Worth the break

Ten weeks away. This is like starting over.

And man, have I been busy not folding laundry while stepping away from my Internet addiction. I have been busy doing other things though, you know, because I have two kids both going through their own version of the Terrible Two's. Josie's trying to catch up on all the temper tantrums she didn't throw over the last year and Charlotte is keeping pace in order to be done with this nonsense by the time she actually reaches 2.

I can't complain much because compared to other kids, mine are relatively low-key and easily calmed. Like last night. We got ready to sit down for dinner and, as is my norm, I refilled the girl's milk cups. Josie insisted she didn't want more, so I just put a splash in to make sure she'd have enough for dinner. Oh the tears! You'd think I tore the head off her favorite stuffed animal and laughed about it in front of her. The fight was on, and I really didn't have much fight left in me (and what parent does at 6:30 p.m.). She was angry enough about it she refused to eat. She didn't want any macaroni salad, not even the eggs — which, as everyone knows, is every child's favorite part of any cold salad.

Superhero Mom took over, swooped down and guzzled that splash of milk and all was forgiven in the land of Temper Tantrumville. Seriously. I drank the little bit of extra I gave her and she was happier than a dog with a new bone, ate her dinner and went on for a fairly calm night. The whole incident lasted maybe three minutes.

Even the Boy shook his head, amazed that the only thing she wanted was no extra milk. I don't know where she gets this strong willed thing from ... nope, not a clue.


I'm far from an awesome mom, but fixing the little problems I occasionally excel at and it makes me feel right with parenthood. It doesn't happen often. This job is hard and there's rarely a moment when someone on the outside of my little sanctum actually understands the frustration that can come with it unless they're wearing a similar pair of tattered up shoes.

Maybe that's why I'm happy to have a place to go and get shit off my mind. Maybe that's why I stopped feeling guilty for dropping my kids in their respective rooms at the YMCA and bolting out the door as quick as possible so I could change into my running shoes and get that physical release.

Now that I'm getting my health more under control with the regular exercise, I've started to remember how much I loved to sweat as a teen. I never left a volleyball practice without needing a shower, rarely did I help in the garden and flower beds without needing a dry shirt or dip in the pool after. I've started gauging my progress on the elliptical by how soaked my T-shirt is, which is disgusting, but it works for me. Like I said, physical release.

Writing used to be the only thing that helped clear my mind, but even doing that — doing this — started feeling like a broken record.

The two and a half month break from here was an unexpected relief. Too much of my time was spent wondering why no one posted comments or became a "follower." Obsessively checking to see if anyone gave a shit about what I wrote started taking over and I needed to shut it down, so I took time to reflect, to worry about getting the garden planted and the spare bedroom cleaned. The conversation about moving started moving forward. The longer conversation about what we need to to do here in order to move began. Fearing the unknown has subsided a little.

Moving forward from here physically and emotionally — because I loathe and crave change at the same time — is taking longer than I thought it would, but in the end it's about healing and three times a week lately I throw a tantrum worthy of my inner child, cram six or so miles into a 55 minute workout, sweat it out, pick myself up and carry on.