My own slice of mama worth

Ever feel that, as a woman, your sole worth is the dinner you put on the table? Or that your worth is based around folding every recently-soiled-but-now-pristine piece laundry AND put said garments away AND still have time to work out for a tight little bod while simultaneously also cleaning toilets and maintaining your own personal hygiene? Because, hygein. Plus, kids must be baby geniuses and well-rounded (God forbid they watch Teen Titans Go to the Movies fourteen times in 24 hours. Apparently that’s shameful).

This kid here? She's chalk-filthy.

I’m not that mom. I’m trying to be that mother and wife and it simply isn’t me. Between anxiety and ADHD, I’m lucky if I can focus long enough to rinse out the conditioner in my hair. Teeth brushed and clothes on my own not-so-tight bod before 6:30 when I wake up at 5:30 to get a head start? We’ll see... 

Spoiler: my kids don’t brush their teeth before bed. They also close-handed punch each other and, occasionally, I pretend not to notice so I don’t have to juggle the drama with all of the above other nonsense. I can keep trying. I am still trying. I still need something for me, though, and it has become more and more achingly obvious in the last year or so because sanity = gone. 

So much library train table time. So. Much.

I mean, I want to write more. I do. This is a reprieve for me. Often though, when I have to make a choice in my afternoons between wiping off the counters and then taking Tommy the Moose to the library or sitting long enough to update the happenings or come up with fresh content, Imma choose library entertainment, 11 times out of 10.

But between those moments of imperfection and stress I have found a niche in working out. I know that’s totally cliché, but the endorphins really do help with all of the above. Plus I have connected with so many amazing people through the last few years I’ve spent sweaty time with at my local gym, people that I truly have found a connection with or can call friends/buddies/someone I can mutter cuss words to during exhausted moments without that awkward beat of uncertainty... maybe because of all the times I have come to the gym stinking of the night before’s bottle of wine. Gross. True, and way more obvious after I’m sweating, but gross.

Blah blah blah. My point is, I can officially (and so happily) say that I am a no longer a basic stay-at-home-mom. Starting November 1st I am teaching classes at my sweet little piece of exhausting, satisfying heaven! With last Thursday being my inaugural class (unofficially - I did sub for my friend’s kickboxing class a few weeks ago) I can definitely say that this wasn’t a mistake. I thought I was going to vomit all over the floor before class started from nerves and eyeballs drilling into my forehead, but by the end of it I had hit my groove and was feeling great. Tired, but great. 

So, local folks: Thursdays at 9, at Four Lakes Athletic Club! Please let me beat you up! I promise it will hurt only a little. 😉