New Age

The kids left the television on earlier today and an infomercial started. Something to make me look better.  Younger. Cindy Crawford was selling it with Valerie Bertinelli.  I wasn't watching it.  Wasn't listening, really.  Until I heard someone say, "Who wants to look older?  Who wants crows feet and laugh lines?"

I know I may regret saying this one day, when I'm really old and my skin is sagging and full of soft, paper-like wrinkles, but I like looking older.  I like my crows feet.  When I look back at pictures of me from college, or even from my wedding, I have a baby face.  Smooth, yes, but there's something lacking.  Life is lacking.

I don't recognize myself in those pictures.  My face today shows a little wear and tear.  There are lines around my eyes and mouth.  My lips aren't as plump as they used to be.  My skin is blotchy, though nothing that a little foundation won't cover up.  But I'm not complaining.  When I see a picture of myself from last year, or last month, I like what I see (except my thighs, I would definitely change my thighs). I like that there's a glimmer of wisdom in my eyes, and that my mouth has learned to hold it's tongue.  I like that my skin has survived the acne of, not only my teenage years, but three pregnancies. 

A friend posted some pictures of me on Facebook a while back.  He had taken them when we were in college.  They were black and white shots of me looking off in the distance.  When I saw them all I could think was that my face looked round.  I don't ever remember having a round face.  I've been told me whole life that my face is oval.  But in those pictures it was round.  Maybe smooth equals round.  Now my face is thin.  And I like it thin.  I like the indents along my cheek bones when I take the time to put on some blush. I'm okay with the fact that my nose looks pointier now then it did fifteen years ago.  I'm not afraid of looking my age.  Like I said, I may regret saying this someday. 

I'm not saying I don't want to take care of myself or my skin.  I want to look healthy.  I want to look attractive.  But I don't want to look twenty-two.  Because I'm not.  I'm a mid-thirties mother of three.  And I am quite happy looking like just that.

But seriously, Valerie Bertanelli looks as young now as she did thirty years ago. Maybe that stuff really works!  

A Moment of Expense

Imagine coming home to a clean house.  You just walk in the door and the floor is mopped, the bathrooms are sparkling, the baked-on chili, which no amount of scrubbing seemed to loosen off the stove, is gone.  Of course it only lasts for a moment, just long enough for dirty shoes, a little boy's bad aim and boiled over mac'n cheese for lunch.  

Ugh, housework.  It's something that I hate.  And I'm not good at it.  So, I hired a cleaning service.  They only came once a month, it's not like I had a live-in maid, but it was definitely a big help.  I got to have a clean slate (pun intended) once a month, and my goal was to maintain it until they magically showed up again four weeks later.  But my cleaning fairies are no more.

I started thinking about how expensive that moment was.  That moment, post cleaning crew, just after I open the door to my house and just before the kids and dog catapult in behind me.  It's an amazing, fresh, sparkly moment.  And for a little while I was able to convince myself that it was worth any amount of money.  But now that I've mostly quit my job, and therefore mostly lost my paycheck, I had to reconsider how much that moment is actually worth. 

Tomorrow is the day the cleaners would have come.  They would have dusted my dining room hutch and Windexed all the mirrors.  They would have gotten my kitchen sink cleaner than I've ever been able to, almost as clean as my mom can get it.  They would have stacked all the kids' books in nice, neat piles and lined up the stuffed animals on Max's top bunk.  They would have.  If I hadn't called earlier this evening and told them not to come.  Again.  Ever. 

So, tomorrow I'm going to get up and dust.  I haven't really dusted since the cleaners were here a month ago.  That's first on my list.  And then I'm going to wipe down my kitchen appliances, taking great care with my coffee maker, of course.  Wiping down appliances was something I never really did before, not unless something was splattered on them during one of my baking fiascoes, but it was my favorite thing the cleaners did.  Made such a difference.  It really did.  And I'm going to do windows tomorrow, too. 

I have a strange kind of excitement about whipping this place into shape on my own.  I think I've been feeling kind of useless lately (a topic for another day) and I'm ready to create my to-do list while sipping coffee in the morning.  And I have always gotten some satisfaction from crossing items off as I get them done. I don't need that cleaning crew.  But I definitely need to tell Wade to splatter less of his chili on my stove. 

Video Killed the Violin Star

I watched The View today and heard about Tyler Clementi, the Rutgers student who committed suicide after his roommate and the roommate's girlfriend posted videos of him on the internet. The videos were of Tyler having sex with another male student, but that's really beside the point as far as I'm concerned. It would be, in my mind, just as wrong if they had recorded him going to the bathroom or picking his nose. Or studying. Whatever he was doing in the privacy of his dorm room (and to my understanding he had asked his roommate for just that, privacy) was his business. Not his roommate's. Not yours. Not mine. My heart is broken for Tyler's family.

But my heart is sickened by people who do this kind of thing. Tyler's case is pretty extreme, but in my humble opinion, it's completely uncalled for to video someone without their knowing. No matter what they are doing. And I think it goes without saying that posting that video online is unacceptable. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but this kind of thing terrifies me. I don't want to have to worry about my kids being videoed while in the locker room someday. I don't want to find out there's a video of me singing Mr. Big songs in the shower (I'm the one who waaants to beee with youuuuu). Trust me, no one wants to see that.

I saw this commercial and was appalled. I can guarantee that I will never purchase this camera, and probably anything by Panasonic in my own little boycott. Their marketing campaign is based on this camera's ability to upload videos of people who don't know they are being recorded. How is this okay?

I know several people who check out and laugh at that Walmart site. The one where people post pictures of other people they saw while shopping there. I've been to Walmart once or twice and there are definitely some interesting people in that store. Out of curiosity I checked out the site. It made me sad. As I looked at the first couple of pictures, that's all I made it through, my only thought was that these people, albeit interesting, for sure, are just out shopping. Just because someone has purple hair and a ring threw her nose, sporting pippy-longstocking socks and a muffin top doesn't make it okay to post her picture without her permission. Call me a party-pooper.

I think what made me so mad at that particular commercial and the Walmart site, is what it says about our society. It seems to prove that it's become acceptable to post whatever you want, regardless of permission or even simple respect. But it's not okay! It's not!

Elizabeth Hasselbeck, in response to this story on The View, made a good point. She said ethics has not caught up with technology. Kids (that makes me sound so old!) don't always understand the repercussions of their actions online. And because we (those of us older than kids) didn't have these same issues growing up, it's more difficult for us to teach our children how to handle it. This is not an excuse. I'm viewing it as a wake up call. My kids are still young. We haven't entered the world wide web yet. But I'm determined, starting now and as they get older, to talk with them about the consequences their actions may have, especially when it comes to the internet. I don't understand technology. I can write for my blog and check my email and Facebook. That's about it. But what I do understand is that someone taking a video of me without my saying it's okay is an invasion of my privacy. And that one video posted online can destroy someone's life.

I think what happened to Tyler is deplorable. I don't know what else was going on in his life that may have contributed to his suicide, but I wish he had had the faith to see that, while it sucks right now, it will get better. But, at the very least, his death got my attention. I hope it got your, too.

Imperfect

I wish I could tell you that after all the work, all the time and energy, we put into doing this tile floor ourselves, I can now stand back and admire it. I wish I could tell you that it was all worth it. I wish I could tell you that I have a sense of accomplishment. I wish I could tell you those things. But I can't.

The good news is that the floor is done. The better news is that I actually lost weight during this whole process (most of which, I can only assume, was in tears). The bad news is that when I look at my new floor, my should-be-beautiful new floor, all I can see are the mistakes we made. The mistakes I made.

Grouting the floor, being down at floor-level and seeing up close any little bit of unevenness, was awful. Not to mention that I did the grout wrong. But I will produce an anxiety attack if I get into that. I admire people that can do things. That have the confidence to tackle a task and when they are done stand back and feel good about it. I, on the other hand, am not wired that way. With each oops, I focus on what people will think when they walk into my home. Are they going to notice that it's uneven right there, right at the end of the hall? Are they going to see that the grout line is thicker here? Along the step?

Wade keeps reminding me that this is the first time we have done this. Tiled. And we took on a monstrous project. But it's not quite that simple. Yes, it's probably too much to expect perfection on our first (or second, as the case may be) try, but this is the center of our house. Where everyone enters. Where we entertain. I can't stand the thought that it looks like we did the tile ourselves, first time or not. In order to help me, Wade told me about a coworker who had an area half the square footage as us professionally tiled. All told, doing it ourselves, we saved over $2,000. I know my response was supposed to something like, "Wow, that alone makes all of this worth it," but instead I thought, "I'd have paid twice that." I comfort myself by thinking that someday we can re-tile. And by "we" I mean "we can pay someone who knows what they are doing."

I think (I hope) that when other people, people who aren't as obsessed with my floor as I am, will walk in, instead of seeing all of the imperfections, they will see the whole picture. Because, the tile is really pretty. And it has completely changed the way my entire house feels, brought it out of 1975 and into the 2000's. It looks perfect with the paint and once we get new carpet, the whole main floor is going to feel like a new house.

I've realized something about myself throughout all of this. I guess I've known it all along, but this experience really brought it out. I think I'm some kind of perfectionist. I'm not the kind who needs things perfect for me. You should see my bedroom...not perfect. But when it comes to other people, what other people are going to think of me, that's were the perfectionist comes out. I guess I want other people to think I'm perfect. And that goes for my kitchen floor as well.

I learned something else, as well. I learned that paying someone else to do stuff, so that I can come home to find it done right, is worth every penny.

Starting Over

I've been wearing the same clothes for the past six days. And if I'm honest with myself, I'm going to be wearing them for at least a couple more. It's not because I haven't done laundry (although, I haven't) or because they are just so comfortable (I suppose they're pretty comfy, however). It's because I can only afford to destroy one outfit.

The last week of my life has been taken over by tiling my kitchen. It's more than my kitchen, actually. We're tiling my entry way, hall, bathroom and kitchen. None of us (us = Wade, my dad and me) have never done anything like this before. We'd gotten lots of advice from people who have. And like with anything, most of it was conflicting. But we thought we knew what we were doing, and we got to work.

Ripping out the old, ugly orange tile was hard work, but kind of fun. I'd been wanting to do that for five years now, and smashing it to bits was wonderful therapy. As expected (I watch those house flipping shows, I know tearing out walls or floors is like opening a can of worms), there were a few surprises awaiting us under that tile, but nothing we couldn't handle. Even the plywood and the backerboard looked better than the old tile. I was ready, so so so ready, to get that new tile down.

We started laying the tile this past Tuesday. From the start it didn't seem right. The tiles weren't level; the grout lines weren't even. I kept going, but with each tile that I put in place I had this nagging feeling. I also felt constantly on the verge of tears. I couldn't sleep at night, thinking about all the work we were doing and I didn't like the result. I didn't want to be embarrassed of my new floor. I didn't want to spend every day looking at the mistakes we were making. As anxious as I'd been to get started, I now just wanted to be done. I started thinking that it would be easier to move than to finish this project. I would feel this panic just below the surface.

Finally, I came to my senses and had my neighbor come over to give his "unprofessional" opinion. He confirmed what I'd known all along. We needed to tear out the tile and start over. We smiled. We thanked him. We walked him out. We closed the door. I cried.

Actually, before I cried, before I could change my mind, my dad and I started carefully popping up each of the tiles. My pretty floor was disappearing before my eyes.

The tears came when my kids came up from the basement, where they'd been playing, out of the way. I realized that I'd missed hearing about Sophie's first week of school because I'd been so busy shooing her out of the way. I had hardly said anything to Max beyond "Don't step there!" And poor Lily had been living strapped in her high chair. Even though they hadn't gone anywhere, I missed them. And I couldn't (can't) stand living in this mess. I just wanted my house back. Starting over, while I knew it was the right decision, seemed to turn this into an endless project. I sat on the couch and cried while Sophie comforted me and Max held my hand. Sophie proceeded to use that as an excuse to stay up late, repeatedly coming back downstairs to "check on mom." Wade and I pulled up the rest of the tile and got ready to start fresh the next day.

I woke up the next morning with new energy. Overnight I seemed to settle into the idea that starting over, doing it right, wasn't such a hassle. I wanted to feel good about the work we were doing. I wanted to look forward to having people visit, to see the changes we're making to our home. Making it into our home. Doing it right was the only way to go.

Our neighbor came back over that morning to help us get started (again). This time, with his advice, we used plenty of thin-set. We used bigger spacers (which not only made it easier, but looks much, much better). We started in the right spot. That day we got more done than we had in the four days prior.

Yesterday and today progress seemed slow. But we finally finished all the cuts, and that was the worst part (not for me, that saw scared the crap out of me!). So, we're getting close. Tomorrow I finish with the thin-set and then we grout. I have a feeling that's going to be a pain, but once that's done we're all set! I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tiling tunnel. My anxiety has lessened significantly. I didn't cry at all today, as a matter of fact! Even without the grout, it looks exponentially better than it did one orange-tiled week ago. But, more than anything, I'm excited to get my refrigerator out of my formal dining room and back into my kitchen.

Unfinished

I've been watching those Hoarder shows lately. People living in mass chaos, overwhelming clutter, to say the least. Piles everywhere. Whole rooms, levels, even, unusable. I watched one episode last night about a hoarding couple. Their dining room table was literally lost under a pile of stuff. From floor to ceiling, in every room, there were mounds of trinkets, boxes, clothes. Paths had been forged from room to room. This couple was addicted to shopping at thrift stores, and loved the hunt for a bargain. At the Salvation Army the wife saw an overstuffed arm chair marked half price, $30, and brought her husband over to take a look. "I thought it would make a nice accent piece for the living room," she said. They bought it. (Editor's note: my furniture-impaired husband didn't see the irony here and felt that I should explain. An accent piece, for a room that is buried in several feet of junk, has to be ironic, right?)

I watch these shows with feelings of judgment and superiority. I certainly feel better about myself and my house compared to those on Hoarders: Buried Alive. But every once in a while I can actually relate. This woman, with her ugly chair that, quite literally, won't fit into her living room, had a vision, a plan. She knew what she wanted her house to look like. When she is out shopping, away from the piles and the clutter, she sees something that will bring her closer to that vision. I found it so interesting, endearing, actually, that after twenty-odd years of living in her house, filling it (to the brim) with "treasures," she still soldiered on in the belief that someday she would have the home of her dreams. But things got in her way. Life and kids and addictions and, in her case, actual things.

I can identify with that. I'm good at getting an idea and starting the process. But when it takes longer than expected, or there are bumps along the way, I lose interest. Actually, it's not that I lose interest, it's more like I lose momentum. So, like this lady who, in amongst (I love that word) all her stuff, has over 50 beautiful painted plates she had once intended to hang on her walls, I have empty picture frames hanging on mine. Now, my wall has only looked like this for a few weeks, but the task has become bigger than I intended. I found all the frames right away, but when I opened them up, a couple were missing the hanging thingies and when I took them back the store was out of the sizes I need. A couple more fell off the wall because I was too hasty in hanging them and hadn't anchored them correctly. Still haven't. Then, finding the right pictures, vertical and horizontal, isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Trying to decide which pictures should be blown up to 14 x 11 is really scary! It had better be a darn good picture to be that big and hanging in my family room where I have to look at it all day. So instead, all day, I look at paper taped to my wall with blank and missing picture frames. While it's not 7-foot piles of gum wrappers and old phone books, it's still an eyesore and not the look I had in mind.

But, I've stopped seeing it. When I first found the template sheets and taped them to my wall, I was gung ho getting the project underway. I went right back to the store, bought the frames and couldn't get them hung up fast enough. But now that I've hit a few glitches and my picture wall is at a standstill, I will go for days without even thinking about it. I spend easily 75% of my day in the kitchen/family room part of my house and yet I somehow stopped noticing the empty and missing frames staring me in the face.

That is, until I'm having people over. Then I start seeing my house through the eyes of the visitor. I like for people to come into my home and feel welcome, feel like they can relax, and feel like Sara must really have it all together. My picture wall is not sending that message right now (along with my stained carpet, but that's for another post). I use the act of inviting people over as my kick-in-the-butt to get the house cleaned and projects done.

I don't mean to make light of hoarding. I do realize that it's an illness and something far deeper than just being messy. But I can't help but notice that all of the hoarders I have seen have one thing in common; they have stopped having anyone come into their house. I wonder if, like the paper template I have stopped seeing taped to my wall, a hoarder stops seeing the mess. And because they, at some point along the way, decided not to allow others to come past their front door, they never have to see it through an outsider's eyes. If I stopped having people over, who knows what my house would look like!

So, last night while I lounged on my couch watching Hoarders and judging with no abandon, my less-than-half completed picture wall loomed above me. On the other hand, if I've learned anything from watching these shows, it's that the answer to my picture problem is not more picture frames.

Three Days

My parents took my two oldest kids, Sophie and Max, up to Rabbit Lake for the rest of the week. I've been looking forward to this ever since my mom casually mentioned taking the kids once school was out and I forced her to pick dates and make it official. Just kidding, sort of. My mom and dad wanted this time with my kids and I think it's good for kids to get away from time to time. And my parent have lots of fun things planned, so I know, from my kids' perspective, these days are going to fly by.

Leading up to this morning, when my parents came to get the kids, I fantasized about what I would do with all of my time. Granted, I still have Lily, so I'm not completely child free, but she's only one kid, and she naps. And she's still fairly easy to take places. I thought about all of the shopping I could do (I'll finally get a rug for the kids' bathroom!) and the projects I can get done around the house (clean out closets and organize the rough side of the basement!). I also thought about the friends I could see now that I have three totally non-scheduled days ahead! Suddenly three days didn't seem like enough time!

And then they left.

Believe it or not, I actually had to fight back tears as they pulled out of the driveway. What am I going to do without my babies, I thought. Who am I going to talk to all day? I started thinking about how funny they are! How sweet. How Sophie likes to write "I love you. Yes I do." on every piece of paper that she finds. Or how Max, in the middle of coloring in his Super Heroes coloring book, will stop and say "Mom, I love you." I'm going to miss watching Sophie ride her bike like a pro, and the way Max forgets he's wearing his helmet and will suddenly realize it when he's watching TV. I miss their hugs and kisses. I miss how they entertain Lily for hours on end. I never really realized it before, but I like my kids. I mean really like them. Not because I have to, but because they're great kids!

Then, after I put Lily down for her nap, I did something I haven't done in years. I sat and watched Young and the Restless. Don't misunderstand, I watch Y&R almost every day. But I never sit and watch it. There wasn't any laundry to fold. No kitchen dishes to wash or put away. No toys to pick up. No one interrupted me to ask if I could get some tape/scissors/gum/water/snacks. I watched the entire thing without getting up once (Adam is alive! I knew it! And what do you think about Billy...does he really love Victoria or is he scamming her?). It felt strange, like I was doing something wrong. I kept looking around as if I heard someone approaching, but no one was there. I kept thinking I should vacuum, but then remembered that the cleaners were here yesterday and my house is spotless. I'd already done my project for the day (cleaning out the front closet), so all that was left to do was relax.

It's a fine balance. My kids aren't here, and I miss them. But when they are here, I miss the freedom to do what I want to do, like sit, when I want to do it. Even though I'm going to enjoy my three-day break (and I am, trust me), more than anything, it's going to be a good reminder of how much I like having my kids around. (Mom, I might need this reminder one or two more times throughout the summer. Just kidding, sort of.)

Bad Hair Day

Lately I have been quite self conscious about my appearance! I know that everyone is staring at me, wondering why I would allow myself to walk around looking this way. It's not completely my fault, and I am doing something about it. I have an appointment at the end of the week that will fix everything, but that's days away. So, I must, we all must deal with it until then. In the mean time, please, don't stare at the hair on my upper lip.

Because of my short locks I have a haircut every 5 weeks or so. I have a routine. Sheena (Hi Sheena!) cuts it a bit shorter than I actually want it cut. So for the first week after the cut I curse her a little bit for listening to me when I told her to take more off (I ALWAYS tell her to take more off). But the next week my hair is perfect. The perfect-ness lasts for about two or three weeks. Eventually I start noticing little things, like it won't lay right or there's a random chunk that points in the wrong direction. It's at this point that I start thinking about contacting Sheena for my next appointment. However, I don't actually do that until the day that I can no longer stand it. So, I send her frantic text messages asking if she can fit me in, or if she'll be home that afternoon for me to stop by with all three of my children to rampage her house while she does my cut and color. That's my very strict routine.

Unfortunately, the hair on my upper lip is on a different schedule. It needs "tending to" more often. Every three to four weeks, maybe. The tricky thing is that by that point I figure I might as well wait until I'm going to see Sheena for my hair. But that leaves a week, now for instance, when I feel like I'm walking around with a handle bar mustache.

But in one visit Sheena will make me feel beautiful. For over six years she has been cutting, coloring and waxing my hair. It started when I walked into Regis Salon in Southdale looking for someone new to cut my hair. Short hair is tricky and not just anyone can cut it. I don't want my dad's haircut (Love you, Dad!) but I do like it short. Very short. The stylist I had been going to previously was moving to California. I seriously considered following her out there so she could continue cutting my hair. Enter Sheena (after I entered Regis, that is). I was pregnant with Sophie and wearing a horrid pink shirt. I don't remember what Sheena was wearing, but I do remember that I liked and trusted her right away. I followed her when she moved to Total Image of Edina (this was a much easier decision then deciding if I should pack up and move to CA). And now I usually just go to her house where she has a salon and our kids can play and stay out of our hair (well, my hair. Ha.).

I see Sheena about once a month, so of course we are more then stylist/client now. I consider her a good friend. We started as young marrieds and now, between us, we have five kids. As a matter of fact, both times Sheena told me she was pregnant, it was while she was leaning over me waxing my lip! She knew I was pregnant with Max before Wade did. We talk about our husbands, houses, jobs and kids. Other than Wade, Sheena was the only person who knew I planned to get a tattoo on my last trip to New York City.

Sheena gives me a fantastic deal. I won't tell you what it is because you would be angry and jealous and I don't want to foster those emotions. But I do have a bit of a dilemma. Obviously, when I started having Sheena cut my hair, I tipped her. Generously, I hope. Like I said, it's difficult for me to find someone who does a good job (tried Great Clips once and literally left in tears) so I'm happy to pay well when I find someone who cuts it the way I like. But over the years, as our friendship has formed, tipping has started to feel strange. It's not about the money, I'm happy to pay. But I feel like tipping has become patronizing. Especially now that I'm usually at her house. On the other hand, I would hate (HATE) for her to think that I don't appreciate her time, effort and talent. We've come to an agreement (although I don't think we've ever actually talked about it) where I write the check out for the amount she tells me. But I still feel a little badly every time.

I am excited to see Sheena at the end of this week. My kids love seeing her boys and we always have lots to talk about. I'm not looking forward to the waxing, but it'll be an easy 5 pounds, gone. And of course, my hair is in desperate need of a trim. In all honestly if Sheena ever moves to California, the decision would be easy. We'd pack up and move in a heartbeat!

Eyes on the Road

I just signed the No Phone Zone pledge. I know, I'm writing about Orpah again and playing right into the SAHM stereotype of sitting in front of the TV eating bon-bons and watching daytime TV (let's just keep the fact that I watch Y&R everyday our little secret). This whole "me watching Oprah on a regular basis" thing is actually a fairly new phenomenon. I started recording her show a month or so ago when I wanted to be sure to see some guest who I have now completely forgotten. And now that I'm recording it, I'm realizing that she is really quite addictive. And powerful. Lucky for us, she uses her powers for good.

I'm not the kind of person who runs out to get the newest Oprah Book Club book or her latest favorite thing, but I respect her and I would be lying if I said she has no power over me. Since I started recording the show and watching it most days I have noticed that she ends each time asking her viewers to sign the No Phone Zone pledge (there are also bumper stickers and t-shirts!). This really got me thinking...not only about texting, but also about how far-reaching Oprah's power really is.

I'm just going to quickly try and brain storm the people and things Oprah has launched into stardom: Dr. Phil, Bob Green, Rachel Ray, East of Eden, Dr. Oz (love him!!). I know there are many more that I don't remember or didn't know about in the first place. It's easy to roll your eyes and act all I liked East of Eden before Oprah did, but the fact of the matter is people listen to her. When she chose East of Eden for her book club, it was instantaneously number one. That means people everywhere went to their computers (or, God forbid, actually went into a bookstore!) and bought that book within seconds of hearing her announcement. That's power!

So, I'm totally on board with her No Phone Zone. If this gets people thinking about the choices they make behind the wheel, it's got to be a good thing. It's not about Oprah, it's about people not dying because someone texted someone else about who's going out with whom, and that someone else couldn't wait to get home to find out the news. It's about the a-hole who almost drove into my car the other day because he was too busy dialing his phone to watch the road! I know I'm not blameless here. I use my car-time as phone-time quite often (I don't text while driving.) as it's usually too loud in my house to talk on the phone. But when I'm driving alone in my car it's kind of like being able to close my office door and get some work done. But that's stopping now. I'm taking this pledge very seriously. I will admit, however, that I chose (there are three choices of severity for your pledge) to not text (duh!!) and only speak on the phone using a hands-free device. I don't have a hands-free device, so that leaves me with not talking on my phone while in the car. Period. Or until I get to Verizon to pick up a hands-free thingy.

I suppose the point is that not too long ago we were all driving without talking on the phone or texting. And just because we can do something, doesn't mean we should (I feel that way about so many things!). And frankly, when it comes to texting, no one can do both at the same time, and do both well. I guess driving badly is worse then texting badly, but man-oh-man those typos would drive me bonkers!

So, when next you see me on the road I'll have my hands at 10 and 2, looking straight ahead with no distractions (other than the three people in the backseat yelling at me that they are hungry or crying because no we're not going to Target just so you can get some bubble gum). I look forward to talking with you. But not while I'm in my car, unless you're standing just outside of my car and I roll down the window...I don't think Oprah has a problem with that.

Shame on Me

I'm watching Oprah right now and, as Ms. Winfrey would say, I just had an A Ha Moment. Her guest, Geneen Roth, who wrote the book Women, Food and God, just said (I love my DVR, I can rewind and pause so I get her words just right), "We somehow believe that if we hate ourselves enough, if we shame ourselves enough, we'll end up thin, happy, peaceful people."

Makes sense to me!

I have spent most of my life unhappy with, bordering on hating, my body. The tape in my head goes something like this: Your thighs are fat. Your arms are fat. Your stomach is fat. You're fat. You're fat. You're fat you're fat you're fat fat fat. I try to be more positive. At times I'm even able to look in a mirror and think that I look alright, but the very next thought is always, Don't go easy on yourself. If you stop trying to lose, you'll start gaining. I would never NEVER talk to another person that way. But for some reason, it's perfectly fine for me to talk to myself that way. And if you're anything like me, then you've made it okay for you to talk to yourself that way, too.

Oprah talked about her January 2009 cover of O Magazine where she had her thin self standing next to her fat self. The caption read "How did I let this happen again?!" She said that at the time she just wanted to get it out there, be the first to say it, before everyone else started in on her weight gain. But now, when she looks at it, she realizes that all she did was publicly shame herself. She said, "And in that cover what I was saying was that the thin me deserves all of the praise and the accolades. The thin me deserves to be loved, but the fat me does not."

That is exactly how I feel right now. I don't have a picture of the current me standing next to the me from August 2008, the thinnest I had ever been, but that image is as clear as day in my mind. A few months ago, at a neighborhood coffee, a new neighbor showed up. Throughout the morning I kept hearing myself say things about having to lose weight, not being able to lose weight while nursing (I loved that excuse!) and not being able to fit into my old clothes. Later, after the coffee was over, it dawned on me what I had been doing. I had been using my own secret code to tell this woman that I don't want to look like this. It's okay to like me because I'll be thin again someday.

And it's not just to new people I meet. It's to everyone. I'm constantly telling friends that I still need to lose this much weight. I can't quite fit into my favorite pair of jeans. Even with my mom and my sister, who I know love me unconditionally, I feel that I need to justify why I'm heavier than I want to be and what I'm doing to change that. My sister is coming into town in a couple of weeks (Yay!!) and guess who stepped up her workout in an effort to lose an extra pound or two more before Molly arrives.

I think I'm a nice person. I'm a good friend and I'm easy to talk to. I'm willing to help anyone who needs it. But from my point of view, none of that matters. Or at least none of it matters as much as the fact that I'm not thin. When I just outright say it like that it sounds absolutely ridiculous! So, I'm vowing to be nicer to myself. If I were my own best friend I would tell myself that I'm doing a good job! Keep up the good work, me, because the goal is totally in reach! You'll get there! I'll get there! I'm going to try to focus on the things I'm doing right...and even more so, try to take the focus off food and weight altogether!

It has occurred to me, in the past, that if I didn't spend so much time, so much brain power, thinking about my weight I could be doing some amazing things! I could be curing diseases. I could be discovering new elements. I could be paying more attention to my kids. Seriously, I could, should, be setting a better and more accepting example. A week or so ago my daughter poked me in my tummy. She asked why my stomach looked like that. I'm not proud of my response. "You, your brother and your sister made it look like this," I said as I pushed her hand away. I wish, instead of blaming her, I had said something like, "My stomach looks like this because I am blessed enough to have had you, your brother and your sister." I don't ever want her thinking she's to blame for my body issues. And I certainly don't want to teach her that a body that has carried and nursed three babies is something to be ashamed of.

This will be my last post on weight, at least for the foreseeable future. Instead of beating myself up all the time, I'm going to kill myself with kindness. And in the meantime I'm going to put my focus on other things. Writing, for instance. Since I write what I'm thinking about, and I'm no longer going to be thinking about my weight, it would make sense that you won't see any more about it. It won't be quite that easy, I know. So friends, when, out of habit, I start talking about how unhappy I am with my body, just change the subject. Who knows, maybe you'll inspire my next post!

The Whole Thing

On a walk last week my neighbor was describing a sandwich she had eaten a few days prior. It was chicken salad, with double melted cheese and dripping in a special mayo. I gained weight just listening to her. This isn't the first time she's talked about her feats in eating. Jimmy Johns, Chipotle and others have also made the list, and the story always ends with "and I ate the whole thing!" Did I mention that my neighbor is tiny? And if I didn't like her so much, I wouldn't like her at all!

When I was first getting to know Tina, I was training for my second Breast Cancer 3Day. I was in the best shape of my life at this point, but I remember standing in her kitchen, complaining that no matter how much I walked, my thighs never seemed to get any smaller. Tina commented that I had worked hard and should be more accepting of my body. Easy for you to say, I thought, In your skinny jeans with your skinny self. But as I've gotten to know Tina better, I have learned that she's not skinny because she starves herself, or because she spends all day working out at the gym. Like my thighs, it's just the way her body is.

Tina realizes how lucky she is. She knows that not everyone can eat like that and look like her (and, by the way, even Tina doesn't eat like all the time!). But I got to thinking that I'm pretty lucky, too. I have to pay close attention to what I eat in order to lose, or even maintain, weight. I know myself well enough to know that if I could eat anything I wanted with no apparent consequences, I absolutely would! Therefore, the majority of the time, I make healthy choices. And because eating anything causes me to gain weight, I have to work out regularly. Again, that makes me healthier than I would be otherwise.

Many years ago my brother injured his back in a skiing accident. He had physical therapy and learned many different exercises he needed to do in order to strengthen his back and keep it from going out and possibly causing permanent damage. He was young, and was bummed that he had these restrictions. I remember overhearing a conversation between Matt and my dad about being disciplined concerning the exercises Matt was reluctant to do. My dad explained that everyone needs to exercise to be healthy, but Matt had added incentive, which was a blessing! Most people who don't have to exercise, don't. And they are less healthy as a result. But Matt had more than just his general health at stake. If he didn't follow through with these exercises he would have serious consequences. I can't speak for my brother as to whether that conversation stuck with him all these years, but it stayed with me. I don't have back problems, but I have issues with my backside, and exercise definitely keeps it in check.

For years exercise was torture and I thought of healthy food as boring and no fun. Then, about four years ago, something changed. I made my workout into "me time" and I actually started looking forward to it each day. Instead of looking at food as entertainment I thought of it as fuel. Sure, I still like to indulge from time to time, but I know the consequences. And most surprisingly, I've found, when I put healthy food in my body, the bad stuff has less of a hold over me. Or, instead of eating the entire piece of chocolate cake, I am happy with just a bite or two.

But all of that is on a good day. I still have days, weeks, months, when I forget how much better I feel when eat right, and I give in to the temptation. I rarely miss my daily workout, but it's so easy to negate all that time and energy with one bad decision. When I was pregnant I let myself eat whatever, whenever, and that continued while I was nursing. That's all done now, and I'm paying the price. But I'm getting back on track and coming to the same conclusion I had before: I feel better on every level when I take care of my body.

As much as I would love to have Tina's metabolism, the fact is that I don't. But I do have the knowledge and power to make healthy choices. I suppose that will have to do.

All Apologies

I'm a bad apologizer. Well, I used to be, at least. The turning point for me was a few years ago, during an argument with Wade. I have no recollection of what we were arguing about, but I remember that it ended with my saying "I'm sorry that you made me so mad." At that point Wade just burst out laughing at how ridiculous and non-apologetic my apology was.

I've been thinking about apologies quite a bit lately. I suppose because I feel that I'm owed a few and I'm not getting them in the form or sincerity I had hoped. But that's not what this post is about. It's about how apologies go wrong.

Let's start with the "kid apology." These are easy to spot, just stop by my house at any given time on any given day. Max hits Sophie or Sophie takes a toy away from Max. One or both of them step on Lily. After the appropriate discipline actions are taken, the perpetrator says the obligatory "I'm sorry." It's usually said as quickly as possible and lacking any eye contact. Some parents add the mechanical hug to make it more heartfelt, but I've just forgone that all together as it usually leads to another wrestling match and more forced apologizing. Now, I agree with the concept of having my kids apologize and every once in awhile I hear those words spoken from their sweet little hearts. But for the most part these words carry little meaning. And I've wondered at times if, by forcing my kids to say they are sorry, I'm teaching them it's the words that matter, and not the feeling behind them.

If you're anything like me, it's really hard to admit when you're wrong (mainly because I never am). But that's what a real apology is, or at least what it should be. It's about taking responsibility for words or actions that in turn hurt someone else. Admitting that what you did was wrong. Even when it's unintentional. Even when you didn't know better. Even when you thought what you were doing was right.

Unfortunately, many apologies have all the right words, but manage to somehow shift the blame off the offender. "I'm sorry that your feelings are hurt." Sounds alright, but where's the ownership? If your feelings are hurt, doesn't it make you feel better if I acknowledge that I'm the one who hurt you instead of deflecting the blame off into the universe.

My other favorite is the "I'm sorry, but..." It never ends in the true spirit of an apology. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, but you scared me." "I'm sorry I hit you with my car, but when you crossed the street I didn't see you." "I'm sorry your hair turned green, but you said you wanted to try something new." That but completely negates the heart-felted-ness. There's no admittance of wrong doing. As a matter of fact, more often than not, the blame is put back on you, the one who was wronged.

What I've found over the last few years, however, is that when I really apologize not only does the person I hurt feel better, but I feel better too. There's something cathartic about asking forgiveness and then letting the guilt go. But it's not the words that make the difference, it's the emotion, the feeling, behind them. It's in the eyes of the one apologizing. It's in the acknowledgment and release of the pain. It's a place for the relationship to start healing.

The words are just the beginning. What proves a true apology is what follows. I believe that an apology is like a promise. It says that I will not hurt you, wrong you, in that way again. It doesn't matter if it's saying hurtful things, cheating, lying, hitting, whatever it may be, it won't happen again. And if it does, that promise is broken and the next apology means a little less.

Wasted

I used to love Clorox wipes. I used them on everything! I bought them in bulk. I told everyone I knew about how great, easy, clean they were. And then, about five years ago, I was driving with a friend of mine, coming home from a women's retreat. I don't remember exactly what we were talking about, but she mentioned that her sister-in-law used a Clorox wipe to clean her bathroom counter and sink every day. I was about to say "Oh my goodness! That's a great idea!" but she said, "It's just so wasteful. Why couldn't she just use a rag?"

Today I consider myself to be pretty "green." I recycle, and make an effort to use products that come in recyclable containers. I reuse whatever I can (once I took a gift bag out of the garbage at my in-laws. My MIL thought I was insane). I don't buy products that over use packaging (individually wrapped prunes? Seriously?). A few years ago my mother-in-law made me cloth grocery bags and I almost always remember to bring them into the store with me. When I forget I will only take paper bags. And I give the evil eye to anyone who asks for a bag when they could easily carry their purchase without one. I use cloth diapers. I buy milk in reusable glass bottles. And I haven't used or bought a Clorox wipe since that conversation with my friend.

I joke that I'm saving the world, but in truth that is my goal. At times it seems like an overwhelming job, saving the world. And my beliefs are constantly at odds with huge companies who come up with wasteful ideas, but advertise them as necessary. Disposable mop heads or cleaning pads. Disposable plates, cups and napkins. Disposable dusters. Disposable hand towels? That commercial actually makes my heart ache. I know, I know, "Your hands are only as clean as the towel you use to dry them." So buy more actual hand towels and wash your them regularly. Use a broom. Get some cute cloth napkins. Buy a feather duster.

Here's the kicker: Those big companies who come up with all these disposable ideas, they just want your money! They don't actually care about your convenience. They know that when you run out of Swiffer cleaning pads, you have to buy more. Ka-ching! When the paper napkins are gone, you're off to the store to get another package. Ka-ching! When your over-sized hand-shaped dusting glove is dirty, you throw it away and buy a new one. Ka-ching. When your designer disposable hand towel box is empty (and your garbage can is full) you have to go. buy. more. Ka-ching!

I found this quote on the European Environment Agency website: "We're using an increasing number of one-use products such as plastic razors, cups, paper towels, wipes, nappies, plastic bags, paper napkins and even disposable cameras to name a few. Not only do they usually cost more in the long-run, they involve the consumption of more resources and energy than their reusable alternatives."

I don't watch commercials very often (love my DVR!) but when I do, I watch them with a skeptical eye. If there's a way that I can reuse the product, several times, then I may consider it. But anything that is one-use is out. In my opinion it's sole purpose is to take up space in a land-fill and I will have no part of it.

A box of sixty Kleenex Disposable Cottony-soft Hand Towels cost $22.00. I can go to Target and get an actual hand towel for $3.50. That means, for $24.50 I can have a clean hand towel in my bathroom each day of the week. And at the end of the week I can wash them and use them again. And again. And again. And again... You see where this is going? Even a cheap Target towel is going to get hundreds of uses before it's in the trash. Math is not my strength, but I know for sure that that is less expensive than paying $.36 every time I wash my hands.

I realize that cloth diapers and glass milk bottles may seem extreme to some. This was a process for me, for my family. And we still have a long way to go (I'd love any ideas you have, by the way). I don't expect everyone to do everything I do, although it would be super good for the Earth. But, realistically, I just want people to think about how much waste they create in a day. A week. A month. A year. Multiply that times the other households in your neighborhood, town, city, state, country. It's overwhelming (at least to me) and it's getting worse with every new disposable product created (a one-use toothbrush? Ack!), bought and then immediately thrown away.

The changes I have made may not be making much of a difference, but every little bit helps. Baby steps. If you don't recycle, start. If you buy packages of toilet paper that come with each roll individually wrapped, buy the ones that aren't (they're cheaper!). And if you are already doing things to help (Yay!!), keep your eyes open for other steps you could be taking.

"The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it." (Genesis 2:15)

Happy Earth Day!

The Good Life

At my son's preschool the parents drive up to the door and the kids are brought right to the car (best idea ever - I don't even have to get out of my seat!). As I pull up, Max walks from the school to his car door, holding the hand of the volunteer parent helping out that day. He's got his baseball cap on and his huge Cars backpack bouncing behind him. Each time I see him walking towards the car I forget about the tantrums, the hitting his sister, the dirt dragged through my kitchen and I think Oh my goodness! That's my little boy! I get to have him as my little boy!

I have moments like that with my daughters and my husband, too. Wade and I will tag-team grocery shopping with the kids and as I turn a corner and see him looking at string cheese I'll realize that I'm married to him; I get to spend the rest of my life with that guy. Sophie, at her first track meet, came in last for every event but with the biggest smile on her face. I was so proud that she is my daughter. And when I get Lily from her crib in the morning and she smiles up at me, my heart melts.

But all too often I'm feeling sorry for myself for one silly reason or another. My life is ruined because Young and the Restless is bumped for Wimbledon or the State of the Union Address. I'm devastated because Wade ate the leftovers I was going to have for lunch. Or because the vacuum cord gets tangled. Or because the light turns red. Or because, heaven help me, my coffee maker stops working.

Am I the only one who gets so over-dramatic? Honestly, the track playing in my head as I feel the tug of the tangled cord on my Kirby, or I see the green light turn red, is so tragic. Why is this happening to me? This always happens to me. I can't believe I have to deal with this on top of everything else! Why? Sometimes I actually stop and laugh at myself in the midst of my pity party. I get so caught up in the frustration and drama and then it dawns on me how ridiculous I sound.

Every day on the news are families that have lost their homes or kids that have been kidnapped. Innocent children caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting. Parents arrested for neglect and abuse. That's not to mention people all over the world who don't have food or shelter and whose stomachs are bloated from malnutrition. Whole countries living in fear of their government or mother nature.

And I don't need to look that far from my home (and I thank God that I have one). I know several people who have had miscarriages, infertility, high risk pregnancies, and babies born prematurely who spend weeks or months in the hospital. I have friends who have been been laid off, or who's spouse has been sent to Iraq or Afghanistan. Friends who have lost a parent who was far too young to die. Friends who have fought cancer, and thankfully survived.

I am so blessed. And when I take the time to notice my healthy family and my comfortable home I am able to see that. Then I have to ask myself why, but that's a post for another day. I suppose anyone standing outside of my life looking in would think I have it pretty good. And they would be right. I just forget sometimes.

Slow Down

The other day, as I instructed the car ahead of me to get out of my way, my 6-year old daughter asked me why I'm always talking to the people driving other cars. My polite answer was, "I'm helping them drive better." She thought about that for a minute and then replied, "But how can you be helping them when they can't hear you."

I definitely have a bit (ahem) of road rage. But I'm in a hurry and other people are in my way. What I have noticed, however, is how often I seem to be hurrying...even when I have no particular reason. For instance, I'll tell the kids to get their shoes on and get ready to go to Target. Suddenly it's like I can't get them in the car fast enough. I'm yelling to "pick up the pace," "we need to get going", "I don't have all day." Funny thing is, sometimes I do.

Granted, there are many days, the majority of our days, when we have to be somewhere (school, church, playdates, practices) at a certain time. And most, if not all of those days, I'm hurrying out the door, sure that I'm going to be late. Yelling at the kids, swearing under my breath as I forget my purse or the car keys. Is the dog in her kennel? Did you remember your backpack? We're finally on the road... and usually early.

So, what about those precious days when we don't have any plans? When the only thing on the schedule is a trip to the park or some grocery shopping? They should be relaxing. Slower paced. But I can't seem to turn the dial to a slower setting. I'm still going going going.

My goal for this summer is to slow down. I hear so many other moms talking about what they are going to have their kids do this summer, but when they ask me I think my answer is going to be "slow down." Sophie and Max each want to play a sport, and I'm all for that, but I'm leaning against the day camps and other classes. Our family seems so busy lately, and summers go by so fast (especially here in MN). I don't want to spend it running around, dropping one kid here and another one there. I want to walk to the park, watch them play in the yard, read books on rainy days.

So, if you see me out on the roads this summer, hopefully I'll have a smile on my face and give you a wave hello. If not, it's probably best if you just get out of my way.

Taking life one sip at a time...

Around 10:00pm most evenings it dawns on me that in approximately eight hours I get to have my first sip of coffee. That's how strong my love of coffee is; it's the last thing I think of as I'm falling asleep and the first thing I think of when I wake up (Sorry, Wade). I love the smell as it's percolating. I love the sound as I pour it into my cup. I love how it mixes with my creamer to create the perfect color of delicious silk. And I love the first sip. The first sip is my favorite...

But that first sip is my favorite for more reasons than just the taste (ohhhh, that sweet, smooth, glorious taste). That sip wakes me up. And while I love coffee, I love many other things as well. Of course, I love my husband and my kids (who wouldn't?) and after my first sip (alright, my first cup) I'm ready to happily (ok, fine...) greet them all as they enter the kitchen each morning. I also love hanging out at the bus stop with the other parents, going to the Y for my workout, walking in and around my neighborhood, going to Valley (my grocery store) or wandering around Target allowing myself to be tempted by all the unnecessary items. I'm perfectly content to watch my kids at their sporting events or meet a friend for dinner (or, of course, coffee!!). I don't love cleaning my house, but I do love when it's clean. I love texting. I love my job, volunteering at church or school, reading stories to my kids or walking to the park. I love reading a good book and then chatting about it with my book group and a glass of wine. I love to knit. I love going for boat rides at Rabbit Lake or sitting at the kitchen table with my in-laws.

As I've entered my 30's I've realized that I spent most of my life nodding in agreement with what other people said, even if I didn't necessarily agree. I don't want to be that person anymore. I have thoughts and opinions and I'm finally ready to start sharing them, apparently publicly and on the internet. I don't consider myself to be an offensive person. Or someone who will try to start an argument just for the sake of arguing. But I have realized that there is nothing wrong with sharing my opinion and it's also just fine if not everyone agrees. I'm a mom, but I don't define myself as a mother. I'm also a wife, sister, daughter(-in-law), Christian, volunteer, vice-president, tutor, friend and now, hopefully, somewhat of a writer. This blog is going to be about all of that. I don't want it to revolve around my kids, but they are a huge part of my life and so they will probably play a large role in my writing. However, this is also an escape for me. And chance for me to explore my beliefs and challenge myself to step outside of my comfort zone.

That's what I want this blog to be about, not just coffee. I want to write, and I want to write about my life, my ideas and perspectives. This blog is for me, but you're welcome to follow me on my journey. And it all starts with that first delicious, eye-opening sip of coffee.