Archive for June, 2010

Faithful readers know that practicing what I preach is an ongoing obsession for the Momover Lady. And ever since I wrote about “interval training” in my book, I’ve been taking at least an occasional stab at training intervally. (I don’t think “intervally” is an actual word, but we’ll just sweep that under the carpet for now, kay?)

So what exactly is interval training? Well I’m glad you asked, dear mama-person. Basically, it just boils down re-jiggering your typical “steady state” aerobics routine so that you’re going faster, then slower, then faster, then slower, and on and on until you’re about to keel over in a vast puddle of perspiration. Doesn’t sound like much fun, does it? I don’t think so either, which is why I need to literally force myself to get with the interval program.

But today, I did precisely that. After hopping on the elliptical and clicking on “manual,” I jacked it up to level 5 and cranked through 10 minutes. Yet the entire time, I was eyeing two other programs: Random and The Hills. Because I’m not exactly a “random” type — I’m one of those annoying critters who wakes up with a Sense Of Purpose every day — I opted for The Hills. It just looked so damn cute and organized, with the red progress bars scaling up and down in a decidedly un-random manner.

The long and the short (and the up and the down) of it is that I managed to get through another 20 minutes. But not on level 5, I can assure you. Level 5 is reserved purely for the manual setting, because “manual” is code for flat road, baby, with zero zigs and zags. Instead, I dropped down to a 3, and as I got further into it, a 2. Still, I’m proud of myself. Interval training is the key to blasting flab, and since I just wolfed down a sizeable bowl of chocolate Haagen-Dazs, I’m glad to know that those extra calories might not be headed straight to my hips and ass.

The good news: I’ve taken up tennis again. Well, at least I’m embarking on lessons; I’m not quite U.S. Open material yet.

The bad news: In the few years that have elapsed since I’ve wielded a racquet, my tennis togs have gotten a wee bit tighter. Sure, I could head to our neighborhood Modell’s and stock up on a few cute frocks, kicking it up, size-wise, from a Small to a Medium. But A) that just depresses the hell out of me and B) it doesn’t address the ongoing issue of “pound creep.” Though my weight is pretty stable, there’s no question that I’m not clocking in at my high-school numbers, which is, I’ve gleaned recently, the new Holy Grail.

At least that’s the gospel according to a few smart books I’ve been reading: Younger Next Year for Women and The High School Reunion Diet. Though mamas of every age can learn tons from these two tomes, if you’re in your 40s like yours truly, they’ll really strike a chord.

Because I want to go running before it gets too hot outside today, I’m only doing a brief Momover Express recap of the first book – Younger Next Year – for you. Written by one Chris Crowley, a dude in his 70s (with a forty-something doctor co-author), it’s totally tough-love. But that’s why it’s so compelling. This guy doesn’t sugar-coat anything about getting older, but his core message is this: “You do have to age, but you don’t have to rot.”

A big part of “rotting,” per Crowley, is just giving in to the chubbiness gods, and not freaking out as you steadily add a pound or two with each passing year. He basically wants us to freak out, but in a totally productive manner involving cutting waaaay back on our calories (sadness) and getting tons of exercise. He’s really big on weights, but also wants us to get our aerobics on. You know, by going running. Or huffing and puffing around a tennis court. Keep that up, and you’ll be shopping for smaller clothes, not bigger.

An excellent mama-pal of mine recently underwent the first of two major foot surgeries to blast off bunions and re-establish alignment that had been thrown off due to the aforementioned bunions. Suffice it to say that she’s had more fun in her life, and isn’t exactly rushing to book the companion operation for the other foot.

While I’m happy my friend is on the mend, and will be standing by for moral support when she summons the courage for Round Two, the whole thing has made me dial-in more seriously to my own seemingly trouble-free size 5s. Could that stubborn hunk of callus on my right big toe morph into a bunion down the road?

Because I live in fear of fungus-related ailments, I almost never let aestheticians at my corner nail joint have a go at the rough stuff. No scraping, no cutting — no wielding of sharp instruments, basically. Just a little clipping, sanding and polishing and I’m sailing off into the wind in my silver Gizehs.

For now at least, I’ve decided to take all foot-related matters into my own hands. I already own one of those PedEgg contraptions, though it languishes, unused, in my bathroom beauty cabinet. So while I was tempted to buy the Barbie-sque Revlon version, I had to stop myself and realize that the only reason I wanted it was because it’s pink and super-cute.

Instead, I bought Sally Hansen Salon Intensive Callus Remover, which simultaneously intrigued and scared the bejesus out of me. That’s because the directions on the back are chock-a-block with dire warnings: “Wash hands immediately and thoroughly. Wash away excess immediately and thoroughly with warm, soapy water. Do not leave on longer than 1 minute.” Sheesh. But if it can keep looming bunions at bay — and me out of the OR alongside my dear pal — it might be worth it.

Nationality-wise, I’m a bit of a mutt: Irish, German, American Indian. This hodgepodge heritage has resulted in a slightly schizophrenic complexion that tans like crazy, but is basically quite fair. And wildly, wildly bruise-prone; just look at me funny and out pops another ouchie.

Since we’re now firmly ensconced in summer, I’m not exactly loving the black and blue marks. Yes, I can be klutzy – hence the bagging on the concrete mid-run scenario. Actually, that just happened again two weeks ago. But this time I was on the boardwalk near my home, and wood is a little more forgiving than cement…

Outdoor sports aside, I find that even daily life can result in tiny body blows, which wind up on full display when you’re romping around in your slimsuit. For instance, I’ve been re-organizing my home office, and some minor shuffling of boxes and filing cabinets has resulted in a whopper bruise on my upper right thigh. Consequently, at the town pool yesterday, I was doing a little maneuvering to keep that bad boy under wraps.

But I need some type of real strategy to keep bruises at bay. A while ago, I received a big shipment of Bruise MD, which included Soothing Cream, Cooling Gel and Dietary Supplement tablets. Besides wondering how these people knew I was such a spazzy klutz, I was skeptical. Once the damage is done, can anything really help bruises go bye-bye more quickly?

According to the handy-dandy “Bruise Facts” on the company’s website, this is a matter many mamas want help with. In a survey of 330 women, “over 60 percent suffered 5 or more significant bruises per year.” Another factoid: “Up to 90 percent of women are interested in a way to heal bruises faster.” Okay, so it’s a common beauty bummer – we got that. What’s the fix?

Evidently, putting ourselves on the path to a speedier recovery requires arnica, a plant used in homeopathic remedies for pain relief that plays a starring role in Bruise MD’s topical creams and gels. The key ingredients in the Dietary Supplement tabs are bromelain and papain – or, in people-speak: pineapple and papaya enzymes, respectively. (Interestingly, both bromelain and papain are used as meat tenderizers…)

Personally, I’ve decided to try the cream and skip the tabs. But under no circumstances should a pregnant or nursing mama try any of the above without checking with her physician first. My other tactic – and this is key to virtually everything in life – is to just slow down, focus and “do what I’m doing.” That way, I figure I can avoid most of the things that go bump in the night — and day.

The wee lass has a summer cold. And while I feel for her, when she wakes up in the middle of the night — hacking, wheezing, sneezing — and wants to come downstairs to the master bedroom with her night-night and basically the entire stuffed-animal section of FAO Schwarz in tow, I’m not a happy camper. Faithful readers know I’m not the best sleeper, so it doesn’t take much to upset the snoozing apple cart. Hence the sleep masks, and the carefully orchestrated pre-bed ritual that clocks in at a good 15 minutes, what with all the dry-brushing, chanting, sage-burning and whatnot.

Since the get-go, Hubby and I have had a strict no-kid-under-our-covers rule. For some reason that edict doesn’t apply to our fluffball kitties Thunder and Lightning, who have the full run of our roost. Perhaps it’s because they pre-date the Diapered Darling, or maybe it’s that they don’t kick and thrash to the same degree. Whatevs – they have an all-access backstage pass to our boudoir, and that’s not changing soon.

As for Miss Sneezy-Wheezy, she’s gotta go. For the past few nights, after attempting to fall back asleep in team formation, I’ve just grabbed my pillow and alarm clock and headed right up to her room. There, surrounded by more Ugly Dolls and Disney Princesses than any one child should own, I manage to catch a few fitful winks. But it’s not deep, restful sleep. And I’m not digging it.

I think I mentioned I’m from Oklahoma? As such, there were more than a few horses in my midst while I was growing up, including a few I rode bareback, much like the brave lady here. Still, in this day and age, when we slap a helmet on our tots every time they step out the front door, can you imagine? Trust me when I tell you that my helmet-less head and I got tossed into the haystacks on several occasions.

Happily, despite the near-concussions, I retain enough of my brain cells to remember Mane ‘n Tail. And evidently the cult-fave shampoo and conditioner is enjoying a renaissance among mamas d’un certain age, as the French say, who are passing it along to their teenage daughters.

My Diapered Darling isn’t quite “there yet,” but that won’t stop me from diving in, especially if it can help me healthy-up my longish locks. I’m a big believer in what I call “covert low-maintenance,” which is basically beauty stuff that seems, on the surface, to be a major pain in the ass, but secretly isn’t. One such example is to buck the new-mama cliche of chopping all your hair off because it’s “easier.” Newsflash: It’s a thousand times easier to just shove your hair into a pony or bun.

But before any shoving takes place, hair needs to grow. Mane ‘n Tail can, theoretically, help with that. That’s because both the shampoo and conditioner are loaded-up with “micro-enriched proteins.” All I know is that there are beaucoup testimonials on YouTube and much chatter in the blogosphere. Bonus points: You can use it on your horse or pony too. Vive long, luxe locks for the entire family!

Another day, another this-stuff-will-kill-you warning.

As a mama bear who now has to report to her dermatologist every six months for skin screenings, and who also has a wee lass who never met a body of water she didn’t love, I often feel like my head might explode with all the “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” chatter around sunscreen. So you can imagine my angst when I recently read the warnings about retinyl palmitate, a derivative of vitamin A that’s commonly used in umpteen million beauty products.

To get more insight into the retinyl palmitate brouhaha, I reached out to cosmetic ingredient expert Ron Robinson, Founder and CEO of Beauty Stat. He, of course, was already on the case, and had commissioned his crack team to investigate. You can read Beauty Stat’s take on the matter right here.

I firmly believe that all moms need to do the research regarding sunscreen ingredients, and come up with a gameplan for both themselves and their tots. I will say, however, that as a mother who is both a seasoned wellness journalist and a bigger and bigger proponent of natural ingredients every day, I’m personally leaning toward non-chemical sunscreens.

My favorite: California Baby. I am deeply, deeply in love with this brand anyway (I buy the Calming Shampoo & Bodywash by the truckload), but when summer rolls around, I have the CB sunscreens on me at all times. P.S. You can nab it at Target.

It’s a not-so-sad fact of life that I’d rather run five miles than do one freaking crunch. I say not-so-sad because it’s totally great that I’d be wiling to run that five miles, isn’t it? In fact, one of the reasons I don’t feel so guilty about not doing ab work is that all those endless laps along the Hudson River help to rein-in my midsection a bit.

Still, it’s been a few years since my Diapered Darling joined us. And just because I’ve lost pretty much all of my baby blubber doesn’t exactly mean you could bounce a quarter off my belly. So I’ve decided to stop postponing the inevitable, and start firming up my core.

The trick is to do it the right way. As I learned while writing the abs chapter of my book, traditional stomach exercises — like crunches, which I loathe — can exacerbate a new mama’s kangaroo pouch. In short, that’s because they jut your gut forward and don’t address the underlying muscles. (In the interest of TMI, the muscles you absolutely do want to target are the multifidus, transversus abdominis and psoas.)

So for moi, the time is at hand to start to get to know these muscles, to befriend them so I can reshape them at my will. To do so, I’ll be deploying my Lindsay Brin’s CORE Fitness for Moms DVD, which I bought ages ago and have only used a handful of times. (Maybe not even a handful, truth be told…)

And I’ve been eyeballing those P9oX infomercials a lot lately. But that seems like a major investment that I don’t really feel up to just yet. Perhaps if I make some inroads with Lindsay, I’ll add in some Tony. Of course, it’s a little nuts to “reward” yourself for hard work by buying a whole mess o’ new hard work. But I just really want to look like gorgeous Mama Six-Pack here. Doesn’t everyone?

Though it’s such an eyesore that I toss a blankie over it and hide it in a guest bathroom when I’m not using it, my mini trampoline is a key way I way I keep my immune system in groovy working order.

I’m no rocket scientist, but even I can wrap my mind around why bouncing up and down like a crazed lunatic is good, good, good for us. Evidently the specific act of jumping stimulates the circulation of lymph fluid, which in turn escorts toxic gunk, such as bacteria, to our lymph nodes. There, it’s pummeled into oblivion so that it never reaches our bloodstream. And believe me, in this wacky, oil-spilling world we live in, our poor bods have a lot of toxicity to contend with.

But try not to think of sea sludge when you’re rebounding. (“Rebounding” is shorthand for jumping around like your three-year-old in the rent-a-castle at the rich kid’s birthday party…) Instead, just go to your happy place. And hop.

My friend Jane is such a fabulous, confident cook that she freely improvises – subtracting this, adding that – without blinking a lushly mascared eye.

So when she recently forwarded a recipe for Butternut Squash & Sage Lasagna that she nabbed from marthastewart.com, of course she added her improv bit:

“i often substitute or add various other veggies, like onions and portobellos in the mix. either way, it’s yummy.”

Believe me, I’m in no position to tweak anything of a recipe nature. I have such Fear of Kitchen that I usually set foot inside of it just long enough to whip up oatmeal for the Diapered Darling before the nanny arrives to whisk her off to school.

But I’ve decided that I’m OFFICIALLY over this lack-of-kitchen-confidence nonsense. Especially now, as I’m starting to tilt in a decidedly vegetarian / vegan direction. So I’m cracking open a few cookbooks that I just know will help me get over my culinary hurdles. Here’s what I’ve moved to a place of prominence on my countertop:

Quantum Wellness by Kathy Freston

Skinny Bitch In the Kitch by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin

The Kind Diet by Alicia Silverstone

Cooking 1 – 2 – 3 and Recipes 1 – 2 -3 by Rozanne Gold

Now if only I could get Jane to move in…