And here we are. With one week left until Christmas, it's time for the hub bub of the usual activities....last minute shopping (I think I am....gasp...done?), cookie baking (only about 10 dozen to make, starting today!), wrapping (try doinng THAT with a 3 year old and 1 year old!) and prep for hosting the holiday (we host Christmas, which I adore, but I definitely have some cleaning and grocery shopping to do!) And the ole mile challenge.
For those of you that don't read every post of mine with baited breath (congrats, you have a life!), I decided to do a run mileage challenge for the 6 weeks of the holidays - I am trying to run 175 miles between Turkey day and 2017. The logic is convoluted, as always, but 175 miles equates to roughly 5 pounds, which is what the average Jo(sephine) gains during the holiday season. Rather than follow the 80/20 rule of logic for healthy eating over the holidays, I said screw it, bring on the cookies. And I'll just do the work. With two weeks to go, I've run 98 miles and have 77 left to go. Which is more than I'd like, but since I was sidelined with the plague for a week, I feel pretty good about my progress. I'm on it. And what better to pound out holiday frustration than on the pavement? Yes, please!
So, in the tradition of the season on the blog, I'll be bringing you some Christmas goodies - a kid handprint craft, a recipe or two, and a new thing I'm trying this year - chili in a jar gifts. How very Martha of me. Speaking of which, apparently that's my moniker. Huh.
A few days ago, I was chatting with a friend, and we started to talk about our weekends. He's a few
years younger and is still very much in the mindset of bar hopping, parties, and drink drank drunk (ok, not so much the last. He is still somewhat domesticated!). It's usually fun to hear about his antics, and in some ways I fondly remember my life from 7-10 years ago when I talk to him. As we were chatting, he basically told me that he just made an assumption that I was being a parent this weekend. He admitted that it might be off, but it was a natural assumption since I was "100% mom status". I pretty much laughed it off, as that was really my plan - sledding with the kids, crafting, cookies, and another Kid Christmas party - along with some me time of running, and the usual weekend chores - but, in hindsight, it kind of bugged me. I mean, do I really go change out of my work clothes (ok, work yoga pants) into my proverbial high waisted mom jeans every weekend? Have I lost my identity and been channeled into some Carol Brady, waiting with dinner in the crockpot for my Mister Brady to come home to? Am I that sickening mom with chocolate chip cookies in the oven and my kiddos making reindeer handprint ornaments for Christmas (spoiler- tatlly whats happening right now).
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| According to Rob, it's actually "foodmaker". 3 year olds... |
Yeah. I am. I'not sure if that makes me old at the ripe age of 34, but it sort of bugged me. As I joked about body shots, I realized that in some ways I really do miss picking out the perfect tight jeans and sexy but not overly sexy top to go to the bar in. Of ordering a Jack and coke at the bar and not having to share my "ginger ale" with my 3 year old (NO, I do not feed him whiskey. Although....is that a bad plan? Perhaps he would sleep!). Of dancing in a hot guys arms and perhaps getting a phone number....or more? (Hey, no judgement. I never said I was an angel). Hmm.
But...I did that last weekend. In a twist of Christmas magic, I got an awesome night out, complete with hot guy (I married him, it's ok), my drinkin' boots, and even some hot tub thrown in in. Wooohoo! So maybe I don't party like I'm 26 anymore. I'll get over it. And the next morning, after (gasp) a full nights sleep in a bed I didn't have to make and a hot shower where I threw my towels on the ground (confession, I am so THAT hotel guest)....I came home to my beautiful mess.....two
towheads that gave me sloppy kisses (Biz likes 'em open mouthed...lol) and an afternoon of Rudoph, cookies, and matchbox messes (cars, not fire. I almost NEVER let them play with fire). So I threw on my mom jeans (yoga pants) and off I went. To the rest of my weekend. Momming. And....that's ok. Because somewhere, I know, there's high heels, tight low rise jeans, and even a flat iron in my master suite upstairs. And I'll use them....when I need to.
Anyone else ever feel they get the "parent" label? How do you feel about it?
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