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.