Gut check

Up until today a trip to the doctor (aside from pregnancy) went something like this: “You have strep throat/ bronchitis/ pneumonia / vertigo”, “I will write you a script for antibiotics / manipulate your head so the invisible crystals in your ears recalibrate”. Then I went to the front desk and handed over my debit card. Since my last trip to the doctor was a bust How long can you possibly wait? I realized it was time to branch out and find someone closer to home who might get me in closer to the agreed upon appointment time.
No one tells you weird little tidbits about adulthood like how it can be hard to make friends and how further awkward it is to ask things like “can you recommend a good doctor”? For some reason this seems easier with regard to a pediatrician and harder when it comes to a personal physical that needs to take place. However, I did ask around and one came highly recommended so toady I went.
Any other time I have gone to the doctor I have filled out a generic form asking things about my medical history (it’s pretty short) and if I have ever shared needles with strangers (I haven’t). Then I step on the scale and look away (as I have been doing since I was about 12) and wait to hear how excellent my blood pressure is (108/72).
You know I stay honest with you guys and I have put on some weight My big fat post, but I thought I was still on the not-so-noticeable side of erring. Turns out, the scale at the doctor’s office has a different take on the matter. Also, fun fact, the incredible sundried tomato, Kalamata olive and marinated artichoke heart and feta chicken BOWL of pasta I ate for lunch today (on top of breakfast annnnnd a pop tart) was not the best combination of food choices I could have made before weigh in. Highlights of my weigh in included the nurse asking if I wanted to use the ladies room first (SHOULD HAVE TAKEN HER UP ON IT), then kindly starting the sliding weight at 100 (as if we had less than 50 pounds to add) and finally asking if I was currently fasting (after she weighed me. I looked at her blankly and said “You are kidding me, right? – She was not. Clearly nor was I).
I was gently and helpfully guided through about 100 other questions – not just did I smoke but had I ever (Like, EVER EVER?!) and when the doctor came in he was cordial and kind and warmly thanked me for trusting him with my care (I think he might have even briefly bowed his head ever so slightly). He reviewed my medical, social and health history and without malice said “there is only one thing in your entire profile that causes me any concern” and I thought oh, so we aren’t going to pretend the scale thing never happened…
I am not in an interruptive phase of my life so I allowed him the opportunity to explain BMI’s and how they don’t give a full assessment of health (Note: I am not overweight because of my side gig being a profession female body builder) and the importance of nutrition accountability and exercise (Wearing both a Fitbit and a Garmin, oh and I have it connected to MyFitnessPal on my phone…). I had to ask what my ideal weight should be and he again reiterated that it was a range and dependent on several factors including muscle mass and body fat and somewhat reluctantly told me that to achieve an ideal body weight I was looking at about a 49 pound weight loss. Oh.
Well. It was almost like he was saying all the hamburgers and steaks and ice creams and beer (and that one pop tart) had caught up to me. I guess denial is NOT just a river in Egypt… Maybe those size mediums that used to fit hadn’t shrunk in the wash and those size 12 and 14 shorts I bought “temporarily” for my “water weight retention” days hadn’t either.
This is a fork in the road (not to be confused with the fork that I have heaved over and over to my mouth – and not with fresh green vegetables) where shaming myself does no good and crying doesn’t either and the only way out of this is through it (again, AGGGGGGAAAAAIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNN?!). Here is my truth: I love my body, I am proud of my body and I have not done right by my body in months now. Starting a diet “tomorrow” won’t get me out of this any more than starving myself and hoping my willpower will set the cruise control for me (I am good at fasting for maybe twelve hours and then I feel like smoked salmon eggs benny and champagne is in order) and dinnertime is rapidly approaching. Guess what works, every single time – a sensible food choice and 30-60 minutes of exercise every single day. This means I can rise to the occasion or rise from “overweight” to “obese” both of which are brackets I have spent more of my life living in than out of. I choose the occasion.


Named storms and the like

I used to love hurricane season – and not just when I was a kid. When we first moved into this house I made up a little drawer full of hurricanes supplies (really just batteries and a few water bottles). I saved “the good candles” mostly of the Yankee Candle company variety that could easily double as a weapon should looter arrive (which was unlikely to say the least). The first time a hurricane hit here though, and I opened that “vineyard” Yankee Candle I was decidedly less enthusiastic. Not having air conditioning, facing lots of debris in the road and seven days straight of smelling what amounted to a sip left in a wineglass will do that to a person.

Still, It was an easier time then. School ended for the kids two weeks ago and since then it has rain (at least a little) every single day. This is what hurricane season means to me now. For months out of the year my phone- which has a weather alert app on it – remains silent. But lately every single morning is met not only with a sunrise – but a distinct chime to announce that there will be thunderstorms and showers. This, in turn, makes planning for anything outdoors a bit of a pain.

Even this morning – with projects looming we gave a cursory thought to if we should try to get out before the storms and go do something – five to ten minutes later it was pouring rain. The kids has fun this morning doing inside things – practicing the keyboard, writing short stories and doing puzzles, but made a break for it at the first offer of clear skies and an invitation to go swimming.

Armed with a few free minutes (and no pressure to make a plan for the day) I started to make a list of errands I needed to run and household items I had run out of. (A fun time to realize you have no AAA batteries is when someone needs to get up into the attic and though you own three headlamps, none of them have batteries. This is also a good time to note that you have approximately 32 AA batteries…) The batteries of course spurred on the memory of needing hurricane supplies and the shock that was Times you should not go to the grocery store….The new twist to this is my husband’s participation in Emergency Response Operations and an increased likelihood that if a storm becomes a threat we will need to brace for it here and then he will be away from home, coming back to us when the storm is over.

Because that puts my formally in the position of command staff on the home front, I want to be as equipped for success as possible. (Just as the headlamp situation illuminated (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?!) the need for batteries, having the power go out will motivate a person to learn how to operate a generator). In the past year of making incremental changes, I have learned that the best time to prepare for things is prior to their occurrence (Okay, so I am a little late to that party of knowledge – but better late than never, I hope). So prepare I shall, with all the supplies that we might need and maybe even a beach or ocean-breeze scented candle or two to round out the mix.

Interrupting Co(moo!)w

Interrupting is in the news right now. I thought I knew what it was like to be interrupted – I grew up with three other kids in the house with me, but that was peanuts compared to having kids. I am trying to break them of this habit of course, but I cannot pretend that I am puzzled as to where they picked it up. Because, well, it was me.

My husband is always a little bewildered by my (not at all) hidden desire to burst through with something to add. Though it hasn’t reached a shameful rebuke (we were once at a dinner function where a grown woman took the podium and above typical dinner crowd low murmurs demanded our silence by leaning into the microphone, icily staring out to the crowd and nearly scoffing “I’ll wait”…) I don’t want my delight in talking to another adult to translate into disrespect for him. For me, I am just so excited to be discussing something that I am eager to engage in dialogue. I felt that the sentiment could be perceived but what I was actually sending out to the speaker was the felling that I wanted them to wrap it up or that I already knew where the conversation was going (fun fact, I guess incorrectly about 90 percent of the time).

I have already been working on being a much more active listener. What I had neglected somehow was to pair that with restrained speaking (luckily an unintentional byproduct of close listening). I am not exactly sure where I picked up this habit (maybe in an effort to be heard over the competition at home?) but it has got to go. I would never interrupt a person in a professional setting – a personal situation is even more offensive. If I find myself slipping, I catch myself and say so to the person who was speaking before me (a simple acknowledgment of ‘I should not have interrupted you, I am working on that’ serves as a reality check).

Fear not fear, but let it work for you

The current culture on fear is that it is debilitating. Fear will hinder you, we are told. It has become a battle cry of sorts to success – that if we could only shut down fear we could fully be free. In certain instances this is justified and liberating. But I hesitate to eradicate all fear from my life, because it might just save me. I first “read” the book “the Gift of Fear: Survival Signals that protect us from Violence”* by Gavin De Becker over fifteen years ago. It was a suggested text that a college professor had added to his syllabus and offered extra credit for answering questions about. Hence the word read in quotation marks – I basically skimmed though it, fascinated by what I gathered along by fact-finding mission. Recently, though, in my ever developing quest to know myself better and hone my skills sharper I have read many books that led me back to this one in particular and I am working my way though it methodically – being constantly surprised by what I am learning.

There are safety points to take away, for sure but I hadn’t realized that many of what I considered “normal for me actions” that I do daily might be dulling my intuition of a possible dangerous situation. For example, I am a talker and an over sharer by nature – and someone who believes in a rally to boot (much to the dismay of my husband and often times children). I have no problem talking to strangers and bringing people together so we can work as a team. I have routinely embraced perfect strangers with a “we’re all in this together attitude” and given unsolicited information “I am a Mom, too”! to bring about comfort and camaraderie in situations where I felt other people needed a little support.

Apparently, criminals will employ the very same tactics in order to coerce a victim into dismissing his or her survival signals. Once I read this (and really allowed it to sink in) I first wondered if I was a manipulative criminal-in-the-making. Based on the fact that I spend hours praying for the safety, security and elimination of violence from the lives of all of living creatures, I was willing to bet I wasn’t in that category. The second thought was equally as terrifying – would I be able to read a criminal using those strategies against me? Or would I assume that he or she was a kindred spirit? Yikes!

One day, when Big Sister was a baby, I took her out for a walk (in her stroller) and it started to rain (rain is really an understatement here – it was a torrential down pour). Multiple cars stopped for me but they were all men, and though I didn’t really think any of them had stopped in order to abduct or kill me (or my baby) I couldn’t be sure, so I declined and cheerfully jogged home while my baby happily splashed her hands in her tray and shrieked joyfully at get soaked. One man even pointed to a car seat in his truck and offered that he was a husband and father – but that he got it that I was turning him down and hoped his wife would do the same thing. No harm done. The book continues to highlight the ways criminals hope to ensnare a victim and although establishing trust “I am a husband and father – here’s the evidence” and “I get it” could have been giving me too many details – his actions – praising me for not trusting a stranger and leaving when I declined help, ran counter to his likelihood of trying to capture us.

What I have learned so far in rereading it is a wake-up as to two-fold motive checking (one – my own and two – the motives of those around me), an evaluative tool that I can stand to have in my toolbox. I have a pretty fair track record of listening to my intuition and having it keep me safe (admittedly I do not live or work in a dangerous or high-crime area which could change the statistics). As with any gift though, it is only of value when you believe in its worth and I hope that my fear will serve me that way.

*I should tell you I am not affiliated with any sort of sponsorship of this book and both times that I have had it in my possession, it has been on loan from a local library. This is in no way an ad for the material, but I am hoping that you check it out and see if benefits you.

On Father’s Day cards

This week I bought four Father’s Day cards. I bought one for my own Dad, one for my Father in law, one from the kids to my husband and one for my husband. Yes, I know my husband isn’t my father – but he is an excellent one who admire deeply.

The thing about it was how disgusted I felt reading what sells. Judging by the sentiments alone, Dads fall into one of several categories: Beer drinking /golf playing, ATM machine, lover of sports and grilling meats, or fart jokes/ gross-out humor. There is the occasional card that has a sentiment along the lines of gratitude and respect – those cards usually cost $6.99 to say (no joke) “I love you Dad and I appreciate you”. Reading no less than 25 cards – I had a real WTF moment.

Dads, the real ones, who encourage us and inspire us and make us repeat that we are fearless, unique, smart, gifted and a wealth of other empowering things should be celebrated fully, not reduced to some silly stereotype. I carefully and thoughtfully made purchases that sat well with me and that took a good thirty minutes. Often times I have written cards out to those I feel closest to, not because I feel superior to card writers – but I feel that the recipient was so much better than whoever that writer had in mind.

In a very stripped down sense, any one of us could be reduced to a stereotype, but then again it serves exactly none of us. I wanted to say a huge thank you to the incredible men who have committed to being fathers. There is no one size fits all for them but they all share a common bond – they see their children in the best possible light – as the purest and most hopeful version of themselves and stayed open and silly and encouraging in the process. Let’s hear it for the Dads.

The mud-flinging space

This is not to be confused with the mud-slinging place, for that is a far more ominous and completely difference place to be (promise me that you will always do what you can not to go THERE and I promise you the same). However, I am in the mud-flinging space. This is a land where try as you might you are carving deep ruts in your soft surroundings and there is a mess and chaos and noise but you are essentially going nowhere. The space where one is trying desperately to get out of, or go through or generally overcome in one way or another and is caught up doing the things they have already tried without success because in one way or another it has served them before.

In short, it is a space where spinning your wheels is easily confused with effort. That is the bad news. The good news is that I do my best work here. But mainly, I do my best work here simply because I am here a lot (the other bad news). There is another upswing, I promise.

I used to think that successful people never came to this place, but that is far from the truth – they venture here too, but I have yet to encounter one who likes to stay for long – you might see them there but they aren’t going to take the time to wave or chat or anything because sinking isn’t an option for them. Instead, the people who I have watched catapult themselves out of the mud-flinging space often times land in spots that seem at first glance to be worse – harsher places, with more obstacles or less amenities or other alleged disadvantages. But the key to their success lies in their momentum, they don’t stay in those places for long either.

I am beginning to be far less afraid of trying a whole bunch of things that might not work to see if I can find one that does. It’s the exclusion of options that lets me sink, you see, and sinking almost always guarantees that I will be stuck (I have also identified that I do not do my best work when I a stay stuck for too long). In those first few tries of doing it wrong, and making a mess, something transforms me now. The loud alarm that used to crowd out anything other than “YOU ARE DOOOOOOOOMED”!! now chirps as a warning to “try something else” , because springboards come in various shapes and sizes and often times are disguised. Sometimes even as mud pits.

Photos or it didn’t happen…

My mom came up today to visit and just before she left I took a few quick pictures of us. I hadn’t washed my hair and I didn’t put on makeup and for some strange reason when I smiled my upper lip disappeared…But my smile stretched across my face (maybe that’s where my lip went) and I hugged my mama tight. I hardly ever capture those moments, usually content to just commit them to memory and I realized that I want approximately ten billion more pictures in my life. I want evidence that the tips of my husband’s eyelashes get blonde when he is out in the sun and that our dog rushes to greet him by trying to glue his body alongside as much of him as possible. I want to hold something in my hand that will always show me what Big Sister’s face looked like when she was skeptical or how Little Sister always throws up Jazz Hands when I say “freeze”. I won’t let all the moments that have faded with time keep me down, which is easy to do when you are with rapidly changing little people…but I will be taking more photos of us all from now on.

Buy a bra that fits and other ways to hack your life

This is the simplest yet most effective advice that I can ever share with you. Hopefully, you have at least one pragmatic friend/family member/book character that you hold dear that has offered this revolutionary principle with you – but just in case you are lacking one, have no fear – that is what I am here for. I can’t tell you how many hours I have spent brooding, sullen, or otherwise inwardly loathsome of simple stupid stuff that I have the power to change, but for one reason or another I stall on. (Know this – it could likely be combined into days if not weeks).

I am talking about wearing the running sneakers that you bought because you absolutely loved the color / found on clearance / or matched that one pair of “dress” yoga pants that you save for big occasions but rubs your left heel raw. Or that super comfy tissue paper thin long sleeved tee that fits everywhere but the neckline (why would anyone make such a small gash in the top and declare it boat neck?!). Or my personal undoing – the bra that I should have thrown out a good six months ago but I am trying to resuscitate against its will…gentle reader, I hope that you have no idea what I am talking about – but this would be a bra (well really the remnants of one anyway) that might have one underwire that juts out like a fin from underneath your arm, or boasts hooks in the back that have been mangled in the washing machine and remolded with needle nose pliers to resemble their original shape so many times that they have snapped off on now flagellate your back with every step you take, or even a shoulder strap that has gone slack so that even if you are blessed with anti-gravity, perfect symmetry that certainly isn’t what you are showcasing now…(for a select few this single bra has ALL THREE FEATURES).

The easy question for any sane person to ask would be something along the lines of WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD YOU CONTINUE TO WEAR THAT?! The answer is complicated but can be distilled to this cold, hard fact: that I can live with this. Until, of course, you can’t.

When you get to that point (and some warning signs that you are there or rapidly approaching it can be summed up as “extreme sensitivity to the world around you” – totally my own diagnosis and all but you get my drift), you need to shake it up. You need to buy a new bra, or three. This of course doesn’t mean that I think you should go straight to La Perla and spend the rent money on new lingerie, it can be as simple as pulling three IN YOUR SIZE – (and please double, quadruple, quintuple check this) in order to get on with your life without endangering the other people who inhabit it. The same goes for the running shoes you can’t run in or the shirt that would fit perfectly if only it fit right. The best possible way to move toward the life we want or the happiness that seems to elude us is to set aside the things that aren’t meant for us and keep working toward the things that are. Sometimes, we are lucky enough to have secured the big things – a sense of well-being, a stable family life, security in one way or another, so we put up with the little hindrances, in possibly a twisted act of humbleness only to find that it is driving us up the wall. If we are brave enough and clear enough to examine what is and isn’t working and then do something to change it for the better – other things follow suit by falling into place.

I cannot say that hearing the kids pull the doors closed in a consistent ‘slam-close’ (as opposed to turning the handle and quietly closing their doors) isn’t noticeable to me right now. But I can tell you that because I bought a properly fitting bra today, it isn’t making me want to shake my fist in the air like an angry, brow-furrowed mean neighbor at them either. This is exactly how I hacked my life today.

Deep Summer

We are officially one week in to summer – what my kids consider “deep summer”. I am not sure where this phrase came from but I love it. Something about how in six days they are deeply committed to being different people moves me…because when else in your life does one get seventy straight days off? (I will save you the guesswork, it’s usually never. Or retirement.)But here we are (me too in some sort of soupy suspended reality because I am still on stay-at-home-mom / freelance time) and it’s pretty fabulous. If the kids don’t want breakfast? No problem! They will devour approximately forty-seven snacks between waking and sleeping so they are covered. No naps? No worries! Because they will battle it out in a war of words over what movie to watch until they both fall asleep with one child clutching the remote control in a Kung Fu grip. In between feedings and reminders that they “still have to brush their teeth and occasionally bathe” my kids have taking squabbling to an unchartered territory and crafting to a level I had yet to experience – the crayons are all worn to nubs…But that is deep summer too, I guess. A time of book reading and movie watching and bug discovery and swimming until your arms feel like overcooked spaghetti. And I wouldn’t change a moment of it for them.

Back to the Beach

When I was a kid I couldn’t understand why we didn’t go to the beach every single day. I loved squishing fistfuls of sand in my hands, building what hardly ever resembled castles and throwing myself up out of the ocean like I had seen killer wales do. I loved full sun, and impending rain – it didn’t matter to me in the slightest. As a new parent, I wanted to make sure that our baby got to enjoy the beach as much as possible. Even when that meant dragging a tent, pop up shade, blanket, and mini command unit down to the beach – it seemed a small price to pay for ocean views.

Today we took the dog to the beach with us. Somewhere in between his first eleven mouthfuls of the ocean and before he started whining miserably I knew that I probably should have discouraged him a little earlier. We headed home after multiple calls of nature and after a perfunctory clean up and quick lunch, we split into teams – one group taking the vacuuming of the truck (primarily the backseat, where two sandy kids and a German Shepard had taken up residence) and the other washing the sand, salt water and whatever else might be on the dog off of him, I then cut his nails…

In the grand scheme of things I only cut one too short and statistically that wasn’t awful but there is nothing quite like a bleeding dog toenail and it’s trails throughout the floors (carpets and rugs included!) to dampen the mood. At one point I surveyed the landscape of sandy, wet beach towels, sudsy, dog hair covered beach towels and the general sad and sorry state of the house and I got why some people would say “why bother”? Then I thought about the frames from our live just before that – when the kids threw themselves into the waves and we collected shells and watched the sun kissing the ocean to allow ribbons of light to thread their way down the sea floor and I knew that going wasn’t the easy choice, it was the right choice.

The towels will be washed and the nail has stopped bleeding and the floors were all scrubbed. The last clinging bits of sand swirled down the drain alongside our shampoo and conditioner and throughout the house there lingered that unparalleled mellow feeling you get when you spend the morning swimming in the sea. And it all seemed worth it.