I'm Grateful

When I was in middle school, my friends and I made up a game. We'd walk up to friends, teachers, strangers at the mall...and ask them to tell us one thing for which they are grateful. We usually played it on a day that we were upset. For whatever trivial Jr. high reason, we'd had a bad day, so we would declare it "I'm Grateful Day" and play our game to feel better. In the meantime, we often made a lot of other people feel better, too. This week marks three large milestones, and I think it's time for a Grateful Day. Here's mine...what are you grateful for?

It is Christmas - the day we set aside to honor the decision God made to save us. He didn't have to, but he chose to send His Son to become human. He came for the sole reason of saving my messed up, reckless, undeserving life. He chose to come even though He knew He'd die. I'm so grateful He did. I'm so grateful He didn't take the easy way out as I often do. I'm grateful He stopped at nothing to save me. I'm grateful He lets me live the amazing life I do.

I'm a mom - 9 months ago I wasn't. I'm grateful my house is filled with the sounds of someone learning and discovering something new each day (even when what she's discovering is the dishwasher and she's trying to crawl in). I'm grateful that on the hardest days, I will never go without smiling. God didn't have to bless me with the ability to have a child. I'm so grateful He did.

Zoe is cancer free. Exactly one year ago, my family began the hardest journey we've faced to date. In a matter of days, my niece went from a normal, happy 2-year-old to one unable to walk. On December 21st, doctors found a tumor on her spine and operated to remove what they could. We later learned Zoe's tumor was cancerous and in January of this year, she began a treatment plan of chemotherapy and proton radiation. Today, doctors call her a NED - she has No Evidence of Disease. Today, my sister is aware of a strength she didn't know she had before. Today, my family is closer than ever. Today, I don't pray because it sounds nice; I pray because I know firsthand that we couldn't have lived without Him. Today, my heart feels a little too full...I'm so GRATEFUL.

listening

Brynna is convinced I can't hear her. She can't use words yet, but about 13 times a day she has something so important to tell me that it overtakes her. She babbles loudly, she bangs on her drum (thanks, Aunt Vikki for the wonderful Christmas present), she grabs my face so I am looking at her, and at times, she even attempts to hit me. Whatever is on her mind requires my undivided attention. What Brynna doesn't understand is that I can hear her just fine. I'm listening even when she doesn't know it. When she's sleeping...I'm listening. When she's playing in another room and it gets a bit too quite...I'm listening. I don't always give her whining, crying or fussing the attention she prefers, but it does not change the fact that I hear her.

I had 3 separate conversations this week with girls convinced that God isn't listening to them. They talk and talk, they yell at Him, they act out in rebellion, all the while convinced that He doesn't hear them. How many times a day does God look down at you or me with the same face I give my 9 month old? It doesn't change His love for us, but He's probably a little tired. Just because He doesn't respond to your whining or rebellion doesn't mean He doesn't hear you. He hears you, baby girl. He's listening.

The question is: are you? When was the last time you stopped to listen to what He has to say? When did you last pick up His Word and read it just to know His ways? Brynna is 9 months old. She's concerned only with herself. She can't grasp yet that I have more to give her than she can see or imagine. You aren't 9 months old, but are you acting like it?

Stop banging on your toy drum. Stop yelling. Stop talking. Listen. And you might just find that He's been listening all along...

Ode to Beth

On Monday, Brynna was teething so I missed my last class for the semester at the Y. I can't say I was sad. I never want to leave something incomplete but after the masses of food I ate last week, I can't honestly say I was looking forward to the torture Beth had in store for us. (She laughed last time at the thought of us working out after Thanksgiving. The kind of laugh that isn't really funny but more scary.) Never-the-less Beth has become a common theme this fall, so I decided she needed some recognition.

Ode to Beth
I used your name as a curse word a few times,
Like every time I sprinted to the gym's black line.
Come Sunday night, I was again a child,
A few Mondays I wondered if I could hide.
I came to hate the rigor you required,
I about dropped my kid, my legs were so tired.

But I now know the name of the muscles to hate
When they scream in pain and are sore and ache.
I can say I've pushed through when I wanted a break,
And I got my tail kicked by a paper plate.

Even though it was hard, I must admit...
All my butt needed was a Beth-sized kick.

Note - I'm not kidding about those paper plates. I almost died. But it worked. If you need a good ab workout, just let me know. I'll share a Beth secret with you. :o)

How to pick a diner

As I have explained before, I'm not the girl who works out as a "change to my lifestyle." I'm not cutting out ice cream and cookies or hamburgers and fries. Nope, I workout to maintain my lifestyle - the style that includes drive thru windows. I just want to continue my ways as a fast food junkie without requiring bypass surgery at 37. So after working out this morning, I took David to one of my favorite diners for lunch. Mama's Daughters is not the place to go if you are on a diet. It is also not the place for heart patients, diabetics or the health-conscious. It is, however, fabulous home cookin' for the rest of us. It occurred to me while we ate that there are those unfamiliar with the language of Diner Drawl. Allow me to educate you...

There are a few main things you need to look for when choosing a diner:
1) Survey the parking lot - If yours is the nicest car in the lot, your odds are looking good. Be suspicious of any place with luxury vehicles lining the rows. The more beat up Ford pickup trucks, the better.

2) Check IDs - You want to be sure you are in the minority when it comes to the number of people using their AARP discount card to pay for their meal. If you are not the youngest person by a few decades, you aren't in the right place. If you are surrounded by cute old men wearing hats with fishing lures tied to the seams...you've hit the jackpot.

3) Keep your eye on the collars - Diners are not the place for a corporate business meeting, so you want blue collars not white ones. No one knows where to find good home cookin' like a man who's been doing manual labor and has 30 minutes for a lunch break. If you don't see shirt patches with the logo of an auto, HVAC, plumbing or construction company, you may want to reconsider.

4) Follow the unfashionable - Eating at a diner is about one thing - good food. It's not the runway. Places claiming to serve home-cooked food where there are 75 people out front in designer gear waiting an hour for a table are not diners. Be suspicious of any establishment where people are dressed in fabrics that require dry cleaning. You are most likely going to spill gravy on your pant leg, so jeans (or the elastic-waisted sweats I wore) are preferable.

Happy dining! Don't forget to tip your waitress - she has at least 2 other jobs, goes to school and has 4 kids. She works hard and deserves a little extra blessing.

Shhhhhhh!

I had a wake up call today. God called to tell me to shut up and stop my whining. I know you're thinking that's rude. God is so loving and would never tell someone to shut up. Oh, my friends...happens more often than I'd like to admit. God has my direct line and sometimes He has to get loud. It doesn't mean He's not loving. It means I'm stubborn.

For the past two days, I've been complaining. I'm tired; I'm sick of hearing a crying baby; I need a break. Brynna has hit the grossly over-attached phase of life, and it's wearing me out. She wants my attention 24 hours a day. She wants me to hold her or be playing with her constantly, which means I can't get anything else done. (I'm presently typing after just putting her down for a nap. It's almost 3pm, and I haven't showered.)

God just called to say... "Regina. Shhhhh!" Although it's true that I'm tired and it's overwhelming, I am also blessed beyond measure. I have a baby! So many women don't. I have a healthy child! Was it that long ago Brynna left the NICU or my niece stopped chemo treatments that I forgot how to be thankful for every single day of health? I have a kid who wants my attention! How many women right now don't know where their baby is and are wondering if she's alright? So, yeah, God told me to shut up. I needed some perspective.

I talked to a friend this week who got a similar call from God. She's hurting in her marriage. She's struggling with loss of control and all the other fun things those vows bring with them. But what God had to say is, "Baby Girl, shhhhh!" There is no greater blessing for a woman than the love of a godly man. He will provide you with a lifetime of affection if you let him. He will protect and serve you if you let go of the control of how he does it. He will give you children and a place to call Home. His love won't ever be perfect. He's still a man. But how many women want that companionship? How many women would give anything for that bond?

I listened as a young woman who months ago complained of no income now complains about her work environment. God answered the prayer for a job. Did He mess up? Did he give the wrong blessing? No. He's just saying, "Daughter, shhhhh." You have a job! You have food on your table and clothes on your back!

Where do you need some perspective? Marriage, family, kids, work? Maybe it's more hidden. Maybe you're complaining to God about a problem you're causing with your choices. Maybe you're yelling about consequences when you made the decision that led to them. Maybe, just maybe, God wants you to hush. Be quiet. Stop talking. No more yelling. You can't hear when your mouth is open.

And keep it shut. He's not impressed with our ability to sit quietly for an hour. Anyone can do that. Keep that mouth closed for a few weeks and see how clear your perspective becomes. I bet whatever it is will turn out not so horrible after all.

Bad Hair Season

Most people have a bad hair day. But I'm not most people. I don't do things halfway. I'm an over-achiever. I like to go big or not at all. So why have a bad hair day when you can have a bad hair season - the whole Fall, for example?

A few years ago, I got my hair cut in the cutest little bob you've ever seen. I loved it. It was my signature cut. Since my white-blonde hair doesn't allow much to experiment with in terms of color, I like to play with styles. Ever so often, I cut my hair short then grow it long. Then I cut some bangs, then I chop it all off again. It's a fun little cycle. When I found out I was pregnant, I started the grow-it-out process. Once I had Brynna, though, I realized it was silly to think that long hair would be easier. And while dealing with this new body that didn't quite feel like mine, I wanted a fun, short cut that was all me - my bob! The girl who cut the signature bob has moved to New York. I have a nice gent who's been cutting my hair since she left, but he's really only maintained the growing out process. I thought maybe it was time for a stylist change. I needed someone who could be fun and creative and not afraid to be a bit edgy. Edgy, however, denotes a cliff nearby and I may have gotten a little close to the side...

I went to a friend of a friend. She cut it short, fun and cute. It wasn't my bob, but I liked it. It was something new, and only a few months post-pregnancy, it was a fun change. She was a bit expensive, so the next time I went to a new girl in the same salon. I was feeling all free and adventurous, so I took in a picture of a much shorter cut. My only fear was it being too short and looking like a boy. She said she'd modify it a bit and it'd be great. Great it was not. Not only did I not get the cut I went for, it was WAY shorter than the picture and wasn't textured well. I had to go to the first girl and have her texture it, taking off even more length.

Now I mean no disrespect to anyone, but if one more person says, "You got your hair cut..." If you didn't know, this phrase does not mean, "Your haircut is cute." If they thought it was cute, they'd say cute. This phrase means, "I noticed your haircut and you caught me so I have to acknowledge it. I don't think it's cute, so I'll just say You got your haircut..." The only thing worse is when it's followed by, "It looks like Kate's hair from Jon & Kate Plus 8." OMG! Really? My hair looks like the girl who everyone made fun of for Halloween? Awesome. Anyone have a paper bag handy? I need to breathe into it. Or wear it as a hat!

The really bad cut was over a month ago. Today I went to have it trimmed and thinned as it grows out. (If you've seen Kate, you know she and I both have thick hair and it tends to become a bit mushroom-like when tucked behind the ear. Yep. I said Kate. Since we HAVE THE SAME HAIRCUT!) Because it was so drastically cut, though, she had to cut it short again to get the layers to grow right. So now...IT'S EVEN SHORTER! I'm going the wrong way. I was scared to look like a boy and now I could pass for my brother.

The moral of today's story is this - if you see me on the street, just take a picture and tell all your friends you saw a reality-TV star...or my brother, Ryan.

Motherhood (aka: Herding Cats)

I've heard the metaphor "herding cats." I always thought it was funny. Then, I tried it. Not actual cats, but a being just as moody, sneaky and volatile - 3 small children. My neice and nephew came to visit the weekend of Halloween. We haven't had pictures taken of them since the babies were less than 2 months old, so I called my friend, Lauren, and asked her to come snap some pictures.

We started with the girls. We thought that would be easy. They love each other, Zoe has a fun hat, they have a matching outfit... what more do two little girls need to be happy? Apparetly a lot. Brynna was just up from a nap, so she was more cooperative than Zoe, but you can see what is to come. That look scares the heck out of me. You smile because it's cute but you kind of cringe because there's a little evil in those adorable eyes. Let's all take a moment of silence and pray together for my life when she's a teenager.

While we waited for the girls to change clothes and pull themselves together, Lauren took pictures of AJ. He's so easy. He's all boy - laid back, could care less, will smile if you ask but is really more interested in his toes than whatever drama the girls are causing. God love him for that. This portion of the day was more like herding cattle. Cows move when you direct them. Cows listen when you speak. Cats run, screeching in circles, doing what they want rather than what you ask. Case in point - back to the girls.

So the main objective of the day was to get a picture with all three kids. Christmas is coming soon and there's no faster way to take care of grandparent gifts than cute pictures of grandkids. They don't care that you spent 47 cents at Walgreens on their gift. They have bragging rights for a year with all their friends and life is good! Apparently we did not clearly define our goal for the models, however, because they misunderstood the purpose of the afternoon's activities. For the most part, they kept the meltdowns to one at a time. They didn't all freak out at once. But they ensured that the best picture of all three of them required that they have toys to chew on.

That's not to say there aren't great pictures. They are fabulous. And they will make a great collage photo frame. But that one picture in the middle that was supposed to have all of them together will just be reserved for the score.
Babies (cats): 1, Mommies (herders): 0.

Operation Not a Bum

It's like I can see the future. It happened just as I predicted. I went to class today after missing 3 weeks in a row and almost died. Seriously. Right there in the YMCA gym. Near-dead. Me.

You'd think my voice that still sounds like a lounge singer with emphysema would have clued Beth in. You'd think she would suggest I take it easy today since I've been out so long. Well, YOU may not think those things, but I did. I hoped. I was wrong. Since it was cold and windy outside, Beth decided we'd all do cardio together in the gym. So we ran laps until I felt my lungs were going to swell out of my chest. Then we walked laps. We had barely ended the last lap when Beth told us to line up. I felt my stomach drop and sure enough, she started calling for sprints. To the black line and back. To the next line and back. To the end and back. One girl huffed between breaths, "She must think we're a basketball team," to which Beth replied, "sure." (I don't even know what that means!)

I thought the sprints were coming to an end when she told us to pick up weights. We went down and back doing walking lunges. My legs felt a bit like noodles, but I was at least not breathing as hard, which was helping the smoker's cough. Oh, but wait. Just as we approached the end of the lunges, she said, and I quote: "When you reach the black line, drop your weights and sprint to the other end." Seriously. I've used a thesaurus. I'm running out of synonyms for "human torture." We did this a few more times and then to top me off, we did the awful, dreaded, infamous abduction bands. At this point, I started telling funny stories. I thought maybe if I got everyone laughing, it wouldn't hurt as bad. No luck there.

We finally moved into the gym for what Beth called "Ab Blast." We did abdominal work for the next 30 minutes, which my waistline needed but after all the hacking and coughing, didn't help my stomach much. And I'm still not sure how push ups are included in an ab workout, but those were thrown in as well. We ended with some pilates and stretching. I may have napped during this section. I for sure yawned a lot.

So here is the take-away for today:
1. If working out is hard when you're healthy, it is downright unadvisable when you can barely breathe.
2. Beth asked if I have lost weight. I responded, "I hope so. I'm not here because I like it." Darn. That means this craziness is helping and I have to keep doing it. Blah!

Stuff

When I was in high school, I had a teacher who hated the word "stuff." She said it was a nondescript term, like "weird". She required that I describe objects in more detail. I have no detail to offer, however, for the amount of STUFF I carry around for Brynna. She's a small person. She weighs 18 lbs. She can't walk or talk. She has little hair and no teeth. Yet when we leave the house, I have to pack the car like we are going on a 3 day road trip with no access to stores, technology or indoor plumbing.

As we do every Thursday, last night we went to church. On these nights, she's not home and in bed by her usual 8:00, so I have tried several different tactics to make things as easy as possible both for her and her caregivers. Last night I thought I'd figured out the end-all solution. I asked the girls to feed her at the normal time and put her to bed in a room down the hall. My plan was to put her down as though she were home and then just transport her when it was time to go.

I packed this girl like she was going on a weekend camping trip! I brought all kinds of stuff - her dinner, bottle, pajamas, blankets, the positioner she lays on so it'd feel like her bed...I even brought her monitor so they could keep an eye on her but not have to leave the other kids. And this is where the plan went south. Brynna did fine. There were a few interruptions that made the plan work less than perfectly, but all-in-all, it was fine. The problem was picking her up - more specifically, picking up all her STUFF.

When the program ends, I have duties to help clean up, but Daddy doesn't. And keeping him from his baby girl for more than a few minutes is like watching the torture of a defenseless animal. You just want the sadness to end. So by the time I get to the nursery, he's usually covering her in kisses, headed for the door. At this point, I begin grabbing anything I see that might belong to us and running after them out the door. He literally is thinking only about getting home to snuggle with her. As I posted a few weeks ago, he once got home without the diaper bag or my wallet! Last night, the crazy was magnified because I brought so much darn STUFF! I was pushing the stroller down the hall as the girls threw in blankets, bottles and bowls. I am an obsessively-organized person at times and I got home not knowing up from down. As I unpacked, I soon learned we had all the random pieces of the monitor except for the camera. (Kind of important to the function of the device. Doesn't matter if you have a monitor if there's nothing to look at.)

All this because my tiny little girl can't leave the house without a barrage of STUFF. Bottles and snacks in case of hunger. Burp cloths and wipes in case of spit up. Aubie in case of meltdown; diapers in case of...you get the point. I apologize to my high school English teacher and to the students I later wouldn't allow to use the word "stuff" in papers. I have no other word. When babies are involved, they just have a lot of STUFF!

Operation Not a Bum?

So here's the deal. When you start an operation to prove you are not a bum, it implies you have bum-like tendencies. I was doing so good with my little operation until 3 weeks ago. I got sick and called to tell Beth I wasn't coming. "No big deal," I thought. I can rest today and go to Fit Moms tomorrow with the Tuesday group. I didn't feel better the next day, so I decided to rest and not go then either. No big deal, though. It's just one week. As if you hit repeat on a song that wasn't that great the first time, the next week sounded strangely similar. My illness had morphed from a head cold into muscle aches and fatigue, so I once again decided against my friendly form of torture. This week, the alien invasion in my body turned to laryngitis. Now, I can't, in good conscience, suggest that this means I couldn't have walked on a treadmill. But I did have other obligations come up with church. The bottom line? For the third week, I didn't go to Fit Moms.

So here's my point. I'm a bum. Like my super blonde hair - it's a quality ingrained in who I am. Perhaps I should have called it Operation Lose-the-post-pregnancy-inner tube-around-my-middle. That, I have actually made some progress on. Had I made progress on the bum part, though, I would have made it by the Y at some point in these 3 weeks even if I couldn't be there for class. Did I do that? Nope. Am I going to die next class when Beth expects me to be up to speed with everyone else? Highly probable.

I don't want to be a bum. I want to be one of these people that enjoys working out. I want to be like Brandy, who can get up at 5am and go to bootcamp, who works out even when she's on vacation. I want to be like Vikki, who has made friends and loves going to the gym for hours at a time. But I'm Regina. And I would much rather go to the mall.

Let them eat cake!

There is something about cake. There are lots of desserts, and they are good. I mean them no disrespect. But nothing beats a good piece of cake. It's a perfect dance that when done correctly is irresistible. The cake has to be moist but not so much that it falls apart. The icing has to be flavourful but not too rich to overpower the cake. And there MUST be a perfect balance - not to much icing but not too little. I hear what you are thinking, and yes, I've given it this much thought. It's that serious.

So today, Brynna and I went to Fellowship Downtown to volunteer as we do every Tuesday. We arrived, got our marching orders and I began to help while she played and distracted those who actually work at the church. I soon learned that there was cake in the building and that meant 2 things - 1) someone must be having a birthday and 2) Marianne made it. Marianne is known far and wide for her ability to throw down in the kitchen. She will put her foot in some dessert! (Translation for those uninformed - that means it's real good!)

So Brynna and I rushed upstairs and were overjoyed to find not just cake - not just Marianne's cake - Marianne's yellow cake with chocolate icing. Angels began singing and I think I heard God say in a loud voice, "Well done, my good and faithful one." At some point I must have handed off my child because halfway through my cake, I realized Chris (our pastor) was holding her. I then realized that in my haste to get to the dessert, I hadn't been so attentive to Brynna's diaper situation. My kid was stinking up the place while people were trying to eat. Oops!

But my cake was sooo good! It's hours later and my tummy is still partying.

ps - Don't tell Beth. This is not on the lose-the-post-pregnancy-belly diet.

Operation Not a Bum: Day Six

I may need to rethink the title of my little workout operation. While I went to class today, I can't say in good conscience that I am not still very much a bum. I have never wanted to skip a class so bad in my life. And that's including all those high school and college days where I so clearly knew more than the teacher!

Although I wanted desperately to stay home, I drug myself to the Y and without (much) complaining, I hopped on the elliptical. I decided this was not the day for a podcast and cranked up my ipod with some upbeat music. Soon, I had forgotten all about being tired and was just glad I'd made it to the gym. Oh, wait. No. People who say that are kidding themselves and others. I choose to tell the truth. I was more tired after the cardio than before and still counting the minutes til I got to leave. (Maybe I'm not so far off from those college days after all.)

Beth must have sensed the general feeling of lethargy in the group today. While she by no means took it easy on us, she did let down her guard and told us she had a corndog at the fair. Right after that, though, she looked at the girl doing shoulder abduction and asked what she was doing. The girl's answer was "resting". Beth looked at her like she was speaking French and said, "Resting? There's no resting. And you're doing those wrong so now you have to start over." Beth chooses to tell the truth, too.

The shoulder abduction was only one of the things we did today. Beth decided since we had an odd number, it would be best to do a circuit instead of paired exercises. Right. Because what other option did we have with an odd number? I offered to go home so they'd be even, but Beth didn't hear me because I said it in my head. I may be grown, but I'm still scared of the teacher.

So lived to tell of another day. The circuit came close but didn't actually kill me, although I'm still confused as to where a medicine ball got it's name. There was nothing medicinal about squatting and raising a big heavy ball. Now had I been allowed to throw the ball...? That may have made me feel a bit better.

Operation Not a Bum: Day Five

I blame you. All of you. I tried to be honest and look what it got me. I told you that I wasn't quite as sore and you called Beth. I can't prove it, but I know you did it. I almost lost a leg Monday!

You know the routine by now...we start with cardio. Deciding not to fight the inevitable, I jumped on my elliptical and got moving, totally distracted by the fact that I forgot my ipod and water bottle. I looked right and left, mentally sizing up my unknowing competitors for the day and off I went - on pace to beat them both in the race they didn't know they were running. This time, though, Beth decided to switch things up. While I was distracted at my fake starting line, she got on an elliptical beside us. Suddenly, she yells, "Up 2 levels!" and we were all forced to adjust our settings. Every 2 minutes or so, Beth would yell instructions - up 2 levels, down a level, up three, increase your speed. I've heard horror stories about spin classes and I invision it being something like this. The major problem with this whole set up was that I started at level 7! I was so focused on beating the girl next to me that I started several levels above everyone. So with no water or ipod, I pedaled my way to nowhere for 20 miserable minutes and literally almost fell getting off the machine. Regardless of what I said about the water cooler last time, I have never raced to get to it faster. I considered pouring the whole thing on my head but thought it may draw attention.

Before I could drink my second cone-shaped cup of water, Beth was at the door to the gym yelling for us to hurry up. As we got close, she instructed us to grab weights and an elastic band. I had a vision of strangling her with a band - not because I wanted to harm her. I was delusional. Blood was rushing too quickly to my head. It was momentary psychosis.

I made it in without harming anyone and wrapped the horrible torture device around my feet. We all proceeded to walk down and back the gym in the sideways motion I've grown to hate so much. As soon as my feet crossed the black line, she was instructing us to put down the band, pick up the weights and go down and back doing walking lunges. I pride myself on at least faking it in these situations. Even if I think the muscle in my leg might fray, I push through and get it done. Don't be confused. I am not that strong. And this is not great will power or self-determination. It's pretty much just good old fasioned pride. This time, though, I couldn't even fake it. I had to stop and rest. I thought I might die right there on the gym floor. You can imagine my reaction when she told us to rest a minute and THEN WE DID IT ALL AGAIN! Abduction with the band and walking lunges, down and back, down and back...the muscle in my right butt cheek is still twitching and it's Wednesday!

You'd think after that, we got to focus on upper body strength, right? I thought that. I was wrong. We did split lunges which may have ruined my knee forever. In the event that I was going to compete in an Iron Man competition (yeah, right!), I now have a viable injury - knee pain caused by excessive lunging. So after I officially starting walking with a limp, Beth finished me off with incline and cable flys and then...wait for it...pushups!

I will figure out who called Beth. Just you wait. (My first money is on my husband, followed closely by my sister...)

3 Ring Thursday

Ring 1 - Here's your sign...

Brynna and I went to run errands this morning. We went to Academy and as we entered, we walked in with a man carrying deer antlers. I'm not talking about fake antlers. I'm not talking about antlers that have been taken to a taxidermist and professionally mounted. I'm talking about antlers from a deer he shot recently - maybe this morning on the way to Academy. There was still blood on them. So he walks in carrying his antlers and the girl at the front of the store greets us. I say hello; he says hello. She then asks him, "Sir, is that a return?" Yep. I picked these up last week but they just don't go with my decor in the Man Cave. Here's your sign...

(Note - If you've never heard of "Here's your sign..." you have missed out on some key redneck humor compliments of Bill Engvall. Don't you ever hear people ask things so dumb you just want them to hang a sign around their neck announcing their stupidity?)

Ring 2 - Front row entertainment
After we got home and had lunch, Brynna laid down for a nap. I got some much-needed time to do housework and spend some alone time with God. As usual, God rewards me when I set aside the time to spend with Him. Sometimes the gratification comes days later, sometimes it's immediate. Today is was instantaneous. I was reading my Bible when the doorbell rang. By the time I got to the door, there was no one there, but I saw a package on my front step. I then noticed a large, brown UPS truck on my front walk. Yes, my front walk. Not on the street in front of my house. Apparently taking a circle around the block was too much to ask. This nice UPS man decided turning the truck around right there was best and ended up perpendicular in the street. I then got to watch him perform a 17-point turn. He inched forward then backward, back and forth until he finally got turned around. What can Brown do for me? Not drive on my lawn.

Thank you, God. I needed a good show!

Ring 3 - Loud
There is really no other explanation for the latter part of the afternoon. After Brynna woke up from her nap, she spent some quality time in her bouncer. You've seen these contraptions, right? They hook to a door frame and the child bounces up and down. Well, most children bounce. My child spins. She leans real far to one side and pushes with her feet until she turns around in circles. She thinks it's a ride. Today she discovered a new trick for her act. As she spun, she made her new favorite sound - a high-pitched squeal that reaches decibels I'm pretty sure most humans can't hear. When she was facing the room with the higher ceiling, she noticed it made a different sound. So she would spin toward the den and squeal, then spin herself the other direction and squeal. Then she'd laugh, cracking herself up. The problem with the high-pitched squeal is that although some humans can't hear it, dogs can. Miles came running from the back of the house barking. Each time she'd spin in his direction, he'd jump up like someone was about to attack and his bark was somehow going to save me. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't saved. I was deaf. I'm just now getting the rest of the hearing back in my right ear.

And people say not working outside the home is boring. Nope. I just added a new title. Now I'm a ringmaster.

Operation Not a Bum: Day Four

I didn't post after yesterday's class because I was scared. I'm still a little scared now, if I'm honest. I don't think Beth reads my blog. But what if she does?! What if she reads this and plans our workouts accordingly?! Well here goes. Here's the big news I'm scared to put in ink. I'm not that sore. (It's better to whisper...just in case.)

We started class like we always do - with cardio. Beth reluctantly allowed everyone to do cardio inside instead of outdoor running, and by 'reluctantly', I mean she sighed and said "I guess go get on a machine." Head down, pencils up. (Or knees up. Whatever.) That's all I was thinking. I scrambled to the ellipticals and got moving. But in my attempt to find the machine with the working heart rate sensor, I made a major mistake. I chose a machine, started moving and tested the heart rate sensors. Of course...they didn't work. There was no way I was getting off with Beth right there, so I went to Plan B.

Plan A is the machine keeps my heart rate in the right range by adjusting the level as I go. Plan B is Regina competing with Regina. Never a fair fight. Plan B means I arbitrarily choose a speed and don't allow myself to drop below that. Ok...maybe it's not arbitrary. Maybe I look at what speed the people around me are going and try to stay above that. Point is - I beat Betty. She did not know we were racing, but I won. And as usual, my little competitive streak ended in me working harder than I thought possible to prove my point. I don't think I've worked that hard on the ellipticals yet. Of course, now I have a new target speed to beat, so let's hope I don't pass out next time when I happen to get on the machine next to some high-schooler training for track.

My grave mistake, though, was not working harder. I'm actually beginning to buy the line that that was good for me. The mistake was when I looked up. I was so intent on finding the machine, then not getting off the machine, then seeing Betty's speed, then staying above Betty's speed...that I didn't look at the little TV attached to the elliptical. The remote was hanging over the bar just out of my reach and the TV was tuned to Benny Hinn! I raced Betty that whole way while Benny smacked people and spoke in a montage of light-colored suits with buttons all the way up the neck. Where do those suits come from, anyway?

And a side note - someone should monitor the channels gyms are allowed to receive and air. I looked past Benny to the big TV on the wall and what do I see? Rachel Ray? Really? While I'm running my little heart out trying to leave behind the Taco Bueno I ate the day before, someone thought the Food Network would be a good idea? I'd like to talk to that someone. I'd like to tell him (cause you know it was a him) a thing or two about women, food and being forced to sweat.

So anyway, after I beat Betty, it was time for weights. I may have toothpicks for arms, but my little arms are as feisty as I am. I curled and pressed and worked my triceps with as much or more weight as the rest of the group with not too much pain. Legs on the other hand - still my nemesis. We did stationary lunges, squats and a side-to-side thing that hurt my bum. And then...we were done. Our hour was up and although I wasn't happy, I was able to walk to get Brynna. I didn't even have to get a drink at the water dispenser first. (By the way...getting a drink is code for "I'm too tired to do more or walk to get my kid, so I'm going to stand here and rest but look like I'm getting a drink." You know you've done it. Don't lie.) I even made it to the car without a leg giving out on me.

So you can see me dilemma. If it didn't hurt as bad, maybe I need to increase my workout. Whoa! What did I just say? I think I had an out-of-body experience. That wasn't me. Pretend I never said it. Certainly don't tell Beth I even thought it.

Seriously.

Don't tell Beth.

Operation Not a Bum: Day Three

I got to the gym today feeling all good about myself. I wasn't just on time, I was a few minutes early. AND...I rectified a problem that's been plaguing me. For the past two weeks, this has been the routine - carry Brynna in to childcare, work out, limp to childcare to pick up Brynna, shuffle to the car carrying 20 extra lbs with sore muscles. It's really not a good set-up. That walk to the car should be included in the class. I should do a few less reps to ensure I can get my kid to the car safely. (No, I have not suggested this to Beth. No, I don't plan on it.) What I did do is put that college education my parents paid for to good use. Today Brynna rolled into childcare in her stroller! And afterwards, she rolled right on out to the car. This serves two purposes - she's not at risk of me dropping her when I fall to the pavement from weak legs and I have a walker.

Today started like any other day of Fit Moms torture - with cardio. My doctor has suggested I do low impact (we are not getting into the whys...just trust me. They do not tell you the after effects of birthing a child. RUDE!), so I have been doing my cardio on the bicycle. In an attempt to prove how big and bad I am, I moved to the eliptical without prompting. This time when Beth got back and asked if I was sweating, she laughed and said "obviously." I seriously think she finds joy in my pain. The most interesting part of my cardio time was the girl in the yellow shorts. I first noticed her because she had on yellow shorts. I second noticed that she was hauling butt on the treadmill! After about 15 minutes on the treadmill, she came to join me on the eliptical. And I panted to myself, "Why would someone do that?!" Why subject yourself to two forms of cardiac arrest? As I ended my time, though, she defied all laws of reason and moved to the bike. I think those yellow shorts have gone to her brain.

Now, I was ready for Beth today. I said my prayers, did my stretches. I was thinking, bring on the lunges! Until...she handed me 12.5 lb weights! And then we went the LENGTH of the gym. That's a basketball court, folks! As we walked, I informed Beth of her fame on my blog. I felt it necessary to add some humor. If this is where I'm going to die, I say make it colorful. I also tried to sell my weights to a man who walked past on the way to the bathroom. Beth decided walking alongside me was best after that.

After lunges came the most vile form of persecution yet. Beth lined us up and ensured we were standing in a plie (that's plee-A for the pronunciation-challenged. It's a ballet term for squat with your toes and knees pointed out.). She then walked right up to me and without smiling at all, handed me a 20 lb dumbbell. I thought maybe we were working a chain-gang system, so I turned to hand it to the girl next to me. Surely this was not intended for me, I thought. But the girl next to me had a weight. We then proceeded to do squats. Lots of them! I was looking so hard for that elastic band from last week. I would have fashioned one out of my hair, the cord to my ipod, ANYTHING to stop squatting.

After the squats, I don't remember much. I think I may have blacked out. I considered throwing up, but I was afraid I'd be responsible to make up what I missed and I didn't want to prolong the pain. I know we did more cable rows and incline flys. I vaguely remember something about working the deltoid muscle, although I'm not sure where that's located. In my mind, I had gone to Oak Cliff and was sitting at my favorite sno cone stand.

Like belly buttons...

...everyone has one. That's what I've heard said about excuses. (I've also heard the saying used with other areas of the body, but we'll stick with belly buttons.) My thought, though, is we should compare excuses to hairs on your head, maybe. Because we don't just have one. When we get in the mood to make an excuse, we lay it on thick. We use an arsenal of reasons not to do whatever is up for discussion. Today, the topic happened to concern church.

One person told me why they can't attend regularly - something about kids and a spouse and other such nonsense. All I heard was, "it's not priority enough to me to make it work. I can rearrange schedules to get to birthday parties, outings and sports events but this one just isn't high enough on the list."

Another girl explained why she can't serve regularly because of her overcommited work schedule. I would argue a choice is being made to serve - it's just a matter of what and whom.

One friend can't be a part of our regular women's group at church because of the possibility of things coming up. She didn't even pick one! Just wanted to leave things open in case a good excuse came up later.

And my favorite - me. I attend regularly, I serve, I even help manage the women's groups at church. So apparently, I thought I was all good and done - about broke my arm patting myself on the back. Feeling real good about myself, I ignored the fact that I was doing the same thing everyone else was. All God asked of me was to commit to pray. He even told me who and what to pray for. So this is my public confession. I did it. I made an excuse. And I'm now choosing NOT to make anymore. I'll rearrange my schedule and adjust my priorities. I'd rather be on God's team and make some mistakes than sit on the bench. Wanna join me? It's about time...

(Disclaimer: I talked to A LOT of people today. If you think I'm talking about you, I'm probably not. But if it makes you get off your butt and do something big for God, then I'll be the bad guy. I don't mind. Just ask Brynna.) :)

Why boys are not moms

I adore my husband. He's my man, my love, my best friend. He leads our family in amazing ways. He can do math in his head, mow the yard in 30 minutes flat and still holds a school record on the still rings. He's a stud! I'm not giving him up no matter what. He is one of the best daddies ever. He and Brynna have a love relationship like I've never seen. He enters a room and they both light up. He is not, however, a mom.

There is a reason boys aren't moms...

We decided we'd pierce Brynna's ears while she's a baby. I was out of town when I learned she was old enough. David suggested I pierce them before we get back to Dallas so he didn't have to watch. I can't wait til she needs a bone reset or something. I'll be on my own.

Yesterday Brynna was in her highchair. She had eaten food but was ready for her bottle. (I have no idea where her impatience comes from!) I asked my brother to hold her while I made the bottle. He went to pick her up but didn't move the tray. She was half-standing, half-sitting, all the way stuck. So they stood just like that until I came and removed the tray. I'm not sure how long they would have stood looking at each other.

After church last night, David and Brynna went home while I finished up. I got home and he was tucking her in to bed. I asked where Aubie was. (Aubie is her lovey/woobie/stuffed tiger she's never without.) He looked at me with a blank stare and said, "I didn't know I was supposed to get Aubie." I figured it was in the diaper bag, but couldn't find it. When I asked where the bag was, the blank stare crept back over his face and he said, "I didn't know I was supposed to get the bag." At this point, I checked to make sure we had gotten home with the right child.

We've entered the world of baby food. It's been a couple of months, but she still turns her nose up at veggies sometimes. Like most babies, Brynna would prefer to eat the sweet fruits and no veggies. And like most daddies, David would gladly give her whatever she wants. I'm envisioning the day she wants candy for dinner and I have two pouty faces looking at me.

The blue bulb. It's a commonly used tool by moms and medical professionals alike. When seen at our house, however, it is viewed as a form of torture and avoided at all costs. Not by the child. By her daddy. I have to clean her nose when he's not in the room because if he is, after each time, he says, "Ok, that's enough. You got it. You don't need to do anymore."

One weekend when Brynna Grace was about 2 months old, David offered to take care of her for the night to let me sleep. (Reason 769 why I love him!) She started to cry in the middle of the night for her feeding. He didn't get up immediately, so I woke him. He told me he had it handled and to go back to sleep. He then took his own advice and WENT BACK TO SLEEP! I woke him 15 minutes later and he got up to feed her. The next morning, she woke up ready to eat again. Once again, Daddy didn't wake up immediately so I woke him. He told me to stop worrying, he had it handled. (Crazy me! What was I thinking?) He then promptly fell back asleep and I got up and fed Brynna while Daddy recovered from his long night of mommy-duty.

God designed us differently. And one of those differences is...boys are not moms.

Rage Against the Machine

As I sat awake at 2:00 am this morning, I had the best picture of what God must see in us.

Brynna is teething and has an ear infection. I learned that at the doctor today. Last night it just felt like she was playing a cruel joke on me by waking up screamng everytime I had the nerve to fall asleep. At one point, I was sitting in the chair in her room, rocking her in the dark, watching her fight.

Now, I must digress to explain one thing. My child doesn't look much like me. She has her father's face, his build and his tendency to be hot when I'm wrapped in a blanket. The one thing she most certainly got from me, though, is a stubborness rivaled by few. She doesn't need a reason to fight. She just has an innate desire to make her point known.

Last night, Brynna wanted everyone in our zip code and three others to know she didn't feel well. As I held her, trying to comfort her hurt, she flailed her arms, yelled for all to hear and at one point, just sat straight up and glared down the invisible thing causing her pain. She worked with all her little might until she literally couldn't fight anymore. And at that point, she leaned into my chest and rested. She was so tired from her struggle to do it herself, that she finally let me do what I'd been waiting and wanting to do for hours - comfort her.

How many times have I known enough to ask God for help, climbed up on His lap and then sat there fighting with all my own might against whatever was in my way. And only when I'd exhausted myself did I let Him comfort me - what He'd been waiting and wanting to do for hours...or months...or years...

After holding Brynna for a few minutes, she relaxed a bit further and the smallest laugh escaped her. It was as if her little body finally relaxed enough to know the real peace of just letting her mama make it feel better. Such joy. Pure peace.

I couldn't take away her hurt. (I pray the amoxicillin can because I need some rest!) I couldn't make the infection go away or the teeth magically cut through the skin. Those things are part of what she needs to grow. They are part of life and her journey. And God can't always take away what I'm raging against. It's part of my journey. It's what makes me stronger, braver, more courageous or gracious. But what I could do is hold her. I could rock her and let her know that even when she doesn't feel good, I'll comfort her. Even when she hurts, I will be with her.

So as I sat awake at 2:00 am this morning, I rocked my daughter, leaned my head on my Father's chest and rested. And a little laugh escaped because even in the midst of tired and hurt, He gave me Peace.

I'm so blessed I'm His daughter...and a mom.

Operation Not a Bum: Day Two

O. M. G. I am considering writing a letter to YMCA. I think they should change the name. Rather than Fit Moms, maybe they could call it Bootcamp (oh, yeah, for moms). Or Butt Burn because my butt literally feels like it's on fire. Anything to more accurately describe the level of pain that will follow the weekly class.

So for those of you new to the world of Regina, I have a confession. I tend to run a few minutes behind. My husband might dispute how many is a few minutes but we won't get into that. My ability to consistently show up 10 (to 15, ok, occasionally 25) minutes late has led some to accuse me of living on CP time. (If you need a lesson in CPT, see me after class.) I don't know what the fuss is about. I mean, I show up. I do it in fabulous shoes. Is that not enough?! Anyway! So for once in my life, I was actually on time. Not early - let's not get crazy - but on time. I, and 2 others (out of 10) were standing at the front when Beth walked up. She thanked us for being on time and then proceeded to tell us how she'd have to make sure the others understood how serious it is that we always start promptly. I may be cured from my tardiness. Just the thought of Beth teaching me a lesson...I have chill bumps.

So we do cardio for the next gut-wrenching, painful, burning 20 minutes. I know it doesn't sound like much. Just you wait. At one point, Beth asked me if I felt it. I huffed between breaths, "yes" and she then asked where I was sweating. She said she needed to see me sweat or we'd have to keep going. I did go ahead and pull up my tank top and allow her the opportunity to touch my sweaty back. She laughed but declined my offer.

At this point my legs had all but turned to jelly. So what do we do? We go in the gym and do walking lunges and an "abduction" exercise. My first thought was "Halleluiah! Abduct me. Take me. Anything but more!" But no. This new form of torture consisted of me, an elastic band around my feet and the length of the gym. (Note: when Beth says "length of the gym" she means down and back. Don't get confused and stop at the other end. You'll not only be alone but she will then escort you back while telling you to hurry.)

Now I'm a small person. As much as I joke about the belly leftover from Brynna's short stint living inside of me, I have a small frame. I have never been one to lift much weight. However. I got excited about weight lifting like it was Christmas and all I ever wanted was a 15lb dumb bell. All I could think was that it meant I could sit. So I sat and did my first set of dumb bell presses like a champ. Just as I was feeling good about myself, she appeared out of nowhere, snatched my perfectly good 12.5 lb weights and replaced them with 15 pounders. She told me she'd go easy on me today but I'm expected not to have anything less than 17.5 next time. I did some quick math and realized one thing. That's 35lbs! Small frame, people! My little arms might snap like a twig in the middle of winter!

The good news is I have a week. The bad news is Beth asked how many times we'd been to the gym since last week and what our schedule for this week would be. And I fully believe that she has a list in her office of who's been naughty or nice. Just working to stay off the naughtly list. That and not die. Simple goals. Baby steps.

Whitney v. Oprah

I drank the Koolaid. I did. I watched Oprah's interview with Whitney Houston tonight, and I found myself genuinely believing Whitney. I believe she was addicted to drugs but was more consumed with trying desperately to do it on her own. I believe she was less crazy and more lost. I believe she got a little farther from the truth until it was easier to just to stay than work her way back to real Love. I believe her. I believe she forgot who she was. I believe she forgot where her strength comes from.

I also saw a startling comparison. Oprah and Whitney. They are so alike. Both black women who came from little to achieve incredible fortune and fame. Both at the top of their respective area of business. Both admired by many but known by few. But from there, they are so different. Oprah was lacking the authenticity that Whitney can't cover up.

I listened to Whitney publicly admit her failures and give credit to God for pulling her through them. I watched her tear up when asked who she loved. Her first answer was God "because He never gave up on her." You can fake a lot of things. You can't fake peace. There is a passion that comes with living a life truly touched by God. And what we all fight so hard against is that you can't really experience it until you need it. We ask why and run when the discomfort, pain and sorrow come, but they are necessary to know when they've been healed. You can't be pulled from the pit until you're in it.

I don't think Whitney Houston is perfect. But I'm not either. I don't think she's gotten it all right. But neither do I. I do know that I sat down to veg out in front of the TV and God showed me 2 options. I can be Whitney, or I can be Oprah.

I can live a life - screw-ups and all - that brings glory to God. I can trust Him even when I can't see where He's taking me. Or I can smile and say all the right things but never really know what it feels like to love Him passionately...and be loved by Him.

If those are my choices, I wanna be like Whitney.

Operation Not a Bum: Day One

I started a class at the YMCA today. It's called Fit Moms. First, lets address all the issues I had to overcome just to sign up for a class designed for stay-at-home moms with little kids. Or let's not. Let's bury them deeper.

So it's a group class led by a certified trainer. It's 12-weeks, one day a week and was $25. Sounded like a cake-walk but enough accountability to get me going to the gym again. And let's face it. This post-baby inner-tube I call a belly is not going away without some professional help. So today was Day One. Orientation. How hard is that, right?

Wrong. I broke a sweat, couldn't breathe and at one point was certain I was going to pee my pants. And this was orientation. As part of orientation, our trainer, Beth, informed us about 1273 times that each session will include at least 30 minutes of cardio. Outside. Running. Awesome. I might need to intentionally break a bone before the next class.

But here's the catch. I'm overly competitive. Even when you don't know there is a race, I am beating you. When you aren't aware of the game, I am winning. And some of these moms can literally run circles around me while I stand panting for breath. So I've got a dilemma. I can show up and lose the (not-actually-real-but-my-brain doesn't-get-that) competition, or I can work out extra days in the week so as not to look like a big, fat pansy when it comes time to run next Monday.

We all know what I'm going to do. I'll be at the Y Wednesday. Cause I'm that stubborn.