Tony Horton is a spandex-laced devil!

It’s January, people, which means that sometime in the next 6 months, I’ll be forced to shed my chunky sweaters and baggy jeans and put on a pair of shorts and a tank top or even (God forbid!) a bathing suit. For the last ten months, I’ve been actively avoiding any type of workout because I knew that once I got back into it, there would be no more cheese dip dinners or late night Krystal runs. But, alas, with the rapid approach of my son’s first birthday, I’ve realized (reluctantly) that the baby weight grace period has come to any end, and I must get back into a less lumpy shape.

To this end, I restarted a P90X regime (if you don’t know what it is, don’t look into it; it’s intriguing at first, but then it just becomes really, really painful). I also began to watch what I eat to a point (and that point ends when we have ice cream in the house). Now, I used to be somewhat of a gym rat. I enjoyed working out and felt that my day was not complete without it. But along with my bustline and waist size (one went down, one went up…I’ll leave you to cipher out which is which), this love of exercise has changed since I’ve had a baby. In addition to a marked lack of energy for anything besides playing with blocks and cleaning up poop, I now dread the workout because I know that I have to get it done in whatever length of time my child chooses to nap for that day. Yesterday, I read a friend’s Facebook status (Hey Sally, what’s up?), and she nailed it when she said that she had x, y, and z to get done during her kids’ nap time and “the clock was ticking.” That’s exactly how I feel during my workouts...I can hear the naptime clock tick-tocking away before I even get my sneakers on. Because of this imaginary timepiece, I fast forward during the “water breaks” and, much to my heart rate’s displeasure, I have little time for warm ups and cool downs. The pressure to get it done by the time my son wakes up and starts gnawing on his crib is completely counterproductive to any endorphin high I could hope to have.

But, as all moms do, I soldier on…and on…and on…with surprisingly little results. I used to be able to do a few crunches and have at least a two-pack. Now, I work my abs until they scream (really, each one of them lets out a groan and then throws up a tiny white flag), but it doesn’t seem to make much difference. I can only assume that I have been cursed with a “mom pooch” – you know, the extra bit of somethin’ somethin’ around the midsection that you can only cover with an acid-wash denim fanny pack (another mom staple; I got mine at Penny’s if you’re looking). So, what can I do? Make a defeated return to Chili Con Queso Tuesdays? Nah; I figure if I’m gonna go down, I might as well go down fighting.

We live in a house of mouse

I never appreciated the monopolizing quality of the Walt Disney Company until I became a mother. Not that it’s a bad thing. The shows mesmerize my son and are bearable for me (some are even entertaining – I’m looking at you, Phineas and Ferb). But I didn’t realize how hooked my son was on the Disney drug until I tried to put in a Thomas the Train DVD today. As the DVD went through its twelve-million piracy warnings, Suttie showed his usual level of excitement – lots of squealing and “giving it up to Jesus,” a motion in which he raises his arms up and looks to the heavens (patent-pending). But as soon as he figured out that this was NOT a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse DVD, he picked up a nearby wooden block, threw it down with all his might, and looked at me with more contempt than his father ever has…and believe me, that’s saying something.

Needless to say our TV stays on the Disney Channel…which is why I noticed something pretty interesting. Disney is launching a new cartoon called “Chuggington,” which is about…trains. Now, I am willing to bet anyone any amount of money that my son will watch that Disney-sponsored train show without the least hesitation, despite his earlier rejection of poor Thomas. And, in thinking about these two train shows, I started to recognize other Disney rip-offs. My son has never looked twice at Bob the Builder, but Handy Manny is a can’t miss. The Wiggles creep me out, but no more so than the Imagination Movers. There is just something about Disney that pulls you in, that makes you side with the mouse every time…no matter how many of his ideas are borrowed.

What was that theory about Disney and subliminal messaging? Was that ever disproven?

"I'm a paper chaser..."

Well, Suttie’s first Christmas was as much a hit as a 9-month old’s Christmas can be. He got everything that he didn’t even know he wanted and was able to try a least three different kinds of lard-based gravy. The only problem spot was the vicious cycle of excitement and then misery that we had to go through every time he opened a present. Was he so overjoyed with his gifts that each opening sent him into a bipolar spiral, first being delighted by the acquisition and then disillusioned by the reality that life was unlikely to get any better than this? Good guess, but, no, that wasn’t it. What caused each present opening to end with my son in a torrent of tears was the fact that, more than all of his presents, he wanted and was determined to have the wrapping paper that we insisted on throwing away.

Did he care about the TV for his playroom that I carried to my car in the dark, alone with mace in hand and keys at the ready like a tiger claw? No. But the red and white Santa Claus paper was the coolest thing he’d seen since birth. Did he oooh and awww at the little red wagon that his dad and I froze off our tookuses for during the Black Friday midnight sale at Toys ‘R Us? No. But he was willing to fight to the death for the curly gold ribbon that was tied around it.

So, every time he opened a present, Suttie would grab a huge hunk of wrapping paper, just as we were prompting him to do. However, unlike our instructions, he wouldn’t let it go. Instead, he would tear off smaller and smaller pieces until he found one that looked especially tasty and then tried to quickly shove it into his mouth before anyone noticed. At which point, we would dive in and wrestle the paper from him, thus instigating his next tearful outburst. A few minutes later, it was time to go through the whole process again.

With this experience still fresh in my mind, I’m already on the lookout for an empty refrigerator box and a gently-used grocery sack for next year’s big gifts.