Waiting to be okay with the woman in the mirror

First off, my mom rocks. I think I've established this in several posts, but in case you are new to the blog or don't know my mom, she rocks.

With that said, most of my childhood memories of my mom have to do with her hating her body. She bounced from one fad diet to the next. Took diet pills, and hated shopping because she hated her body. She never went to the pool or beach with us because it meant putting on a swimsuit.

I honestly didn't think her weight struggles had an effect on me either way. I was always pretty happy with my weight. I have come to realize that the reason it didn't affect me is because my weight stayed pretty stable for most of my life. I might have moved from a 6 to and 8. After kids I was a 10 for a while, but eventually landed  on an 8, which I was totally fine with.

Then, at Christmas, we took a family photo and I looked at it and thought "who is that fat girl?" Not just a little overweight, but fat.  I didn't recognize myself. It had been coming for a year. I had been stuck in bed for months and then put on medicines that, instead of helping, made me crazy and gain 15 pounds in two weeks. All of the sudden, I wasn't 10 pounds away from where I wanted to be, I was 40.

In case you are wondering, I hate it.  I hate how I look. I hate how I feel. I hate to look at myself.  I go to try on clothes, and I hate everything. Not because of the clothes or how they fit, but because the body I'm looking at in the mirror cannot possibly be mine. My body is an 8, not a 12. I keep thinking maybe it is one of the funhouse mirrors.  

 It isn't.

My instinct is to complain continuously, pummel my self esteem, and just stay in bed until the weight magically goes away. (fyi, I have not found this to be an effective weight loss strategy).

But then, I look at my daughter. Tall, skinny, perfect daughter. And I realize, someday her body will go through awkward changes. She will be tempted to hate her body, even if she is still tall and skinny. If she has heard her mom talk continuously about how much I hate my body, how can I expect her not to hate hers.

This is not to say that we shouldn't eat healthy and exercise. We should, and as a parent it is my job to lead that charge. But it is also my job to make my kids feel great about themselves. There are times in our lives where even if we eat right and exercise, our body doesn't respond like we would like it to.  If they get sick, or something happens and they aren't the perfect size, they should still feel great about who they are. And if I can't feel great about who I am no matter my size, how do I teach them that they should love who they are, no matter what. 

And it isn't just about them. What about their friends that are bigger then they are? My kids need to know those kids are just as amazing, fun, and delightful they are.

The most wonderful thing to me is that right now, at ages 7 and 4, my kids don't care about size. They think their mommy and daddy are awesome and beautiful (or handsome in daddy's case), even when we feel frumpy and old. I don't want to be the reason that ideal changes. They should love themselves, and others, no matter what the size or shape.

If I am constantly complaining about my weight and that changes my kids' perspecive, shame on me. I can work out, eat sensibly, and even if I have to buy a size bigger, it will be okay.

I want to be the person my kids think I am, and they think I'm beautiful.  I need to think that too, because kids see through our lies, especially when we are lying to ourselves.

I saw a sign in a doctor's office that said "Be your own kind of beautiful." I'm signing up. How about you?

Waiting for summer

A few things have changed since I moved to Texas a decade and a half ago.  The most obvious (besides my accent) are of course the husband and kids.  However, those are what I consider life changes.  If they didn't happen in Texas, they probably would have happened somewhere (although my husband may disagree).

One of the major changes in my life has simply to do with geography.

I hate summer.

No longer do I look forward to that three months of bliss,  No responsibilities. Sleeping in late.  Staying up later. Spending every day in the pool (since that requires a swim suit).

This is not a major revelation, but Texas is hot.

Really hot.

It is also humid. And hot.

This makes summer a miserable time of mapping out locations with AC that also allow kids to run off some energy.

But last week (as it was already 90 degrees), I watched my children squeal in delight as they ran through the sprinkler. Joy written on their little faces smeared with with water, grass, and a touch of mud.

As I sat in the shade with a cool beverage, I asked myself, when did running through the sprinkler stop being fun?  I guessed it was sometime around the same time as being tickled goes from delightful to horrid.

So with that in mind, here is a list of childhood joys that I am going to try this summer in hopes they bring back a small fraction of joy I see in my kids.

- Swing as high as I can and jumping from the highest point.

- Spin until I can't walk straight.

- Play in a fountain fully dressed in the middle of the day.

- Ride the grocery cart through the parking lot to the car.

- Start a game of tag with complete strangers.

- Be amazed by the moon. Every time I see it.

- Look at the pets in the petstore and squeal in delight every time a puppy puts his paw on the glass. (Disclaimer: I realize many people are against pet stores, and this is in no way an endorsement. But I can't take the kids to the shelter to look at puppies because we would come home with one every time. Besides, the shelter isn't in the mall.)

- Do a cannonball in the swimming pool and be proud instead of horrified at the size of the splash I make.

- Chase the ice cream truck through the neighborhood and taking five full minutes to decide which treat I want.

- Play in any body if water, no matter how small or large, including lakes, rivers, streams, mud puddles, bath tubs, and of course, sprinklers.

- Fish.

- Roll down a giant grassy hill.

- Enjoy doing the wave at a major league baseball game. In fact, I might even start it. (I realize this may be more controversial than the pet store. Don't care.)

- See as many fireworks shows as possible. Love all of them.

- Dance whenever I hear live music, including in the street, in a restaurant, at the mall, and in church.

- Eat popcorn at the movies without one thought to how many calories are in the "butter" or how long it has been sitting in the machine.

- Buy quarter toys.

- Make wishes on stars, eyelashes, coins thrown in fountains, and lawn gnomes. The last category is new, but I can't imagine why a lawn gnome wouldn't grant a wish.

- Make a sandcastle.

- Sing really loudly whether I know the words or not. Okay, so I already do this, but now I'm going to do it proudly and more often.

- Eat an ice cream cone outside without caring if it is dripping down my arm.

- Turn off the televison, phone, and computer and play tickle monster with my kids every single time they ask.

- Ask my friends to come over more often.

- Have a happy meal and make up a game using the toy and the box.

Your turn. What childhood joys do you miss most?

Waiting to Be Still

My three year old has decided to give up naps.  To some of you, this may not seem like a big deal.  To those of us work from home parents, you realize that naps are like the Ark of the Covenant.  They are rare, precious, and contain in them all of the makings for a peaceful world with direction, forgiveness and patience.  You also know that to lose this precious artifact is akin to losing your best friend.  

So I was not going down without a fight.  Unfortunately, neither was he. 

My compromise was to let him nap in my bed with me.  He got to lie down. I got to lie down.  Win-win.  Well, no laundry got done, but I still call it a win.

You know those mattress commercials where one person is jumping on the bed and the glass of wine doesn't spill?  Have you ever noticed they don't use children in those commercials, and it isn't just because a toddler in bed with a glass of wine is kind of inappropriate.  It is because no matter how little the child, when they move in bed, you are going to feel it.  Every fidget, kick, roll, taking off their socks, putting their hands over their eyes, their ears, your eyes, your ears. You feel it all. 

This is the case for our recent nap times.  The number of times I've uttered the words "Be still," must be somewhere in the thousands. When I'm really serious, I gently place my hand on his chest and whisper softly in his ear, because for some reason my kids know if I'm whispering, I'm not messing around.

Turns out, I'm way more like my three year old than I desire to admit. For years Psalms 46:10 has been my favorite verse.  ""Be still, and know that I am God;"  Unfortunately, knowing a verse and applying the verse are two very different things.  

I was recently in the hospital for several days.  By day two I was feeling physically better and was more than ready to go home.  The doctors didn't share my enthusiasm.  They told me it would be at least two more days before I could be discharged.  

I'm not a huge fan of hospitals to begin with, but when you are feeling good they start to seem more like a prison.  A prison where nobody wants you to sleep.  Every two hours, all day and all night, someone is coming in your room to check something, administer something, or just to wake you up and make sure you are still breathing. For a gal who has trouble sleeping in the best of circumstances, sleeping in a hospital was impossible. So I moved the bed up and down, fluffed up pillows, flattened pillows, paced around the room, listened to music, watched re-runs of Seinfeld (it is on at 2 a.m. in case you are looking for it).  My patience waned and my frustration increased.  

Finally, on night three as I once more lamented the fact I was still trapped, it was as if I literally felt God gently put His hand on my chest and say, "Kristen, it is time to be still."  

I still didn't want to be in the hospital, the bed was still uncomfortable, and the nurses still woke me up every time I drifted off.  But something changed.  My heart softened and I felt at peace. Given how I feel about hospitals, finding peace inside one is sort of like my three year old volunteering to nap.  It doesn't happen. 

Or rather, it doesn't happen without God.

I don't know what you is making your restless today. Maybe it is health challenges, marital strife, or your three year old giving up nap, but it is a safe bet that if you aren't facing a storm right now you either just emerged from one or are on your way to one. I want to encourage you not just to read the verse, but to claim it as a promise. God is God. He is bigger, stronger, and smarter that you are.  He feels ever toss, turn, kick, and fidget you make and He is right there next to you with his hand on your chest whispering, "Be still."

Because we all need a rest sometimes.

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

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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.

Waiting for Santa

When I was three I wandered out of my bedroom on Christmas Eve and discovered my mom putting presents under the tree and stuffing my stocking and just like that, the illusion of a jolly old man in a red suit delivering toys to all the children of the world was destroyed.

Somewhere between junior prom and my bachelor's degree the trend reversed; I became a believer.

Most people abide by 1 Corinthians 13:11, "When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things." Apparently I am not most people. The older I got, the stronger my belief grew in not only the magic of Christmas, but in the Big Man himself.

I often hear people say they don't watch the news any more because it's too depressing. They feel like the world around them is overrun with wars, poverty, economic downturns, gang violence, and celebrities and politicians who either can't remember or don't care who they're married to.

But when the Christmas trees go up and the lights come on, something amazing happens. Across the country bells ring and people throw their spare change into red kettles. Marines decked out in their dress uniform stand on street corners alongside their moms, dads, brothers and sisters to collect toys for needy children in their communities. Regular people and local businesses partner with radio stations donating time and money to grant wishes as simple as new coats for their children or as elaborate as a new van to transport a disabled child.

Churches, shelters, and soup kitchens feed hundreds of thousands of families who wouldn't otherwise get a meal. Charities buy presents for children whose parents are in prison, helping those children find some sense of normality during the holidays.

I have even been told there is sometimes a break during battle on Christmas day.

We become a little more like the people we wish we were.

I know it won't last. It never does. Once the decorations go back in the attic and we polish off the last of the pie, things will go back to normal. That's why I believe it is Christmas that brings the magic. And although he may not arrive on a reindeer pulled sleigh, there is just no denying that the spirit of Santa comes alive every holiday season.

Look around and I think you, too, will become a believer.

Chapter 2; Pg.1 - The Mommy File

August 3 of this year marked the fifth anniversary of my mommyhood. We celebrated, as most people do, with a party in honor of my daughter's birthday, as opposed to a day of margaritas and manicures celebrating the fifty pounds I gained, stretch marks on my thighs, 14 hours of labor culminating in a grand finale of pushing a little bundle of squished up mush, ten fingers, ten toes, black hair on a little round head topping what I'm sure were the biggest shoulders ever out of someplace that shoulders should never be pushed out of.

Because I believe that motherhood should be a lifelong celebration, I not only carry with me joy, love, overwhelming pride, and wallet size photos, but also 7 post baby pounds that I vow to never loose that remind me of how precious my children are to me. See how I made that about my maternal calling and not my undying love for Ben and Jerry's. Feel free to go ahead and use that for whatever you need.

Anyway, for the past five years, my life has been described by two words that are probably familiar to many of you; working mom. For those of you who don't know, a string of health issues led me to resign last week, making this the first time I haven't worked outside the home since I was 16. In addition to our five year old we also have a 16 month old, so staying at home with them is definitely a full time job. My daughter starts kindergarten this year and I have already volunteered for several committees, which means I am already laying out plans to make the elementary yearbook will be better than most high school books with an accompanying website, blog, and flash video.

Monday was my first full time mom day. Some of you may know that I actually haven't been back at work since April when my "routine surgery" went awry. However, there was something different about being off on leave and actually not having a job to go back to. If I was going to be a full time mom then I was going to rock at it. It was somehow okay for me to just sort of scrape by as a mom when I was working 50 hours a week, but if this was my only gig then I better knock it out of the park.

Even after a couple pain killers and an Ambien sleep would not come Sunday night. Maybe it was the seven day migraine I was battling or the relentless abdominal. Or maybe it was the fact that I had just resigned from my job of eight years, wasn't sure if I could qualify for disability, and didn't know when we could schedule the surgery that supposedly could fix the stuff first one screwed up. Either way, my insomnia left me plenty of time to plan my first day in my new career as a full time wife, mom and writer.

First on the list was to get up with the kids and make their favorite breakfast - pancakes and scrambled eggs. Then turn on the tunes and spend a little time cleaning up the wreckage left over from the swimming party we hosted the night before.

However, when the alarm went off at 6 a.m. my pain told me that this day might not be all that I had hoped for. No worries. The kids weren't up yet and I had time to take some pain medicine before the pitter patter of little feet was outside my door demanding food. By 7:15 my daughter's face was 6 inches from mine asking me if it was time to get up yet. After my attempts to convince her it wasn't failed (darn the sunrise), she was ready for breakfast.

Although the pain meds had kicked in and so had the drowsiness that the bottle warns you of. So, when my daughter asked me if she could have a Pop Tart for breakfast, I said sure. In fact, I didn't even get out of bed to get it for her. Dreams of homemade (or even microwaved) pancakes were quickly replaced by Pop Tarts in front of the TV.

Okay - regroup.

I told myself that breakfast aside, I could still get the house cleaned, load the dishwasher, put the laundry away, write a blog post, go to the grocery store, and make dinner. I had illusions of making that play dough out of flour and baking soda (or salt, or something) that my grandma used to make for us when we were kids, but those dissolved somewhere during the hour (or two) that the Disney Channel was raising my children for me.

I quickly learned that working at home is a lot like working the office. I had a "To Do"List" that seemed to get longer instead of shorter even though I was busy all day long. On the above list, I managed to find the living room floor, but not vacuum it, load and run the dishwasher but not unload it, and put one load of laundry in the washer, but on the dryer. If you note the date, the blog post is a week late, and the clean laundry has been in a pile on the floor for six days. I did make dinner, but instead of a pecan crusted salmon with steamed broccoli and cornbread I whipped up a deluxe banquet of Manwhich and Cheetos.

Added to the To Do list were several games of The Littlest Pet Shop Game (which, by the way is the most confusing game ever), dancing, dress up, races between of the Batmobile and Barbie car.

I was in bed by 8:30.

As exhausted as I was, I still didn't sleep well. My mind was swimming with questions and realizations from this first page of the new chapter of my life. Was I ready to give up a full time career as a successful PR professional to spend my days changing diapers and playing The Littlest Pet Shop Game (even if I did get to be the ferret)? Was I a bad mother to even have these feelings? The day, although exhausting, had made me realize how wonderful it was to spend time with my children without the pressure of work hanging over my head. It was literally the first time I had ever been able to enjoy being with my kids without worrying about a deadline, a board meeting, a looming crisis, or an upcoming event. I wrote a speech the day I brought my daughter home from the hospital from crying out loud.

As I lay there waiting for the Ambien to kick in I thought about my last five years as a working mom and aboth this new chapter in my life. I thought about the things I missed along the way the last five years while I was doing my corporate To Do list. I thought about the things I would miss while doing my mommy To Do list. I made a decision right there in my watermelon pj's not to regret any of my choices, in past or present chapters. Those choices made me who I am, and more importantly, they made my kids who they are and after spending a day with them I confirmed what I had guessed all along; Our kids are pretty cool people.

So whether you are a mom working outside the home or a mom working at home please share your tips, tricks and ideas because, let's face it, some days are Pop Tart days for all of us.

Photo credits: You guessed it, those are my beautiful, fun, smart, and incredibly talented kiddos.