Thursday, February 22, 2007

Items of note

One: The One True Child has apparently mastered the concept of the First Person Singular Pronoun. For those of you who don't speak Insufferable Grammarian, that means that instead of referring to himself by his name, a la Bob Dole, he can now use a pronoun to represent himself in a sentence. Thus, "Day-vuss chair" has become "My chair."

Unfortunately, "my" appears to be the only first person singular pronoun he knows, so it's been a little confusing around here this week as Daddymatic and I, slow as Neanderthals, have finally realized that what he's saying is NOT NOT NOT "Mommy do it" but rather "My do it," as well as charming variations such as "My don't like it" or "My have some." Honestly, it's a wonder this child doesn't lose his patience more often with us, considering that every time he said "My have some" when holding out a bite of food, mommy would, oblivious as she is to Obvious Cognitive and Conceptual Linguistic Progress, eat whatever he was displaying. I mean, at some point, he had to be going "Damn, woman, get your own snacks."

Two: For the first time since I was in the throes of prenatal nausea three years ago, I weigh less than my husband. Yes, he is nearly 5 inches taller than me. Yes, he still has a smaller butt than I do. Yes, this occasionally makes me want to poke at my eyes with a splintery stick. But dude, right now? I weigh less than him.

This woman is responsible for the recent transformation. I have been reading Kristin's mommyblog for months, ever since I found out she was a regular reader who was neither related to me nor paid for her perusals of this blog. I knew she'd done some personal training, and I knew she was tough--I mean, her son Logan is dribbling a soccer ball at a scant 12 months old! But all I wanted was for her to give me a fitness plan. You know, tell me how long to get on the treadmill and how much weight I should be pumping when I do tricep curls or whatever.

What I got was a total-lifestyle-altering, kick ass plan to get my sorry butt healthy and in shape. She wrote out a nutrition plan that frightened me so much I still have a 2-page email I composed to her explaining in the nicest possible way that she might see whether or not her ancestors had ever, say, run the gulag or poked sleeping kittens in the tummy. But I made myself give it a try, and I can say that while I cannot say for certainty that I enjoyed surviving a week without a pop tart, I have discovered that it is, in fact, possible.

She wrote a fitness plan that leaves me feeling like every single muscle of mine was scrubbed by the tiredness machine, rinsed, wrung out and hung to dry. She has promised to write a leg routine next week that will make me cry.

I hate to admit that this turns me on a little.

She makes me warm up. She makes me stretch. She runs me ragged. She also encourages me, cheers me on, and makes me feel like I can actually do this. She didn't even make me sleep in the basement when I cheated on my nutrition plan this week. Of course, I didn't tell her that it was the first time I tried the Utah delicacy that is fry sauce, which is so good that it must be made from God's tears.

So all I'm saying is that if you need a good trainer, and you are hip to the idea of working with a HWAHM (Hard-Working At-Home Mom), Kristin is worth every penny.

Three: I got a sweet new ride this week. Yeah, I know. But duuuuuude, is it a nice car. And so nice to not have to worry about not having enough punch to, say, avoid becoming a hood ornament for an SUV every morning on the interstate. And it's safe! Standard side curtain airbags! "Think of the child!" I keep telling my guilty conscience. Also? My purse fits perfectly in the center console. But I promise I did not know this until I had already committed.

I miss my old car just a tiny bit. She was a good old car. She got us across the country and back the summer we found out D was on his way, and she got daddymatic out here in one piece. Ish. But it was time to split up: we'd fight and then make up, and then something else would set her off and she'd just decide not (!) to accelerate. Or to brake 15 seconds AFTER I slammed my foot on the brake pedal. Very childish behavior. And so we parted ways, complete with a whole "it's not you, it's me" speech on my part.

But here's the problem. D called my old car, inventively enough, "Old car." When Daddymatic got the Subie, it was instantly dubbed the "new car." So my question, internets, is what do we call the new kid? "New-new car" won't do because the "noo-noo" is what he calls the vacuum. Really New Car? The Nice New Car? The Get Your Feet off the Seat, Mommy Has a Lease Agreement to Honor Car has kind of a ring to it, but I dunno. Thoughts?