Feel That Burn?!

Listen, y’all. I started Burn Boot Camp today. I am gonna repeat that one more time, for the people in the back. I started Burn Boot Camp today. So if you don’t know what Burn Boot Camp is, just picture this. A group of tired mommies wake up super early in the morning (or get the kids to school, or get the kids to school and go to work, or get the kids to school, go to work, then get the kids home and make them dinner) then they come to this small strip mall right next to a great pizza joint. No. They don’t meet for pizza. They go next door where this crazy man named Billy is all mic’ed up and ready to roll at 5 am.

This crazy man (as far as I can tell he is their leader) this crazy man yells at them through the mic to do things, dirty, on-the-floor-type-things. No, not that kind of stuff, though to be fair a lot of the women there would do those kinds of things with Billy (but you didn’t hear that from me). Anyway, they do push-ups, and sit-ups, burpees, and some things on this bar-like thing. There are ropes and there are weird weights. They run and sprint and plank. They high-five each other and say things like, “Way to go!” and “You can do it!” Then afterwards they sometimes vomit. It is sort of surreal.

I am not 100% sure what I was doing there. You know when you make a snap decision and you feel like you have to sort of go with it or people will hate you. That is sort of the situation I got myself into when my friend Kassie texted me yesterday when I was teaching a room full of kindergartners about cloud formations. She was all, you should come to Burn tomorrow and I was all, anything is better than telling this little shit in front of me to stop touching people with his tongue one more time. So I said sure.

Now, should I have gone from my level of activity straight into Burn Boot Camp? Probably not. In fact, a better choice for me would probably have been the Senior Citizen Water Aerobics class down at the Y or maybe one of those Mommy-and-Me Yoga classes, where I use an American Girl doll as my baby. Not even the “kid” one. The damn Itty-Bitty-Baby one.

But I did it. I set my alarm for five, in the am, and I met Kassie there. Literally squealed into the lot at the exact time the class started. Now already I am feeling bad because poor Kassie is a motivator. She wants to see me succeed. She is the one who got me hooked on Weight Watchers. She is the one who sends me motivational texts and she is the one who works out like seven days a week. Seven. And I love her dearly, so I didn’t want to disappoint her. I wanted to go and do my best, but I knew as soon as I tripped getting up from a sit-up that I was probably gonna embarrass her. She just smiled and helped me up. Oh, Kassie!

About twenty minutes into the workout. Just after the second, first warm-up? I dunno, there seemed to be a lot of warm-ups and then a lot of “sets”, then there was this “Super set” which was the real shit-kicker, but I digress. About twenty minutes into the workout I wanted to die. I thought if I die then it would be easier for me to get out of going to Burn the next day. If I die they will all be like, oh wow. Poor Missy, at least she died doing something that was too strenuous for her heart. She will never get to experience all that Burn has to offer. And I would be cool with that.

But as it sits, I am alive. So I have to go back again tomorrow. Which sort of sucks and I was already wondering what would happen if I were to accidentally break my leg in a freak, driveway basketball accident. I think that might work too.

So I guess I will see y’all tomorrow.

And maybe the next day.

I mean, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I hear working out is something you are supposed to stick with. We will see how that goes. But in the meantime, if you see me around town give me an old high-five and tell me congrats on not being dead. I would appreciate it.


The Night Before

As I sit here this evening, my son cuddled in his pajamas, my husband working on his laptop, and my dog snoring on her bed, I can’t help but feel whole, to feel complete. But this isn’t always the case. After the lossĀ of our daughter six years ago, my days have been a mixed bag. The first couple of years were filled with small triumphs. If I made it out of bed, I was doing well. If I made dinner for the family, I was doing well. If I didn’t cry myself to sleep, if I went a day without talking about Lydia, if I stopped asking God why, then I was doing well. Now, five years later I am actually, truly doing well, most days.

Some days though, I get a little down. Today is one of those days. You see a year after we lost our daughter to Trisomy 18, we decided we were brave enough to try again. Only this time wasn’t so easy. In fact, here we are, five years later and still trying to make our family complete. But what makes this day different is that we are throwing our hands up now, we are asking for help. Tomorrow begins the process that we hope will end with another child; and we are scared, but optimistic.

We have tried all we can by ourselves. We have charted, and tracked. I have texted him more times than I like to warn him that I am ovulating. I have suggested weird positions that I saw on Pinterest. Pinterest, y’all. I once bought a kit that was supposed to show a happy face or a sad face and my face ended up being “Ambivalent”. Jerimiah wanted to know if I got the “ambivalent” face kit in the Walgreen’s clearance aisle. I called him an asshole and everyone ended the night in sad face.

We have taken vitamins. I have Googled “Does Fish Oil help sperm health?”  My husband has been tested, his first step into the world of “What the hell are we doing”. “In a cup,” he said after the first time. “You have to get it all in this cup.” He wasn’t the happiest that day, but he did it. He did it for me. He did it for our future child. Even though he couldn’t make eye contact with the nurse when he dropped “the cup” off at the window. He did it.

His results came back “Not good,” said our doctor. That was three doctors ago. Doctor number two disagreed. Doctor number three confirmed. It doesn’t appear to be a “problem” with him. That means… yeah, it’s me.

So tomorrow we start this new journey. Tomorrow I go in for a series of tests, that are just the beginning of another series of tests, and hopefully in the end we find out what the “problem” is and how to fix it.

In. The. End. That sounds final, doesn’t it? I’m not sure what “the end” is or what that even looks like, but I do know that on days like this my optimism is harder to find. I read stories everyday about women my age. Thirty-five. That dreaded age where all we know about ourselves supposedly dies every day along with our desire to productive members of society. That age where our future children are all suddenly in grave danger. The age where I am supposed to hang up my hat, thank my lucky stars for the healthy child I do have, and move on with life.

I wish I were able to do that.

I wish I were able to be happy with what I have. To decide that sometimes life isn’t what we wanted it to be. I wish I could take “no” for an answer, but I can’t. And I won’t.

Sometimes we have to give up on goals. Sometimes life isn’t what we want it to be. But sometimes there is help out there. And sometimes you have to ignore the barrage of negativity and push forward. This is our line in the sand. We are pushing forward.

So tomorrow, though I am nervous, I will push forward. I will let them stick me with needles, put God-knows-what up my hoo-hah, and say things like, “You’re doing great!” and “Oh, was that too hard?” I will just close my eyes and deal with it. I will tell myself to be brave. Brave like I have a million other times before. Brave and maybe a little crazy. Cause we all have to be a little crazy from time-to-time. So there it is. And here I am. And tomorrow, there I will be.

Here’s to brave and crazy.

Here’s to a husband with good sperm.

Here’s to friends and family who support and love us.

Here’s to our son, our daughter, and our future son or daughter.

Here’s to the “God-knows-what” being well lubed.