Less Is More

Is it normal to go from feeling like you are Momming like a boss and winning at parenting one minute, to feeling like a failure - hiding in the cupboard with your face covered in brownie crumbs and tears the next?? I may be wrong, but I kinda think it is. Just as you think you are getting the hang of it, the rug gets pulled from under you and you are back on you’re a**, wondering where you went wrong or whether you could exchange your kids somewhere, because these ones seem to be broken (I am joking, of course. I would never ever exchange my kids – besides, the new ones may turn out to be even worse! (More joking)) It is probably the stress of moving home, or leaving my comfort zone that has turned me into Te Fiti from Moana – but not when she was the nice, gorgeous Mother Island – but rather when she was Te Kã: the scary cray-cray lava lady. I had visions of myself after moving to the coast. In these visions, I was tanned, skinny and had a cute polka dot apron on. I was in the kitchen cooking a lovely meal my kids would gobble up and love every morsel of and my husband would never, ever irritate me until I threw a shoe at him. No no. The sea air and slower vibe was supposed to relax me into a patient and elegant Mother-Island type person, who spread love and grace and had such a calming voice that it gave you goosebumps. Pfft! Little did I know that sea air is not MAGIC. No. All the sea air has done is poofed up my hair beyond recognition, and caused excessive face-sweating. Such high hopes dashed. Instead, I am trying to find my footing in a new place and my life feels like I am losing a game of Jumanji. Maybe my chill is still coming though – it is early days after all. My ability to embarrass myself hasn’t changed with my postal code. I am afraid it is ever present, and in full force. 2019 has brought a new resolution for me. It’s called New Year: Less me. This has a deep meaning, which is for me to be less selfish and think of how I can help others around me, but it also has a very literal meaning: Literally less of me. On my quest to fulfil this resolution, my husband and I found a local boxing club which I thought would accomplish my resolution as well as keep crazy lava lady at bay. Win win right? My trial class yesterday was eventful that’s for sure. I arrived and I am sure the “deer in headlights” look on my face made it clear that I was a newby. I was strapped and gloved ready for the class but wanted to take a photo to mark the event. Do you know how hard it is to get a cell phone out your kitbag with boxing gloves on? It’s nigh impossible. I had to fumble around to take one glove off and take a photo quickly. I wrestled the glove back on and then realized I needed to put my phone BACK in my bag. Glove off, glove on again. All the while I am giggling at myself... alone in the corner of the gym like a weirdo. The coaches were all very nice and didn’t laugh at me once as I got almost every instruction wrong. One of the instructors came to me with pads on his hands meant for me to punch. I was overwhelmed by shouts of “Left hook!”, “Right uppercut!”, “Duck” and “10 straight punches!” which I was supposed to follow as fast as I could. I felt like Jennifer Lopez in that boxing movie ‘Enough’ - but much sweatier. In reality though, my sad coordination, chicken arms and twiggy wrists battled to keep up and I missed the pad resulting in me almost punching him in the face. Luckily, his reflexes are, well, like a boxer and he ducked before my left, pink boxing-glove clad fist connected with his nose. My bad. Once the boxing was over, I felt pretty good about myself and realised that I may be fitter than I thought, as the hour flew by and I survived it abeit very red faced and breathing heavily. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door looking quite smug - only to be stopped and told that 25 minutes had passed, not 60. We still had the weight part of the class to go and I wasn’t even half way. If I was hoping to not be noticed getting back into class discreetly, I probably shouldn’t have cried out “WHAT?!” and begged for water first. They gave me a bottle from the fridge behind the counter and I slumped off to the second part of our class. After the class was done and a thousand lunges and squats were completed with sandbags and weights, I limped out of there with a new respect for boxers… and a new hate for burpies. I then had to limp back in to pay for the bottle of water I almost stole. Today I ache in places I didn’t even knew I had and can barely walk up a step without wimpering in pain. Why is bettering yourself so hard? Why can’t it be as easy or feel as good as, say, eating a whole bar of Toblerone for example? I will finish off with two comments Luke made which I think are worth sharing: “when I am older I want to go skydiving, but with a parachute” ( - good call my boy) and “Mommy, this guy on TV always wears that horse mask. I don’t know why he ALWAYS has it on. Maybe the sea air made his hair all poofy like yours.” So, if you are also having a week from Jumanji, I am with you!