Dec

15

Six and counting

I was tickled when I picked Riley up from school today, because about five little pigtailed girls from his class waved and chimed “Byyyyyyyye Riley” in perfect high-pitched unison as he tossed a “Seeya!” in their direction and manfully strode off with his brother trailing behind (“Are dose your friends, Riley? Dose girls?”).

Then he excitedly told me all about the lockdown drill they’d practiced in school that day, which apparently involved putting black paper over the windows, turning off the lights, hiding against/in their cubbies, and staying silent as the principal walked the halls and jiggled the door handles.

I was still surreptitiously wiping away tears from that last little detail (I know, I know, it’s good they practice it, but aaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuugh) when I discovered he’d been sent home with a report card in his backpack. Did you know kindergarteners get report cards? I did not, and I suppose it would be a little silly to frame it or have it bronzed but damn, this thing is awesome. I don’t mean he’s a some sort of brainiac prodigy—he got 3s in everything (“Meets expectations”)—but the notes at the end gushed about his behavior and how respectful he is of others and how well he’s doing and listen, I know I sound like a complete asshole over here, but I am just so, so happy for him. I was so worried about how this school year would go and he has just been a total rock star.

A rock star who came home, flopped on his back to watch TV, and half-choked to death on a tiny Lego he’d apparently decided to chew.

I swear, this is such a weird age. I love it, but it is just so strange. He’s half teenager, half toddler. He is so big, but so small (so SMART, so DUMB). He’s got one foot out there in the big scary world—and the other is still clad in a pair of feetie pajamas.

Or maybe it’s always strange, as your kids get bigger? Maybe you always see that little baby beneath their skin. If so, I don’t know if that’s a gift or a curse. What do you think?

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Dec

12

Red pill

I have been diligent about getting to the gym lately which has been doing wonders for my brain chemistry but bad things to my personal appearance. I don’t bother showering if I know I’m going to a workout class and I don’t always have time to shower afterwards, so I’m sporting greasy pigtails and a scuffed baseball cap for all my errands and school pickups and it just seems kind of ironic that my effort, in part, to improve my hotness quotient has resulted in me looking like fried shit pretty much 24/7.

Hygiene levels aside, it is truly amazing the difference regular exercise makes in my mood. I’m just a happier person when I’m working out, and I wish it wasn’t such a massive ongoing effort for me to overcome the part of my brain that continually tries to convince me I’d be much more content sitting on the couch powering my way through a box of Triscuits instead of lacing up my shoes and breaking a sweat. The math seems so basic: one activity triggers short term pleasure but long term lethargy and eventual feelings of despair; the other requires maybe 45 minutes of discomfort followed by hours and hours of confidence, energy, and a positive outlook on life. Yet even knowing the respective payoffs of each choice doesn’t stop me from spending days weeks months in the Triscuit Zone.

I’ve been slowly cycling my way through a bunch of challenging classes at the gym and even though they all involve some level of ridiculousness, they also allow me to completely outsource that pesky issue of motivation. A class will always push me past what I would do on my own, and I’m also finding the group setting to be—well, I’m not sure if the word is enjoyable, but it feels good to be around people. Even if I don’t really talk to anyone, it still helps with the crazymaking isolation, you know?

Last week I was epically, tragically sore from head to toe, and had the depressing sensation that I was starting over from flabby out-of-shape square one for the eleventy bajillionth time, but after two or three days in a row of showing up and doing my thing I was infused with a general overall sense of fuck yeah. Fuck yeah, I feel good.

It shouldn’t be so hard to stay on track, but god, it just is. At least for me. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to a place where I don’t have to do battle with myself over fitness. I just hope I’m always willing to pick myself back up and go after it again.

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