Go Ahead, Judge Me

I like to think of myself as a pretty non-judgmental person.  I also like to think of myself as a size 4, but that doesn't necessarily make it true. 

"Judge not, lest ye be judged" is probably one of the most referenced scriptures in the Bible. Moral debates without a definitive answer, "Well, judge not, lest ye be judged."  Even people that don't believe in God use this as a guiding principle. Kind of like the Golden Rule, only with consequences. 

Turns out, I judge people all of the time.  Maybe not in the "You're going straight to hell" way, but in smaller ways like, "Why would they possibly buy a new car when they can't make the payment on the old one?"  or, "Guess someone had a few too many cocktails before choosing her new hair color."

But my most egregious judgments have been made about how people parent their children.

"What kind of horrible parents let their kids throw a temper tantrum in the middle of the grocery store? Get control of your child."

"That poor kid has no coat.  Do his parents not realize it is 25 degrees out."

"What kind of person yells at her child in the middle of a crowded restaurant?  Seriously, some people should not have children."

In case there is some confusion, these are all judgments that I feel confident have been made about me in the last seven years.  Heck, most of them have probably happened in the last seven days.  What makes it such a bitter pill to swallow is recalling the multitude of times I made similar judgments in my pre-parent days.  Rolling my eyes, rude comments under my breath, disapproving glances, I've done it all.  My judginess probably peaked when I was pregnant with our first child.  Oh, how many times I uttered the words, "That will never happen in my house." As I think back on those days, if I am really quiet, I can actually hear God laughing.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my children and most of the time, they are incredibly well behaved.  But, as my dad says, they are children. Apparently, reasoning with a three year old is different than reasoning with a grown adult (well, most grown adults).  And dang, being a parent is exhausting.  If only I wasn't constantly picking up after them, doing their laundry, packing lunches, brushing teeth, and moderating battles, I would have the common sense to check the weather before I sent my child to school in shorts during a snowstorm. I mean, it is Texas.  Why the heck is would we ever have a snowstorm? If only I had more sleep, more hours in the day, and let's face it, several glasses of wine, I would definitely be more patient.  We would read and play educational games all day long and I wouldn't feel compelled to lock myself in the bathroom just to get three uninterrupted minutes of peace and quiet.

Instead, I have resolved that I will be the woman on the other side of the judgments for the next few years.  Looking back on that scripture, it's clear I earned my place there. 

Curves are Freakin Awesome

Image via WikipediaI am a curvy woman. I have been curvy for as long as I can recall. Sure, there were times when I was skinnier. A couple of times when I was just plain skinny. But even in those skinniest of times, the closest I ever got to wearing skinny jeans was in the dressing room when I tried to pull them on and got as far as my mid calf before the seams started to pop.

Somewhere around sixth grade I developed what I've come to know as "good child bearing" hips. Just what every middle school girl wants. Apparently to hold up such important hips, my thighs had to be substantial as well. I've always had a small waist, so if I ever got promoted out of the A cup to the big D leagues, I could have a perfect hourglass figure.

This became a reality after pregnancy, and his friend the Booby Fairy visited my house. Twice.

Hello hourglass.

I've been various sizes over the past 15 years. There are pictures of me in a size 4, and pictures of me in a size 14 within 18 months of each other. But on any given day, I usually fall somewhere in between.  Say, an 8. Over the last few months, I've been moving farther and farther from that size. Then came the horrible day when I had to pull out my stash of big size clothes (You know, the ones you want to give away because you know you will never be that big again.) Except that you will definitely be that size again. So you stick the Fat clothes in a box marked "Feminine things" hoping your husband will never open the box and discover that his size 6 bride is a size 14 wife.

For the past few months, my weight really started to bother me. I would go for a couple days without eating just so I could comfortably zip a pair of jeans. Then I would only eat fruit smoothies for five days, those kind of ridiculous things. And like every dieter I have ever known, I became miserable, depressed, angry, and pretty much a horrible person to be around. This behavior wasn't entirely new to me.  I watched similar patterns growing up. My mother (who is absolutely gorgeous) spent the better part of three decades obsessing about her weight. The lower the number on the scale, the better life got. The larger the number, the worse she felt about herself, about life, about everything.

A few days ago I stepped out of the shower. Since the extra 15 pounds made their way to my life, I make it a point to wrap a towel around me before I get out of the shower so I don't have to face the mirror. For no particular reason on this day I decided to get a look at exactly how bad my body has become.

That's when I discovered it.

My curves are freakin awesome!

I was right in line with American Icon Marilyn Monroe. Better yet, I could be a stunt double for some of the women in Renoir's paintings. This brilliantly curvy body is what men for centuries viewed as the ideal beauty. Curvy women like me have been immortalized in paintings, sculptures, heck, I bet there are idols out there formed after a beautiful curvy woman. Thus leading to my realization that a curvy woman is truly a work of art.

I made another discovery that day. I don't need to lose 15 pounds and I don't need to be a size 6. What I do need to be is healthy. So I'm making a battle plan. My plan is that in the battle of healthy and non healthy choices, healthy wins at least every third time.  Walk a little more, have frozen yogurt instead of ice cream, unless, of course, it is national ice cream day, during which I would be unpatriotic if I didn't eat ice cream.Yeah, I can make healthy work.

If I can be a little healthier, and the result size 10 jeans, I will be content. I will take my curves, and I will rock the size 10 they way it should be rocked, with child bearing hips, post pregnancy exploded breasts,and thighs who hear angles sing when they hear the words "loose fitting" I will feel comfortable in my own skin, because my curves are freakin awesome. Men have known that for centuries. It's time we women caught on.

Waiting for Battle

Image via WikipediaFor the past five years I have had a goal; read all the way through the One Year Bible. The words, "One Year" indicate this should not be a five year project. I should probably give it up, but every year, on some random day, I pick up the One Year Bible, flip to the corresponding day, and start my quest again.

Today was that day.

My One Year Bible follows the following daily format;

• Old Testament reading
  
• New Testament reading
  
• Chapter from Psalms
• One little Proverb

I'm not going to lie to you, those Old Testament chapters are usually what bogs me down. The New Testament is filled with so much hope, joy, and red print to easily identify the most important parts. The Psalms bring comfort and peace in the midst of trials. And who doesn't love Proverbs? Besides being extremely short, they are uber-practical, even for non-believers. "Better to live on a corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife." Proverbs 25:24. Awesome.

But the Old Testament . . . somewhere after the familiar stories of creation, Noah's Ark, and the parting of the Red Sea, it seems filled with war, a bunch of laws that don't make any sense, and pages and pages of names that I can't pronounce.

But since it was my first day back, I opted not to skip the Old Testament reading; Judges 7 a.k.a.the story of Gideon. Being a preacher's kid, I'm familiar with the story of Gideon (I think we even have a Vegie Tales to that effect). But somehow today the story looked different.

Here is the Cliffs Notes version. A giant army (swarming like locusts and too numerous to count) attacks the Israelites and strips the land bare. Then they camp, basically inciting a man-made famine. God's help comes in the form of a man named Gideon, who just so happenes to be a member of the weakest clan around.

Gideon is unsure of this arrangement to say the least, but he rounds up 22,000 men. This rag tag group is about to head to battle when God says something like, "Sorry Gideon, I know you are outnumbered like a million to one, but I think your army is a little big.*" He proceeds to send 10,000 of the men home.

But 12,000 Israelites vs. a gazillion bad guys still seems to be weighted in Israel's favor, so God whittles it Gideon's army down to a measly 300 men. To make matters more interesting He sends them to battle with trumpets and torches. Just trumpets and torches.

Somewhere along verse 2, my life flashed across the pages.

After a year of health, the past month has been filled with trips to the ER, hospital stays, and more blood draws than I care to remember. An abundance of tests (which are starting to look like a swarm of locust) with no answers.

Battle.

I keep fighting, but after every small victory I just get pummeled again.

"You have too many warriors with you. If I let all of you fight the Midianites, the Israelites will boast to me that they saved themselves by their own strength" Judges 7:2

Seriously, God? Too many warriors. At this point, I can barely hold my head up, much less hold a weapon, or even a trumpet for that matter.

Still, I knew it was true. When things are running smoothly in my life, I view my accomplishments with an "I did this" attitude. It is only when I am completely outnumbered, outgunned, and overwhelmed that I finally say, "There is no way in the world I can do this," and look outside myself and into the face of God.

What the April 27 Old Testament reading reminded me is that the more hopeless my circumstances, the more hope I find in Him.

Gideon's tiny army from the weakest clan won their battle. Not because they were stronger, or smarter, or even soldiers for that matter. They won because they knew they couldn't win, so they let Someone else do the fighting.

*This is the Kristen interpretation.

Waiting for "I"

Image by J. Star via Flickr

So here it is, over a year after what should have been a simple hysterectomy turned my little world all kinds of upside down, sideways, and flip flopity. But that's not what this post is about. This is about how those 13 months have made my back side, oh, and let's just be honest, my front side, and my thighs flip flopity in their own right.

I could make all kinds of excuses, and believe me I have. But this post is not about excuses. This post is about my quest to find the rear end I know is hiding somewhere in the dimpled mush I see when I brave a quick glance in the mirror in the three seconds it takes to grab the towel as I step out of the shower.

I have a lot of talents. I made exceptional grades during my academic career with almost no effort. I worked my way up the corporate ladder at a very young age. I'm witty, funny, charming, and clearly humble (see, there's the wit). Two attributes missing from the list are graceful and athletic.

Only two sports can make me pass as graceful. They are ice skating and its first cousin in-line skating. Now that I live in Texas there is a distinct lack of ice skating rinks. So after trying (with disdain) several aerobic DVD's, I decided to break out my in-line skates this week. The first step was to literally dust them off as they hadn't been used in over a decade (when in-line skating was cool). Then I laced them up and checked my stance. Felt good.

I grabbed my i-pod, a definite improvement over the walk-man I donned the last time I had these on, and figured I'd program a quick play-list for my skate. I chose about ten songs, figuring that would give me a thirty minute skate, and headed out the door.

And it truly was like riding a bike. Without too much effort, I was actually gracefully striding down the street. I decided I would turn into the adjacent neighborhood and take on some hills, you know, liven things up a bit. So there I was, cruising along (okay, huffing a bit), when I realized I forgot my wrist guards. No worries. How likely was it that I would fall? Skating up and down hills. In the dark. After the rain. I pressed on. I could almost feel the muscles in my thighs tightening up as I pushed my way up a hill, when, what the . . . ? A bug flew in my mouth. I spit it out, refusing to stop because I didn't want to loose the momentum I worked so hard to build up. I turned the corner trying to create more saliva to erase the lingering bug taste. Seriously?

By this point, I was ready to head back to the house. My left ankle was pounding, my mouth tasted like bug, I had no wrist guards, which was just plain dangerous for a stay at home mother. If I fell, how would I take care of my child? Who would change his diapers if I broke both of my wrists, I reasoned, still trying to spit with no saliva to mention. All of the sudden I became aware of the song playing on my iPod, Chicken Fried, by the Zac Brown Band.

There it was, mocking me. All of my effort had only brought me to the letter "C" in my small play list. That did it. I dug deep. I headed back to our neighborhood and decided to skate a loop around. By the time I turned onto our street I had once again built up a solid momentum I felt so good I skated right past our house, went to the end of the street, circled the cul de sac and came back up the block.

As Selah sang me home with the words of, "I'll Fly Away" and I saw the light of our garage welcoming me back, I raised my hands, feeling the wind against my face, finally tasting something sweeter than bugs, and felt like I just might fly.

Little Man's Word of the Week

Little Man is a talker. He has been since the day he was born, although it took about a year for us to understand exactly what he was trying to say. In recent months he's started stringing together words and catch phrases that he repeats dozens of times a day for a couple of weeks and then just as soon as one phrase comes, it is replaced by a new, equally random one.

Sometimes the words are funny, sometimes they are nonsensical, and sometimes they are just what we need to hear.

With that, I give you Little Man's Word of the Week.

Little Man's Word of the Week from Kristen Escovedo on Vimeo.

July- Daba Dee, Daba Doo

January 20 - Ta Da!

February 17 - Perfect

February 20 - Oh Man!

March 20 - Don't Worry.
(This was two days after my husband left for a mission trip to Spain, so it was very timely.)

March 24 - yaHoo!

I will continue to include latest Word of the Week here on the Waiting Room for your enjoyment because we can all use a little random Little Man in our life.

Waiting for the Present - More kindergarten theology

Image by F1RSTBORN via Flickr

Driving home from the park today my five year old daughter posed this question, "Mommy, do we live in the past or the future?"

Smiling at her in the rear view mirror, I replied, "Neither, baby. We live in a time called the present."

Undeterred, she followed up. "But do some people live in the past?"

I pondered for a moment deciding whether my answer should be literal or metaphorical, and knowing neither would suffice, chose to go with honest, "Yes, baby, some people do live in the past."

"Do we live in the past, mommy?" The mixture of excitement and innocence in her voice was both amazing and humbling. It reminds me constantly how jaded I am.

"No. We don't live in the past. We live in the present."

Unfortunately, as much as I wish it was, my answer was not entirely true. There are many days I catch myself longing for the past or wishing for the future. This is not to say I sit around in my pajamas all day eating pints of Rocky Road looking through yearbooks and talking about how things were better in the good old days. However, I've been known to throw myself a pretty exclusive pity party while staring at a pair of jeans I no longer fit into (courtesy of Rocky Road), or longing for the days when my best friends didn't live 800 miles away, bills weren't piled up on the kitchen counter, kids weren't constantly clamoring for my attention, and if I went to the bathroom no one poked their little fingers under the door saying, "Whatcha doin?" the entire time. Heck, there are days I miss Ramen Noodles.

But more than that, I think I spend most of my life looking at what's next. From the age of seven, all I remember wanting to be is 16. Sixteen held something magical in my mind, although I don't recall anymore quite what it might have been. I dressed up pretending to be 16, wrote stories and songs about what I would do when I was 16, and admired girls lucky enough to live that dream. Finally my sixteenth birthday came and I don't think I relished it for even a minute because by that time, all I wanted to do was turn 18 so I could leave my hometown and head off to college. And so it went. In college my focus turned to graduating and getting a job so I could stop eating Ramen Noodles every day. Of course my entire single life focused on getting married, which I did, and no sooner did we walk down the aisle than people started asking, "When are you kids going to have a baby?" Then you are waiting for the pregnancy to be over, waiting for the baby to walk, for her first word, for her to be potty trained (oh dear lord, please!), for her to go to kindergarten, and for her to teach you important lessons . . .

Like mommy, stop waiting, and just enjoy this beautiful day with me at the park. Remember, we don't live in the past. We don't live in the future. We live right now.

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. ~Ps 118:24

Waiting For Life to Settle

It's been over six months since I resigned from my job. When I say it out loud, or indeed, write it, it seems entirely implausible. Granted, I spent the first two months battling major health

Image via Wikipedia

issues and recovering from a surgery that (thank the good Lord) fixed them, but still, that leaves a quarter of a year since this major life change.

Giving up my high stress full-time job for my full-time mommy/wife gig, I just had it in my mind that things would look somewhat different by now. My house would be much cleaner; all the clutter de-cluttered and sold on e-bay for extra cash. I'd be a better cook, having cooked my way through two or three Rachael Ray cookbooks (I have no delusions I could make it through even one Julia Child's recipe, let alone an entire book). My son would be potty trained before he was two. I'd be the ultimate volunteer at my daughter's school and be honored with one of those awards I used to write press releases about. I'd post on this blog at least four times a week to the delight of my thousands of faithful followers, write a novel, become more active in my church, and fit into my tiny little pre-pregnancy jeans.

Ummm . . .

My daughter's closet was clean for about three days but Goodwill required less effort than e-bay and I rationalized that decision with the old "tax write off" excuse (although it's March and I haven't started my taxes yet). I've cooked exactly two Rachael Ray recipes, even though I've probably watched more than 100 hours of Food Network. My son has washed his hands in the potty more than once, which I realize is disgusting, but I take comfort in the fact it is not as disgusting as it would be if he actually peed in it first. I've managed to make it to three events at my daughter's school, although not in a volunteer capacity, which is probably for the best since I was late to two of them. I joined a Bible study, even though I think that this week's absence makes it official that I've missed more than I've attended. Prior to tonight, my last blog post was in January and besides my mother, my 8 followers (thank you faithful few) have not been banging down the door demanding I write another post.

I hate those stupid little jeans.

So what's the deal? Not to brag, but for past 12 years I was a pretty darn successful career woman. For four of the past five I did, what I considered to be a mighty fine job of balancing the whole working mommy thing. So now that I have all this time on my hands, why haven't I conquered the world?

Believe me, I ask myself this question frequently.

I feel like I'm in a constant state of transition. I keep telling myself, "As soon as 'fill in the blank happens' I'll 'fill in the blank.'" 'Blanks' started with getting healthy, which seemed like an insurmountable task for almost a year. But then I got healthy after which came the transition of withdrawal from pain meds. Then came Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Then our family was thrown into transition when my dad retired, which I thought would allow me an entirely different set of opportunities. So, I thought to myself, why settle into a routine, since it will just get all upset anyway. Plus who can settle in, well with all the craziness surrounding Martin Luther King Day and tracking the Vegas odds on Punxsutawney Phil's shadow sightings. And don't even get me started on St. Urho's Day preparations.

Did I mention I chase around an almost two year old boy all day long?

My children and husband are well loved and I keep telling myself that counts for something. And I hope it's true, because this season is the first one in my life where I don't have a product, a paycheck, a grade, or all three at the end of the day to measure my results. On the flip side, it is the first season in my life I've been rewarded exclusively in milk mustache kisses, ketchup covered hugs, and "I love you, mommy's."

I guess this last five . . .er . . .ten pounds can wait.