Going to the Gym (or anywhere) ADHD style

A long post about nothing...
I know that "going to the gym" might be simple to some people, but this is how someone with ADHD (minus the H) "goes to the gym": If I had the H I wouldn't need to go to the gym...

You look up from your book and decide that yes, today will be a day you go to the gym and that you have just enough time to go if you stop reading now and get out the door. So you read a few more pages and finish your coffee and say that if you hurry you can get there before your blood sugar renders you completely useless.
First you search for your (barely effective) sports bra that you must have bought ten years ago and then you try to locate two socks - color is of no consequence since finding two of anything is considered a miracle. Then you look and look and turn the house upside down for your sweat shorts that you bought specifically for the gym. You mutter and then graduate to panicky whining while you dig around in the pile of laundry on the couch but the things are gone. Just gone. So after interrogating everyone in the house you find your Khaki shorts and whine to yourself "I can't wear KHAKI's to the the GYM!!! so you give up for a while hoping that if you stop looking the other shorts will turn up and you go looking for a shirt. You find a perfect one a few layers down in your hamper and though it is wrinkled you put it on saying that who cares, you are only going to the gym. Then you look in the mirror and say to your reflection "so you won't wear khaki's to the gym but you are willing to wear something -unashamedly - that totally looks like you grabbed it out of the hamper???" So you look for the spray bottle that you bought to spray on wrinkles because you never, EVER iron anything and never intend to either and when you can't find it you accuse your boys of destroying yet ANOTHER spray bottle and demand an explanation as to why a spray bottle never lasts more than five minutes in your house. You of course are standing in your undies in a wrinkled shirt having a hissy fit so you remember that "oh, yeah, I was looking for my shorts" so you go upstairs and look under a few piles of clothing and finally locate them. You find some headphones that work after rejecting three pairs of broken ones and find that your phone has just enough battery after you snatch it out of your boy's grubby little hands. Actually, you don't snatch it, you wait tapping your foot while he finishes the game and all the while you go on and on about how you have told him a million times before not to use up the phone battery and can't you just have ONE thing that is yours and that other people don't have to take from you..... then your blood sugar plummets and you realize that you waited too long and so you grab a handful of cashews which make you thirsty which reminds you that you forgot to get a water bottle and where are all the parts to the bottle that you just bought the other day so you finally get it assembled and run out the door and get into your car but you forgot the keys so you go back in and when you do you grab some more cashews but forget the keys so you get back in the car and swear and get out and go after the keys and when you get in the house you see the bag which holds your sneakers and you are so glad because last time you forgot them and had to come ALL the way back and you were pissed. So now you are ready to go and the whole way you calculate how you are going to fit your whole workout into half the time you had planned and you wonder if you should just say to hell with it all and go out to breakfast instead... Oh - a yard sale!

Another post about going to the gym

A long post about nothing... I know that "going to the gym" might be simple to some people, but this is how someone with ADHD (minus the H) "goes to the gym": If I had the H I wouldn't need to go to the gym... You look up from your book and decide that yes, today will be a day you go to the gym and that you have just enough time to go if you stop reading now and get out the door. So you read a few more pages and finish your coffee and say that if you hurry you can get there before your blood sugar renders you completely useless. First you search for your (barely effective) sports bra that you must have bought ten years ago and then you try to locate two socks - color is of no consequence since finding two of anything is considered a miracle. Then you look and look and turn the house upside down for your sweat shorts that you bought specifically for the gym. You mutter and then graduate to panicky whining while you dig around in the pile of laundry on the couch but the things are gone. Just gone. So after interrogating everyone in the house you find your Khaki shorts and whine to yourself "I can't wear KHAKI's to the the GYM!!! so you give up for a while hoping that if you stop looking the other shorts will turn up and you go looking for a shirt. You find a perfect one a few layers down in your hamper and though it is wrinkled you put it on saying that who cares, you are only going to the gym. Then you look in the mirror and say to your reflection "so you won't wear khaki's to the gym but you are willing to wear something -unashamedly - that totally looks like you grabbed it out of the hamper???" So you look for the spray bottle that you bought to spray on wrinkles because you never, EVER iron anything and never intend to either and when you can't find it you accuse your boys of destroying yet ANOTHER spray bottle and demand an explanation as to why a spray bottle never lasts more than five minutes in your house. You of course are standing in your undies in a wrinkled shirt having a hissy fit so you remember that "oh, yeah, I was looking for my shorts" so you go upstairs and look under a few piles of clothing and finally locate them. You find some headphones that work after rejecting three pairs of broken ones and find that your phone has just enough battery after you snatch it out of your boy's grubby little hands. Actually, you don't snatch it, you wait tapping your foot while he finishes the game and all the while you go on and on about how you have told him a million times before not to use up the phone battery and can't you just have ONE thing that is yours and that other people don't have to take from you..... then your blood sugar plummets and you realize that you waited too long and so you grab a handful of cashews which make you thirsty which reminds you that you forgot to get a water bottle and where are all the parts to the bottle that you just bought the other day so you finally get it assembled and run out the door and get into your car but you forgot the keys so you go back in and when you do you grab some more cashews but forget the keys so you get back in the car and swear and get out and go after the keys and when you get in the house you see the bag which holds your sneakers and you are so glad because last time you forgot them and had to come ALL the way back and you were pissed. So now you are ready to go and the whole way you calculate how you are going to fit your whole workout into half the time you had planned and you wonder if you should just say to hell with it all and go out to breakfast instead... Oh - a yard sale!

Summertime in Vermont

This was written at least six years ago after an elderly friend of the family visited for two days and told me with much disdain that: "children thrive on routine, you know." It is supposed to be in some form of poem fashion (I don't usually even read poetry much less write it) but when it appears on the blog it's all smushed together. Forgive me. * * * I re-read this with sadness, as the bowling alley closed this summer, the drive-in is probably on its way out since the new Walmart went up directly across the street with all the lights and traffic. The grandparents are still there, rattling around in their old farm house but the cows are gone and the hayfields are growing over with weeds. Time is fleeting and family is precious. * * * * * * * * * * SUMMER TIME IN VERMONT by Gillian Ireland ******************* Summertime is a time of beauty; a time when chaos reigns,  routine is banished and bedtimes are  ignored, and when dirt and sweat intermingle. Adventure becomes the word of the day. Kids are brought home, tired and happy from the folk festival or campfire and put to bed with dirty feet from dancing in the mud,  or smelling of wood smoke. That's okay, they'll jump in the swimming hole tomorrow. Or maybe they'll flood the sandbox again.  I'll wash the sheets  before the summer's out. Six kids overpower the car radio by chanting "Beach! Beach!" when the driver comments on the impending rain.  But she mentions bowling under her breath and the chants change to "Bow-ling!  Bow-ling!"  - Kids are so fickle. I should wash the kitchen floor instead. Nah, not on a rainy day. It would be covered in mud in an hour. Lazy days spent in the hammock with a book or hours spent in the sandbox. Gotta tell the middle child to get off the computer and go outside while I hide near the new air conditioner and clean the living room. Summertime is a bad time for frogs.  They are caught several times over, stuffed in a jar and stared at by  the not-so-innocent eyes of their young captors. Not to mention run over on  rainy nights. I always think of the frog families on those nights.  Do they pace (hop) and worry when Freddy hasn't made it home yet? When I query the kids about this, they just say "OH MOM!" Summer means haying old-time style.  Romantic memories quickly turn to hard, sweaty work and longing for the end-of-the-day plunge in the swimming hole – if there's time. The vicarious joy (and slight fear) of the kids riding atop the wagon can't be manufactured by any company, by any means. Cousins arrive from the west coast. The attic and woodshed are pillaged. Small fingers comb piles of artifacts – a bear trap; an old horseshoe - and there is talk of making money at the Antiques Road Show. Every tree is climbed, feet are muddied in the pond, and flashlight tag competes with the fireflies. Everyone's too tired for a bonfire. Maybe tomorrow night. The kids are corralled by Grandma  to help pick gooseberries, which are miserable to pick and not tasty, except in jam, which the kids don't always like. I hope to goodness that my kids are too polite to refuse. They'd rather play in the attic with the treasures, no matter how hot it gets. Dinner at the farm brings stories of the war, when Grandpa had to dive behind the couch when the bombs came and the next day the school windows were blown out.  The audience's eyes are wide.  Grandma tells the story about when mommy was chased by the bull. Later Grandma enlists volunteers to march with her peace group in the parade.  Hands go up. I wonder if we'll make it to the drive-in this year Summer is too short

Bad Example

MOM: A PRIME EXAMPLE OF A BAD EXAMPLE (written 5 or 6 years ago).

“There goes Mom, being a bad example again...” I heard this from my daughter a year ago or so. I try to be a good example for my kids, although anyone who has been to counseling school or watched Dr. Phil (which is cheaper) knows that to “try” is just not good enough. However, I do try; sometimes it is the best that I can offer.

My friend, let's call her Yvette, who is childless and fancy-free, has decided after about seven years that it is safe to come out of hiding and begin to visit her friends with kids again. One day she popped in to make my re-acquaintance. I was delighted. We got to talking and forgot about the treasure hunt in the woods which had been prepared for us earlier by my husband and son. We were reminded about it after supper. It was a snowy night, yet Yvette and I decided at about 8:00 pm that there was no time like the present and that we should go on the treasure hunt “now or never.” My daughter was ecstatic. We grabbed our just-opened beers and we were off to the deep woods with the treasure map and a head lamp.

“Mom”
“Yes honey?”
“You're not supposed to have alcohol up here.”
“So?”
“It says on the sign, 'no alcoholic beverages,' and beer is alcohol.”
“Well, I'm just having one.”
“You're not supposed to have any.”
“Um, well ... don't worry, it's dark. No one is going to see us...”

At this point my rational mind kicked in and told me what I was doing. I knew that this was the kind of rationalization I might have to pay for later in the teen age years. Horrible guilt-inducing words like “role-model” and “parental modeling” swam through my mind before any alcohol had time to take effect. I knew that this was a “teachable moment” and the lesson was all wrong. I had to take a swig of beer just to silence the voices. I took another gulp and secretly hoped that this conversation would never come up at school of all places. I finally came up with some mumbo-jumbo to tell my daughter about how I had just opened my beer when we decided to take a walk, and I didn't want to waste it, and when they say “no alcoholic beverages” they are really referring to teenagers lighting fires and drinking underage and leaving beer cans all over the mountain ... not a mother having ONE BEER while taking her daughter on a hike past her bed time in the woods at night ...
“it says 90 paces north ... which way is north?”
“Mom.”
“Yes honey?”
“What about the rabid raccoons?”
“Oh. I forgot about that.... well... uh, oh for goodness sake, live
a little. Here's a stick!”

Kids these days are so informed. There are so many things to be conscious about, such as the environment, world hunger, SAFETY. Having kids is like having your superego in overdrive all the time, following you around like a computer looking for breaches in security.

“Alert, alert, rule #457 broken in aisle 5, alert, ALERT...”
“Roger... tasers locked in and on standby...”

It's a good thing that kids are conscious and concerned about things. However having a little fun riding a shopping cart to the car, to me, is not that much of a breech of anything really, except of course it's setting a bad example. I have always told my kids never to ride a shopping cart unless it is carrying more than their weight in groceries. One day I was happily riding a cart loaded with groceries down an ever-so-slight incline. My daughter was mortified at the idea of anyone over 40 doing such a thing. So rather than slowing her pace and having a chance at passing me off as someone else's mother, she started chasing me and hitting me with a shopping flier and yelling hysterically: “why don't you put that in your bad mother book?!!” So much for a pleasant mother-daughter shopping trip. That girl has got to learn the art of fading into the woodwork like I learned to do so well as a child.

Another time, I found myself doing errands with a couple of extra kids. I don't know how many there were, but I remember a lot of limbs protruding from the shopping cart. It was one of those “car” carts which are impossible to steer and sound like a steam train rolling down the cement. I thought it was a good idea to keep everyone in the unwieldy Hannafords cart to nip into the dollarstore, thereby minimizing the transition and keeping my toddler out of the shelves. My daughter,as usual, was mortified. Eventually I had to park the cart, which was not to be navigated successfully in the aisles, and run down to the end of the store. I thought that anyone trying to kidnap this crew would have a struggle on their hands, so I didn't worry too much. Then I heard my daughter's unmistakably loud voice announcing to a line of customers: “This woman isn't my mother. She's my crazy aunt 300 times removed on my Dad's side!” Talk about calling attention to oneself! I made my purchase and slunk out of the store, as much as it was possible to slink under the circumstances, and barreled along to return the cart to Hannafords. As expected, I got a tongue-lashing from my alter ego for speeding.

ZUMBA- What's all the fuss about?

JUST TO SEE WHAT ALL THE FUSS IS ABOUT

Having grown up on a farm, I always tended to “poo poo” going to the gym and actually paying for exercise. I always thought that being outdoors doing hard work was the natural way to stay healthy; that exercise should fit inextricably in with a busy active life. Since I have been off the farm for 38 years now, that is the number of years of denial this way of thinking has afforded me.

I'm not opposed to staying fit, I have just kept thinking that tomorrow I'll take a nice long walk, which I was doing with some regularity until I twisted my knee two winters ago. It's so easy to get out of the habit. So after seeing post after post from friends on facebook who are Zumba fans – no, Zumba maniacs – I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It seemed that all the people who mentioned Zumba on facebook were also saying things like “isn't life beautiful” and “what a fresh morning”.

This morning I was determined to take the plunge after seeing a poster which for all intents and purposes could have been labeled “old lady Zumba”. I called the gym to inquire about just that, and found that my first class would be free. Great.

I would say the single biggest barrier (besides my butt) to going to the gym has been my lack of appropriate gym wear. Shorts require leg-shaving, and spandex is absolutely out of the question. That leaves me with sweat pants or pajamas. I almost aborted the mission this morning because I could not for the life of me find my sweats and my pajamas were too loud and Christmassy to wear in public. Finally, donned in sweatpants that I bought in college, a camp shirt from 1995 and sneakers that are at least as old as my children and whose insoles were eaten by the dog last year, I was ready to step out into Zumba world.

It was a small class, and I noticed that only 50% of the class was older than me, which makes me think that I was incorrect about the old lady part, or worse, I was in fact right on. I was horrified to see a huge mirror before me, but succeeded in keeping my eyes only on the instructor in it. If I stayed in the back I could be as uncoordinated as I liked until the whole class turned around putting me in the front. Fortunately that was not often.

So if my facebook posts start to be uplifting and airy and full of quotes about the beauty and wonders of life rather than how beaten down and old I feel, you can assume that I'm on the Zumba train.

To Be Or Not To Be A True Soccer Mom

To Be or Not to Be a True Soccer Mom

So I read a book a while ago about predators – and I'm not talking about T-Rex - and it said that one should never, ever drop a kid off at practice and drive away, which I have done on several occasions out of sheer lack of time. Apparently, predators are paying attention to whose mom drops them off and whose stays. So if you're one of those pressed-for-time moms who swings by the soccer field to deposit your kid and then whips over to the drug store and then after the game a parent you don't know asks your kid over for a play date, you are to assume (according to the book) that there is some probability, no matter how small, that he could be a child molester. Especially if he (or she) has a mustache. The book didn't mention mustaches, but I heard once that many child molesters do have mustaches, and I have (unfortunately) had brushes with quite a few of the former over the years in my personal and professional experience, and when I think about it, a good percentage of them, maybe even 100%, have indeed had mustaches. Barring any repressed memories, I feel lucky to say that my encounters were in fact only brushes. So here I have already failed on three accounts. First, as a writer, as I have veered off on such a tangent, you would hardly know this is a commentary about soccer. Or moms. Second, as a mom, because I have unwittingly placed my children in peril, and third, as a soccer mom for obvious reasons.

I don't coach soccer. Or ref. I will never coach or ref, despite my pangs of guilt when I check off the “no thank you” box on the form that asks if I'd like to help out. And no right-minded person would want me to coach, anyway. I didn't play soccer until my senior year of high school when I got a good bike and could finally get off the farm. I rode six miles each way up and down steep hills so that I could participate in sports. Since I started soccer so late in life, I was embarrassed to admit I did not know the rules, so I just “played in the dark” so to speak. Whenever I really put in a good effort and went after the ball, I got called for some transgression or another, for which I had no idea why. I know little more in my old age about the rules of soccer than I did then, and so I'm going to leave it at that. I do have to say that I don't often yell from the sidelines much. That's good isn't it? Except for the occasional admonition to my kid to pay attention and get his head out of the clouds.

I hate to admit this to my peers, but until last week I had never actually sat and watched my kids' soccer games. Blame it on sleep deprivation or the fact that I like to socialize, but I usually wander off in search of conversation, even if it has to happen three fields away. It's such a treat each week to see who's on the opposing team, and I usually end up crossing the field to talk to friends, while paying no attention to the game whatsoever, until their kid makes a goal and I reflexively cheer for their kid and their team, and then I get the hairy eyeball from my husband who is dutifully watching the game from the correct side and cheering for the correct team. It doesn't seem to matter to him that the friends' kid is infinitely better at soccer than our kid and deserves kudos for an excellent play. Well, I may not cut the muster as a soccer mom, but no one can say that I'm a poor sport.

So In conclusion, I don't know what anyone really has to do to sport a bumper sticker that says “Soccer Mom.” I can think of a few things I feel more qualified to have on a bumper sticker, such as “Brain Dead Mom” or “Caution! Mom on autopilot - do dot follow!” or “It's past 6:30 and you're on your way to soccer – do you know where your children are?”... So even though I've survived several seasons of soccer, I still don't know what elusive cluster of traits I have to possess to be able to call myself a soccer mom. Does sitting for three or four hours at a stretch watching a ball zig zag across the field qualify me, or do I have to do something else a little more special? How about washing uniforms, or at the very least yelling at the kids to go and find their soccer socks at the bottom of the hamper and get them on right now cause we're late for practice? What if I have to pay a chiropractor because I put out my back wrestling on cleats and socks and shin guards - would that do it? Is there something special I have to wear, or a particular way I'm supposed to carry myself? I'm not going to worry about that now (not that I'm really worried at all), because I've been up since 4:15 writing this and I have to be at the soccer field at 8. At this point I'm going to focus less on being a soccer mom and more on being a nice mom.

Super Nanny Eat Your Heart Out

(written about four or more years ago)
SUPERNANNY EAT YOUR HEART OUT
I used to wonder about peoples' fascination with shows like Super nanny, and then I realized that watching other people's pitiful parenting and screaming brats served to make me feel better about my own life. As I have a history of smugly judging others in an attempt to bolster my own dwindling self-esteem, this was right up my alley. However, in recent months I feel as if I should have a Super nanny film crew with me at all times just in case they get some really good footage. Once I decided that I really needed to go to Staples after two other stores at 6:30 p.m. with five or six kids, none of whom had recently napped or eaten. As I was fumbling at the entrance of the store trying to get a shopping cart in which to contain my wild toddler, he ran screaming into the store ahead of me. The other kids, in a valiant attempt to be helpful, tackled him on the rug just inside the store. There was a huge pile of kids on the rug, and I heard a primal scream from my son that was louder than any I' Ive heard from those “other kids” in the supermarket. I was mortified beyond belief. As I shuffled over to the copier with my rumpled stack of papers, I noticed a woman giving me the most horrible look as if I were the WORST mother in the world. I kept mumbling about kids being hungry and missing their naps mixed in with nervous laughter, but her facial expression remained etched in stone. I am not proud to say that that this type of scene has replayed itself more than I would like to admit.

SPEAKING OF SUPERNANNY...
As I mentioned before, Super Nanny is my “show”. Apart from the fact that I have to fight off of PTSD flashbacks of my own British Nana every time I hear Jo Jo talk about the naughty chair, (I only WISH she had limited her discipline to a naughty chair) I love to tune in. However, Jo Jo lost almost all credibility with me on her last episode. She suggested placing finger puppets on little fingers after cutting their nails, to make it more “fun”. She clearly lives on a planet devoid of children. First, when I eventually realize that I haven't clipped a nail in weeks or months, I'm certainly not going to look for ten finger puppets. I'm lucky if I can find the child, his nails and the clipper all in the same house at the same time. Never mind the puppets.

Another beef I have with Supernanny is all the cleavage. My goodness, some of the women on that show have had seven kids and their boobs are as perky as ever, not to mention huge, and their stomachs are as flat as pancakes. One woman looked so top-heavy I can imagine it taking all her energy to keep from falling on her face. No wonder she's too tired to discipline her kids. Besides, maybe if she ate a meal once in a while she'd have a little more pep. And all the families seem to be filthy rich. I know I sound judgmental, but some of the dads look pretty young and not all that educated, yet they have these enormous houses and very well maintained stay at home wives. Everyone seems to be rolling in money. Their furniture looks brand new and their floors are sparkling. Granted if Supernanny and all of America were coming to my house I'm sure I would clean up a bit, but it looks like these people have just been left by Trading Spaces. Perhaps if the overwhelmed moms spent less time and money on their hair and more on their kids... now I'm sounding really judgmental.

I'd like to see Jo Jo drive her car up a dirt road during mud season to visit a family of fourteen living in a broken down trailer with three generations and one breadwinner. As her high heels sink in the mud while she's trying to wrestle her briefcase from rotweiler, she can smell the wood smoke mingling with cigarettes as it all wafts toward her out of the stack of sap buckets that serves as a chimney. I wonder if she would give a little shiver and surreptitiously pull her suit coat closer around her breasts before knocking at the door. If she needs help with directions, I can show her where to find a few of these places. The low-paid Super nannies who work for my former mental health agency could also throw in a few referrals. This paragraph is not meant to be judgemental in the least, only realistic. I've sat comfortably in hundreds of such homes, often nestled on a peanut-butter-and-jellied-chair, breathing second hand smoke and thinking maybe I shouldn't have quit, and felt quite at home.* Much more so than I would in any of Supernanny's mansions. *(I'll make one exception for the one where the starving pigs from the neighboring abandoned farm surrounded the house, thus imprisoning us with the murderous husband. Oh, and the one where the stoned teenagers said their mom would be right back and we saw in the paper the next day that at that very moment she was out shooting someone.

I wonder if the producers would give me a makeover and a boob job if I applied for Super Nanny. I'd take a tummy tuck in a minute, however at this stage in the game the only change I would want to make to my boobs would be to lighten my load. Gravity is the enemy when you're when you're over 40.