Wonder Woman 101
The other day one of my daughters asked me if there was a college she could attend to become a Super Hero. As with many of our little ones questions ("But how exactly DID the daddy seed get into the mommy's belly? But, HOW?") I was not prepared with an answer for this so I replied "Well there is school to become a police officer or firefighter and they help people in the same way superheroes do." She wasn't satisfied with that answer, and so I've been thinking about the specifics of becoming our own Wonder Women, magic rope or not.
I've been feeling pretty Super Woman myself lately. I've been listening to the Powerful Women of Pop playlist on Amazon recommended by my best friend, I've been responding to tough situations in ways I am proud of. This past year has brought a lot of change to my family, my personal, and my professional life and I feel like I'm finally finding my groove. I'm finding ways to be more efficient with my time, and I'm trying, really trying, to prioritize self-care, at least a little bit. Sometimes. Maybe. Okay, I could get better about that. Goals are a good thing, right?
Not to mention apparently childbirth has given me the ability to isolate my hips when I dance/go to zumba, and going to barre class has made me strong enough to, while maybe not teach Wonder Woman 101, at least feel like I could walk into the class without taking remedial super human strength class first...The other day I was changing and looked at my arms in the mirror as I lifted them above my head, and my first reaction was horror. OMG, do I have ROLLS on my ARMS?! Yep, those are the start of rolls. All those Christmas cookies didn't go to my tummy or butt, they went to my ARMS?! I mean, I've come to terms with the fact that chocolate doesn't go straight to my boobs but my arms of all places?
It was the the start of muscle definition.
I may be ready for Wonder Woman 101 but my inner fat girl is still in there. Or out there. She's eating frozen waffles right now.
All that said, that brings me to today...Wednesday morning. My job isn't the typically M-F 8-5, and so Wednesday I am able to go into the office later in the day. I think I have finally found my Wednesday/weekly grove. Drop the kids at school, Super Woman barre class, home to tackle the inevitable mountain of laundry, work for 1-2 hours at home (or run work related errands) and then head in either after I get kids from school or a bit earlier if it's one of the very rare days I'm not doing school pick-up. I was really excited about my intended productivity level for today, both at home and work.
And I was off to a great start! Two school drop offs with minimal tears, barre class, even posted a selfie on instagram proclaiming my Super Woman status (one of my many regrets, now, keep reading)...then as I was driving by the car wash with free vacuum cleaners I remembered some of my daughters's words. No, not the super hero ones or the conception questions.
I may feel like I kind of have it together, but if you've been in or glanced in my car, it's clear I really do not. My car is a disaster. We live in it. Flavor Blasted goldfish ("we like spicy things now, mom!" Uh-huh) are a regular after school snack in there. Paperwork, hair ties, legos, barbies, notebooks, something crusty...all have a regular place in my vehicle. And I am going to be driving some kiddos for a work retreat this weekend. Which brings me to my daughter's words "Mom, I think we should vacuum before you drive other kids in here."
I'd be more mortified if she hadn't said the same thing to me before a school field trip last year. Hey, I've made some changes in my life but I'm still a single working mom of two. Some things fall off my radar...(The consumption of Christmas cookies are not one of those things.)
Ok, so we are back to me driving by the free vacuum station. It's 10 degrees, but it's not going to get any warmer between now and this weekend, and besides, it's Wonder Woman Wednesday, I got this. I'm working my way through vacuuming layers and LAYERS of goldfish, throwing away receipts from last summer, tossing pieces of toys and old notebooks and dried out baby wipes and was that wet? Or??? I'm thinking about how proud the girls are going to be of their mom; now the only reasons they have to be embarrassed about me is just my overall personality and volume and general frazzled appearance...not the state of my vehicle. My car is pretty disgusting. It takes me a good 15 minutes of vacuuming and throwing away stuff I don't even recognize before it looks ok. Not great, I mean some things are crusted on enough it's going to take more than an industrial strength vacuum to release them from the bowels of my Ford Escape. But good enough I won't be completely humiliated to invite other, mostly likely just as honest, children into my car in a few days.
I sat down to drive away, and as we phone addicts do, go to check my phone before I drive away because you know, it's been 20 minutes. It is not on the passenger seat, where I thought I left it. There was a lot of shuffling around in the Great Trash Escape of the Ford Escape, so I look through my purse. My gym bag. All pockets on each of those. My seat. Passenger seat. Under each seat. I move to the back seat and check each girl's car seat. Around it. Under the floor mats. On the dashboard. I know it's not in the trunk area, I know what I'm going to have to do, but I check the trunk area anyways. I look through the container of extra winter gear like it somehow would have gotten wrapped inside a scarf and stuffed at the bottom of that bin. Anything but where I know I'm headed. Anywhere, but...
The large, industrial, hooded trash can. Where I undoubtedly threw my phone in with the heaps of gym childcare receipts and duplos and drawings I'm sure my daughters will be in therapy over me throwing away.
So, what does Wonder Woman do? She dives in. It's 10 degrees and I do have winter gloves, so I start picking up the trash, piece by piece. It's not intermingled in any of my trash, of course, because phones are heavy and they'll sink to the bottom of the trash can. You know that I learned today? My car was not disgusting. My car was pretty messy. Other people's cars are disgusting. Other people carry and throw away nasty things from their vehicles. I add "wash winter gloves" to my mental Wednesday checklist. I get about as far down as I can in the trash can without attempting to climb under the hood when I decide I'll check my car one.more.time. Please, sweet baby Jesus, let it be in my passenger seat all along. Nope. Under the car? Nope. Behind the tires? No.
I need the trash can lid to be unlocked so I can get to the bottom of the trash bag. So I ring the "assistance needed" doorbell on the car wash station. And wait. And wait. I ring again. Nothing. Here's where I get pretty proud of my personal growth. A few weeks ago, I was leaving work late at night and was the only car in the parking lot when I realized my door lock was frozen shut from a car wash the day before and sitting in the lot for 10 hours. After failed attempts to blow a lot of my God given hot air onto the lock, I had to break into my own car (I am female, hear me roar) and ninja move over car seats while a blaring alarm woke up the whole neighborhood. Meanwhile, I'm internally, irrationally, looking for someone or something to blame for this situation. I'm thinking "This is because I'm divorced. YEP. This is my ex-husband's fault. If I was marred, this would NOT be happening." When, in reality, if I was married I'd be in the exact same situation, with my ex husband over at my house while my kids slept in their beds, unable to help.
But not today! I'm working my way through WW101 and I did NOT go to the place of "who or what can I blame?" (Probably because I knew I only had myself to blame here.) No one comes out to help, so I dive into the trash can again, this time using my dirty gloved fingers to take the trash can bag out from under the locked hood, slowly, and carefully. I dig through the entire bottom of this trash bag, and while I'm now coughing through the dust and God knows what else, no phone. Did it slide out of the bag when I removed it? I stick my entire head under the hood of the trash can while my little legs are about to lift themselves off the ground, ready to propel me head first into the hole. Nothing. It's now been 30 minutes, I've worked up a sweat, and I am really mad at Apple and myself for spending $70 on a replacement phone battery last week. I claim defeat, and am ready to drive away. I sit down, take off my disgusting winter gloves and decide my hands could use an extra layer of cleanliness. I open my mid-console and reach in for the baby wipes I keep in there for the times Haddie decides yogurt is a good car snack and mommy is too tired to fight her on that (hence the car crustiness), and what does my hand hit? My phone. On top of the baby wipes. Sitting safely in the mid console, where I placed it when I was too distracted by patting myself on the back for being Wonder Woman to remember.
Jesus, take the wheel.
I've been feeling pretty Super Woman myself lately. I've been listening to the Powerful Women of Pop playlist on Amazon recommended by my best friend, I've been responding to tough situations in ways I am proud of. This past year has brought a lot of change to my family, my personal, and my professional life and I feel like I'm finally finding my groove. I'm finding ways to be more efficient with my time, and I'm trying, really trying, to prioritize self-care, at least a little bit. Sometimes. Maybe. Okay, I could get better about that. Goals are a good thing, right?
Not to mention apparently childbirth has given me the ability to isolate my hips when I dance/go to zumba, and going to barre class has made me strong enough to, while maybe not teach Wonder Woman 101, at least feel like I could walk into the class without taking remedial super human strength class first...The other day I was changing and looked at my arms in the mirror as I lifted them above my head, and my first reaction was horror. OMG, do I have ROLLS on my ARMS?! Yep, those are the start of rolls. All those Christmas cookies didn't go to my tummy or butt, they went to my ARMS?! I mean, I've come to terms with the fact that chocolate doesn't go straight to my boobs but my arms of all places?
It was the the start of muscle definition.
I may be ready for Wonder Woman 101 but my inner fat girl is still in there. Or out there. She's eating frozen waffles right now.
All that said, that brings me to today...Wednesday morning. My job isn't the typically M-F 8-5, and so Wednesday I am able to go into the office later in the day. I think I have finally found my Wednesday/weekly grove. Drop the kids at school, Super Woman barre class, home to tackle the inevitable mountain of laundry, work for 1-2 hours at home (or run work related errands) and then head in either after I get kids from school or a bit earlier if it's one of the very rare days I'm not doing school pick-up. I was really excited about my intended productivity level for today, both at home and work.
And I was off to a great start! Two school drop offs with minimal tears, barre class, even posted a selfie on instagram proclaiming my Super Woman status (one of my many regrets, now, keep reading)...then as I was driving by the car wash with free vacuum cleaners I remembered some of my daughters's words. No, not the super hero ones or the conception questions.
I may feel like I kind of have it together, but if you've been in or glanced in my car, it's clear I really do not. My car is a disaster. We live in it. Flavor Blasted goldfish ("we like spicy things now, mom!" Uh-huh) are a regular after school snack in there. Paperwork, hair ties, legos, barbies, notebooks, something crusty...all have a regular place in my vehicle. And I am going to be driving some kiddos for a work retreat this weekend. Which brings me to my daughter's words "Mom, I think we should vacuum before you drive other kids in here."
I'd be more mortified if she hadn't said the same thing to me before a school field trip last year. Hey, I've made some changes in my life but I'm still a single working mom of two. Some things fall off my radar...(The consumption of Christmas cookies are not one of those things.)
Ok, so we are back to me driving by the free vacuum station. It's 10 degrees, but it's not going to get any warmer between now and this weekend, and besides, it's Wonder Woman Wednesday, I got this. I'm working my way through vacuuming layers and LAYERS of goldfish, throwing away receipts from last summer, tossing pieces of toys and old notebooks and dried out baby wipes and was that wet? Or??? I'm thinking about how proud the girls are going to be of their mom; now the only reasons they have to be embarrassed about me is just my overall personality and volume and general frazzled appearance...not the state of my vehicle. My car is pretty disgusting. It takes me a good 15 minutes of vacuuming and throwing away stuff I don't even recognize before it looks ok. Not great, I mean some things are crusted on enough it's going to take more than an industrial strength vacuum to release them from the bowels of my Ford Escape. But good enough I won't be completely humiliated to invite other, mostly likely just as honest, children into my car in a few days.
I sat down to drive away, and as we phone addicts do, go to check my phone before I drive away because you know, it's been 20 minutes. It is not on the passenger seat, where I thought I left it. There was a lot of shuffling around in the Great Trash Escape of the Ford Escape, so I look through my purse. My gym bag. All pockets on each of those. My seat. Passenger seat. Under each seat. I move to the back seat and check each girl's car seat. Around it. Under the floor mats. On the dashboard. I know it's not in the trunk area, I know what I'm going to have to do, but I check the trunk area anyways. I look through the container of extra winter gear like it somehow would have gotten wrapped inside a scarf and stuffed at the bottom of that bin. Anything but where I know I'm headed. Anywhere, but...
The large, industrial, hooded trash can. Where I undoubtedly threw my phone in with the heaps of gym childcare receipts and duplos and drawings I'm sure my daughters will be in therapy over me throwing away.
So, what does Wonder Woman do? She dives in. It's 10 degrees and I do have winter gloves, so I start picking up the trash, piece by piece. It's not intermingled in any of my trash, of course, because phones are heavy and they'll sink to the bottom of the trash can. You know that I learned today? My car was not disgusting. My car was pretty messy. Other people's cars are disgusting. Other people carry and throw away nasty things from their vehicles. I add "wash winter gloves" to my mental Wednesday checklist. I get about as far down as I can in the trash can without attempting to climb under the hood when I decide I'll check my car one.more.time. Please, sweet baby Jesus, let it be in my passenger seat all along. Nope. Under the car? Nope. Behind the tires? No.
I need the trash can lid to be unlocked so I can get to the bottom of the trash bag. So I ring the "assistance needed" doorbell on the car wash station. And wait. And wait. I ring again. Nothing. Here's where I get pretty proud of my personal growth. A few weeks ago, I was leaving work late at night and was the only car in the parking lot when I realized my door lock was frozen shut from a car wash the day before and sitting in the lot for 10 hours. After failed attempts to blow a lot of my God given hot air onto the lock, I had to break into my own car (I am female, hear me roar) and ninja move over car seats while a blaring alarm woke up the whole neighborhood. Meanwhile, I'm internally, irrationally, looking for someone or something to blame for this situation. I'm thinking "This is because I'm divorced. YEP. This is my ex-husband's fault. If I was marred, this would NOT be happening." When, in reality, if I was married I'd be in the exact same situation, with my ex husband over at my house while my kids slept in their beds, unable to help.
But not today! I'm working my way through WW101 and I did NOT go to the place of "who or what can I blame?" (Probably because I knew I only had myself to blame here.) No one comes out to help, so I dive into the trash can again, this time using my dirty gloved fingers to take the trash can bag out from under the locked hood, slowly, and carefully. I dig through the entire bottom of this trash bag, and while I'm now coughing through the dust and God knows what else, no phone. Did it slide out of the bag when I removed it? I stick my entire head under the hood of the trash can while my little legs are about to lift themselves off the ground, ready to propel me head first into the hole. Nothing. It's now been 30 minutes, I've worked up a sweat, and I am really mad at Apple and myself for spending $70 on a replacement phone battery last week. I claim defeat, and am ready to drive away. I sit down, take off my disgusting winter gloves and decide my hands could use an extra layer of cleanliness. I open my mid-console and reach in for the baby wipes I keep in there for the times Haddie decides yogurt is a good car snack and mommy is too tired to fight her on that (hence the car crustiness), and what does my hand hit? My phone. On top of the baby wipes. Sitting safely in the mid console, where I placed it when I was too distracted by patting myself on the back for being Wonder Woman to remember.
Jesus, take the wheel.
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