Lack of something.

The past two days I have had absolutely no energy. This shouldn't be the case, since exercise is supposed to make you feel more energetic. I did take a break yesterday because I felt like I was coming down with something, and I'm hoping to get to the gym this evening. But you would think that the time between one workout to the next, even if it's a one or two day lull, wouldn't leave me so lethargic.

I'm guessing that the one thing I do need to start doing is exercising in the morning. This is probably the most difficult change to make, but it's the one that tends to stick once I've made it part of my routine. It's just that waking up when the sun hasn't risen is so difficult to do. Then there is that night time greediness I tend to have, when the kids are in bed and I feel like I should stay up doing whatever I want just for the sake of being able to do it, without sticky little fingers or tantrums or whining to interfere.

So next week that will be the plan. That way it can actually be a real part of my day instead of something that I might be able to squeeze in depending on what everyone else is doing. And then maybe I'll have that bit of an endorphin buzz to last me through the day.

Because right now, this just isn't cutting it. I feel like I need to curl up in a ball and shut out the world so I can sleep for a few more hours (even though I got 7 hours of sleep last night, with the last hour being spent hitting the snooze button half a dozen times). But with the house in its usual disarray and kids climbing the walls like monkeys, those sorts of things simply aren't allowed.

The Bruiser, though he really isn't.

I don't know how my son came to be called "The Bruiser". It could be because of his rough-and-tumble boyish ways, much different than his dainty older sister.

His toddlerhood was a complete blur to me because his younger sister was born when he wasn't quite 2 years old yet. This is something I started to feel sad about since the day I found out I was pregnant again, for I was already stretched pretty thin as a mom-of-two. How in the world was I going to find one-on-one time with him, when there was going to be a third baby... and he was still a baby himself?

Somehow we figured it out, though my mom was with us for almost two years, thankfully. Still, I was the "go to" parent always, even when other people were around, and I never felt like I was giving enough to each child. Still don't.

This could be why my younger two kids are so much more independent. I don't have to struggle with turning the tv off, or bribe them to eat different food. I feel like I can hover over them far less and they are perfectly fine doing whatever, whether it's doodling, or taking a bubble bath, or playing with Lego's.

The one thing I have to keep in mind is that boys are completely, totally different that girls. My oldest would do just about everything on cue: sing her ABCs, touch her nose, give hugs and kisses in exchange for chocolate. And most of the time the youngest would do the same.

But the Bruiser has always been different. Even now he might give you a kiss, but he'd turn his head the very last second so you always get his cheek. And if you ask him what colors his Legos are, he will tell you that red is blue, blue is yellow, yellow is black... all with a mischievous smile on his face. He knows his colors because he will specifically ask for the red and yellow pair of Power Ranger pjs when he can't find them in his dresser drawer. And of course, there is that odd obsession with coloring with the Black Crayon, after testing out the other crayons on paper. "No, this is blue, this is purple, this is green... where is the black one?"

The worst thing you can possibly do is compare one sibling to the next. I dare not say that one child is smarter than the other, for I really don't know that. I never saw the Princess put together space ships made of Lego's, yet the Bruiser does this all the time, each perfectly symmetrical, with his armada lined in a row ready for take off. Meanwhile, the Baby tends to the cat, making sure she has spoons in both of her bowls so she can eat (that is her way of cooking, she says).

Last night, after having a very long and tiring day, dealing with the three kids gone wild on chocolate and candy hearts, I was so relieved to finally bid them goodnight. The Bruiser was taking a while to settle down. I could hear his heavy feet running around his room. He was excited about our upcoming weekend it turns out, and probably even more excited about all the candy we have in our house.

As I stood up to leave after tucking him back into bed, he said, "Mommy, I love you." And I hesitated a moment to be sure I heard him correctly. And he really did, without me saying it first.

The passive aggressive trait.

Yes, that is me, I've been told. Though I think the issue is that I was raised to respect and revere my elders, to never speak out or answer back, but at the same time to not put up with people's b.s. Perhaps this is the Asian-American fusion thing going on. You know, like sweet and sour chicken, or something.

So even though I'm a bit on the pissy side at the moment, I am going to write this post in order to add a sweet buffer to the previous post. Because really I am oozing with love on this Valentine's Day, complete with chocolate sprinkles and wishful dreams of bling from Tiffany's (for what girl doesn't dream of Tiffany's on Valentine's Day?). But my bubble was almost burst. This is to prove that it really wasn't.

Yesterday I took a BodyPump class at the gym, and my second time to take it so I was still a bit intimidated. When the class was over, not one but two instructors approached me and said I had perfect form. Me? Flabby mom of three? Perfect form???

Normally I hit the scale before I leave the gym, just to keep track of how I'm doing. But last night I felt no need to do this. I am a perfectionist, normally (though seeing my house today, one might doubt that). But most days I feel over the hill, especially when I'm surrounded by gym rats with rippling muscles.

It just comes to show how far a compliment can go. Tell someone they're pretty, or the tie they are wearing brings out their eyes. Or praise the scribbling art a child creates, even if it mars the living room table and turned her hands pink.

And now that I am ending a blog entry on a positive note, I can pick up the clutter in my house with a little bit more glee.

Bend at the knees, breathe in, breathe out.

Love letters.

I would probably be the first person to say that Valentine's Day is overrated, though I'd be the first person to snatch up that box of chocolate and devour each and every sugary morsel. Well, actually, I'd think about doing that while opening the box, but the analytic-me will kick in and I'll plan out how I can fit the into my Weight Watchers daily points allowance.

As I was getting into the Valentine's Day spirit, making gift boxes for the Princess's classmates, reveling in the sheer amount of chocolate there is in this house at this moment as a result, and yes, calculating how many Hershey's kisses I might be able to eat after dinner, I received the most thoughtful of notes from a certain someone. And I felt the need to convey my appreciation for such thoughtfulness.

This person wrote how much they care about me and pray for me still, even though she has been mad at me and the situation (the situation being my marriage issues, since after all EVERYONE seems to be a part of it), but thank God for He has filled her heart with love and I suppose now she doesn't feel a strong urge to gouge my eyes out.

And this was my favorite part, which I will forever keep in mind, even in the event I make it big and get a job shooting Victoria's Secrets lingerie models (the naughty little things that they are): that I need to remember that God has given me special talents and "He desires good, not evil from me." I am assuming that last part was in quotes because it was taken verbatim from the Bible (me being the heathen that I am, I wouldn't know).

So how do I react to such jibberish? Do I laugh? Do I cry out in frustration? Do I use it to line the kitty litter box? I shall just keep my mouth shut and let this person continue believing that what dribbles out of her brain actually matters to me. Oh, and blog about it here because I'm just mean and cynical like that.

Might as well live up to my reputation.

*flex*

There are three people in this world who matter to me the most, and I somehow always manage to make them smile when I enter the room, even on the days when I'm crabby and can barely muster up a smile myself. And this isn't just because I feed them and sing them lullabies at night. It's so uncomplicated and natural... the sort of love I can be boastful about, show off to the world because they are all mine.

There is noone who could possibly tell me otherwise. And I suppose that's when motherhood is empowering.

Without a pair.

I am amazed at how many socks are missing their pairs. No matter how often I attempt to scour the house, they are nowhere to be found. And every time I do laundry that pile of pairless socks seems to grow.

The dryer must eat them. But you'd think at a quarter to 4 a.m. I'd be able to come up with a more clever theory than that.

I do still have plans to make these pairless socks into sockpuppets one day. Only there aren't enough hands to fill them. Then again, there is the most practical solution: the garbage can.