I Want to Take Olympics

Our recently turned three year-old is a very active child. With the new baby, I have been thinking it might be a good idea to sign Miss 3 up for some special big kid class, so tonight, I gave her three options.

Me: “If you could take one class, would you choose gymnastics, dance, or swimming?”

Miss 3: “Dance”

Me: (Let’s do another trial to be sure.) “If you could take one class, would you choose gymnastics, dance, or swimming?”

Miss 3: “Swimming”

My husband interjects, “Do you know what gymnastics is? Remember the Olympics where the girls jumped and flipped and walked on a balance beam?”

Me: (Maybe this will be the tie breaker.) “If you could take one class, would you choose gymnastics, dance, or swimming?”

Miss 3: “Mommy, I want to take Olympics!!!”
Way to go for the gold, honey…

Tonight, as I think about this, yet another humorous conversation with a three year-old, I find the humor is fading, and reality is handing me a cold, hard dose of truth. Isn’t taking Olympics what we all want? How adult of me to offer her choices of classes, and laugh at her cutting to the chase and telling me her dreams. When did I stop dreaming so big?

Her answer reflects my impatience, too. Perhaps this is what bothers me more. I tried explaining to her that learning gymnastics or swimming could get her to the Olympiics, someday, eventually, maybe… In the midst of my “hardwork pays off” teachable moment, I saw I had already lost her to a pile of feathers at her art table. Who really wants to hear about the hard work it takes to get somewhere, let’s just dream about what it will be like when we arrive. The story of my life…
I wanted to play the piano, not PRACTICE my Etudes.
I wanted to be a country music star (a long, looonnnggg time ago-okay?!), not TRAIN my voice.
I want to run a marathon, not INVEST hours upon hours in long runs.
I want to be debt free, not SACRIFICE vacations, nice things, and my iPhone.
I want to be a famous children’s author, not write a HOPELESS blog that is lucky to get 10 views in a day.
How easy it is to daydream about how nice my reality could be, if only I could find the time, the willpower, the resources, the gut-wrenching commitment to accomplish even just one of these big dreams, my “Olympics,” if you will.

We enter this world, hungry for greatness, filled with passion. And then, reality chips away at our golden standard, bit by bit. Jobs, bills, groceries, cleaning, laundry, RESPONSIBILITY, my friends, push our pies further into the skies.

Even still, we do not stop dreaming. And, while we may not get to everything on our list, every so often, we taste it. We reap the benefits of dedication and determination-the scale drops, we cross the finish line, an opportunity greets us one morning, we get our gold medal. As grown ups, we look back and realize that the end result is only as good as the journey getting there.

So, the Olympics are quickly approaching, choose your event!image


Pork n beans


To date this single, non-threatening can of pork n beans has contained the most power to keep this insomnamomma up all night. It started out innocently enough-an easy side to go with that night’s dinner. Then, after the 8 o’ clock feeding, the true power of the beans was unleashed.

Crying, no no no, screaming broke out 9 PM. A scream unlike any other. A scream to end all screams. And it went on…and on…and on… After two hours of this, it was decided: my precious baby boy has colic! This assumption seemed completely natural because why would I have any reason to suspect the masked culprit-3 bites of pork n beans from dinner?

This led to the never-ending night. There would be no sleep…for anyone (including our 3 year old daughter).

4 AM: Sweet daughter pokes me in the eye (we don’t know why she does this, but eye poking is kind of her thing), waking me from the only 5 minutes of glorious REM I had that night, and asks, “mommy, what’s wrong with my brother?” Her voice carries the tone of a teenager, and I laugh to myself thinking this is the first of many times I will hear this question.

After 10 hours of fighting the invisible powers of fiber, the crying subsided, I took a nap, and as I throw away the morning’s fifth k cup, I see the villain staring up at me from the trash can and it all makes horrific sense.

Placing my hand over my heart, I, insomnamom, do solemnly swear to never, under any circumstances, eat pork n beans again, as long as I nurse (and maybe longer due to the emotional scarring).

The worst part is: they’re not even that good!

I-am-a-runner? I-AM-a-runner!

Running and I have a love-hate relationship, but never more so than since the days of childbirth. As I prepare to return to the sport I love, yet again, I find the pain strangely familiar and comforting like my favorite running shoes. Just seeing them carelessly kicked off beside the door lets me know there is hope…maybe I can still uncover the runner that once was. image
My body hates me right now. Don’t squeeze me into those Under Armor tights taunts my post-baby belly. Don’t move that way shriek every last remnant of abdominal muscle fibers. Don’t hit the pavement so hard screams the post-baby bladder (that we all love so much). You are slow. You look ridiculous. This is not even worth it. How dare you call yourself a runner-at best you are a *gasp* jogger!
But, I-do-it-anyways.
I accept the pudge above my once form-fitting tights. I embrace the pain and say, “bring it on!” as I add even more abdominal exercises to my daily routine. And, yes, I pee my pants-just a little (I just had to include that part for the surprising number of people who apparently search the web for stories about people peeing their pants! Who would have thought? So this is for you, weirdos!) *see my previous blog, “My teacher peed her pants”
No deposit. No return.

My teacher peed her pants

Every mother has a labor story (or two, or three). We proudly wear them around like Girl Scout badges and jump at the opportunity to swap them with one another. In some mommy circles it is a full-out battle to see whose story is the best. Don’t worry; I’m not that mom. In fact, I think every story is deserving of honor-you gave birth to another human being, that alone is worthy of something! So, today is the actual due date of my five week early son, and i would like to seize this opportunity to share my, no, HIS labor story. Feel free to share yours, too.

Five weeks ago, preschool snack time (side note: I’m a preschool teacher), my water breaks all over the rainbow rug. With my first child, my water had to be broken after the epidural, so this flood-like sensation was brand new to me. I muttered to myself, “I’m peeing my pants…” wait, no, in a much more audible voice, I say to my classroom assistant, “I think my water just broke!” And, that it had.

I quickly scan the class-a room of 16, 3-5 year olds were munching Teddy Grahams and sucking down juice boxes, not a clue as to what was happening right in front of them. None seem too concerned by the sudden leak, none but one boy whose eyes met mine with a look of horror. This little boy speaks not one word of English, and because of this has become one of the most observant students i have ever taught. He relies totally on visual cues and routine, and he was certainly not going to miss this one visual cue that was about to drastically alter his snack time routine. His mouth hung open, straw frozen in time, his little mind probably racing with the thought, ‘my teacher peed her pants.’

In a matter of seconds, the children were escorted out of the room, and I was lying on the floor on the phone with the hospital. It is every teacher’s worst nightmare to have her water break at school, and I was living it. Thank goodness I teach preschool, and they were all very sympathetic to the fact that their teacher had just peed her pants.

Soon, a herd of black teacher shoes-you know the kind, department store special, comfort, not style-were gathered around nervously chattering about what should be done next. Someone hands me a penguin stuffed animal to use as a pillow…I am fighting shock and still pinching myself, “Is this really happening?”

12 hours later, I am holding my newborn son and a small penguin stuffed animal-a gift from his sister and a memento of his grand entrance.

The Biggest Loser: Post-Partum

It just so happens that the timing of both of my children’s births fell immediately before seasons of The Biggest Loser aired. This created my favorite guilty pleasure, watching two hours of The BL every week. What’s so guilty about that, you may wonder. Well, if I’m being completely honest, watching the show is only half of it. I cannot watch the show without eating. Not carrot sticks and Jennie-O turkey, I eat JUNK. Carmel apple cheesecake, double-stuffed Oreo’s dipped in chocolate, ice cream brownie sundaes-yep, junk food at its finest. I don’t know what possesses me to do this. Maybe it’s a way of supporting the contestants through sympathy eating. Maybe it’s secretly my plan to make it onto the show I love so much. Whatever the reason, it’s delicious entertainment. So…

Hey, NBC, listen up! I’ve got a pitch for you, a surefire way to make ratings skyrocket: The Biggest Loser: Post-Partum. It would be inspiring, it would be life-changing, it would be…hormonal! (which we all know leads to great television). How many times have you heard it? How many times have you said it? “I’m still trying to lose my baby weight!” Let’s stop blaming our babies and take control of our health (with the help of Bob, Jillian, and Dolvett).
Every mom is holding onto at least one pair of pre-baby jeans and maybe perhaps an entire pre-baby closet (guilty) that she hopes to someday fit back into. While waiting for someday to arrive, there are a few options:

1-keep wearing maternity clothes and hope no one notices the elastic band around your jeans
2-squeeze yourself back into pre-baby clothes, ignoring the pain and ignoring the unsightly bulges and gaping fabric
3-go shopping for new clothes in a size you do not want to be, with money you do not have, with an infant who does not want to be shopping with you

Pick your poison.

While waiting for Bob Harper to call, I have been googling post-partum workouts. They really don’t exist. Either the workout is so easy my grandma could do it or so intense I give up before starting. Yet, in all of my searching, I finally found a workout that is working for me. If you’re interested, check it out:


For added fun I complete the exercises in an upstairs/downstairs circuit, alternating doing one exercise upstairs, the next downstairs to burn a few more calories.

On a final note, I would like to wrap up this post with my first,
“You might be an insomnamomma if…”
While watching the Biggest Loser you admire Bob Harper’s leather burp cloths and fail to notice they are not burp cloths at all, but rather a hip/modern style of patchwork. You also fail to notice why thinking they are burp cloths might seem strange…


*Try googling Bob Harper’s weird leather shirt and see for yourself!
**Image courtesy of fiercefatties.com

Just how many button down shirts does a nursing mom need?

I love nursing camis. I LOVE them! But, I am not a fan of the solo cami-even at home on maternity leave, with only a toddler and newborn to see; I feel so exposed (and quite cold sometimes!). Therefore, the need for a button down shirt arises and, alas, I can only find four of them in my closet (one of which is from my high school days and will barely button at all). For two weeks, I made it work, and then things started to get sloppy: zipper hoodies, loose fitting tee shirts, the contemplation of the all-day robe. None could replace the button down. Zipper hoodies were dangerous to that precious newborn skin. Loose fitting tees require the lift and tuck method, which causes armpit cramping (yes, it’s a real thing), and the all-day robe is a slippery slope leading to a life of less showers and excess junk food intake. So, insomnamommas, after much late night, half-delirious contemplation, I have a solution: the nursing momma mullet: (see pic) it’s business on the top and party on the bottom. A great way to solve your nursing wardrobe dilemmas. If you’re like me, you will discover you actually do own several button down shirts-the ones you wear to work! Remember work? That place you used to go and do stuff? Now, I know the tops won’t exactly coordinate with your comfy sweatpants, but hey it’s all about functionality. You are welcome. 🙂

The nursing momma mullet

The nursing momma mullet

The late night diaper change

It’s inevitable-diapers that need changed every two hours when you’re awake still need changed every two hours when you’re asleep. It is during these zombie-state changes that my little angel morphs into the Incredible Hulk. The screaming, the almost inhuman strength, the turning green-I mean red with rage-so insomnamommas, how do you so it? I have tried the slow and gentle humming and quietly unbuttoning of the onesie. I have tried to move as fast as possible-the get in, get out shock and awe approach. Neither has proven successful, but I am just curious as to what works for you:

How do you conquer the late night diaper change?

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Thanks, good luck, and Godspeed!

Once in a lifetime

As a mom I have found there are several once in a lifetime moments:
The day you first hear your child’s heartbeat
The day you bring your baby home from the hospital
The day your child takes his first steps
Tonight, I experienced another once in a lifetime mom moment:
The day your foot gets peed on by both of your children within the hour
Yes-foot, singular, the SAME one. How did they do it? How did my three year-old (potty-trained) daughter and one month-old son have the precision, the timing, the pure skill to pee directly onto my left foot? Let’s just say I really hope this is a once in a lifetime moment and not foreshadowing of sock-soaked days to come.