Monkey Mama Lite

Sunshine & Bunnies around here

I would like to say that we all have it under control over here. We are all frolicking in the happiness that exists in a perfect life where perfect things happen all the freakin’ perfect time. However, my silence is much more attributed to the onslaught of suck that has been happening in these parts recently.

And that onslaught of suck has filled my plate right up. And the suck, well, I just can’t seem to blog about it. Honestly, I have no right to blog about it. It’s all personal family stuff best left for the confines of our own trusted circles. Unless of course you are reading this blog and you are a recruiter. A recruiter who is looking for a man with military police/K9 training experience, a tour in Iraq and a tour Afghanistan (read: Veteran!) and a hard work ethic. In which case I would say, PLEASE GIVE MY HUSBAND A JOB!! THANKS!

Otherwise we are all just functioning over here. Trying to be as nice to each other as possible, telling ourselves it will all work out, and freaking out on the insides. All of our life is made up of a string of memories, one moment in time turning into a simple memory the next. I’m sure we will look back on this time, this time when it all came crashing down, all at the same time, as the time that we all became stronger people. But let’s be honest. I’m tired of the growth experience. In fact, I think I have “grown” more then I need to for my almost 33 years. Universe, let’s just hold off on the growing for a little bit, k’? This family just needs a moment, a soon to be memory, to catch our breath.

Addiction

I feel like all I write about here these days is my resolve to “get back on the wagon” of healthy eating. And to be completely honest, healthy eating isn’t really the problem (although if I’m truly honest with myself, all of those little “cheats” recently have probably been adding up to way too many cheats) it’s the quantity of the food that I am eating that is the problem. And beyond the quantity of food that I am eating, I have returned to many old stress eating habits. With all of the waiting for news around here I have been coping by numbing, numbing with food. And I am ashamed.

I am ashamed that I had so much resolve at this time last year. I was being really successful on my healthy eating life change. I was 15 pounds lighter even. But somehow when the going got tough around these parts, the tough started eating. I can recognize all of the wrong things that I am doing. I know how to make the changes. But yet something is holding me back. And I know that something is my extreme addiction to food and its power to instantly soothe and yet simultaneously make me feel so terrible. I have found myself standing in front of the refrigerator again, and shoveling everything I see, into my mouth as quickly as possible. I have found myself eating quietly by myself in the kitchen, again, so I don’t have to explain to anyone why I am eating 18 vanilla wafers in 30 seconds. And I can justify just about anything. Oh, I just burned over 600 calories at Body Pump, I can have a little ice cream. Or, today was a TERRIBLE day, having a second helping of spaghetti sauce and sausages will make me feel better.

I feel like a failure. And the more the negative self talk permeates my psyche, the farther away I get from snapping out of this funk and doing better. I recognize that this will be my story, probably for the rest of my life. My healthy journey is not simply about losing 50 pounds and then suddenly stopping being healthy and all will be right with the world. I recognize that this battle, and that is truly what it is for me, a battle, is life-long. I know it isn’t supposed to be easy, nothing worthwhile ever really is. I’m just feeling defeated these days. Defeated by my own issues. I’m trying to remind myself that I just need to take this journey, one day at a time. Because ultimately if I am the one with the food issues, I am the only one who can make the change. 

 

A little perspective

We’ve had a lot going on here recently. We are in the midst of medical diagnoses, frustrating insurance companies and doctor’s offices who are too busy to really do anyone any good. And we have had some bad luck with where we live. House is slowly falling apart around us, teenagers breaking into our car and stealing lots of expensive stuff. Nothing catastrophic. But a series of bad circumstances and challenging genetics have made for a less than stellar state of affairs.

And that state of affairs has been impossible to write about. It’s really not my story to tell, at least not yet. And I want to respect my family’s privacy as we learn how to exist in what will most likely be our new “normal”. But there has also been a lot of fun. I graduated last week from Hopkins. I decided that with everything going on, I REALLY wanted to hear my name called and walk across that stage. I wanted to remind myself even with all of the challenges, good things are still happening.

And good things are happening all around me. Some of my closest friends are getting married.

David and I will soon be celebrating our 4^th wedding anniversary and PEY continues to get cuter and smarter by the minute.

His current parlor trick that delights us to no end, is yelling “Rock Out!” from the backseat when the radio gets turned on. The subsequent head bobbing and hand clapping can almost make me drive off the road with hysterics.

I’m trying to enjoy as many moments as possible, through all of the craziness. Because no matter how crazy, this is where we are right now. This is our path. Much of it is out of my control but what I can control is how I appreciate the good things. And how I continue to love those around me, even when the stress meter starts to reach its max. 

 

Not a baby anymore

PEY’s birth was not the best of circumstances, for sure. David had only been home from the hospital for a week after his horrific stint with pancreatitis. My grandmother had passed away two weeks earlier. And I was exhausted.

I labored forever, only to find out that PEY was breach and the only way he was going to be joining this world was via c-section.

I didn’t sleep in the hospital. The bed adjusted it’s inflation every four minutes, and inevitably I would wake-up. I think I was also in hyper Mama mode.

I struggled with breast-feeding, and six months later it never really got easier for me. But I did it, and pushed through and just reminded myself of the gift I was giving my son.

And here we are, a day away from my babe’s 2nd birthday. This means David and I have been parents for two years. I am still in awe of the love I have for that little guy. Even on Sunday evenings when I want to sell him to the gypsies, the love is indescribable.

PEY is special, and I know this not just because I am his Mama, but just because he is. He is happy and funny and a handful. He loves to entertain and dance and clap and make faces to get you to laugh. He loves his Daddy and anything that Daddy does, he wants to do.

He loves to be outside, to take walks, to pull his wagon. He ADORES the ducks at the beach and is content to sit and watch for them for long periods of time. He also loves anything that moves, trucks, trains, cars, airplanes, diggers, dump trucks, motorcycles…the list could go on and on. He even spent a day last week at daycare, just starting out the window at the diggers doing construction next door. He loves his books and has even been able to extract himself from his crib in order to get to his books faster. We have found him in his room, in his chair on a Saturday morning, just reading away. But don’t try and read him the books that you want to read at bedtime, no sir-e-bob, that boy has a clear idea of what books he wants read. He insists that he doesn’t need to hold our hands to do just about anything anymore and sadly, he is right. He is fearless and daring and ends up with a new bruise or a cut or stitches every week.

My boy is a joy. A challenging, headstrong, willful, funny, delightful joy. And tomorrow he turns 2. He rocked our world when he was born, throwing us headfirst into parenthood. And we have stumbled and fallen, but I know for a fact that it has made our little family stronger and it was made my heart expand in ways that I didn’t even know were possible.

A long fall off of the bandwagon

I got stuck in a holiday rut, gave myself a green light to take a little “dieting” break, and then forgot to get back on the bandwagon in January. So now it’s March, I have fallen even farther off the healthy eating bandwagon and I feel bad, I feel really really bad. It’s amazing how a few extra pounds, pounds that I worked so hard to loose, can totally change your whole outlook on yourself.

But all is not forgotten. I just have to relearn the healthy habits, kick my own butt, suck it up, and keep going. And with that means that I am ready to start blogging again. This week I promised myself that I was going to make the hard choices, eat well, and get back to the gym. I feel like I am probably going to be going 2 for 3 with that one. Hard choices and healthy eating, check. Gym, not so much. With this everlasting cold and little to no sleep, I don’t want to pass out on the treadmill. Because as mortified as I am at being back at a weight I had thought I had left behind, falling off the treadmill in front of many other gym patrons would be much higher on the supreme mortification spectrum.

So this week I start with healthy food choices and next week I drag my rapidly out-of-shape body back to the gym. I’m going to try some new things too, like forcing myself out of bed at 5am to work out before work at least a few days a week. The Mama guilt has been getting the better of my recently and I just want to spend time with the munchkin after work. Putting him in the gym daycare, after I pick him up from his work day daycare just feels wrong and selfish.  So if I can get a few morning workouts in, to offset the post-work workouts, I think I will be more successful. Now I just have to tie my arm to the bed so I don’t hit snooze and I will be golden!

 

A holiday tribute

Just a few days more then 10 years ago, my Papa lost his brave battle with a very aggressive cancer. So aggressive in fact that he didn’t discover it until around Halloween of October, 2000 and he passed away on December 19^th, 2000. He was a special man. My mother still feels extreme guilt over my Papa’s death. He went through some very aggressive surgery when we learned of his cancer (working at Johns Hopkins, allows for you to call in a favor every now and then) and he were hopeful that it would not take his life. He was hopeful too. So very hopeful. Sadly, the treatment did not work although he fought the good fight. The man wanted to live to be 100. He wanted to make it to his 60^th wedding anniversary. He made it to 88 and was married for 59 years. My son is named after him. He was the last of a generation of truly good, honest men. The son of Italian immigrants, a World War II vet, who had a work ethic like no other, who had a sense a family and duty and responsibility that those of this generation simply do not understand. I was with him, in his room, the night he took his last breath. I knew the moment his spirit was no longer in his physical form.

A few years later, his wife, my Nonna, lost her battle with alzheimers, around 8am on Christmas morning. She was a tough old bird. A feisty, resilient Italian matriarch, with a beautiful sense of style She was hard to understand at times, but she grew softer and warmer as the alzheimers took over. A daughter of Italian immigrants, a sister of 6 other siblings, and a saying of “you can’t fight city hall” used often. She believed in the beauty of the holidays, the importance of family, the joy of a good game of cards and she could cook the heck out of some homemade pasta. She grew up with a wall around her heart, from the challenges of life, but the moments where that wall was removed, when she let you into her heart, are moments that I treasure. When she passed I was driving to Pennsylvania for my cousin, her great-neices, wedding. I was coming over a hill, and the sun was rising behind it, casting a warm red and orange glow over the valley. At that very moment I had a sense of peace and calm that can not fully be described, and I knew she was finally at peace. Moments later my mother called me to let me know that what I had believed was true, my Nonna joined my Papa. It was the kind of moment that even the non-believers couldn’t deny was very spiritual.

And my Grami. Simply writing about her makes me cry. My relationship with her was unique and deeply special. She was simple, in a beautiful apple pie and meatloaf kind of way. I credit her with my love of cooking. She prided herself on her marriage of utopic happiness. She was a homemaker, a Sunday School Teacher, and a grandmother. She was my biggest cheerleader, my support system, providing me with an unconditional love that few ever get to experience. I have a china cabinet full of the music boxes she carefully picked out for me every year for my birthday, along with binders of the “Grami Love Books” she created for me as a child. I have boxes of the letters she sent me in college, and my blankie still rests under my head every night. I wasn’t able to say goodbye to her when she passed away, I was past my due date and my husband was horribly sick with pancreatitis, and hospitalized. She too had suffered from the horrible affects of alzheimers for years. It wasn’t until the very end that she did not know who I was and it was very painful to see the woman who had been my comfort, my security blanket for so long, slowly become someone that I no longer knew. I still feel guilty that I wasn’t there for her when her spirit left her body. I hope she knows that my spirit was with her and it always was.

I love the holidays. But they are also hard. The reminder of those who are no longer her lingers in my psyche, creating a little pang of sadness in my heart.  This year, amidst all of the happiness and the joy, I remember them. 

 

It's a Dysfunctional Family Christmas Miracle!!

In T-minue 5 days, it will be Christmas. And like a little kid expecting Santa, the excitement is building. But the excitement is building for me this year in a much different way. I am not as excited for the presents that Santa will leave under the tree, although those are still fun. I am much more excited about the company I will be keeping.

This year, for the first time in almost 20 years, I get to spend the holidays with both of my parents. AT THE SAME TIME. Yes, you can pick yourself up off of the floor now, you read that correctly. BOTH of my parents are coming to my house for Christmas. To some of you this may not seem like a monumental moment. Many of you probably spend the holidays with both of your parents, every year. Not this girl. My parents are divorced, have been for almost 20 years. And spending time together, in the same room, let alone Christmas, was never on the top of either of their lists.

But now, putting their history aside, both of them have grown up so much, and I couldn’t be prouder. Sharing holidays with both your own family and your spouse’s family during the holidays can be hard enough. Trying to share the holidays with four separate sets of parents (since both of our parents are divorced) creates a whole new set of holiday drama. And I will admit, most years my Dad gets the shaft, since he lives in California, too far for a Christmas Day drive-by.

When my parents split up I did not fantasize about them getting back together. I did not spend countless nights hoping and praying and asking Santa to put our family back together. Even at 13 I knew that some breaks, no matter how painful, were not going to heal. And with that notion, I never really thought that we would all be able to spend the holidays together again. We created new memories and new traditions and as an adult I ultimately had to choose which parent I would spend the holidays with.

This year I will have both my Mom AND Dad with me on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. And I’m not even nervous about the awkwardness, because even those days are behind us (I bought plenty of adult beverages to ease the tension too, cause nothing says, “Happy Birthday Jesus!”  like a nice Irish Coffee, and some tasty Gluhwein). 

Not having to choose this year is the best Christmas present either of them could give to me. I don’t know if either of them know how profoundly important it is to me (and I’m sure to my brother too, since he was only 5 when they split) to have them both with me and my family this year. I love both of my parents so much, in two very different ways, and I love that I can open my home to both of them, at the same time. I love the progress we have all made in our relationships and I love, that 20 years later, we can all get over ourselves and have one darn good Christmas, as a new age family. 

 

The long road ahead

I’m having a day. And it’s all because of the stupid scale that is up an astounding 4 lbs in less than 24 hours. The realistic side of me realizes that something is off, but the frustrated, trying desperately to reach a goal by November 30^th side of me wanted to punch a big ole’ hole through our bathroom wall. Instead, I cried in the shower. A lot. And then went to work with a big ole’ attitude on my shoulder. Cause let’s face it, the biggest motivator in weight loss is plain and simple weight loss. And the biggest de-railer in weight loss is a large, unexpected, scale jump.

Saturday night I started to feel my resolve to eat clean, slipping away. I made myself my usual chamomile tea and made the husband some hot chocolate. And as I stared into our cabinet that holds our tea/coffee/hot chocolate stash, I really wanted some of the delicious, decadent, dark chocolate hot chocolate that was staring back at me; full of refined sugars and all out deliciousness. And it wasn’t like I just wanted that cup, it was like I saw the whole holiday season staring back at me, and I just wanted to give up on this weight loss journey. I just wanted to say, “ENOUGH!” and start eating sugary, tasty, and horrible for me, delicious morsels of the holidays. The good news is that I stuck with my tea. I didn’t go and blow my hard work and I didn’t crash and burn, which makes the large scale hike this week all the more disappointing.

What this disappointment and frustration also reminds me of are my old, buried, but not forgotten, HORRIBLE habits for weight loss. I never had a full blown eating disorder. But I have gone through a few periods of borderline bulimia. Tiptoeing into the vicious cycle of binging and purging, in a desperate attempt to eat AND lose weight. I have always been able to stop, before it became horribly unhealthy, always able to step away from the compulsion and step back into reality. I know I can’t return to those unhealthy habits, even if they mean I could make it to my November 30^th goal, but they still pop up, tapping at the back of my brain as possibilities. But I want to be successful. I want to lose this weight, the road ahead of me just seems very, VERY long.

Yes (before this morning’s stupid scale hike) I have lost 32 lbs since December 28^th, 2009. And yes, my clothes fit, my exercise endurance is greater, I can feel my muscles growing and getting stronger. But, to be honest, I just don’t feel that different. I look at pictures and I see the same fat girl staring back at me. I still feel like last year’s Andrea, overweight and frustrated. And it frustrates me because I earned every one of those lost pounds, and I feel like it should feel different. I feel like I should FEEL better. And, I’m scared. I am really, really scared. A set back like this, on an already fragile sense of resolve to make it to my goal, scares the heck out of me. Yes, I have changed a lot, but those bad habits are still there, poking out their devilish heads when my resolve is low. Tempting me to make bad choices with a million excuses why it is ok. And the holidays are hard, even for a healthy person without a lifetime of bad eating choices. No one ever said this journey would be easy. But today, this journey is kicking my butt, and I’m fearful I don’t have the resolve to kick it right back. 

 

Everything but ordinary

It was a typical Sunday. David got up with the baby and I closed my eyes for the extra hour or so of sleep that Sundays promise me. The smell of blueberry waffles drifted up to our bedroom and I knew PEY would be dining well while I slept. The sun filtered in through our bedroom shades, allowing me to notice the beauty of the day, from the safe cocoon of our bed. Possibly a little earlier then I would have liked, the dogs announced David’s return to our bedroom, with a smiling babe not far behind. The early awakening was forgiven when I noticed the tray full of coffee and breakfast that David was carrying.

I ate, David chilled, PEY played. We changed the sheets on our bed and turned the top sheet into a “tent” that elicited loud, guttural laughter from PEY. He tangled himself up in that sheet, hid under it with David and I, and smiled and smiled. Before long two hours had passed in our bedroom. The rest of the day was spent organizing, do laundry, fixing the garbage disposal, watching football, and taking naps. There was nothing extraordinary about the day. Some may even consider it dull or boring.

Yet, I have come to a place where the most enjoyment is found in a quiet Sunday, where the ordinary tasks of life are the ones that lead to a greater sense of peace. Our daily lives, so full of adult responsibilities like work, a long commute, school, the gym, feeding the family a healthy meal, have taken a fast forward approach, always pushing through at a rapid speed, pushing to fit more in to an already full day. Yesterday was one of those rare days where the pace of the day was not predetermined. It was a much needed break from the daily grind, and considering the colds that have been plaguing our house for weeks, it was just what the doctor ordered.   

(Thanks to Blue Eyed Girl Photography for her time and beautiful family photos. Check her out on facebook, she is great to work with!)

More like a pirate then ever before

PEY loves pirates. I'm sure that the love is strongly related to his father's love of pirates. And over the past few months, as PEY has learned his animal noises, he has also learned the Pirate noise. Whenever looking at a picture of a pirate, or whenever the word "Pirate" escapes anyone's mouth, a soft but firm "Arghhhh" escapes PEY's lips. And when you look at him, his face is covered in a sly grin. He loves pirates.

Along with loving pirates, PEY loves to explore. And during his explorations, the top half of his body often moves faster then his little legs can carry him. His brain wants him to be someplace, seconds before his body has even started moving. He is constantly on the go. And he's fearless. The kid will climb over anything, climb on top of anything, crawl through anything, and say hello to EVERYONE. I realize that at some point a realistic sense of "fear" will have to be instilled, particularly with the whole "stranger danger" concept. But for now I revel in his fearless nature. I don't remember a time where I was fearless.

And so, along with his desire to explore, to move faster then his legs are possible of moving, PEY took a spill, into some outside stairs, at daycare on Tuesday. I got the call from our wonderful daycare provider when I was just a few minutes away, explaining the situation. What I found was a boy, with a tiny, yet deep cut on his cheek, who was DYING to be allowed to get down and run around.

The rest of this story is better told through pictures.

Here was the face, in the car, on the way to the after hours emergency care place....

 
 
 

And I must admit that the RightTime care place took care of us very quickly.  This was a better look at the cheek damage....

 
 

And this was what we did while waiting (I was pretty pleased with myself for remembering to bring a book in with me. It helped pass the time, as did The Incredibles movie playing in the room)

 
 

And then there was some numbing stuff applied, to keep the freak out to a minimum...

 

In order to actually stitch him up the poor little babe was put in what the doctor referred to as a papoos. But really, it was a baby straight jacket. And, although I'm sure it will not come as any kind of a surprise to anyone, PEY managed to finagle his arms OUT of the straight jacket, mid-procedure. This forced me to have to hold him down myself which I have to admit was slightly traumatizing as a mother, but I am proud to report that I held my every loving sh*& together throughout the whole procedure.

And this is the final product....

 

And for the record, the kid is totally non-phased by the whole experience. He wasn't super happy while he was being restrained, but he quickly got over it and hasn't even tried to mess with it since. Too bad those stitches have to come out in a day or two, because they are PERFECT for his Halloween Pirate costume!