WellCommons

Well, the party's over, come and get me.

Gone are the days when I'd drop five, six, seven pounds in a week. Now, I'm lucky if I lose a pound/don't gain one.

I don't feel like I've fallen off the wagon - well, except for last Saturday, when I not only fell off the wagon, I jumped off, yelling "YEE HAW!" and making obscene finger gestures to my Weight Watchers materials that I'm always, always, packing in my purse. Yep, last Saturday, I was tired. And hungry. REALLY, REALLY hungry, in that "If I don't eat Mexican food, including chips and cheese dip, RIGHT NOW, I will die. I will perish in this very spot." So I did. I met a girlfriend at Tortas Jalisco (have you had their chips?) and ate. I ate until I was full, and I probably ate a little more, but who is counting? (Well, I'm supposed to be, I guess.)

I did, in an effort to be at least a little bit rational, order shrimp, and I didn't eat the rice (why bother with rice when there are chips and a bowl of cheese dip at your disposal?), so I had that going for me. That night, I ate more bad stuff and had a few cocktails at the Lawrence St. Patrick's Day Committee's Adult Spelling Bee. No, I didn't spell, I was the "pronouncer." It is a service I offer. Any of you with pronouncing needs, I'm your girl.

But I digress. Mostly I have been "good." I have stayed within my points, concentrated on what I was purchasing at the store, and tried to come up with inventive meals that both my husband (who can't gain a pound even on a straight frozen pizza diet - seriously, he's tried) and I can eat. I am eating far differently that I ever have in my life - even when I was on various "other" diets - because I'm not cutting out any major food groups, but I'm thinking carefully about fat and carbs, and most of all, portions. So, even if the weight isn't flying off at breakneck pace, I feel the consequences here are excellent.

I feel better. I feel healthier. I never have that sick, pants-too-tight, what-have-I-done feeling. I don't have a flop sweat after a meal. Also, I'm feeding my family healthier things, and putting more thought into their long-term health instead of just their weight.

Another awesome side effect of this "lifestyle change" is in my budget. While I have long been a good budgeter and a careful grocery shopper, this new way of eating has really shaped my shopping in a whole new direction. I cook more often than I used to. There are fewer "fend for yourself" nights at my house. I have learned that fending for myself tends to result in cheating. "Oh, a handful of chips won't kill me." "I can't find anything quick to eat - guess I'll have this frozen pizza." "I don't know how to calculate the points for six bites of leftover meatloaf, two licks of the frosting I made for a birthday cake, and my kid's left over chicken nugget." No, I'm better off carefully planning meals, shopping specifically for them (and nothing else!), and sticking to the plan. And, lo and behold, it has resulted in grocery savings. There are no impulse buys. I shop the weekly flyers, plan my healthy meals accordingly, and miraculously, my spending is down.

Can you tell I'm pep talking myself? Because sometimes, when you are not-quite-full enough after a day of healthy eating, and you can't spare four points for a glass of wine, you need to, as my husband would say, "Bright side this thing." But, it's working. Because I'm still at it, planning and eating and counting my little heart out. I'm healthier, I've met my first weight loss goal, and I've got a few extra grocery bucks in my pocket. WINNING!

It turns out I'm the heartless one in the family. I'm the one who laughs and wants to get the camera when my has his head stuck between the banister rails. I'm the one who will take the candy from the crying baby if he's getting it on the carpet. And I'm the one who can stomach swimming lessons.

My husband? Not so much. He's a softie. Johnny started swimming lessons a couple of weeks ago and he is, shall we say, not really a fan. He loves water, pools, baths, etc. But he likes them on his own terms. Also, in the last few months he's decided he is not fond being held or handled by anyone who is not me, his dad, his daycare teacher, or a grandma. So, I informed my husband he'd have to take Johnny to his first swimming lesson because I was busy, a couple of weeks ago, and he agreed. And then, he came home and said NEVER. AGAIN.

Apparently our little angel screamed as if he were being drawn and quartered.

And, true to form, I laughed. What is wrong with me?

Since then, I have borne all swimming lesson responsibilities. I have coaxed, coddled, made deals, promised rewards for non-crying, good behavior. And my kid has gone rigid and screamed every time he sees LAC's pool in the distance. And, I secretly hide my face and laugh. My husband's response to Johnny's shrieking during swimming lessons was to want to snatch him out of the water and run away with him. Mine is to turn my head away and stifle a chuckle.

It's not that I like to see him cry, and it's not that it take pleasure in his discomfort. It's just that, well, it's funny. I mean, I know he's not in any danger, and I know how important swimming lessons are, and I think toddlers are just funny anyway. He's irrational about it, and I can't help but chuckle when he arises from the water, snot everywhere, arms outstretched as if he's being sent to live with an evil aunt. He's so dramatic, I have to give him credit. It's quite a show for a fifteen minute swimming lesson wherein I am standing never more than five feet away from him, cheering and clapping like an idiot.

unhappy swimmer by meganstuke

So, I guess I am the designated swimming lessons taxi. I've been the vaccination taxi (not that I so much laugh at that one), the food nazi, and yes, the one who laughs and wants to take a picture when he goes headfirst into the toy box with his little legs sticking out into the air. All the while my husband is scolding me and rushing to his rescue - while I am rushing for the camera.

Maybe it's my coping mechanism, for dealing with all the toddler drama. Or maybe I'm just crustier and lack the sympathy gene. But I don't think it's the latter, because I melt into a puddle of emotional goo when he's getting shots or when he's sick or when I think about him enduring 7th grade. What I think is, parenting is often really hard, and toddlers are really demanding, and we have to get our laughs where we can, even if they are at that very toddler's expense now and then.

Yes, Megan, we know you're doing Weight Watchers. We know, we know. You haven't shut up about it.

It's hard not to make a very public display about it when you write a cooking columnthat is known for its unabashed use of butter and red meat, and it suddenly goes all diet-y. So, yeah, since my cooking changed, my column changed, and I didn't think I'd be able to pull off the switch without a little disclosure.

So, it's out there. At last weigh-in I'd lost 12 pounds, and Superbowl Sunday notwithstanding, I expect to have lost maybe four or five more by Friday. Pretty exciting stuff.

I've tried various routes to weight loss and fitness over the last few years. I've packed on some pounds over the last five years or so, due to a number of things - like pregnancy, the onset of hypothyroidism, and, probably worst of all, the cafeteria at Lawrence Memorial Hospital, where I work. You see, my office is about ten steps from that cafeteria. And the food? It is good. There are healthy choices, but I struggled to make them in the face of an amazing taco bar and an ice cream freezer and a breakfast with options like pancakes, bacon, french toast, and burritos.

So, I loaded on - ahem - a few pounds. I tried to get them off. When Johnny was a wee little baby, I joined a gym. And while I was working part time on maternity leave, I went. And then I went back to work full time, and I stopped.

I went to a personal training class, thinking that if I did that one night a week I'd be motivated to get moving a few other nights. But I hated it. I resented the time it took away from my family, and I didn't think I got much out of it seeing as I only did it the one night and nary a workout the rest of the week. Then I joined a circuit training class with the city, and it was good, but again, the evening schedule just didn't work for my family - especially my baby who I only see a few scant hours before his early bedtime every night anyway.

Nothing was working. I just felt I didn't have time to focus on it, and because I'm so into food and cooking and writing about cooking, I didn't really see how I could go carb-free or adjust my meals in any dramatic fashion. Plus, I hate salad.

Frustrated, tired, overwhelmed, I sort of gave up.

But then LMH opened its new-and-improved kitchen/cafeteria, with healthier options, and then, one day, I got an email. On a Friday, I got an email asking for any last minute people who might be interested in Weight Watchers at Work to join a meeting in the conference room - NOW. So, I got up from my chair, and ran over there, just to see. "Why not," I thought. "I'll check it out. I probably won't do it. I don't want to spend money on a diet plan, when I know it is just about eating right. But I'll see what they have to offer."

Ten minutes later I was whipping out my credit card and stepping on a -OMG- scale. It was ugly. It was scary. It was time to do something, and if that meant throwing a bit of money at the problem, SO BE IT. The reason I agreed to this program, the ENTIRE REASON, is because the meetings are at my work. I learned from my previous gym efforts that night time classes and meetings just do not work for me and my family.

This, my friends, was a genius move on the parts of Weight Watchers and LMH. Weight Watchers gets a captive audience of sales, and hopefully LMH gets a healthier bunch of employees out of the deal, and I get a convenient support system for some much-needed weight loss. Win-win-win. WINNING!

Wellness at Work is a huge deal, folks. It is the wave of the future, and I hope more and more employers will get on board. I do not have time to hang around a gym all day. I do not have the flexibility to pop out for a run or a workout between the hours of 5 am (when my husband leaves for work and leaves me with a sleeping baby) and 5 pm when I get home from work. And I don't have time to go out for workouts in the evenings when my child is only up until 7:30. I need to spend that time with him, making dinner and reading and bathing and playing dress up. So I need to find a way to work these things into my day. A walk around the campus over my lunch hour, a Weight Watchers meeting on Fridays at noon, a quick yoga class during a break.

This is how health insurance and health care get less expensive. This is how we become better employees with loyalty to our companies. This is how we become better parents, partners, and community members. This is how we all win.

I'll be writing more and more about Wellness at Work over the coming months, and yes, you'll probably be hearing way more than you ever wanted about my Weight Watchers journey. Maybe I'll even take a picture of myself in a swimsuit when I meet my goal. Or not.

Well, let's just get it out in the open.

I spanked my kid.

That's right. Today, for the first time, I spanked my child. He's two and a half.

Let the internet flogging begin.

I could give you all the gory details that led up to the two spanks I landed over his footie pj's and over the diaper but they're really not important. Suffice to say, I've always been a "no spank" person, and it surprised me as much as anyone when, in the process of struggling through a timeout and being kicked and mocked by a toddler, I said, "If you don't sit still while I count to ten, I'm going to spank you."

To be fair, I'm not sure he knows what the word "spank" means, but hey, I did warn him.

And he kicked me anyway, and laughed. And I spanked him. Two spanks. And he CRIED. Oh, boy, did he cry.

I, of course, felt like Mother of the Year. Not.

But, he sat for the remainder of his time out without moving a muscle. And later, as I was getting him dressed and struggling to wipe a booger from his nose, he raised an arm as if to want to hit me on the shoulder, and he stopped halfway. He THOUGHT BETTER OF IT.

People, I'll tell the truth. We've been dealing with this hitting-when-I-don't-get-my-way thing for months. We've been doing timeouts and talking about feelings and telling him it hurts. I have even "fake cried" more times than I'd like to admit, which, of course, always results in an "I sowwy, I sowwy Mama. You 'kay?"

But it doesn't stop him from doing it again next time.

Never before have I seen him stop halfway through a jerk reaction and think, "No, I better not do that."

People. I never wanted to say spanking worked. Today, I had honestly hoped I would try it, it wouldn't work, and I could come back and say "SEE! Spanking is POINTLESS! It doesn't work anyway!" But I can't.

Maybe it will never work again (I hope I never have to do it), but this time, I got his attention. Then we talked about "I love you and why are you in trouble" and all that. And then we talked about "Who is the boss? Mama is the boss. You have to mind Mama." And he seemed to get it.

Don't worry, it's not a slippery slope. I hated it, so it's not like I got my first taste of cocaine or something. Not that I ever did cocaine - I swear I didn't - I was scared to bejeezus of it. But you know what I mean.

I know it doesn't work on every kid. I know I don't want to be "a spanker." I still consider myself a non-spanking parent. Is that like being a vegetarian who eats meat?

Here's hoping it was a one and done situation. Maybe I just needed to exert that extra oomph of authority. I can't see that it will have the same shock value and effect if it happened more often, and my constitution can't take it anyway.

Who is out there who, like me, is a non-spanker who has spanked? Surely this doesn't mean I just lack conviction. Chalk it up to number 2378 on the list of things I said I'd never do as a parent that, well... happened. Possibly for the better. I think, if there is to be a lesson here, it is this: there is almost NOTHING that you think as a non-parent or a parent-to-be that can be said "I'll never."

My husband, when we were expecting Johnny and discussion ad nauseum all of our parenting ideas and philosophies, said, when I told him we'd not be spanking, "But how else...?" I was full of ideas. I had watched SuperNanny! And, still, I believe most of those ideas are right. It's just that they're not always, in every situation, with every kid, right. I'll still be plugging away with my time out chair and I'll still be talking about feelings and naming frustrations and redirecting undesirable behaviors. But I guess I've put another tool in my belt, one that I hope I never have to use, but I'm kind of relieved to have it there, just in case. Because at the end of the day, I want a respectful, well-behaved, happy child. And we're still new at this.

helicopter parent by meganstuke

Recently, my friend Michelle's husband wrote a very honest post on their "baby blog" about how hilarious he and his wife were before their baby was born. He expressed how many of us were before baby. Oh, were we earnest. Oh, did we plan it all out. We were going to be the BEST, MOST INFORMED PARENTS EVER. He wrote, "We approached every little decision with such gravitas and intellectualism. Then, all of a sudden, we were left alone in our house with a brand-spanking newborn! My first thought: 'Oh heck! That’s a BABY!'"

Yeah, that's pretty much it.

His first rule for new and soon-to-be parents: YOU WILL SCREW UP YOUR KID. "Accept it, embrace it, move on."

Truer words were never spoken.

I have this little habit of reading random blogs and if they are blogs about having babies I am like a moth to a poorly-written flame. I can't tear myself away from these trainwrecks, where the poor moms-to-be go on ad nauseum about their birth plans and their attachment parenting and the angst over the best sling - not best in terms of "does it work and is it comfortable" - but best in terms of "is this sling going to help my baby be a well-adjusted MD in the future?"

And my eyes, they roll. They roll so hard I fear they'll retreat inside my head and just stay there out of defiance of the rolling.

But it's not fair for my eyes to do such rolling. I was the same way. I think you have to be that way. There is no way to prepare ones self for having a baby. There is no way to know what birth and labor will be like. There is no way to know what kind of personality your baby will have or what your tolerance for screaming will be or how you'll act when you don't sleep for a month. There is just no way to plan for this alien to enter your home. But dangit, you have to try.

You have to read every nutter with an internet connection's theories on child rearing, birth, nutrition, and spirituality. BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER. Maybe you DO have some control. Maybe this IS less a giant petrie dish and more a skillfully executed improvement of humanity you are embarking on.

My friend Lindsey maintains that there is something about pregnancy and post partum hormones that make people nuts. "They're all hopped up on goofballs," she says. She's right. These people who are normally regular, fun, beer drinking, reality tv watching women turn into compulsive ninnies who are afraid to put their babies in the bassinet so they can take a shower for fear of ruining the parent-child attachment that is SO VITAL in the first seven years of life.

So let me just say this. If you are going to get all freaky about your parenting (and you are, OH YOU ARE) just bear this in mind. Your kid? Chances are he's going to be fourteen one day, barring any major tragedies or overt parenting fails (and I promise none of those major fails will have a thing to do with a baby sling) he's going to be sullen and probably hate you a little, no matter if you held him on your chest for nine years solid and fed him nothing but breastmilk until he started tying his shoes.

I say this not to be hateful or to spoil any joy you take in your new babies, but because the pressure? IT IS MOSTLY OFF. Like Michelle's husband said, YOU ARE GOING TO SCREW IT UP. Despite all your best efforts, it's going to happen.

And really, isn't that a relief? Kick off your shoes, pour a cup of tea, and turn on some music. It's going to be okay (even when it's not).

I often lament to my girlfriends that I don't feel like I get to spend enough time with my kid. It's the constant nagging guilt of the working mom. Also, I am a social person and I like to see my friends from time to time, which means sometimes leaving my son at home with Daddy or a sitter, which only adds to the guilt factor.

I get an hour or so in the morning, wherein he and I dash around trying to eat and get ready for daycare/work, and I get about two and a half hours in the evening, but that time is packed to the gills with dinner cooking, laundry, baths, toothbrushing, and night-night routine. Rarely on a weeknight do I just get to sit down and "play" with Johnny.

And now it's Christmastime, so the nights are even busier, more filled with activities or cooking or addressing envelopes or wrapping gifts.

I think up fun things to do all the time with him, things like making crafts or running through parks, but let's face it: crafts are messy and time-consuming, and it's a bit nippy and wet for a park. Plus, the dishes aren't going to do themselves.

Last night we got out a Little People pirate ship and I sat on the floor with him for fifteen minutes, rearranging the little "guys" and making it play "A Pirate's Life For Me." It wasn't necessarily a craft or a trip to the zoo, but look, I'm trying.

Once, when I complained to a girlfriend about my lack of time with Johnny during the week, she said "Just make what you have count." And that stuck. A quality over quantity approach made sense to me. I might be in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, but I can put him on the floor near me with some crayons and paper and talk to him about his picture. Or I might be cooking dinner, but he can sit on the counter with me and pour ingredients into a bowl and stir while we discuss the relative merits of Elmo v. Cookie Monster.

I have to admit, I don't really have the patience to sit down and help him paint with watercolors for an hour when I know in my head I have seventy-two odd tasks ahead of me. Plus, let's face it, it's just not my cup of tea. I can read to him forever and I can swim with him and I can lay on the couch and watch vintage Sesame Street songs on YouTube until the cows come home. But focusing on glue or paint with a two year old for more than nine minutes, for me, is a true measure of my patience and fortitude. I lack the crafty gene, as much as I wish I didn't. Vacation Bible School was largely a nightmare for me, seeing as my lanyard always looked more like a wadded up ball of leftover thread, and my attempt to create lambs out of cotton balls only resulted in my wearing shards of puffy cotton on my clothing and a craft that looked something like an abominable snow man, only after he's spent a few weeks surviving homeless on the streets of New York City.

So for my limited minutes of weekday bonding with my child, I'm focusing on the multi-task. I'm finding ways to get my jobs done AND nurture his social and emotional development. Tonight, I plan to have him stack all my Tupperware from large to small. Fun AND functional!

A vendor stopped by my office today to drop off a holiday gift for our office, and I asked her about her new baby. She whipped a picture out of her binder and we got to discussing how cute he is. And for real, he is really really cute.

She looked up and saw this picture of my son on my wall and the gushing re-commenced.

Johnny and the sunflowers by meganstuke

(photo by Trina Baker of Gallery32)

This led us to a lengthy conversation about how we know we're biased about our own kids, but we are pretty sure they really are that cute. It's not just us, right? I mean, we just have really exceptionally cute babies. It's empirical. It's not bias, it's just true, like it's just true that caramel is better than chocolate, and Stevie Nicks has unquestionably the best female singing voice ever, and Three and a Half Men is the stupidest show on TV.

We also discussed how it is probably some sort of biological imperative that we all believe our children to be beautiful and amazing, even after they come through the birth canal and have pointy heads and are bruised up little pooping, crying versions of Ed Asner. Because if we didn't think they were so beautiful and special, we'd maybe not be so interested in keeping up with their tyrannical schedules and all of the bodily fluids on a regular basis.

I have been trying to get more humble in regard to my son. Like, I'm trying to stop telling people (be they parents or not) that I have the "best one ever," and meaning it. But dang if every time someone sees my son or a photo of him and says something to the effect of, "Oh he sure is cute," I don't just pop off with a very smug, "I know, right? I mean, he really really is." I don't mean to be that mother. I just can't lie about it. He is cute. REALLY REALLY CUTE.

But still, it seems like a little bit of humility is in order. Maybe I should just say "Yeah, he's alright," and shrug. Or maybe I could say, "Well, people tend to say that, but I just don't see it." Or what if I just didn't speak at all? When they compliment him, I could just stand stock still and not move a muscle.

I have friends who can now look back at their older childrens' newborn photos and say "Yeah, she looked kinda like The Grinch when she was born, didn't she?" But I am not there yet. I still think Johnny was the most splendid-looking human ever born, even moments after he entered the world. I kinda don't think I'll ever get there. BECAUSE HE WAS.

No, I'm not taking any medication. Why do you ask?

So I ask you, fellow parents. What do you think? Should we all be humble about our children? Or should we just be proudly running around with the idea in our heads that we got the very best one and sorry for the rest of you suckers?

Is it inappropriate to agree heartily with people who compliment your toddler on his adorableness? Am I committing some terrible, neurotic social faux-pas? Is there a 12 step group for this? Can I be trained out of this belief like they train people out of cults?

It's here. The season of "run your pants off and then run some more."

On Friday I left work a little early to do some Black Friday Christmas shopping and then that night we had our second Thanksgiving dinner - this one hosted at my house. And on Saturday morning I finished cleaning up that Thanksgiving, and headed out to Kansas City to do some Christmas shopping. One holiday to the next, just like that. That evening, I went back to Kansas City with the whole family for Thanksgiving Number 3.

This is getting confusing.

Sunday morning my husband got on the roof to hang Christmas lights and I got busy putting up red and green decorations all over my house. Bye bye Thanksgiving! Christmas has moved to town and you are prom queen no more!

At noon, we bundled up and loaded the family up and drove to Valley Falls, where our friends own some land and invited a group of friends to do a "tree rush" - wherein we all ran out into the wilderness and cut down a cedar to bring home and use for our Christmas tree.

But of course, we were a little late meeting up with the caravan what with the light-hanging and Christmas decorating. And then we couldn't find our tie-downs. Not to make everyone even later, we called ahead and asked if there was extra rope to be had. "Sure, sure!" our friends said. "Come on out, we've got it."

Caravan meet up. Mission: wild Christmas tree by meganstuke

And so we went, off to Valley Falls to cut down a tree and strap it to our car.

Our tree by meganstuke

When it came time to tie the giant sucker to the top of the tree, my husband looked concerned. "This twine is not gonna cut it," he said. "Yes it is," I countered - ever the optimist. "Just double duty it."

We didn't get down the highway five miles before that giant cedar snapped the twine and hurled itself at the car behind us. OOPS.

Undeterred, I said "Just shove it in the back of the truck." And so we did, and our son rode back to Lawrence with cedar branches brushing his cheek.

At 5:00 we pulled into our driveway, tired already from a long day of activity, and my husband noticed a cord hanging off the house from the lights. "I'll be in in a few minutes. I'm just gonna go hide that cord."

Fifteen minutes later, a string of expletives akin to those of the dad in "A Christmas Story" rang out across our neighborhood. Somehow, in the process of hiding the extension cord, my husband managed to knock the entire string of lights off our roof. POP POP POP POP POP they came out of the clips until every last one was laying on our lawn.

"I guess we're not decorating the tree tonight," I said.

In an effort to start creating some Christmas traditions my son will enjoy for years to come, we basically turned ourselves into the Griswolds. My "WE WILL HAVE FUN AND ENJOY CHRISTMAS EVEN IF I HAVE TO KILL US ALL TO DO IT" attitude, combined with my husband's "Let's just get this over with" attitude make for a comedy routine not to be bested by Chevy Chase and his band of ne'er-do-wells.

And I have to sit back and ask myself, "Is it worth it?" Do we do this to ourselves, all of this holidaying 'til we drop? Are we causing more stress than the precious memories are worth?

I still believe it's worth it, and because of that my poor husband will crawl up on the roof again tonight, and I'll race home from a workout and put on a decent meal so we can be full bellied and happy when we decorate our tree. And this weekend I'll start baking the arsenal of cookies and canning jars of whatnot to give as gifts to neighbors and co workers and friends.

The trick, I think, is to just know when to stop. Know when to say "That's enough cookies," and "I can't say 'Yes' to any more parties." And that is a line I struggle to define. I say "Yes" to everything, because WHO WOULD WANT TO MISS SOMETHING? And my husband shrugs his shoulders and says "Go ahead - I'll be down in the basement watching Star Wars - AGAIN." To each his own Merry Christmas, I guess.

Here's to the holidays, Griswold-style.

A few weeks ago we transitioned Johnny to a toddler bed. This was against my wishes, as I had hoped to keep him confined to the crib at night for possibly the first five, er, seven, er, nine-odd years of his life. It seemed like a safe and happy place for him to be.

Until it stopped being happy for him.

A couple of months ago, he stopped liking the crib. And when I say "stopped liking," I mean, "began to view the crib as his mortal enemy." Short of sling-shotting him into it from across the room, we really couldn't get the spider monkey into the crib. And if we did, the screaming ensued. And not that kind of, "Oh, just let him cry for five minutes and he'll stop," kind of screaming. We'd had that before. This took screaming to a whole new level. Like, if he were a rock band, he'd be KISS and Manowar in the same small room.

So we tried a few things, mostly including the following: 1) fretting about it, 2) blaming each other, and 3) letting him sleep in our bed.

Finally, I suggested we take the rail off his bed and convert it to the toddler bed, even though I WAS NOT READY. We didn't know what else to do, save someday letting a teenager sleep in our bed. I saw no end to our situation. Action was necessary.

And, miraculously, it worked. He loved the "big boy bed" and immediately set to putting Elmo and Monkey to "night night" several times a day. He wanted to play on the bed, talk about the bed, and show the bed to everyone. I caught him out on the sidewalk dragging a stranger in by the hand at one point.

I determined that for a few nights one of us should stay in the room with him until he fell asleep, just to make sure he didn't get out of bed. That worked just great, and after five minutes or so, we'd tiptoe out, and he'd be snoring.

We patted ourselves on the back, as we are wont to do.

Then I decided it was time for him to go to bed on his own, mostly because he went to my mom's for a weekend and she did it. And if she could get him to sleep without waiting in the room, so could I.

And it worked for me several times. More back patting. It did not work for my husband, and I chalked it up to my superior parenting and crafty manipulation of his routine.

Sunday night, he did not want to go to bed for Daddy. No amount of sitting in the chair and waiting for him to fall asleep would do the trick. This is what I heard, at least. I was sick as a dog on the couch in the basement, and was physically unable to go up there and intervene on my poor husband's behalf. So, my husband caved, and put him in our bed, and I grunted a "Whatever," from my sick bed. I was too exhausted from a day of meticulously expelling all fluids from my body to care.

For the last two nights, I have been alone for the bedtime routine. I took this as my cue to get things righted in the bed department. I would show the both of them. I'd show Daddy that it just takes a firm word and a kiss goodnight. I'd show Johnny that Mama Means Business, but be loving and comforting all the while. I AM GOOD AT THIS.

On Monday, I started at 7:15 with three books. Then I said "Night night," and I patted him and kissed him and told him I loved him, and I headed out the door. And he screamed. I peeked my head in and said "night night" again - and he screamed and got out of bed. So I tried the old chair routine. For almost an hour. More screaming.

I remembered the SuperNanny, and how she taught parents to wordlessly put their kids back in bed. Hell, it was worth a shot.

I put him in bed, said goodnight with a kiss, and walked out the door. He screamed and got out of bed. Without a word, I went in, took his hand, and walked him back to bed. Rinse and repeat at least seven times.

The last time, he stayed in bed. And he cried. But not just sobs. He cried "Mama! MAMA!" for twenty five minutes. I sat in the hall and wept. But he went to sleep.

On Tuesday night it was more of the same, resulting in both him and me crying, but finally, after about an hour of battle, he was asleep in his bed.

If this does not get easier tonight, I am resigning myself to the awkward scenario of having my teenage son in my bed, because I can't do it again. He'll just get to sleep with me as long as he wants, and I will give up all semblance of rest, authority, and dignity. IT WILL BE WORTH IT.

I started a new workout class last week. Thankfully, I'm joined in this exercise in pain by my good friend Lydia and my neighbor Nikki. It makes it bearable, just knowing I get to go see them, instead of just going to be judged by a bunch of more fit, more agile, better people than me in a gym above the Senior Center twice a week.

So we had our first class on Monday, like I said. I didn't check the location because Lydia did, and she informed me it was at the Senior Center, which was fine with me. We hoped all the participants would be much older than us, and that way the playing field would be leveled because of our lack of fitness.

On my way there, I passed a big wreck. It was raining, and I saw raincoat-clad fire and ambulance types pulling people from cars onto stretchers. It was not a good omen. I called Lydia to tell her I might be late because the wreck held me up, and she said she was at the place and couldn't find her way in. All the doors were locked. Rut-roh.

So I popped into problem solving mode and went over to the closest community center and asked them WHAT THE HECK. Lydia and I agreed that IT IS HARD ENOUGH to drag out to work out, let alone in the rain, and a wreck, and now we can't even get in the door?

They sent me back to the Senior Center with instructions to look for a stairway. Lydia and I rounded the building three times in the rain. Both of us were drenched and both of us on the verge of giving up, but finally I spied the secret stairway and we schlepped up the slick stairs in the rain, sure that one or both of us was going to break a hip on the way in.

We were 20 minutes late. Not that it mattered - we still got our patooties kicked.

It was all women in the group, although nowhere in the materials did it say "Women Only." The teacher was shouting instructions to the women in the room, who were RUNNING. Seriously, they were doing line drills a la basketball camp.

Our feet were wet, and we feared for our lives on the gym floor. So we spent ten minutes drying the bottom of our shoes, and then we were instructed to get in there and RUN WITH THEM. Oookay! So much for warming up!

By this time I was laughing so hard at our many foibles and how INEPT we are, I got myself a nice side-ache to go along with everything. The women in the class ranged, I'm guessing, from upper twenties to mid-sixties, and every one of them, EVERY. LAST. ONE. was in far better shape than me.

Lydia and Nikki and I tried our best to keep up, but mostly we stayed in the back and complained about our body parts hurting. Apparently, I need some better undergarments and shoes if I'm going to keep this up.

We were the group that went left when everyone else went right. We are the ones who barely remember how to jump rope. We laid on the floor like beached whales while the rest of the women planked their little hearts out.

And this is the story of my life.

I am always at The Bad Table. I am always the one in the back making juvenile jokes, being irreverant, and generally screwing things up. I am not sure why I am this way. I can't blame my mother. She's reverent about most everything. And I can't blame my husband because this all seems to happen when he's not around.

It's just me. And I attract birds of a feather.

But you know what? That's okay. Tonight I have class again, and maybe I'll be a little better at the moves. I now know how to get in the door. I'm already miles ahead of where I was last time. And I think the lesson here is certainly clear: just because you aren't the best, the fittest, the valedictorian of the workout class, doesn't mean you shouldn't go. And just because it's working out doesn't mean it can't be fun, or social, or both. Even if I have to do "girl" push-ups, it's better than no push-ups at all.

I bought myself some new workout pants, and I look forward to honing my jump rope skills tonight. But I still think I'll stay in the back, and try to lessen the spectacle that is my uncoordinated self.