I listened to The Thick Thighs Save Lives Podcast today. It’s a fitness podcast, generally aimed at women, and today’s episode was called “Lift Like a Girl.” While the whole thing was great, the part that really stuck with me was when they pointed out this:

Why do we, as adults, go watch all our kids games and activities but when it comes time for us to go for our workouts, our practices, our games, our races, we leave them with the babysitter? Or we forgo activities altogether because we don’t have “time” in between their activities.  We are their roles models. I want my girls to see me work hard at something I love. I want them to see me succeed and I also want them to see me fail and try again. I want them to see that because that’s what I hope they grow to aspire to do themselves.

Photo by: Foster Chaffee Photography taken at the 2018 Natural Family Expo.

Admittedly, I already drag the girls along to many of my events but I’ve always felt a bit guilty for doing it. Not any more. They might not always love it, but that’s okay. Moms having been forcing kids to do things they didn’t want to do because it was good for them since the first two year old said “I don’t wanna!” It’s basically a requirement.

Not only that, I want them to see me as more than just a mom. I am a mom but also I’m a “real” person, who does things she likes to do. It’s easy to get lost in the shuffle of family life. So easy to put the kids’ needs ahead of your own and suddenly, if you aren’t careful, the mom who facilitates everyone’s plans only has time for a quick bath and calls it “self care.” I want more than that for me and my girls. I want them to see me as a mom who still has a sense of self. And if they go down this road of motherhood, I want that for them too.

Run! But Only If You Have to.

Running makes me feel fat.

Now hold all your collective horses, I’m know I’m not fat. I’m not worried about it. In fact right now I’m eating an Oreo as I type because I’m active and muscular and except for the cookies (and cake and Diet Coke) I’m a fairly healthy eater but I still really hate running because it make me feel fat.

It’s the jiggle.

Because it doesn’t matter what sort of substance your body is made of, if it’s not a bone, it jiggles. And you know, probably the bones jiggle too – because running sucks like that. And jiggling body parts don’t feel good. They don’t feel good when they jiggle and they don’t feel good when they are done jiggling. They feel flabby and terrible.

Any other active workout leaves me feeling awesome. I like being awesome, so I do it again. Most days I workout, feel awesome and eat cookies. It’s a strategy that’s working for me on all sorts of levels.

It's ridiculously difficult and silly to attempt to take a picture of yourself doing a Les Mills Combat workout. And just the sort of thing I like to do around ten o'clock!

Non-running workouts can make you feel awesome like a rock star and then you take selfies!

But then sometimes I have to run (like when I have five dogs in my house and they need to be more tired) and I don’t feel awesome. I feel jiggly and decidedly un-awesome. Who ever thought to themselves, “Gee, I feel terrible both physically and emotionally now. I think I’ll go do it again tomorrow?” and ever had success with such a plan?


Because that’s a terrible plan, just like running.

Moral: Working out will make you feel awesome. But probably not running because, unless you are made of nothing but connective tissue and bone, running makes you jiggle and nobody likes jiggling. Don’t run if you hate it, find a workout that makes you feel awesome! Then eat cookies and blog about it.


Kids, Keeping Me Humble Since 2007

Jane fell asleep the way only small children who shouldn’t take a nap can fall asleep, suddenly and completely – just as we pulled into the grocery store parking lot.  No problem, I thought, I’ll just pick her up, carry her in and she’ll wake up.

By the time I checked out my three bags of groceries, my left bicep was cramping from the strain of hauling a sleeping three-year old through the store in one arm while pushing a cart and shopping with the other. But I was pretty convinced I was Super (strong) Mom. After all, I just grocery shopped with my thirty plus pound kid in one arm. And while it’s true that I was rapidly passing from uncomfortable, squarely into the realm of what one would call pain- I did it.

It was extra justification for all that working out, all those push-ups and lunges. All that time that I take for myself. Time away from the kids.

Time spent on myself that, no matter how much I know is the right thing to do, still brings on a bit of guilt. But look at me now!  Not only does working out keep me a sane, happy person but look how much better of a mom I can be with my muscles! My girl can get an, apparently, much needed nap while I shop and it doesn’t even phase me to squat down and get something off the bottom shelf- repeatedly. While it’s true I cheated the express line people and sailed on through with my load of kid and over ten items.  I carried them all out to the parking lot by myself. Me and my rapidly failing left bicep were awesome!

And with that smug thought I gently set Jane back in her car seat as she woke up saying, “Where are we?” ” Are we goin’ to the grocery store?” “I didn’t fall asleep!” “Why are we going home?” “I want to go to the grocery store!

It was long before she saw the toilet paper sitting next to her and exclaimed in surprise, “We do have toilet paper now!” finally accepting our trip to the store had indeed occurred, that my smugness evaporated.

It was disappointing to be brought back down to the level of ordinary human, but despite my fall I’ll keep working out.

I’ll keep working out because I love it and because it makes me a happier, healthier person. And all that makes me a better mom. But after that ride home I shall forever leave my grocery store prowess out of the equation!



My Time

Ten o’clock has always been my time.

It’s the time of day I get a second, (or 45th) wind.

The time of day I’m awake, happy and with John on second shift and the kids in bed, blissfully alone.

It’s the time I bake cakes, decorate cookies, read book, write blogs, edit pictures, and often workout.

Yes, it’s a bit crazy to start a workout at ten pm. But there is nothing better than punching your cares away at the end of a tough day.

It's ridiculously difficult and silly to attempt to take a picture of yourself doing a Les Mills Combat workout. And just the sort of thing I like to do around ten o'clock!

It’s ridiculously difficult (my form here is terrible!) and silly to attempt to take a picture of yourself doing a Les Mills Body Combat workout… And just the sort of thing I like to do around ten o’clock!

For certain it’s insane to start to decorate a cake at ten. But it’s a much easier process without my band of helpers.

I do sometimes jot down ideas for a blog post during the day. But it’s not until I’m alone in the evening that I have the time and space to sit down at the computer and really write.

Ten o’clock is my time.

Which is why, on the nights that that youngest girl of mine shows her night owl tendencies, I get a touch irritable… perhaps a smidgen cranky.

I could pretend it’s because I know that if her sisters wake her up early she’ll be tired and difficult next morning. But if I’m being honest, I must admit I turn into a surly, jealous monster because that little girl is usurping my time.

Mama’s need their time.

And ten o’clock has always been my time.

I’m again linking up with Northwest Frame of Mind  and her 1 Day 1 World project. Click over to see what else was happening around the world in the ten o’clock hour



Weekly Photo Challenge: Up

Weekly Photo Challenge: Upjump

It’s very impressive when your husband tells you that he has to do the jumping portion of his workout outside because the eight foot ceilings are too short.

But, when he phrases it this way –

“I hit my head on the ceiling so hard I knocked myself on my ass.”

It’s difficult to show the proper amount of appreciation for his athleticism through the tears of laughter.