A (toZ) conversation with me and myself ..

For the Red Dress Club.  Just read about it over at She Suggests  that there was such a writers' place [how wonderful is that] and that the writing prompt was as she posted as easy as abc  -- so, I wrote this conversation that I had with myself after my photoshoot this morning.


A(toZ) conversation with me and myself:

A ridiculous proposition is what it is, I’m telling you. 


But, I think the timing is perfect, the beginning of the year, been wanting to do it any way.



Challenge, more like a way to expose you?
Do you think you will really transform yourself in the next twelve weeks?



Even if I don’t get swimsuit perfect, health is the goal, right?



Forty-six, going on forty-seven in a few weeks, swimsuit perfect?
Get your head outta the clouds woman!



Hey, you aren’t being nice to me!



I am not being nice to “myself" you mean.



Jerk.



Know-it-all, and right as rain, you mean.



Look, we need to get in shape.



Man, you are talking to yourself, you know that right?



Now, seriously, I’m just trying to motivate "myself" into actually modifying my lifestyle to be healthier and more active.



Other people will see your bulging buttocks.



People won’t see, I didn't sign a release, and it is their business on the line and you are such a freaking critic.



Queen of denial, was that a song written about you?



Really, I am going to do it, I've told the blogworld!
So, stopping the negative spiraling right now!  
The time is now to get in shape, make lifestyle changes.
Unfortunately, I know that not taking care of myself has taken a toll.
Vegetables, fruit, exercise, sleep, relaxation and less stress -- get used to it.



Whacko.
X-ray vision won’t be necessary for people, they will see all that jiggles in those bike shorts!



You are more toxic than refined foods to me, you, you , you saboteur!
Zip your lips for the next twelve weeks and prepare to be AWED!

The Clock is Ticking! Loudly!

In less than two hours, I will be in a bikini for a photo shoot. Not for VS. And, there will be no photoshop/otherwise photo editing. For a twelve week body transformation challenge. I am considering changing my mind. About the attire, not the challenge. To something less revealing. More sporty. I have sports bras and bike shorts. But, I figure, this is for me, I want to see the difference, and this particular bikini, well, it doesn’t cover any bumps or lumps or curves with black lycra.


I have been overweight for a long time. Those of you with the ‘stop the fat talk’ blah blah - stick it in your pocket. I really don’t want to hear it right now. Although I know the purpose behind stop the talk. This is not that talk. This is reality. This is my life. This is my health we are talking about. It really is not about how I look in the bikini. Okay, well, in two hours it will be.

For those of you that I know love me just the way I am and believe I am beautiful. Well, I love you too! But, I also know that you really do love me and you would like me not to develop high blood pressure or diabetes or die prematurely of heart failure. mwah! Me neither.

I joke. But, the clock is ticking, right. And, there are reasons to be serious about this. Not least of all: to model a healthy lifestyle for my girls. Also, not least of all – my blood pressure went up when I was pregnant with Gia – at the end. Yeah, it is a long story and could have been because my body was allergic to her, or something insane. She was IUGR. She wasn’t growing. My placenta decided it was done at like week 26 or something. I don’t know what all was going on, but it scared the crap out of me. Mostly then because I wanted to have her out – alive and breathing and in our life [like she is now, I am so phenomenally blessed!]– I didn’t want Lia to have to deal with a stillborn sister. And, no, I could not imagine it for myself, a grown educated woman - so I could not bear to think of it for her.  Or for Mike.

Immediately after having her, my BP regulated. Well, I mean after the massive dose of blood pressure meds that the anesthesiologist gave me to bring my BP down during the cesarian, where the epidural was not working and I had to choose the numbing shots into my uterus over the general -- because that would not have been good for her, so I could feel way too much and actually bit the anesthesiologist's hand during the extraction.  I am pretty strong.  I pulled his hand down over my mouth and yep.  Bit.  Mike couldn't be in there, it was an emergency.  Hospital policy.  So he was in the hall with three angels that then existed in my world.

Afterwards, I was scared and thought I would seriously do something about my health then, because, look at the tiny 1155 gram baby I needed to be around to take care of. Yes, 1155 grams is about 2.5 pounds. Tiny. Okay, baby home, life happens. Mike had read articles about women that have high blood pressure during pregnancy and the statistics (I have mentioned he is a scientist – I do business, and emotions, he does statistics) about the women developing chronic high blood pressure/heart disease within five years. WELL, she turns FIVE during the next twelve weeks [okay, maybe I procrastinated a little]. Not to mention, my birthday is not long after (so no chocolates, unless they are at least 70% okay?).

No you aren’t getting statistics and photos today. And, I’m not sure you will get them at all. But, I’ll let you know how things are going! 

Oh, and don’t worry. I stepped into the shower last night with a warehouse-sized bottle of Nair and removed my winter coat that had grown on me from bikini line down! Eek. There was no way a razor would cut it [get it? Cut it? Haha. I’m trying to distract myself from the fact that I’m going to be in a swimsuit in front of a camera, work with me, laugh... okay, not at the fact that I’m going to be in that situation, at the cut it joke!] I’m hoping that the drain doesn’t permanently clog! I know, I live in the tropics, but still, it is cool and rains often and so I wear jeans and tights and long pants and nature takes its course. The European genes kick in after about two days and viola - winter coat. Dark and lovely on milky white skin. Seriously, it wasn’t pretty! Even if I don’t loose a centimeter, I think Mike will be pleased that his legs are now hairier than mine again!

I am writing on the fly and publishing without re-reading.  I figure signing up and doing this challenge and telling you about it, will make me accountable. I really don’t like failure. And, when I have thought about it before, I have only told a friend or two [you know the ones that love me and know chocolate and red wine and nachos make me happy!]

Oh and this isn’t a weight loss challenge. It is a transformation challenge. Diet, lifestyle and body (not just weight, but fat percentage and measurement). So, here is to my health!

By the way,  Lia came out of the bathroom, while I was writing this, to tell me her Auntie that was here recently left her bikini here and that we need to mail it to her!  [Be proud of me -- I did not scream, that is my f-ing bikini and I am wearing it for a photo shoot in an hour and a half 56 minutes!  -- okay don't be too proud, I was still snarkley about it!] 

Cracks build character.

Yes, I haven't been here.  I'm not sure where I have been.  Oh, for one incredible day I was at the happiest place on earth in a foreign land with just my two girls. We were there longer than that, but for one day, they were mine, all mine, and I was theirs. 

She captured our hearts and has kept them  ...

I started this blog for a particular purpose.  Then, I piddled around with it and posted a few things.  I skirted the reason for beginning it. I was, am, remain, afraid.  I am not good at being vulnerable.  The topics in my mind lead me to vulnerability's door.  The memories my mind holds bang on it and ring the doorbell, those hidden in my heart will just kick the door down. What happens when the door breaks? That is what terrifies me. 

I started to write this blog to deal with what was (then) nearly a decade of life.  Lia's life.  Here is a glimpse of her.




Turning two she already had a style her own ....

 

and she has returned wonder to our world...







 
  

She has always had a pure heart full of abounding love ...

   

She is a true princess ...






 I struggle with talking about any of the things in my heart or mind, because (ptiu ptiu) I am so incredibly blessed.  I don't want to jinx that.  Not that I believe in jinxing.   I don't want to seem ungrateful, because I am not.  I don't want her to think that any of this is her fault, because that just isn't even in the realm of possibilities.  Indeed, she is and has been the joy that has lit our lives for ten years.  She remains that joy that fills our life with light (with some help from her little sister now). 

 



 

She is a pure beauty with a pure soul.





I must admit, though, I know that I feel that so much of it is my fault that I don't know if I can bear it all spilling out and tainting everything it touches.   I do not know if I have the courage. 

Now, she is TEN.  A DECADE. 



I didn't lose her, I still have her.  Or, rather, I  have her as much as any mother could have a just-turned-ten almost-teenage girl.   And the decade of her life and our life with her, is full of what has made us us.   And, truthfully, we all made it through the decade pretty well.  2010 ending, actually helped me, encouraged me, made me find the guts to at least start to look back and appreciate what has actually happened, while I sit in wonder at the present.  Living with fear and trepidation every day fogs the present and you can lose it forever.  I know going back through it will not be pretty, although I know there will be much joy too -- the cracks will appear.  But, I am sure of who she is enough to know that the cracks won't matter to her.  Her love is too strong, her will too great, her heart too big.  She will feel deeply and she will grow stronger and lovelier and kinder with it.  She is becoming a far better person than I have ever been.  But, what more could a mother ask?  And, as for me, with the wrinkles and creases beginning (okay, getting deeper) maybe no one will see the cracks and what is behind them and I will actually be more whole, than less. 

This is my Lia.  Growing up so incredible, in spite of the world, in spite of me, in spite of spite itself. 

She is my shining star!  I am so proud of her and in awe of her. 

I hope me sharing parts of her story with you does her justice.



















 





Alone Again. Naturally.

Yes.  It is part of a song.  Perhaps a title.  I truly, at this moment, don't remember who sang it or wrote it or have a clue what year it came out.  Alas, I have no flipping clue how to do one of those enchanting games and give points in my side bar.  I also, at this moment, after a bit of vino, do not know if side bar is one word, or two.  Do you?  Okay, phewwww, I can still rhyme, a litte. Seriously, re-read that.  It totally rhymed.

It is nearly halloween.  So happy all's hallows to y'all.  Yes, y'all.  It is a valid word.  Regardless of what webster and blah blah may think.

Okay, I'm alone, again.  Love of our life, man of our dreams -- okay the four year old's dreams (one needs to sleep to  dream).  Yes, four year old girls believe that their fathers are the 'it' of all 'it's and it is a lovely thing.  Because, then said father believes he is the it of all its and you as the super-tired wife and mommy, well, you  don't have to do a blooming thing because the man's ego is intact!  She will see to it (daddy's car is bigger, daddy is stronger, I love papa, he is so smart, strong, has more money, I miss him... blah blah blah... nod, yes, yes, yes, he is, I know, I miss him too, sweetheart). 

When I am alone, I realize that I must do every freaking thing under the sun.  Work, pay bills, pick up, drop off, do science projects, create halloween costumes, make home made yummies for school parties, write notes and emails to teachers, fill out book orders, pay bills, do taxes, do homework, arrange after school schedules, ensure children brush teeth and eat semi-healthy, handle pre-tween outbursts and friendship traumas, manage four year old insanity, and deal with sick kids.  Hmmm, did I say sleep?  I don't think so.  Pretty sure that is not on the to-do list.

I think I'm tired.  Alas, however, I'm waiting up for a text to know that our loved one has arrived at destination two or three, or whatever... so then I can sleep for a bit.  And, can wake up and tell lovely children that their dear father is safely in (someplace other than freaking here) and that he loves them and misses them tons.  And, yes, of course, he is buying presents, but due to current airline restrictions, said presents are now tiny... but yes, great things come in tiny packages.  No.  Not like the blue boxes with the white ribbons that mommy likes with the gold key/silver lockets/diamond hearts inside, but more along the lines of a dsi game removed from its packaging.

I know Husbandrinka travels quite a bit and Marinka seems to handle it just fine.  I wonder, however, does her wine supply come in those big kegs they have at the winery? Vinyard?  Whatever.   Because mine just comes in those 750 ML little dinky bottles - and it ain't cutting it.  Or does it seriously get easier when the children are older?  I think I'm going to have to switch to white or start bleaching my teeth.  I'm thinking I need to whine to the housewives!  But, I have some narrowing to do.  Tonight my whine would simply sound like whah whah whah, cabernet, whah, whah, whah, chardonney, whah?

Good news, though: we have made record time this trip before I (ie my bedroom) was totally invaded. In other words, until tonight they were sleeping in their beds.  Tonight, eeek -- they are both in my room!  It is fine.  It is good.  They think it is one big sleep over party thing.  And we will make pancakes and watch Camp Rock or Fairy something or other in the morning... and it will all be good, right?  And will save electricity by all sleeping in one room, right? But, damn, this is a long trip.  Do you think I can convince them this is just a weekend sleepover?  A halloween weekend party?  That ends Sunday at 5 p.m. -- any chance?   Or, perhaps they can come to your house for a few nights and I can sleep and watch an adult show and shave my legs and, ummm, sleep?  Yeah?  Well, call me!

May your ghosts and goblins and fairies and princesses and pirates and vampires and butterflies and ghouls and witches and cowboys and ballet dancers and firemen warm your hearts this weekend!  My butterfly fairy and go-go gal are rocking my world!  Happy Halloween.  (And, if  you know where I put my coffee and my keys, text me, okay?   Hmmm, never mind.  I don't know where my cell is either!  Twitter on and I'll just sit here... alone, again, naturally!)

DInner Conversation.

We dropped the head of the house [yes, it is possible that he may actually read this] at the airport on Tuesday after school. After saying our goodbyes, we headed to music lesson for the girls. Lia’s lesson. Ten minutes of which we were using that day to introduce Gia to music lessons and see if she is ready. I’m thinking piano. And, when I walked out, Lia and Gia were both on the bench and, under the teacher’s guidance, Lia is showing Gia the middle C song -- I have lovely visions of sugar plums dancing to my darling duo’s carols on the keyboard during the coming holidays.

I come back, forty-five minutes later. Lia is seated at the piano. When she finishes her tune, which sounds pretty darn good, I hear from the other side of the large room: Mommy! bam, bam, bam, BOOM. Guess who is playing the drums? And again: bam, bam, bam, BOOM. SMILE. “She likes the drums!” Lia exclaimed. Bam, bam, bam, boom. The teacher nodded. Hmmm.

We get on the elevator and decide to go eat in the restaurant on the top floor. It is a great place, good food, nice people and convenient [as it is five and I need to feed all of us, after a quick flash to me dragging everything into the house and cooking and cleaning, on top of getting homework and everything else done alone, upstairs is a no brainer]. A little special dinner to start our week alone off right. Perfect. We will be able to have dinner and we can see planes as they approach and leave the airport.

We get all settled, food ordered, girls’ smoothie/shake ingredients resolved. After just a few sips of her smoothie and just after the food comes:

Gia: Ummmmm. Mommy, I need to go pee. I’ll be right back, okay?

Me: Go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute to help you wash your hands.

Gia: [over her shoulder, as she happily scampers away] Okay! See you in a minute.

Me: aaah, [sip, sip. Guess what that was? Just water... for now!]

I slowly walked to the bathroom. As I open the swinging door to the room:

Gia: [overly loud from the first stall] Mommy, IS THAT YOU?

Me: Yes honey.

Gia: I’m not done yet.

Me: That is okay.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes Gia.

Gia: Mommy are you pooping?

Me: No Gia. [in a very low voice - remember, the door to the ladies' room, is a swinging bar-type door]

Gia: Mommy, you are PEEING!

Me: Yes. Gia, remember we are in a restaurant. Please speak quietly.

Gia: We are not in a restaurant. We are in the RESTROOM.

         Did you just flush?

Me: Yes.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy?

         I need to poop. You can leave.

Me: I will wait and help you wash your hands. The soap dispenser is very high in here.

Gia: I don’t need your help. I can wash with just water. I don’t need soup [her speech is fine. The babysitter’s isn’t.]

Me: When you wash your hands, you should always use soap. Especially after you poop use the toilet.

Gia: Oh. Ummm, Mommy? The poop is stuck in my butt.

Me: ...

Gia: It is okay. I can push it out. uuuhhhhhh!

Me: Gia. You don’t need to push that ...

Gia: It worked Mommy! [plop. plop.}

Ummmm, Mommy?

Me: Yes Gia.

Gia: There is a fly in here.

Me: What is it doing?

Gia: I am pooping. [plop.]

Me: [I’m thinking: we need more fiber in our diets] No, Gia, what is the fly doing?

Gia: Oh, the fly. It is bugging me!

Ummmm. Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: What does bugging mean? [obviously a word she learned from her sister’s frequent use]

Me: Ummmmmmm, Gia. Bugging means that it is bothering you.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: The fly is bothering me. Hey! There is no toilet paper in here!

Me: Hold on. [gathering toilet paper from next stall; folding and passing three usable portions under the divider to Gia]

Gia: Thank you Mommy! Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: Why did you give me three pieces?

Me: Do you need more?

Gia: No. I mean yes. This poop is SOFT!

Me: [passing more folded tissue sections - soft?]

Gia: Eeeeeeew. Okay, all done.

Me: [thinking: sip, sip, sip. Yes, later.] Okay, are you coming out?

Gia: [flushing] Man, that was FAST! Hey! The fly is gone!

Me: [assisting in the soap acquisition and water regulation]

Gia: [jumping up to high five the automatic paper towel dispenser to get another paper towel]

Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: I’m hungry now!



Gia galloped back to the table and grabbed her fork and dug in. The waitress that was sitting with Lia just smiled at me. [Could you pack this to go please? ]


Gia: Ummmm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: Isn’t that sunset awesome? What a beautiful day. Isn’t it a beautiful day? But it is going to be night. But it is still beautiful, right?

Me: Yes, Gia it is.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy? Is that papa’s plane leaving?

Me: [nodding]

Gia: I miss papa already.

Me: Me too Gia.

Lia: Me too.

Yes, Lia was with us too. The gals there are great and know and love her and answer her questions and teach her to make smoothies and bring her extra of whatever she likes the best. She was at the table most of the time, eating and drinking her Guava milk shake and talking about the art on the wall with them. From five to six that night, it was our own personal restroom. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean restaurant. At home, after they were in bed, I poured myself a glass of vino and pulled out my french onion soup to re-heat. Oh look! She gave me foccacia to go with it. It was a beautiful day.


[In a more recent dinner time conversation, at our house this time thankfully -- "ummmmm Mommy, the poop won't come out!  It is okay though, don't worry, I can just pop it out!"] 

No! Look at mine first!

When my husband was recently at meeting on a Friday night, I had the honor of getting the girls ready for bed on a weekend night by myself.  I mean that.  A weekend night, a Friday.  Lovely.  A little more relaxing for everyone.  No school clothes to pick.  No arguments about wearing heels to school the next day because it is a 'special' day [someone's birthday, a spelling test, the volleyball game, pizza day, or any of a 100 other excuses to wear that little inch wedge!].  Friday, is a bit more silly for all.  More reading time, because who cares about them going to bed 8 minutes late on a Friday!  So, yes we can read that book and that one and oh, yes, that one too, even though they are all big books, for the four year old.  And, no, you don't have to read - to the nine year old - I will read to you, pick your book. And, yes, we can play two, no three, games of hide-and-seek first.  And, yes, it is Friday, so no you don't have to go to school tomorrow.  To myself, yes, there is a bottle of wine in the pantry to open and share after he gets home

So, we three girls piled into my bed, dog on the floor, pillows and books everywhere.  Negotiations were short as to which order the books should be read in and where everyone was going to sit, lean, lay.  Ah, lovely Friday.  The reading began with My Best Friend is Ariel (because she is MY favorite).  Only about 100 questions as to why would a mermaid wear a dress, when she should just have a tail and a bra, and why does Clarissa drop that, and why is Sebastian mad, and why does her Daddy have a trident, and why does Ariel lose her voice?  It is Friday.  I have more patience for questions that she knows the answers to -- on Fridays.  On to the next book.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lia feverishly tugging at her backside.  I wait.  I read.  Near ten year olds are whacko.  I'm thinking the jammies and undies are having a war down there that needs attention.  But call a near-ten girl on digging in their privates, or adjusting their underwear, or picking their noses too quickly and you risk a hummmmph and tears, use the opportunity to talk to them about hygiene and you risk a full on meltdown -- This age is bizarre.  I don't understand it.  I don't remember it, either.   Reading continues.  Hmmm, tugging turns to digging.  On my bed, ick.  I take a break and ask her to go wash her hands.  Although there were two layers of clothing between, ick.  I suggest a nail scrub and new underwear as well.  She says, calmly, I think I have itchy worms.  Ugh.  Itchy worms are what we call pinworms.  Ever had them in your house?  We have.  Twice last year.  Thank you to the then three year old's habits of sticking her fingers everywhere, 'cause you can.    "Do you want me to check?"  hesitantly.  Checking for pinworms can cause terror beyond all imagination.  But, alas, it is Friday and everyone seems relaxed.  Next thing I know, I have two strange yoga posers on my bed with bared butts in the air (did I mention, we were ON MY BED!) hands spreading cheeks and Gia screaming at the top of her lungs "NO!  LOOK AT MY BUTT FIRST!" then, remembering her manners, sweetly, softly: "Please, mommy."  [Because, uh, you want to have itchy worms too, just because your sister might.  Four year olds are whacko in a different way.  It is truly freaky]

It was a Friday night to remember. 

And, thank goodness they were both itchy worm free.  But Lia did need to take a quick shower, again; to remove a bit of tissue.  She is independent and showers herself (when I remember how I was told she may never walk or have control over bodily functions, I have that flash of relief, thankfulness, and awe that still comes wrapped tightly in a thin layer of pain) -- so, a refresher that it is actually important to wash one's body while you are in the shower conditioning your hair (again! the toilet tissue was not stuck in your hair little Diva) was in order.   Gia, then wanted to have a shower too.  Because, yes she CAN! do it herself and "LOOK AGAIN I have toilet tissue stuck too."   

Needless to say, they were more than 8 minutes past bedtime.  Lia comforted me by saying, it is a weekend mommy, it is okay.

Did you tell?

Just a few weeks ago I made the decision to go au naturale with my hair.  I made the decision, started the process and BOOM!  My cycle, my monthly, my menses,  my aunt flo --or whatever you want to call it, went whacky.   I just don't get it.  I was actually just finishing up when I made the going grey decision.  It was a Monday, ah, I remember it well.  Still needing a panty liner, but all the ugh coming to an end.  Then, just 8 days later:  Seriously, what the hell?  On a Tuesday.  Yeah, only 6 days free from freaking Flo (never called it that before).  Full on cramps (I thought I had food poisoning); a spot; and, then hello! The period from hades that lasted for-fucking-ever.  I've had things go a little whacky before, but this was just wrong. 

How in the name of all glorious padless days did my uterus find out that I was getting old?  It can't be a coincidence, can it?  Did it read my blog?  And now it is jealous of the follicles atop my head and wants equal page time?  Did you tell it?  Did it look at my passport and suddenly realize it had been hoodwinked by my youthful appearance and healthy lifestyle?  More likely that they put something in hair dye that acts as a uterus preservative?   A reason to go back to my coffee latte locks from a box?

No, don't say it.  Don't say it is time.  It happens.  It is natural.  It is a part of the glorious cycle of being a woman.  It is a transition to be treasured.  Don't break into the song from the Lion King either.  Just don't.

Oh and since I'm on the topic of body parts-- what is up with calling a full grown man's penis "little [insert name here]"?  Do people really do that, other than on television?   If my husband, or any man I wanted to have sex with [yes, we are using that in a past tense sort of way just for emphasis], referred to his in that way, I would crack up laughing and tell "little" Tom, Dick or Harry that he should just go play with "big" Tom [yes,that is exactly what I was thinking]  by himself somewhere.  Alas, there would be no sex.  Considering my uterus has decided to spring sporadic leaks, whenever it damn well pleases, who wants to let it engage in sex anyway.