Conflicted

Last night, as we were getting into bed, my husband looked at his blackberry and gasped.  "Bin Laden is dead," he said.  We came downstairs and turned on the television, waiting for President Obama to officially make the announcement.  The moment he did, fireworks went off in our neighborhood and Facebook exploded with jubulation and cheers.  This morning's headlines declared "We Got Him" and "Rot in Hell."

But I'm having a hard time being happy.

Don't get me wrong, I feel immense relief that the United States is a huge step closer to bringing home our troops and the world is a safer place because of Bin Laden's death.  I do not disagree with the decision our president made in sending those Navy Seals in to that Pakistani compound.  I am grateful everyday for the troops who put their lives in danger to save mine.  There is no other good way this could have ended.  This is for the best.  His death was necessary to our nation's freedom and the world's safety.

After we got into bed for the second time last night, I laid there wondering why I wasn't feeling that elation.  All morning, as I listened to more reports and saw more Facebook statuses rejoicing, I struggled with my conflicting emotions.  And then I saw my brother's status.

"I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live." Ezekiel 33:11

This Bible verse says exactly what my heart is feeling.  While I do rejoice in the step towards ending terrorism and the victory for our country, I feel sadness that the only positive outcome was in taking a life.  I believe, truly believe, that Osama Bin Laden was evil.  I believe that capturing him alive would not have stopped him from spreading that evil to others and that his death was the only way to end it.  But I also believe that his was a life created by God, and I believe that Jesus would not be shooting off fireworks or shouting for joy at the loss of Bin Laden's soul.

I realize that what sounds like celebrating a death is really a celebration for the relief that particular death has brought the world over.  And I realize that our country uniting is a good thing.  I have not forgotten what Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaeda did to us.  Sitting in my classroom, watching a room full of 8th graders as they watched the World Trade Center come crashing down is forever burned into my memory.  I tear up every time I hear the Darryl Worely song Have You Forgotten.  I am proud to be an American.  But I'm foremost a Christian.  And as such, my heart breaks that it ever needed to come to this in the first place.

Shut the Front Door

So, what I'm about to say is going to surprise some people (and Mom, I ask that you stop reading at this time).  I really like the F-word.  I know that's not appropriate for a mother of three, but it's true.  I like to use it in all of it's forms.  I say it all the time in my head.  And under my breath.  And after I've had a few drinks.  When I'm angry I like to vacuum and grumble curse words so no one can hear me.  Very therapeutic...I recommend you give it a try.  I consider myself a fairly polite person so I rarely say it in front of other people.  And until today I had not, to my knowledge, said it in front of my children.

This morning, as I'm cruising down the highway, I was surrounded by semis that kept me from seeing the signs directing me to the lane I needed until a split second before I realized I was in the wrong one.  I zoomed across two lanes and saw a shiny BMW coming up in the lane I needed to be in.  It was clear that I was about to drive off the road (which I briefly did) into the V between two major freeways, and that I needed to get in ahead of him, yet he screamed past me without even pretending he might slow down.  Frustrated, as I maneuvered the wheel to keep my new car, not to mention my children, from being sucked into the ditch, I apparently allowed a series of expletives to escape my mouth.  With the car back on the highway, my nerves calming, I hear Max, my five year old in the back seat, ask, "Mom?  What's a f--k-wad?"

Up to this point my favorite "child saying swearwords" story happened when Sophie, now seven, was about two and a half.  We were driving up to a Bible study I was in and she was excited about hanging out with her friends in the church nursery.  She asked how long it would take and I responded, "Not long if this stupid truck would get out of my way."  Sophie, who, like most kids, was prone to mispronouncing words, said "Stupid f--k?"  For the rest of that car ride, and weeks to come, she would point to any truck we saw on the road and ask, "Is that a stupid f--k?"  Eventually she stopped asking, and soon after that was able to correctly pronounce the word truck.  I love this story because it's funny, and it's not my fault.

 But this morning it's all on me.  I explained to Max that it's a very mean word and that it's not okay for anyone, kids, teenagers or grownups, to say.  I said I was sorry and that I never should have said it.  I almost added in front of you, but I didn't.  I said that if I ever hear him saying that word I will take away his Wii minutes for the day.  But I could not stop laughing.  I'm not sure how much of my do-as-I-say message was portrayed before he broke into giggles, too. 

I don't know why I couldn't stop laughing.  I should have been appalled.  I should have been panicked that my innocent child is now going to become a foul-mouthed heathen.  But it struck me as hilarious.  Maybe it was his little voice saying those words.  Or the fact that when he asked what it meant he had no idea it was such a terrible thing to say. Whatever the case, I laugh out loud every time I think about it.

It remains to be seen if Max will use his new vocabulary word in polite conversation.  I half expect to get a phone call from his preschool teacher, Miss Connie.  And I fully expect that Max will say it while talking to my father, who will look at me in horror.  And when this happens, I will, as threatened, take away all of Max's Wii minutes for the entire f-ing day.

Lessons in Less

First, a confession.  I took a couple of days off the flush to enjoy a weekend up north with my girlfriends.  And yes, I had coffee.  Glorious, beautiful, mind-numbingly good coffee. But, as of Monday morning, I have been back on the flush. 

I've learned a few things over these last few days, so I thought I would share them with you.

It works!
It worked before, so I'm not too surprised that it's working this time.  Five years ago when I did the flush, I did it to the letter.  No cheating.  Since then I have attempted to do it a few different times, but always on my terms.  I could still have creamer-laden coffee and popcorn.  Or I would only follow the plan the first part of the day.  Dinner was whatever I wanted.  Surprisingly, I didn't get the results that I wanted.  So this time I promised myself that if I was going to do it, I was going to really do it.  I haven't cheated once since Monday morning.  When I woke up today I felt different.  When I got ready to take my shower I looked different.  Of course, I stood looking at myself long enough to dwell on all of my flaws, but initially I could see just a hint of change in the right direction.  I decided not to weigh myself throughout this process.  The scale and I have become mortal enemies and I decided that rather than torturing myself, I am just going to do what's healthy and focus on that.  But who am I kidding...after all of this, I had better lose some weight!

It's empowering!
Wade sent me an article about the pressure put upon us to eat a certain way based on where were are or who we are with.  Family expects us to eat what they serve and are disappointed if we don't.  Friends out to dinner scoff when someone at the table is too picky about what they order.  It's looked down upon to have opinions about what we eat.  I used to be picky.  I used to be so careful about what I put into my body.  But I let my guard down, and slowly I started eating what was put in front of me without much thought to where it came from or what it would do to my body.  The flush is getting me back to my old ways and it feels good.  It feels really good to be so aware of my choices.  To know that what I'm putting in my body is purely good for it.  And I'm starting to remember how good it feels to not eat something, even if others are offended.


Food is Fuel
Food is yummy.  Food is fun.  Food is company.  But more than anything else, food is fuel.  My daughter actually made a great analogy the other day.  We were talking about eating healthy and I was explaining that what we eat has a direct effect on how we feel, or how smoothly our body works.  Sophie said, "It sounds like a car.  It needs gasoline to run the right way.  But it wouldn't work right if you put in something else."  Bingo!  Just because something is tasty, or cheap, or both, does not make it okay to eat.  The flush has reminded me that eating is purely about energy.  And as nervous as I was about giving up all the fake stuff, it turns out I really like the way real food tastes.


I don't miss what I'm not eating
I have not had a carb in three days (other than fruit, I was just informed by Wade).  I haven't eaten a crust off of a kid's plate.  I haven't even licked my finger after making peanut butter and jelly.  After doing the flush for the first time, I was able to stay away, for the most part, from chips and other unhealthy carbohydrates.  I'm not saying I never had a carb, but they were something I was often able to pass up.  But when I was pregnant with Lily I craved Doritos.  They were my downfall.  Once I spent nine months giving in to my temptations, it was too easy to give in to my carb cravings on a regular basis.  But now that I haven't had even a single one, I am reminded once more that my body works better when I'm not loaded with potato chips.

Be mindful of mindless eating
Lastly, I have realized how often I would reach for food without thinking.  Now that I have to think about everything that I eat, and am so limited in what it is I can eat, it's clear that I was mindlessly eating often throughout the day.  I have caught myself, on several occasions, reaching in for a handful of animal crackers.  Or opening the cupboard looking for who-knows-what, even though I'm not hungry at all.  Today, however, I didn't do that at all.  Something has clicked, and I think my body is running more smoothly now that it's had a few days off, um, fake food.

Today, day three (I'm not counting the days last week, since I cheated, knowing I was going to take the weekend off) has been the easiest day so far.  I hope that trend continues. 

However, I really can't wait to have a cup of coffee. 

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. 

Mud on my Face

I realized something the other day.  I realized that it had been a really long time since I thought about how unfair, how tragic it is that I don't have a mudroom.  Not too long ago, less than a year, actually, we had contractors coming out to give us bids on building one into our garage.  And we even, ever so briefly, considered  completely reconfiguring our entire main floor to try and fit one into the layout.  I honestly thought that I could not live without one.  I thought about it every day.  All day every day.  But looking back, I realize that I didn't need a mudroom.  What I needed was a plan.

Last fall, early on, like in Sept or so, my mudroom-envy started to rear it's ugly head again.  I knew it was because the boots and snowpants season was right around the corner and if I couldn't handle it with two kids (and a baby in a carrier) I was foreseeing that I wouldn't survive this winter with three fully-booted and -bundled children. 

A friend came over one afternoon and I vented my impending frustration on her listening ear.  I said that we couldn't afford to re-do our entire house to make room for a mudroom and I didn't like the idea of building one in the garage stall.  She asked if we would consider moving.  I said no, we loved our yard and neighborhood.  She thought for a minute and then said, "Well, it looks like you've set it up so that you're unhappy no matter what you do." 

Ouch.  Only, she was right.  Okay, I thought, I cannot spend another winter in agony like last year.  And I can't have exactly what I want.  But I can have a compromise.  So, I searched Craig's List for a bench, bought some pretty hooks and picture frames at Target, and Viola!  A mud area.

I had the kids draw pictures, put them in the frames and hung them above their hooks.  I've always loved displaying their art and this way it helps to remind them whose hook is whose.  It also looks cute.  I hunted for and finally found a rug that I liked and that went with, and protected, our new carpet.  As it came together, it was exactly what I pictured. 

Only, it usually looks like this.  But I'm okay with that.  Surprisingly, okay with that.  The kids almost always put their stuff away.  Even Lily is starting to put her shoes and scarf in her bin.  I like it because it's a place to put all of the winter stuff, and, I like to think, at least, that it looks like it's supposed to be there.  Compared to before, when stuff was hanging on doors, above the basement steps or just thrown on the floor. 

The other day I was talking with a friend (a different friend) who is in the market for a new house.  We were talking about one in the neighborhood that may be going up for sale and she said, "It's just like yours," and then added, in a sheepish voice, "only, it has a mudroom."  I understand why she was afraid to say those words to me, but that's when it hit me.  That's when I realized that I haven't thought about a mudroom in months.  We are halfway through winter, the messiest, snowiest, bootiest winter we've had in years, decades even, and I haven't thought about how lacking my life is without a mudroom.  As a matter of fact, I often find myself looking at my little mud area and thinking how clever of me. 

Now, if only we had a porch.  My life would be so much better, fuller, satisfying if we had a porch.