The Triumphant Return

Today is day FOUR. The fourth day of my triumphant return...to my treadmill. My last child was kind enough to saddle me with ten extra pounds that she didn't take with her when she made her blessed exit from my body. Yes, yes, I know. In Hollywood I would have been back to my pre-pregnancy size on some magazine cover in a bikini without so much as a whiff of a strech mark two weeks later. Hey ladies, Photoshop is an amazing thing. I, however, live in the real world where what my body looks like has nothing to do with my job, and thank you God for that. As I was not a stick figure to begin with, after the birth of my third child I didn't feel an immediate and pressing need to become that once again. Unfortunately, the time has now arrived. I have become tired of my extra weight and clothes that don't fit. So we are about to break up. I hope it's a quick one. Oh, who am I kidding? It will be a long, drawn out, messy affair just like it was the last time. After all these years, the one thing I know about my body is this: I can lose weight, as much as I want, if and only if I am willing to WORK at it. Diet, schmiet. I have to MOVE.
After my twins were born, I lost 60 pounds. I had gained 40, so I was pretty pleased with that. I saw a friend who told me that I looked good (no one ever gets tired of hearing that) and then the inevitable question. "How did you do it?' "An hour on the treadmill at a 10 incline at least six days a week." "OH. Well, I don't want to do that! I thought maybe you were taking something." Yeah, well, here's the thing. I didn't WANT to do it either. I just hated being fat more that I hated that treadmill.
I love how the breastfeeding proponents tell you that you should nurse your baby in order to lose weight. It burns so many extra calories! I am here to put a stop to that nasty little rumor. Sorry, girls. With unwavering, slightly psychotic, bulldog-with-a-bone determination, I managed to breastfeed my third child for 13 months. I STILL have plenty of extra pounds left to lose, and I'd never been so hungry in my life. Maybe that's what happened, making milk just made me feel like I was starving, so I made sure to eat more. I dunno. But my plan to let her suck me down until I looked like an old dairy cow with her hip bones sticking out was a miserable failure.
My husband can tell me that men love curves and Marilyn Monroe was a size 12 all he wants. Marilyn doesn't have to squeeze her ass into my jeans. Not only that, but I enjoy breathing while wearing my clothes. Now after three kids, I'm under no illusions about the fact that I'm not ever going to look like my friend Taiga who's all buff and runs marathons for fun. If you've ever given birth to more than one child at a time, you're going to have "wobbly bits" that aren't going away without help from a surgeon. If you see a woman who has given birth to twins or triplets with rock hard abs and no loose skin, she's either got a really great doctor or a great pair of Spanx. Hey, I'm into the truth.
My knees are already complaining. Just this morning my left knee said, "Woman, are you crazy? We don't run. I am for walking and very occasional bending. Keep that in mind or I will make your life miserable. You have been warned." But I am sore in all of the places I despise. So perhaps we are headed in the right direction. Pre-baby weight, here I come. Slowly. With a limp. I'm sure my horses will thank me later.     

My Macho Car, Part Deux

As with anything I write, immediately after I posted yesterday's entry, I began to think of all the things I left out. OK, fine. My husband started pointing out all the things I left out. I forgot to share that my mother's very favorite part of driving a truck as opposed to a car was the ability to run over the curb. She took great joy in this, as do I from time to time. It's just fun. If you've never tried it, I highly recommend it. Just make sure you're in a truck. Fiberglass spoilers on cars do not take kindly to running over the curb. Ask my T Bird.
My mother also shared my "I'm bigger than you and I will run your ass over" attitude when driving a truck. It's the prevailing thought in my mind when some chick in a Mini or a teeny tiny Beemer pulls out in front of me. I could drive over the top of your car without looking back. I win. Having spent a lot of time in a boat as a kid, I was taught early that bigger is righter.
Speaking of bigger, not only did Arnold look tough, he was tough! I'm pretty sure that truck saved my life coming home from Memphis one day. I was cruising along about 70 miles an hour when the tiny Japanese POS in front of me blew a tire. I'm not sure whether the driver jerked it left, or it just went that way on its own. I moved over trying to avoid her just as she swerved into my lane. She hit the right rear corner of my truck, popping my tire and pushing me off into the median before hitting the end of the bridge we were on. Going from asphalt to grass at 70 mph is not an experience I wish to repeat. Add to that the torrent of CD's raining down on my head from the sun visor, and I wasn't sure which end was up for a few minutes. The happy ending was this: had it not been for my flat tire, I could have driven my truck home. I didn't have a scratch. The Elantra and its driver were not so lucky. If you wonder someday why my kids drive a tank, wonder no more.
Adding to the appeal of my macho car is its ability to drive in places other than on the road. My kids are intimately acquainted with the phrase, "Hang on, girls, we're going cross country!" Four wheel drive (or as my hubby likes to call it "fo tire pull")  is the best thing ever invented. I think it ought to come standard on all vehicles.
These days I drive a three quarter ton, four wheel drive piece of American ingenuity. Okay fine, it's not all twisted steel and sex appeal, but it does look tough for a grocery getter. So far, the crowning achievements for my current Suburban "Mighty Whitey" have been his rescue skills. (Hey, I have three little girls. We name everything.) When I told my husband I was writing a post about my macho cars, he said, "Hey Babe, you used your three quarter ton grocery getter to pull out a TRACTOR that was stuck in the arena yesterday. Now how many women can say that?" Duly noted. 

My Macho Car

I drive a macho car. No dainty Lexus or Mercedes with leather for me. I made the move from my green Thunderbird to a 1/2 ton pickup truck when I was in vet school and never looked back. I eventually wore out the truck, which was a company hand me down from my dad, and traded it in when it had over 200,000 miles on it. I left the lot in a shiny new Ford Expedition, which I admit was rather an odd choice, as we had no children at the time. As I'm sure happens more often than people would like to admit, I immediately fell out of love with my new car. I hated the way it handled in the rain, and the last straw was when I called my husband on a trip home from Memphis. I was pulling my horse trailer.

Me: Something's wrong with my truck!
Him: What? Why? What's it doing?
Me: I'm trying to get up this hill. I've got my foot on the floor and the stupid thing won't go any faster.
Him: Pull over and let's swap. Let me drive it for awhile.
Me: Gladly.
Ten miles down the road, he called me back.
Him: There's nothing wrong with your truck.
Me: What? Yes there is!
Him: Nope. You got too much trailer and not enough truck. That's the whole problem.

Then and there, I declared that I would never have another 1/2 ton truck again. Ever. Not long after that, he took me to the Dodge dealership, where I picked out an awesome, slightly used 3/4 ton Dodge 4 wheel drive truck. Four doors, chicken lights, chrome running boards...the only word for that truck was "sexy." I was in love with a vehicle again. More than once, men pulled up next to me and looked shocked when they realized a woman was driving. I had never had a vehicle make me feel so good when I drove it. I felt strong, tough, invincible. I'm still convinced that a small corner of my soul is a teenage boy.
I happily drove my truck, which I nicknamed "Arnold" after the Terminator, back and forth to Tennessee every week to my first job after vet school. It really did attract an inordinate amount of attention from men. Total strangers offered to help load my groceries at Sam's. More than one said something to the effect that they liked to see such a small woman drive such a big truck. (File that away, single ladies. You're welcome.) I didn't even let it bother me when one of the ladies where I worked suggested that as a woman who was a vet with short hair, driving a truck like that made me have a "lesbian" vibe. I'm not sure where that came from, because I never had any women flirt with me when I drove by. At least not that I knew about.
But alas, my love affair with Arnold ended when I got pregnant with twins. A friend who was also a MOM informed me that there was no way I could possibly survive as the mother of two babies without a Suburban. So I reluctantly passed Arnold on to my husband and became the proud owner of a "family car."
As luck would have it, my upgrade was just the opposite. It was in the shop no less than seven times during my pregnancy, once even stranding me on the side of the road. It HAD to go.
As is often the case when you make decisions in a hormone based fog, my next car decision was a definite mistake. We traded the Suburban for a Dodge Charger, which barely had a backseat. I did LOVE to drive it, though. One trip to Texas with our babies and we realized we had really messed up. My husband ended up driving it on his commute to Memphis until we sold it.
Once again, I found myself driving a Suburban, this time purchased from a doctor who was going to trade it in on a new one. "Old Blue" was a great car. Everything that you could possibly do to a car had already been done to it by the previous owner's four kids. When my girls spilled something, I didn't even turn around. However, when it suddenly decided that I didn't need to back up, anyway, we had to trade it in. Just going forward might seem great for all those motivational speakers out there, but I often find that I really do need to travel in reverse sometimes.
These days, I'm on my third Suburban, a white 3/4 ton four wheel drive. Remember when I said I'd never drive another half ton truck? I meant that crap. The other night, I was on the way to meet my husband at a roping when he called me and sent me after horn wraps for the roping steers. I drove to a friend's house, pulled out into the pasture and up to the arena. I located the sand covered wraps which were lying all over the ground, and headed to the car. I opened the back door and took a quick inventory. Red top blood collection tubes, a box of syringes, needles, a couple of different glass medicine bottles, a roadside emergency kit, a pound or so of arena dirt, and a stroller. I tossed in the wraps and thought yep, it's a good thing I don't drive some girly city car. It would never survive my family. So to the lady in her Lexus that looks down her nose at me in the carpool line at school, your car wouldn't last a day and a half at my house, and it couldn't pull my horse trailer down the street. I drive what I drive because I want to, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

My Children's Shoes

Children's shoes are the bane of my existence. On a completely primal level, I despise children's shoes. They never fit, which no one bothers to tell me until approximately 30 seconds before we have to walk out the door. That is, if they can find them. I once spent a solid hour searching for a pair of shoes that I finally located. In the dining room. A completely logical location for a pair of church shoes.
Judging by the shoes, our back porch looks like forty-seven people live here. Everyone but me has at least two pairs of boots or shoes out there, and some have three. This is only because after politely asking the short people to please remove their shoes before coming in after they've played in the arena sand, mom had a complete crazy woman screaming fit. I'm pretty sure that fire came out of my eyes at some point. It must have made a lasting impression, however. Only once in the last few weeks have I had to bust someone for wearing dirty boots in my house. It is worth pointing out that when I did bust them with boots on, they were upstairs! They had to use the bathroom, and there was a spider in the guest bathroom. I'm not sure what was wrong with the other one they walked right past.
The people I really can't stand are the manufacturers of kids' shoes. A size 11 is never the same size 11. One pair of shoes marked a size 13 is EXACTLY the same size as another pair marked size 10.
As a general rule at my house, the more I pay for a pair of shoes, the less my kids like them. Maybe that should be my criteria when I'm shoe shopping. No, we can't buy these. They cost too much. You'll hate them. I own two beautiful, spotless pairs of Pediped sandals. The reason they are spotless is because, even after multiple assurances to the contrary while in the store, my kids have NEVER worn them. Apparently once they crossed the threshold of our home, they underwent a transformation from cute sandals to itchy, uncomfortable torture devices. Instead, my kids much prefer a $5 pair of Children's Place flip flops. Because those look SO much better with their outfit.
The one exception my kids will make to the cheap shoes rule is their boots. My daughter can pick out the most expensive pair of boots in a store in thirty seconds or less. I'm going, "Look! These Old West boots are so cute! You're only going to wear them about two weeks before you outgrow them. Let's get these."
Invariably, we leave the store with two pairs of $60 Ariats instead. Again, these are the only expensive footwear they prefer, and they show them absolutely NO mercy.
I hate children's shoes with shoestrings. When I informed my kids that in order to wear the $50 pair of Skechers they just had to have, they would have to learn to tie their shoes, one of them looked at me and said, in all seriousness, "Can't we just wear shoes with Velcro?" Yes, and rubber pants, too! Maybe you could just wear Pull Ups and skip that whole bathroom business.
I have returned the same two pairs of my baby's shoes a total of three times. Twice because they were the wrong size (see the whole 10/13 thing in the first paragraph) and once because the two shoes that I had were NOT the same size. They were both marked size 6, but in one shoe my baby's toe was right where it needed to be, and in the other it was hanging off the end. It was loads of fun trying to explain, on my third trip, why I was there to exchange a pair of shoes for the exact same size. Not that the girl behind the counter cared. I think I could have said I wanted to exchange them because their chi was bad and she would have nodded and kept punching buttons. No kidding, I thought I was at the airport for a second. I really think she pushed every single button on that register at least twice.
The only thing I hate more than my kids' shoes is stepping over their shoes. If you ever hear that I've broken my neck, you can bet it was because I tripped over a pair of freaking shoes. My number one, enforceable by cruel and unusual punishment rule is that when you take off your shoes, you put them in the laundry room. After the second or third reminder of the day to PICK UP your shoes, I begin to examine the flip flops in my hand and assess their potential as a weapon. They couldn't really do that much damage, could they?

Facebook

I want to begin by saying that I love Facebook. It opens doors and creates wonderful opportunities for personal communication and business growth. That said, it also provides people out there with a platform to show the world what idiots they are. I'm not just talking about misspelled words and grammatical errors here. Goodness knows there are plenty of those out there. THEY'RE going to THEIR house, which is over THERE in Mississippi. YOU'RE not going to believe YOUR eyes when you see it! I could go on. I find errors in magazines for fun. Wait, who am I kidding? I haven't actually read a magazine in years. A quick flip through and half of one article is all that my kids will allow.
I think anyone who's ever taught the English language to a group of students would be horrified by what they saw on Facebook, or maybe they would have proof that their students actually learned something. I guess it could work both ways. My particular pet peeve with Facebook is my young friends. Yes, yes, I know. I could simply ignore their friend requests or block them. Here's the thing: if I did that, it's like telling them, "I don't want to be your friend on Facebook because I'd like to be vulgar and use explicit language. I'd also like to laugh at and share highly inappropriate photos that I wouldn't let my own kids see with 600 or so of my closest friends. But I'll sit across from you at church on Sunday and pretend that I'm a good role model."
It really does put me in a difficult position. Because sometimes I really DO want to be vulgar and use explicit language. Picture with me, if you will, Yosemite Sam in that cartoon where he had to keep from losing his temper or he wouldn't get his inheritance. Every few minutes he had to run into the other room, slam the door, and go totally frickin crazy or his head would explode. I am intimately acquainted with this emotion. I have to exercise that option often. I just try not to do it on Facebook. Sometimes I slip. We all do. But I try not to make a habit of contaminating young minds if I can help it. Which leads me to ask the question: Can't we just leave the "F" word out of some awesome ecards????? I SO want to share some of these and I can't. Plus, I'm friends with my dad and some older people I've known forever. I can't have them thinking I'm a potty mouth! That would never do. Those of you who know otherwise, you just keep your @#%!mouths shut. I know stuff about you, too.
I was just talking with one of my friends last night about her frustration at not being able to share the highly hysterical and wholly inappropriate pictures she saw yesterday because she knew it would offend some of her FB friends. She has the dreaded FB filter. I can sympathize with her, because I have it, too. Some people simply refer to it as being an adult.
Which brings me to my next point. Children do not have a FB filter, which is why it is not a good idea to let them have a freaking FB account! Yes, I understand that some adults are lacking this filter as well, particularly those in the college age range. They are on their own. I'm just trying to point out that while it might seem like a good idea right now to post that picture of you doing body shots on the bar at the Florabama, in ten years it might seem like a really BAD idea. If there are 1600 pictures of you with your friends and a drink in your hand online, it might give people the wrong idea. People who check you out when you apply for a job at the church day care. News flash: Christians know how to use Google and Facebook, too! It's hard to convince a boss that you are a studious, hard-working employee when all he can find online is pictures of you funneling a beer.
This brings me to my other major point about Facebook. And this one doesn't just apply to teens. For those of you who don't automatically know: ANYTHING YOU PUT ON FACEBOOK FOR 600 OR SO OF YOUR CLOSEST FRIENDS TO READ IS NO LONGER "PRIVATE!" A young friend of mine got angry the other night because someone went and told her mother something she put on Facebook. To which I say: YOU PUT IT ON FACEBOOK! You essentially broadcast that crap to everyone you know! And some people you don't know. Because let's face it, girls, even if you share something with "only" your friends, what's to stop them from sharing it with their friends or showing it to someone else? That's how you get stupid statuses and pictures with 50,000 "likes!" It's not just because somebody decided to share it with 50,000 of their closest friends! All I'm saying is please use your head. Divorced people, if you want to trash your spouse, do it somewhere else. Because two married people couldn't possibly have any of the same FB friends. And nobody would ever show that to your kids... If you put it out there for people to read, it is no longer private information. It's something you chose to share...with everyone you've ever known.

Adult ADD

My husband accuses me of having adult Attention Deficit Disorder. He also, like most men, doesn't recognize my fantastic multitasking abilities. He seems to think that I can't look at Facebook on my phone or type on my computer and listen to him at the same time. Which is entirely possible; however, the smart aleck in me can't help but point out that he SAW me sitting here doing something before he started trying to talk to me! And I wondered where my kids got that from...
Anyway, back to my ADD. I am not the same person I was before I became a mother. A high school classmate and I have agreed that our children come into our rooms while we sleep and suck our brains out of our ears through a straw. In addition to that, I would like to share with you just what goes into the writing of a post for this blog.
While walking into the kitchen, I glanced at my watch and saw that I had approximately 30 minutes before I needed to get the children ready for swimming lessons. Perfect! I headed to the computer. As soon as I sat down, our one indoor/outdoor cat started yelling at me through the window. I got up to let her in, then on my way through the kitchen I realized that the counter was full of dirty dishes. I loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. Back to my office. I sat down, read at least one pointless news story on the front page of AOL, and then switched over to Blogger. I typed the title of my post. The baby showed up and demanded that I turn on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, or else. That ought to buy me a few minutes. Thank you, Lord, for a DVR. I returned to my computer, and typed approximately two sentences.
One of my older children popped in and informed me that she was ready for breakfast. While fixing her breakfast, I heard the washer cut off. I unloaded and reloaded it, then came back to the office. Again. I found my train of thought at the bottom of a ravine. It was in a crumpled, steaming pile near where it had derailed. I typed a little more, two entire paragraphs this time, and the baby strolled back in. I knew from the green cloud following her that I was about to be interrupted yet again. Sigh. On the way into the bedroom I noticed how dirty my bathroom was. Bathroom counter cleaned and diaper changed, I was back at it. Until the short people showed up. Was it time for swimming lessons yet? Oh, crap. Yes, yes it was.
And with that, my post was finished. So do I have ADD? I don't know. People just KEEP ON interrupting me. Maybe I could focus on one thing for hours at a time. Who knows? I'd love to have the opportunity to try! I'm thinking that if I do have ADD, it's totally my kids' fault. The baby is back, yelling, "I want to hold you, Mommy!" I give up.   

The Family That Snake Hunts Together, Stays Together.

I like to think that I have lived a pretty full life. I have been to school, loved and been loved by a horse, traveled, rodeoed, and run barrels all over the country, gotten married and given birth to three healthy children. But last night, I found myself doing something I had never done before. I went snake hunting. With my family. I'm not sure, but I think this qualifies as an entry for the Redneck Wikipedia.
Allow me to share some background information. Those of you who know me are aware that I do NOT do snakes. I'm not saying, "I don't like snakes." I'm saying, "I will cause you bodily harm without a second thought in order to get away from a snake." I'm not "afraid" of snakes. I have a deep-seated, molecular level, hard wired, can't help it, Garden-of-Eden FEAR of snakes. I don't think they're slimy. I don't think they want to hurt me. I just don't want to see them. Ever. I don't want to look at one, I don't want to touch one, and I sure as hell don't want to hold one. Every nightmare I've ever had was about snakes. Okay, almost every one. I've had at least a few drowning or falling ones. But mostly, I'm walking along and suddenly the whole ground is covered with snakes. Somebody out there analyze that crap and tell me what it means.
When I was in veterinary school, I was forced to complete a rotation that put me in a room with snakes every day. It NEVER got any easier for me. My heart raced and I felt like I couldn't catch my breath the entire time. When the instructor explained that each of us would take turns caring for the animals on this rotation, I flatly told him that I was going to fail. Fortunately, one of my classmates took pity on me and made sure I got to graduate. My personal goal for the rotation was to touch one of the snakes. It never happened. One of my teachers said I was an animal racist because I told him that I planned to refuse treatment for snakes in my practice. To which I say, can you put that on a t-shirt for me? Call me whatever you want. I'm still scared of snakes, and I don't see me getting over it any time soon.
So, armed with this knowledge, you might ask yourself, why in the hell was I out purposely looking for something I'm so freaking afraid of? I was asking myself the same question. Honestly, I couldn't tell you. We got done riding last night about dusk, and as I was heading back to the barn, I saw two snakes crossing the lake and leaving a wake that you wouldn't believe. My babysitter's fiance has been picking them off one at a time while fishing here lately, but there are obviously some left.
When I told my husband what I had seen, one of my five year olds practically yelled, "Oooooh, Daddy, can we go snake hunting?" Yes, my little redneck children. Why not? So he loaded a German Shepherd, snake-fearing wife, three kids, and a .22 into the Ranger and off we went, complete with Corgi escort times two. We rode around the lake at a snail's pace, with my husband saying, "I need a spotlight" about 1200 times. Guess we all know what he's getting for Christmas. If that's not a redneck gift, I don't know what is. I'm sure it was a terrible oversight on Jeff Foxworthy's part when he left it out of the "Redneck Twelve Days of Christmas" song.
In my mind I was thinking, there's no way in the world we're gonna see a snake with this circus. I have to say that I was secretly hoping we didn't. And the crazy thing is, we DID! We saw two and killed one, with my three kids screaming, "SHOOT IT, DADDY! SHOOT IT!" It was awesome. For a second I thought we were in an episode of "Swamp People."
Yep, it was all pretty surreal. Found myself doing something I NEVER thought I would do. Definitely not something I ever did with my parents. I can officially mark "snake hunting" off my Bucket List. I'm fairly certain it wasn't even on there. Oh, wait, I don't even have one of those. I'll have to make that a project for another day. I guess the family that snake hunts together stays together!