We Change Lives.

 

A few weeks ago, I did something that I never ever thought I would (or could) do; I ran a 5K in under 30 minutes.

Somehow, in my mind, this sticks out as a pretty big accomplishment.  It isn't because I think running a 5k in and of itself is so amazing; heck, there were kids who ran the 5k, and a huge number of people killed it running the 15k.  Instead, it is more about what that run represented: hard work and challenging myself in ways I really didn't know I could. 

I joined Absolute Performance Training (APT) in June, and I can honestly say that it has been one of the best decisions and one of the best investments I have ever made.  I thought about joining for months before I took the plunge.  I attended the gym regularly in an effort to get fit and lose weight for an upcoming vacation, and I would watch the girls in APT and think to myself how I would probably faint if I tried one of the classes. I remember finally getting the courage up to go to the first class, and as expected, it was hard! I thought I would throw up before it was done, but I made it, and at the end of class, the main feeling I had was that of success.  I bought the first month's package, and I haven't looked back since.  

One of my biggest fears about APT before I joined was that I would work out with a bunch of super fit and super competitive and super judgmental women.  I was so wrong.  The core group of women (and a few men) who frequent APT are truly wonderful. The benefits I have received from this program extended beyond losing weight or toning up.  What I have developed is camaraderie and friendship with an excellent group of people.  The fitness is simply a bonus.

This week at the gym, we were asked to sign a board with a few words that would sum up how APT has changed our lives.  I have yet to sign that board because finding just a few words to explain it correctly is challenging, but here it goes:

Confidence:  Prior to June, I never thought I could hang with the likes of Brandi Martin, Lauren Holt, Abbie Ashley, Tiffany Jacobs or half of the other regular APTers. And, in a lot of ways, I cannot.  But the thing is, the program doesn't stress beating those around you or having to keep up with the beast of the group; instead, it stresses simply setting personal goals and then continuing to grow and push those limits. It does this through encouraging words, support and friendship.  I have come to realize I can finish really hard workouts; I can run the pavement thin around the gym, and I can accomplish toes to bar.  Heck, I can even climb the rope: a task I thought I would never accomplish when I first joined.  I have reached these goals through the the continuous encouragement of those around me telling me to keep trying and to not give up and that I am doing great.  The result of this encouragement and hard work are a bonus; I feel better physically about myself than I really ever have before and that is wonderful.         

Happiness:  There is a sign in the gym that reads "Let us be the best part of your day."  Honestly, for me, this sign reads true.  Now, I don't mean that being at the gym is better than being with my husband and my children.  But what it means is that going to the gym makes me happy. It just does.  Since I joined APT, I have noticed that I never dread going to the gym. Never.  I may not feel like working out some days, but I always look forward to walking into the gym and getting to see everyone.  It is almost more of a social enjoyment than a physical one.  What I also notice is that because I enjoy the people and the atmosphere, I am pushed to work harder than I ever could alone or than I could in a surrounding that I was uncomfortable with.  

 Me Time and Friendship:  The best aspect of APT has certainly been the friendships formed. Everyday I get to spend a few hours with friends who share a similar interest.  For a mom of two young children who works a full time job, this is important.  This makes me feel sane.  I really don't have time to be social in the same ways I did before children.  The time I get to devote to myself and to spend with those friends I have made at AF helps me to recharge my batteries when I feel tired or like I am sinking in the responsibilities of everyday life.  My family has even commented on the fact that I am in a lighter mood now that I am regularly going to the gym. I seriously think it is because I have finally found and excellent way to relieve stress and to pay attention to my needs.  That is so important when the other 22 hours in the day are spent focusing on others' needs.    

So, at the end of the day, I am really very glad and grateful to Brandi Martin for creating such an awesome program that truly is changing lives probably in more ways than she will ever really realize!

Love Is Blind

Last month was my mom's birthday.  July 1st was my birthday.  Cathy turned 64, and I turned 33.

Isn't it amazing how time flies? It just seems like yesterday that I was a teenager and that my mom was closer to her 30s than she is to her 70s!  This got me to thinking about what she was like at my age, how she raised three kids and was a stay at home mom, the best mom.  I actually meant to write a similar post around Mother's Day, but because my life is so busy and harried and chaotic, I never made the time.

My mom was 32, my current age, when I was born.  She was also mom to my two older brothers, one who at the time was 10 and the other 4.  I can only imagine, being that I am the mom of two boys who has always desperately wanted a girl, how excited she must have felt when she finally gave birth to a baby girl (no offense Chris and Brad). So just one week after her 32nd birthday, she had two sons and a new infant daughter, her family was complete and she had the rest of her life to watch her kids grow in the way that only a mother can understand, with complete joy and awe at the witnessing of every milestone and goal reached.  And even though raising three kids couldn't have been easy (heck, raising two wears me slap out sometimes), I can only imagine that she felt like her life was as blessed as it could possibly be.

And then she received life changing news.  When she was 32, my age, she learned she suffered from an eye disease, Retinitis Pigmentosa or RP,  that could potentially cause her to go totally blind.  I was 9 months old when she was officially diagnosed and was told she would and could never drive again.

Just stop and think about that one fact for just a minute.  As a mom, I am constantly on the go.  Just this past week I have been to the gym, grocery store, Karate, pharmacy, speech therapy, church, out to eat, shopping, hair salon and who knows where else.  My life is always on the move, and my kids always need to go somewhere.  Can you for one second imagine what it would be like to all of the sudden become 100% totally dependent on someone else to get you from point A to point B everyday, all the time, especially when you have young kids?  What that news must have felt like I simply cannot comprehend.  All I do know is that for the past 32 years, she has handled her vision loss with complete grace.

I had a typical, wonderful, Leave It to Beaver life growing up.  In fact, I never even realized my mom was unlike the other moms in that she couldn't take me and do things with me by myself as a kid.  This is where my dad stepped in.  He was (still is) an amazing husband and dad who never complained and always was available to take me and mom to do the things we would have probably done alone together had she been able to drive.  And I am so thankful for it.  Sure, I probably wasn't thrilled to go bra shopping with him at 13, but to this day, I still go to him for fashion advice and other typical "mom" questions.  Her vision loss brought my entire family together, making us work as a team.

Of course, it is easy for me to point out the positives of my mom's RP as a normal seeing person.  But to be honest, I never remember her complaining as a kid about her lack of independence and lack of vision.  Sure, occasionally I would catch her cry, be upset or say things like "this stinks," but I have no memories of her allowing her vision to change the way she raised myself and my brothers.  She was hands-on, involved and set the bar of mothering so high that I may never be able to reach it.

As I have grown older, her vision has grown worse.  And to be honest, I don't always give her the credit she deserves for living with such a difficult handicap.  I have never known my mother as a normal seeing person.  To me, life with her as a visually impaired person is "normal."  And because I am so use to her low vision, I am sometimes far too quick to say things exasperatedly at her like "Mother, it is RIGHT there! In front of you!"  But when I stop to think about it, I cannot even fathom what it would be like if the only vision I had was a pinpoint sized opening of sight that was barely enough to function.  I also cannot imagine what losing my vision slowly, over 32 years, having it steadily declining at rate that causes constant readjusting to life with even less vision than the years, months or weeks before would be like.  About the time she is comfortable with what she can see, her vision changes, diminishes, and she must again be reminded of what she has lost.  How constantly frustrating that must feel.

And how has she handled this over the years? With true grace and dignity.  One of the best things about mom is her ability to laugh at herself.  We constantly laugh at her vision inspired mishaps.  Once when I was a kid, she hung her coat on a ladies head at my ballet practice thinking it was an empty chair.  She has mowed over people bent down in the isles of Wal-Mart and kept on going never knowing she caused someone a spill.  She has waited in line behind a gigantic Shrek inflatable wondering why the customer service line was not moving; she has spread her belongings out at already occupied restaurant tables and happily sat down before realizing she was sitting with other people; she has stolen a stranger's leftovers mistaking the stranger for a friend holding her leftovers in a restaurant; she has walked into Sam's Club on the arm of a Mexican woman thinking it was dad; she has gotten into a car backwards unable to figure out why her legs wouldn't fit correctly; she has gone into public wearing mismatched earrings and shoes; she has hugged and kissed the gas man mistaking him for Shaun, her son-in-law; she has spoken to people who,  unbeknownst to her, have left the room though she carried on as if they were in front of her.  She can never find her cane, even though you would think a cane would be an important accessory for a blind woman, and she is always able to retort with a witty comment when I constantly remind her of this.

One of my favorite mom stories is of the time were vacationing in PCB with family friends; and we ate at Margaritaville.  She gets easily disoriented in low lighting or hard to navigate spaces.  As we were leaving, she was clinging to a family friend for help.  As she was exiting, she looked up at the large plane that hangs in the fake sky of the middle of the inside of the restaurant, and asked a friend, whose arm she was clinging to if she was outside or inside.  At this same time, she came to the stairs leading outside and awkwardly (think cat with tinfoil on its feet) tried to find the step.  This led to her next question "Are the stairs going up or down?"  One thing you have to know about my mom is that she doesn't "look" blind, so people often look weirdly at her when she has trouble in public.  I could see a lady with her eyes fixated on mom, watching her every move and word, and could see the judgy look on her face.  When we finally made it outside, I laughed so hard because the woman thought mom was schnockered and clinging to some poor soul helping her outside.  And mom laughed too.

That's the thing, she is able to laugh at herself and make fun of her mishaps when I think it would be so easy for most people to instead wallow in self-pity and feel depressed.  Her true spirit of a strong and gracious and grateful woman shines forth best in her moments of hilarious misfortune.  We joke about her being blind and all of the messes she gets in.  And that cannot always be easy for her, because as funny as so many of her experiences are, there are an equal amount that no doubt would make anyone feel less than fortunate.  Imagine being in a crowd and how ostracizing it must feel to miss out on a visual joke, to not know why everyone is laughing, trying to figure it out when maybe no one realizes or takes the time to stop and explain just what is so funny.  Imagine how self conscious you would feel in a restaurant when eating in front of others and worrying about not being able to get your food to your mouth without creating a mess, dipping your fingers in your sauces by accident, missing your plate when trying to fork a bite, knocking over a drink by accident.  Imagine not being able to enjoy going to the movies because you cannot see them, not being able to even see something beautiful like stars, which sighted people so easily take for granted, when out at night.  Imagine being unable to read a book because you cannot see the print.  (Ryder wanted mom to read to him one day and she tried to explain that she could not see the words because her eyes were broken.  He couldn't understand, and as he pried her eyes open with his chubby fingers, he yelled "just look the words on the page!"  He finally exasperatedly asked Shaun to read to him since Nana didn't know how to read.)  Imagine having your four year old daughter photographed in a pint sized wedding gown because you feared you would not have any vision left to see her at her actually wedding as a grown woman.  Imagine wanting so desperately to take part in the joy of looking at pictures or videos of family and friends (we are a huge picture family) but not being able to because you cannot see them; instead, you have to sit back and listen to others "ooh" and "ah" over the pictured adventures.  Imagine how helpless you would feel when you enjoy cooking large meals for your loved ones but you cannot because it is too dangerous and too difficult to cook alone.  Imagine being talked to by others as if you are slow simply because you cannot see (once a guy actually referred to her as "Ray Charles" in front of her, as if she couldn't hear him, when we were at a festival!)  And imagine wanting so badly to be able to take on normal grand-parenting duties of babysitting, yet knowing it is impossible because you cannot see to change a diaper, to easily fix sippy cups and sandwiches, or to even know if the grand-kids are safely where they are supposed to be (especially when the grand-kids include the Mecham boys.)  My mom's heart hurts at not being able to babysit my kids or my niece and nephews often.  She feels like she is letting us down.  Yet I am amazed that she still is willing to give it a go even though it is hard and messy and difficult for her.  But that is the thing about my mom, she is always willing to try and to keep persevering.  She always shines with happiness, love and God's grace.  She has never  been angry with God over her predicament.  Instead, she has used her handicap to show God's love and mercy to those around her.  All in all, she is as close to perfect as a mom can be.

Sure, we occasionally argue or fight.  I get annoyed with her and her with me.  But that is all normal mother/daughter behavior.  At the end of the night though, she is always the one I want to call and tell my day to.  I think about my relationship with her and am slightly saddened that I will never be able to reciprocate those same mother/daughter moments with a child of mine.  I have decided, though, that it is okay because I probably couldn't do as good of a job anyway. 

           

"Endorphins Make You Happy"

Recently on Facebook and Instagram I posted a few pictures in the name of celebrating #transformationtuesday of what I looked like a few years ago and what I currently look like after having recently lost 17 pounds and having spent a few months religiously in the gym doing more than simply cardio.  Within minutes I started receiving private messages, about 8-10 total, from friends curious as to what I had done or what trick I had performed to lose weight.  Truth is, I did it the good old fashioned way.  I ate better, picked up heavier and moved more.  I was then asked by a dear friend who has helped inspire me daily to get into shape to share my pre/post picture with a health inspired Facebook group that she is associated with.   I laughed and said sure.

But then I decided to first blog before posting.  Here is why: losing weight is hard, yet it is also something to be proud of, but sometimes we look at people who have done what we so wish we could do, and instead of inspiring us, we let it depress us even further.  I have done this multiple times.  Sometimes, we say "well, she wasn't that big to begin with" or "if I lived close to the gym I could do it too" or "but she is obsessed, and I have kids and a life."  I have said these very phrases.  So I wanted to give a back story to my small, insignificant, yet important to me transformation.

I have never been what many would classify as "big" or "fat" or "overweight."  I have been what many would call "chubby" or "out of shape" or even "normal."  As a kid, I thought of myself as always slightly chunkier than the other girls.  I let this shape the way I thought about myself.  Instead of being more active, as a preteen, I let it hold me back.  I didn't make the effort to continue in cheerleading or to be physically active because, truthfully, I thought I wouldn't be that good at it so I didn't bother.

As a teenager, I had tons of friends, enjoyed school, but was not involved in extracurricular activities and certainly was not in shape.  I still saw myself as the frumpier friend in a group of some really beautiful girls.  The summer after graduation, I lost about 20 pounds and was thinner than I had ever been.  I met my future husband and stayed at an extremely low weight for pretty much the duration of college years.  Though I certainly felt happier in those years knowing I was thinner, I was still not what most would consider to be "in-shape."  I was simply thin.  I was certainly not healthy.  I maintained my thinness mostly through diet pills.  And in my book at the time, that was all that I wanted:  to be thin.    

Later I married the man I met at my thinnest weight, eventually had kids with him, two to be exact, and gradually started gaining weight.  I gained 30 pounds with my first son.  I should note that I am short, 5'2", and my legs and torso are the size of a large toddler's in length.  30 pounds was a significant weight gain on my small frame.  I then nursed my oldest and struggled to learn how to lose weight while nursing and while not being able to take diet pills (which by the way no longer worked in 2008 because ephedra was no longer in them, which I am now thankful for).  I joined Weight Watchers and by the summer of 2009, when my son was one, I had managed to get down to about 120 pounds.  I was so excited, yet somehow, I still wasn't satisfied.  I couldn't understand why, although I was smaller, I was still essentially the same shape.  But, I figured at least smaller and squishy was better than larger and squishy so I was happy (mostly).

In 2011, I became pregnant again.  When son number two was born, I was at my heaviest.  I again gained 30 pounds, but I was also 10 pounds heavier when I got pregnant with him than I had been when I got pregnant the first time.  With baby number two, I had a much harder time losing the weight.  I nursed for a lot longer (try 26 months) and struggled to battle being hungry and making good decisions.  Baby two came with the added complication of having to also take care of baby number one, who was three at the time, while also working and being a wife.  Eating right was so difficult.  Going to the gym? I told myself I just couldn't make the time.  I lived too far away from the best gyms.  I didn't want to pay the membership fees and then not use them.  I needed to lose a few pounds before joining.   I came up with multiple excuses.

Now, during my college years when I was at my thinnest, I did go regularly to a gym with some dedicated friends, even worked there for a short while.  At the gym I would spend 45+ minutes half heartedly trudging through cardio and would then maybe make my way through some weights before being ready to leave.  If I only had, say, 45 minutes to an hour to workout (because I believed I had to be in there hours for it to count) I could never get myself past thinking I was obligated to do the same cardio routine before getting to anything else.  So on those days, I only did cardio (usually at the same level for the same amount of time).  Sure, I did see some mild results because I was thin, but nothing spectacular.  I ended my membership once I got pregnant with Ryder since I had stopped going altogether.   I briefly joined again after Sawyer was born but really never went so nothing happened from that stint of membership.  I quickly cancelled my membership again.  

I spent two years after Sawyer was born trying to tell myself it was OK that I was again chubby.  I had ballooned from a 4/6 to a 12 in pants.  To some, that is laughable that I am complaining about wearing a 12, but if you have ever felt inadequate in your own clothing, uncomfortable looking at your own reflection, I think you could understand how I felt.  I felt, for the lack of a better word, yuck.  I gain mostly in my hips and that was where I was most disgusted by when looking at my reflection.  I would moan, groan, whine and complain, yet I did nothing else to change my physical appearance.  Every so often I would hopefully buy into some sort of weight loss system: pills, slim fast, Hydroxycut, ACE, Advocare, 17 Day diet, only to eventually find it too hard with not enough results.

The pressures of being a mom didn't help.  I was always dipping into my kids' meals for bites, relying on poor choices at fast food restaurants for dinner, skipping dinner altogether and eating an unhealthy snack/dessert WAY TOO LATE at night once my kids finally went to bed, and overeating at one meal because it was too much trouble to make time for small portioned meals and snacks throughout the day (these are problems I still struggle with honestly). My boys, who are in a league of their own when it comes to being messy, tiring, hard, and draining, would wear me out, often leaving me with not enough energy to even think of going to a gym (though I have now learned going to the gym will give me the energy I am missing, and if you don't believe me about the wild kiddos, backtrack throughout my blogposts; I am very honest about the stresses of parenthood).  Along with motherhood, I also was often overwhelmed with other life duties including work loads that kept me at school too late in the day, cooking dinners for my family including my dad and mother, who is visually impaired, keeping my house clean so my OCD self didn't meltdown further, and eventually, I would fall into bed too exhausted to think about how to actively be in better shape.  And I could never imagine forcing myself up for a gym class on days I could sleep in; that would be entirely absurd in my world!  Sleep in my house was (and still is) too few and far between to give up any extra hours I might have; half the time my kids wake up multiple times a night. It is seriously like fruit basket turnover at our house.  

Last summer I swore, SWORE, I was going to lose weight when I realized my babysitter/friend who was 19 and beautiful was going to the beach with me.  I lost a few pounds but basically changed nothing.  In January motivated by the lingering hopefulness of New Year's resolutions, I decided to rejoin the gym. And in February, my uncle and aunt, whom I love dearly and think of like second parents, extended an invitation to go to Cocoa Beach and Disney with them during the first week of June to celebrate my 10 year wedding anniversary with my husband.  My uncle, who has always been fit but who had put on a bit of weight, decided he would lose weight by the time we went.  My aunt joined in as well.  I said I was going to also.  And I did...in a half hearted way.  I lost like 3-5 pounds and stopped.  They lost multiple pounds.  They were not eating carbs and making very good eating choices.  I was sort of eating good...ish.  My uncle, who is blatantly honest, told me I wasn't eating good enough, and I would not lose until I did.  At that point I finally decided to stop complaining and actually do it.  I started by really cleaning up my eating, even though it was hard.  I drank more water, passed on bread, croutons, too much dressing, unhealthy carbs, and anything basically "bad" and ate much more of the good stuff, i.e. veggies, fish, salad, veggies, and veggies.  And I swore to stick with it more than a few weeks.  At the same time, I began daily talking to my friend (who recommended me to write this lovely blog) about my workout program I had recently started at the gym.  She finally convinced me to stop with the continual cardio and focus more on weights and interval training.  So, I did.  And it seriously worked.  Within weeks I started noticing a difference. In May, I tried on a pair of shorts I had not worn in years and about died when they actually fit, not only fit but were looser in the hips than they had been when I could wear them.   It was at that moment I really believed her.  She started sending me daily workout routines and added me to her fitness FB group she is a part of.  I started really pushing myself more in the gym and started actually enjoying going or at least enjoying that feeling I had when I left. (Those endorphins are real y'all.  I mean, after all, as Elle Woods says, "Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don't shoot their husbands.  They just don't." Good news for Shaun I guess.) I stuck with the routine for 4-5 weeks.  Because my friend teaches fitness classes at her gym (not the one I attend) that I hear are intense and varied (and I have no doubt), she inspired me to take a relatively big leap, at least in my mind, by joining Absolute Performance Training at the gym.   I decided to try one month of unlimited training, which included large group fitness classes that focus on interval training sessions, core and cardio, as well as four small group (1-4 people in a group) training sessions.  I was a bit intimidated at first, thinking I would not be able to hang at all.  But I quickly discovered the girls in the class were some of the sweetest girls, all with the same goal as me: to be better. Maybe to them better was thinner, stronger, healthier or all of the above, but the goal is simply to be better.  The classes are filled with all kinds of fitness types, varying from the ridiculously fit (y'all know who you are) to the just-getting-started-and-feeling-like-you-are-dying-by-the-end-I-might-throw-up kind of girls (probably me) and those somewhere in-between.

I have been in Performance Training for a very short time compared to many of the members,  but I already feel comfortable with the group and like it is OK to sweat, struggle, and be honest about when it is tough.  I have currently lost 17 pounds, dropping from 133 to 116, and I have lost numerous inches and I am really starting to tell the difference in the definition and tone of my body.   I finally feel better about myself in a way I haven't felt in YEARS!  I no longer think 30 times a day about how unhappy I am with my body.  Do I think I look perfect? Can y'all hear me laughing? Heck no.  I will probably never win a Barbarian sword, or be hired by the gym to train others, or run any ridiculously long races, or ride a bike for a bazillion miles on rough terrain, or be able to accomplish the peg board thingy on the wall at the gym, or climb the dang rope to the ceiling or even have an enviable set of abs or legs.  I still see my problem areas and just wish my body would magically turn into the bodies of the women who teach the classes (and quite a few who take it too), but what I do know is I am finally working in a very real way toward a goal I have been complaining about wanting to reach for a VERY LONG TIME and THAT makes me happy when I look in the mirror.

So, to all of you struggling to do it--to eat better, make it to the gym, pass on the rolls at dinner, drag yourself into the gym after work, I totally get it.  It is hard.  But it is also possible.  Truthfully, I am slightly nervous about the school year.  I worry about adding school, homework and sports to the mix.  But I think I will figure it out.  I will balance, and portion control, and work out, and feel good.      

So, here it goes, my #transformationtuesday photos!

Fall 2012 and July 2014

This Fourth of July and Last Summer Beach Trip

Fourth of July and June 2014 Beach Trip.  Bottom Pics 2012, 2013, 2011

I Believe in Being Tired

The other day I got home from work, tired and just wanted to eat a meal in peace.  I wanted the boys to happily sit down and enjoy dinner and to allow me twenty minutes to relax.  But it never happens that way.  I am always eating a meal while wrangling boys.  On this particular day, I sat down to eat and heard a commotion in the den of my mother and father’s house.  I heard the front door open and close.  Ryder then came running into the room wanting my mother’s grabber (you know, those mechanical arms meant to get stuff off shelves too high to reach).  It was followed by wild giggling from mom and dad’s room. When I went to check out what was happening, I saw two pairs of legs showing from under the bed.  I realized Sawyer had let in the neighbor’s cat and the boys were excitedly trying to fetch it from under the bed…with a mechanical grabber.  This was just a ten minute portion of a night of rambunctious boy behavior.  Needless to say, I did not get a relaxing meal.   

I never knew what tired felt like until I had children.  Sure, I had had plenty of tiring experiences in my life pre-kids, but none that couldn’t be fixed with a long nap and a good night of sound sleep.  I was 27 when Ryder, my oldest son, was born.  Literally, from the moment he was born, I was tired.  Labor was exhausting, but paled in comparison to how exhausting a newborn baby was.  I eventually got into the groove of motherhood, but the demands of caring for a growing baby who depended on me for everything certainly was draining at times.  As he grew, the demands of parenting grew.  He became mobile and active, constantly keeping me on my feet.  Eventually, my sweet baby grew into an even more active and tiring little boy.  That active little boy was joined by my second son, Sawyer, in 2011.  Sawyer started off as a quiet, easy going infant, but it didn’t taken him long to catch up with his brother and become a handful as well.

            Today, Ryder is 5 and a half and Sawyer is a month away from turning 3.  And me, I am as tired as ever. My boys are rambunctious, demanding; they are rough as cobs and stubborn as mules.  They never stop, ever. From the moment they get up to the moment they go to sleep, they are into something. They are famous for their shenanigans.  Just this week I found a pocket full of glass shards in Ryder’s jacket, to which he explained he had been playing glass factory in a ditch at school, and on Saturday, I walked into my kitchen to find him breaking every egg I had into a boiler pot and stirring it with a whisk.  Instead of looking guilty he asked for white powder stuff (flour) to add to his “cake.” The amount of messes I clean up with these two is endless.  

Ryder is my blonde haired Dennis the Menace.  He talks always.  He is inquisitive, independent, unfocused and when he truly sets his mind on something (like wanting a new character on a video game or a new Lego to play with), he will wear me down to a nub until the end result is one he is satisfied with. He is loud and forceful.  He can talk my ear off about practically anything.  And, as crazy as it sounds, I do not know how I would function without him being just the way he is. Don’t get me wrong, there are times (like, everyday) when I want him to stop, hush, sit down, and be still.  But the infinite moments of laughter, joy and hilarity he has brought into my life cannot be counted.   I can go from upset and frustrated to giggling and smiling with just one funny comment from my never ending provider of laughs. 

Sawyer, on the other hand, is physical.  If it is there, he can climb it. He is bossy and picky and can give looks that kill.  He is a ninja and a sword slinger and always has a handheld action figure with him. Despite being almost 3, he still requires me to rock him to sleep every night, and no matter how tired I am and how much I just want him to go to sleep, I still enjoy those nightly cuddles from my baby who is almost no longer a baby.  And at night, often, I do just want to go to sleep, and honestly, neither boy sleeps well; I joke I haven’t had REM sleep since the summer of 2008.  They keep me on the move all day, and half the time, they keep me up part of the night too.  With them, I am worn out, but without them, I can’t imagine how I would survive. 

My boys are my life, and my life is sometimes hectic and overwhelming and tiring. But I have decided that the tired I feel at the end of every day is worth it. I believe in being tired.  I believe in the moments when I think I am going to give up, but instead realize I have learned something about myself, about parenthood, about a love that knows no limits, no matter how exhausted that love is. I believe that the amount of work and effort I pour out of me and into my children will pay off in the long run when they grow into men who will realize just how much I loved them and how hard I fought to raise them.  It will be what they remember.  They may not know how hard it was at times or how frustrated I may have felt, or even how happy they made me or how funny they were, but they will know that I worked non-stop, tirelessly to be the best mother to them that I could possibly be.  And sure, I am not perfect.  I get mad and yell; I get annoyed and irritated too at times, but even in my most exhausting moments, I know I wouldn’t trade that feeling in for the world.  When I look at my sweet boys’ faces at night, as they sleep looking like chubby cherubs, I know that all of the hard work and all of the moments where I feel worn out are worth it to know that literally every ounce of my being is invested in being their mother, their caretaker, their playmate, their nurse and their friend.   Being tired has taught me more about love than any other feeling in the world.

Put Me In Coach, I'm Ready to Play...Or Maybe Not...

T-Ball. The very word makes me anxious lately.  Why? Because we are gearing up for another season of "fun" on the field. The entire idea makes me feel like one heavy sigh....

Let me backtrack: Ryder started playing t-ball exactly one year ago.  I will never forget how excited I was last March when we signed him up for 4 year old t-ball in our local Coosa Valley baseball league.  I made sure he looked the part on his first day of practice.  Shaun and I had gone to Academy, and with giddy, we purchased all of the necessities for the season (plus some): balls, bats, pants, glove, socks, hat, helmet, bases, tee,  etc. On the day of his first practice, I had to work late. After I finished, I hurried to the field expecting to find a rambunctious and happy four year old adorably chasing baseballs.

Nope.

Instead, he spent the majority of the practice crying, throwing his head back and wailing "WHAHHH" and making dirt angels on the ground.  In the moments he didn't cry, he certainly wasn't paying attention.  Now, we had certainly faced some exhausting moments before this one with Ryder, but for some reason, this totally shocked and embarrassed me.  I immediately felt like crying myself, but instead, I opted to just bail and leave.  (you may have read a portion of this story in my blog It's a Hard Knock Life, For Us...Parent's That Is)

That moment is when the initial worry and fear set in concerning who Ryder was, what his talents were and how he acted with others.  Irrational fear, for sure, but still, I was faced with something I hadn't expected: he was the odd man out and the kid who looked the most out of place on the field, in my mind anyways, and I couldn't help but start visualizing him as becoming the kid who somehow didn't fit in off the field too.

All season, I felt a knot in my stomach when it was practice or game day.  Sure, I would smile and laugh on the outside, but on the inside, I was expecting him to fall apart. Keep in mind he was four years old, probably an immature four year old at that, but I couldn't help feeling almost embarrassed if he had an unsuccessful practice or game.  I knew that was silly beyond words, yet I still worried that his inability to focus and his almost spastic behavior at times was going to follow him into adulthood. (Don't pretend like you have never judged a kid on his behavior: a kid has a meltdown or even just acts goofy in Walmart, a restaurant or anywhere else and you make assumptions on the kid and/or the parenting choices of the kid's mom and dad. We've all done it.) My worry was one that I think all parents (or at least those willing to admit it) have: worry that our kid will somehow not fit in with the other kids.

We live in the South  and in the South, sports are a given.  Shaun was athletic and played multiple sports growing up, including running track and playing football.  Now, as for me, I wasn't the most athletic person ever growing up, but somehow that seemed OK because I was a girl. I tried telling myself that Ryder was just a baby and that he would eventually develop an interest in sports. During particularly rough games, I would joke about his athletic prowess. If I am being honest, I did it out of my own insecurity.  Later when I would look into his blue eyes and chubby cheeks, I would feel guilty for joking about his performance, as harmless as I thought it was at the time. It's like the girl who makes a fat joke at her own suspense before anyone else can.  I do not want to tear Ryder down; I want to build him up in a healthy way.  I also don't want to become the parent who obsesses about a sport and ruins the fun of it for my kids.   And honestly, I wasn't even that obsessed about winning, I just didn't want Ryder to be the reason we were losing and cause other team parents to see him as the team distraction. 

 I love Ryder more than anything in the entire universe, and all I want is his happiness.  And I think in my weird way, I thought his awkwardness on the field or the possibility of him maybe never excelling in sports would make him unhappy, cause him to be made fun of or bullied (which is another irrational fear I have; I say irrational since I never dealt with bullying firsthand, yet for some reason, I fear it for my kids) and all any parent really wants is for his or her child to be happy and fit in. 

Back to t-ball.  Somehow we pushed through our ten games and Ryder did show much improvement on the field, meaning he didn't fall out crying during the games, but I still ended the season being very much aware of his place on the team as occupier of the outfield, where his unfocused little blonde self could spin circles happily without interfering with the more skilled or serious players.

September rolled around and with it came fall ball (because once a year is not enough).  We decided to play again in the hopes that if we made him play again, he would continually improve. Thankfully, we were able to get on pretty much the same team with the same coaches who knew Ryder and also knew how to deal with his lack of attention and athletic prowess.  One thing that did make my outlook more hopeful for fall was the fact that Ryder, who had been formally diagnosed with ADHD over the summer, had started medicine to help with his focus (that is an entirely different blog).  In all honesty, the fall t-ball experience was admittedly more enjoyable than the spring before it.  The medicine surely made a difference in Ryder's over all behavior, and we were seeing that in every aspect of his life, on and off the field. Shaun began working more with Ryder one-on-one, and we really started to see improvement, but the one thing I started to notice was that Ryder really had (and still has) no great interest in outside play, period. He would practice in the same way he did homework.  He would do it, he just didn't want to. Ever.  And although he liked the games, he would come off of the field not with total excitement over the game he had just played, but instead asking if I had the iPad with me.  And even at home when we would go outside to simply play, no baseball involved, he wasn't very interested for very long.  In general, he gives out and gives up quickly when it comes to outside activities. It just isn't his "thing" so to speak.    

Ryder is a tech kid.  He can operate an iPad, iPhone or gaming system like an adult.  This caused me to develop even more concern.  I worried about him spending too much time on electronics, not being able to play face-to-face with others, and I decided the effects of making him play a sport would be beneficial.  I believed (and still do) that he needed t-ball to help give him a reason to get outside, interact with others and to give him a break from the Wii. I hoped it would be a skill and hobby that he would grow to like and one that would push him to do more than just build Legos and beg for Minecraft and Harry Potter Wii games. I want him to be active and healthy.  But Ryder's desires are often elsewhere.  When I pick him up from extended day, he is usually in the corner building Legos, sometimes with others and sometimes alone if no one elsewants to build Legos.  The workers have even jokingly informed me that he will frequently ask if he can go back inside when they go to the playground at extended day because he had rather be indoors playing with blocks and Legos than outside running around.  It isn't that I don't see the fun in Legos or even games, but I just don't want his only extracurricular activity in school to be president of the Dungeons and Dragons club, know what I mean?  

Overall though, fall ball was more enjoyable than spring ball, but it did introduce a challenge I had not faced during 4t: practicing and playing baseball games during the week while also going to real school.  Long days in school, followed by afternoon practices and homework were definitely an adjustment for me and Ryder.  Overall, he enjoyed the games and the other kids, but late night games after a day of school and homework were sometimes (and still are) a recipe for disaster.   Managing homework (oh yes, nightly homework in kindergarten) and t-ball and a toddler and a job stressed me out, but we managed.  
     
Back to the present: So here we are again, back to spring t-ball. Tonight is the first game, and I am a bit anxious (especially since over half the games don't even start until 7pm, a bit late for any five year old, especially one who is easily distracted and may not wholeheartedly want to be there.)  He is, however, excited over the hoopla that has gone into getting ready for a new season (i.e. new outfit and cleats.  It is like dress up to him.)  So tonight we go to the field, and continue to do so twice a week for two months, and I hope for no meltdown, will try not to obsess over the ridiculous and promise to let him just have fun.  Because that's the one thing that sometimes I forget, especially after an especially bad practice or game, that this is meant to be fun.

I am also realizing he may not be who I thought he was. And that is OK.  He is great. Period.  I recently read an article about parents being happy with their children even if they turn out to not be what they thought they were going to be (Jack doesn't become a doctor but instead is a mechanic, Susie makes Cs in school, Becky isn't the prom queen) and it really made me think.  Jason Sanders poses the question in his blog Would That Be Okay?, "What if your kid never really does all that great in sports? While all of his friends are making diving catches and hitting home runs, the only action he sees is during practice. In right field. Where he likes to pick flowers and see how long he can stare at the sun before blinking. Oh, and that’s when he’s in the 11th grade. Would that be okay?"

Wow. Hit home for me, that's for sure.  I realized that A.) I am not the only worrier wanting my child to be a success, and B.) I would probably be worried about who he is and who he is becoming no matter what, even if he was the Cal Ripken of Coosa Valley t-ball.  I think what I have worried about isn't even really about sports; sports just happen to be the catalyst to cause me worry since he is not as skilled at it as he is at everything else.  I'm sure if he were struggling severely in school, I would be worrying irrationally over intelligence and future careers.  I have to just step back, let him be the best inquisitive, rambunctious and unfocused five year old that he is and be happy because that little boy is exactly the little boy God wanted me to have.       

So as I gear up for a season of t-ball fun with a little boy who may or may not want to go to games, who may or may not get into trouble for not paying attention, who may or may not be more concerned over whether or not his mom will buy him a new Wii Disney Infinity character than focusing on the field, I just have to remember to let him be him.  And when I see those other parents who act like the world is ending when their kids mess up or the team doesn't do good, I will just smile and know that no matter how Ryder acts, I will always be happy with him and for him, even if instead of saying "put me in coach" he says "I don't want to play, coach."