I Miss You...Here's Where I've Been

Peer pressure is some serious business. We all feel it. Well, maybe you don't anymore...now that you're a grown-up. If you don't feel peer pressure as an adult, I'm jealous. Look, there's more proof that I feel it. I feel pressure to be exempt from pressure.


Several months ago, I read these words across my computer screen:


"You haven't posted anything new in 11 days. 221 people who like your page want to hear from you."


What?


Who did that person think she was telling me to come up with something interesting/endearing/clickworthy to share with my likers?


Well, it wasn't even a person. It was Facebook. A computer generated message, coded to pop up as a reminder for business owners and bloggers to keep their pages active, happening and vibrant. To keep those clickers clicking.


A quiet, inconspicuous nudge. Come on, say something. Anything. Bring someone here...to this page...your page. They want you. We want you. Do it.


I read the words, felt the pressure and caved. I typed. I created something for my likers to like. I did what I felt I was meant to do.


One of my dear friends straight out told me, "That's a lot of pressure from Facebook." I LOL-ed and smiley-face emoji-ed at her brilliant comment. (I don't think those are verbs yet, but I'm typing them anyway. I'm screwing teacher pressure tonight).


Life continued as it had for the previous many months. Eleven days between posts had once been a mighty number, so I squeezed it back to three. However, eventually, that high of eleven became nineteen. Nineteen morphed into thirty-three. This fall, Facebook made sure to warn me that my likers had gone a painstakingly 45 days without seeing anything new from their wise and witty Mama (Who Loves You and Chocolate, Too). What had I done? What was I thinking, not writing and sharing and blogging and posting? Where was I?


Don't I wish that I could tell you that I was living the easy life as all four of my kids were at school?


That I was kicking up my heels (FINALLY) and eating all those bon-bons I have been missing out on all these years?


That the breakfast dishes were cleaned up as soon as the kids hopped on the bus, in time for me to work out before my long, hot bubble bath?


That my husband and I were sneaking away for long lunches every day?


That I planned, shopped for and cooked wholesome and thoughtful meals, which were ready at 5:30 each night?


That the children did their homework without hesitation or fuss?


That they happily went upstairs after family book or game time, eagerly brushing teeth and taking showers, allowing us to relax with Jimmy Fallon and our unhealthy addiction to the new Netflix series Narcos?


Don't I freaking wish? If only that were how life was. For a real look into our lives, go ahead and reread those few sentences, knowing that none of it ever happened. In fact, it was the exact opposite...all the time. Our life was the typical, hectic, back to school mess with four kids, plus several medical disasters thrown into the mix. I was forced to give up running and yoga after a hefty injury to my ankle. Yes, again. My feet suck. I miss it more than I could have ever imagined.


Two of the children were/are being treated for some lasting health issues. For one of them, we met with or consulted with nine physicians and specialists. For the other, we are still not to the bottom of the problem and are seeking a second opinion after months of pain and therapy. One of the boys underwent ear tubes surgery, which had to be postponed once during his first medical crisis. Also, it wouldn't be Halloweentime without the family picking up the icky germs. Each morning, as I struggled to open my puffy eyes from another sleepless night, when I thought nothing more could go wrong for us, something always did.


Usually, I only complain to my closest friends, my mom and Mark. They hear the worst from me, They are my people. They know my scary stuff. Even if it had been physically possible for me to sit at my keyboard without crying or falling asleep, you guys didn't want to hear about all my drama. My stress. My major mama worries.


Or did you?


Lately, people have been asking where I've been. This morning, my friend hesitantly, yet dearly, confessed to me that she missed my blog. She told me that she wanted me to know, but she didn't want me to feel undue pressure to come back. It made me smile inside to know that my words have affected her and the others who expressed similar sentiments. I've wanted to be here for so long...I've missed you all. You know how much I hate to admit I can't do something, but spending part of nearly every day in a medical office Is.Just.So.Darn.Draining.


So, here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking about peer pressure. The good kind. Did you know there is a good kind? I didn't need Facebook to toss meaningless numbers at me to start me writing again. Facebook pressure has proven to be ineffective on me the past several months. Thank goodness. I'm thinking that I needed to hear from just the right number of people, the exact number of times, that I should come back to my blog. Thank you, Sweet Smiling Sarah, for pressing me.


When I told you in early October that I was cutting back on blogging, I had no idea what was ahead. I was only a mom hoping to figure out her place in a day with no children. I was going to recharge myself to be the best mom ever! I imagined I would take time away from the keys to plan satisfying meals and take steamy baths and meet Mark for relaxing lunches and go on daytime runs and have coffee chats with friends and volunteer at both schools and paint everyone's rooms and magically tidy the whole house using the KonMari Method. If life ever really gets there, I'll be sure to tell you.


For now, I'll tell you that the life of every mom you know is probably overwhelmingly messy. She'll smile and like your pictures and click "maybe" on your invites, hoping that someday her life will calm down enough for her to actually finish that book on her nightstand. Don't give up on her. I won't give up on you either. Send me a note. Post on my page. Let's start talking about what is important to you.


Are you that messy mom feeling pressure? It's okay. I feel it, too, and people call me Supermom. Whatever.

MOUNTAINS. BABIES. PEACE.
 

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:

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Crossing the Finish Line

Training.


I had never officially trained for anything in all my 36 years. In the past, I had been able to complete most tasks without check-ins and schedules. Then, on the brink of summer, I declared I was going to be a runner. I knew I could not do it on my own, so I joined a training group led by my friends.


Much like the four times I anticipated childbirth, the preparation for my very first 5K race was wrought with pure uncertainty. The training session carried on for eight weeks...two-thirds of our summer. The procrastinator and denier in me refused to calculate how many miles were actually in five kilometers until our third week running.


5K = 3.1 miles


Wow!


Now you know, too.


For experienced runners, training for a 5K race may seem so minute. Experienced runners breeze through 5K every time they step out their front door for a morning work-out. For a newbie runner like myself, my journey was anything but breezy. During every single run, my brain and body battled through so much.


Nerves.


Fear.


Breathlessness.


Pain.


Tears.


Doubt.


Exhilaration.


Relief.


Anticipation.


I was the most beginner of beginners, and I was often the slowest runner. Even after eight weeks, the longest I had run was 20 minutes. Leading up to the race, which was the culmination of our training, I still remained unsure how I would manage. I hoped that the adrenaline and excitement of the crowds would keep me moving, even if my legs and lungs would try to quit. New friendships were formed and old ones had been strengthened, so I leaned on them as well.


Then, there's the whole reason why I began to run at all. There is my family. My four kids watch me walk out the door in my neon shoes and know their mom is a runner. The confidence and pride that have blossomed in the past two months are life-changing. I'm modeling behavior that will have positive effects on my children. Some have even started to run with me. They often leave me in the dust, but seeing me sweat and work and fight through my running sets an example for determination and perseverance.


Every runner has to start somewhere. Every runner has a first race. I captured many of the moments of my first race in my mind as I pounded through those 3.1 miles, but the moment I hope stays with me forever is when I passed my family on the side of the course. Their dad boosted them off their lawn chairs when he saw me coming around the corner, so all four of them jumped up and clapped for me, cheering, hollering and yelling.


They shouted, "Go, Mom!! You can do it! Come on, Mom, you're doing great!"


My kids. Little kids, whom I have been watching and supporting from the sidelines for years and years, were there to cheer for me. It was surreal.


I passed them with a smile and a fist pump in the air and kept on running. As the course wound through more neighborhood streets, I began to grow weary. Tired. Nervous if I could keep going. As I followed my way back out of the street, I knew that I could keep going because I would see my family again. Those three silly boys and my motivational daughter were waiting, once again, for me to emerge from the path.


Aaaannnnd...that's when I lost it!


My official cheerleaders were relentless in their encouragement, as tears of elation streamed down my already red and sweaty cheeks. Mark worried for a second I was hurt, but shouldn't he know better by now that I cry at everything? I waved again, soaked up their love, and kept on running to the end.


So, maybe all of this crazy talk I'm spewing would discourage anyone who's reading from ever wanting to take up running. I hope that it's the absolute opposite.


Please take a look at my face as I crossed the finish line. See the pure joy in my eyes?

Did I just say pure joy from running?


I did, and I meant it.


After our race, we were enjoying fresh blueberries around a picnic table, and my dear friend and coach, Renee, said these words to my children:


"Do you see your mom? Look at what she did and how strong she is!"


Moms are strong. We should want to show our children what our bodies and minds can do when we try. They will learn from us to be confident in themselves, too. Three hours ago, I met a woman new to our group who was running for the very first time...ever. A delicate place in my heart pounced with excitement, as I insisted that she CAN and WILL be a runner.

What will you be? Please take it from me, you can do it.

 

 

My friend, Rachel, snapped these photos of me reaching my goal and heading toward Mark and the kids for the final time. I'll be running another 5K in September. The kids want to do it with me. Mission accomplished!

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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Squashing Self Doubt with Pink Running Shoes

I issued quite a bold statement a couple of weeks ago by telling all of you that I was going to become a runner. I typed it for all of cyberspace to see, which meant I could not repeal my daring declaration. I'm a woman of my word, so I had every intention to begin running. Did you notice that I never gave an exact date or instituted a concrete plan for this impending lifestyle change? Maybe I did that on purpose.


The momentum immediately following my announcement was strong. Friends reached out with support for me, and many even took my advice in declaring their own goals. I was so proud of all of you for your bravery. For your confidence. For your strength. You were inspiring!


One of my dear friends scheduled an appointment to fit me for running shoes. She is an expert, and if I was going to be serious, I needed the right equipment. No blisters for this mama. She and I spent the morning navigating the elaborate world of running footwear. It was overwhelming to say the least. She evaluated my gait. After a year in denial, I verbally admitted that my feet have grown a full size since my last baby was born.


Before sweet Anne lifted the lid from the first pair of shoes, she prefaced the reveal by saying, "How do you feel about pink?"


I like pink. I really do. My last pair of basic gym shoes were actually gray with pink accents. However, these babies were pink with a little bit of gray. Bright pink. Neon pink! The color pink I wore to the roller rink in 1986...as an eight-year-old. I modeled many styles and colors for Anne on that cheerful Saturday morning. Eventually, after trying out several pairs of shoes, the ones that felt the best and worked well with my foot shape turned out to be the atomic pink ones. Go figure.


After I packed up my fancy shoes and new running socks in my trunk, I still had no real plan laid out for how I was going to become a runner. I considered wearing my shoes to the airport to break them in, but I worried about the commotion their illumination would cause when gliding through the people mover. Instead, the shopping bag remained in my trunk for another two weeks. Waiting. Waiting for me to utilize the momentum once again and actually wear them.

My week away in Florida and then a week of end-of-school celebrations came and went. I still hadn't even opened the shoe box to show them to Mark or my kids. Maybe because that would make me more accountable to starting, to actually putting one foot in front of the other and going.


The right time to run eventually did arise. Last Wednesday afternoon, another friend of mine, who is already a runner, sent me a link to a 5K training group she was going to lead...which was going to begin in four days. Four days! She had been one of my biggest cheerleaders in this journey, and this group was not originally going to offer a session until the end of the summer. Enough of a need had arisen to start an extra training session now. Lucky for me! I decided the time was now. I promised her and told my very trusted physical therapist that I was going to do it. I was going to run a 5K in August.


All of the other girls who had considered running with me a month ago were becoming hesitant now that it was here. Now that it was real. I desperately wanted one of them to join the group with me, so that I wouldn't be the only newbie in a sea full of seasoned athletes. My confidence was waning. Somebody told me how hard it was going to be. My reserve of inspiration was slowly depleting. My husband feared I was going to try to run three miles on the first day, and he didn't want to see me hurt myself. I began to question my ability, just like I had done when I decided to try yoga last year (which, by the way, has become a part of me now...something I crave).


Perhaps Google would help ease my hesitation. Big mistake. A few quick searches, and I was doubting that I should even attempt the training. It's not actually called "Couch to 5K," which is what I think I need. What if it's too much too soon, and I can't do it? I don't even walk vigorously on a regular basis...I am freaking out!


In came my coach...my cheerleader, Wendy. She listened to my concerns and then told me not to freak and to show up. Two of my other friends would also be coaches, so a warm smile in the early morning was sure to go a long way. To my surprise, one of my previously hesitant friends decided to try it at the last second! She offered to pick me up so we could walk in together. Amazing! Everything was coming together so nicely, so I threw my apprehension out the window. I told Mark that I wasn't going to settle for any doubt, from anywhere or anyone...especially myself. I was going to run that 5K race in eight weeks. Nobody was going to tell me I couldn't do anything...ever.


What happened next was just what happened with my first time at yoga. I did what I had set out to do. Only this time I wasn't barefoot. I marched up, in my pink shoes, to a group of runners...and ran.


Surrounded by people from all walks of life, wearing every shade of neon color, we walked and ran and walked and ran...for sixteen minutes. When we circled back to the starting point, I was out of breath and sweaty and tired, of course, yet I felt exhilarated. Recharged by the fact that I had taken this challenge for myself seriously and conquered it. I pounded my doubt and fear into the pavement with my aggressive pink shoes.

Have you started on that journey you said you wanted to try last month? It's already the middle of June! If you sit around and pretend it will go away, like I might have done if it weren't for my special kicker-in-the-pantsers, you may regret it. Even if your body grows sore from using muscles you didn't know you had, or your mind tires easily from taking classes after a decade of only reading Dr. Seuss, it will be worth it. Let's go!

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/mamalovesyouandchocolatetoo

http://mamalovesyouandchocolatetoo.blogspot.com/

 

Mourning My Dear Friend, Fertile Myrtle

I suppose I should start by warning you that this post is about lady business. Dudes who read my page: you could benefit from reading it all, as someday, it may pertain to a woman you love, but feel free to turn away at any point. I promise I won't be offended. What I'm about to share is so deeply rooted in my mom-ness, and simply writing about it for you is healing, so would you please bare with me through this experience?

Now, let's get to it.

I have had a lot of nicknames throughout my life. Some were cute, some were mean, many were the result of little kids unable to say my real name. Elizabeth is a mouthful for children in any language, as we've learned. One nickname that my dear old dad bestowed upon me as I was popping out two babies in one year was Fertile Myrtle. As I announced that second pregnancy, I distinctly remember him saying, "Well, I guess we can just call you Fertile Myrtle, like your mom!" As more years passed and babies kept coming, the silly name lingered. Last Thursday morning, I had to say good-bye to Fertile Myrtle forever. It was so much harder than I imagined.

I had always considered my fertility an abundant blessing. Four pregnancies resulting in four healthy children was pretty incredible. I knew it to be true. I was defying statistics, so I was thrilled to be Fertile Myrtle for most of our married life.

She consciously retired after number four was born, but the possibility of her creeping in for one more April Fool's joke was never far from my mind.

Ever.

So, I went along the past five years, raising our four kiddos with no room or reason to add any more, yet my baby fever never broke.

Ever.

I always wondered, "What if...?"

Always.

Then, within the last year, the possibility of me actually permanently losing my fertility became a reality. I would need to have a surgical procedure for my own health, and the end result would be the end of this life I have always equated with who I am.

Fertile.

Woman.

Mother.

Gone.

As my surgery date grew near, the most unforgiving nag in my mind was not typical anxiety over pain or nausea or anesthesia or the laundry that would pile up during my recovery. It was the conscious steps being taken to strip away this beautiful gift I received upon my own birth. My gift of fertility.

On that early March morning, as my doctor popped into my hospital room to prepare for what would be a routine procedure for her, I suddenly felt the urge to stall. I knew that as soon as she said, "See you in there," it would be the end of an era.

Deliberately removing the lining of a woman's uterus to improve her health would be nothing unusual for my trusted and gifted surgeon. All in a day's work, as the saying goes.

Losing that precious cushion, which was the very first resting place for all four of my babies, would prove to be a grievous moment for this mama.

Knowing, from that day forward, that my body would no longer be a safe haven for any future surprise chocolate fans was difficult for me to swallow.

I grasped at the right words to explain my thoughts.

Women my age are just now starting to have babies.

I know we don't need any more kids, but I would always want more.

I just don't know if I'm ready....if I can do this.

It's so final. It's irreversible.

Witnessing my inner and outer struggles, my doctor graciously asked if we needed to postpone my surgery.

Then, my husband did what he does best. He cracked a joke, "Would you please stop dreaming about having more kids without me?"

And, there it was. Our laughter. The laughter that had guided me through every difficult moment in our eighteen years together. It's what I needed at that very instant. After punching him in the arm, I sighed a few more times, gave the all clear, and the rest is history.

It's been less than a week after having said farewell to my lucrative gig as Fertile Myrtle, so I don't know how long it will take for me to truly accept this next phase of my life. My days of housing and cradling babies in this wonderful womb of mine are officially finished, but I am truly thankful for the many years it served my bouncy babies so well.

Here I am, expecting number four, holding a drawing that my recent preschool graduate had given to me. It says, "I Love You, Mama." When our last baby was born, our other kids were only 7, 5 and 2. Wow, Fertile Myrtle was really busy!  

 

A woman's fertility is such a delicate subject. I wonder if anyone else who has gone through circumstances like mine felt a similar range of emotions before surgery. Even if you had no previous plans to have more children, was the permanence of it all difficult for you to handle? Would you be bold and share your experiences with us? I'd love to hear from you!

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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http://mamalovesyouandchocolatetoo.blogspot.com/

A Kick in the Yoga Pants

Sometimes, we just need somebody else to be our motivator. Our cheerleader. Our kicker-in-the-pantser. Yes, we're adults. We manage households full of people without any direction from anybody. We should know how to do the same for ourselves, right? Lately, I found myself in this strange limbo. I was still doing all of my mom, wife and school duties, but I had neglected to place "take care of myself" in that never-ending to-do list.

It has been a few months since I took that huge leap of faith and went to yoga for the very first time. It was an incredibly rewarding experience, and I continued to go week after week, loving everything that came with it. The meditation, the relaxation, the sweat, the challenge. I was suddenly like, "yoga...it's my thing now." That is until I had a few rough Mondays. Migraines, stomach flu, neck pain, stress. They were all creeping in, seemingly trying to ruin my new peaceful practice. Didn't my body know how much I needed to be at yoga on Mondays?

For three weeks, I was not well enough to go. I rested at home instead. I sat on the couch next to Mark, eating ice cream and catching up on The Tonight Show. Sounds lame, right? Aside from being next to my husband in the evening, it was pretty lame compared to the really cool stuff I had been doing at yoga.

I had been knocked down for three weeks. Although I knew my body could handle going back to class, I had lost my momentum. I felt all those same jitters that I experienced before my first class coming back. Would I fall? Would I run out of breath? Mark, my sudden cheerleader, encouraged me to go. He kept sneaking in questions about it, asking me "So, what time is class tonight?" even though it has always been the same time. He was my new accountability person. So, I went back to yoga last week.

That night, for the first time after class, I found myself feeling sad. I felt like I didn't really know anybody there, and I was lost. I felt out of place and lonely. I felt that the positives I had received from the exercise and relaxation had been pounced on by the negative emotions I came away with when it was over. I came home and told Mark that I didn't know if I would go back to that class. (Again...lame).

Last night was Monday, aka yoga night. It arrived like clockwork. Funny how the calendar works. I had no reason not to get off my rear and go to class. My body was sound and craved the physical transformation it feels after yoga practice. It was my mind that was not in the best of health. Mark asked me during the day what time my class was, even though I know he knows. I was finishing up dinner in the kitchen, and he came through the door after work. He placed his arm around me and brought it up once more. I started to cry, telling him that I didn't think I could go back again. I didn't feel confident enough to put myself out there, to feel alone in the class of so many people who already seemed to be friends.

I was rationalizing in my head that maybe I would just do yoga at home. (Even though I bought a DVD months ago and haven't opened it yet). My motivator wiped my tears, told me that he knows how hard it is to feel how I was feeling, and he encouraged me to go anyway. I shrugged him off and continued stirring what was in the pan on my stove.

When the whole family finished eating dinner at about 6:02 p.m., my kicker-in-the-pantser made one last ditch effort to move me out the door. Did he know what he was doing? Of course he did, although it was ever-so-subtle. He asked me, "So, is your class at 6:30 or 7?"

Darn. He won't let it go. I guess I should just do it.

Besides my husband's nudges, throughout the day, I had been unable to shake this image from my head. My yoga instructor had posted it early in the morning, with our invitation to class.

 

It's what I tell people all the time, about everything important. We'll likely regret not doing something way more than we'd ever regret doing it.

 

So, upstairs I went to slip into my yoga pants and top-the first work-out clothes I have owned since my high school cheerleading days. Trixie filled my water bottle for me, and I almost walked out without my mat. She reminded me to grab it, all the kids told me to have fun at yoga, and then I left, into the night of freezing rain and drear.

 

I walked into our warm, calm and darkened yoga room with a new attitude. With an attitude that I wasn't there to make new friends. I was there for myself and my health. I was not going to worry about socializing, even though that's such an integral part of who I am. Then, something awesome happened. The room began to fill with the bodies of people who were friendly, smiley and welcoming. Last night's yoga was the best of both worlds. Amazing work-out. Amazing people.

 

I have two people to thank for kicking me in the yoga pants:

 

My husband, who had seen the struggle within me the past few weeks, and my instructor, who shared the most timely piece of encouragement, as if it was meant just for me.

 

Do you have any cheerleaders, motivators, or kicker-in-the-pantsers that seem to know exactly how to keep you moving? Have you ever told them what they've done for you or thanked them for being an inspiration? Maybe try it today.  

 

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:

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The Mama Can't Go Down

We experienced one of those weekends around here that I anticipate with dread as soon as school is back in session. I know it will happen; it's always just a matter of when. More than half the people in the house were really sick. I will not go into the gruesome details, but the germy culprit was the terrible stomach flu that attacks our house every.single.year.

Every year, without fail, it rips through here like a tornado, leaving kids and adults moaning and groaning, ruining plans and shifting the washing machine into overdrive. One by one, the members of my house fell victim to this strong virus.

Lucky for us, this time around, I wasn't hit by the virus at the same time as everyone else. As Mark was lying in bed, he whispered, "I'm so glad you're not sick, because the mama can't go down!"

I was busy being caretaker, hopping from room to room, dropping off saltines and ginger ale. Changing sheets, cleaning buckets, wiping foreheads. Rubbing backs, telling my little sweets that everything would be alright, when in all reality, I had no idea when it would be over. We moms don't really know when the fevers will break or how long the suffering will last. We just keep wishing that it will be over soon, that we can take it all away from our children. Watching my kids writhe in pain and misery really forced me to focus on their health.

For a few moments, I retreated to the family room couch to take a break. I flipped on the TV in an attempt to drown out the worry I had been feeling for my babies. While I laid there, with the snow falling outside my window, I counted my blessings for the 362 days of full health that my family does experience during the remainder of the year. Yes, we suffer (and I mean suffer) through the stomach flu every winter, but overall, my children are in wonderful shape. I am ever-so-thankful for their health.

One by one, just as quickly as that mean virus had knocked them down, they have been picking themselves back up again. The children have been bouncing back to wrestling, yelling and laughing. Of course, I'm still on edge, wondering if or when the last two will fall. That means one more kid and me. If you don't hear from me on Thursday, you'll know that the mama did, in fact, go down.



The Professional Stomach Flu Survival Kit
 

 

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