Oh, fresh air. We missed you.

Seriously?  We went to the park for a little over two hours today and it WRECKED us.  It was sunny after 1 pm for the first time since last fall.  And it was over 45 degrees.  And Ella woke up early which means she napped early which means she was awake by 1:30 pm which means we'd have enough time to spend at the park before it gets dark at 4 pm.  See, there are a lot of factors that have to happen just so in order for us to hit the park on a weekday.  If Ella sleeps in past 8:00, she doesn't go down for a nap until after lunch.  And that lands us at home base until she wakes up.  If she gets the early nap and goes down for the count at 11 am or earlier, we have all afternoon.  But, it's Seattle.  And if the sun comes out in the AM, you can be sure it'll be gone and overcast with scattered showers in the PM.  We can never get all factors to line up- PM sun, Ella's early nap, no other prior engagements, temps above frozen fingers- in the winter.  Until today.  And HoLy CoW did it wreck us. 

We drove to the Pirate Park (not it's actual name but the name given by Breckin therefore it shall always be called that) around 1:45.  Lightweight coats cause we almost got sunburnt walking home from the bus.  Yeah, we're pasty like that.  Breckin pushed his cheetah button on his jacket and ran full speed to the swings.  You'd have to know him to know that 1) I'm not kidding about that and b) The buttons change daily. 

We did some of this

And a little of this

And Breckin taught Ella how to slide like this

And Ella wore her sassy pants like this

And said very grown up things like No No and Rawr and Bye Bye.  And the most important thing?  She left her shoes and socks on!!!  For the first time in her life, she didn't rip her shoes and/or socks off the minute she could reach her feet.  Yay Ella! 

You'll just have to check the photos tab to see the rest otherwise this blog could go on forever.  We played pooh sticks.  Google it.  We danced on a tree stump.  We made a very small tree fort and all fit inside.  We chased birds.  We swang and swung and swinged.  For an hour and fifteen minutes we swinged.  We went down slides and up slides and fell in the wet woodchips and ate them.  We froze our fingers and necks cause it turns out the park which is in the woody area is shaded and therefore not sunburn status like our front porch and our lightweight jackets and no gloves was a bad idea but we didn't care for two hours cause we were breathing fresh air DAMMIT.

And now?  Now we are wrecked.  Ella was out like a trout by 7:30 and I fell asleep with her in the rocker while she was chowing on her milk.  Breckin is a disaster.  He was SOOO good at the park and left nicely and used great words and was nice to all the kids and now his daddy is getting the brunt of that.  He fell apart when his sister took his green plastic sunglasses out of his drawer.  He crumpled on the floor when he found out it was hair wash night.  He had a slight meltdown when his bandaid fell off and he discovered wrinkly bandaid skin on his finger and it felt different and he doesn't like different.  He is wrecked with a capital WRECK.  But DAMMIT we got fresh air.  And it felt SO NICE.

A Letter to No One

Dear Zumba,

I heart you.  I love how nervous I was to start going to your classes but five minutes into the very first one, I remembered the feeling of dancing like this.  Zumba, you bring back my memories of the Valhalla at 12:45 am circa 2001 as well as my memories of The Club Bellevue Solid Gold Dancers way back in 1998.  I'm pretty sure I haven't shook my a$$ like I do in your class without some liquid courage EVER and the fact that I can now do this two times a week, makes me proud.   

The Zumba Gods have given me your best instructor, Jessica.  She is a mom like me and she doesn't show up with a body by Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.  She shows up with a real woman's body and can shimmy like no one's business.  We blast Shakira, Black Eyed Peas, random tribal African drum beats, and a myriad of FAST, reggae-inspired, slightly-flamenco-dancerish rhythms that would make Snooki pump her Jersey little fist til she fell down. 

I am literally dripping sweat half way into my Zumba boogies and I LOVE it.  I hate running.  I semi-despise Step aerobics class.  I hate boot camp type stuff.  I want to work out and not know I'm working out.  Zumba, I heart you the most cause I have gone from still wearing maternity clothes in February to wearing a SIZE 6 today.  Size 6.  Last week I was a size 8.  I could give a crap about the weight number behind it cause as long as I feel good in my clothes, I'm happy.  Granted, this size 6 pant is not from Abercrombie or American Eagle for people with no hips or rear end.  This is a mom-cut, natural-waist, roomy in the seat, Cutter & Buck size 6 but I'll take it. 

Zumba, I love you.  Sometimes, when we dance, I feel like Baby when she's walking down that white fence wearing her oh-so-cute denim shorts and doing a dance all by herself.  I find myself humming the Zumba tunes in the shower and washing my hair while salsaing.  I wish each and every one of my girlfriends could meet you and fall in love like I have.  I will forever be grateful to you, Zumba, for giving me back my body and filling me with the confidence that only dancing and sweating-your-face-off exercise can.  I look forward to Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings and only wish I could go more than that.       

Til next time,
Holly

BFL 2010

It seems like my life is surrounded by weight-loss lately. Do you watch Biggest Loser? My co-workers and I lovingly call it BFL. Big Frickin Losers. I don't know why- I'm sure Joe started it and we all just continued it. Anyway, long story short, we are doing our own version of BFL in our department. It's only for 30 days but it was a great excuse to jumpstart my IWillRegainControlOfMyBodyAfterThisBabyIfItDamnNearKillsMe phase in life. Don't get me wrong- I'm down 30 lbs since Nov 28th 2009 and I, honestly, could care less about my number. Like a contestant said on last week's episode- a 2 lb loss doesn't define me. It doesn't matter what I lose each week. It matters how much better I feel. I didn't even know my number until I "weighed in" yesterday. I was glad to see I'd lost some poundage but what feels better is pulling out my bin of clothes from my last after-child body-shrinking episode and fitting in some of them. All I really care about is how my clothes fit. Vain, right?

Unfortunately, now I have to care about the number. This friendly competition is solely based on percentage lost and to know that, I have to track my number. It's not cute. It's not fun. And, competition is steep. I am determined to beat my boss at something. We compete on a daily basis- usually we bet on reality show outcomes (keep your opinions to yourselves!). And he wins most of the time. I have motivation now: summer is coming, I need to get back into shape anyway, the gym is right across the street, everyone around me is body-conscious, and I WANT TO WIN. Damn it. Ella's back meat is cute. Mine is not. (wink, wink, J.) So, game on.