Confessions of an Underachiever
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Eating Winter

1/26/2019

 
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Winter is getting to me. I realize there’s nothing more futile than complaining about the weather, but it messes with me more every year. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older. I’m ready for my Florida retirement, but our whole family is here in the Midwest and we forgot to make a gazillion-dollar retirement plan worthy of extending my two-week annual vacation standards into a 52-week-a-year life plan.

Ugh. Anyway, yesterday I found myself tired (too much thinking instead of sleeping), hungry, irritable, sad, frustrated, overwhelmed and wallowing in self-pity. By lunchtime I felt like I might start crying any minute for no particular reason. I sat down to eat some homemade chicken soup and think of a self-care plan, and that’s when I had an epiphany.

Awhile back my doctor checked my A1C and came back in the room making a frowny face. A1C is a lie detector test. Your doctor asks what kind of foods you’re eating and you swear it’s all kale and lemon water and then your A1C pops up with a result that indicates there may have been a few dozen Snickers bars and Oreo cookies thrown in there on a regular basis for the last three months. (One test  blabs how much sugar you’ve been eating for the last THREE MONTHS!)

I had to pull myself together but there are sooooo many diets and eating plans out there. It’s overwhelming just reading about them. How can I decide which is the “right” one when many of them really do work? How do my vegan friends and keto friends all look so good, eating such radically different foods? But for me, following a plan is like doing homework. Didn’t do it in school, not likely to start now. The most successful diets have something in common, though: there’s no Bread Diet. Nobody is going on Instagram saying, “Look at these before-and-afters of me in a bikini, I went on the Bread and Birthday Cake Diet and lost all this weight and my cholesterol is 75! Follow me on IG!” So after my doctor scared me I just cut way back on the carbs and sugar and got a glucometer to see what worked and what didn’t, and lost 17 lbs. Then the holidays came, and cold weather, and I fell off the wagon, hard. Over and over.

Oh yeah, my lunchtime epiphany: If I can no longer eat my winter feelings, if I can’t make it all better by inhaling half a batch of no-bake cookies (sometimes baking takes too long), if it’s too cold for a walk or too icy for a drive to the gym, when I’ve become too apathetic to even care about my health, if I can’t bury my feelings under a pile of M & Ms, all I’m left with is my rage! I feel so much better after some of those soft, chewy cookies they sell in the bakery of every grocery store. They're so much more comforting than thinking about what’s bugging me, with quicker results than a nap. Instant gratification (followed by regret and self-loathing). Even at my advanced age it had never really struck me that as soon as life got dicey or the inside of my head was too dark and cluttered to deal with, sugar was my medicine. In this case the “cure” is definitely more deadly than the disease.

Hard to imagine when it’s 4 degrees out, but eventually summer will be back, bringing summer clothes and sun. I guess I better switch medications. Can I swap sugar for sleeping . . . writing . . . maybe an art project? Or maybe someone will come up with a vaccine that makes simple carbs taste bad. That would be nice.
​

Epilogue: If you’re someone who can’t relate to any of the above, you might like to know that Meijer carries the following Oreo varieties: Original, Double Stuff, Mega Stuff, Fudge Covered, Red Velvet, Lemon, Peanut Butter, Chocolate Peanut Butter Pie, Pistachio, Mint, Coconut, Salted Caramel, Dark Chocolate, Golden (plain yellow Oreos, who cares?), Chocolate, Valentine, Carrot Cake and . . . Reduced Fat! Just don’t see your doctor for four months.

Real Christmas

12/25/2017

 
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​I wrote this Christmas morning, 2012. My dad passed later that night. I've always loved Christmas, and was crushed when my grandpa died on December 23, when I was 21. When my dad became so ill in another December, I know me--and I expected to fall apart. But our family survived and as time goes on the good memories overcome the sadness. We remember the good times and remind each other during the new experiences that, "Oh, dad would love this!" Or, "Dad would have a fit about that!" We can laugh, and he would love that he can still crack us up. Christmas has its difficult moments, but it would have anyway. Life is like that. 


​December 25, 2012

I have been mourning the loss of my “real” dad bit by bit over the past few years, since he began showing signs of some form of dementia. He still knows my mom and us kids. He’s pretty good with the grandchildren, but the great-grands are cute little kids and he wonders who they are. Last Saturday, when I got word that he was in the hospital, I feared the worst—my grandpa died on December 23rd and now it looked like my dad may do the same. When we got to the hospital and saw how he looked (gray) and sounded (like he had milkshake in his lungs) I was sure it was going to be another sad Christmas which would shadow our family for years to come. This is the time of year we all want to make happy memories with our families, and I had plans that did not include a catastrophic illness. I’m not one to ask, “Why me” or “Why now?” But I strongly feel that people shouldn’t die at Christmas—there should be a reprieve for at least a couple weeks in either direction.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the grave. I started to see Jesus in ways I never had. Instead of feeling surrounded by darkness, I feel surrounded by light. Instead of seeing Christ’s birth as an event to celebrate, I am seeing his whole life as the celebration.  As I see Excessive American Christmas everywhere, I don’t even mind, because know what Christmas is really about and my mind is sort of skimming over His birth and death and going straight to His resurrection.

Have you ever been in an urgent situation—alone at the side of the road, out of gas . . . standing at customer service with a red face and a cart full of un-paid-for groceries . . . stuck in an elevator—and suddenly you see the familiar face of your rescuer. It’s your spouse with a gas can, or your kid with your checkbook that had fallen on the floor, or the elevator repair guy.  You are flooded with relief and joy as you say, “OH, you’re here!”  

As I’ve prayed for my parents, not knowing what to expect (and really not expecting much), instead of overwhelming fear and sadness at the contrast between happy Christmas festivities and a hospital room, I see the face of Jesus our Rescuer and I think, “OH, you’re here!” And I am flooded with relief and joy. 

Milestones

10/1/2017

 
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I'm not a historian, an anthropologist or a biblical scholar, but I imagine that ever since Adam woke up on the seventh day of creation and said, "Hey Eve, that light in the sky we had before that disappeared . . . it's back!" people have noted the passing of time. I wonder when birthdays caught on. I wonder if Adam and Eve celebrated their anniversary and how they chose the date. Maybe they made notches on a tree or rock or cave wall to mark the days and if a conversation could have gone this way:

Eve gives Adam an icy glare.
Adam: What now?
Eve: Did you forget something?
Adam: No. I made fire. I brought you a dead rabbit. 
Eve: Thanks. You don't even know what today is.
Adam: (sighs) What is today?
Eve: Do you NEVER count the marks on the tree of love? 
Adam: Tree of what? 
Eve: It has been 100 marks since we first . . . you know . . . hid in the bushes. You could have brought me flowers to celebrate.
Adam: There are flowers all over this place. Why would I have to bring them to you? 
Eve: You men just don't understand!
Adam: What "men," I'm the only one!
Eve: No kidding.

Birthdays are exciting when you're little. Your parents make a big deal out of your first few, before you can even understand why they're giving you a big plate of cake you're supposed to squish, topped with fire you're not allowed to touch. Then you start getting into it. Ten is a big one, the double-digits. Thirteen is another milestone; you're a teenager. Sixteen is huge--driving! Twenty leaves the teenage years behind, and we all know what twenty-one brings: lower insurance rates. Thirty is cute--"Oh, I'm so ollld, tee-hee!" At 31 it hit me that I was going to keep getting older. Forty is ok--you start to realize who you are and quit caring so much what other people think. Fifty. Ok, it's not funny anymore. When AARP sent me the good news that I was eligible for their services, my husband thought it was hilarious. The next year when he got his own good news, he got us a membership. It was a bit of a shock when they put Dennis Quaid on the cover of AARP magazine. An old person should be on the cover of AARP, right? But Dennis was 55. I heard one of my hips crack.

Here's the thing about aging: I don't feel any older. Wiser, maybe. At least I hope so. But other people seem to think I'm old. They treat me like I'm old. They call me ma'am and there's this weird lack of eye contact that says I'll be nice to you but we have nothing in common. I think to the under-30 crowd there's not much difference between 50 and 80. My 8-year-old grandson thinks his 30-year-old dad is old. I’m in a little shock myself that two of my kids are 30+. I wonder if 90-year-olds think 80-year-olds are young punks. I'm not exactly in denial about aging but I'm not going to go peacefully. I will ride my nerdy cruising bike with pride. I am determined to overcome my fear of Snapchat. I’m aware of my age, I just want to face it with a good attitude about the future, yet with the knowledge time and hard knocks have brought me. I'm proud to be 50-gulp-9. I've earned it. I've worked hard to get here so well-adjusted.

​Now excuse me, it's time to rinse my pink hair.

Getting a Grip

4/20/2017

 
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Imagine that you're standing at an intersection in Chicago. Just as you step off the curb to cross the street, a city bus whooshes by, inches away. You jump back and as the full realization of what almost happened sinks in your heart races and a chill shivers down your spine. Now imagine having that same, cold-sweat feeling of horror but you're lying on your comfy couch at home, and that feeling has just come over you out of the blue.

All my life I’ve had some level of anxiety buzzing through me like an electric current—sometimes nearly incapacitating, usually barely noticeable. It's my normal. I can’t even list all the ways I have let fear affect my life--places I wouldn't go, things I wouldn't do--and I hate that. As a kid, the more people tried to get me to “come out of my shell” or just be reasonable, the more deer-in-the-headlights I became. From childhood through college there were times I couldn’t speak, I was so paralyzed by the idea of talking to other human beings. There was a time in college when someone asked my name and I literally could not answer. I just sat there. I didn’t even know this had a name or that anyone else had the same struggle until my mid-30s. During a really bad weeks-long bout of what-the-heck-is-wrong-with-me, when I was waking up at 4:00 every morning and my heart was pounding so hard all day that I could see my shirt moving, I finally asked for help. I had no idea how one would go about finding a therapist, and I thought therapy was for the insane or the very rich anyway. My greatest fear was that I would be locked up and lose my children. (Looking back on that I do almost have to laugh. Drama much? I probably got that idea from reading I Never Promised You a Rose Garden in high school.) I just knew that I couldn’t go on like I was, so I got the courage to call a college friend/therapist who talked with me for a while and recommended that I talk to my family doctor about medication. I couldn’t even bring myself to call the doctor’s office—what would I say when they asked what the appointment was for? So I waited for one of my kids to get sick so I’d have an opportunity to talk to him. And I honestly thought that when I spilled out my story he would say something like, “Weird! I’ve never heard of that!” (He didn’t. He could not have been kinder or more understanding and helpful.)

That was a long time ago. But even now some days I feel like I can handle anything life throws at me, and other days I feel like I can’t function in the smallest ways. Most days/weeks/months I’m fine, but on a bad day I work very hard to act like everything is ok, and then when everyone around me believes that, my life feels like a lie and nobody really knows me. Last week I had a wicked panic attack. I haven’t felt that bad since 2008 when I said bye-bye to my ovaries (that’s a chat for another day but let's just say those bad girls matter). My heart was hammering. My stomach was in a knot. I was lightheaded and hypersensitive to every sound, movement, and thought. I was moving in careful, slow motion and it took all of my energy to “act normal” and get ready for work as waves of adrenaline and fear washed over me. I desperately wished I’d saved a few Ativan from 2008. I was frantic. (It’s a good thing I don’t drink, because I would definitely be a self-medicator.) But I was also determined not to make a fuss, call off sick, or call attention to myself in any way. And here’s one ironic detail: I work for a staff of therapists and a nurse practitioner!

I’m not going to get into the benefits of counseling and medication (which I certainly believe in) because that information is best addressed by a professional. The only reason I’m blabbing this at all is that maybe there’s someone like me who needs to read it, and I’d like to share some things that have helped me in the heat of overwhelming anxiety, when I need help RIGHT NOW. There's nothing new here--better information is out there--but only I can tell my story.

1. PRAY--I don’t meditate per se, but when I read about the health benefits of meditation I feel like that’s why God tells us to pray. Besides being a means of communication with our Creator, the One who made us knows how our bodies and minds work, and sitting quietly with our attention focused on a power greater than ourselves helps us in many ways.

2. BREATHE--Duh, right? But when I’m panicky my breathing is very light and shallow, which makes me lightheaded, which adds to the vicious circle. Certain types of yoga breathing are very helpful.

3. WATCH MY SELF-TALK—Here’s me: “What is wrong with me, why am I feeling like this, nothing is wrong, I’m just sitting here in my living room, I shouldn’t be feeling like this. This is ridiculous, just suck it up. Why am I so weak, am I sick? Is there something wrong that I can’t see? What if this is a heart attack, they say women’s symptoms are different . . . “ and on and on. Here’s what I try to remember: I wouldn’t tell a friend she’s a crazy loser. I wouldn't hand her a list of things to be afraid of in case she had missed any. If I wouldn’t say it to a friend, why would I say it to myself? And the word "should" is just a way to beat yourself up.

4. FIND A CREATIVE OUTLET--I might write down how I’m feeling to get it out. I might paint a picture or draw on a sketch pad, even if it looks like a kid’s refrigerator art. I’ve bought some cheap houseplants and arranged them around a room that needs some life. Sometimes I like to walk around a local antique mall. It makes me feel serene and gives me creative ideas for my environment.

5. SENSES—I recently read about “grounding exercises.” A quick technique is to find five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can smell, two things you can touch, one thing you can taste. Smell has a powerful effect on mood and I like to use essential oils (you can’t go on Pinterest or meet up with an old friend without hearing about essential oils so plenty of info is out there!) or wear a favorite perfume on a bad day. Smell something that smells good. Eat something that tastes good, even if it's a carb.

6. EXERCISE—Taking a fast walk when panic hits is helpful. It’s even more helpful (and preventive medicine) if I exercise regularly. Plus I’m less likely to pile on the guilt if I can pat myself on the back for exercising. Guilt—false or real--can be an anxiety trigger.

7. READ something inspirational or informational. I have a favorite devotional book that I suddenly remember to read on the bad days. Pinterest has lots of good (and bad) resources for coping skills. Look for legit ones, like university counseling centers or actual licensed therapists, not just any old pop-psychology sites. Studying my problem like a bug under a microscope takes some of the emotion out of it.

8. KEEP MOVING--Go to work. Go to church. Go to Walmart. I make myself be with people even though it’s the last thing I want to do. It gets me out of my own head—it’s a mess in there! Sometimes I do some “therapeutic cleaning,” where I use my nervous energy to clean a room or a closet or whatever mess I’ve been putting off. It burns off some energy and gives me a sense of accomplishment. Much better than hiding under the covers. (I know, because I’ve done that too.)
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I find that DOING something to help myself makes me feel a bit better just because I’m taking action, and taking action reinforces to me that this will pass. And I need to remember that it WILL pass.

No Good Deed . . .

3/7/2017

 
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Is everybody trying to be a better person these days? I bet if you laid all the self-improvement books in America end to end . . . well that would be a lot of books and I’d never put books on the ground but I bet they’d wrap around the Earth. Maybe we just have an unprecedented number of creative, energetic types who keep writing books and making videos that try to get us to want to improve ourselves. Because if we want to improve ourselves, we’ll buy the books and the videos and watch the infomercials and subscribe to the blogs and listen to the podcasts. (Honestly I don’t even know what a podcast is but I hear the cool people talk about them.) We don’t have to actually improve ourselves, we just have to want to.

Oprah wants us to live our best life, whatever that means. Dave Ramsey wants us to quit throwing our money at every shiny object we see. Bob Harper from Biggest Loser wants us to be fit and healthy. (Bob had a heart attack recently so I guess you could make a case for staying fat and lazy but his .01% body fat probably kept him alive.) Jon Acuff writes a book about every fifteen minutes telling us to quit the job we hate and find the job we love but don’t quit your day job till you find the love-job and hustle up about it. Preachers are the original people-improvers but they fall into a unique category. Technically the good ones aren’t trying to get you to improve yourself, they’re trying to get you to let God improve you.

I can’t keep up! I can’t be as good as everyone seems to think I should be. I’ve had to unfollow some very smart, deep people on Twitter because they were making me feel bad. But as lazy and unmotivated as I am about leaving my Comfort Zone—and my Comfort Zone is even smaller than my Motivation Zone and nowhere near the size of my Junk Food Eating Zone--even I am occasionally sparked to make a personal improvement. And each time it goes horribly wrong.

But I’m a slow learner. So last week when the nurse I work for was having one of those days when you need a clone in order to get everything done (because she was preparing to go on a MISSION TRIP, which I could NEVER be good enough to do), I offered to help. She had left her coat in another building on our college campus. I can’t do nurse stuff but I can certainly hoof it across campus to pick up a coat. So I ditched the office and took a walk across campus in the sunshine (because even my “good” motives are selfish), found the right room, and saw her gray coat lying on the floor in the back. But there was a class going on in that room. And the doors were locked. A student saw me fiddling with the door and came over to open it for me. (Later it turned out that the door wasn’t even locked). I bravely tippy-toed over to the coat, snatched it up off the floor, and tippy-toed out. I tried to be as invisible as possible. I made eye contact with no one. But I paused out in the hallway because the coat was heavier than I expected. So I looked in the pockets. One pocket had a headband. Never saw it before but it could be hers. Checked the other pocket. It had a cell phone which was definitely not hers. Definitely. I froze. I’m pretty sure I just stood there looking stupid for a long time.

I STOLE A COAT. On behalf of someone else. Trying to be “nice.” There was only one thing to do—put the coat back on the floor and act as if a grown woman hadn’t just boldly marched into a classroom, stolen some poor college girl’s coat and phone, and marched out.

Growing up I experienced constant, paralyzing shyness in most public places. Even now my fight-or-flight response has a hair trigger. Walking back into the scene of the crime was sort of an out-of-body experience. Some of my senses definitely shut down, starting with my hearing and possibly some vision, or maybe I was just staring at the floor too hard. This time a girl opened the door. I think she might have whispered something like, “that’s mine” but I’m not entirely sure because of my panic-deafness. And I didn’t look right at her. I didn’t even hand her the coat, I just went back across the room and left it where I found it. I whispered something back to her on my way out but I don’t know what it was. I couldn’t hear what I was saying and also my mouth wasn’t working right. It might not have been actual words.
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So, once again, life tried to teach me to be myself. I’ve gone as far as I can go. This is who I am. Good luck to the rest of you.

Personal Space

9/25/2016

 
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Near the tippy top of my list of Things I Don’t Understand About the World and People are people with no need for, or concept of, personal space. (Full disclosure--sometimes I flinch when someone is just reaching across the table for a pen or the mashed potatoes.)

I know we are all on the introvert/extrovert scale. I get that some of us live for a party, speak to strangers in elevators, and actually mean it when we say “we should get together.” Then there are others of us who live for solitude, talk to strangers’ dogs, and prefer to let our fingers do the talking on Facebook and Instagram.

But who are these people who, in a nearly-empty theater, SIT RIGHT NEXT TO US?* The ones who stand too close in an elevator . . . the ones who creep up behind us in line? Do they really not notice that there are 100 other empty seats . . . that the elevator holds a dozen people and there are only two of us . . . that I can literally hear you breathing behind me in line? Are they extroverts who are magnetically drawn to other humans? In church I can understand it, sort of. Church is a communal experience. But in a theater or waiting room or grocery line, why? I'm not even sure if it's an introvert/extrovert thing. I don’t understand it at all.

And then there are their close relatives, the Loud Public Speakers. I don’t know about you but when I’m in a store or doctor’s waiting room or other public place I talk just loud enough for the person I’m with to hear me. The world is my library. Hush. (Although honestly, in a doctor’s waiting room I’m probably nervous and busy with my panicky inner dialogue about disease and death so I wouldn’t be talking to anyone anyway.) But there are people out there who talk to their children or have awkward, personal conversations at a volume that makes me think they must believe it’s impolite to have a private conversation in a public place. Of course it’s impolite to whisper about someone who is right across the dinner table from you, but when we’re in Wal-Mart, it’s ok if I don’t hear about your sister’s creepy boyfriend while I’m picking out my toothpaste, and please stop threatening to smack your kids—they don’t believe you and neither do I, although I’m secretly wishing you’d take some kind of action rather than just the shouting and swearing.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I magnetically attract the close-sitters, the loud-talkers, the people who talk to themselves (or are they talking to me—I’m never sure), the restroom groaners (it’s a PUBLIC restroom, keep your thank-god-I-made-it-in-time sounds to yourself!). Recently in a restaurant bathroom an elderly woman with a walker and superhuman strength nearly tore the stall door off while I kept saying “Someone’s in here . . . I’M IN HERE!” I know she heard me because she repeated what I said in a low, gruff voice which made me even more panicky because I thought she had brought a man in there with her, and then she continued shaking the door with her freakishly strong little arms, and stood there blocking the door when I tried to escape. (I’m not making fun of her, I'm just trying to explain the depth and breadth of my frequent public traumas.)

So in the interest of human relations, if you’re one of these people, maybe you can explain your ways to me, and I can explain my need for personal space to you and the world will be a better place.

​*If someone sits in
front of you in a nearly empty theater, that's different. They're just jerks.

I'm the Mom

5/8/2016

 
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I wrote this in 1997. It was the first thing I ever wrote just for myself, not as an assignment or request. I believe I have posted it somewhere before but couldn't find it, so here it is. I was tempted to fix it up and edit or update, but this is where I was then and I'm leaving it alone. Now that I'm a granny I'll update in another post sometime. The picture at the right is my grandma, mom, oldest daughter and myself at her dedication (like baptism but a little different). She was about two months old and wearing my great-grandma's dress.

"I’m the mom."  It occurred to me when I brought my first baby home from the hospital and we spent our first day alone together.  I looked at her and thought, “I’m the
mom!”  It felt like my greatest accomplishment. Every time someone came to look at her I wanted to hold her up and say “Ta-daaa!!”  She was so tiny and perfect. Her life was all possibilities. I would watch her sleep and wish she would wake up so I could hold her. But I was the mom!  I could hold her if I wanted, whenever I wanted! So I did. And she didn’t want anyone else to hold her--except daddy. Her only babysitters were her grandma and her aunts, and not very often. But sometimes we had to get out, away from home, independent.  And we spent the evening talking about her. “I’m the mom” is a phrase full of pride.

“I'm the mom” has come to have so many other connotations since then. “I'm the mom” is what you say in the emergency room and at parent conferences, when there are other authority figures in your child’s life who want to know your business there. They think they’re in charge of your child, but it’s only temporary, and when you get there they must defer to you. Even if you don’t want them to. This I learned when my tiny perfect daughter was tall and twelve and had been watching the summer Olympics. A neighbor helped her home from the park. She was cradling her right arm, which seemed to have two wrists. I felt about twelve myself, and wanted to scream and cover my eyes. I looked around, but everyone was watching me, waiting for me to decide what to do about this. How should I know? I’m just trying not to throw up, standing here in the street. But I’m the mom!  How can I be the mom?  How did I get in charge of this? I wanted to holler for my own mom. But I said the wisest thing I could think of.  I turned to my son and said, “Go get Dad!”  “I’m the mom” is a phrase full of authority. 

Now she's fourteen, and that phrase has even more meaning. There are boys out there. And their radar has found our house. And I’m feeling very old. It seems like last week that I was asking to go somewhere with my friends, talking on the phone for hours, rolling my eyes in exasperation at my parents. They didn’t know anything. They never had fun, and when they thought they were having fun it was really just boring stuff, poor things. Now I’m the one having to decide what’s allowed and what’s not. She’s having as much social life as her dad and I let her, and of course it’s not nearly enough for her. We want to trust her, want her to have fun, want her to have friends. But I see a big scary world out there, and she’s so young. I drop her off at the mall with her friends and watch her walk away and each time I have to decide all over again not to follow. Friends pick her up at home and I watch her leave giggling, happy to be out, away from home, independent. I look at her dad and see the boy he used to be and I think “Hey Buster, get up and take me somewhere fun. Our daughter thinks we’re old!”  But I don’t say it. I’ll wait here till she gets home. “I’m the mom” is a phrase full of challenge.
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What if I shook it off, just for a day--the voice of authority, the empty checkbook of responsibility, the frown lines of frustration . . . but if I did that, even for an hour, I would miss something amazing. And I don't want to miss a minute of all this--because I'm the Mom! 

40 Days...oops, 46

2/28/2016

 
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In early February it seemed like everywhere I turned people were talking about Lent. Growing up we didn’t really “do” Lent. Ash Wednesday and Fish Fridays were things our Catholic friends did. I feel the same way about fasting something during Lent as I do about making New Year’s resolutions: Every year I give it about five minutes of consideration, but I know I’ll last about three hours before I go completely off-track and hate myself for my lack of discipline, so why even try?

But an idea came to me that I couldn’t shake. I stink at giving things up, but what if I added something instead? I’ve been doing a modest workout two or three times a week since last summer, but—full disclosure--I treat myself to a lot of days off. Could I set a goal to work out every day for the 40 days of Lent? ME? Every day?? That’s just crazy talk!

But I decided to give the crazy idea a try, the way you get into a cold pool—one toe at a time. I worked out two days in a row, then hey look, three days . . . hey look, five days . . . . I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to make a dork out of myself when I gave up after a few days, nor did I want to seem like I was bragging, and I sure didn’t want anyone to expect me to drop 50 lbs. But here I am at Day 20. I’m halfway there! (Except that I just looked it up and NO, I’m not halfway there, because I’m an underachiever and can’t do math or count boxes on a calendar and Lent is actually 46 days this year! So I’m almost halfway there. Meh, close enough.)

A couple things you should know:
1.       Do not expect any amazing weight loss stories here. They say you get fit in the gym and lose weight in the kitchen, and I’m still eating cheeseburgers and leftover Valentine candy. One goal at a time.
2.       I’m not really doing this as a spiritual endeavor, just mostly as a way of committing to a time frame and marking a finish line. If I wanted to be fancy I’d say there’s a connection between caring for my physical health and my spiritual health, and developing discipline in either area can’t be bad. But I’m not that fancy. If I have any spiritual epiphanies I’ll let you know.

A couple things I’ve noticed:
1.       Gyms are COMPLETELY different places at night than they are in the morning. I usually go early in the morning, but one day I missed my chance and went around 6 p.m. Huge mistake for an introvert. The place was full of people--sweaty muscle guys, girls in matchy-matchy outfits watching the guys, it was stinky, the music was loud and if my sister hadn’t been there I’d have left. I was panicky, and when my fight-or-flight response kicks in, I’m all about the flight. I much prefer the early mornings, with my old people in t-shirts and baggy sweats, professional-looking women who work out and then get ready for the office and leave looking perfect, and the most courageous group: the ones who look like their doctors scared them into going.
2.       Just when I think I’ve created a rock-solid new habit, there comes a morning when I’ve slept badly or I’m just sick of winter and it would be easy to tell myself I deserve a break and it’s not like I’m going to make it to the goal anyway. Even this morning, knowing I intended to post this, I struggled with that voice: “It’s cold. It’s dark. There could be a bad guy in the parking lot. You don’t have to do this. Nobody will know you started and gave up.” But I’m happy to say that if I can just get vertical, my body clock says “let’s go” and I go. That’s a first for me.
​
This is NOT me giving any kind of advice. I decided to share this now, at the halfway point, because it will make it harder for me to abandon this commitment if I’ve told people about it. Also I have set the bar low. You’re welcome.

Wisconsin: The Tidy State

11/15/2015

 
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After a quick weekend trip to Chippewa Falls/Eau Claire, Wisconsin, I would like to offer the following suggestions for new state mottos:

Wisconsin: Take Your Shoes Off, We Just Cleaned
(Seriously, the whole place looks freshly scrubbed. Don’t go tracking your out-of-state dirt all over the place.)

Wisconsin: Cranberry Bogs—Who Knew?
(I thought they were only in Rhode Island.)

Wisconsin: Even Our Walmart Employees are Polite
(And they have that adorable accent.)

Wisconsin: More Culver’s Than Starbucks
(You can see the next Culver’s from the last one. I’m fine with that.)

Wisconsin: We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Street Lights
(Would it kill you guys to light up the interstate, or does everybody just go home before dark?)
 
Other travel thoughts:

My souvenir policy: t-shirt or it didn’t happen.

When I see someone walking into a motel with dogs: “Cute dog! How nice that they allow dogs here!”
When I’m trying to sleep in a bed that’s not mine and somebody’s dog is barking: “^%#@&*&&$%# dog!”
​
No matter where I am or how “foreign” the cable channels, if I can find an episode of “Law and Order,” I’m home.
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Note: Not a light pole in sight.

I Prayed in Your Room Tonight

5/8/2015

 
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I don't write poetry, but I wrote this poem-ish thing a few years ago.







I prayed in your room tonight.
We just brought you home.
You’re so tiny and perfect and brand new.
 
I knew just what to say.
I prayed for the energy to take good care of you
And the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need. 

I prayed in your room tonight.
Your perfect little body is sick and I’m scared.
It’s probably nothing, but it’s something to me.
I knew just what to say.
I prayed for your health
That I would wake if you needed me
And the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need. 

I prayed in your room tonight.
You’re out without us for the first time.
The world is a big place, sometimes good and sometimes bad.
 
Will you recognize which is which?
 
I knew just what to say.
I prayed for your safety
Your choices
Peace
And the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need. 

I prayed in your room tonight.
I don’t know where you are.
I hope you will choose well.
But sometimes clouds cover the stars
And the path is dimly lit.
I didn’t know what to say.
I prayed for you
And the wisdom to be the kind of mother you need.  



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    ​Linda Stone

    I've always loved to read. I just wish it burned calories.


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