are not real. We don’t need to react towards Barbie the way those fascist Harry Potter haters act towards the books. They can’t just say ‘it’s not real; it’s fiction’ and go on with their business. No, they want to get rid of it.
No, Barbies don’t have cellulite. They also don’t have acne, but some women may think that there should be a Barbie that does. The same may be true of scars, cankles, moles, freckles, stray chin hairs, dry skin, eczema, bunions, bruises, split ends, broken nails, stretch marks, razor burn, asymmetrical boobs, and a neglected bikini area. Does that mean Mattel needs to develop Barbies that have all these things? God no! I don’t want to see a new collection of Broke Down Barbies. We need to make peace with our bodies and not try to force Barbie to develop our physical imperfections.
Barbie has undergone changes over the years anyway. Her bustline has decreased at least. Let us not forget, though, if Barbie were a real person she would be six feet tall and weigh 100 pounds. Her measurements would be 39-19-33. She would have enough problems even without cellulite.
So yes, we should teach our kids that having cellulite is ok, but we shouldn’t ask Mattel to make dolls intended to make girls WANT cellulite. And to answer the question why don’t they make Barbies with cellulite? Because it’s not appealing to the eye. That’s why you buy Barbie, because she looks like fun.
It also might be fun if they were to come out with a Barbie that says “I love my fat ass!” But it would be a much different type of fun.
I was reading the blog Storked! on Glamour.com, written by Christine Coppa, as I do every day. There was a guest blogger today as there may be from time to time. She wrote about how her daughter, all of five years old, was already conscious of differences in body type. Kids notice stuff, dude. They can differentiate between big and little. She said that her five year old asked, in a burst of childhood innocence, why Barbie’s tummy looks the way it does. This woman panicked, or at least it seemed like she did. She was already picturing a long, hard road of body dysmorphia for her child, dependent on her response to said question.
What was her reply? That Barbie’s aren’t real and that some real women’s stomachs aren’t flat. Well-played and true. Personally I would have said something similar but basically saying that everyone is different. Barbie’s are made from a mold and we aren’t. After the blogger sidestepped that landmine, she complained about the lack of dolls with body issues, Cellulite Barbie and Pot-Belly Barbie for example. Is that really what you want to see? You want to buy your daughter a Barbie with big ol’cottage cheese thighs? You want to teach her that heavily dimpled skin is preferable?
What I can’t figure out is why you would want there to be a Barbie with cellulite. It seems kind of like hoping that the cheerleaders in high school got fat. I guess Barbie has just had it too good for too long and now we, the flesh and blood women, want revenge. Give her excessive pockets of fat! That’ll show that plastic bitch. Smirk at me, will you? Is it just that we hate those who have the things we wish we had? Smooth thighs for example?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we need to promote Barbie as a body role model and say that’s the only way to be. I know it may sound like that’s what I’m getting at. That’s not what I mean. Ellen asked why there aren’t dolls who look like real life women. Hey, much as we may hate them, there are a percentage of women who don’t have cellulite. Should we just leave them out? Purportedly, fifteen percent of women do not have cellulite. Maybe Barbie is true to life for them.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m also not saying that we should be teaching girls that having fat is unacceptable and wrong. I’m also not saying that we should encourage attitudes like the woman recently in the news for attempting to become the World’s Fattest Woman. I’ll bet ten bucks that she doesn’t get a doll in her image either.
Having cellulite is ok. It’s not preferable and it shouldn’t be something to aspire to, but it’s ok.
Barbies are not real. We don’t need to react towards Barbie the way those fascist Harry Potter haters act towards the books. They can’t just say ‘it’s not real; it’s fiction’ and go on with their business. No, they want to get rid of it.
No, Barbies don’t have cellulite. They also don’t have acne, but some women may think that there should be a Barbie that does. The same may be true of scars, cankles, moles, freckles, stray chin hairs, dry skin, eczema, bunions, bruises, split ends, broken nails, stretch marks, razor burn, asymmetrical boobs, and a neglected bikini area. Does that mean Mattel needs to develop Barbies that have all these things? God no! I don’t want to see a new collection of Broke Down Barbies. We need to make peace with our bodies and not try to force Barbie to develop our physical imperfections.
Barbie has undergone changes over the years anyway. Her bustline has decreased at least. Let us not forget, though, if Barbie were a real person she would be six feet tall and weigh 100 pounds. Her measurements would be 39-19-33. She would have enough problems even without cellulite.
So yes, we should teach our kids that having cellulite is ok, but we shouldn’t ask Mattel to make dolls intended to make girls WANT cellulite. And to answer the question why don’t they make Barbies with cellulite? Because it’s not appealing to the eye. That’s why you buy Barbie, because she looks like fun.
It also might be fun if they were to come out with a Barbie that says “I love my fat ass!” But it would be a much different type of fun.
Let Your Fingers Do the Running
I ran again. I forced my body to take a beating I don’t believe it completely deserved. Technically it was the second day of my Couch to 5K program, but since it happened a week later, I am just calling do-over.
Somehow things were a little clearer in my mind when I set upon the treadmill this time. So when the time came for me to crank up the mph and run, I was a little better at keeping my cool. Y’know as opposed to the usual freak out that is my mind, spinning wildly trying to figure out what it is that I’m thinking. I’ve decided that if you have to try that hard to understand what you’re thinking, that means that you aren’t thinking anything. It might not be like the Emergency Broadcast System tone, but it’s not far off.
Anyway. I started saying the word ‘relax’ to myself and it was semi-working. And that’s odd because ‘relax’ is so close to ‘calm down’, which really pisses me off. Well, apparently in my non-frantic state I am more aware of discomfort that running is causing me. The screaming in my head must have been muffling it. So I guess what I have is shin splints or perhaps it’s just the result of not stretching beforehand. The lower part of my shin ached when I ran, but only on the left leg. Just under my knee on my right leg was the other problem.
I also discovered something new. My head may be calmer when I run now, but I think all the crazy just migrated a little south. It relocated to my hands. I’ve read tips that say to hold your hands as though you’re holding a potato chip or a butterfly (those were not the same article, mind you.) I guess because some people tend to clench their hands into fists when they run. I’ve never had a problem with that so I didn’t worry about it. Then I started reminding myself how to hold my hands. That made my hands nervous apparently. Like someone was judging them. My hands started to develop nervous twitches. Then I started trying to stop them and it just got worse.
So here I am running and, from the looks of it, I’m also singing It’s The End of The World As We Know It in sign language. And my fingers knew every word. The guy two treadmills down thought I was telling him to steal third. But as soon as I started walking again, it was over. I think I’m actually going to have to be holding something to keep my hands quiet. God knows what I’m saying to people while I’m running.
I’m going to start running outside, too, because let’s face it—the 5K is outside. I’m doing my second day of the C25K today, but it will be at the gym. Updates on that later.
Incidentally, the 5K I’m training for benefits the School for the Deaf. I guess my hands are practicing mingling.
Somehow things were a little clearer in my mind when I set upon the treadmill this time. So when the time came for me to crank up the mph and run, I was a little better at keeping my cool. Y’know as opposed to the usual freak out that is my mind, spinning wildly trying to figure out what it is that I’m thinking. I’ve decided that if you have to try that hard to understand what you’re thinking, that means that you aren’t thinking anything. It might not be like the Emergency Broadcast System tone, but it’s not far off.
Anyway. I started saying the word ‘relax’ to myself and it was semi-working. And that’s odd because ‘relax’ is so close to ‘calm down’, which really pisses me off. Well, apparently in my non-frantic state I am more aware of discomfort that running is causing me. The screaming in my head must have been muffling it. So I guess what I have is shin splints or perhaps it’s just the result of not stretching beforehand. The lower part of my shin ached when I ran, but only on the left leg. Just under my knee on my right leg was the other problem.
I also discovered something new. My head may be calmer when I run now, but I think all the crazy just migrated a little south. It relocated to my hands. I’ve read tips that say to hold your hands as though you’re holding a potato chip or a butterfly (those were not the same article, mind you.) I guess because some people tend to clench their hands into fists when they run. I’ve never had a problem with that so I didn’t worry about it. Then I started reminding myself how to hold my hands. That made my hands nervous apparently. Like someone was judging them. My hands started to develop nervous twitches. Then I started trying to stop them and it just got worse.
So here I am running and, from the looks of it, I’m also singing It’s The End of The World As We Know It in sign language. And my fingers knew every word. The guy two treadmills down thought I was telling him to steal third. But as soon as I started walking again, it was over. I think I’m actually going to have to be holding something to keep my hands quiet. God knows what I’m saying to people while I’m running.
I’m going to start running outside, too, because let’s face it—the 5K is outside. I’m doing my second day of the C25K today, but it will be at the gym. Updates on that later.
Incidentally, the 5K I’m training for benefits the School for the Deaf. I guess my hands are practicing mingling.
Rock of Ages
As a parent, at what point do you stop referring to your child's age in months? Perhaps this is just a random musing, in fact it IS just a random musing, but seriously. I was just perusing the comments to a blog I follow on occasion and one of the commentators stated that her children were 13 months and 26 months. 26 months? Good lord. Why can't you just say two? Two years old. "My children are one and two years old respectively." There, that seemed to work.
Where does it end? Will this same woman end up saying "Yes, Parker is 73 months now and Eve is 60 months. They grow up so fast!" In case you were wondering, 73 months=6 years and 60 months=5 years. And yes, I had to have a calculator to determine that. Where is that line? When do you go from 26 months to two years old? I realize that for the first couple years of a child's life their tiny clothing is sized in months. Even then, though, what if you have a notably larger child? What if your kid wears size 18 months when he's only 9 months old? It doesn't matter, really, and bears little relation to my initial point. I think the cut-off line to saying your child's age in months should be when their clothes stop doing it. If Carter's says 24 months is the limit, then that's what I'm going with. After 24 months is 2T, people. No more months. Start counting in years.
Incidentally, I am 317 months old. Good luck with that math problem.
Where does it end? Will this same woman end up saying "Yes, Parker is 73 months now and Eve is 60 months. They grow up so fast!" In case you were wondering, 73 months=6 years and 60 months=5 years. And yes, I had to have a calculator to determine that. Where is that line? When do you go from 26 months to two years old? I realize that for the first couple years of a child's life their tiny clothing is sized in months. Even then, though, what if you have a notably larger child? What if your kid wears size 18 months when he's only 9 months old? It doesn't matter, really, and bears little relation to my initial point. I think the cut-off line to saying your child's age in months should be when their clothes stop doing it. If Carter's says 24 months is the limit, then that's what I'm going with. After 24 months is 2T, people. No more months. Start counting in years.
Incidentally, I am 317 months old. Good luck with that math problem.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The End is the Beginning is the End
Behold! This is the new home of DeathMetalMommy, formerly of DeathMetalMommy Yodels the Blues. I no longer yodel, and with a new laptop and outlook, the blues is hardly my style. Perhaps a light R&B, or jazz. Nevertheless, my escapades can now be read here and, likely, more often. Tell your friends.
DeathMetalMommy Yodels the Blues is still in place and can still be read. So go back and reflect. New posts are coming. Ready yourselves!
DeathMetalMommy Yodels the Blues is still in place and can still be read. So go back and reflect. New posts are coming. Ready yourselves!
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