Wanted: Motivation

I would love to lose 40 lbs., but not nearly as much as I would love to bake and consume an entire pan of brownies. And therein lies the problem: I want to lose weight, but I don't want to sacrifice anything for it. I'd rather cut off the size tags on my jeans (on account of their tactless behavior in reminding me how much my hips have expanded) and eat what I want.

But, I realize I need to be healthier. This is why David and I recently instituted a no-sugar-on-weekdays rule. We lasted, oh, twelve hours. Because it was family home evening night, you see, and we couldn't possibly forgo the FHE treat. For the sake of the children, of course.

Then last night David asked me if we were still attempting the no-sugar thing. I shrugged in a noncommittal way, trying to hide the fact that I was in the kitchen sneaking one of Michael's laffy taffys.

"May is a new month. Maybe that would be a good time to start," David said as he inched toward the ice cream in the freezer.

"How about 2015?" I suggested. Then I poured myself a glass of chocolate milk.

The problem is that neither one of us is sufficiently motivated, and both of us are easily swayed by the other's moments of weakness. We need one of us to be really into exercise. Or really into celery. One of the two.

Of course I'm being facetious. I really don't want to have some exercise enthusiast bouncing me out of bed at 6 a.m. to run around the block. There is nothing worse than a person who gets a rush from exercise trying to get me enthused about doing daily sit-ups. But I might be saying that out of bitterness that the only rush I get from a workout is an overwhelming desire to rush to my bed afterwards for a nap.

I can't talk to exercise enthusiasts when I'm looking for advice, either, because they just don't understand why their romanticized talk of cardio and crunches tempts me to make murderous use of their two-pound weights.

So I guess I'll just wait until I get to the point where I'd rather fit into my pre-motherhood jeans than have dessert.

Until then, pass the brownies.

Boys and their (organized) toys

You might recall last year's post about Michael's passion for keeping his fish nice and tidy. Well, the other day I was cleaning and he was playing in his room. He found the bin of baby toys that had been stored in his closet and I heard various Elmo giggles and alphabet songs as he sifted through the box. After a half hour or so I decided to check in on him and found this:


Of course David was thrilled with Michael's little project and gushed, "I'm so proud of you, Michael!" when I showed him the picture.

Ah, I guess some things never change.

Two for Two

We interrupt this blog for a special announcement:

The Whitney Award for Best Suspense/Mystery Novel of 2009 goes to...

Stephanie Black for Methods of Madness!


Congratulations, Stephanie, on your second consecutive win! I can't wait to read what's next!

If only I'd known this three months ago...

What mother wouldn't want to give this face:


or this one:


something to cuddle with at night?

Something snuggly and soft... and made out of the baby's very own placenta. (Because nothing says "comfort object" like human organs preserved in the form of teddy bears).

It's a great idea, if you are looking to name your child Frankenstein.

Seriously, this looks like something a bored Hannibal Lecter would cook up. What is wrong with the designer of this bear, and for heaven's sake, what is wrong with the 720 people who think it is "totally cuddle-worthy"?! I certainly wouldn't want to run into any of them in a dark alley.

This placenta-worship thing is just not normal (lotus birth, anyone?). And neither is anyone who finds a "cuddly" use for any human organ.

But I'm probably just saying that because I was deprived of my own placental teddy bear.

I guess my mom just didn't love me.

Mom Mouth

It happened. Well, almost. The words were teetering on the tip of my tongue, begging to be let out:

"Michael, stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!"

Instead, I hesitated after "stop crying" and changed course to: "or... or... I'll send you to your room." Then I sighed, not the least bit satisfied. Maybe it was the lack of poetry involved, but whatever the reason, it did not calm my urge to punch my fist through a wall.

I find myself saying "Stop crying!" to my three-year-old a lot these days. Along with "Stop whining!", "Get your hand out of your pants!" and "Don't pester the babies!"

Michael generally sticks with, "I'm hungry", "I want my daddy!" and "Hold me, Mom."

Funny how every part of my life is filled with the same phrases nowadays, including these ones from random strangers:

"Oh, are they twins?" I'm not sure why people ask this. I can see how there might be a question if they were older, but two newborns with matching blankets? Of course they are twins! I don't make a habit of walking around with a double stroller just in case one of my friend's babies wants to hitch a ride.

"A boy and a girl! Now you are done!" Um, thanks, I'll file that away. Of course, that statement is better than this one (and I'm not making this up):

"Oh, a boy and girl! It's a good thing you had them second or you would never have had your older son." What the...?

"Oh, twin boys!" Um, yes, one of whom is dressed in pink and ruffles, sitting in a pink carseat and has a pink blanket on "his" lap. (What do people think, that I'm just bulking up the file to give to his future therapist?).

"You have your hands full!" Yes, so could you hold the door open for me instead of diving under my arms to get out in front of me?

"Are you getting any sleep?" Yes, sleep takes priority over everything until we all run out of underwear. Then laundry has to come first.

These phrases dominate my life now. It's like everyone is on song repeat (which I suppose is appropriate, seeing as I feel like a broken record all day long). But more than anything, it makes me so grateful for the phrases I don't have to say anymore: "CTI, this is Bonnie", "I can have that report on your desk this afternoon", and "No, I don't have any children."

I could go for a little less in the whining department though. But I suppose if I were three-years-old and had recently been dethroned by two demanding infants at the same time as my Daddy disappeared into the bowels of tax season, I might be a little whiny too.

I guess that just means it's time for Mom to invest in some earplugs.

Monkey Business

Ah, the sound of silence... well, sort of. More like the sound of the dishwasher running and only one baby crying (crying himself to sleep, hopefully). So I shall now attempt the nearly impossible and write about something that doesn't have anything to do with spit-up. Um, scratch that. I just picked up the cute little screecher and he puked all over my arm.

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5 days later:

As I was saying, I shall now attempt to write something coherent. Hopefully it will help lessen the brain atrophy I've been dealing with for the last two months.

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Two weeks later (man, it's hard to blog nowadays):

Ahem, where was I? Something about babies and puke, which was not where I intended to be. Anyway...

I have had this advice column in my things-to-write-about queue for months now. Sometimes I read it and then read it again, just to make sure I'm not misunderstanding. Because, seriously, this is the worst advice ever. EVER.

If you are too lazy to click on the above link, I will summarize for you: Thirty-something male has a little pest-control problem: he would like to be rid of a "monkey" on his back (also known as his virginity); Since his pesty problem is not the result of any moral or religious objection to de-monkeying, he is seeking advice on how to deal with his situation.

The advice he receives from columnist, Cheryl Lavin? Get a prostitute.

No, really. That's what she says. Or, she concedes, if he is a bit too squeamish to employ the services of a hooker, perhaps he could hop on one of those websites where people gather to find partners for meaningless, no-strings attached, sex.

Lovely.

Initially I was so bothered by Ms. Lavin's response that I couldn't do anything but shake my head. I just couldn't believe that a guy would write to an advice columnist for helpful hints on how to lose his virginity, let alone that she would respond, "Find yourself a whore."

Just how is this supposed to help him on his road to having a fulfilling relationship (or, according to him, making a "connection")? Does Ms. Lavin imagine that someday he will say to his soulmate, "You know, honey, I just never understood healthy relationships until I went to that hooker in Reno."

But then, I've realized the question/answer isn't the problem here (though they are both fraught with problems). The problem is that normal dating relationships nowadays are one step away from being prostitution themselves. Think about it. The only difference between this and hooking up with a stranger in a bar after one evening of drinks is that there is no exchange of cash for services rendered. If that sort of arrangement is socially acceptable, why not take the leap to paying a "professional" for those services? After all, if sex is thought to be meaningless except for the pleasure it provides, and no exchange of names is required before exchanging bodily fluids, why not? Ms. Lavin's advice seems almost logical.

So I guess I can't blame her for her response. If sex is all about self and has no meaning other than bit of pleasure, who cares where that pleasure comes from?

It's terribly sad that sex (and its proper place in marriage) has been so degraded that it is thought to be nothing more than a monkey on one's back to be given away, at first opportunity, to anyone who will take it. How tragic that, even in regular dating relationships, it has become nothing more than a commodity to be traded and bargained for instead of being reverenced and respected as the powerful force that it is.

When you think of the price that society will pay for this sort of thinking in emotional, physical and spiritual problems, a twenty-dollar hooker is no bargain. Not even for desperate men and pathetic advice columnists who are looking for meaning in all the wrong places.