Halloween Overdose

You think it's me, don't you? I'm here to happily report I have only eaten six mini Hershey's Special Dark candy bars since I bought the two bags on Wednesday. And, that's not in one sitting, but two separate helpings. This is huge, because I learned in my local newspaper that *3* is the magic number for those little devils. Oh, sure, I could have eaten many more (and have in the past) but I limited myself to three. I am practicing moderation. This doesn't come easy for me when chocolate is involved or a holiday to "justify" it.

So it must be my kids, then, you think. Wrong again. For sure they've had more candy this week than normal, but nothing too crazy. And the great thing is, the Hershey's chocolate bars I have in a big glass bowl Right. In. The. Middle. Of. The. Room--tempting us all--has not been ransacked. The girls have asked only once for candy. So far, I have not discovered any wayward wrappers. Perhaps, they will grow up to be the kind of person that can have one piece of candy or one cookie and feel completely satisfied. I wish that for them. I really do.

And, no, it's not even my husband. He is one of those strange creatures born without a sweet tooth. I both admire and loathe him because of it.

Then, who? Who suffered from the Halloween overdose?

Yeah, there she is again. Zoe, our loving greybador retriever, has been such a good dog for most of her life (her only objectional behavior so far has been greeting her human friends with a kiss on the mouth, even when standing). She has never had a food fetish until lately: stealing food off the counter, unleashing the contents of the garbage all over the house. Sometimes we don't even fault her for that, especially since having children and we have days when she misses a meal. But today was just inexcusable, especially because I gave her an hour walk this morning followed by breakfast.  

When the girls and I got home this afternoon the entire contents of their halloween treat bags from school had been stolen from the counter top and ripped apart. There was a trail of terror running through the house: candy wrappers, chewed up pencils, partially eaten Tootsie pops, half-spilled Pixie sticks, balls of orange homemade play doh (evidently this, she felt, was inedible), ruined Halloween straws. She demolished it all. My daughters were hysterical. Zoe just sat by the back door, waiting for me to let her out. She knew she was in trouble. If I weren't so mad at her I'd be worried about her. Right now she is staring at me with doe eyes from the other side of the sliding glass door. I'm sure she has a stomach ache. I'm sure she feels miserable. Lord knows I've been there. Maybe next year she can practice moderation with me. 

How's moderation going in  your house?

News Flash: Cleaning House is Exercise

When I asked my daughter to wipe off the table while I emptied the dish washer, I turned around to see this. 

But no, I did NOT go back and wipe up her foot prints. Aren't you glad you weren't invited over for dinner?

If anything on your body needs to be iced after cleaning house, then housework, must be exercise.

Interestingly enough, for as much as I dislike various house chores (not all, but many) if spending two hours cleaning house "counts" as exercise, well then, I feel better about doing it. Inspired even. Sure, I'd rather take a cycling class or go outdoors for a run, but we know that's not always in the cards. Because I am one to procrastinate with cleaning duties, I can easily find something else to do (isn't that what blogging is for?), but now that I've allowed housework to fall into the exercise column... hmmm... I can get worked up over that, so to speak.

Here's the thing, though, housework hasn't always counted as exercise and it may not always get labeled as such. I think it depends on goals. If I'm training for a triathlon or marathon, pretty much all of the exercise I do must support my goal. Housework wouldn't exactly qualify then. But right now, my goal is to exercise five times a week. No small feat, either, as we all know. So for now the doors are flung wide with exercise options.

A few months ago our family had an idyllic outing: my husband and I set out on a walk after dinner, taking turns holding the dog leash, while our girls rode their bikes. It was idyllic because usually we don't eat dinner until 7:30 and have time for nothing else but speeding our way through a bedtime routine. So we walked about two miles, at a decent clip because our girls don't slow down for nobody and when we returned home, I asked my husband, "did this count as a workout for you?" This wasn't fair of me to ask. There was only one answer I wanted to hear. For me, the walk was my workout that day. It was like asking "how do I look" in an outfit I already planned to wear. (By the way, if you haven't already figured this out, always ask open ended questions of your spouse. If you ask a yes/no question, e.g. "does my butt look big," you'll not be satisfied with the pat no, short yes, or worse, uneasy silence that follows.) 

His answer? No. At first I felt a little wounded. Our little walk wasn't good enough? Then annoyed. Why couldn't he just lie and say yes and save me from myself? Then frustrated. What--now was I supposed to go do something more challenging? And then, at last acceptance: Oh, right. He's training for a half ironman and I'm not. Reality is not always within my immediate grasp, but I can usually find it fairly fast.

So, these days short walks count. So does housework. I need to take all three girls to the grocery store later today. Jury is still out on that one.

For the Love of the Sun

Anyone else struggling to get out of bed these days? What is it about these weeks before the time change that make me feel more lethargic in the mornings, even when I am a bona fide *morning person*? Am I really such a slave to the sun? I struggled with this even when I lived in Texas, where the light-to-dark ratio isn't nearly as drastic as it is in Minnesota. Between adjusting to dark morning workouts (i.e. preferring to stay in bed) and the onslaught of Halloween candy, I took to calling October "Get Fat" month. These days I can still keep my scheduled morning workouts and I refuse to buy the Halloween candy until the day before Halloween, so I have not given in to "Get Fat" month (but ironically, because I'm pregnant, guess what's happened anyway?) Still, this summer, I could wake up at 5 a.m. without the need for an alarm to get started for the day. This allowed me two quiet-filled hours for me, me, me, me, me, whether it was for writing, reading the paper, squeezing in a little work, a head start on laundry, or a shower with time to blow dry my hair. Now, when I blink the sleep out of my eyes it's 7 a.m. I need the sun back. The time change on Nov. 2 will help me recoup my mornings. Are you looking forward to it as much as I am, or do you prefer to be in the dark?

Time for a Quickie

Yesterday I was in Darcy's spin class (she's great, for those of you looking for a real cycling-focused class in the Twin Cities) and she mentioned the merits of the four-minute workout. One night while her boys played in the tub, she kept an "active eye" on them by doing this:

4 minutes of squats

4 minutes of push ups on the bathroom floor

4 minutes of tricep dips using the tub

4 minutes of sit ups

It was all of 16 minutes total, but she says she couldn't have done any more. More importantly, she got a workout in, which was hard to come by that day since her husband was traveling. I love that kind of resourcefulness and initiative. In other people. 

Sure, I want it for myself. But I have always underestimated the quickie workout. Why bother? I'll think, how can it be worth it? I'll just go to the gym tomorrow and work out for a whole hour. And, for me, if the day has passed without a workout, chances are grim I'm going to fit exercise in when the sun goes down. By nightfall I'm a lump, and at bath time I can hardly muster the energy to shampoo their little heads, much less do push ups. I sit there on the bathroom floor, with towel in hand, praying for an easy bedtime routine.

I've also been inspired by Lisa at Workout Mommy. (It's so easy to be inspired, another story to adopt the inspirational behavior). She had posted this Move it Monday workout a few weeks ago and I just happened to read it on a particular Monday I had not exercised. It was late afternoon, I was folding laundry, reading blogs and watching Oprah (I rock at multitasking) and I told myself: "I'm gonna do that next!" I can't remember what happened next, but it wasn't that great workout. As the sky grew darker so did my resolve. I convinced myself I didn't need to do that little gem of a workout because, after all, I'd be running in 12 hours anyway. 

My attitude needs to change. Quickies, of course, are worth it. That's the point, right? In just a smidgen of time you getter done. Of course it counts. Even if I only have time for 10 push ups that day, that's 10 more push ups. I am 10 more push ups stronger. Why wouldn't that be worth my time? That's what I'm telling myself this morning. 

I have the whole day (and night) ahead of me. I'm not going to the gym today. What will I do? Will I adopt the quickie workout into my repertoire? I'll keep you posted. But to help me along, will you all provide ME with some of your favorite quickie workouts?

End of an Era, Not a Friendship

Well, the "For Sale" sign went up yesterday. When the house sells my dear friend and devoted running partner Pam will be moving to another state. We have known each other for five years--as soon as I moved into the neighborhood--and we've been running and working out together ever since. We have shared the intimate details of our lives (including certain sounds you involuntarily make while running), rescued each other in childcare emergencies, shared meals, clothes and decorating sense (such that it is), and supported each other as mothers: whether that meant offering unsolicited advice, encouragement, or an unjudgemental place to vent. We have both accidentally called each other when we intended to call our husbands. Make of that what you will, but suffice it to say we talk to and see each other a lot. 

At the core of our friendship though is our quest to be fit. We run on Tuesday and Friday mornings and usually once on the weekend. I helped Pam train for her first marathon (and then bagged on doing it myself when I found out I was pregnant six weeks prior to the race--oops!--sorry!) We have been chased down by dogs and have run for our lives while trail running during hunting season. We have "covered" for each other on au natural potty stops and changed our pace to accommodate the other during times of stress, illness, injury or plain ole "can't keep up" days. But we've challenged each other too: to take on a hill, keep up on the track or get out the door when we haven't felt up to it (and then, of course, are always grateful to have been prodded). When I think back on how many workouts I might have missed without her encouragement and company, well, it's a lot. Just consider how many dark sub-freezing mornings there are in Minnesota. When it's 8 degrees and snow is banked high along the streets, she is the only person I know who will meet me out there. In fact, she bought me a face mask to prevent losing the tip of my nose to frostbite. Once you have all the right gear you have no excuse, but for me part of "having the right gear" has always been having a buddy along to keep me company.

It's not that I haven't "lost" workout partners before--when we moved from Dallas I left behind a slew of them--and I know from experience that the distance only renders our workouts impossible, it doesn't keep us from being friends. Still I'm sad. And until she goes I look forward to every workout we have left (in other words, she won't need to talk me into anything).

I know we'll both carry on with our fitness routines after she leaves, but initially we'll each do so as a solo venture. In time, I'm sure we'll gravitate to other like-minded fit friends to get us through a long run or cold workout. The prospect of new "sweaty sisters" holds promise for both of us because while you might lose a workout partner, you always gain a life-long friend.

On a Roll

This is not me, but it's what I ended up doing. Who does this wearing jeans? 

I suppose better to roll in jeans than to change clothes and then forget to roll at all.

I was on the phone last night with a mom/neighbor/friend (I might add that we have the ability to see each other through our kitchen windows) and as I was apologizing for missing her 3-year-old's birthday party that day (oh, yeah, just completely spaced and wouldn't have remembered if my children hadn't come inside in tears after learning from their next-door playmate what they had missed--I felt like such a heel). But this post isn't about my ability to keep track of my life, although I am reminding myself that a calendar works really well when your brain doesn't, and works even better when you take some time to look at it.

I keep digressing.

So while I was on the phone, I backed my butt into the corner of the kitchen countertop. Just sort of instinctive like. Imagine a bear on Animal Planet, who uses a tree to get to that spot he just can't reach himself. As for my rear, my glut is one big knot. My low back has felt a little off this week and clearly, I'm taking it in the medial gluteus. And the corner of the counter was the perfect height to dig in there.

After I got off the phone and while finishing dishes it occurred to me to use that fabulous foam roller we have. I sing its praises to people all the time who speak of their own kinked up muscles. It is a fabulous piece of equipment. But like my calendar, it only works if you use it. When I do use it, like the calendar, it works wonders. But for some reason I never get to it. Or I think I'll get to it and forget. As I was rinsing off the last of the dishes I laughed because I knew that would happen: I'd forget. No! I urged myself, go roll around on the foam roller. Your rear needs this!

First I needed to soak my steel cut oats for breakfast. (Don't forget the foam roller.) Then I remembered the luscious piece of leftover carrot cake in the fridge. Must eat. But I had to sit down to eat it, to savor it as deserved (by me and the cake). So I did, and then turned on the television. (Don't forget the foam roller.) When the cake was gone and I got to a commercial, I turned off the t.v. I remembered I needed to take out the trash. There were too many "good" things in there. The dog's new trick is to open the pantry, lift the lid of the steel garbage can, turn it over and remove all contents until she gets what she wants. I took the trash out to the garage. (You are doomed to forget the foam roller.) When I closed the garage door, I used the door knob as a masseuse. That, too, is a good height to dig into my knotted-up glut. Pure primal urge here. I reminded myself that civilized people use a foam roller. Then I saw the wet clothes in the washer and moved them over to the dryer. (Will she forget the foam roller?) I returned to the kitchen and wiped off the table. (Foam roller--hello?) I took my vitamins, refilled my water glass and went directly to the foam roller. I did it! I remembered!

This morning my butt thanks me. I think I need to add "use foam roller" to my calendar. It may, or may not, help me remember.

What's Your Heart Rate?

Well it's come to this. I have to talk about pregnancy for a post. I said I wouldn't unless it was pertinent, and it just got pertinent. 

Last week I made a visit to the perinatologist for a level II sonogram (because according to modern medicine I am very old). After hearing the good news that all looks well in there (and my gratitude knows no bounds right now) he spent a few minutes chatting to me about lifestyle stuff. I wanted to be sure he knew how healthy and active and young I really was.

"Oh, but be careful now," he said. "Don't let your heart rate get over 120."

I think I might have snorted. Or snortled. Good thing I wasn't drinking milk at the time.

"I can get my heart rate up to 120 walking to the mail box," I said.

He started to talk about why but all I heard was: "Wah wah wah WAH WAH, wah WAH wah wah wah."

And I'm thinking, seriously now, 120? I have three kids. Even if I didn't exercise, my heart rate occasionally goes through the roof. Have you ever seen a Barbie floating face down in the toilet? Have you ever walked in on your dog eating doo doo out of a diaper? Have you ever caught your child "working" on your lap top? With a blue screen? 120? What kind of  world do you think I live in?

What I wish I would have done was call him on his ignorance. After all, the American College of Gynecologists and Obstetricians backed off on their recommendation of keeping heart rate below 140 (and that's not 120 doctor!) way back in 2002. I also didn't inform him about the many benefits of aerobic exercise, including: How exercise builds a bigger, more-vessel rich placenta and how exercise helps baby practice for the stress of labor. (I did write a more extensive post on this over at Tip Toe Turtle for those of you who are interested.) Instead, I just nodded and smiled and boogied for the door as soon as possible. I'm fairly certain my heart rate at that point was above 120.

When I set out to continue exercising throughout this pregnancy my rule was to only do what felt good, what felt right. If not, it was time to modify or try something altogether different. Getting my heart rate up super high has never felt right so I've never done it. I've been breathless and unable to talk to Pam on a few runs, but never for very long. I tried my Strike class a few weeks ago after a many-month hiatus and realized all the twisting involved in the punching and kicking (not to mention all the jumping) meant that I wouldn't be back until after the baby arrived. I've noticed my runs are morphing into walks. Walking just feels better. But swimming, spinning, lifting, yoga, still feel great. There are too many exercise options out there to lament the loss of one or two for a temporary period of time. 

And I suppose I should maintain that rule--to only do the exercise that feels good and right for my body--even after the pregnancy. We all go through times of illness, injury, even boredom. Making ourselves go through the motions can be damaging physically or mentally. So do what feels right and what feels good, just be sure to get your heart rate over 120 while you're at it.

Family Yoga

My girls are no strangers to yoga. On the occasion I pop in my favorite Rodney Yee video, they join me in the various poses (until they gravitate toward the dress up clothes or feel compelled to set up the Little People). We also have a favorite book by Baron Baptiste called, "My Daddy is a Pretzel," that we use to multitask bedtime reading with a little fun. Ask them to do downward dog or cobra pose and they get right to it.

So, when I learned about the family yoga class at my gym, I was eager to go. The girls were sooooo excited to bypass the childcare center to do their own exercise. We got our mats out and they immediately began doing summersaults. Isn't that we all do when we enter a yoga class? 

What's nice about having three kids is that I can usually count on one not to complain about mom's idea of fun. At least one is always game, whether it be helping me fold underwear, picking up toys or going to the grocery store. This also applies to meals. At least one will like what I cook. It helps on those days when I feel completely incompetent; when two kids are gagging and moaning over dinner, to have one child say, "Oh mommy this is good!" I believe this is the law of averages at work.

And so it was with yoga. I expected all three to be fully engaged. But no. After the brief "quiet" period of laying still and deep breathing (the teacher did warn us that this is the hardest part for kids), K, who isn't even still when she sleeps, announced she didn't like yoga. Didn't want to do it. Wanted to go home. 

I explained that we weren't going home until after class, so she could either sit quietly or join us, which I told her would be the more fun option. She sat fidgeting on the mat for the rest of the class.

When 3-year-old JC found the locker key she lost all interest in poses and became transfixed with the key. Running circles around me, jingling the metal, inserting key between my butt cheeks during downward dog. 

Blessedly, M stayed focused and engaged, taking on every pose and even impressing me with her first back bend. The class was challenging for her, but she clearly enjoyed it--a big grin on her face the whole time.

As for me, no, I didn't get in a typical yoga workout. But that wasn't the point. I believe instilling good health values in my children is a three-part process: walking the walk (making sure I get my own workouts in); helping my children find activity they enjoy; and exploring fitness together as a family. Fitnesswise, though, it wasn't a waste. I got some good stretching time in, which I likely wouldn't have done on my own. 

JC and K said they would happily return to the childcare center next week, but M definitely wants to attend yoga class again. Either scenario suits me: If they don't want to do the exercise with me, at least they're still willing to go to the gym. It was exciting to see M genuinely show interest in something I love so much. I hope we take yoga together for many years to come.

And hurray to Elise, the instructor, for initiating such a fun, family-oriented class. The room was packed with moms, dads, and kids and she took breaks to talk about good nutrition and exercise. Gyms everywhere need more family-oriented options like this.

Wacky Day

For the most part I let my girls wear what they want to wear. I try to provide guidelines, but these are often met with severe protests. And do I really care if they all adorn adorable coordinating outfits, with coordinating shoes, and perfectly coifed hair? I see other children out in the world impeccably dressed, but I convince myself that their moms must sacrifice time to workout to get their kids in a head hold to dress them. So I let it go. 

The girls had "wacky day" at preschool last year, which was funny to their teacher, because she knew, like I knew, every day dressing for my children was wacky. Yesterday I let one of my daughters out of the house with an animal print skirt, a brown shirt (that matched!), rainbow striped tights (I lobbied for white) and her favorite red patent shoes. I struggled to brush her hair and she would not, could not wear a clip to hold her hair out of her face. OK. Running late as usual. Just let it go. 

So, imagine the irony, when I got to the gym and hit the rowing machine before barbell strength class (and one dear reader knows who she is who turned me on to rowing...) I looked at my shoes. I looked again. Wait. One more time. Yup, I had on two different shoes. On closer inspection the blue in my t-shirt didn't exactly match my sweat pants, by a long shot. I had only just barely smoothed out my bed head that morning and there was no attempt made that morning to "touch up" my face. Hello bags! Hello blotchy skin around the mouth! Hello sun spots on my cheeks! (Why do they put those rowing machines so damn close to the mirror anyway?)

Now when strangers take a good look at my kids "wacky" wardrobe at least they'll know it's not because I don't care. It's because they're just like their mama.