Team Gwinn is ‘Xhausted

One of my very best friends (who just had her gorgeous baby girl!) coined the term “‘xhausted” to describe the level of exhaustion of her cat when he couldn’t pick himself up from the floor because he was simply too tired.

Today, team Gwinn, especially the matriarch, is ‘xhausted. No, I didn’t just have a baby, no I’m not pregnant, and no, I wasn’t out partying all weekend. For some reason, I just haven’t had the energy to stay awake during the days lately, which we all know is a bad equation when mini Gwinn is thrown into the mix. Today he sat on my while he watched an episode of Oswald while I snoozed. Not my proudest parenting moment, I assure you, but an honest one nonetheless.

So Team Gwinn is in the middle of moving a little further away from the city (woohoo!), but the process has been arduous to say the least. In the middle of all this, I’ve had two of my other very wonderful friends (both of whom are in their third trimester with their second children!) offer to come over to our house to help me pack. Talk about some amazing mamas, ya’ll. And then I stumbled upon this blog on Pinterest, Finding Joy: Ten Simple Ways to Bless a Mom, and my sleepy eyes welled up just thinking about how other moms need one another for support.

So, interwebs, I want to take a moment to tell you guys about Mama V. I’ve told you about how much I love Tay C, E Wizzle and Lu Lu, but not Mama V. She is the personification of finishing school wrapped in Southern hospitality with the grace of the Queen herself. Her daughter, mini Gwinn’s betrothed, is brilliant and polite and a living testament to the wonderful mother Mama V truly is. I am so, SO blessed to have all my mom friends in our lives, and  Mama V: I love you. You’re incredible! I can’t wait to meet baby V. You and hubs are so blessed to have such a lovely family and Team Gwinn is so blessed to know you.

I hope you all have a more alert week than I expect to! And in the mean time, give a mama some love, ya’ll.

My Bedroom Is Hideous. Really.

Ok, for riz interwebs, I have hated our bedroom since our first tour of our home. It is one of those excessively large 1970s style rooms with oblong shaped walls, bizarre dimensions, the quintessential rental property vertical blinds over a sliding glass door that opens up to a micro-deck, and to top it all off, it is my least favorite color on the planet: PURPLE. Not like super trendy plum, not tolerable/ workable lavender, not even crayon purple, but like an offensive shade of orchid. My closet has those loud, jankety metal doors and Captain Laser Pant’s closet doesn’t even have doors. His bathroom is really just a sink outside a small room that houses a toilet and bath/ shower (I’m not prissy on much, but I physically CANNOT share a bathroom with my husband. Seriously, if I wanted to cause dissent in my marriage, I would take photos of his versus mine, and then you would all know why. But I love him, and am letting the issue go at “I can’t share a bathroom with you”.). To add insult to injury, CLP and I have Scandinavian- esque (read: IKEA), short, black furniture  that could in no way ever make our room look furnished. Our bed is dwarfed by the sheer size of the room, and all my bedding from the single life (CLP had a single set of sheets and a knit blanket, bless his heart) was of a dark brown/ green nature. Our bedroom, even with the bed made and floors vacuumed, looks not unlike a college dorm/ bachelor pad- nothing matched, the box spring and mattress sits on just a frame (no head/ foot board), and there is no sense of “sanctuary”.

Quite serendipitous it is that husband and I purchased eerily similar sets of bedroom furniture as single people. The nightstands are almost identical  and my dresser is just double the length of his. During the “mad rush to nest in a house while hugely pregnant” stage, we just shoved things into the bedroom without really thinking. The bed is in the only place it could go without floating in the middle of the room, and with that idiotic sliding glass door/ vertical blinds conundrum, there weren’t many places to put our dressers. We lined up our dressers against a wall, laid out the dog beds, set up the ironing board and called it a day. And I’ve hated it ever since.

I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again: I’m painfully frugal. If it’s more than $20, we don’t need it. For that reason alone I’ve done nothing to our bedroom. Comforters start at $30, sheets are the same, and don’t get me started on the cost of headboards and foot boards. I optimistically looked at thrift stores and antique stores with no success, and let’s be honest, with a toddler running around, it’s not like I have the hours in my day to complete a “DIY resurface and paint your thrift store found headboard to look like this $3000 bedroom as seen in some expensive magazine spread!”. So, for 17ish months, I just dealt with the horror of my “utilitarian only” bedroom.

The purpose of New Year’s Resolutions has escaped me for a long, long time. If you want to do something, do it, regardless of the time of year. If you want to be nice, be nice, if you want to stop being fat, get up and work out, if you want to travel, go somewhere. But somewhere between Christmas and my birthday, I decided that my bedroom needed an overhaul. After talking to sisters and girlfriends, I discovered the need for our bedroom to be, well, more romantic. Sexy. A utilitarian bedroom becomes just that, and I was reminded of my dislike of the room every time CLP and I were standing in it. Once I pinpointed the issue, I snapped some pictures of my room for a “before” and started plotting the ugly’s demise.

Awesome, right?

Interior design is 100% not my area of expertise. I can style my hair, speed skate, bake and cook, but make my house pretty? No way. To gain some perspective and ideas, I started perusing (shock!) Pinterest. Then googled “purple bedroom”. Then discovered that there are plenty of ways to work with all shades of purple, mainly with (for real) one of my absolute favorite colors: grey. With some well timed Christmas and birthday gift cards, I was able to score some pretty awesome finds to dress up the space:

Matching night stand lamps- $6.48 a piece (Hobby Lobby)
Grey henna curtain panels- $9.98 each (Target)
Center sheer panel- $3.50 (Hobby Lobby)
Brackets: $3.98 (Home Depot)
Grey microfiber sheets: $25 (Target)
Electrical conduit for curtain rod: $2.97 (Home Depot)
Black framed mirrors- $1.99 each (IKEA)

The measurements for my dresser were matched to the width of our bed, so it became our foot board. For the headboard? Hang some curtains, like this.

Not perfect, but working on it. Note that mini Gwinn is helping.

It’s still a work in progress, as I have not found a comforter for under $20 (can I just dye my brown one?) or a bed skirt (I wanted to upholster the box spring, but that’s like $50) and haven’t put up my second set of mirrors over the night stands. All in all, though, not a bad little shift in the room though, right?

Looking more grown up already.

Things have happened since the shift in the bedroom. Good things. For instance, I actually relaxed in bed with the Kindle and a cup of hot chocolate while mini Gwinn took a nap. I wanted to lounge in the room after he fell asleep for the night. And when CLP and I are reading before we fall asleep, the lights behind give us quite the romantic glow.

Is it perfect? Nope. But it is definitely a step or five in the right direction. And I love moving in the right direction.

Where do you find sanctuary? Any decorating ideas for the rest of us?

Never Again

Last night, in the middle of our bed time ritual, mini Gwinn’s face nuzzled against my neck just seconds before I put him in his crib for the night. The monumental realization hit me: he will never be this small again (not that 27 lbs. is small for a 14 month old). We will never have this night again.

I think all parents, particularly moms, have this epiphany at some point. It may spur the “let’s try for 2.0!” thought in some, maybe bittersweet thankfulness for going through the last round in others.

This past Sunday I shattered my phone (so for those that haven’t gotten text message responses or called with no answer, you now know why), and without the assistance of Facebook, have almost effectively been cut off from society completely. This has given me even more opportunity to immerse myself in the every moment of my little Fox. If anything, from last night’s realization, I took away the message to invest in his moments. The big stuff, like walking on his own, is obviously grabbing my attention. But his precious peals of laughter? The crazy phrases he says when I’m only half- listening (two days ago he said, “Ok guys!” what the heck, kid?!)? I don’t want to miss any of him. This is the last day he will be this age, this small, and at this point of development. And, I have to tell you, interwebs, he is such a cool toddler. He wears his sunglasses, willingly, at the park. He says funny things, like, “Ta da!”. And while I realize that I can’t eagerly await his every movement or sound, I can be present for him, no phone in hand, no TV in the background, more often.

That’s a concept I’m taking into my marriage, too. Captain Laser Pants is a rare man (for more reasons than his imbibing of orange soda and bizarre dance moves) in that he talks to me, like REALLY talks to me. There are times, for instance, when he is fresh from the gym after work (somewhere between 8-9 PM), and I am exhausted, but he wants to tell me about something he heard on the radio, or something from his work day, and I struggle to listen to him. Again, not that I can be 100% absorbed in my husband every second of the day, but when he wants to talk, I want to be present for him. He’s amazing and deserving, even if he is monumentally forgetful, and he is mine. My boys deserve the best of me, even when I’m tired or distracted, because never again will we be at this point in our lives as a family.

People I Love: Part Two – Mom Friends

It is possible that CLP and I created a monster.

Since birth, mini Gwinn has slept with a beautiful, hand knit blanket that was a gift from my sister’s mother in law. Literally, every night, he has been wrapped up in it and snuggled into the soft yarn of the blanket. He loves it. For fourteen months it served him dutifully, taking beatings in its constant trips across the floor as he crawled with it, traveling to Minnesota and Tennessee and home again, the many washes (on gentle cycle) from the spilled milk or the middle of the night accidents, and many other tortures such a delicate blanket should never endure. Now that he is a destructive toddler, mini Gwinn felt it necessary to deconstruct his blanket, string by string. It now has a gaping hole, smack in the middle of the blanket. Captain Laser Pants and I have had many worried nights that he may find himself stuck in the blanket, twined in the yarn, an obvious death trap waiting to happen. We decided, a mere two hours before bed time, to search frantically for a similar knit blanket at Target. Of course, being my child, mini Gwinn had no interest in the baby themed fleece blankets on clearance, nor did he feel particularly drawn to any knit blanket under $50. Finally, after racing through the domestics aisles like I’m on Super Market Sweep, I found a dark brown, cable sweater knit blanket, similar to his basket weave blanket (more in feel than style, obviously), on clearance for $19. He gave it a good squeeze with his chubby hands, and I rushed to the check out to make it home in time for bath time.

We settled in after his bath, snuggled in the new blanket (yes, I’m a bad mom, I didn’t wash it first, but I didn’t have time to, and couldn’t wrap my child in the blanket of potential death), and had his night time bottle (only one of the day, I promise). As soon as I put him in his crib, he EXPLODED in tears. Like, fits of howling screams and shakes accompanied by a river of heart breaking tears. I let it go on for ten or so minutes, mainly because he NEVER cries anymore, and I couldn’t handle it. We went downstairs and listened to his cello song (Bach’s prelude from Suite 1 for Unaccompanied Cello) three times. He so sweetly laid his head on my chest and his little hands on my arm and sank comfortably against me. When it was time to put him back in his crib, though, the same horrifying “DON’T LEAVE ME IN HERE, DEVIL WOMAN!” screams started again. I waited for fifteen or twenty minutes more and then couldn’t take it. I made him another small bottle and went into his room. With mommy magic I pseudo- stitched up the gaping hole with excess yarn, and as soon as I picked him up with the blanket against him, he cooed in delight. He polished off the four ounce condolence bottle and fell asleep immediately.

CLP was shocked that he had developed an attachment to the blanket. Given that I had my own blanket and passy (pacifier) til I was five, it didn’t come as a shock to me that he would have grown attached to his own, but still.  I wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction.Thoughts?

Anyway! Onto the second post about people in my life that rock my socks: my mom friends.

E-Wizzle: With your little guy the same age as mini Gwinn, and with having met you when they were both still lying on their backs due to immobility, I feel like we’ve been walking the same lines for a couple years now. You amaze me! I don’t know how you work full time, rock at being a mom full time, and seem so serene always. When I felt most lonely, you walked into that library meeting room with your little guy and -bam!- friendship. You are so graceful and kind, and you do this craziness called motherhood with poise. Thank you for being such a fabulous, wonderful friend.

Lu Lu: If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were my sister from another mister. Your dry, sarcastic humor pairs beautifully with your parenting style, and little Pippi is all the cooler for it. She is going to grow up to be one rad chick thanks to all your awesomeness and sacrifice you’ve made for her. Thank you for being such a fast, trustworthy friend. I love that I can confide in you on my bad days, laugh with you on the good days, and play video games with you once the sun (and son) goes down. You are such a seriously cool woman and I am so happy we are in one another’s lives for this wild season of life.

Tay C: You are so brave. And strong. And beautiful, and funny, and such a wonderful mom to Cball. That first step into friendship, remember the diner? That was awesome. I felt like we both needed someone to reflect back to ourselves: I can do this. You are fearless in your approach to new things and people, infinitely creative, and your mothering instincts are enviable. Your encouragement, your perspective and your friendship are huge blessings in my life. Even if you and I hadn’t been surprised with our little bundles of boys, you and I would have crossed paths and been friends, I just know it. Thank you for your friendship and the love you’ve brought into our lives.

I love you three ladies! You are encouragement on the hard days and light on the best of days. Thank you for your friendship, I am honored!

Sexy Moms: Fox versus Gwinn

When I was brushing my teeth this morning, like most mornings, I was flipping through the news headlines on my phone. All the normal, grown up news tabs are there: “Top Stories”, “World News”, “U.S. News” and “Health and Science”. Unfortunately, like an irresponsible adult, I forgot to remove the “Entertainment” news tab when I first activated the phone. For the record, I can’t bring myself to care about celebrity news/ gossip, reality television or “who’s currently sleeping with who and guess who’s mad now!” crap. My brain is already pretty full, and what precious little brain cells I still have, I’d desperately like to keep. So, there I was, brushing my teeth, when the headline that made me spit came across my phone: Is Megan Fox the Sexiest Celebrity Mom?

Ok, firstly, I didn’t know she was even having a baby. Then again, I don’t have cable television/ read magazines/ don’t usually give a rat’s about celebrity gossip. I didn’t bother reading the article, largely because I didn’t need to bombard myself with images of a spray tanned new mom with a magically perfect body three weeks postpartum. Bring on the waves of inadequacy! It did start my sprockets a’ turning, though. What makes a mom “sexy” and what makes a mom?

You can probably conjure up plenty of mental images of what equates to “sexy”. Our society and media have made darn sure you’re bombarded with sexiness at every turn from a young age. We currently have this idea of what makes a woman desirable: tanned, tone, long, flowing hair, nine percent body fat that’s all located in her bra. If she talks, it better be something low, sensual, and short. Maybe a whisper of a perfume name or a lingerie brand. In these thirty second sexy bombs there are never children at her feet.

What makes a mom? That’s probably pretty easy: she popped out a kid or two. It doesn’t really matter if she’s raising them or not, by definition, if she has reproduced, she’s a mom. Come forth, mom jeans and minivan! Just kidding. After baking a bun in my oven and pouring my everything into the successful rearing of mini Gwinn, I have a few things to say about what makes a woman a “mom”. 

For starters, just having a baby doesn’t make one a mother. If that were the case, octo-mom (is she still relevant?) would be pretty incredible. What about the women who’ve never given birth but have a family they call their own? Or the women that raise the children of others- nannies, teachers, care givers. Being a “mom” isn’t always a biological rite, but a labor of love and an investment of one’s self into another. 

I won’t lie to you, reader. I’m wearing some sweatpants and a cheap tee shirt right now, typing this all up in my unbelievably cluttered home. My legs are covered in bruises of unknown origin. My arms are tired from doing new weight exercises at the gym. Dinner isn’t cooked yet. My nail polish is chipped. I am in no way the mainstream image of “sexy”. I’m one pair of elastic waist mom jeans away from momville. 

Something tells me that right about now, Megan Fox is working with a trainer to regain her bombshell body (for which she is paid, mind you). Someone is holding her newborn. Someone is cleaning her home. Someone is making her food. She is rebuilding the fantasy that she is while others are doing “mom duties”.

We’re expected, as real women, to replicate the fantasy. Unless we’re sitting on stacks of Benjamins, I don’t know how the average woman is going to recreate the fantasy from the pages of Maxim as a sexy mom in her home. We don’t have the spare hands to cook and clean, hold the children, drive the car. We aren’t paid to be fantasy women, and even if we were, most of us (with the exception of a lucky few) would need a lot more than a personal trainer to get to Megan Fox status. 

I can’t help but wonder where the pressure is coming from: men, other women, or ourselves. If we removed the stimulus (media) from our own eyes, some of the “need for perfection” would fade, maybe not immediately, but over time. If we stop feeling the pressure on ourselves to be fantasy women, then we could stop imposing that ideal onto others. 

How would a woman “stop a man” from imposing the fantasy ideal onto herself? The simple answer is I don’t think it’s possible. However, I do feel like “real” men are the ones who already find the mothers of their children sexy. If he recognizes the beauty of true motherhood, investing in the relationship between the mother of his children and himself, he isn’t investing in the fantasy of other women. A real man admires the beauty of a mother. To loosely quote a comedian, “she’s strong from picking up the kids. She’s fed them from her body. She’s changed.” I can easily think about the many, many men who put their attention, their money, their thoughts into the fantasy, and I feel like they may as well still live in their mothers’ basements and play with ninja turtles. They’re not adult enough to recognize the worthwhile investment in a real woman, therefore, they’re not real men. 

So, am I sexy like Megan Fox? Nope. But I could totally punch her across a football field. My arms are strong from picking up my boy (and doing 80 lb. farmer’s carries). I’m wiser after having a baby. I’m more patient. I love more deeply. I’m not a fantasy woman- I’m the real deal. 

BatFletch

To Target I Go

Just a quick “what I wore to the store” post. Being a mom means, among other things, wearing pratical and only moderately cute things. And I’d you’re aa stylish mom, I don’t want to hear about it.

i love plaid.

plaidy plaid plaid. and boyfriend jeans.

rolled up. barefoot. because i live in Georgia.

My One Article of Clothing

It is not brand new information when I tell people that I am not fashionable. Mostly, when I “dress up” or try to look “nice”, the outfit involves jeans, some sort of flat sandal, and a t-shirt. Since pregnancy, I’ve mostly given up on what I wear. At home, my mom uniform is usually a pair of running shorts and a sports bra (the t-shirt or tank top is discarded by 10 AM due to puke, milk, carrots, and snot). When in public for nonsocial reasons (shopping, gym, etc), I’m wearing what I wear at home, only with the gunk covered tee. When I once swore I’d never leave home without makeup (the horror!), it’s now more routine for me to go without than take the time to slap some on my face. You’ve seen other moms like this- she wears a fashion trend that embodies “defeat”. It’s like a proverbial game of paper – rock – scissors switched to baby – fashion – baby. For the record, “baby” wins every time.

Not all moms are this way. I see and know many mothers who look phenomenal every time I see them in public. Their clothes are clean (which is a super power in itself), modern, and dare I say it? They look beautiful, nay, radiant.

I lack this radiation ability, and not because don’t want it. Some women are born to be mothers- they were also most likely the women that “glowed” when they were pregnant. Some of us were thrown into this new career path and aren’t totally qualified for the part. I don’t really have the energy to look good, especially when my looks are such a nonissue. I’m the equivalent of the new intern who’s just really happy to make it to work in the big, fancy company, even if I have wet hair and deodorant streaks on my blouse.

Seriously, I’d like to look presentable in public with my adorable baby in tow. I’d like to look like one of those moms that stepped out of an advertisement for something I didn’t know I needed. At some point, I’d like to look somewhat fashionable. In an attempt to do this, I splurged and bought a $15 jersey maxi skirt at Old Navy last month.

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This has become my one article of clothing. If I have to leave the house and it would be socially awkward for me to look the way I normally do ( i.e. must wear makeup to avoid terrifying small children, deodorant, must brush teeth, must brush hair, etc), I have worn this skirt nine times out of ten. I bought it in a light heather grey color to guarantee that I could wear it with almost anything, and so far, it has worked out splendidly. It’s probably the best $15 I’ve spent since, well, I can’t remember the last time I spent a magical $15.

So, for the other moms whose fashion statement says “defeated by my child’s needs,” I took some pictures to prove the effortlessness of this very trendy look that’s age appropriate for everyone except for really, really old people. It’s also flattering (really!) The skirt I bought has a wide waistband and a generous length to accommodate long and short figures alike.

For those with accessories, go crazy (as crazy as you can without your baby pulling earrings from your earlobes or choking you with necklaces). The minimalistic piece of the skirt lends itself to patterns, multiple textures, and plenty of accessories. I don’t wear jewelry anymore, largely because mini Gwinn will find a way to hurt me with it, hence my plain outfits.

Until my little dude is self sufficient and outgrows his “mommy must suffer!” mentality, this will probably be the extent of my attempts at looking nice, unless my trendsettery knows no bounds and puke stains become haute couture.

If you’re one of those “my fashion has been defeated” moms and you’re blessed enough to have helping hands in your city, I encourage you to change out of your gunky puke shirt and husband’s shorts (wash them, too) and try a small change, like a maxi skirt, and go feel pretty. Then tell me about it, so I can live vicariously through you, as I’ve never been away from my child for more than three hours and have no idea what it’s like to feel pretty anymore. In fact, if you have a sitter, go on a date with your guy and feel pretty while you’re at it, cause that’s what I miss most, and you deserve some enjoyment (and I really need to live vicariously through you on this one, too).

Overwhelmed

Typically when I sit down to write a blog I have a vague idea of what I want to say without any sort of “pre- writing”. Most of what I write isn’t polished, nor are there multiple versions before the “finished product” is posted to the interwebs. Today is no different. Honestly, I wasn’t planning on saying anything today.

But, readers, today I am overwhelmed.

It’s no small secret that I handle minor stresses badly. Having a baby? No big. Dishes in the sink? My face could explode. Running late for an appointment? I may blow up the house. Clearly, I should be working on how to manage stress in my life. Normally I work out until I just don’t have the energy to care. Take that away and I actually create problems, usually making a stress mess from nothing.

I haven’t been to the gym in a week. For some that’s not a big deal at all (“Hey, I haven’t been to the gym in 35 years, yuk yuk”), for others that’s mind blowing.

I may actually develop super powers and blow up our entire block because of the pent up energy I have.

It’s not out of laziness, I can assure you. With mini Gwinn’s changing nap routine (he’s growing up, after all- he said his first word on Father’s Day!), the usual time I go to the gym has shifted from the late morning to not at all. The childcare is only open until 1 PM (getting out of the house by noon is next to impossible with his new nap time that he’s selected), so by the time he’s up, fed, changed and I’ve changed clothes after having food thrown at me, it’s 12:45. Captain Laser Pants asked why I didn’t just do what I had planned and ignore the little dude’s nap. “Just put him in the car and go,” I believe, were his exact words.

Any parent knows that an interrupted nap is worse than no nap. To his credit, CLP doesn’t usually see our baby in daytime hours during the week- he wouldn’t know what a napless mini Gwinn looks like. Of course I didn’t follow his suggestion. I’m giving our baby what he needs. So after figuring out the new nap time and duration, I cleverly planned our morning around it and accommodated for the time. We were ready for the gym at our new time and BAM- I couldn’t find my key. Ten minutes later I asked CLP if he had it. He found it in his pocket. At work. Our new car has one key with a broken ring hole- it has been lost several times since the purchase of said vehicle. This minor stress has been accepted and isn’t really an issue. What compounded my reaction was that, after a week of no gym, I also realized that our little guy needs his acid reflux medicine, we’re out of baby wipes, and I need more vegetables to make solid food for the kid. Bonus- I dropped a heavy muffin tin on my toes this morning, my little guy has thrown up on me twice since 10 AM, and I have the caffeine shakes. Don’t get me started on the lack of dinner for tonight.

I’m a little overwhelmed today.

Being a stay at home mom can be overwhelming. I have a house that I can barely keep neat, let alone clean and organized. The three dogs tend to get in all kinds of trouble throughout the day. The baby has discovered new and unusual ways to cause injury to me (he flails his arms in the general direction of my cyst- covered face and leans away from my body, making my arm go numb from holding him). Some days are hard. Some days I want to throw bricks at glass panes. Some days I am amazed at the accumulation of laundry that has developed in the course of three hours. Some days I want to run full speed off the Empire State Building.

He’s totally worth the stress.

At 6 PM (when my little guy has chosen to make his bed time) I squish my little man up against my chest, feed him, sing him a lullaby, and stroke his hair until he falls asleep peacefully in my arms. Whether or not the day has defeated me, the evening brings a precious peace that feels like melting into a hot bath filled with lavender oil (Wow, that sounds lovely right now). I sneak into his nursery several times between 6:30 PM and when I finally fall asleep just so I can steal a kiss or stare lovingly at my sleeping child.

Funny- even imaging it has calmed my frayed nerves. I suppose it’s all about putting into perspective the paces through which we put ourselves every day. Keeping in mind the obstacles life throws at us, being overwhelmed is normal, nay, expected. Accepting that every hour is different and rising to the challenge of a new day? That’s part of being a mom.

Now, about that lavender bath…

Admiration and Intimidation at the Gym

Firstly, I want to thank all the new followers and readers! I appreciate the support and the shares.

Today I’m taking a break from the “maintenance of marriage” series (as seen here, here aaaaand here) . Feel free to submit your ideas for more posts in the series, because I’m running low!

In other news…

There seems to be a direct correlation between the size of a woman’s fake boobs, orange-ness of her tan and the amount of skin she has exposed at the gym and my immediate attitude towards her. Completely petty and shallow? Yes. Then again, I don’t claim to be “mature” and “deep”, so get off your high horse for a second. I promise this will (may) get better.

I work out semi- religiously at LA Fitness. It’s not exactly a prestigious club, but it has everything I need and the cost is excellent. Added bonus- there are three within fifteen minutes of our home. The one where I usually go is in an area that is, ahem, a bit pretentious. The commonly known “East Cobb snobs” nickname isn’t unearned. That’s not to say that all East Cobbians are snobs, but most of them do hold the title with pride. I digress (just trying to give a proper mental picture, yeesh). Since I’m officially a suburbanite stay at home mom, I go to the gym in the late morning- after the little dude has eaten, napped and eaten again, and most (ok, maybe only one or two) of the household chores are done. Apparently, late morning is the prime time for stay at home moms (or trophy wives, it all depends) to get their fitness on. The gym has plenty of us present between the hours of 10 AM and 1 PM. Here’s a nice rundown of the categories into which we fall:

-The mom whose children are clearly much older and self sufficient than mine. She has a giant SUV that costs a year’s salary. Her hair is bleached blonde (of course), brushed and neatly pulled into a ponytail. Her Nike running shoes appear to be brand new, as do her matching Nike running shorts and compression tank top. She is thin, bordering on skinny, tans at a moderately frequent rate, and her name is probably “Buffy” or some equally 1980’s country club name. She intimidates me.

-The mom who probably isn’t a mom at all, but more than likely a trophy wife to a much older, successful business man. She has gigantic, Dolly Parton- esque breast implants that are placed ridiculously close to her chin. She is orange from daily tanning/ spray tanning. She is wearing only a sports bra that barely encases her ridiculous tatas and a pair of micro-shorts to show off whatever she is inclined to show off. Her hair, bleached blonde, is down and styled. She is wearing full makeup. She leg presses 20 lbs. She flirts with every male trainer present on the floor. From a distance she looks 22, up close she looks to be in her late 40s with a belly button jewel. She irritates and intimidates me.

-The mom wearing a “10k for Childhood Diabetes Cure” shirt, which she got last week in the race. Her kids’ ages are unknown. Her arms are viciously toned and tanned from driving her kids everywhere. Her legs are pillars of granite. Her hair is hidden under a ball cap. She bench presses more than I weigh and she’s half my size. Her kids are well behaved, but still acting like children when she picks them up from the gym daycare. They ask if they can go to McDonald’s, she obliges. I admire this woman.

-Me. I am wearing one of Captain Laser Pants’ t-shirts or something of my own that is equally ill-sized and tacky. CLP’s socks. My running shoes have ketchup that mini- Gwinn threw on them (true story). I haven’t brushed my hair in at least two days (another sad, true story). Headphones blaring something aggressive that usually enforces my lack of smile/ hard stare at the gym. I see myself in the mirror doing tricep extensions- I intimidate myself, which makes me smile, because that is funny. I’m not intimidating.

Once in a while a stranger (a woman) will ask me about a certain exercise I’m doing. I’ll take the headphones out of my ears, demonstrate, make a self deprecating joke, smile and move on. On the gym floor, I’m not exactly good at making friends. My music is too loud for me to usually hear, I’m running to each machine or weight between sets, and I’ve seen myself- I look crazy and intense. Usually the women I’m watching (that sounds creepier than it is, I promise), the women I admire, look similar. They’re not at the gym for social hour- they’re there to work. Their time is as limited as mine, and although their health is important to them, they clearly have other places to be. They are usually sweating as much as I am, if not more- they are pushing themselves.

If I’m feeling bold, I say something to them between sets. Something like, “You’re a rock star” or “You’re awesome” is about as creative as I get without sounding creepy. But I mean it. As insecure as I am (especially at the gym), I think it’s important to encourage the women I admire. The trainers aren’t coming over to us to comment on our mad skills (they’re busy with the oompa loompa showing off her cleavage). The other women aren’t exactly complimentary. In a society (and this particular gym) where women are supposed to be “competitive,” when we encourage one another, it’s validating. I’m not saying we all need validation from strangers, but by that same token, it’s not like our kids are thanking us for being strong. And, strangely enough, after I say something to them, I don’t feel intimidated. Instead, I want to go push myself to try a new exercise or to bump weights.

By the time I’ve made it to the nursery to pick up my little guy, I’m usually smiling (dripping with sweat, but still smiling). After a good workout and an effort to be nice, I feel softer and less testosterone-y. It’s usually the days that I go to the gym and work like a man that I feel most feminine. The strength I’ve tested, the intimidation I’ve quelled, and the encouragement I’ve doled out- those are all part of what “being a woman” is all about.

Up next: I have no idea. You should suggest something in the comments! 😀 Seriously.