My Life WITHOUT Coffee

For the next few weeks, should you choose to accept, you are going with me on a terrifying adventure.  It will be fraught with hard work, exhilarating highs, deep cavernous lows and probably quite a bit of whining (on my part, but quite possibly yours as well).  I'm starting a new plan today.  I'm getting back to my true, organic self (and hopefully losing some weight along the way).  I'm going to follow the Fat Flush Plan, which focuses on eating vegetables, lean protein, and fruit.  But no caffeine.

That means no coffee.

While following this plan (and I'll get to why I want to do this in a bit) I will have to cut out many things.  For a while. I will have to cut out the handfuls of animal crackers I eat throughout the day.  And the chocolate-covered blueberries.  I will have to stop eating the peanut butter and jelly crusts off of Max's plate.  I will have to not eat my left over fried rice from Chang Mai Thai that has been taunting me every time I open my refrigerator.  But, by far, the biggest sacrifice will be giving up my coffee. 

I gave Weight Watchers a try for six weeks.  I lost no weight.  None.  Zero pounds.  Pants are still tight.  Wasted six weeks of the nine leading up to my Arizona trip.  I think the new Weight Watchers points system is a crock and I don't recommend it at all.  According to my points, I could have eaten pretty much anything I wanted and stayed within my range.  Well, eating whatever you want doesn't usually lead to weight loss, so I guess I'm not too surprised that I didn't see any results.

Five years ago, after Max was born, I did the Fat Flush Plan.  I didn't lose a ton of weight, not right away, but I lost some.  I'm not gonna lie, I am doing this plan so that I lose weight.  But when I did it before, something unexpected happened.  I started thinking about what I ate.  I started paying attention to ingredients, thinking about exactly what I was putting into my body.  I realized that I like vegetables.  I learned to try new foods!  In other words, and I hate to sound overly dramatic here, it changed my life.  It really did.  I'm hoping that's what happens this time, too.

I blame Lily for my tumble off the healthy wagon.  I was able to maintain a healthy weight for three and a half years.  Then I got pregnant and (I've written about this many times before, I know) decided that I was going to have one last fling with food.  For the last 18 months I have been meaning to get back to eating healthy.  It's been on my "to do" list to only buy foods that I believe are made from real ingredients and not preservatives and fillers, but I get to the grocery store and it's easier, cheaper, to just grab what I need off the shelf and be on my way. 

Last week I thought about starting the flush, but once I decided that I was going to do it, I got angry.  I was mad that it had even come to that.  I didn't want to make the changes I know I need (and actually want) to make.  But over the past week something in me shifted.  I feel ready.  And in telling you that, I feel held accountable. 

I wasn't planning to tell you about this process.  I thought that it would bore you (and it probably will).  But then I remembered that this is my blog.  And I started thinking that it will be good for me to write about it, good for me to share how I'm feeling, good for me to hear any feedback you may want to share with me.  Don't worry.  I'm not doing anything crazy.  This is about health.  Weight-loss, too.  But mainly about getting back to healthy.  It's not some crazy diet, it's me working towards making the changes in my life that I believe are necessary.

So, along with pb&j crusts and handfuls of animal crackers, I will be giving up coffee for the next two and a half weeks. After this one last cup, flavored with hazelnut creamer and tears. 

Content

I have been promising my husband, since writing the post on love several months ago, that I would write a flattering post about him.  Here it is!

Yesterday was Valentine's Day and I got nothing.  To be fair, he did give me a card he made out of printer paper on which he drew a heart.  In the past I've gotten flowers or my favorite Dove chocolates.  Or, a million years ago, a weekend away somewhere.  But this year I'm perfectly content with my printer-paper card.  No, seriously, I really am.

I don't need Valentine's Day to know that my husband loves me.  I don't need flowers, or fancy dinners, or jewelry or candy.  Because, everyday, I get so much more than that.  I get respect.  And security.  And comfort.  Wade has given me a family and a house and the ability to stay at home, in said house, to raise said family.  And he also gives me independence and encourages me to do things outside of him, like writing.  Or flying to see my brother or sister. Or spending three days walking around Minneapolis and St. Paul to put an end to breast cancer.  Or to get away with my girlfriends for an evening.  Or a weekend. He knows when to stand back and let me have my way (tiling the floor twice in one year) and when to put his foot down (tearing our house apart so that I could have main floor laundry).  He puts the kids to bed almost every night because he knows that it's my least favorite part of the day. 

Rosanne Barr was on Oprah yesterday, and while I never would have thought of her as some kind of relationship guru, I actually found her rather insightful.  When asked if she's happy with her life partner, she responded that she doesn't like the term happy because it implies that you have to come down from feeling that way.  She said she's content.  I like that.  I am often happy in my marriage.  Rarely, I'm frustrated or hurt.  Or even a little bit bored.  But the vast majority of the time, I am content. 

I hate that being content is looked at as being less than happy by so many people.  I don't see it that way at all.  Once upon a time I was in a relationship that was all ups and downs.  It was understood that the ups made up for the downs.  Made the downs acceptable.  Made it okay for me to be treated poorly.  Because the next day I might be treated like a queen.  At first those grand gestures, all that being swept off my feet, was thrilling.  But then, once I wised up and saw what was really going on, once I understood that the up was only paving the way for the next down, I realized it was exhausting.  I think, as women, we are led to believe that being "happy" is what's important.  But what's "happy" if it's not contrasted with the opposite?  And if you're reasonably happy most of the time (if you say you're happy all of the time, you're lying), if there's nothing more you could want in a marriage or partnership, isn't that being content? (It is, I looked it up on dictionary.com)   I'll take steady, stable, satisfying contentment over that terrifying roller coaster ride any day. 

I don't mean to imply that Wade is boring.  Sure, sometimes he brings me flowers or takes me out to a nice dinner downtown.  But that's not what shows me he loves me.  He shows me he loves me when he unloads the dishwasher or makes me popcorn after the kids are in bed.  I suppose, by most standards, we're both pretty boring people.  Most evenings will find us watching television.  And an exciting night out for us is playing a board game with friends.  But, honestly, I don't need or want anything more than Wade's company.  My perfect evening would be going out for sushi (or better yet, getting take-out sushi and bringing it home) and then curling up on the couch and watching Modern Family with my husband.  Heaven on Earth!

In full disclosure, I should say that I didn't even give Wade a card yesterday.  I bought him a pair of socks and a box of Dots (which he promptly opened and ate, except for the yellow and green ones).  Then I left for the evening.  Without him.  Valentine's Day came and went and I'm still content.  I don't love my husband any less today than I did yesterday and I know the same goes for him, too.  As a matter of fact, I think he might love me a little bit more. 

Strapped

 I was looking through pictures today. I noticed that I have several really cute ones of Lily.  Strapped in her high chair. Proof, I suppose, that she spends quite a bit of time strapped in her high chair. 

It's so much easier when she is stuck in one place.  When she can't get into things.  Or climb up on things.  Or pull things out of cupboards.  Or drawers.  Or the garbage.  If she isn't sleeping (and lately she has decided that she no longer needs to nap) or buckled in her chair, then she's wreaking havoc.  And the havoc makes me so tired! 

Lily has some kind of radar or sixth sense for when something has been left un-baby-proofed.  We leave the door for the main floor bathroom closed so that Lily can't get in there and splash in the toilet or empty out all of the drawers.  But if one of the "big kids" leaves it open, Lily is immediately in there, pulling out all of the towels, unrolling the toilet paper or drawing on the floor (my new floor!) with a long-forgotten lipstick she somehow found in the back of the "hair things" drawer.  I spend most of my day unlatching and then re-latching the cupboard with our kitchen garbage.  I never realized how many times a day I throw something in recycle or the garbage until I had to lock it to keep tiny little hands from digging through the banana peels and coffee grounds.  But every once in a while I don't re-latch it after throwing something away.  I get so tired of doing it over and over again.  And again.  And I'm standing right there.  It can't hurt to leave it for just a second, I think.  But it can.  It does.  She's there.  She's always right there! 

And it's not just messes.  It's the climbing.  And the doing of things.  Today, just now, as a matter of fact, she climbed up on a little chair, opened the cabinet in the family room, pulled out the bin of crayons and markers, grabbed her chubby crayolas and a piece of paper, climbed down and carried it all over to the kitchen floor.  Impressive?  Sure.  But yesterday she climbed up on that same little chair and opened up the guinea pig cage.  Maybe I just need to get rid of that chair. 

Lily is 18 months old, but she is under the impression that she is twelve.  She is adamant that she feed herself.  And if I cut up her meal and she sees that Sophie and Max's food is all in one piece, she will throw the plate on the floor in a fit of rage.  If I take her sippy cup off the counter and hand it to her, she will throw it on the floor and scream until I put it back on the counter, pick her up, and let her get it herself.  There is a lot of throwing.  And screaming. 
 
Don't get me wrong.  I am head-over-heels in love with this little girl.  How could I not love that sweet face?  I try not to wish away this time.  This phase in her new life.  It's so easy to get wrapped up in the frustration, both hers and mine, when she desperately wants something, but can't verbalize what it is.  It's easy to stomp out her excitement over the rainbow of markers she stole from Sophie's desk drawer because I can foresee that same rainbow of color on the wall.  And it's certainly easy to lose my patience on the fourth day in a row that she has refused to take a nap.  But every once in a while I'm able to take a step back and look at her adorable face, her sockless feet, her shortness and say a little prayer that God will freeze time and keep her exactly the way she is.  Plus, next up is the terrible twos.