Wednesday, May 28, 2008

I know why I'm fat ...

Oh, we don't say fat . . that's right . . . I'm still holding on to the ideal that my thoughts about my body image will carry over to the poor (or healthy) image that my children develop.

Well, whatever it is . . fat, chunky, round, rotund, robust, heavy, full . . what the hell ever.

This morning on Exercise TV (don't laugh) . . the trainer said that chronic stress and poor sleep leads to weight gain, especially in the mid-section.

And there you have it. My new crutch.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

What do they call you?

Homestead put a comment in one of my entries about "mom-ja-doo" (heck, I don't know how to spell it) . . point is: What do you kids call you?

I love "Mama". Being called Mama is true, comfort in 4 letters. It's a safe place to land and open, welcome arms for ever and always.

I hate, hate, hate "MOTHER." Even more, I hate "YOUR MOTHER." This is a phrase that has recently lit me up . . because it's become my new name, for those who refuse to address me by the lovely name by Mama gave me.

Big has called me "mom-ja-doo" since she was little. She also calls me "bob-er-ahh". In preschool, she had a friend from Poland and learned "mamoosha" (again, how do you spell that?) . . and that has stuck.

Middle favors "mama" and she also likes "mommy-salami"

Little is a "mama" repeater. This means when he says "mama", if there is not an IMMEDIATE answer to him, he says "mama, mama, mama, mama, mama" until you say "what, what, what, what??"

Tinky -- too small .. . but I bet she jumps on the Bob-er-Ahh slide .. . .

I have issues.

Listen friends, I have issues. Easy there, I see you stifling a chuckle and muttering "tell me something I don't know."

Again, I say, "I HAVE ISSUES."

And to be more specific. I have issues with food. I have issues with weight. I have issues with the ugly, ugly body-dismorphic disorder. This, I believe, stems from gymnastics staring at age 3 and being a life-long flippin' member of a college co-ed cheer team where there was a weekly weigh-in to insure you wouldn't crush the manly man beneath you who was, well, lookin' up your skirt.

Anyway, this blog entry, despite it's title, is NOT about my food/weight/body issue. It's about something else, but related . . . in that . . . it's made me introspective and self observant and contemplative.

Success. I love success. I love my success. I love to hear about your success. If you are my friend, I will absolutely, 100% back your happiness, sing your praises and hold you on high. If you are my enemy, I will fake it like a rock star. But here's the deal . . I'm a silent dieter. I liken this to my "silent sufferer" theory of labor pain managment. I'm not a yeller . . . I'm not a screamer. When pain strikes, I turn inward and hope to hell that everyone around me shuts up long enough for me to breathe in, breathe out and get through 45 more seconds.

Silent dieter. I do watch what I eat. I do exercise. Sometimes I take a supplement. I frequent a gym. I spin, I yoga-ize, I aerobi-cize. I treadmill. I walk EVERYWHERE. I lift weights. I'm a cross trainer. This, I do . . FOR ME. If ever, friends, my diet, my weight system . . my work out regimen becomes about YOU, please let me know. If ever, friends, my diet/weight system/work out regimen eliminates previoulsy "fun" activities, please let me know. If ever I totally piss you off because you're sick of hearing my tales of whoa, I invite you to put on your best "shut the hell up" smile and say, "I think I'm going to stuff a sock down your gullet now."

And so, I've been trudging about in introspective mode thinking about silent dieters vs. shout it out loud dieters. I'm not talking, "I started weight watchers . . . I really want to be successful, let's pick something other than McGutBomb for lunch". I'm talking about, "I can't have this, I can't have that . . I can't talk then, I can't meet now . . I couldn't do THIS with HER because of THIS or THAT .. . " I'm talking about . . hello??? Anyone in there? Any thought bouncing around that one person's diet plan is NOT the central factor in deciding an entire social event?

Okay, and I realize that I'm specifically referring to difficulting planning a series of optional social events for my volunteer position . . . but, crikey, can we just stop and think for a second? Can we just think about the, um 4 DOZEN other people involved, and not focus on the dressing off of ONE SALAD??

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Mother's Day . . .

In preparation for Mother's Day tomorrow . . . I've been mentally tallying the glimpses of heaven that I've seen this week . . . and thinking to myself, "I've GOT to write those down." So, here is my mental list (ah, I'll sleep lighter tonight with this out of my brain.)

It is truly a sliver of heaven to wake up with children snuggled in the crooks of my arms. This morning, I woke up with Middle on the left, Little on the right and Tinky on top of me. I'd have stayed there forever if my bladder hadn't been calling out loud.

I love, love, love how children mis-prounouce things. Always have. Big is 8 1/2 . . she still says "brek-trist". Little can't get it out either .. . he says "break-fixt".

Little has glommed on to my mission to teach them big words. Hilarious is a word he loves to say . . . when he does, it comes out, "You're the Larry-est".

I had tears in my eyes this week when Big presented her Artic diorama at the final session of Super Saturday's at the University. She stood right up there and spoke out loud. Pride, I'd call it ... this is the girl who barfed in my lap at her preschool Thanksgiving day program.

Little presented me with an early Mother's Day present on Friday morning. It's a yellow construction paper circle. Glued to it are two long blue papers (like legs) and two long blue papers (arms). Use your imagination. He presented this to me at 6:14 am with a giant smile and said "Momma, I made you an early mother's day present . . . his name is Steve." I got up and made break-fixt for Little and Steve.

Middle can read this week. Last week, she couldn't. This week, she can. Amazing. No more spelling dirty words from the Alpha-bit cookies with MOTH. We'll get caught!!

Tinky has a new yell that she uses exclusively for "feed me with a spoon." It's very loud and sounds like a red tailed hawk when they sweep in for a mouse. She's become rolly . . . and dang, is she ever cute. She has crooked toes.

Little has been on a roll this week . . . during our shopping expedition to Wal-Mart this week, I was hunting for a squirrel feeder. Yes, I miss this from our last house. I've been working on the squirrel that lives nearby. Montana is NOT helping .. . . but I'm determined to lure him closer with corn and peanuts. Little is on-board with me. I suggested that we name the furball. And further suggested that Little be the one to name him, since he was, indeed, running the drill to install the corn cob holder-upper. Sit down, y'all . . cuz I almost fell down . . when Little shouted out, "Right momma . . . I think we should name him Doorknob."


My husband sent this to my by email . . . . worth sharing, I believe . .. and since forwarding is against the core of my existance, here it is in blog form:

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?" Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this? Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to answer, "What number is the Disney Channel?" I'm a car to order, "Right around 5:30, please."

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going, she's going, she's gone! One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a hair clip and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, "I brought you this."

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: "To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees." In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything. A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, "Why are you spending so much time carving that bird in to a beam that will be covered by the roof ? No one will ever see it." And the workman replied, "Because God sees."

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, "I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become." At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime, because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

A Newborn's Conversation with God

A baby asked God, "They tell me you are sending me to earth tomorrow, but how am I going to live there being so small and helpless?"

God said, "Your angel will be waiting for you and will take care of you.

The child further inquired, "But tell me, here in heaven I don't have to do anything but sing and smile to be happy."

God said, "Your angel will sing for you and will also smile for you. And you will feel your angel's love and be very happy."

Again the child asked, "And how am I going to be able to understand when people talk to me if I don't know the language?"

God said, "Your angel will tell you the most beautiful and sweet words you will ever hear, and with much patience and care, your angel will teach you how to speak."

"And what am I going to do when I want to talk to you?"

God said, "Your angel will place your hands together and will teach you how to pray.''

"Who will protect me?" God said, "Your angel will defend you even if it means risking its life.''

"But I will always be sad because I will not see you anymore."

God said, "Your angel will always talk to you about Me and will teach you the way to come back to Me, even though I will always be next to you."

At that moment there was much peace in Heaven, but voices from Earth could be heard and the child hurriedly asked, "God, if I am to leave now, please tell me my angel's name."

God said, "You will simply call her, 'Mom.'"

Monday, May 05, 2008

The Baby is Sick.

Oops, did I say that out loud. I meant MOTH (yes, Man Of The House) is sick.

How many female comedians have made their first million by taking jabs at their sick husbands? Crikey lou, I'm tellin' ya . . . I got a call during final awards ceremony at last week's State PTA Convention. It went like this:

"Hi, Hon. It's Mom. Just wanted to let you know that I'm over with the kids . . . your husband is (long pause) whoo-wee . . . (sort of that soft whistling inspiration of a true southern Jethro) . .. well, Hon, Big called me and asked me to come over and help."

I listed to the message 4 times. The soft whistling inspiration was one for the records. I could practically feel the nasal sting of acidicly scented vomit through the message. And, Big called? Hell--oo??? He's sick enough that Big is calling for help? Holy, S.O.S, folks. This must be one for the records.

Yep, so I called. Turns out MOTH has a fever and is hurling his guts up. Been prayin' to the porcelain God for a few hours ... apparently a tad disoriented cuz he couldn't remember when I was coming home.

Again, I say "heh?"

Anyhoo, no posting recently, because I've been watching with quiet contemplation. I've been observing my sick husband and trying to weigh the funny things I really feel with the hilarious truths that I probably can't post.