Resolutions

For the past two years, I vowed to gain 30 pounds for the year. I had good reasons for this. In 2010, my logic behind the weight gain came from how every other year I vowed to lose, I instead ended up gaining. So why not use this reverse psychology (reverse-reverse psychology?)to have my body go the other way? Well, in 2010, I guess I did take the weight gain resolution literally. I got pregnant--no way I was losing weight that year. In 2011, my doctor told me to gain weight--probably the biggest pleasantry of pregnancy.

I actually never gained the full thirty pounds. Instead, I gained 26. But this year, I'm cutting the reverse psychology b.s., facing the truth, and am going to do the darn thing. I'm losing this weight. I want 40 pounds off of my person by the time New Years rolls around next year. Is that too much to ask? Probably. But I have my reasons: keeping up with Jude, being healthy, feeling good about myself, shopping for cuter clothes, and the thrill of a challenge.

I feel I have the makings to do this. I've picked up some insightful work out tips that I plan to implement this upcoming year, and I like eating healthy food. My biggest obstacles in this endeavor are time and energy. After a full day's work, I find it hard to want to do anything besides play with the baby and crash. However, I need to do this. I don't like the way I look now, and I'm a firm believer in making changes if something isn't going right. The first few weeks, maybe months are going to be tough, but I hope to see results that will keep me going.

I can do this. Surely, I can do this.

Working Mom

So I had to think long and hard about the title of this blog entry, and decided I would keep the "Working Mom" title after all, even if it means my husband will proudly link it to the Rush song. (I married Jeffrey for countless number of reasons; his fascination with the band Rush was not one of them.)

Also, it's been a while since my last post. Why? Well, it has to do with the content of this particular post. I am a mama, and I work.

Some may say we timed Jude's birth perfectly. The English teacher and band director had their firstborn in June, just after spring semester final exams and right before putting together a halftime show. The truth is, we would have welcomed a baby any ol' month.

I used to think the summer of 2001 was the best summer of my life. That summer I plunged wholeheartedly into independence. I had just finished my first year of college, moved to Oxford to live with my sister, held a job and took summer classes at Ole Miss. Between Trigonometry and my shift at Abner's, Amanda and I relaxed on the couch watching Springer, drinking rum runners, and smoking cigarettes. Those three vices equalled one perfect life. I put sleep on the backburner many nights in order to enjoy a party, earn a little extra cash for closing the restaurant, or carry on conversations about what my future absolutely did not hold for me (i.e. becoming a teacher like my mother--HA).

Fast forward ten years later, and my summer consisted of learning the ropes of motherhood. Once again, sleep took a hike, but this time, I wasn't going to a party. Instead, I was tending to the every need of the latest and greatest fellow in my life. Those eight weeks of learning Jude's different cries (hunger, wet, or just plain ol' pissed off), trying to keep the house in order (that shipped sailed about two weeks post partum), and bonding with my child were some of the most precious times I will probably ever have. However, just as I couldn't drink the rum-runners and smoke the menthols every day (luckily, those were just habits limited to my nineteen-year-old self. She was about a dumbass, by the way), so too did my glory days spent with Baby Jude have to end.

I have to say, I do not feel guilty about going back to work. When I dropped Jude off at Lilly's for the first time, sure I cried, but I knew what I had to do, and luckily I went back to work because I wanted to go back. I do miss Jude during the day, and I'm always excited to see him when I pick him up from Lilly's house. When I returned to work, I realized just how much I missed my colleagues and my students. This job was never just a paycheck to me but instead a really large part of who I am, something God has called me to do. Of course, I never was one to do something for anything other than the sheer fulfillment of it. For the past five and a half years, with very few setbacks, I have looked forward to coming to Holmes Monday through Friday and facing whatever challenge was in store for me that day.

Whenever I am home with Jude, I truly enjoy my time with him. We read stories, go for walks, hang out in the kitchen, and totally take advantage of learning about the new world he and I have both found ourselves.

Of course, I guess my glory days of staying at home didn't really end. Since I get an extended Christmas holiday and ten weeks off in the summer, I guess we could say the glory days are put on "Pause" for now.

Working Out

When Jude was born, he took what little ab muscles I had with him. For the past four months, I've examined, poked, prodded, jiggled and sucked in this silly putty that sits in place of my abdomen. I've come to realize the strangest thing about pregnancy is not the disproportional look of being pregnant, but the aftermath of when the little booger moves out.

For all interested parties, I gained a total of 26 pounds during the pregnancy, and at my 5-6 week post-partum check-up, had already lost 24 of it. Let me tell you something I've learned. Numbers lie.

I may be back to my pre-pregnancy weight, but my body is certainly not back to its pre-pregnancy form. I have slightly wider hips and a mini-FUPA (this is basically a crass acronym that my friend Sarah and I once spent hours (literally--hours) laughing over. I won't tell you what the letters stand for, but it's basically a sagging stomach. And it is ugly.) I only have one pair of jeans that fit (well, they button and zip but produce a slight muffin-top). Once upon a time, I called those jeans my "fat jeans." Now I just call them "my jeans."

However, in recent weeks, I have seen some changes in my body--positive ones.

All of these changes come, thanks in large part, from Reggie Haralson. Four weeks, ago, I made a commitment. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I get up at 4 a.m., leave the house at 4:30, arrive to Goodman at 5, and begin an hour of grueling workouts created by Reggie. He trains the athletes here on campus, and most of my days working out, I think he mistakes me for one of those young, strong, strapping football/baseball/basketball/softball/whateverball players. After the workout concludes, I shower somewhere on campus (depending on vacancies--haven't thought much about what I would do on a day lacking in vacancies. Can't think about it, really.)

I'm not the only one suffering through the workouts, either. Four of us meet up each time with similar goals toward weight loss and fitness. I have to say that these folks make the waking up and facing the seemingly unattainable challenge a lot of fun. Another fun part I experience includes having Reggie demonstrate some exercise that looks like hell would freeze before I could get my body to move like that, and then I turn around and actually complete it (or something like it.)

Today's workout left me speechless and breathless. We had to do chin-ups (among many other things. O.k. simple enough, but no. Not even close. This contraption which we performed this exercise on required us to climb some 2-3 feet off the ground. (To someone as afraid of heights as I am, 2-3 feet may as well be 2-3 thousand feet.)Once we climbed up, we then moved our hands to the handles and stepped both feet into the elastic band (I wonder if others were as terrified of being the one to break the band as I was). With Reggie's assistance (how much assistance is beyond me since my arms were a hurtin'), we did 10 chin-ups. With my eyes closed the whole time, I tried not to think of plummeting to my death. After my last chin-up, I completely freaked out, so Reggie had to get me down. I should have been mortified, but I was actually quite pleased with myself that I didn't cry. I wanted to cry so very badly, too.

But days like today allow me to test my limits and to do what I initially deem impossible. Of course, I hope we don't do any more chin-ups for a while, but at least I know I can do 10 of them. My hope for Jude is that he will push himself beyond what he thinks possible. Just as I'm getting my body back in shape, Jude is starting to grasp the concept of mobility. And once he finally gets going for good, may nothing stop him from discovering what's beyond possible.

Now, for all of those inquiring minds wondering what happens to Jude while I'm G.I. Janing it at work: Jeffrey gets him up and ready to take to the baby-sitter. He totally understands my drive to exercise, and as a bonus, he gets in some quality time with his son, especially since he gets home late on so many of those days. Perhaps knowing that Jude is in great hands while I go about achieving this particular goal motivates me to push myself more.

No, I don't plan on entering any kind of body building contests any time soon (or ever), but I hope I can continue to exercise with these great people and this great trainer. Plus, maybe I'll get a better body than my pre-pregnancy one out of the deal!

Four Months --Two rounds of shots down, many more to go

Last Friday, Jude turned four months old. That means one thing--another round of shots.

We got to the doctor's, stripped the boy down to his diaper, covered him with a blanket, and waited on the nurse to come in and check his height, weight, head, etc. True to form, Jude behaved practically perfectly--never even noticed his clothes were off (a future NASCAR fan I'm raising, perhaps?).

The nurse came back in to do her business, and we found out that Jude's head circumference is...I can't remember, but he currently weighs 13 lbs. 6 oz. (25 %) and is 24 3/4 inches long (45 %). He's a long, lean baby, that's for sure. Through all of that, he never cried, whimpered, anything.

So I figured I have a few good months left before Jude deduces that doctor=shots. He was doing so good and just flirting away with his nurse. This was a piece of cake.

I was wrong.

In came Dr. Stewart, and as soon as he took that baby, that baby hollered, and he didn't stop until that last shot was given--and that was about 30 minutes later. Yep. Jude rejected that doctor like Brett Michaels would reject a woman with conservative style and strong morals. How did Jude know?????

Dr. Stewart, whom Jeffrey claims resembles the lead singer of Staind, is actually very good with Jude. In fact, Jude has liked him the last two visits, but I guess he recalled those 6-8 week shots and won't have anything to do with Dr. Stewart any more.

Some things Jeffrey and I both learned from the doctor:
1. Jude is pretty advanced for his age, and we should go ahead and baby-proof the house--like right now.
2. Crawling is in our VERY near future.
3. The boy is strong. (He did kick the doctor a few times. We'll work on that later.)
4. and I'm excited about this one---time for solid foods that are not rice cereal (which actually translates to food pureed into a fine paste).

And a final thought on the 4 month check-up: I don't know who was more pitiful--Jude or Jeffrey. Hopefully, Jeffrey will come back with us for the 6 month check-up.

Never Too Early

So what's the one thing that's been on my mind since first learning I was pregnant? Education.

Education started with me.

I needed to school myself in taking care of my body to ensure a healthy pregnancy. I took a common sensical approach--if it's bad for you (in other words, if it tastes good), don't eat it.

Once I got that less than fun practice underway, I next learned how to have a baby. Lots of pictures, diagrams, anatomically correct models, and loads of tasteless jokes later, I wasn't what one would call ready, but I knew kind of what to expect.

Then there was the breastfeeding class. Skip ahead to the next one.

The point is, preparing for a baby, for me anyway, was much like preparing for my Masters Comps, except I didn't get three chances with a baby. I only got one shot (anyone else faintly hear Eminem's "Lose Yourself" playing in the background?). I was determined to make it count, and after all was said and done, I'd give myself a B+. ( I totally missed the part in childbirth class about the possibility of the epidural not working.)

Education did not stop with the birth of Jude either. I've gone from learning about baby bathroom habits to learning about clothing sizes to growth percentile charts to , my latest obsession, introduction to solid foods and how to prepare those foods at home (no jar crap for my kid, at least that's my stand for the moment. I've eaten many words since I've become a parent with "pacifier" being the toughest word to chew to date.)

I figure parenting will just be another one of those "continuing ed." courses. There's always something new to learn. Good thing I love school.

All the while I've spent learning how to achieve perfection as a mother (got a looonnnng way to go on that one), I've also dedicated time to Jude's education. Looking for a way to stress yourself to the point of pulling out hair and curling into a fetal position while rocking back and forth? Try comparing different schools' curriculums, tuitions, extra-curricular activities, and classroom/teacher ratios, wait-lists, and that'll do it!

Yep. Jude turned four months old this past Friday, and I've already researched different private schools where he'll start 4-K, driven by them, calculated how much I need to start putting back, picked up the phone and dialed before hanging up after the first ring (for fear someone at the school will discover what everyone else already knows about me--that I'm a weirdo), and mapped out several alternatives of how Jeffrey and I will get him to and from school since both of us commute 30 minutes from our home to work.

Let me back up and explain. Jeffrey and I live in Canton, MS--a place known for its historical Victorian beauty (although, our home is one of the newer ones--a craftsmen style bungalow built in 1924) and terrible public schools. Given that we stay in Canton (and we do really like the area and love our home even more), Jude will have to attend a private school.

Now, don't get wrong. There's always the possibility he will attend Canton Public Schools. See, these four years before he marches off to elementary are his trial run. During this time, Jeffrey and I monitor Jude's behavior and will take it from there. If Jude acts like a good little boy, we'll send him to private school--no questions asked. However, if he decides to turn into a little terror, he will need the survival training that only Canton Public could offer. Simple enough, and so far, Jude's been a perfect angel, as if he already knows Mama and Daddy's scheme.

Jeffrey and I have already selected a school for him--St. Anthony in Madison. We like the school for several reasons. First, Jude has the opportunity to learn our faith, Catholicism, every day, not just at home but in school as well. Second, St. Anthony takes part in the Whole Schools Initiative--a program through the Mississippi Arts Commission that integrates fine arts across the disciplines. My mother did her doctoral studies on this type of curriculum and serves as a field advisor for Whole Schools. In other words, Jude will have a little piece of family history invested in this sort of learning. Third, the student to teacher ratio is small, which is code for "Hurry up and get him on a wait list."

Anyway, of all the schools in our area, we like this one best. Of course, within four years, things could change. We could end up moving, Jeffrey could leave Holmes and take a job in Madison County School District (which has excellent schools as well), Jude could turn into a delinquent and find himself in Canton Public Schools, or we could have a change of heart about some of the other area private schools.

Of course, what we ultimately want is the best education for our child. Unfortunately, the school we really like as of now is expensive but not entirely impossible for us to send him there. Sacrifices will have to be made, but doesn't that hit at the heart of parenthood?

Every day, I compose a prayer for two things: Jude's education and Jude's future wife. I've long ago accepted (begrudgingly so) that my little boy will one day become a man. If these two things fall into place, maybe he'll turn out o.k.

A Choice

I just read a friend's post on some wenches who have, more or less, criticized her for choosing to formula feed her child. One paid her a backhanded comment about how it takes "a real sacrifice" to be able to breastfeed. Read between the lines. Is that heiffer saying my friend doesn't sacrifice enough for her child?

My friend, just like myself, tried to but couldn't. So my question is, what are girls like us supposed to do--starve our children?

I feel fortunate that no one, so far, has approached me about my decision to formula feed. The worst I've gotten so far is "Well, at least you tried," which is actually pretty crappy since I find nothing wrong with a woman choosing not to breastfeed from the getgo.

Fortunately, I've found throughout my life that typically no one really questions me when I have big decisions to make. (Well, there was that stint throughout undergrad where I decided to major in English and even doubled my marketability with a degree in History. My parents, though they supported me, surely had some concerns that I would dwell in one of their attics for the next 30 or so years. I showed them, though. A band directing husband and a Masters degree later, I finally arrived to my career as English Instructor at a community college.)

Anyway, I attribute that I'm never questioned to one or maybe a combo of three things:

(1) I'm already just so brilliant that anybody need not question my motives.

(2) people take notice of my commanding presence (i.e. tall, gym coach-like physique) and find it best not to ask questions

(3) I wouldn't notice someone's doubt if it hit me in the face.

Yeah. The first option definitely proves most befitting.

Back to the baby feeding topic, though. Seriously, I have heard people say things like "No woman lacks the ability to breastfeed". I'm not entirely convinced by this statement's validity. When Jude dropped over a pound of his birth weight in just a matter of days and then took until he was nearly two months to put the weight back on, I think that was my first clue that something wasn't quite working. Not to mention, when I finally gave up the practice, I never had to perform any of those tricks that would help me "dry up," so to speak. So either I'm not a woman (and even though I did drop a gym coach reference earlier, I promise that was me in those stirrups pushing eight pounds of life into the world) or that statement is plain assanine.

I've also heard that same statement backed up with "After all, that's how everyone did it in the old days." Ok. Well, I do buy that. I also believe that infant mortality was higher and, oh yeah, didn't some babies have wet nurses? What ever happened to that sanitary practice?

Anyway, Jude's been a formula-fed baby since about 2 weeks old, and he's happy as a clam and growing like a weed. Maybe he'll be sicker than breastfed babies, but for now, I'll just take the precautions of running a humidifier when he sleeps and bathing him every day. Maybe he'll be morbidly obese one day, but in the meantime, I'll prepare balanced, nutritious meals and encourage daily exercise by playing with him.

So to all those breastfeeding mamas out there. I admire and respect what you're able to do. I wish I was included in that lot. However, I had a choice to make, and I too have a happy, thriving almost four month old.

To my friend: I'm sorry people have been so wretched. You have no idea how this makes my blood boil and my heart hurt My guess is their ability to breastfeed is the ONLY thing that's working out in their lives so they must "latch on" to it. After all, the best way to hide our own inaccuracies is to spin someone else's choice as flawed.

10 Years Ago

I had the opportunity to visit my alma mater, Ole Miss, this past weekend for the football game against Georgia. Needless to say, we stunk. However, my visit there allowed me the opportunity to reflect on September 24 ten years ago.

On September 24, 2001, everyone still could not stop talking about 9/11. Heck, we still talk about it! Honestly, on the tenth anniversary of that tragic event, while many posted about remembering where they were when they heard the news that day, I couldn't bring myself to post about my whereabouts.

To think about my whereabouts that day would only force me to think about IT, and I found myself unsure if I wanted to think about IT.

Then September 24 occurred this past Saturday, and I found myself back in the place where it started.

Ok, so have you had enough suspense yet? (Building suspense in a narrative is something my Comp. 1 students are working on, so I figure why not practice the technique myself?)

Back to the story...

Ten years ago this past Saturday, I woke up with sharp pains shooting through my legs. I didn't think much about it (except for the obvious "Ow"), and I knew I couldn't stay in bed since I had a test in Shakespeare that morning. I thought about driving to class that morning and just taking a parking ticket (hell, I parking tickets never stopped Amanda from getting a more convenient spot), but since I drove a Ford Ranger Pick 'em up Truck with a stick shift (yep, that vehicle would certainly elevate my status on Sorority Row), I thought maybe I'd do better to just walk.

A normal ten minute walk to Bondurant Hall turned into forty-five minutes with many sit-down stops between my dorm and the classroom. On test days, I always arrived super early, so the long journey to class just put me there right on time, and the path to class proved more painful with every step.

As soon as I arrived to class and took a seat, my pains went away. "Thank you, God," I silently prayed, because my first test as an English major, I already felt enough pressure to do well.

I couldn't tell you what the test had on it or if I did well, because as soon as I stood up to hand it in, the sharp shooting pains came back. I thought about just skipping my next class, but a dedicated student such as myself came on anyway. (Ok, ok, my next class was a closer walk than my dorm. However, if Jude ever asks, I went because I was just that dedicated, and he should follow such an example!)

I quickly figured out the cause of my pain. That previous Friday, I had closed at Abner's where I worked on my feet all night, went shopping in Memphis all day with my mom on Saturday, and spent Sunday working the lunch shift at Abner's and then studying all night for the test. Two weeks before all of that, I had busted my tailbone at Abner's (which paid up a cool $6.67 in Workman's Comp.--set for life, I tell you what) and was still sore. Of course that was it! I was tired and still suffering from a broken butt. No big deal.

After my second class with no relief from the pain in sight, I headed back to my dorm to rest before my lab that afternoon. However, I only made it as far as the Student Union since I was afraid I would sleep through the lab and receive a zero for the day. Because really, who wants to explain to the folks putting him/her through school that the reason for the failing grade is because you didn't show up to immerse water-filled plastic tubing into a big ole' jar of water in order to understand osmosis? So I went. Painstakingly so.

The only good that came from attending classes that day was how my pain subsided whenever I sat down. I figured, I could sit it through a boring lab taught by a grad assistant who proved as bored and tired as the material she taught.

Silly me.

Halfway through the lab, the pains came back, only this time they ran up my legs all the way through my spine. It hurt. It hurt so bad.

Luckily my lab partner and I finished earlier than usual and I decided I'd head on back to the dorm and rest up before band practice. And then it hit me.

How in the --bleep--will I make it through band?

Let's back up and explain Ole Miss marching band practice. General policy--for every practice you miss, Mr. Willson drops you a letter grade. Pretty much if you show up on time every day (and I mean EVERY day), you get an A. It's like a turbo GPA booster. I thought a zero in Biology lab would be a joke? A B in band, and I may as well have "Dumbass" tattooed across my forehead.

Needless to say, I was a little worried.

Of course, leaving Biology lab with pains in my legs and then my back, my trek back to the dorm...well...I didn't make it back. Ever again.

I stopped in the Union, which was closer, decided to get a Blimpie sub, and sit. At least then, I wouldn't oversleep and miss seeing Mr. Willson. Heck, I may would even run into a friend from band and hit them up for a ride to practice, especially since the practice field was ALL the way across campus. (Now I know Ole Miss is one of the smaller schools/campuses in the SEC, but that's all relative when you're walking around with a painful gimp in your gait.)

So at the Blimpie counter, I place my order, feel something wet run down my legs and collapse on the floor in front of God and everybody who screams Hotty Toddy.

Ten years later, I still can't decide what was more humiliating--busting my a$$ on the tile floor in front of a large crowd, having UPD swarm me and try to help me stand calling even more attention to my person, being taken out of the Union in a stretcher, relentlessly sobbing from all the trauma, or peeing on myself in the process of falling? One thing was for sure; I had seen better days!

After a prolonged stay in the hospital lots of uncomfortable tests, my neurologist diagnosed me with transverse mylytis--a rare nerve disease where my immune system attacks my body and eats the coating (myelin) around my nerves (why oh why is everything about me centered around hunger).

The disease did more than just keep me from walking. It aged me. I had to drop out of school for a semester. All of a sudden, worrying over a missed band practice seemed so trivial. So did the boy I was seeing at the time. So did those mid-term exams, those silly girls getting ready for Rush, and all that other stuff I had planned on involving myself in that semester. All of a sudden, those things could no longer be important to me.

I got really angry. And I mean, REALLY angry.

But ten years later, I found myself back on that campus, back where that goofy little girl all of a sudden ceased to exist so she could grow up. My condition is dormant. I can walk again. I finished my degree at Ole Miss and went on to get a Masters, I found my true love (also at Ole Miss), I landed my dream job (yes, underachieving freshmen are my calling), and I have Jude.

September 24, 2011 dealt me a rough hand, but ten years later, I finally can see that I won.

I couldn't help but think the other day while visiting my alma mater if Jude would attend Ole Miss. Secretly (or not so secretly), I hope he will. And if he does, he will almost daily walk across that spot where his mother collapsed so many years before. A place where I panicked and thought, for a fleeting moment, that my life was over. He will never fully realize the significance that spot holds, but that doesn't mean the history isn't there.