Our Walk to Remember

Big Brother Badger is a dreamer.  Starting from just an idea or a toy, he will create an entire story and become completely engrossed, intense, an entire world at his feet.  Growing up, I was like that, too.  Where I grew up was perfect-fifteen acres of woods and fields allowed for unlimited potential for imagination.  One day I would be pretending fairies lived amongst the moss and roots around an old tree, the next day I would be telling stories of sea creatures in a creek bed.  I would sit for hours on the gravel driveway, picking out rocks for a collection, or ride my bike in circles thinking up tall tales set in outer space.

The Little Badgers and I visited my parents recently, and the trees are still there.  The creek, the moss, the gravel driveway.  This place is so different from our own house.  The Badger clan lives closer to the hustle and bustle of a big city, where sidewalks and parks replace more secluded places.  When I take the children for walks near our house, I have to be on constant alert to keep them from straying into the path of a car, or near a strange dog, or too far from my side.  On this visit, on our walks, I could let them be free.  Free to play, to run, to disappear for a little while into the woods or behind a tree.  Free to be as I remember feeling as a child.  Free to explore and dream.

Watching the Little Badgers on our walks with Grandma, I saw each child play as if it were part of my own memories: Big Brother running as fast as the wind, arms outstretched and face alight, Little Brother methodically picking just the right stone from the driveway, Baby toddling down the road after the dog.

I find I now look at the woods and fields around my parents' house as if my years of adulthood had not happened.  As if I were a child again, seeing things as my children do.  All the places that beckon to be explored, the stories waiting to be told, the dreams just around the corner.  Familiar and exciting at the same time.  The sounds are the chatter of birds and the crunch of gravel beneath our feet, the brush of tall grass and the swish of dry leaves.  When we step outside on these walks, the air feels uplifting and fresh, almost asking us to look up to the sky instead of down at pavement.

Memory is a funny thing.  I don't know if the Little Badgers will remember everything they saw on these walks.  I don't know if they'll remember looking for deer, or watching for hawks, or jumping in each mud puddle as if it was the first one they had ever seen.  I don't know if they'll remember the smells of the leaves, or walking on a fallen tree, or watching their Mommy laugh with her own mother like best friends.  But I'll remember Big Brother telling me how much he loved being there, of Little Brother asking to carry rocks home as keepsakes, of Baby pointing and clapping at the dog's silly antics.  I'll remember, and be thankful for it.

My orders are to bring milk. In a sippy cup.

I know it.  Daddy River Badger knows it.  The Little Badgers especially know it.  Mommy is a sucker. Want an extra cup of milk?  Ask Mommy.  Too tired to pick up your sock from directly under your chair?  Complain to Mommy.  Got a craving for an animal cracker 15 minutes before dinner?  Mommy's the go-to.  I have to say I didn't come to this after any prior planning on my part; I never set out to be the push-over parent.  All I know is that when those little arms reach up for me, big eyes wide open and wet with tears, little empty tummy growling, I kinda lose my resolve and give in.

 This is not something I take lightly.  I know that it causes tension in my marriage, and can set up for some serious parent-kid confrontations down the road.  I don't want to raise selfish children.  And from DRB's point-of-view, it's no fun being the "bad guy" every time.  Daddy won't allow a sippy cup anymore.  Daddy says just one book.  Daddy will only give out apples for snacks.  Daddy wants his bed back after eight months of co-sleeping.

I think some of that latent frustration came out this morning.  I had gone out to a doctor's visit that was supposed to take all of 45 minutes, and ended up being gone for two-and-a-half hours (waiting, waiting, waiting).  DRB was left in charge of the Little Badgers.  When I walked in the door, I could tell that something was different.  DRB greeted me with the pronouncement that Little Brother Badger had been denied his treasured sippy cup in favor of the big boy variety and Baby had not had her customary bottle of milk.  This seemed to be a slightly passive aggressive way of letting me know that I had been relenting a little too much; these were both steps that we had discussed.  We both know that a three-year-old should be using a regular cup.  Our growing toddler should not be relying on a bottle.  But these things are for comfort, which tugs at my Mommy-heart-strings a bit.

It must be noted that I am not a complete softie.  I inevitably send kids to the "naughty chair" several times a day, I place a high value on respectful behavior, and I have been known to startle my niece and nephew with my "authority" voice (Auntie is more graceful).  But, I see the value in small, childish things.  Baby treasures her bottle as she falls asleep, and when she awakens.  It comforts her.  Little Brother Badger will hold his sippy cup in one hand and twirl his hair in the other.  It comforts him.  I rely on these calming things to get the children through stressful situations like running late during errands, a long car ride, or if they're scared by something.  And, from experience, I know that babyhood habits run their course almost naturally.  Situations change, rituals change, and suddenly things are different.  A sippy cup gives way to a big boy cup as a child emulates his big brother.  A bottle becomes unnecessary as a baby becomes a little girl.  Why rush?

As well-meaning as Daddy River Badger is, I could see that the transition this morning was a little too fast for the Littlest Badgers.  Or maybe I could feel it.  I think that with discipline, and structure, there needs to be a little gentleness too.  Or maybe I'm just a sucker.

Bargaining Positions

There's a familiar dance that happens between myself and Daddy River Badger, especially on weekends, when it comes time for running errands, cleaning, doing yard work, or anything around the house that might benefit from avoiding little "helpers".  The dance begins with a brief survey of the situation, proceeds with a bit of groveling, and then finishes with a flourish of desperate negotiation.  "Would you mind if I...." becomes the start of, at the least, a stressful silence, and at the worst, an argument.

We don't even hold out for the good stuff.  Some time to fool around on Facebook?  A short trip to Starbucks? A really long shower?  Nope.  We get into it for stuff like cleaning the back room.  Fixing the toilet.  Grocery shopping.  Making dinner.  And for all of those things, somehow one person gets "stuck" with the kids and the other person does the chores, and both are angry and frustrated.  Essentially, we would bargain, and no one would win.

But why the desperation in the first place?  Weekends represent a break from the daily grind of the week, for sure, and perhaps the hope of some progress in the chores department.  But why the exclusiveness?  I thought about this the other day while I was looking at my "to-do" list and the three Little Badgers played in the next room.  Truly, attempting to clean something while the children are present can be more of a comedic effort than an actual task, but what made me most guilty was that we assumed that there was no way we could possibly do insert chore here with the kids in tow.  We had given up before really trying.

The past few weeks of being a SAHM have been revelatory in many ways, but the most amazing experiences have involved working with the children, instead of in spite of them.  I actually can, with full Little Badger participation, cook dinner, take down the Christmas decorations, rake leaves, clean the fish tank, do laundry, even take the cat to the vet.  And it's fun!

Yesterday, Baby Badger wanted me to hold her when I was making dinner.  My first impulse was to try to distract her to the other room with a toy, but I threw caution to the winds and set up a little area for her, right next to me, where she could see what I was doing and play with a few measuring cups herself.  We had so much fun together, and the only skin off my back was being extra careful not to let her reach over to the hot stove.  Doing the laundry has always been something that I "had to do when the kids are in bed".  Then, I tried to involve them.  Little Brother Badger and Baby helped put clothes in the washer and press the buttons.  Big Brother helped me fold.  Sure, a few clothes got dropped on the floor, and Baby knocked over the cat water, but it was not nearly the exercise in futility I had been expecting.  Why had I been so eager to keep them out of these activities?  Was the extra work here and there, for me, really that bad?

So, I think we, DRB and I, couldn't see the forest for the trees, so bent on getting things done our way, and as efficiently as possible, we were missing out on opportunities to work together as a family.  It's almost like we were settling for frustration, for an argument, for control of something, instead of reaching for the possibility of inclusiveness, of learning.  I like to think that I'm a good Mom, but I also know I appreciate the on-the-job training.  And I can say I really learned something important here.

The Mom-Voice

Today, I was changing in the locker room after swimming when a Mom walked in with her 5-year-old daughter.  They were hurrying to swim class and were a little late.  The girl knew her right from her left.  She was also a vegetarian, and was wearing a new pair of goggles that they had bought on sale.  How did I know all this, having never met them before or even directly interacted with them?  The lady was using her Mom-Voice.

The Mom-Voice is a very clear, slightly too-loud, authoritative tone used while shepherding young children in public.  I know that I use it practically every day.  It's used to ward off bad behavior by projecting authority to the youngsters.  It's used to indirectly convey to strangers that I am a Good Mommy.  It's used to project to others that I am aware of my children being too loud, or rude, or throwing food and that I am dealing with it.  It can be, depending on the circumstances, slightly abashed, or overly boastful, or breathlessly apologetic.

"Honey, here, put your right foot through your pants...no, your right, your RIGHT.  Heh heh, of course you know your right from your left."
Translation: My child is smart.  (S)he knows right from left, and the alphabet, and numbers.  I am doing my job, dammit.

"Sweetheart, no, we cannot get the chocolate cookies.  We always have something healthy for a snack.  LIKE CARROTS."
Translation: My child is healthy.  I don't feed my kids crap.  I am doing my job, dammit.

"Darling, please say excuse me.  Be respectful.  IT IS IMPORTANT TO BE RESPECTFUL."
Translation: I am sorry.  I am raising a respectful child.  I am doing my job, dammit.

"Baby, I know you are tired, you are doing very well considering it is almost NAP TIME".
Translation: Please don't give me that look.  I had to run this errand.  My child is usually so well-behaved.  I am doing my job, dammit.

When I am using my Mom-Voice, I am usually mostly unaware of it.  I think in the subtext, the hidden meanings, the explanations, meant for strangers.  While I am talking to the Little Badgers, looking at them, I am saying things not for their benefit alone.  The kids already know the score.  They know I'm full of it when I claim to only feed them carrots for a snack; they're holding out for a cracker in the car on the way home.  They know their right from their left; they just are too busy fooling around to help me get their pants on.  The impact of the Mom-Voice really hit home this morning, when I was one of the strangers.  I sensed the subtle plea for approval, the seeking of common understanding.  Maybe I should say I recognized it.

In the world outside of raising children, there are tangible ways to demonstrate one's measure.  Articles published, a nice suit, a diploma, a fancy office, awards, a promotion.  Raising children can really only be measured in the ultimate outcome: the child.  And, of course, children are children.  They have good days, and hours, and bad ones.  They can be taught perfectly, fed perfectly, and still pick their nose.  I, as a parent, know that.  I know I'm doing a good job parenting, why should I care about the expectations or impressions of total strangers?  And yet, still, I enjoy the approval of strangers and fret over looks of disappointment.  I suppose the Mom-Voice is an advertisement, a commercial of sorts, getting the word out that I am trying, that I do the legwork, that I am on top of things, perhaps despite appearances.  It is like a play, for the benefit of an audience.  In the immortal words of the Bard: "the play's the thing, wherein we'll catch the conscience of the king".  Perhaps we're relying on our reading of the lines to convince others of our parenting ability.

As the other Mom left the locker room this morning with her daughter in tow, I smiled at her.  I don't know if it helped, or if she even really noticed, but I wanted to let her know that I understood how hard she works, and the effort she puts it to raise her little girl.  Truly, we shouldn't need the Mom-Voice to judge good from indifference.  Just observing the way the little girl looked up at her Momma, the way she held her hand, should tell us enough.

Rituals

The rituals of parenting can be as simple as reading a story before bedtime, or as complex as the desperate dance of a rush-hour morning.  These rituals can begin in bleary-eyed confusion, in the darkness of deepest night, or in the rush of absolute necessity.  They sneak up on us as essential elements of our day, turning tears into smiles and frenetic activity into smooth efficiency.  They remain in our hearts as something close to tradition, noticed most poignantly when they change into something new.

There are a few rituals in the River Badger household that define our days, that I know will be gone as the Little Badgers grow and our schedules adjust.  These rituals begin as soon as we get up, and serve as signposts through the day.  Breakfast, playtime, getting ready for naps, dinner, bath, bedtime.

Some parts of the rituals have held through all three children.  When Big Brother Badger was a baby, I or Daddy River Badger would finish his bath by wrapping him up in a soft towel and bringing him, his little face and tiny feet peeking out, out to see the other parent.  We would kiss him and admire him and he would light up.  We continued this tradition with Little Brother, who, as he got older, would squeal "show me to Daddy!" after his bath.  Even now, tonight, as I finished up the dishes from dinner, DRB brought Baby in to see me, wrapped in a towel, her little face beaming up at me.  I kissed her little nose, still wet from her bath.  This is something that I treasure, and look forward to every night.

Other little rituals are more recently established.  Nap-time for the Little Badgers since I've been home full-time has become our newest ritual.  Baby goes up first.  I warm a bottle, and carry her into her room, where we sit on a comfy chair and I rock her.  She holds her bottle in one hand and gently pulls at my hair with the other until she's drowsy and her bottle is empty.  I put her in her crib, give her "Baa" (a stuffed sheep), and cover her with her blanket.  She says a soft "Bye-bye", and falls asleep.  Little Brother comes up next; he sleeps in my bed, since he and Big Brother talk too much when they are in the same room for naps.  I give him his milk (in a sippy cup!), and tuck him in with his stuffed Thomas the Train.  BBB holds out for "quiet time".  He's decided that he's too old for naps, but he's always tired if he doesn't lie down.  I set him up in his room with some toys and books and leave him to it.  As I walk down the hall, I'll hear him begin a story, his little voice very serious as he discusses the fate of his bugs, or dinosaurs, or trucks.

The rituals of parenting are so inherent to the family, so personal and yet so mundane to an outsider.  They are precious, and can mark the evolution of children from tiny infants to precocious toddlers to independent youngsters.  They can be quickly forgotten, or held onto forever.  They make me look at my day differently; instead of day-to-day tedium, I see a template for memories.

We stick together.

"I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself." ~D.H. Lawrence

Today I saw a group of squirrels flying from branch to branch, effortless and free.  They weren't scared, or worried, or held back by questions of "what if?".  They did not fear the unknown, or perhaps, they are simply unaware of it.  Either way, their acrobatics left me thinking about anticipation and worry, and how those emotions can both prepare us and defeat us.

I worry all the time, about schedules, events, parties, and presentations.  As soon as something pops onto my calendar, I begin to worry about it.  What do I need to do to be ready?  What if something goes wrong?  Sometimes, it's just a small twinge in the pit of my stomach.  Other times, it's more like a freight train, and I feel like I'm unable to get out of the way.  I like to keep my options open.  I'll scope out the lecture hall ahead of time or I'll create an excuse to have ready in case I feel I need to sneak out early.  My worries can both help and hinder.  They help me prepare, to anticipate possible questions and problems.  But, they prevent a lot of natural enjoyment.  In most cases, once I've gotten someplace and settled in, I'll usually relax enough to have some fun, but I know I practically ruin it for myself every time.

I'd resigned myself to this some time ago.  But recently, I've been seeing some of myself in my son.  Big Brother Badger worries about seeing a new doctor, about school plays, about first classes, about meeting new people.  Essentially, he worries about unknown situations.  Like me, he only feels comfortable once he's gauged the situation and understands not only his role in it, but how it appears.  Once the first class is over, or the first act has finished, he has seen the location and the people there.  He can picture it in his mind, and a lot of fears subside.  I understand this only too well.  The unknown becomes known, or at least somewhat predictable.

So here we are, two worriers.  I can't even blame Daddy River Badger.  In the back of my head, I truly wish BBB didn't share this particular trait of mine.  But, since he does, I can be thankful that he has a kindred spirit to hold his hand and to understand where he's coming from.  Those squirrels may not have to worry about self-esteem, or failing, being wild things.  Or maybe they were just finding strength in being with their own kind.  Me and my boy, we stick together.

Splash!

There are some activities that strongly defined portions of my childhood.  One of these was being on the swim team.  I started at the local YMCA and was so excited to be jumping in the water and trying my first team sport.  I loved the pretty ribbons won at meets, the new friends, the feeling of excitement before a race.  I look back on the memories and smile.  I remember the hot dogs and sodas after meets, my parents' shock at the almost-immodest racing suits, how I got so angry at my third grade teacher for confiscating one of my swimming magazines in class, how I thought Janet Evans was the coolest girl in the world.  I would say I was a slightly above average swimmer.  A coach at a summer swim clinic said that I could probably be a decent college athlete, if I gave it my all.  But, over time, I started to lose interest.  I was not inspired by the two-a-day practices, my middle-of-the-road performances, or the time away from other activities, such as practicing my harp.  I quit before high school.

I swam off and on for fitness through college and grad school.  I always liked the power of stroking through the water, and the feeling of utter exhaustion after a good workout.  But, as always, life seemed to pop back in and I would fade back out of the pool.  Then, it was baby, baby, baby.  I never swam while pregnant; I guess I never wanted to spend the money on a maternity suit.  I flirted with the idea of training for a triathlon while participating in Team in Training, but settled on a marathon program because I didn't have a bike.  But, as fulfilling and sweat-inducing as running is, it always felt forced for me.  I definitely didn't feel good at it.

This morning I ventured to the local rec center for a training session in the pool.  This was a real training session with a coach and everything.  I hadn't had a coach since my old swim team days, and was curious as to what I could learn, and if the old motivation and love was anywhere to be found.

I walked out onto the pool deck with some trepidation, my familiar demon of insecurity back on my shoulder.  I was nervous, and a little intimidated.  I hadn't worked with a clock, or in sets, or really with other swimmers since I was a child.  My whole self, both mentally and physically, had changed.  I breathed a sigh of relief when the other swimmers were women just like myself, thirty-something, not in perfect shape, friendly.  I relaxed even more when I met the coach, an approachable lady who was excited to work with us.  For some reason, I had been picturing a cadre of svelte, snobby men in Speedos.

We jumped in (actually, a couple women dove in) and started our warm-up.  Eight laps, freestyle.  I felt more at home in the water than on an exercise bike or on the treadmill.  I felt smooth.  I passed the other swimmers easily, and when I finished well ahead of everyone, the coach looked surprised.  She gave me an extra set.  I felt strong.  As the practice continued, the old competitive spirit welled up, and I was happy to throw myself into the workout.  I kicked until my legs burned, my strokes long, and my pace consistent.  I challenged myself, and was happy to see the approval and encouragement of the coach.  I did not hold myself back to fit in, I did not worry about messing up, I did not spend the whole time sucking in my stomach and crossing my arms in front of my chest.

I know that this was just a training session, but it meant more than that to me.  It was hopefully a kick-start back into confidence in exercise.  It held just enough nostalgia and old feelings to seem attractively familiar.  It was fun again, and I felt like I was good.  I can't wait to get back in the pool next week.  I can't wait to see where this goes.  I wrote a speech for a competition back in middle school about swimming.  At the time, I was in love with swimming, and gave a passionate presentation.  One of the lines was something like, "No matter how old you are, from 5 to 105, swimming is a great way to have fun, and stay fit."  Well, I think I'll take that advice.  I'm sure Janet Evans would approve.

So what if I put bacon in the pot roast?

I've got a great husband.  Daddy River Badger is all sorts of wonderful.  But, as any married couple can attest, there are, ahem, points of contention.  I think that the more you love someone, the angrier they can make you.  They know exactly which buttons to push, and all the arguments are made with the finesse of true professionals.  The good thing is that the love will always pull you back, and usually quickly.  Pheromones help, too.  Well, I've written about the changes that have happened in our household recently, including my journey to being a SAHM.  One point of contention that has recently reared its head is DRB flying his "control freak" flag, and me sticking it to him with my "don't tell me what to do" attitude.  What, you ask, might cause such an ugly display?  Cooking.

We're a closeted foodie family.  We love to watch the Food Network, and "Top Chef".  DRB and I threaten the Little Badgers with episodes of "Chopped" instead of their cartoons if they misbehave.  Big Brother Badger likes to play-act cooking competitions with his toy food and dishes.  The other day, he made me a delectable plate of carrots, porcupine, and chocolate.  I declined, saying I wanted pizza "with no stuff on it".  He swooned dramatically to the floor, sighing, "I guess I've been 'Chopped'!"  Having three kids, though, means that we can't go out to eat as much as we would like.  So, our relationship with food is pretty much defined by our home life.

DRB relaxes by cooking.  His ideal world would be a quick trip to Trader Joe's after work each day to pick up fresh ingredients and a bottle of wine before heading home to leisurely prepare a delicious, yet economical dinner.  We actually lived that dream for a bit in South Pasadena, CA before moving back East.  My ideal world is a little more structured.  I would prefer a single grocery trip for the week, picking up ingredients for a series of fun meals picked from the pages of cooking magazines and books.  I don't so much relax by cooking, but I enjoy putting things together and trying things out.  I don't like to be meddled with.  He doesn't like to be boxed in.  I don't like advice or criticism when I cook, as it's usually, and proudly, trial and error.  He doesn't like wasting good food through stubbornness.

Then we added three Little Badgers, and mostly played things by ear.  We would shop somewhere between 2-3 times per week, and usually cooked whatever was around when one of us got home.  Total improvisation and near-total chaos.  I recently left my job, though, and a situation that I thought would be simplified has instead evolved into a constant tug-of-war.  I feel like I am in a position to bring order to our food-lives.  I want to plan my own meals, and try out recipes from magazines.  He wants to keep the expenditures under control, and does not trust any magazine recipe to be cheap or economical.  I want the kids to try new things.  He just wants them to eat, and therefore wants the food to be straightforward.  I want him to get the hell out of my kitchen.  He loves to cook, and really can't help himself from trying to help, give advice, or just watch over my shoulder.  I feel he doesn't trust me.  He feels I don't give his likes and dislikes due consideration.

So, I'm playing the traditional Mom-card without much experience, and he's hanging on to how we did things before, without giving me any leeway.  We're at odds.  I really want to make him happy, and I hope he feels the same way.  We're oil and water in the kitchen, though, and I'm not sure where to go from here.  Probably to the liquor cabinet.  At least we can agree on a good cocktail!

An Unexpected Trip...and a Win!

Schedules, routines, household organization, rules; all are put in place by parents to streamline as much of the day as possible, to make it as predictable as possible.  Well, we got a dose of the unexpected last night, this time courtesy of our cat.  Kitty River Badger appeared to be having some trouble urinating.  With apologies for being too graphic, she was "trying" all over the house, and not being too successful (thank goodness).  She appeared to be in discomfort, and some web searching convinced me to get her to the vet as soon as possible in the morning.

So, precisely at 9AM, as the office opened, I put a call through, and they told me to come right over.  Now, back in the day, this would be as simple as putting the cat in the carrier and heading out.  With three Little Badgers in tow, I had to throw together our usual "travel" routine and "doctor" routine in one fell swoop.  Quickly.  I packed one bag with books, toys, crayons, coloring books, crackers, a bottle of milk, juice boxes, and a "squishie" for Baby Badger ("squishies" are those organic pureed food packets that look so attractive at Target).  I packed a second bag with diapers, wipes, spare underwear for Little Brother Badger, and a change of clothes for Baby (because, the one time I don't pack it...).  Now for the travel routine.  All kids were dressed and fed, with teeth and hair brushed.  I put on their jackets and shoes and lined them up to go outside, bags and purse in hand.  My thought was to buckle them in, then go back for the cat.  They cooperated, the cat cooperated (mostly), and all five of us were in the van.  Expedition begins!

S**t.  The van is nearly out of gas.  Luckily, there is a gas station on the way.  I pour a few gallons into the tank, and pop back in to do an inventory.  I have three kids (only one of whom is complaining about being hungry already), two bags (stuffed to the brim), and one cat in a carrier (who is letting me know that she does not like the car one bit).  Looks good to me!  Onward.

Our caravan arrives at the vet's office and we wait to check in.  There are already a few other animals there waiting, and the Little Badgers keep up a steady commentary about how little, or big, or cute, or ugly they are.  I smile and nod hopefully at the other people.  We are checked in quickly, but then asked to wait for a room.  Already the insatiable Badger appetite is rearing its head.  Big Brother Badger wants a cracker.  Little Brother Badger wants a cookie.  Baby wants her bottle.  Poor Kitty is now scrunched all the way into the corner of her carrier.  I sympathize with her.

I'm not sure how long it takes to make it into an exam room, but it seems like a while.  Even with Baby fastened into her stroller, the constant talking, bribing, threatening, cajoling, and chasing keeps me constantly occupied.  I don't even have a chance to check my phone.  Then, we're called in, and the waiting begins again.  At least this time we're in a small room.  With the Little Badgers relatively contained, I can relax a bit and pull out snacks and some toys.  An assistant comes in and starts the exam, and the Boy Badgers are especially interested in what's happening to their Kitty.  But, then, it takes the vet an especially long time to show up, and I dole out another round of snacks.  After the vet comes in and we discuss, Kitty is brought to another room for blood work.  After she returns, I'm told we should wait again for the results, and then it hits me.  I've run out of snacks.

Again, the passage of time is blurred, from my perspective.  Coloring books are brought out and thrown to the floor.  Stickers cover the cat carrier.  The Boy Badgers wrangle pieces of gum.  I'm asked many questions about the life cycle of the flea.  A toy monitor lizard fights a sea scorpion.  I take the kids to the potty.

After the vet comes back in, we hear the diagnosis: urinary tract infection.  Easily treatable, just a single injection of antibiotics.  Done and done.  We are given some recommendations for Kitty's care at home, and head out of the exam room.  I realize that I have no idea what time it is.  As we shuffle out to the van (me pushing Baby in the stroller, holding the cat carrier and a bag of special cat food, plus the Boy Badgers), I feel more drained than anything else.  I spent the previous night very worried about Kitty.  She is almost fourteen, and I couldn't shake that terrible feeling that this could be something so serious that a discussion of euthanasia might have to be had in front of the Little Badgers.  Big Brother Badger cries at those ASPCA commercials, "why are they in cages, Mommy?"  I was gutted by having to put my first cat down years before.  Even the thought, especially in full color in front of my kids, made me inwardly tremble.

But, the prognosis was good.  Kitty would be fine.  I buckle the kids in and slide into the driver's seat.  As I start up the car, I look at the time and am astonished.  We spent three hours at the vet's office, all told.  As I looked in the rear view mirror, I realized that I never would have expected the kids to be that well-behaved for so long.  I could see that they were tired, too.  They had done their best.  I couldn't write it off as being due to our iron-clad routine.  We had run out of snacks half-way through; the toys and books were mostly ignored.  We had kinda improvised, and it had somehow worked.  We had a job to do this morning, something I would have thought was impossible, and we saw it through, together.

A new size, a new perspective?

I went shopping for a new bra today.  Now, to put this trip in context, you must know that the last time I shopped for a bra was before I got pregnant for the first time.  That would put it at....about six years.  Six years!  For six years, I have worn a succession of nursing bras, sports bras, and three brightly colored Victoria's Secret underwire bras.  These VS bras were, back in the day, very sexy.  One, in particular, was kind of an orangey-red and made me feel thin, as it only fit at least 6 months post-partum.  All three of these are size 34B (this is important info for later).

But, the years of wear and washing take their toll, and the bras were getting dull and very loose.  After a couple weeks of the subtle insanity of having the straps slowly...slip...down...my...shoulders time after time, I decided that I would have to bite the bullet and update my collection.

This, for me, is torture.  Between the appearance of side-boob and that terrible lemon-yellow lighting, the bra section can be ego-destroying.  But, push had come to shove, and into the bra section I went.  I was faced with rows of bras, all in variety of colors.  Push-ups, lift-ups, invisible-under-shirts, super-push-ups, the possibilities seemed endless.  I picked a couple in my size (34B, right?) and walked halfway across the store to the fitting room, where the lady handed me a card and waved me disinterestedly into a room.

I took off my coat, and my fleece, and my shirt, and old orangey-red.  I bravely put on the first bra....and couldn't even snap it together.  I thought that maybe it was just the particular brand that ran small, until I tried on the next, and the next, and felt like I was delving into the petite section.  I was confused.  I knew my size.  Anything larger was part of my plastic surgery fantasy.  36C please, doctor, I don't want to go too big.  Maybe those years of pregnancy, childbirth, breast-feeding, and child-rearing had actually done something to my breasts!  I looked in the mirror, really looked, and what I saw was not what I expected.  It's funny how much of what you see in the mirror every day is what you expect versus what's really there.

So, I headed back out to the racks.  Something had changed.  Up to this point, everything physical that had resulted from carrying my children had seemed to be ephemeral, or at least acceptable.  I lost most of the baby weight.  I loved the stretch marks.  My breasts were different.  The change that I had seen, and was now experiencing hard evidence of, was different.

I picked out a new size, a size that in a former life would have been something awesome and attractive. 36C.  I didn't believe it, but the squished feeling from earlier convinced me to try something radical.  I headed back into the fitting room.  The lady there looked even more unimpressed than before.  The new bras fit.  I was the size I had always longed for, but how I had gotten here felt a little hollow, a little unimpressive.  It wasn't so much rising to the occasion as falling into it.

I left the store lost in thought.  I had two new bras, in my new size.  What should have been a feeling of success over my shopping trip had given way to a new feeling of insecurity.  Was I really so different?  What else about me has changed that I don't really notice every day in the mirror?  Until now, childbirth had been a completely empowering experience, and now I felt like I was caught in the wake.  Do the breasts make a woman?  Then, I thought, my new bras help me to stand up straight and tall.  The straps do not slip.  If this is my new shape, I will wear it proudly.  Three kids.  Boo-yah.

I'm on board!

Well, the new year is upon us, and many changes have happened in the River Badger household that make the turn of the calendar noteworthy already.  I'd like to think that there are a few more changes coming.  Like me losing that extra 20 pounds that have been hanging around for a while.  This is not ground-breaking, I have to admit; lots of people are starting fresh when it comes to fitness this time of year.  But here's the thing.  I'm a little reluctant when it comes to something lots of other people are doing.  I've never shopped on Black Friday.  I've never taken a cruise.  I've never been to Disney World.  One could see me as being weird and missing out on a bunch of fun stuff, but there it is.

So when it came time for New Year's Resolutions to be presented, and I took a hard look at the extra junk clustered around my mid-section, I realized that I was going to have to jump on board at the same time as everyone else.  I was going to be "losing weight for New Year's".  Ugh.  The thought of going to the gym for the first time on January 2nd filled me with dread.  The lady at the desk will smirk at me.  She will assume I will go for three weeks and then quit, only to show up again next year.  And the worst thing is, she is probably right; the odds are not in my favor.  A feature on the news that said only a small percentage of resolutions last even until March.  And sticking to a diet?  For me it's not so much a fear of failure, but it's more like an expectation.  What's the saying?  Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result... .

But, you know, I do need to get in shape.  I really do.  My excuse over the past few years has been that I'm either pregnant or breast-feeding, but now I'm not doing either of those things.  I want to be attractive to my husband, and to fit into all my clothes, even the ones in the back of the closet.  I want to set a good example for my children.

So, I will be venturing to the gym.  I will join the folks looking for a new start.  I will brave the eye-rolling from the people who are bad-ass enough to have been going for years, as well as the smirks from the smarty-pants who thought that starting on Dec. 28th makes them regulars already.  I think I'm going to follow a very simple diet I just made up.  It's called, "It's the junk, stupid!"  I will not eat crap (Snap, McDonald's!), I will limit my portions, and I will not hit the chocolate after 7PM.  I will keep a food diary.  I'm no nutritionist, but I have to start somewhere.  I have the willpower somewhere inside me.  I'll let you know how it goes.