My next letter to Santa is going to read "Dear Santa, Thank you so much for granting my wishes. With waffles and chocolate abounding, I'd like to give you a gift in return. Please accept ten pounds on my behalf, available at your earliest possible convenience. With love, Fat Me."
Alright, I know what you will say. I have friends both thinner and wider than myself and their weight does not affect my love and appreciation for them. I know this is true in reverse, that my friends will not think less of me for being a chocolate waffle pig whose fly doesn't quite reach the button. If my opinion of me is affected, however, I should hope that they understand that it may not be a case that requires sympathy, flowers, or a good talking to.
In light of the coming new year and all those dreadful resolutions we bandy about like paper swords, I'd like to take a moment to reflect on why my almost-but-not-quite single digit pant size should vex me so greatly, if indeed it vexes me at all. There are days when I rather like myself.
First, a story: Once there was an almost normal little girl with two sisters older, one younger, and an increasing number of little brothers as the years rolled by. Mother was pregnant, Father worked long hours, and home was a crowded place where beds and toys met from one wall to the next. Sometimes the girl enjoyed playing with her sisters and dressing up her brothers as more sisters, but more often than not, the siblings did not get along.
Mother was too tired to stop the fighting, Father was too busy by day's end to be diplomatic, and like the old woman who lived in the shoe (not the gentle version of the story) the naughty children were whipped soundly and sent to bed. For many reasons that could possibly fill the pages of a psychology text, the fighting between the children only worsened over time. Now, either because her bone structure was larger than that of her sisters' or because she grew faster than they (or both), the almost normal girl was constantly teased for her physical appearance. Her name rhymed with belly and she was called fat.
It did not matter that the girl was not fat, or that doctors (in the rare occasion she would see one) thought she was oh-so-petite. Every day she looked at her twig-thin sisters and listened to their horrid teasing and knew that Mother's words of comfort and assurance were spoken because that was what mothers were supposed to do. Father, on the other hand, wished that his third daughter had been born a boy, and even said as much to her. Sometimes when she was alone, she cried for no reason. When she looked in the mirror, she was sad.
Looking at such a tale, one can see a recipe for disaster in the making. Throw in a little family tragedy with her coming adolescence, the cruelty of the world and her inescapable poverty and ... well, you get the picture. Not pretty.
Much of who we are is determined by our upbringing. The proverb says that if you train a child in the way he should go, when he(she) is old he(she) will not turn from it. But we also know that as beings of free will, we sometimes veer from the path on which our parents set us. Considering the number of poorly trained children in each state alone, we should definitely be thankful for that ability to choose.
Events of my childhood affect the way I view myself, but that alone cannot ruin the rest of my life or rob me of happiness. Time and education, friends and a loving husband have helped me to alter my erroneous childhood notions of self worth. So why do I persist in dieting? I could just say I dislike the wobbling lower regions of my person, but let's dig deeper, shall we? I have a tendency toward depression, something (I believe) is as genetic as height and hair color, and equally part of who I am. I might dye my hair, or put on heels, but such superficial things won't change my inner makeup. I can be very pretty and still be depressed.
Consider: two people start smoking at the age of thirteen. Ten years later, with a pack a day habit, they each decide they want to quit. The first succeeds, cold turkey. The second tries and fails, tries and fails, dozens of times over before finally giving up and smoking the rest of his short life and dying from lung cancer. The same could be illustrated if both smokers did not try to quit, but one died of cancer at the age of 38 while the other lived to be 65. Why would one smoker die young and the other not, if they both smoked an equal number of cigarettes daily and lived, otherwise, healthy lifestyles? Why can one person quit cold turkey while another struggles and struggles, never to conquer?
The answer is genetic. I may well be one of those that could never kick the smoking habit, or I may be pre-wired to alcoholism. Since I neither smoke nor drink, I'll never know, but that's not the point. The point is, we all have some weakness, be it physical, or psychological, something as obvious as a missing hand, or as hidden as a tortured past. We have pain in our lives, so what are we going to do about it? I could take medication to manage my depression, they've got a drug for all occasions these days, but I don't believe it is necessary. In no way am I advocating against prescription drugs, there are those that do need medical assistance, therapy, or a doctor's care. I manage alright with diet, exercise, and spiritual assistance (prayer and church attendance).
My methods of personal management might not work for everyone, but for me, the material point is that I am doing something to help myself, working (notice the active verb) to improve, achieve, and maintain a level of happiness, or at the very least, sanity in my life. The smoker that tries to quit is better off than the one that does not. If he should still die of cancer, at least he died trying to live.
Back to me and the millions of people who might resolve this January to get fit and eat right, try not to make assumptions that your skinny neighbor has no reason to want to take off a few pounds, or that the round one should. Good health is always a good idea and can start with walking down the street each day or trading a healthy snack for an unhealthy one, quitting a bad habit or cultivating a good one. The act of reaching for a goal (make it reasonable) brings happiness, and we, the imperfect inhabitants of Earth, should all strive to improve.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Official Rambling Disclaimer
I find that it is requisite, on occasion, that I should tell people my views, officially, lest there be any confusion. Despite anything that I have said or will say prior to or following today's blog, I would very simply like to state that I love my family. Yes, that includes the kids. There are ten days left to the Christmas.. strike that... holiday break and I intend to survive them all. Breathe.
This is the best Christmas ever! I am totally stoked! And I will repent of any and all lies right after the typing is finished. Not that I've told any. Yet. Or can you tell? Is my nose growing?
On with it... I am not selfless. No matter what anybody else might say, my worlds within worlds revolve around yours truly. There are times when I think of others, friends, sickly younglings, fuzzy kittens (they count) but mostly I'm in it for myself. I make dinner 'cause I'm hungry. I wash clothes because somebody (no names, please) reeks to high heaven and needs access to freshness. When I clean a room, you can bet that it's because I wanted to remember what the floor looked like.
Yes, I'm insidiously selfish and deserve no praise. My fingernails are long from laying about doing nothing day after day. I won't wash the dog. I lack sympathy for whiners and execute punishment, very often, without sufficient proof of crime. But only if I feel like it.
The laundry is awaiting my selfish desire to find a particular article of clothing. The dishes wait for my needing a clean cup. It's all good.
Glad I got it off my chest. Now everyone knows. I've neglected my blog for lack of brain activity, but my friends will understand. That is, unless they are like me. But here's the post, horrible in its brevity, lacking in direction, and pitifully void of proper humor.
But that's it. I feel better. Don't you?
This is the best Christmas ever! I am totally stoked! And I will repent of any and all lies right after the typing is finished. Not that I've told any. Yet. Or can you tell? Is my nose growing?
On with it... I am not selfless. No matter what anybody else might say, my worlds within worlds revolve around yours truly. There are times when I think of others, friends, sickly younglings, fuzzy kittens (they count) but mostly I'm in it for myself. I make dinner 'cause I'm hungry. I wash clothes because somebody (no names, please) reeks to high heaven and needs access to freshness. When I clean a room, you can bet that it's because I wanted to remember what the floor looked like.
Yes, I'm insidiously selfish and deserve no praise. My fingernails are long from laying about doing nothing day after day. I won't wash the dog. I lack sympathy for whiners and execute punishment, very often, without sufficient proof of crime. But only if I feel like it.
The laundry is awaiting my selfish desire to find a particular article of clothing. The dishes wait for my needing a clean cup. It's all good.
Glad I got it off my chest. Now everyone knows. I've neglected my blog for lack of brain activity, but my friends will understand. That is, unless they are like me. But here's the post, horrible in its brevity, lacking in direction, and pitifully void of proper humor.
But that's it. I feel better. Don't you?
Monday, December 14, 2009
MISSION (IM)POSSIBLE
Meet the Putman children: the two girls (ages 15 and 9) are fairly self-motivated and will do almost anything you ask. The four boys, a rowdy and quarrelsome lot ranging in age from 14-2, will do almost nothing without the threat of death hanging over them, and even then it's a toss-up.
Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to transport all six children, clean and comely, across the county (a 25-30 minute drive) to church services without killing anyone and maintaining a spirit of love.
Your team: God will be with you, other than that, you're on your own, sucker.
The day begins at dawn. Grab a shower before the hot water runs out. It is an unwritten rule that any preparations supposed to be done on Saturday, will still need doing on Sunday morning. Dress in casual clothing until after meals, otherwise they will be spoiled. Feed the little ones (already up and running in circles) and try to remember that Sunday is the perfect time for family togetherness and big breakfasts, waffles, pancakes, eggs and sausages. You can watch them eat it while sucking down a diet shake.
After breakfast, corner the first stray child you find and order them to bathe. Wash dishes before the teetering pile of syrupy, eggy plates and cups ends up across the floor. Grab the next wandering child and order them to bathe. Hunt down the baby and change his diaper, it's probably leaking down his legs by now, and he'll still insist it doesn't need changing. When you've finished wrestling with the obstinate one, stripped him down and cleaned him off, carry him kicking and screaming up the stairs to take a bath (it will be empty because nobody has actually obeyed your order. Yet.)
The bathroom will be a disgusting mess. Exercise all your powers of restraint and do NOT clean it. The only exception to this rule is if the air is completely unbreathable, only then may a preliminary cleaning be done. Baby will cry and complain until it is time to get out. By then, he will be happy and splashing and never want to leave. If, during the course of littlest child's bath, a dirty six-year-old happens by, accost him at once. Repeat washing.
Once the actual washing is finished, settle down with a good book and wait for the water to turn cold. However, if time is running short, more wrestling will be required. Take care, they're slippery, have towels handy. They will shiver and complain for 1.3 minutes before throwing off the towels and running naked through the house. Catch them if you can.
Fast forward... the four youngest are washed and dressed and ready to go. Time to wake the teens. Be sure to do this at least one (1) hour prior to departure time as it will take that long for them to ready themselves. Prepare snacks, toys, blankets, and other necessary church items. Locate matching shoes for each set of feet. Don't forget to dress yourself, shaving is not required (that's why God gave us long skirts) and make-up is only necessary if you don't want everyone at church inquiring after your state of mind.
Fifteen minutes before actual departure time, tell everyone it is time to leave. It will take at least fifteen minutes for them all to 1) believe you really mean it, 2) find the coats and shoes you've laid out for them, and 3) shove as much contraband into their mouths and pockets as possible before that long, LONG drive. Outside, since you've forgotten to warm up the car, you will either freeze for an additional ten minutes or discover that a window was left open all night while a thunderstorm rolled through (or both). The ultra-hated demon dog, who happens to fear thunderstorms above all else, will have leapt in through the open window to sleep in the comfort and security of your (now wet and doggy-smelling) car. Try not to kill the dog.
Strap all little people into appropriate, cumbersome seats, sandwiched between towels and blankets. You're almost there. Two minutes down the road, somebody is touching so-and-so. "Please stop touching your brother/sister." Repeat every two minutes. Halfway there, little Houdini has escaped his car-seat; the entire back seat is in an uproar; at least three of the six are fighting over the one Game-boy DS while poking/prodding/teasing whoever is seated next to them, and the oldest teen is fiddling with the volume control on the radio while simultaneously listening to whatever is playing on her i-pod.
Just remember that these tribulations shall be but a moment, and with God, all things are possible. Grit your teeth and keep driving.
Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to transport all six children, clean and comely, across the county (a 25-30 minute drive) to church services without killing anyone and maintaining a spirit of love.
Your team: God will be with you, other than that, you're on your own, sucker.
The day begins at dawn. Grab a shower before the hot water runs out. It is an unwritten rule that any preparations supposed to be done on Saturday, will still need doing on Sunday morning. Dress in casual clothing until after meals, otherwise they will be spoiled. Feed the little ones (already up and running in circles) and try to remember that Sunday is the perfect time for family togetherness and big breakfasts, waffles, pancakes, eggs and sausages. You can watch them eat it while sucking down a diet shake.
After breakfast, corner the first stray child you find and order them to bathe. Wash dishes before the teetering pile of syrupy, eggy plates and cups ends up across the floor. Grab the next wandering child and order them to bathe. Hunt down the baby and change his diaper, it's probably leaking down his legs by now, and he'll still insist it doesn't need changing. When you've finished wrestling with the obstinate one, stripped him down and cleaned him off, carry him kicking and screaming up the stairs to take a bath (it will be empty because nobody has actually obeyed your order. Yet.)
The bathroom will be a disgusting mess. Exercise all your powers of restraint and do NOT clean it. The only exception to this rule is if the air is completely unbreathable, only then may a preliminary cleaning be done. Baby will cry and complain until it is time to get out. By then, he will be happy and splashing and never want to leave. If, during the course of littlest child's bath, a dirty six-year-old happens by, accost him at once. Repeat washing.
Once the actual washing is finished, settle down with a good book and wait for the water to turn cold. However, if time is running short, more wrestling will be required. Take care, they're slippery, have towels handy. They will shiver and complain for 1.3 minutes before throwing off the towels and running naked through the house. Catch them if you can.
Fast forward... the four youngest are washed and dressed and ready to go. Time to wake the teens. Be sure to do this at least one (1) hour prior to departure time as it will take that long for them to ready themselves. Prepare snacks, toys, blankets, and other necessary church items. Locate matching shoes for each set of feet. Don't forget to dress yourself, shaving is not required (that's why God gave us long skirts) and make-up is only necessary if you don't want everyone at church inquiring after your state of mind.
Fifteen minutes before actual departure time, tell everyone it is time to leave. It will take at least fifteen minutes for them all to 1) believe you really mean it, 2) find the coats and shoes you've laid out for them, and 3) shove as much contraband into their mouths and pockets as possible before that long, LONG drive. Outside, since you've forgotten to warm up the car, you will either freeze for an additional ten minutes or discover that a window was left open all night while a thunderstorm rolled through (or both). The ultra-hated demon dog, who happens to fear thunderstorms above all else, will have leapt in through the open window to sleep in the comfort and security of your (now wet and doggy-smelling) car. Try not to kill the dog.
Strap all little people into appropriate, cumbersome seats, sandwiched between towels and blankets. You're almost there. Two minutes down the road, somebody is touching so-and-so. "Please stop touching your brother/sister." Repeat every two minutes. Halfway there, little Houdini has escaped his car-seat; the entire back seat is in an uproar; at least three of the six are fighting over the one Game-boy DS while poking/prodding/teasing whoever is seated next to them, and the oldest teen is fiddling with the volume control on the radio while simultaneously listening to whatever is playing on her i-pod.
Just remember that these tribulations shall be but a moment, and with God, all things are possible. Grit your teeth and keep driving.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
To Be Determined...
I wonder what would happen if I didn't procrastinate like I do. Would I have hand-made quilts on each of the beds in my house, or get the Christmas lights and decorations up while it still mattered? Maybe. Or maybe I'd have a beautifully organized house that really could fit eight people comfortably. I bet I could figure out a way to balance my budget, cook healthy meals each night, and still have time for writing. And then I'd make room for getting involved with my community, volunteering at the schools, participating in fund drives, and letting my voice be heard by contacting my local leaders and representatives...
Just imagine what could come of my life if I didn't put off all those great things. Why, I'd get that education every one's always talking about, the kind that comes with a fancy-printout on high quality paper that says you know more than certain paper-less folks. Why, then I could get a job where people actually want to hear what I have to say, where I collect monetary reimbursement for the time I've put in. My name would be known, because I'd be putting it out there for all to see. Yes, I could be something.
But then I have to wonder what's holding me back. Kids? Money? Motivation? Certainly, being Mom comes first, and always will. Back when time moved slower and I had to choose where my life went, I chose being Mother over college. I'm not sorry. As for money, well there's never any money, but it's never stopped me. There are definitely ways of working around the greenback dilemma, as proven by the historical accounts of hundreds of underdogs. America sure loves the underdog. And then there's motivation...
Ah, yes. What makes me tick? What motivates me? Slap me into the shrink's chair and come back in a few months, because some days I haven't a clue. But I'm willing to bet that if I really wanted a clean house, I'd have one. If I really want stroganoff or chicken salad for dinner, I make it. In all fairness, I have to say that even though I would like to be more involved in my community, I have other commitments that take precedence. What spare time is left after basic cooking, cleaning, diaper changing, busing, shopping, and the loving and tending of my brood is rather precious. As much as I'd like to do it all and be that Super Mom, one: I know it's impossible, so why burn myself into dross trying to prove otherwise? and two: my heart pulls me toward (have you guessed?) writing.
Over the years, my hobbies have hopped between reading, sewing, cross-stitching, exercising, gardening, painting, home remodeling and decorating, and other odd schemes of self-improvement. Some of those projects are tucked away, half done and waiting for that spark of interest to reignite. Perhaps writing is a phase I shall pass through gracefully and move on to better things, but I doubt it. However, if I could see the future, I'd be rich already. Deep in my bones, I feel there's something more challenging about writing than in anything else. Not that I ever conquered gardening, as the state of my yard can attest, but the difficulty of arranging ideas and feelings into words in such a way that others can feel and hear and see what I do, is just so tremendous and thrilling to me that I believe I shall love it forever. It is more than simply telling a story, or making a point, more than falling in love or painting a picture. It is all of this and more, a journey of mind and spirit, an energy that passes from my mind to another through the medium of typed characters arranged on a page. It is Magic.
So, as to my potential and all that crap about greatness, if I can't do it between 8 and 11 with a pen, paper, or computer word program, it will just have to wait. Because I'm busy.
Just imagine what could come of my life if I didn't put off all those great things. Why, I'd get that education every one's always talking about, the kind that comes with a fancy-printout on high quality paper that says you know more than certain paper-less folks. Why, then I could get a job where people actually want to hear what I have to say, where I collect monetary reimbursement for the time I've put in. My name would be known, because I'd be putting it out there for all to see. Yes, I could be something.
But then I have to wonder what's holding me back. Kids? Money? Motivation? Certainly, being Mom comes first, and always will. Back when time moved slower and I had to choose where my life went, I chose being Mother over college. I'm not sorry. As for money, well there's never any money, but it's never stopped me. There are definitely ways of working around the greenback dilemma, as proven by the historical accounts of hundreds of underdogs. America sure loves the underdog. And then there's motivation...
Ah, yes. What makes me tick? What motivates me? Slap me into the shrink's chair and come back in a few months, because some days I haven't a clue. But I'm willing to bet that if I really wanted a clean house, I'd have one. If I really want stroganoff or chicken salad for dinner, I make it. In all fairness, I have to say that even though I would like to be more involved in my community, I have other commitments that take precedence. What spare time is left after basic cooking, cleaning, diaper changing, busing, shopping, and the loving and tending of my brood is rather precious. As much as I'd like to do it all and be that Super Mom, one: I know it's impossible, so why burn myself into dross trying to prove otherwise? and two: my heart pulls me toward (have you guessed?) writing.
Over the years, my hobbies have hopped between reading, sewing, cross-stitching, exercising, gardening, painting, home remodeling and decorating, and other odd schemes of self-improvement. Some of those projects are tucked away, half done and waiting for that spark of interest to reignite. Perhaps writing is a phase I shall pass through gracefully and move on to better things, but I doubt it. However, if I could see the future, I'd be rich already. Deep in my bones, I feel there's something more challenging about writing than in anything else. Not that I ever conquered gardening, as the state of my yard can attest, but the difficulty of arranging ideas and feelings into words in such a way that others can feel and hear and see what I do, is just so tremendous and thrilling to me that I believe I shall love it forever. It is more than simply telling a story, or making a point, more than falling in love or painting a picture. It is all of this and more, a journey of mind and spirit, an energy that passes from my mind to another through the medium of typed characters arranged on a page. It is Magic.
So, as to my potential and all that crap about greatness, if I can't do it between 8 and 11 with a pen, paper, or computer word program, it will just have to wait. Because I'm busy.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Dear Santa,
I haven't been particularly good this year, but seeing as you like to spoil children who couldn't possibly be any better than poor little me, I figured I still had a shot. First and foremost, I'd like to remind you what I must put up with so that you'll understand my goodness (it's all about perspective, you see).
Number one is approaching sixteen and talks of nothing but driving and dating, with which neither am I entirely comfortable, but I have managed to not lock her in her room or disgrace her in front of her friends. A good deed if ever there was one.
Number two has made excellent progress over the years, even in the face of teen-age hormones. I drive him to school every day and take him to the library on a regular basis (though I must draw the line at letting him live at Borders). I allow him turns on the computer (a big deal, believe you me!), and the fact that he has not turned into a homicidal maniac shows a great deal of effort in the mother department, does it not?
Number three is hyper-active and moody and must be hitting puberty rather early, which is entirely unfair, but do you hear me complaining? Have I beat him senseless? No. This should prove something. He may yet turn out well, but I will hold judgement until after he turns eighteen. There was the incident with the broken dining room table, but I've already apologized for that.
Four has tyrannical tendencies that I've done all in power to squash. She is mostly good, though slightly annoying, and gets very good grades. I know, I had nothing to do with it, but cut me a break, would ya?
Five... well, sure I love him, too. Yes I do. I can still talk, which means I have not screamed myself hoarse in the face of number five. He has not banned me from his room, even though I make him bathe, so that MUST mean he forgives me... you can follow his example and cut me a little slack.
Six is trying to kill me, and himself, I'd wager. The high speed pencil up my nose, if you'll recall, and multiple beatings with pencil-swords, Lego-swords, stick-swords, and other types of swords--balls and other toys thrown at my person, and multiple acts of two-year-old violence have not yet induced more than an occasional growl on my part. While I cannot claim sole responsibility for keeping him alive--the dresser he scaled did not crush him when it fell, the passing driver did not kidnap him as he wandered down the street unsupervised, and the big knife he pulled from the dishwasher to wave around like a (you guessed it,sword!) killed and cut no one--there are countless other disasters I've helped to prevent...
Perhaps, in light of all my goodness, you can overlook my evil tendencies and selfish hiding of the good chocolates. I do keep The Horde in relatively clean condition, fed and watered and moderately well dressed. The winter vermin infestation is not my fault. And if I let the cats play with the mice I catch in the live-trap, is that so bad? What I ask for is a very small miracle, the kind that would not put you out in the least... I've already petitioned God for the big stuff, so maybe you can get this while he finds me fortune and glory... I would really like a quicker way to make those carrot muffin waffles.
P.S.-- Godivas are good, too.
Number one is approaching sixteen and talks of nothing but driving and dating, with which neither am I entirely comfortable, but I have managed to not lock her in her room or disgrace her in front of her friends. A good deed if ever there was one.
Number two has made excellent progress over the years, even in the face of teen-age hormones. I drive him to school every day and take him to the library on a regular basis (though I must draw the line at letting him live at Borders). I allow him turns on the computer (a big deal, believe you me!), and the fact that he has not turned into a homicidal maniac shows a great deal of effort in the mother department, does it not?
Number three is hyper-active and moody and must be hitting puberty rather early, which is entirely unfair, but do you hear me complaining? Have I beat him senseless? No. This should prove something. He may yet turn out well, but I will hold judgement until after he turns eighteen. There was the incident with the broken dining room table, but I've already apologized for that.
Four has tyrannical tendencies that I've done all in power to squash. She is mostly good, though slightly annoying, and gets very good grades. I know, I had nothing to do with it, but cut me a break, would ya?
Five... well, sure I love him, too. Yes I do. I can still talk, which means I have not screamed myself hoarse in the face of number five. He has not banned me from his room, even though I make him bathe, so that MUST mean he forgives me... you can follow his example and cut me a little slack.
Six is trying to kill me, and himself, I'd wager. The high speed pencil up my nose, if you'll recall, and multiple beatings with pencil-swords, Lego-swords, stick-swords, and other types of swords--balls and other toys thrown at my person, and multiple acts of two-year-old violence have not yet induced more than an occasional growl on my part. While I cannot claim sole responsibility for keeping him alive--the dresser he scaled did not crush him when it fell, the passing driver did not kidnap him as he wandered down the street unsupervised, and the big knife he pulled from the dishwasher to wave around like a (you guessed it,sword!) killed and cut no one--there are countless other disasters I've helped to prevent...
Perhaps, in light of all my goodness, you can overlook my evil tendencies and selfish hiding of the good chocolates. I do keep The Horde in relatively clean condition, fed and watered and moderately well dressed. The winter vermin infestation is not my fault. And if I let the cats play with the mice I catch in the live-trap, is that so bad? What I ask for is a very small miracle, the kind that would not put you out in the least... I've already petitioned God for the big stuff, so maybe you can get this while he finds me fortune and glory... I would really like a quicker way to make those carrot muffin waffles.
P.S.-- Godivas are good, too.
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