The diet is not going well.

If sugar is addictive, than I am living in a crack den:

Shocking, isn't it?

It's what lives in our cabinet, right above the coffee maker. This stash has slowly been growing over the last few months but officially went out of control after Valentine's Day. Chocolate does taste better on V-day, and the day after, and the day after that...

Not surprisingly, the number on the scale is not moving. Thankfully, it has not gone up. This is due in part to Boot Camp and my 5:30am runs. But it's not going down, either, and this giant treasure trove of deliciousness is to blame.

It's one thing to diet, but it's another thing completely to diet while Girl Scout cookies are starting you dead in the face. It's such an unconscious thing for me to just walk past the counter and reach for a Thin Mint. They are small and tasty and just so...available. But try not taking one despite their looming presence, and it's like, well, trying to diaper a cat. It's just plain ugly, any way you slice it.

This siren song of the Girl Scout cookie is so great that after reading of Republican Rep. Bob Morris' harsh and totally random comments about the Girl Scouts of America as a "radicalized organization that promotes homosexuality and abortions", my first thought was that maybe he was dieting and his wife bought a whole bunch of Girl Scout cookies and left them on the counter for him to try to resist. His words were simply a reflection of his inability and frustration to stay on his diet because of the delicious little calorie-bombs of awesomeness in each box.

Quite frankly, I'm cursing the Girl Scouts too.

But it's not about them; it's about me and not making any excuses.

And with that, it's time to make some serious changes.

On Tuesday, with a heavy heart and a sore bum from Boot Camp, I boxed up this fabulous concoction of yumminess and placed in a very difficult to reach area on top of the dryer. While I feel more in control of my eating situation, I also feel very, very cranky. Raw almonds taste nothing like Junior Mints and string cheese is a poor replacement for cinnamon bears. But, I'm working it. It's worth it. Right? Right?!

I'm back in the trenches and ready to see some real results. I'll let you know how it goes.

In the meantime, I'm going to do a lot of laundry. Oh! Just heard the dryer buzzer go off...

This post is ridiculously late, but we've been crazy busy over here. I wanted to get this up before tomorrow's episode airs and before Mariana goes into labor.

(shout out to my favorite intern!)

Anyways, I've kinda/sorta been watching The Bachelor, but ever since I read the spoilers, it's lost its luster. I am still steaming mad at who takes home the final rose, and quite honestly, this show is becoming more and more fake. Yes, there are those of you out there who are all like, "Kim, it was fake from the beginning." But I don't like to have my bubble popped, you know?

So I watched this episode with one ear and both eyes on the computer last Tuesday. I  missed it Monday night since my mom was in town and I was not about to subject her to two hours of potential torture. There would also be a lot of explaining involved (like the whole rose ceremony thing and why Chris Harrison keeps popping up unexpectedly) so I just saved it for Tuesday at nap time. Forgive me if my commentary is lacking. Although there are only four girls left, I'm still not sure of some of their names.

First up was Lindzi. It appeared that her family lives in Florida and enjoys chariot racing. Her folks offered no explanation for the funky spelling of her first name (like, "We like her older sister a lot more" or "Her father was drunk when he filled out the birth certificate") but they seemed like an okay bunch. Lindzi just went through a bad break-up a year ago, so the family is especially protective. Which makes total sense, then, by welcoming reality show cameras into your home when your daughter's heart and mental health is on the line. Anyways...

It was your typical date. Nothing note worthy, but I may missed something.

I missed Nicki's (Nikki's?) date completely. This the chick that I'm like, "She's still there? What's her name again?" I believe her back story is she married her college sweetheart and divorced him in 2010 after three years of marriage. (Actually, that is her back story. Thank you, US Weekly). So again, she thought it was wise to sign up for a reality show and find love on camera. Not to mention, 2010? Is the ink dry yet on that divorce decree? May want to slow down there, Nikki/Nicki.

Then, I believe Kacie B was next (??). Though I don't remember the order of the dates, I haven't forgotten hers. While I like her and thought initially she was a good match for Ben, OH HOLY GOD OF HOME TOWN DATES. WAS THAT A MARCHING BAND? I mean, I'm not exactly the coolest cat at the club. I know that, and I'm quite fine with it. But I know enough that "MARCHING BAND" never, ever says "Marry me!" regardless of how geeky/quirky your love interest is (unless of course, they themselves are in band. Not just a band, but a MARCHING band. And this is coming from someone who was in marching band.)

(Flutes '96 rock!).

I mean, twirling a baton (for the second time, mind you, on national TV) and marching with - let's just be honest here - a scary-looking group of high school students belting out an out-of-tune ditty...yeah, even before Ben had the um, pleasure of meeting Kacie's family, I knew she was toast. Kacie, get some game, girl. Just a bit. Leave the baton at home, at least until you have a ring on your finger.

And then Ben met Kacie's lovely family, including her father who does not drink. As Ben so succinctly put it, "I'm in the booze business. How is this going to work?" Kacie's parents then took it one step farther by completely smothering their eager-to-please daughter and putting restrictions on her, like, "You can't live with a man before marriage" and "We won't give you our blessing if he does propose."  Aside from the fact I don't agree with the McJudgersons, Kacie, you are 24! You don't have to listen to them anymore. I hate to say it, and this is really mean of me, but the first thing that popped into my head when watching her overbearing family is, "The eating disorder makes sense now."

Kacie, move away. Far, far away. You'll do just fine on your own.

My friend Nieva had the best comment about Kacie's visit, as she imagined Kacie saying good-bye to Ben and then prompting going back into the house, slamming the door, and screaming, "I hate you, Mom and Dad!" Yeah, I can see that too. Thanks for the fun visual, Nieva.

And on to Courtney. So the interwebs were abuzz with comments about Courtney's visit. Apparently, she came off as much kinder, much more gentle, and a lot more human than in past episodes. She's all, "I was just stressed in the house" and "I wasn't there to make friendships." Again, I think Ben is smart when he acknowledges that he doesn't want to be with someone who makes other people uncomfortable, but he seems to be blinded by her boobs/beauty to be able to remember that for very long.

I will admit, she is really pretty, and that white dress was super cute. I still think there is something funky about her mouth, and I would put money on the fact that she hired actors to play her family members. None of them looked like her, and they were all far too nice/fun to be related to her. I expected some kind of lair/cave/hole-in-the ground with bare bones strewn around as her home, not some pretty Arizona property with a sunny porch. Maybe I'll change my mind about Courtney in the future, but I'm still smarting from all of the trash she talked about my girl Emily.

Also, those intrepid reporters at US Weekly confirmed that Courtney's "vows" to Ben were practically line-for-line from a Sex and the City episode (the one when Carrie moves to Paris with the Russian). Either she was doing it tongue-in-cheek or she doesn't have an ounce of creativity - or ethics - in her.

I'm guessing the latter.

In the end, Kacie got the boot. She cried a lot in the limo (expected) and swore a considerable amount too (unexpected.) I hope Kacie breaks free from her shell - and her family shackles - and is able to be her own person one day. Twirling baton and all.

What were your thoughts? Does Courtney really have this one in the bag? Anyone else confused by Nikki/Nicki's place in the top three? How many pairs of boots does Lindzi own? Did you miss Emily's rapping talents? (I did.)

I must have worked in a factory in a past life, as I have this uncontrollable urge to hang a sign in our house that reads:

IT'S BEEN [ X ] DAYS SINCE OUR LAST ACCIDENT.

And for our household, that number is 18.

Boom.

So awesome. So exciting. So proud of our little Bear. I'd like to think he is a potty prodigy, but I don't want him to peak too early. (Please excel at something more than peeing and pooping on the potty, my little love. Like...calculus.) It hasn't been the smoothest ride, but it certainly has been an interesting one.

We clogged a toilet. Twice. I guess diapers maybe mash the poo down or something? Because the first time I saw a particularly large Bear bowel movement, resting comfortably, in its full glory, at the bottom in the little potty, my first thought was, "That came out of our child? All of that? Good heavens." The sheer volume is startling. And then, of course, is the smell. Similar to an outhouse, I'm constantly having camping-as-a-child flashbacks. All that is missing is the smell of the bug spray and burnt marshmallows.

Brian had a different reaction the first time Scotty filled the potty. He glanced quickly at the heaping pile, commented, "Those are man-sized turds, my son," and then gave him an affectionate rub on the head. He looked strangely proud. I'm guessing this falls under father-son bonding? I don't get it. But then again, my eyes were watering and I was trying not to gag. So either way, nice work, Scotty. Good to know his digestive track is working.

And speaking of that, let me give everyone a little tip: NEVER feed your toddler brownies. Never. Don't do it. Trust me.

We're at a place now where Scotty just tells me he needs to go. This may happen at the park or at a restaurant (or like yesterday, at the hair-cut place), as he will grab himself and declare loudly, "Make pee-pee!" Subtle.

And just like the timing with a newborn, I guarantee you your child will sit calmly through most of dinner, but the moment the food arrives, he or she will instantly declare, "Need to make pee-pee!" There are many cold-dinner-nights in your future. Scotty loves to do this. I think he likes my exasperated reaction. Brian, of course, refuses to make eye contact during this whole situation and is pretending to be totally engrossed with something on his phone as he shovels food into his mouth frantically. We've had a few terse "You know you can take him to the bathroom, too" exchanges, but Brian's mouth is usually too full to answer me. 

I will say, however, that potty-training ranks up there with breast-feeding and child birth, in the sense that people are strangely reactive about it. There seems to be this inherent competition about how can potty train their kid earlier. Personally, I don't care what age a child is potty-trained. It's not a race and it's certainly not a reflection of good or bad parenting. I definitely believe there is a "window" of readiness for the child and it's our job to find - and capitalize - on that window. But aside from that, we're all kind of in this together, you know?

Speaking of reflections, if you really want to know what kind of parent you are, I've figured out that I just need to give Scott a stuffed animal and watch him play with it. He loves to boss them around, giving orders and directions, and it's downright hilarious. Just today, he put Blue Doggie on the potty. I just sat back and watched, wondering how this was going to play out.

Scott:  [carefully arranging Blue Doggie so his little bum is over the potty] : Okay Blue Doggie. Let's go potty.

Okay, we're good so far.

Scott: C'mon Blue Doggie. Quit messin' around. Sit on the potty.

Uh-oh.

Scott: No pee-pee? You need to make pee-pee! I told you, make pee-pee!

Yikes.

Scott: No pee-pee. That's okay, Blue Doggie. Let's try again later. Good doggie. [kisses Blue Doggie.]

Okay, whew. We can resist calling Social Services. At least, for now.

An open letter to the world, from Parents Of Small Children:

Dear World:

We are not like you.

We want to be like you, but we are not.

We used to be like you - really! I promise! - but ever since that adorable little tot came into our lives, we realized: we have changed.

It's not you, it's us.

Please lower your expectations of us. For the next several years, we will be chronically late. Despite the fact that we used to be the "ten-minutes-early" crowd, now we have to  tackle a 30-pound moving object, adhere shoes to its feet, and pack a bag the size of a small suitcase - just to go the grocery store. Errands that take you 15 minutes take us 45. We aren't moving slow intentionally, but going anywhere with a child under the age of 4 is akin to herding cats. It takes extreme patience, cajoling, and the occasional shot of whiskey (for us, not the kid). For parents with more than one child? Use this equation:

errand time = [( X number of children) x 45 minutes) + # of errands to run] 

*If you are potty-training, factor in an additional 20 minutes for each child.

One day, our brains will come back to us, but for the time being, we're content to operate with 80% capacity.  We can not give you our full attention span; even when our small child is not present, we're only paying attention to what you are saying about 90% of the time (because we are thinking about what our child is doing right now). Add the kid to the situation and our attention drops to about 40%. Factor food into the equation (whether the child is eating or we are hungry) and you're only working with about 25% of our total attention. Sorry. We'll catch up again in a few years.

You need to understand, we engage in strange activities all day long. We don't talk like regular people, we don't act like regular people. Just today, I allowed my child to bury me in couch pillows, because it meant I got to lay on the floor with my eyes closed for a full 20 minutes. And I'm not going to lie - it's been the best part of my day so far. We regularly brush someone's teeth against their will. We are adept at cutting grapes, diapering moving objects, and finding wayward stuffed animals. If you asked us to discuss politics, current affairs, or pop culture we can't. But we can recite the theme songs of at least four popular children's programs by memory. ("They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight. Shunting trucks and hauling freight...")

Did I mention we are terrible drivers? We have learned how to drive (poorly, admittedly) with only one hand on the wheel, allowing the other hand/arm to be groping around in the backseat in search of whatever the tot has dropped: animal, truck, sippy cup, goldfish cracker. And when we're not driving with the child, there's a good chance we've turned off the Music Together CD and are blaring heavy metal and/or rap music with explicit lyrics at top volume, just to prove to ourselves that we are still real people.

We travel like sherpas. We rise before the sun. We hoard 20% off coupons to Babies-R-Us. We are multi-taskers with very little patience, not enough sleep, and a house full of plastic molded crap.

We want to be like you. We will be like you. One day.

We'll let you know when we get there.

Sincerely,

Parents of Small Children everywhere.

Yup, you read that correctly.

I thought it made for a splashy little headline.

As anyone with a two-year old will attest, your main goal is to civilize the child by the time they enter school. No throwing stuff, no swearing/punching/biting/screaming, and above all, please go pee-pee in the potty.

I'm happy to report that while the Bear still chucks cars all over the house and swears like a sailor, at least we can check one thing off our list. This is how we did it:

1.) Recognize there are levels of potty-training
This is something I did not think about pre-potty-training. No kid is going to pull down his pants, go on the big boy potty, wipe himself, pull up his pants, wash his hands, and go on his merry way under the age of three. I have no idea when this happens, but it's not obtainable now. We are looking for obtainable change, based on our child's level of functioning, not perfection. The whole thing is a process.

So based on my experience, I came up with this:

Level 1: Ability to go sit on the potty and go pee and poo when prompted by an adult.

(the first time this actually happens, you and your spouse will likely be reduced to tears of joy. We were.)

Level 2: Ability to acknowledge they need to use the potty and are able to hold it (including naptime and bedtime)

Level 3: Ability to go pee and poo on the big potty (and acknowledge when they need to go and ask an adult for help). This includes using the restroom when out of the house.

Level 4: Ability to pull down one's pants, use the restroom, flush, wash hands, and pull up pants, all on his/her own.

Level 5: Cleans the bathroom, including wiping down mirrors, scrubbing the toilet, and emptying the trash

Based on my levels, Brian is only Level 4 potty-trained. (haha).

Anyways, our three-day method worked like a charm but it only gets you to Level 2/3. To reach Level 4, we just need time, opportunity, and patience. (and the occasional change of clothing.)

2.) Read this article - read the whole thing!

http://www.babycenter.com/0_potty-training-in-three-days-or-less_10310078.bc

I love Baby Center.

I don't necessarily agree with everything in the article - like watching your naked kid run around for weeks - but it is a great basis for starting.

Go big or go home, folks. Look at the signs of readiness, set a date to start training, and then go for it. I think there is nothing more confusing to a kid than going back and forth between diapers and underwear. As a parent, however, there is nothing more terrifying than going out with a kid in underwear. I literally had to talk myself down, saying "There is nothing wrong if he has an accident. I have a change of clothing with me, and it's nothing but a hiccup. This is nothing to freak out about." And it helped me cope with the big changes going on with the Bear. I could only imagine how the Bear felt (poor kid.)

3.) Think like a drug dealer

I'm not kidding.

Think of it this way: what's your child motivation for going in the potty? I can tell you, I've yet to meet the two-year old that is conscious of social etiquette and personal hygiene. These are not driving forces behind the behavior of a toddler. Toddlers are motivated and attracted to certain things, and I'm guessing that since you know your kid, you know exactly what his or her motivation is. For ours? One word:

CARS.

So borrowing a page out of the playbook of a friend (Kori Z!), we listened very carefully to her description of "the prize table" - i.e. a table or counter space in the home dedicated to super-awesome-amazing prizes that are awarded to anyone who goes pee or poo on the potty. Our table magically appeared on the morning the training began and included Matchbox cars, big trucks, M&Ms, marshmallows, stickers and gold stars. Scotty was allowed to see everything on the prize table but in order to touch the prizes or actually get a prize, he needed to use the potty.

This, combined with the Baby Center article, was like found money for us. It was like stealing. Or selling drugs. Give 'em a taste - and they'll keep coming back for more.

By the second day of potty-training, I'm 100% sure that Scotty was totally mocking us. He didn't have a single accident that day because he was damned sure he was going to get a truck/car/bus or M&M. I had bought a four pound bag of M&Ms from Costco, and the mere sight of that brown bag was too much for him to bear. He. Must. Get. M&Ms. And all he had to do was go pee on the potty? Easy-peasy.

And a potty-trained child was born. It's been 14 days without an accident, and the kid is dry at naptime and bedtime. He's made potty at stores, restaurants, and parks.

It's truly a potty-training miracle.

Someone please go knock on wood for us.

4.) Miscellaneous Tips and Suggestions

Now that we're in the thick of this process, these are my suggestions for those of you about to embark on it:

a.) Let the child pick out the prizes for the prize table. We blew our budget at Target buying trucks, cars, and stickers. But I didn't care - if Scotty wanted it, he got it. We ended up with about 15 cars and a whole bunch of stickers and candy. The kid was so stinkin' excited about getting his prizes that even now, when he gets a new truck, he asks me, "Prize table?"

b.) Skip Pull-ups completely. These things look and feel like diapers. Very confusing. Best advice I got was to skip them completely - and I'm glad we did. It just prolongs the whole process.

c.) Let the kid feel wet.  Slightly startling, yes. Important? Totally. Does it mean more laundry for you? YES. But at least we're not beating clothing against a rock in a river, right?  I mean, it's just a few extra loads.

The day we started, we put Scotty down for his nap in underwear. He was not happy. But he did fall asleep - and he did wake up wet. And we took him over to the potty, sat him down, let him go pee in there, and then promptly changed all of his sheets and blankets. No big deal. And that was the last time he woke up wet. It's easier, yes, to put him down in a diaper or something absorbent, but he'll never learn if he can't feel the wetness. However...

d.) Acknowledge that night time is REALLY scary. Thankfully, we've never had an issue with Scotty sleeping through the night. He's now in his big-boy bed and he remains with his head on his pillow, under his blankie, the whole night. We were going to put him in underwear for night time right from the start, but both Brian and I chickened out. We REALLY like our own sleep, and the thought of having a night-waking child was too much for us. Plus, we have about 10 more diapers to use up. So, we put him in a diaper for now, but I'm happy to say, it's totally dry in the morning. And Mom and Dad have had a good night's sleep so we're not insanely cranky. In ten days, though, when our diaper supply is up...well, you might have a very angry blogger on your hands. Just be forewarned.

e.) You may want to do this on the sly. Brian and I were both incredibly stressed out by this whole process; it may sound easy now, but it's a lot for parents to take on. Honestly, it felt a little like having a newborn again: the constant communication with the spouse, taking turns watching the child, staying home a lot. We were exhausted - but happy - after the three days.

So instead of broadcasting the news to our friends and families, we chose to keep it within out little triad (for the most part) until we had good news to share. I know your aunt/mom/neighbor's cousin's brother's uncle has an awesome way of potty-training a toddler, but for now, we're going to go with our own plan. And if it was a major bust, we were going to (quietly) try again in six weeks. And no one was the wiser.

                                    ***********************************

And with that, I'm very happy to report we have a Level 3 potty-er on our hands. All of the prizes are gone - they were snatched up within a few days - and Scotty has even forgotten that he gets M&Ms after each successful trip to the potty. He's just happy to not be in diapers anymore.

And so are we.

Thoughts? Questions? Angry comments? Let me know - email me at [email protected] and I'll respond.

Okay, I want anyone reading this right now that is pregnant or thinking about becoming pregnant to stop reading. Like, right now. Just stop. I want you to pick up the phone, call your health care insurance, and double whatever existing coverage you may have. Yes, you may pay more out-of-pocket now, but in the future, you will save. Because once you pop that little tyke out and he/she hits the age of 2, you will find yourself a frequent visitor in various doctor's offices. Doctors you didn't even know existed, you will one day be in their waiting rooms. Trust me on this.

Deana, my friend with 2-year old twins, briefly considering asking the ER staff for a punch card ("10th visit free!") after all of the trips she had in January with her boys.

It's insane. But sadly, it comes with the territory.

EarGate 2012, like most -Gates, started out like any other Thursday. We went to music lessons. We came home. I took Scotty's shoes off. As I removed one shoe, a tiny pebble rolled out. "Rock!' Scotty proclaimed happily. He picked up the little object and ran to put in in the bed of one of his trucks.

This is an everyday situation in our house - the rocks, that is. Scotty is a little dirt magnet and adores playing in dirt. It must be that Y chromosome or something, but he spends hours in the backyard in the flower beds, gently scooping piles of dirt into his cars, and then carefully transporting it to the other side of the yard.  He's working on some kind of project, but I have no idea what it is.  We have huge holes in our beds, but I'm not bothered. The kid is amused, he's playing quietly by himself, which means Mommy can lounge outside with the iPad and a cup of coffee. Win-win.

So yesterday Scotty scampered off with his new treasure and I went to the closet to put his shoes away. When I came back, I didn't see the rock. And he was holding his earlobe.

"Rock ear, Momb!" he declared.

"What?" I asked, peering in closer.

"Rock EAR!" he shouted.

I frowned. Now what? I didn't want to suggest to him that the rock could go in his ear, or now I'm giving him ideas. But what if he did put the rock in his ear? Then what?

"Scotty," I started slowly. "Did you put the rock in your ear?"

He grinned at me. "Yes," he stated emphatically.

Okay, let's try that again. "Scott, Mommy needs to know if you put the teeny-tiny rock in your ear. Did you, sweetie? Did you put the rock in your ear?"

He looked at me again with confusion. "Yes," he stated firmly, and then made a beeline out of the room. I think he was sick of me asking redundant questions.

And so, just like in any condundrum in Motherhood, I was left with, "Now what?" I really, really didn't want to take action. I was tired. My legs hurt from boot camp. I didn't want to call Dr. Awesome, who has only been lukewarm lately (in my opinion) and schedule an appointment so we could sit in her germy waiting room and catch our 400th cold of the season. But I also couldn't leave my kid with a rock in his ear - what would that affect? Hearing? Brain development? Possible infection? Is this an emergency situation? Could it wait until after nap time? What are my options?

First, I assessed the boy. He did not appear to be in any obvious discomfort. He was hearing and responding to me just fine. When I put lunch on the table, he ate like a mountain man. (growth spurt). When I shined the flashlight in his ear as he chomped away, I didn't see anything, but then again, he has tiny, tiny ears. I actually brought a pair of tweezers down from the bathroom and thought about going in, all "Operation"-style until my brain kicked and I realized - oh yeah, this isn't a game, no buzzer will go off, and I will likely do more harm than good.

So as I sat there, watching him mow through his strawberries and yogurt, it hit me: call a friend. Better than that - call a friend who is an audiologist.

Enter Courtney.

You all might remember Courtney, mom to Carson and Sam (Scotty's on-again, off-again girlfriend). Aside from understanding the unique challenges of Toddlerville, she is like an ear expert.

One quick phone call and we had a plan. She was going to look for her otoscope at home and then make a house call. If she couldn't find it, she would send me to her co-worker later that afternoon. Worst case scenario, we could drive to the hospital she works at and she could use the equipment there to determine if indeed, there was a rock in my kid's ear. If there was, an ENT was available to remove it immediately, and we have successfully resolved the situation. Game over. Winner: Momb.

And in the end, that what we ended up doing. All of this, mind you, was to avoid Dr. Awesome and her waiting room of disease. And the giant co-pay. I'm not sure what's going on with our insurance, but we came out of pocket close to $600 in the month of December in co-pays alone. We just received a $511 bill for the stomach bug that sent us to the ER last summer, and quite frankly, I'm concerned about health care in this country. I would prefer to not spend every dollar we have on co-pays and outrageous deductibles, so yes, I'm very happy to have an audiologist friend.

Courtney saw us right away this morning and within a few minutes, she declared that there was no rock in his right ear. We looked at each other for a second, and then said simultaneously, "Let's check the other ear, too." (Ahh, Motherhood. Never assume anything.) That ear, too, was clear and EarGate 2012 officially ended 23 hours after it started. Total cost to us: $0.

Courtney and I did what any good friends do in this situation: we turned it into a photo shoot. So with Scotty still in the bomb-shelter hearing cage, we took pictures of each other and the Bear doing various audiology-related poses.

It's good to have friends in high places.

And while Scotty doesn't have any rocks in his head, I'm happy to report that Courtney doesn't either. He checked.

Thank you, Courtney!!!!

Scotty has recently developed an affinity for certain stuffed animals over the last few weeks.

It started out innocently enough. After spending the morning cuddling with White Bear, Scotty insisted on bringing him with us to Costco. I consented. I mean, it was just White Bear. Where's the harm in that?

So White Bear came to Costco with us. Scotty kept a protective (chubby) arm around him the whole trip.

And then this week, he was all about Tucker. When I told him we had to go the dry cleaners and the grocery store, again, he insisted Tucker come with us.

(I know, I know. The glamorous life of the stay-at-home mom. This is why I get so excited about Junior League stuff.)

As you can see in the cart, next to the almond milk, is Tucker the Puppy. Forever sleeping, since his batteries are dead. (shh...)

And then today, it was Jelly Cat's turn to shine. Not only did he get snuggles all morning, but he was honored with a trip to music lessons. I don't know about you, but introducing a stuffed animals to five other toddlers is like donning a cow carcass and jumping into a pool of sharks. It's just a really, really bad idea.

Thankfully, no toddlers were injured during music lessons, and more thankfully, Scotty lost interest in Jelly after twenty minutes. I was able to stash the cat behind my bag and it (he?) didn't pose as an interruption for the rest of class. No one melted down, no one got into a tug-of-war with Jelly with his floppy cars. Peace endured. (mostly).

I looked it up on Baby Center to determine if this behavior was normal, and it is. According to the experts, it's common for children this age to gravitate toward a favorite lovey or stuffed animal (or in our case, multiple stuffed animals). They suggest that because kids are so busy exploring this big, scary world, a lovey or animal is a great way to comfort themselves during this journey towards independence.

Okay, I'll buy it. Sounds good.

But please tune in to watch us on "Hoarders: Toddler Edition" as they chronicle the Bear's bedtime "comforting" routine. There are so many stinkin' animals in his bed, we're not sure where our child is.

Can you find him?

I am so over this show.

Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Even dumber with the fact that Ben picks (shhh!) Courtney.

I am just not vested. Sorry.

I watched the last 30 minutes of the show last night, and then caught the first 90 minutes this afternoon during nap time. Again, I'm a little miffed that I feel forced to spend precious nap time minutes watching a silly show (and now I'm writing about it), but I'm making the conscious decision so I'll own it.

Also, life and JL work has slowed down, so it was actually nice to sit on the couch, Chobani pineapple yogurt in hand, taking in the group's shenanigans.

I'll sum this up quickly: Ben and Co. are in Panama. Ben and Kacie B get the first date. Kacie tells him she had an eating disorder in high school. (C'mon Kacie...make it a little more interesting than that. Tell him you got arrested or something. For drug trafficking. Oooo, that's a good one!) Ben gives her a rose. Kacie eats the rose. (no! Just kidding. Wanted to make sure you were still paying attention. I know, I'm bored, too.)

Ben goes on a bizarre group date in which they torture a nice village in Panama. Courtney inexplicably goes au natural under her little dingle-dangle bra thing. The other girls shoot her mean looks. Ben gives her extra points for "trying." (is that what you call it, Ben?)  Courtney prances around in a white bikini during the group date, interrupting Ben's time with Jaime. Jaime compares Courtney to Brad Pitt. Kim (me) wonders what Courtney eats and how many miles a day she runs. Ben gives Lindzi the rose, and Emily apologizes to Courtney. Courtney, being a self-involved princess, doesn't accept it. Memo to Emily: she doesn't play fair. The end.

Oh wait, we still have the crappy two-on-one date. Blakeley, a bit too eager, didn't really seem to grasp the idea that someone goes home on that date. Rachel played it cool, salsa'd the best she could, and got a rose. Blakeley stormed out of the restaurant. End Scene III.

And then, like some strange intermission, Chris Harrison shows up (cue the scary music!) and tells Kacie S (who, by the way, has gotten no camera time this whole season) that he knows that she is still in love with her ex-boyfriend. Huh? That's a pretty big accusation to throw around. Kacie utters the best line I've ever heard on this series, almost as though she was wondering out loud: "I dunno. Maybe I need a therapist."

Yes, Kacie. You do.

Kacie cries and exits. Based on the previews, I thought someone in her family was sick. Nope, just that pesky ex-boyfriend. And Chris' Harrision's bold accusations. Memo to the world: Don't mess with Chris Harrison.

With Blakeley gone and Kacie crying in the back of some Jeep, Jaime decides to do "choreograph" a kiss between her and Ben. This results in three minutes of the most squirm-inducing uncomfortableness I've ever experienced from a TV show. I mean, give me more zombie guts from "The Walking Dead" or awful situations on "Breaking Bad." Please. That is better than what transpired between Jaime and Ben. Even Ben couldn't keep a straight face.

And this is my thing: Jaime hasn't kissed him yet? Ben pretty much did the deed with Courtney last week. She needs to make up some serious ground.

But it's too late - no rose for Jaime. Jaime exits stage left.

And with that, we have the rest of the gang. They are off to Belize next week (as I jokingly said to Brian, "So cool! I just love Asia!") and I'm sure the dumbness continues. The only person with half a brain is darling Emily, and Ben enjoys discounting what she is saying every step of the way.

I guess we see what we want to see.

Good luck with Courtney, Ben.

I feel like I should stand up and address the group.

me: Hello. My name is Kim and it's been five days since I last ran.

group: Hi Kim

::sigh::

Yes, I will admit it. I have not been running very much lately. Despite the fact the Summerlin half marathon is creeping up quickly, I've been totally slacking on the mileage front.

In an effort to ascertain what the problem is, I reviewed the calendar from the last few months. This is what I came up with:

Dec 4: Vegas 1/2 marathon

Dec 5-10: recover from 1/2 marathon. Get quoted by local media about race chaos. Inexplicably use the word "bowels" when talking with reporter.

Dec 10: the start of the Illness that Destroyed Multiple Christmas Parties (it's okay, Scotty...I forgive you. Kind of).

Dec 19 -25: Week before Christmas. No boot camp. Who wants to run when there are Christmas cookies to eat?? nom-nom-nom.

Dec 26 - Jan 2: Half-ass it at the gym. So bored by the lack of boot camp I half-heartedly climbed on a treadmill. For like, 20 minutes. Barely broke a sweat. Didn't pick up a weight.

Jan 2-6: Boot camp starts on the 7th! Gonna sleep in now to prepare for the those early mornings

Jan 7: Brian informs me he has court early every day except Wednesday the 11th. I am on Bear-duty in the morning. No boot camp for Kim.

Jan 11: BOOT CAMP!!

Jan 12: Wake up with The Sinus Infection That Won't Die.

Jan 22: Run for the first time in ten days. Three miles.

Jan 22: Brian informs me he has court every day except Monday and Tuesday (23rd & 24th)

Jan 23: BOOT CAMP!

Jan 24: BOOT CAMP! Hill DAY! Happy KIM!!!!!!!!!!!

Jan 25: Run 4 miles. We're on track, baby!

Jan 28: Run 3 miles. Feeling great!

Jan 29: Exhausted

Jan 29: Brian tells me he has court everyday except Monday and
Tuesday. Sweet. More Boot Camp. Will push through.

Jan 30: Alarm doesn't go off; I sleep through Boot Camp

Jan 31: I just completely, intentionally, and willfully did not go to Hill Day. Stayed up too late watching "The Bachelor." Exhausted from all other parts of life. Tired. Grumpy.

Feb 1: Run 4 miles. Almost die. Catch Scotty's cold and am out for another four days.

There you have it, folks. The last two months of my life. I am shocked that it is already February. I am also shocked and scared at my complete and total lack of motivation. When I look back at September and October, I think to myself, "How the hell was I logging 8-12 mile runs? Where was that energy coming from?" Now, just a mere three miles is enough for me to break out into a cold, uncomfortable sweat. Not to mention, no one in our house can manage to stay healthy for more than a 10-day period of time. I should start dispensing antibiotics with the daily vitamin.

My diet has been horrible. As described last week, my go-to coping skill when stressed is to bake. I don't know why, perhaps it just part of my Midwestern genetics. But if there is a tray of brownies in the oven or cupcakes cooling on the counter, for whatever reason, life feels a bit more manageable. The problem is I'm not giving the sweets away as fast as I should; a Rice Krispie treat here, a brownie (or 12) there...and it's all adding up.

I'm up six pounds. This is on top of the post-Christmas five pound weight gain, putting me squarely a full 11 (gulp) pounds up from early December.

All I can think is, "Really? Really? Is the slope that slippery?"

The answer is yes.

I remember reading somewhere that in order to gain weight for the movie "Monster," Charlize Theron ate cheeseburgers, brownies, drank red wine and stopped exercising. She was like, "Yeah, the weight totally piled on." The only difference between Ms. Theron and myself is that I eat that diet with the expectation of losing weight.

Time to get a grip, Kim.

I spent a good portion of the weekend really, really mad. Mad at the Universe. Mad that I gain weight quickly. Mad that I don't have a lightening fast metabolism and mad that exercising is always a chore. Always. Mad that I have to fight for the chance to exercise. Mad that when the rubber hits the road, Brian's job wins over Boot Camp. (I never said I was being rational). Mad that I can't seem to find a good middle ground between my weight and my diet. And mad that I have to run freakin' 13.1 miles in less than three months, when my motivation is zero and I can't seem to shake this head cold.

I got myself so worked up about this unexplained weight gain I did what every thirty-something married woman does when she puts on more than five pounds: I decided I must be pregnant.

Three minutes and one little test later (and a lot of horrified looks from Brian), it was confirmed. I was, in fact, not with child.

I told Brian, "I guess I'm just fat with a head cold."

The look of fear in his eyes kept him from opening his mouth. He simply handed me a tissue and patted my leg sympathetically.

Wise man.

By last night, I pulled myself together. I laid out my workout clothes and promised myself I was going to get up at 5:30 to run. Brian has to be in early every morning this week except Thursday and Friday. Despite his schedule, I still can exercise; I just need to be done and out of the shower by 6:30am. If I was really motivated, I could do it.

And when the alarm went off this morning, the day still dark and everyone in our household silent, I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.

And then I started swearing. Like, loudly.

I swore all the way to the closet. I swore with each piece of clothing I angrily shoved on my body: pants, tall socks, shirt, warmer shirt, both gloves, ear muffs. Shoes had a whole bunch of expletives attached to them as I tied my laces. Don't even get me started about what I said when I brushed my teeth and popped in the contacts. I swore all the way down the stairs, kicking, muttering, pouting.

I swore through the first two miles. And the last two miles.

But by the time I climbed back up the stairs, untied my shoes, and started the shower (as my darling husband snoozed on, blissfully warm in bed), I stopped cursing. Finally. And I accepted the fact that as long as I don't want to weigh 200 pounds, I have to - have to, have to, have to- do what I don't want to do. I have to put the Chardonnay and Cinnamon Bears down. I need to pick up the shoes.

I need to fight for this.

And with that, I'm restarting my re-start. I'm trying again. This morning's run proved that I can do it. Getting out of bed is 50% of the battle. Even if I can't get to boot camp, I still can do something for myself. I just need to go to bed really, really early the night before.

But it's worth it. Really.

The Summerlin Half-Marathon is 68 days away and I am desperately working on my bad attitude.

Last week, Scotty and I found ourselves wandering the aisles of Target. This is not surprising, as we do it frequently. However, instead of hitting the boy toy aisles, we headed for the girls': Scotty's buddy Lauryn was turning two and we needed to find her a present.

I'll be the first to admit - I have not spent a lot of time in the girl toy aisle since I was a little girl. I have not shopped in that area since becoming an adult, and what I found was, well, shocking. And sad.

Amid the dolls and dress-up clothes, there were lots of grocery carts with fake food in them, plastic vacuum cleaners, and a dust pan. A dust-pan. Complete with its own brush. Scotty and I both looked at each other in confusion, as we both hate sweeping the floor. He made a beeline for the Matchbox cars, and I stood there quietly and fumed.

As a woman - and former little girl - these toys offend me. Here are three chores that I willingly outsource. I hate grocery shopping. I dislike vacuuming, and I detest sweeping the floor. I understand they are necessary evils, but why are we grooming little girls to do these things as children? What was next - Mommy's Little Helper's Toilet Brush? Ew.

Just by chance, I had a little boy (bear, technically). As a result, I've been immersed in the world of cars, trucks, tow trucks, skid steers, garbage trucks, and just about anything else with wheels. It's not specific to what Scotty will be doing as an adult, and it certainly isn't grooming him. It's just play. We don't force him to play with trucks; it just comes naturally to him. For whatever reason, he is drawn to things with wheels, whether it be a truck, street sweeper, or baby stroller. The kid digs wheels.

But these toys - a dust pan?!  Is that the best we can do for little girls? I understand little girls want to emulate Mom, but can't they just use a real dust pan? Besides, they are going to sweep a floor thousands of times in their lifetime. Why start now? Not only that, but it feels very limiting. Why are we pushing girls just to be little mothers and just to be good cleaners? They are so much more than that.

I thought about it long and hard, and reflected back to what I did as a kid. In my childhood, there were lots of dolls, books, and art projects. I don't remember any plastic vacuums. (Mom, a little help here?) Maybe there should have been, seeing I am terrible house keeper. But at the same time, I'm a lot more than a house keeper, regardless of my skill level with the Dyson.

Maybe it's not about the chores or what the toys represent, maybe my frustration was a result of how limiting girls' play may feel. They can pretend to be a mom, a shopper, or a maid. Based on this aisle, that's what I gathered. In the boy's aisle, however, boys were not being limited. They could be pilots, policemen, a garbage man, even a super hero.  Not a single dust pan in sight. 

So with that in mind, I propose the following dolls. Let's not limit girls with gender-specific chores. Little girls deserve more than vacuums and dust pans, right?

(all dolls are inspired by real people I know and admire)

Attorney Barbie
Comes with: briefcase, power suit and cell phone. Ken the Paralegal sold separately.

This Barbie knows her stuff. With a diploma from a reputable law school hanging on the wall behind her, she spends her days writing briefs,  arguing in court, and yelling at Ken. She has a sharp mind, a quick tongue, and a desire to always be right. While her tenacity may annoy you at times, you have to admit, she's a great ally to have and loyal to the core.

Architect Barbie
Comes with: effortlessly trendy wardrobe, calculator, and fancy pencils

Tall and graceful, Architect Barbie has a keen eye for clean lines and a head for numbers. Don't let her calm demeanor fool you; having worked for so long in a male-dominated industry, behind her gray eyes is a steely resolve and the ability to stand her ground. She loves Swedish furniture and white space.

Oncologist Barbie
Comes with: lab coat, sneakers, unwavering strength

This Barbie spends her time curing cancer - literally. Her patients love her encouraging, supportive attitude and the fact that she is whip-smart. She never gives up, never says no, and goes out of her way to make others feel comfortable. Oh yeah, and in her spare time, she run marathons.

Charitable Barbie
Comes with: teeny-tiny Junior League name tag, iPhone, and binder. Bottle of Veuve Clicquot sold separately.

This Barbie is more than shift dresses and great shoes; behind it all, she is committed to making her community a better place. She juggles family and work to dedicate countless hours a month to her various committees. Whether she is fundraising, setting up conference calls with other non-profits, or getting her hands dirty at the community garden, Charitable Barbie is happy to be involved and loves making a difference.

Disclaimer: Yes, I understand "Barbie" is a registered trademark for Mattel. I do not subscribe to the body-image issues Barbie is plagued with and am using the term "Barbie" for example only. Please do not send me angry letters. Thanks.