Dear Girl Scout Cookie fan: it’s that time of year! The time of year the parents of a particular Girl Scout dread–the nagging to accost friends and neighbors for sales, the drumming up of business, the eventual slow cookie dispersion and money collecting…

Oh, yes, it’s Girl Scout Cookie time!

After the pain and agony of getting Sunshine to be diligent about collecting funds, distributing cookies, and generally make us not dread Cookie Time, we almost didn’t let her sell them this year. But I think that’s un-
American. And how can you be known to have a resident Girl Scout and NOT be selling cookies??

And then, I came up with a BRILLIANT plan! (insert evil cackle here)

After a discussion about our expectations and what might motivate her this year to improve her diligence, I wrote up a contract and had Sunshine initial and sign it before she got her cookie sales sheet. Feel free to use it, Girl Scout parents. I think it’s legal and binding. At least at our house . :)

P.S She came up with her own ‘no reading’ consequence. But I came up with the offers to sell off her stuff if she didn’t collect $ in a timely manner. :)

Girl Scout Cookie Selling Agreement with Parents, 2011

I, Daughter’s Name, promise with all my heart to make cookie selling a pleasant experience for myself and my beloved parents and family this year.  I promise to:

1)      Collect orders in an organized way (so I can read my order later and everything is accurate). ___

2)      Only contact people I am able to get orders to in a timely manner. ___

3)      Keep my paperwork where I can find it. ___

4)      When cookies come in, I will immediately sort orders and begin delivery. ___

5)      I will collect money with checks made out to my troop, NOT my beloved parents. ___

6)      I will double check all math, as I know I will make up any difference in money or cookies. ___

7)      I will work diligently to get orders to people and money from people within 1 week of when I get the orders.___

I agree that I will not be allowed to read any day that I have not worked to the best of my ability to make the cookie selling and delivery season as smooth and painless on our family as possible___

I agree that I am responsible for all uncollected money and I will personally make up the difference from my allowance or by selling my personal belongings within 1 week of when I get the cookies. ___

I love Girl Scouts and my family and want to be a blessing to both. ___

Signed:

___________________�
Daugher’s name, date                                                    

____________________
Parent,  date                                                                       

Witnessed by:
­­­­­­­­­­­____________________­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_ �
Signature and printed name, date

© 2011, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

Look! Scissors that can be found!

I can still remember rolling my eyes a bit when my mom would be all up in my face about using something of hers a) without asking and b) without returning it.

Seesh. Weren’t they SUPPOSED to be used? Not sitting in a drawer, well-organized all day? It seemed a teensy-weensy bit over the top, in my kid opinion. I mean, honestly, I just borrowed them for a minute (which turned into days when I didn’t put them back) and they were just scissors!

But now, I know. They are never ‘just scissors’. They are the good scissors. The ones that are sharp enough to cut anything without hassle. And the ones that the mommy always knows where they are (which is why they get borrowed—no one can find the other 11 pairs of household scissors). The mommy uses them and she puts them back. Where.they.belong.

Then, NotMe borrows them, or her sister IDidntDoIt, and Mommy never finds them again.
Which leads to me getting all up in my kids’ faces to explain how we DON’T.TOUCH.MOMMY (dearest)’s.THINGS.WITHOUT.ASKING.

This is how items get attacked by the label maker with labels like “Property of Mom” or “Do NOT Touch! Yes, this means YOU!”

When, oh, when did I become this mother? The one who wanted to find her stuff? And in good condition? And where she left it?

No touchy my stuffy. Thankseversomuch.
Love, Your Totally Unreasonable Mom

© 2010, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

I haven't used duct tape. Yet.

This is one of those things that will solve itself by the time your kid is about 7 or 8 (’cause all their friends will finally think it’s gross).  But if you can’t wait that long (*shudder* and who can?), how do you get a kid to quit picking their nose?

This was not my original idea.  I first saw it when I was a teen and I recall making a mental note to remember it if I ever had kids.  It’s that good.

Kids generally start sticking their finger up their nose as a toddler when they first discover that their finger fits perfectly.  But it’s not until about preschool age that they find out that sometimes, the digging is rewarded.  And their off…

Enter the brilliant parent who showed me this trick.  His 4 year-old daughter had a finger wrapped in tape.  When I asked about the owie, he calmly stated that she had a little bit of a problem with keeping her finger out of her nose.  With tape on it, her finger wouldn’t fit up her nose.  Bril.liant.  Problem solved.

I am using this trick on my 3rd child, and I have found that it does not matter what kind of tape you use (I’ve used clear tape, masking tape and medical tape.  Also, a bandaid in a pinch.).  Nor does it matter which direction you wrap the finger (over the top or around it).  Either way works just as well.  Keep it on for as long as you want–even 10 minutes seems to get the point across to Lady Bug.

And yes, you do probably need to tape all their digging fingers of choice at the same time.

(Did you miss my first post on boogies? You’d think I have some sort of problem with them.  Oh, well, yeah…)

© 2010, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

Back when Taylor Lautner was 'Shark Boy' and not yet 'Jacob'

Hi. My name is Melissa and I have read the Twilight saga. Multiple times. No, I’m not 14. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I’m a ‘Twilight mom’. You know, those grownup women who become addicted to the Twlight books after prying them out of the hands of their teenaged daughters. (Not that I have a teen daughter.)

I was a late fan and didn’t start the series until Breaking Dawn (the 4th book) came out. I (admittedly) rolled my eyes at the hysteria. I only read Twilight to write a book review for it, but by about 50 pages in, I was staying up until 2 am to finish it. And I was extremely grateful that a) the books were nice and long and b) that I had waited to start the series until 4 books were out. No having to wait for the next installment!

Now, I have never been to those fan websites. Well, aside from that one time when I got caught up in the buzz about how ‘Jacob’ (Taylor Lauter) had gained 30 pounds and totally got buffed out to stay in the series. I guess the director or a producer or someone was concerned that he wasn’t big enough (spoiler ALERT!) to look werewolfy. Well, being impressed with his determination, I went to a Twilight moms website. Looked like he pulled it off. And in the interest of research, I am posting this link for you. ‘Cause I’m nice like that.

I have taken one of those Facebook quizzes, and it turns out that I’m on Team Jacob, just for full disclosure. And I did meet him (back in the days that he was just Shark Boy) at a karate tournament my oldest daughter competed in, March 2007. Do you see how close I got to him?? Oh, and my kids got to meet him, too. Nice young man, considerate of his fans. Probably couldn’t get within a mile of him now.

And then, as a writer, read the series again to understand the crack-like nature of it. You know, from a purely professional perspective. What was so addictive about it? The characters? The writing? The theme? I loved how Stephanie Meyer just discarded known vampire lore when it didn’t work with her story. Creepy bloodsuckers? Make ‘em vegetarian! Turn to dust in sunlight? Nah—just make ‘em sparkly!

I own the Twlight movie and drug my amused husband to see it in theaters where I sat and whispered in his ear all the critical plot points he was missing by not having read the book. He liked the fight scene at the end enough that with the promise of werewolf and vampire fights in New Moon, he’s coming with me on Friday to see it (and only because I can’t find a sitter for the midnight showing).

So, bring on the bloodsuckers and dogs. This Twilight mom is ready! Whoop!

© 2009 – 2010, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

Thoughts on the madness of flying these days, and probably why we end up driving everywhere. Well, that, and the need to purchase 5 airline tickets…

1) The airlines basic premise: First, we are going to charge a ton of money. Then, we may or may not be on time, but you had better plan to spend several hours at the airport waiting on us. But don’t bring any of your actual belongings on board (all the people with bad intentions always go though security and are forthright about their items). And since you can’t bring anything on board, we are going to charge worse-then-concession-stand-prices for everything once you’re on the other side. Bwha-ha-ha-ha! We are also going to charge you per bag, for the privilege of us losing and or/damaging your luggage.

2) I think they should make the seats smaller and pack more people aboard. I am petite and feel like I have just enough space to not feel squished. I don’t know how normal-sized people manage. Meager-sized seats, potties, and even the aisles.

(A note on potties here, I know that airplane lingo designates them “lavatories”, which I deduce from my high school Spanish has something to do with the verb, “lavar”, or “to wash”. But come on–I cannot imagine anyone being able to do anything in that tiny space aside from picking spinach out of their teeth. If claustrophobia doesn’t get you, the scary sucking sound the drain or potty makes will.)

(Oh, another note on lavatories: last time I flew, I had at least two kids with me, one in diapers. I had no idea where to change Lady Bug who had decided the plane was a fine, fine place to poop [honestly, don't the rest of us have the opposite problem when we travel? But I digress...well, I digress more then I was digressing, which was a lot...anyhoo]).

3) Amazingly, through 3 kids, I can never remember having to actually change a diaper on a plane. I started to change her on the seat, banking on the fact that a helpful flight attendant would intervene if I wasn’t supposed to. Yep, whadda-ya-know. No diaper changes on airline seats. (Now that I think about it, I believe I have changed a very little diapered butt on my lap on a plane–must’ve blocked that painful memory). The flight attendant informs me that FAA rules prohibit me from changing my baby on the seat (I thought she was joking for a minute about it being an FAA rule, and I barely stopped myself from laughing), but that there is a changing table in the lavatory. Really? In that little closet? Intrigued, I hauled poopy baby and stuff into 2ft space. Sure enough, there is a little table that folds down above the seat. Huh, who knew? I eyed it critically, ’cause it was exceedingly tiny. Only slightly bigger then the fold-down tray at my seat. Hmm. I should mention here that Lady Bug has always been a bit mistrustful of changing tables that dangle off of walls. She is okay with a nice, solid table, but attach a hinge to it and the girl gets nervous. She eyed me, clearly thinking I’m insane. “Are you sure? You tested this thing for weight? It feels wobbly, really wobbly. Not to mention germy, really germy. Hey! I’m slanting! Are you sure this thing is stable?” You can imagine her horror at the prospect of being on a tiny, hinged, slanting table at 30,000 feet. With slight turbulence. Poor baby. If she had been any bigger, I don’t know what I could’ve done. Change her on the spacious, clean floor?)

4) On my flight to Boston, there was a notice in the lavatory that read something like, “If the fasten seat belt sign is on, remain seated on the toilet.” This flight doesn’t have that same notice (I checked, cause I wanted to take a picture of it for you guys). I think to myself, sure! That’s where I want to be in the event of turbulence! On the potty with the sloshy blue stuff in it! Maybe they mean with the lid down, but still. Ick.

5) I recall a time when there was a little sign asking you to wipe down the sink after use, to be courteous to the next passenger. Well, they don’t do that anymore. Apparently, it is totally fine to leave dirty, soapy water in the sink. I always hit the center “drain” lever before I figure out which one is for water, in any case. And then I nearly lose a hand trying to stuff the paper towels into the teeny trash receptacle with the hinged flap that’s on steroids.

6) All of the above is prefaced, though, by moving through the plane. With the wee, wee, close together seats, you practically have to sit on your seatmates laps to extract yourself from your row. Then, if you encounter someone coming the other direction down the aisle, there is the critical question of “which way do I turn to get past?” Turning away from them seems unfriendly, as you are basically offering them your butt. But (har-dee-har) turning towards them to pass is extremely, well, waaaay to intimate. (I know, I tried it for research purposes. Let me just say that there are close friends who I haven’t been in that much contact with me. Something I just save for strange men on the plane, apparently. Was it good for you?

7) You sit next to strangers, sometimes on their laps, practically, you siddle past them, hopefully decently, and have them deposit your tray table in the lab when they recline their seat.

9) Oh, onto the tilty seat and airplane safety. Really? Having my tray table and seat in their upright, locked position makes a hill of beans? How is that possible, really? I think it is all part of the power mongering of the airlines. Just sayin’.

Remind me to come back and read this blog if I whine about driving somewhere instead of flying…

© 2009, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

We are a drivin‘ kinda family. Mostly, because Darling is um…uh…well, the man is a proud tightwad. The cost of flying a family of 5 anywhere makes his eyes do this freaky bugging out thing. But we love to travel (we have short memories, so we forget just how painful it is with small children). So, basically, we drive everywhere. We actually get a little antsy after a few months without a major road trip. We DROVE to Disney World, for heaven’s sake. You can catch up on that little adventure here. However, a few months ago, Darling had a conference in Boston and he, being the wonderful guy that he is, got his mom to watch the kids for a few days (I’m sure it felt like a lot more than that to her :) and I flew out to join him for the weekend! Woot! So fun.

I was totally looking forward to flying WITHOUT children. Darling kept complaining about how long of a flight it was and I could barely contain myself from leaping into a dance of joy (I think it was giving the children a complex that mom was so excited to be LEAVING!). Gosh, all that alone time on the plane? Just me, a book, and someone to bring me snacks? Seriously?? Woot! I was already planning how I was NOT going to make eye contact with my seatmates, thus avoiding any conversation on the 4 hour flight.

So in the next blog or so, I am going to detail some of the fun, fun things that are unique to flying. Bring on those great travel stories and share them with me in the comments!

Fun, fun flying, Part 1

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed a decline in courtesy? I am not talking about fellow passengers (though I could…maybe later). I am speaking of the trained PROFESSIONALS who serve on planes. I am typing with subterfuge here as I am actually on the plane as I write this and I don’t want coffee accidentally dumped in my lap. This flight, curiously, the crew seems fairly courteous. Just shy of friendly. This is not the norm. Usually, flight attendants seem to be cranky, power-mongery people who’s chance to gossip in the galley with a co-worker is interrupted by your need of a snack, pillow or blankey (that you have to pay for). They shout “sir!” ma’am!” a lot. As in, “Ma’am, you need to return to your seat, the captain has the seat belt sign on” or “Sir, you are going to have to move that bag–it won’t fit there (much huffing and irritation as they move the offending bag of the obviously brain-damaged passenger).

What gives with that? Since when did the flight attendants gain all the power on a plane? (Yes, I recognize that they could have to save my life in the event of an emergency, but I would be okay with liking them BEFORE that.) I don’t even want to ask for a water from them. Even with their increased role in security, you’d think they would operate under the assumption that most of us are NOT bad guys.

I once had a flight attendant refuse to serve me coffee on a plane because I was holding a 3 month-old Lady Bug and she was worried I would spill it on her. Um. Thanks for the concern? But I manage to drink hot beverages daily and NOT spill them on anyone. Even if we suddenly hit turbulence, this isn’t McDonald’s and the coffee isn’t that hot. Really. She said it wasn’t an actual airline rule, just her rule, as she sweetly stood there waiting for me to put Lady B in her seat.

Speaking of power mongering and security, what is up with the TSA agents these days? Did they go through re-training or something? They are, like, pleasant and stuff. With a sense of humor. Trust me when I tell you that this came in very handy when I left my i.d. on the counter at home. Yep. Rule of travel #1: don’t move stuff from it’s normal place. I had taken it out of my wallet so that it would be handy, but somehow FORGOT to pick it up off the counter. So, there I was, freakishly searching through my bag at the ticket counter trying to find it. I had no other picture i.d. with me. I assumed my trip was going to end right there at the check-in counter. Amazingly, they let me fly. I didn’t know they would do that. Actually, as nice as it worked out for me, I’m not sure they SHOULD let people do that. But maybe you don’t worry too much about a legal i.d. if you have nefarious plans.

The TSA folks had me search through my wallet to find things with my name on it. The saving grace was my Sam’s Club card with my picture on it and my ability to recite my address off my checkbook (which I almost didn’t take with me). I did get specially screened (which wasn’t all that special, trust me). Flying to Boston, they had the puffer machine thingy–a semi-enclosed booth that blew startlingly loud air jets at me. Coming home, I got the old-fashioned pat-down. As I was putting all my identifying documents away, my wallet fell open and some cash fell out. The TSA guy says, “Oh, you don’t owe us anything for the service.” :) It was funny.

Interestingly, at the Denver airport, they have advertising on the bottom of the security trays. Funnily, it is for the shoe website, zappos, so while you are standing here in your naky feet, touching the germy floor, you can dream about shoes…

© 2009, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

Here is a little Friday fun for you. This was one of the very first pieces I wrote, about 5 years ago. Enjoy!

The Poop in the Tub

With small children in the house, I look forward to certain daily events. Bath time is near the top of my list (only slightly down from naptime). I love the bubbles, the adorable bubble beards and hair, and the sweet smelling children. All that, and the fact that they are contained in one place for a bit make for a happy mommy moment.

One evening as the children were making bubble soup, my eldest suddenly yells, “Mom! Pixie pooped in the tub! There’s poop! She pooped! Eeeww!” I turned from getting clean towels and saw my oldest daugher, age 5, scrambling out of the tub and the E. coli infected water. Pixie, age 2, sat in the tub looking a little stunned.

I had absolutely no idea how to proceed from here. At this stage of parenting, you’d think that I would be well-prepared for most poop-related events. However, no one had ever told me about poop in the tub, and I had blissfully managed to avoid the experience with my older child. I stood frozen for a moment while my brain slowly processed this new experience. In a moment of clarity, I realized that I had a choice–I could react in a firm, but playful manner, discussing the importance of not pooping in the tub and calmly disinfect everyone and the 3000 toys that had found their way into the contaminated water. Or, I could shriek like a maniac who’d never seen poop before, pull the children to safety and proclaim loudly and frequently that we DO NOT poop in the tub.

I went with my gut. Shrieking, I grabbed the children, wrapping them in the clean towels (that would now have to be disinfected) and carried them to my non-poopy shower. My 5 year-old dramatically re-told the event the whole shower and Pixie still looked a little shell-shocked (perhaps due to my continual mantra that we DO NOT poop in the tub). After disinfecting the children, I drained the poopy tub and thoroughly washed my hands afterwards with a hospital-style scrub. I barred the door until the area was no longer a biohazard.
How does one get poop out of the tub without actually touching it? I had no idea. After multiple discarded plans (one of which was to wait until my husband came home to deal with the toxic waste situation–cowardly, I know), I decided that it was best to use a plentiful supply of toilet paper and just grab the (former) floaties. I did so, and went through a gag routine worthy of an Oscar (I wonder where the 5 year-old gets her dramatic side from). I have daily dealings with poop, but poop out of the diaper was a whole ‘nother country. After the de-contamination process was complete (on both children, the tub, and the toys in the tub–which I washed with bleach in the washing machine–can you do that?), I wondered if I had handled the situation well.

As a parent in the trenches, there is not a lot of time for deep introspection, and this situation did not call for a complex moral lesson. But I wonder if I missed an opportunity to see the poop in the tub as a chance to laugh with my children. I now have a 2 year-old who wears a swim diaper in the tub and states emphatically, “No, no poop in tub” every time she comes near the site of the disaster. Luckily, parenting provides constant opportunities for growth and improvement. I will think back to this adventure with the next unexpected event: like the one that happened today at naptime–can you say poop finger-painting?

© 2009, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

I am convinced that those cloth shopping bags at checkout stands are doing more harm than good.

Hear me out on this. I have, as a good citizen, purchased about 4 of said shopping bags. And I love that I can get so much into them and how nice and solid they are when I use them. I should say, the 9 times a year I ACTUALLY remember to use them.

Seriously, ’cause I need one more thing to remember in my life??

Here’s how it works in my world: I make out my shopping list. I go to the store. Even with the words typed permanently and **’d at the top of my list– DON’T FORGET BAGS!! I forget them nearly every time. I have tried putting them on the seat next to me as a visual reminder. Unfortunately, I leave them there all the time (so I’ll remember to grab them anytime I go to a store) and my brain doesn’t even REGISTER them anymore. I put them on the hooks by the door going out to the car, where I FORGET them for weeks at a time.

I only remember them when I see the STACKS of cloth bags for sale at the register.

I don’t think I am that different from anyone else. I mean, really, don’t you get a thrill of a rush when you remember your bags? You know why? ‘Cause it’s a NEW experience! Yes, yes, I am sure that about 3 of you have figured out a good system for remembering to take your bags shopping with you. (Maybe using them as clothing? So you can be sure you always have them with you? And then you can feel great that you have not only REDUCED, but REUSED, too! Woot!)

I think the stores are going to have to take a hard line approach to this whole bag issue for people like me. Sell me the cloth bags and then completely DO AWAY WITH the plastic ones. I bet I’d only have to carry my canned goods out in my bare hands (with a toddler dragging a bag of apples) ONE TIME to be enticed to remember my bags the next time.

Unless, of course, the stores are actually HAPPY to keep selling people like me bag after bag after bag, using ‘green guilt‘ to do so. Because, they can’t actually be glad of the whole greenhouse gas effect that the making of plastic (and cloth??) bags are creating. No, no. The stores WANT to help the environment. They are SAD when I forget my bags and then ask me if I’d like to purchase (another) set of cloth bags, instead of using those evil, evil, free plastic ones.

And what am I supposed to use as a trash can liner? Or to tie up poopy diapers in? Oooo, maybe I can use the cloth bags I keep forgetting! At least they’d get used!

Anyone got a pattern for a nice poncho?

© 2009, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

I know that this is terribly, terribly late. But in the spirit of goodwill to (wo)men, I feel I must say it.

To the lady I honked at in the SuperTarget parking lot on Black Friday, I’m sorry. I am not a cranky person, in general. I sat waiting patiently for a full 45 seconds (which we all can agree feels like FOREVER) and I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Let me explain. In lieu of HAND-MAKING Christmas cards this year, I talked the fam into getting a family photo. Since HAND-MAKING 60+ cards last year was a painful, painful event for everyone (it seemed like a good idea at the time), I figured talking them into a family photo this year would be easier. With the pain of last year properly refreshed (when I waved a partially completed card at them from my stash of supplies), they readily agreed.

So, I bought coordinating sweaters for the children (pink and plum), with me in plum and Darling in brown (I thought putting him in plum would make him roll his eyes at me, so I didn’t try it). NOTE: I did NOT make anyone dress up fancy (much to Pixie’s sadness). I did NOT make anyone cry as we got ready to go (even when I couldn’t find the CUTE bow for Lady Bug’s hair and when Darling accidentally shaved off part of his goatee–no joke). I held it together as we rushed LATE out the door (despite my cleverly putting the appointment ahead by 20 minutes in my planner).

You were just the straw that broke the camels back, lady. I had the family LEAP out of the car(not an easy task with 3 children) while I wove through the throngs of bargain shoppers to find a parking spot. I *patiently* sat behind you as you were let out of your car. I had just let my family out, so I was willing to be gracious. It was the fact that you then re-opened the car door to get a jacket out. And then that other lady who got out of the car waited until you were totally out to even BEGIN extricating herself. And then SHE reached back in to get a jacket. (It wasn’t cold and you were practically on the sidewalk into the store, seriously.) You were all moving with exquisite SLOWNESS, with a complete disregard for the fact that you were holding up traffic. And then some man handed Slow Lady #2 a cell phone. And then they chatted about the merits of needing said phone.

I just couldn’t take it anymore. I broke down and honked. A polite little honk, honestly. You looked back at me and said, “Be patient a minute!” Well, since it was SO WARM out, I had my window down and my spirit of injustice raised her irritated head at you.

“I have been patient a minute. It’s the 5 you’re taking that I’m impatient with!”

Well, you can remember how things progressed after that. You went slower, I snapped rude things at your ambling self (no sweary words or anything that would keep me from running for public office). Just great fodder for you to talk about when you discussed your shopping bargains and that psycho lady in the parking lot.

Anyway, back to my point. I’m sorry. Really, I am.

© 2008 – 2009, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.

I think I have mentioned that I totally don’t like exercising. I just have never been a big fan of the whole sweating thing (not to sound prissy). And, it is a giant time suck. So many other things I’d rather do with my time, seriously.

I wish I could say that I started exercising because it is the healthy, responsible grownup thing to do. Sadly, not so much. It boils down to the fact that after Lady Bug was born, my abdominal muscles forgot how to suck in. Really. I tried, but I couldn’t figure out which muscles were involved. Oh, because they had been TORN APART in my pregnancy. Darn babies. Anywhoo, the motivating factor for me was the fact that I got tired of dressing around my tummy bulge. The rest of me seemed to return to (mostly) normal, but the squishy tummy could not be tamed. And have you noticed that low-cut pants only provide a lovely shelf for the tummy pooch to rest on? Creating a particularly ugly muffin top? Just sayin’….

So, I started to research exercise options in my area. Let me assure you, there is no shortage of gyms, studios, pools, walking trails, etc. In fact, it seems like everyone I know is working out. Well, except for me.

There are a couple of factors I had to consider:

1) Me no likey-sweaty. Or running. Or getting my face wet. This pre-cludes lots of kinds of exercising. (Really, I’m not prissy—seriously).

2) I am not built right to feel comfortable in a meat market environment. Ahem. Cross most of the area gyms off the list.

3) I wish I could say I was motivated enough to work out on some fun piece of equipment at home, but I’m just not. See above where I mention, “I’d rather do anything else”.

4) I am not willing to cut into family time, so it has to be done during the day AND provide childcare. Well, that REALLY narrows it down.

5) I am not willing to pay much for this, nor promise to pay monthly for the next 17 years. Darn, cross off that pilates studio.

6) A 3 degree shift in temperature is enough to make me peer out the window and decide it is just too hot/cold/windy/beautiful a day to go walking (which is free and I could take Lady Bug with me).

I know, isn’t this pathetic? You’d think I totally don’t want to work out! Oh. If I didn’t have to carefully select a shirt every morning, I’d have given up. So, basically, I looked for a woman-friendly place that provided childcare, during the day, and was fun enough for me to be willing to go 2 times a week.

Enter: JAZZERCISE! Heck, who knew? It’s not just for the 80’s anymore, ladies!
I went to my first workout (go ME for getting out the door!), and despite the fact that my coordination was laughable, it wasn’t horrible. AND, they CLAPPED for me for coming! Just ‘cause I was the new girl!

I can’t say that I enjoy exercising, but at least I am going. After going for a couple of months, my tummy is still amazingly poochy (only going 2x a week has it’s drawbacks), but at least I have identified my abdominal muscles again and can just suck in now. :)

© 2008 – 2009, melissa caddell. All rights reserved. If you steal my stuff, I will also be really, really mad.