Why Moms Aren’t Meant to Exercise…Ever.

I just got done with a workout, and I need to rant.  Bad.  I am going to have a heart attack if I don’t.  Let me start off by saying this: I am FAT.  Not fluffy, or filled out, not even thick.  I am fat.  Blobbo, lardo, gross.

The irony is, I have been working really hard to get my diet in order.  I have been following the Primal Blueprint Diet.  I have eliminated grains, increased my veggies, proteins, and fats. You know what?  I have never packed on more weight in my life!  I mean, like, light speed weight.  Fat dripping down my gut, and backs of my legs like never before in my life. While others look thin, glorious and ripped following the diet, I am a total FAIL.  What. The. Heck.

So, to counteract all this blob, I have started working out again.  Again.  Again.  Blah, blah, blah. Again.  This is my problem:  kids. My kids.  My OCD, don’t take no for an answer, screaming, fighting kids.  Wow. Starting to feel better already.

When I work out I have to give the two little ones an activity to do.  It has to be so knockyoursocksofffun that it keeps them in their room for an hour.  After placating them with nuclear devices, and Kool Aid, I run to the living room to do my nice,butt kicking, yet relaxing, pseudo-yoga routine.  I start the DVD, then like an unwritten rule I immediately have to pee my pants.  Bathroom break, back to routine.  Ten minutes in, the kids are bored, having blown up the back half of the house. (Literally, with toys)  They begin to run in, and I yell “Get Out!”.  They cry and run out.  Then they sneak in, covered under a blanket.  I yell again.  One will scream from the back of the house, “MOM!”  “MOM!”  “MOM” until I scream “WHAAAAAAAT?”  “I really need to talk to you!!!!!”


“I need to talk to you!”

“About WHAT?”

“I need to talk to you!”

“Get in here and talk to me then!!”

Comes in, smiles, “What are you doing?”

“GET OUT!!!!!!!”

After 30 minutes I give up and let them watch me.  For a moment they are cute.  Mimicking me.  Then they begin pulling out DVDs, spilling drinks, pooping their pants, hitting eachother, getting in my face.  When I finally end my last breaths of that were supposed to be restoration for the day, I want to jump up and beat everyone.

One hour to work out.  That’s all I ask.  I am supposed to be this fit, muscular, hairless, attractive creature for my husband and all the world.  But doesn’t the world understand that my kids won’t let me????  I wake up to kids in my face, I go to bed with kids in my face.  I get a brief reprieve when I move them to their beds, but they always come back!!!  Do they not understand that sleeping on a half-inch ledge in the bed night after night is driving me CRAZY!!! ?

I know that one day, they will not want anything to do with me.  Sure, I will long for these days of annoyance and perplexity like the halcyon days of my youth.  But right now, I am ticked.  Daddy gets daddy time, kids get kid time, Mommy gets interrupted AGAIN time.  Even as I type this, they are in my face, humming and playing with cords.  Lord, Help Me, Please!


>I Whip My Hair…

>I’m gonna go there about a few things. Hold on tight. It’s gonna get serious. We gotta do this ladies. It’s time.

I went and got my hair trimmed yesterday. I got me some bangs! I feel all Joan Jett. So rock AND roll! I have not been able to get in touch with the lovely lady who usually tames my locks. (Lela! Where are you???) Being in a serious time crunch before the move and holiday, I popped into Great Clips. Oh, I did it. I did it.

Before I found Lela, I used to go to Fantastic Sam’s. After getting my hair butchered about 12 different times. (What can I say? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome. I must be friggin nuts.) That brings me to my first blurt out.

I BELIEVE that if you are a stylist, you do hair, are a hair technician, or you just run a pair of clippers over a scalp every once in awhile, YOUR hair should look dang good.

Even if I am going to the cheapest place on earth, I want to feel confident that SOMEONE knows how to use scissors. I used to have a pretty fail safe method for getting a decent hair cut. I would look around the place and find the girl with the cutest hair and make sure I was next in line for her chair. Now, that does not EVEN work. Hey, you went to school to learn all the latest techniques. I didn’t. So why is it that even I know that if you have black hair, the white streaks in it should not be pee-pee yellow? They should be more white-ish. No?? Or, the guys and gals who cut hair in 2010, but their hair screams 1989?

(There is a guy in town who runs his own salon and has more feathers in his hair than Farrah did in her famous red swimsuit photo!)

Better yet, the girls who have at least six different hair cuts and colors in one, showcasing all the cuts they learned in beauty college. Why would they not want to show off amazing locks that their clients would die to have??

I also would like to know why they let women under the age of sixty come in and get the SAME haircut for several decades. If it were me, I would say “Honey, your hair is tired of this look. It’s time to move on.”

That brings me to my second blurt. This one cuts me real deep. Real deep. I am as guilty of it as everyone else.

I BELIEVE that women should change their hairstyle….OFTEN. Why do we cling to a look that got us compliments years ago, but now it just dates and ages us? NoONE should have a signature hairstyle. I am not Jennifer Aniston, Carol Channing, or Phyllis Diller.
Even though I can’t stand it, I still do it!!! I cut my hair then I let it grow back to the same long blob. Then I bob it, then the long blob comes right back.

I’ve decided never to do that again. What prompted this decision? I saw a post about MOM HAIR. Much like MOM JEANS, there is a hairstyle that moms get. Especially new moms. It’s the two toned bob that is cropped up high in the back and is in an A-line down to the chin. I cringed when I read about it, because it was the exact hair cut I got after I had Gideon. I thought it was so hip. Pair it with a diaper bag and mini van, and you got it. MOM HAIR.

Rant Over. Thoughts?