Couch Potato to 5K: Trying to Give Up

I found a way out of it yesterday. After all, I'd slept fitfully through the night. I don't think I'd had more than a couple of hours of sleep, tops. And that's all put together. I certainly didn't get that much all at one time.

And the stomach pain. How could I run with stomach pain? I mean, it's not completely my fault that I ate two pieces of birthday cake. And ice cream. I hadn't had birthday cake with its Crisco-based icing for ages. Sure, I had to force myself to eat it, to choke it down. But I finally convinced myself it was good, and the cake part actually was. Well, so was the ice cream part. But that's always good. I didn't say I hadn't had ice cream in ages. Just Crisco-icing cake.

So how could I really have been expected to run yesterday?

And it all turned out fine, anyway. Kim needed a break, too. I decided to try harder the next day. Which was today.

When the alarm went off, I pretty much wanted to die. When I awake on running days, that's basically my first conscious thought. "I want to die. I can't run today. I'll fail. I want to die."

My stomach turns all knotty. I worry about my bladder. What if I have to pee while we're running? Then what? I worry about my bowels. I've seen those photos of marathon runners with the brown stains on their behinds. What in the world is worth that?

I slammed my hand on the "snooze" button. Okay, I really just pushed it with my finger. But I felt like slamming it. Rolling over, I tried to get a few more minutes of sleep. But I couldn't. My brain said, "You can't do it. You're such a wimpy burger. You really, really are a failure, aren't you?" And I, crying like a little girl, said, "Yes. Yes, I am. And I'm not getting out of this bed."

But eventually, my body urged me out of bed, and I slid from the warm, cozy cocoon into the world of good morning.

"Good morning," my husband Bo mumbled.

"Ergh," I answered.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"Arachk," I spat.

"What's the matter?" he persisted.

"I have to run. I have to...run. I hate running. I don't want to go. Why do I have to go?"

"Baby. Don't go, then," the demon temptation that is my husband spoke.

"What's the MATTER with you? Of COURSE I have to go! I'm not giving up all this work I've done! I'm not quitting for nothing! How dare you?"

I checked the weather. Fourteen degrees. I hear insanity slips away from you around fourteen degrees.

I pulled on my black long underwear and my tan Columbia Omni-Tech® Nubby Faille HP™ with 100% polyester Ultra-Wick™ brushed mesh lining cargo pants, a built-in-bra camisole and three layers of shirts, topped with a hooded sweatshirt. And one pair of socks. My feet usually don't get cold when I run.

We were the only ones on the trail, Kim and I.

"Are we gonna run?" She asked.

"I don't know," I confessed.

I told her all about my morning battle, how I psyche myself out, convinced that if I come running, I'll surely miss my goal. I'll surely fail. And then what?

"Let's just try," she said.

And we did.

There had been others on the trail before us, evidenced by their footprints in the snow, but they turned around during our first interval.

"This is now uncharted territory," I told Kim as we puffed along. "We're officially insane."

But I'm not so sure about that, even now as I sit in the warm house with my sheepskin slippers keeping my toes toasty. If I could but describe the beauty of the winter trail, the snow-capped trees, the silent snow, the peace, I would rival Wordsworth, Dickinson, Teasdale and Longfellow combined. This snow, this scene, was too beautiful for words. Ocassionally, the wind would catch a branch and, like a domino effect, a few completely soundless clumps of snow would crash, unheard, into a pine bough, which would move in seeming slow-motion, bouncing noiseless and flinging more silent snow to the ground, like giant hushed snowflakes begging for a laconic description. There is none. "Silent," is the banal, overused word that just keeps lunging into my mind. But it's not enough.

We trudged on, and I pushed myself. "If I let my brain win," I told Kim, "I'll give up. I'll be a failure." And so we ran more, longer, endured. And when we thought we were done, we ran one more interval, just in case.

90/90, 2 min/2 min, 2 min/2 min...repeat. We did three repetitions in all, 36 minutes of nine running/walking intervals, and then we walked the remainder back, noticing the difference of our lone back-trail, mine tattling how my feet kick outward as I run, Kim's as straight and steady as a pair of railroad tracks.

We high-fived when we finished. Kim did a little victory dance. My body had won. My brain had been defeated. We'd passed another milestone. We'd lived to run another day. I'd tried to give up, but I hadn't let me.

Next time, I'll likely try to find a way out again. But remembering this day will help. As will the encouragement of my friends (Hi, John! Hit the road!) and even my dear husband, who isn't a demon at all, but the very one who assures me that "it's going away" and he pats my posterior.

It's going away.

Bella

It's hard to have nieces and nephews so far away, but it's wonderful to have e-mail and other ways of communicating so that I can see how they're growing and changing. Here's my niece, Bella, from a photograph taken and edited by my mother-in-law. I wish I could be there to hug her and kiss her chubby cheeks. It sucks being so far away. It's one of the reasons I pray that my kids try to stay close to home, but I know I have no control over that. Still, I'm lobbying. Bard, the best colleges are in Ohio. So are the best husbands. You know that, right?

Right?

Pizza Party!

I hurried home from church yesterday to begin making pizza dough. It was important to start early, because I needed to make enough dough to feed nineteen children and seven adults, and prepare enough toppings for them to each make their own custom pizzas.

Last night was our homeschool group's family fellowship night. Once a year, during January, we skip the monthly meeting and meet in small groups in homes. This year, our family hosted and I took Bo's suggestion of preparing all of the ingredients and crusts and letting people create their own culinary masterpieces.

Guests arrived just as I was finishing the top crust on the Spinach and Onion Deep Dish Pizza Pie. I'd purchased a bunch of pizza screens in both 7" personal and 14" sizes. We have two ovens, so we fired them both up and got to work. I showed the kids how to stretch the dough and put it on the screen, then they took their turns heaping their pizzas with toppings while one of the dads treated us to a few selections on the piano. Very, very nice! It was really a fun time. My favorite pizza was the white pizza with feta cheese, spinach, fresh garlic, parmesan and olive oil. Delicious! I had enough sauce and dough balls left over to freeze and the ladies helped me clean up.

I'd love to do it again. Pizza party, anyone?

A New Face!

I've needed a facelift on my blog for quite some time. When I saw The Circle of Quiet, I decided to fire an e-mail off to Seth and see if there was any hope for my little home on the web. After my many fickle mind-changes, Seth patiently created this lovely new design for me. I hope you like it!

Be sure to visit Seth for a very reasonable facelift for your blog, too!

A Birthday!

For months, The Baby has been talking about her upcoming birthday. She would tell anyone she met, saw, briefly passed or thought about that her birthday was coming, and she would be four.

"I want a pink birthday with purple," she'd say.

Yesterday, she got that birthday.

It just so happened that it coincided with a houseconcert we hosted, so we tossed the birthday into the same hat as the houseconcert and ended up with a rip-roarin' good time.

The best gift The Baby received was a painting made just for her by my friend and running buddy, Kim. The Baby had told Kim all about her birthday plans, complete with the pink birthday with purple, so Kim got inspired and created the lovely painting you see above, which now holds a prominent place in my hallway where everyone can see it.

What a blessing to have such a gifted artist for a friend!

The Baby also received Polly Pockets from her sister, a wooden birthday cake set and Playmobil toys from her siblings, and a heap of thrift store goodies from mom and dad including books, necklaces, dolls and cutie-patootie clothes.

Today we had cake, and, at The Baby's request, I bought pink cupcakes with sprinkles, just like the ones in the painting. I think that tomorrow we'll have a little tea party, too, just to extend the birthday celebration.

Thank God for little girls--and, today, especially this one. Happy pink and purple birthday, Baby!

My daughter made me do it...

My daughter made one of these silly quizzes, so I decided to make one, too. How well do you know me? Don't let the name throw ya. I didn't want to be known to all the world. Warning: you have to sign in for your score to show up on the board. I just used a bunch of hooey to sign in. ;-)

The Thighs, They Are a'Changin'

I don't know if I'll ever get the hang of this running thing. I was so proud of myself on Monday for finishing my run and thought that today would be easy since I'd already done it. Guess what?

It kicked my tuckus.

From the second I stepped onto the trail (I just typed "trial" and corrected it. I shoulda left it), I was wondering when I would be done. Ugh! It was work every. step. of. the. way! And looking for the bluebirds? Forget it. It didn't cut it at all. I tried counting in my head. I tried staring at my feet. I tried letting my mind drift. Nothing doing. It was hard, hard, hard, all the way. I felt like I was going to vomit a couple of times, and I literally wanted to quit, but I didn't. Kim and I finished the goal. 90 seconds jogging (and I do mean j.o.g.g.i.n.g. Every muscle and flabby place on my body flopped like a dying fish), 90 seconds walking, then two minutes jogging and two minutes walking.

It was tough, I tell ya. Tough. Kim handled it like a trooper (she *is* superior to me, I must say) and barely even panted. But me? I was close to howling.

But I did it. And we're that much closer to Week Three (90 seconds jogging, 90 seconds walking, 3 min jogging, 3 min walking). We both confessed today that we're really not in that big of a hurry, and that, while running a 5K sounds yummy, it wouldn't break our hearts if we didn't make the goal. We *could* do it, if we really, really, really, really, really, really wanted to. But do we really, really, really, really, really want to? (I just typed all those "reallies," but the way. No cheating with the cut-n-paste for me.)

In a way, I do. I mean, that's what inspired me to start running in the first place, seeing a group of sweaty human beings crossing a finish line on Turkey Day. There were even a couple of people in costumes. There was, no joke, a running banana and two running penguins. I'm not sure I'm that crazy.

But I would like to run in the Spring 5K here. If, that is, I could talk my body into it. Ack.

I have to admit, though, that under the flab that's on my legs? Muscles. Oh, yeah. I can feel 'em. I mean, literally, with my hand, I can feel 'em. How weird is that? I wake up each morning and pull on my belly fat to see if it's any smaller (remember the "pinch and inch" commercials? I've got enough for all of ya), then I feel my hips and legs to remind myself that, yes, I have been actually running. This isn't a dream. Then I look in the mirror to see if my love handles are gone yet. Not quite, but they're getting there. Before you know it, there'll be less of me to love.

That reminds me--do you know that I actually have real, valid reasons for staying overweight? I do. I have actually talked myself into believing that being overweight is a good thing! For example, I've comforted myself with the knowledge that I'm not a stumbling block for any woman's husband. I've also patted myself on the back for being non-threatening to my friends. I've preened in front of the mirror reminding myself that I'm the kind of woman Rembrandt or Rubens would have painted, full-figured and healthy. I've pounded it into my head that extra pounds are healthier. I've thought that I'm just meant to be this size. I've thought all of this. And more.

But I've never been happy being overweight. I've longed to be truly healthy since I first gained this weight eighteen years ago.

I want to keep running, in spite of the fact that I want to quit running. Does that make any sense at all? It doesn't have to. It's just true.

It's really hard to type when I have to keep stopping to feel if my thighs have shrunk any more, so I'll just leave you with this last thought. I'm reading the book French Women Don't Get Fat and the author says that it's important to institute a lifestyle that you know you'll maintain. I'm trying to find that balance now. It's very difficult. Tonight, I just wanted a great big steak and a large, fully-loaded baked potato and a roll slathered with butter. That seems to be a trend. I've wanted beef recently like nobody's business.

It's just another sign.

My body is changing. I can just feel it.

An Actual Bedtime Conversation

The Baby decided she wanted to sleep with her big sister Bard tonight. I had the distinct pleasure of praying for both of them.

After the prayer was over, The Baby showed Bard the boo-boo on her toe.

Bard: "Don't play with it."
The Baby: "Why?"
Bard: "Because your toe will fall off."
The Baby, looking at me: "Nuh uh!"
Me: "You know what Bard is?"
The Baby: "What?"
Me: "A liar."
Several minutes go by as we discuss other things and say our goodnights.
Me: "Goodnight, Baby. I love you. "
Bard (to Baby): "But she doesn't love me..."
Me: (to Baby): "Do you love her?"
The Baby: "A little bit."
Me: "I love her a lot. She's a good girl, actually."
The Baby, without missing a beat: "Yeah, but she's a liar."
Bard and I: laugh hysterically

Dang...

Well, I guess I got a little bit overexuberant. I went back and checked the CPto5K running schedule, and I'm actually on, like, week 2 1/2. Week three is 90 seconds of jogging, 90 seconds of walking, THREE minutes of jogging, then THREE minutes of walking, alternating for 25 minutes. Ick. I only did two minutes. And it was not at all jolly.

But still, I feel good, and I pushed myself further than I'd been before, and I'll be much more ready for Week Three when I finish this one because I stepped it up a little.

Onward!

Couch Potato to 5K: Week 3, Day 1

I'm on Week Three of the Couch Potato to 5K. I took 15-year-old Houdin along with me for moral support as well as being a body guard. He served as a distraction, too, tossing snowballs by my head and telling me silly stories so I didn't have to hit the pavement (read: snow) thinking, "When will this interval be over?" with each step. I was able to do eight intervals of 90/90 and 120/120 without dying. We then walked the rest of the way, totaling a one hour workout. I feel refreshed, but I was absolutely famished. Even after eating a full but healthy lunch, I was still hungry. Once home, I ate two mugs of vanilla ice cream, and now I feel happy and sleepy, though slightly guilty.

I discovered The Daily Plate today and thought you'd be interested, too. You can enter what you ate as well as your daily exercise and see how many calories you're afforded. I was encouraged by what I saw.

Tomorrow, walking with Bard.

What Is It with Us and Winter? A Tragedy Averted

For some reason, winter is always a problem for us. Terrible things seem to happen during winter. One year, I was very overdue with The Baby and my dad ruptured several discs in his back. We were living in a small cabin with no indoor bathtub or toilet and there was ice everywhere. For my dad to get back and forth to Ol' Rosy (the outhouse) was impossible, so he had to use a bedpan, which spilled on several occasions. I, and my very pregnant belly, spent a lot of time close to the floor that winter cleaning nasty messes.

Then one year our whole family got sick. Pneumonia, bronchitis, sinusitis, laryngitis--you name it, we had it. Bo was sicker than he'd ever been, unable to sleep and in terrible pain. On Christmas eve, I'd still not put up decorations, wrapped gifts, or anything. We were in the middle of building a house and everything just seemed hopeless.

Two years ago, we had a horrible ice storm and were without power for a week over the Christmas holiday.

Because we live on a hill, getting into the driveway once the winter weather hits is quite a challenge. The first winter we lived here, we were driving home from visiting friends up north and arrived home very late, to the tune of 2 a.m. When we reached our road, it was clear that we wouldn't be taking that route with our big van, so we tried an alternate route. That route was completely drifted over, a fact we didn't discover until we'd unsuccessfully attempted to navigate it and ended up back-end first in a snow drift. With a two-week old baby, four kids and a young guest in the car, we tried to figure out what to do. It was a two-mile walk in the drifting snow, by now it was 3 a.m, and we couldn't run the engine for fear of the tailpipe being blocked by the drift. We'd die of carbon monoxide poisoning. My husband had his cell phone and called my dad to rescue us. He got the Jeep stuck in a snowdrift and staggered through the storm a 1/2 mile to be stranded with us. We finally called a neighbor who brought his truck and shuttled us to our drive, where we trudged uphill and then steeply downhill to our littel cabin in the woods.

This year, we've had very mild weather. Until today. It was great for sledding and snowboarding, but when we arrived home from church, we were unable to get our van up the drive. That was tolerable this morning; there was nothing to carry. But this evening, we had fourteen gallon-jars filled with raw milk, a sleeping toddler, three bags of groceies and a few sundries to haul.

We decided to get out and push.

The three older kids and I got behind the van and pushed as hard as we could. At first, we didn't seem to make any headway, but then we moved it a couple of feet. The frightening thing was that everytime we seemed to get the thing moved, one of us would lose footing and the van would start sliding backwards. I thought for sure I was going to end up on the ground with the van sliding over me.

But we made it up the hill and into the parking area. There, we realized that our Jeep was parked on the wrong side of the garage, which would make it difficult to unload the van.

"Do you want to move the Jeep, or do you want me to?" asked Bo.

"Doesn't matter," I answered.

"I'll do it, then." And he hopped out of the car, leaving the van running.

Sweetheart asked if she could play in the snow. Her brothers had run down the hill after pushing the van instead of riding inside of it, and she thought it unfair that she'd not get to throw a few snowballs, too.

"It's dark," I protested. She lamented from the back seat.

The next thing I knew, fifteen-year-old Houdin was yelling Sweetheart's name. I looked over to see her lying on the ground behind the Jeep, the vehicle still moving slightly. It stopped, and Sweetheart scrambled to her feet, and then collapsed in frantic tears. My darling daughter had almost been backed over by her own father. He hadn't seen her. How could he have? She'd been bent to the ground to pack a snowball. I hadn't even realized she'd left the van.

While sixteen-year-old Bard was helping Sweetheart into the house and comforting her, Bo finished maneuvering vehicles and then began unloading the milk from the van. As I was putting away the mountains of hats, gloves and scarves, I hear a crash and a yell. I raced into the garage to see that one of the crates of milk had fallen out of the back of the van, shattering a glass bottle and breaking the lid off of a plastic one. Bo was beside himself with frustration.

At the same time all of this was going on, my dad was kneeling in the back of the van with his feet sticking out of the side, extracting The Baby from her carseat where she was groggily talking to him. I closed the front passenger door...on my dad's foot.

I'm not sure why these things happen in winter, but they seem to be very attracted to us. It made me think about how many things could go wrong during the day and how blessed we are that these things were potential tragedies, not real ones. At church tonight, someone announced that in a nearby city a car had slid off the bridge and crashed through the guardrail into the river. They still had located neither the car nor the passengers. How horrible those people must have felt. How terribly frightened they must have been as they realized what was happening to them, to see that river rushing toward them just before impact and to feel the icy water close in around them. My prayers immediately went up for them.

I don't know why God spared Sweetheart tonight. A foot or two further, and we might be in serious mourning right this moment. But we're all safe, as a family. We're warm and alive and blessed to be so.

I don't know, either, what it is about winter that brings these challenges, but if they come to you, too, during this time of year, please be safe and count your blessings.

Peace to you.

A Purple...Wha..?

I have no idea at all what this actually means, but apparently I'm a purple sofa. I'll go with that, I guess.

The Most Amazing Qu--Hey, Look, Candy! Your Result: Purple Sofa You're nice and squishy, and people like you a lot. In fact, I think everyone likes you. Plus you're purple. Everyone likes purple, and everyone likes sofas. Except guys don't like purple as much. Samuel L. Jackson likes purple. That's why he has a purple lightsaber. Only I don't know if that's his actual name. So it goes.
Polka Dotted Sasquatch
Emerald Rain
Swirling Vortex
Flaming Feather
Pickled Jellyfish
The Most Amazing Qu--Hey, Look, Candy! Make Your Own Quiz

::: today at "time to cook" :::

Today at Time to Cook, an essay on awaiting the first snow and a recipe for Simple Hot Cocoa and Homemade Whipped Cream. Drag out the sleds and the hot chocolate mugs and pop on over!

Card catalog generator, with hat tip to Hind's Feet.

It's the truth. It's actual...

When I went walking with Bard on Thursday morning, I remembered why I would much rather brave the cold, icy morning on the trail than stand on a treadmill in the warm, televisioncentric club.

Bluebirds.

Bard and I only had a short time to walk on Thursday morning, but I really felt that I needed to take that time. We bundled up and rushed to the trail, leaving behind us the fury that was a family preparing for debate class.

It was crisp and delicious on the trail. Trees creaked ominously above us while the occasional Northern Flicker or Downy Woodpecker laughed at the sillyness of our feet on the pavement. Up ahead, two male cardinals picked through the debris of a road apple, left there by one of the many horses that pull one of the many Amish buggies from the little Amish districts up North to the Stuf*Mart down south. That's one of the reasons this trail is so successful; it gives the Amish a way to travel off of the dangerous, speed-driven main roads from their simple homes to town--to join the bustle of the big town; the doctors' offices, the grocery store, the thrift store, Stuf*Mart, Burger King and Subway.

Shortly into our walk, a dart of blue flitted by, followed by another. And another. I pointed them out to Bard.

"The bluebird of happiness," she said.

It's not likely that's something you'll see in the club.

Yesterday morning, Kim kicked my butt with a little running-program-boost. For the first time, we did 90 second jogging and walking intervals. 90 seconds. No waiting until I was "ready." No prescribed 2 minute walking intervals. 90 seconds of jogging, ninety seconds of walking, and ninety seconds of jogging. We did this for twenty minutes, and then continued our regular walk for the remainder of the hour.

I have to admit that I absolutely dread getting up to run in the morning. When I awake and realize it's a running day, I literally get nauseated and I worry all the way until my very last joggy step. I'm sure I'm going to fail. I'm sure I'll never actually do this. I'll give up. I'm not even remotely able to think positive. I know, when I awake on running mornings, that I am going to die.

But when I'm out there, and I'm doing it, I know it's the right thing.

My feet hit the path in time with Kim's. All I can hear is my breathing and hers, and the crunch of our feet on the snow. Whatever I can do to occupy my mind until that interval is over takes over my whole existence--watching the trail move beneath my feet, picking a distant spot that will likely be our ending place (I often call it right. And I thought I had depth-perception problems.), counting very, very long seconds, coming up with a theme song for the run (yesterday, it was Run to the End of the Highway by Keith Green. How appropriate.), or concentrating on my breathing. Sometimes, I just try to let my body fly away and encourage my brain to do the same. I want to get to the place where this is easy, where it actually feels good to run. I'm trying to think positive, see?

The last leg of yesterdays run, we turned around and covered our previous path to make our way back to the trailhead. There was something incredibly comforting and encouraging about jogging over our lone footprints on the snow, the prints we'd made on on our seventh, sixth, fifth intervals. Our steps were even--our pace had been the same. No other prints disturbed the thin layer of snow, just ours. And as we ended our last jogging interval, we high-fived it. Yes. We'd done it. Another, higher goal had been met.

We walked the rest of the way back. I was even tempted to run a couple of times, but I decided to keep with the CPto5K program instead. Pace myself. Enjoy my victory. The snow danced so delicately around us. We talked about the wonder if them, the incredible uniqueness that proves there is a God who loves beauty. Who loves us.

And there were the bluebirds. I mentioned them to Kim.

"The bluebird of happiness," she said.

This is why I'll leave the treadmill where it belongs and take myself to the place where I belong--braving the weather and embracing the beauty of bluebirds.

::: bedtime prayers :::

Several years ago, I decided to relinquish my position as bedtime tucker-inner. My rationale was that I'm the mom; I'm with the children all day long; Dad is the dad; he's gone all day long; the children should have a memory of this ritual with their father.

So I handed over my bedtime duties to my husband Bo.

I don't know, exactly, how long he has been putting the kids to bed at night, but I do know (please don't be offended, dearest husband) that it has never been a smooth adjustment. Bo just doesn't put the kids to bed the way I do. He doesn't have that bedtime "touch." He isn't ritualistic in that "floating off to sleepytime-land" kind of way.

Now, you might argue that I was spoiled as a child. And you'd be absolutely correct. My father, the same man who dotes on all of the babies in their babyhood, doted on me when I was a wee one. When my father would put me to bed, he would spend a great deal of time putting me to bed. He would tuck me in, and he would tell me stories, and he would play funny games with me, like "Which of these creatures in the bed is my daughter?", kissing each of my stuffed animals as he pretended that they were me and then animatedly realizing his mistake. This could go on for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, he would put me to sleep somehow, and tiptoe out of my room.

When my mother would put me to bed, she would sing me lullabyes and stroke my eyelids, just below my eyebrows, very lightly with the tip of her finger. I would lie very still, and my challenge was to keep my eyes closed for as long as I could after she'd left, believing that there was some type of magic in her fingertips that would vanish if I opened my eyes.

And while my parents were fabulous at the bedtime routine, there's one thing they never did that I always knew I'd do when I had children--say prayers over them.

Once I had children of my own, bedtime included all manner of ritual. First, a book. Then, a prayer. Then a big hug and a kiss. And sometimes, a visit back to the bedroom to chase away the "monsters."

When Bard was a toddler, the bedtime ritual wasn't complete until she had said, "Don't drop my house!" I would always promise not to drop her house. To this day, neither she nor I have any clue what she meant.

When the children would awake with nightmares or couldn't sleep because of the terrible, scary baddies lurking in the darkness, I would use my "monster spray," a can of air freshener, fitted with a new label proving that it was, indeed, monster spray. I would shake it overdramatically and spray it all over the room, ridding it of monsters.

As they grew a bit older, I had another little trick to chase the baddies away. I would come to the door and tell them to shout the name of Jesus and tell the children to listen closely. If they were very quiet, they would hear the baddies running away. When they hushed, I'd drum my hidden fingers on a doorway or wall, creating the fleeing footsteps of those cowardly critters. They soon grew wise to my little game, but asked me to do it anyway.

If all of this sounds like a lot of work to put a kid to bed, I guess it was. Eventually, I felt that I needed to hand the task over to my husband. But I could never quite let it go. I wanted him to do it like I did. I wanted him to read to them, and joke with them, and scare away the demons for them. But he never quite got the hang of the privilege of being the tucker-inner. Each time he would trot off to do the bedtime routine, he'd return within just a few minutes. I never understood how you could do a good bedtime routine in under five minutes. That's less than a minute per kid, for crying in the mud! Sometimes, he'd just stand in the hallway and pray for them all collectively. Remembering my own childhood bedtimes, I knew that this would never have been sufficient for me. And I was right. It wasn't sufficient for our kids. For the first several months of the transition, they would moan and complain when Dad would put them to bed. They would call for me. Beg for me. But I really felt that Daddy needed to do this. I tried to make suggestions. I encouraged longer bedtime sessions. I even gave him an anthology of stories to read to the younger children. It never really sunk in. And I've always felt that, somehow, I was cheating the kids. And maybe even cheating myself.

I've decided to take my tucker-inner position back.

For the past three nights, I've insisted on a certain bedtime. No yelling or prodding or coercing. If you're in bed, I'll read you a story and/or pray for you. If you're not, I'll hit the sack without tucking you in. It's that simple.

The second night I was on duty, Sweetheart, my seven-year-old daughter, closed her eyes quietly as I prayed for her. I have a certain way I say the prayers, and certain things I always say peppered with requests and thanks that are appropriate for the day. I always ask God to surround their beds with angels to guard and protect them. I always ask for sweet dreams. And I thank God for our home, and our activities that day, and for the child I'm blessing.

When I finished Sweetheart's prayer, she grabbed my face and said, "Now, I want to pray for you."

Let me tell you what it's like to get your socks blessed off.

The prayer began with her thanking God for her "sweet mother," and telling Him how much she appreciates all that her mother does for her, and how hard she works to make a lovely home for all of her children. She asked for God to bless her mother, to give her sweet dreams and to bless her with peace. And then she ended the prayer with words that brought tears to my eyes. She asked God to help her be kind to others, to treat others they way she likes to be treated.

"Thank you, God, for a mother that loves You. Help us all to grow up to love and serve You, too. In Jesus' precious name we pray, Amen."

I will never, ever again give up my tucker-inner duties. There is nothing you could pay me to let them go. You couldn't drag 'em from me with a team of wild horses.

If you haven't done it in a while, go tuck your kids in. It doesn't matter if they're five years old, or fifteen. Ending the day with a comforting word and a reassuring hug is truly relationship-building and serves as a very special ritual for both the tuckee and the tucker, a time to calm fears and heal wounds and offer apology and forgiveness.

And you might just get your socks blessed off, too.

In Pursuit of a Healthy Lifestyle

Scales are not a universal fixture of French bathrooms as they are in
America. And they can be dispiriting indicators of progress. A woman gains
weight with water retention during part of the month. OUr weight can vary for
other reasons, too (time of day, for instance), that have little do with whether
or not we are eating in balance. I did confirm the loss of kilos from time to
tim, but mainly I learned to be more attentive to the look and feel of my body
in my clothes. I could see it was changing. And when the scale registered my
loss of twelve pounds, it was only confirming what I seemed to know. I still
find getting into some slim-cut pants the best indication of pounds
melting--much easier, more reliable, and sexier. Use what French women call le
syndrome de la femeture eclair (zipper syndrome), or use a measuring tape.

Your equilibrium weight, as we have said, is very personal, depending on
many facotrs like age, body type, and for some people, even time of year.
Likewise, improvements are relative, not absolute. Just as French women do not
count calories, they mainly do not count pounds.

~Mirielle Guiliano
French Women Don't Get Fat

I began reading French Women Don't Get Fat yesterday after seeing a short piece on morning television featuring Guiliano while I was walking the treadmill Monday morning. As fate would have it, I remembered the book while I was at the library, our branch owns a copy, and it was actually checked-in. I delved into it like I would a chocolate cream stick, devouring every bite. (Great. Now I want to run to the bakery and buy a cream stick. Nice job, Thicky).

What Guiliano writes throughout the book makes a lot of sense. She talks about eating what you like, but in small portions, learning to eat with your mind--thinking about your food and why you're eating it. Of course, she discusses exercise, but she talks about all of it as a lifestyle that you love, not as a faddish diet that you endure. That's appealing to me.

Because I believe in real food. I believe in wheat and dairy and real, buttery fats. I don't like artificial butters, neither for their taste nor for what they represent to our agriculture. I believe in raw milk and high-quality cheese. I believe in good things, and in everything in moderation. I've just come to the place in my life where I like a glass of red wine; it's a much better choice for me than Dr. Pepper with my evening meal. And I appreciate the taste and cleansing properties of water, not diet sodas or diet shakes.

So, beginning yesterday, I took Guiliano's advice of writing down what I eat for three weeks to assess my eating habits. What do I eat and why?

I know generally, what my problem areas are. I can tell you right now.

~I'm too busy. I have five kids that have to be driven all over tarnation, and I end up running through a drive-through or stopping at a pizza place. This has gotten better, but our choir season has been on-hold. It starts up again this Saturday. That's when the massive driving begins.

~I'm too much of a procrastinator. I wait until I'm so hungry that I can't stand it, and then I'll eat anything that's quick. There are just so many fun (and not fun) things to do, like blogging and reading and thrift-store shopping and cleaning and laundry. Who has time to EAT?

~I'm picky. I'm actually a food snob, and I want things "just so." Because of that, I procrastinate, and then I eat a handful of nuts and a glass of milk. See previous note.

~I don't eat enough greens. One time, I bought a big, beautiful bunch of broccoli at the market. When I got it home and washed it, I found a great big, not so beautiful broccoli worm on the stem. Did you know that broccoli worms are exactly the same color as broccoli? Now, I'm as organic as I can be, but broccoli worms are right-out. Several years later, a girlfriend whose parents own a fruit and veggie farm invited me to pick all of the broccoli I wanted because it was the end of the season and it was going to go to waste in the frost. She took me to the field. We filled up bags and bags of broccoli. It all had worms on it. She showed me how to soak the broccoli in salt water and then blanche it before freezing it. Dead, boiled broccoli worms freaked me out. What if I didn't get them all? I served the broccoli to my family, but I only at it with much suspicion. I certainly didn't enjoy it. That sucks, because I love broccoli. I have the same kind of relationship with other greens, like spinach and romaine. How in the world do I get all of these little individual leaves clean? And I'm too cheap to buy the stuff in bags, prewashed. Except for spinach. I do that. Still, I'm wary. Who washes this stuff? And were they angry at their boss when they did it?

~I really like fats. I'm not so big on sweets, but fats do me in. Give me a bit plate of french fries and a cup of sour cream, and I'm on my way to Fat Heaven. My favorite snack is high-quality potato chips. I'd prefer a buttery-crusted grilled cheese sandwich to a chocolate bar any day. I love a fresh-baked hunk of bread slathered with butter. The only time that sweets are just as tempting as fats are if they're fatty sweets. A fried, glazed donut. A big, fat, greasy cream stick. A buttery, crunchy bowl of butter pecan ice cream. Stop me. Somebody please stop me.

~I like pop. I like Dr. Pepper and Coke and Cherry Coke. I like to drink them with my meals and will occasionally get a craving for one so badly that I have to drive somewhere to get a can, even if I have to pay $1 for one out of a vending machine.

I've really improved over the past few months. I haven't had a donut in weeks and weeks, though the best donut shop is a little Amish place I can literally see from my window right now. Cinnamon fries the size of your head. No joke.

I rarely drink pop with my meals now (always water).

I've greatly reduced the amount of drive-through trips I take, and when I do, I get a small burger and a water.

I've decreased my portions significantly, and I don't feel cheated. I actually feel good.

I still get distracted and rush too much, leaving me no time to sit down and eat or forcing me to skip meals.

I haven't figured out the greens thing yet. I'm open to suggestions. Although I can say that when I take the time to make a salad, I actually enjoy eating it. I guess the time, procrastination and food snob thing all work together against me, here.

Now I'm hungry, so I'm going to go have some homemade yogurt, another thing that Mileille Guiliano and I agree on.

Note to Self: Stay off the Scale

Yesterday was killer. I don't know what it was that knocked me down like it did, but I'm still not completely up again.

Some days are like this.

There are days when I feel like I can take on the world. Give me any chance, I'll take it. Give me any rule, I'll break it.

But there are other days, like yesterday...

I didn't want to get out of bed. I was supposed to run with Kim, but it was raining. Not just raining, but really, really raining in a gray, depressing kind of way. I was going to cancel our run, but Kim, being the ever-encouraging walking/running partner that she is, found a way around the dilemma and got us into the local club for the day. We did the treadmill for an hour, and it was absolutely no fun. I hate the televisions and the noise and the heat and the whole being-on-a-treadmill feeling. I'm much more of a nature girl, really. But we did it, and I think the little blinking lights said that I burned like 325 calories or something. Kind of depressing. Not really even a meal's worth.

And then I weighed myself. I weigh 185 right now. 185! That's terrible. I never, ever, ever want to weigh myself again. I guess it doesn't help that I used to be 110. I guess it doesn't help that I topped out at 180 when I was nine-months pregnant with my first child. I guess it doesn't help when I see that other people can lose a whole person in ten months, because I'm totally not interested in eating fake fats and counting everything I put in my mouth. I don't want to live that way, really. I just want to find a healthy, happy balance. I want to enjoy my life and not hate my body.

Yesterday, when I came home from the gym, I spent time wtih my kids for a while, reading and talking and laughing, and then I got really, really tired. By three o'clock, I crashed. I couldn't stay awake any longer. It didn't really matter if the house was burning down, or if my childen were shooting each other. I...just...needed...to...sleep. It was all I could do.

So, I closed my eyes and slept. For three hours, I slept.

When I awoke, my head was splitting open and there were angry thoughts in it.

I spent the entire rest of the evening in bed. My husband brought me wine and peanuts. My daughter brought me toast and eggs. I tried using my sinus mask, but it didn't help. I drank another glass of wine. Finally, I asked for ibuprofen, and I went to sleep.

This morning, I still didn't want to get out of bed. Is this illness or depression or what? But I did get out of bed, and I did actually go with Kim and we did actually run. Not three miles, or seven miles, or ten miles, or a marathon, but we ran. We ran a total of twelve minutes with intervals of walking in between.

Why doesn't that make me feel better? Why is it that I feel worse about myself right this minute, in my size-twelve thrift store pants, than I felt six months ago in my size-sixteen jeans? Why am I suffering this anxiety, that I'll never lose weight? That I'll be 185 forever? That I'll have to eat nothing and like it in order to look the way I want to look?

I don't know. Maybe this will pass. But today, I just want to go to bed and cry.

I might just do that.

Talk amongst yourselves. I'll return to my normal program following this plunge into depression.

Couch Potato to 5K: Week 2, Day 2

Fine flakes of snow drifted down around us as Kim and I continued our Couch Potato to 5K program. The trail was quiet, we were wearing our layers, and it was hard work.

But we did it.

We took a little longer between jogging intervals than is prescribed, and we jogged at a nice, easy pace, but we completed our training for today and were on the trail for a total of 57 minutes and 18 seconds.

During our session, we talked about frustrations of weight and eating and trying to find the balance of a healthy lifestyle. Even though we both see that we're making progress (the first week, forty-five seconds of jogging just about killed me), we don't feel like we're seeing the physical evidence we'd like to see.

For me, I still have wa-a-a-ay too much flab on my belly, my underarms, and my inner thighs. While I've decreased my clothing size and things do fit better than they did before, I'm not seeing what I want to see.

I mean, I want to see progress. Progress! I want to see a flat belly, a distinct six-pack. I want a belly that deserves jewelry, I tell ya! Every morning, I wake up, and just about the first thing I do is grab my gut. Is it getting any smaller? Am I shrinking? Am I wasting away to practically nothing?

The problem is that I feel like I've hit this plateau. The real problem is that I'm obsessing about it. I don't want to obsess about it. I just want to get svelte. I just want this almost-forty body to look like it's 18. I just want to be drop-dead gorgeous. Is that too much to ask?

Tomorrow, I'll walk with my kids. The day after that, I'll walk with my kids. And the day after that, I'll run with Kim. I have to. Kim went and told a couple that we see on the trail every day that we're training for the spring 5K. Way to go, Kimmie (I can call you Kimmie, right? That's what Julia called you when I picked up the club card). Now we're commited.

My next big choice...do I eat a salad or a Whopper?

Week three, look out. We're coming at you fast and furious.

Before the Ball

Houdin and Bard were off to a contra-dance ball tonight. Because I was a ding-dong and left my digital camera out in the rain, I only had Bo's phone to take photos. The friends they're going with have a camera and promised to take some shots, so I hope to have better ones available later.

I'd like to add that all of the items they're wearing, except their socks and undies and Bard's sweater-shawl, were thrift store finds. I wish you could see Bard's coat for real. I bought it a couple of years ago at the thrift store for me to wear when we go out to a fancy place and I get to play dress-up. The collar is real fur and the coat is a delicious grass-green that contrasted wonderfully with Bard's lovely maroon dress.

Now it's time to go retrieve them. I hope they had a lovely time!

I leave with you the letter that was sent to serve as guidelines for the ball:

~ Dress Code: :

Men: This dance requires semiformal to formal attire. If you are indecisive, err on the formal side. Dress sla'cks, shirt-and tie are appropriate. Bow ties, suspenders, and vests are also acceptable accessories. Dress shoes with a rubber sole function very well on a wood floor.

Ladies: Erring on the formal side also applies here. However, for the ladies there are a few different considerations. Dresses ought to be mid-calf or longer [with a full skirt]. A well fitting bodice (not too tight and not too loose) will be comfortable for all the dances. It is important to remember when choosing your dress that you must be able to move your arms freely in front of you, to the side, up and down, without hindrance. It should be modest in all positions of the arms and torso. Much of the movement in the dances will cause your dress to twirl and fill out. Please keep this in mind when considering appropriate underskirt attire. Many ladies like to wear gloves. Modesty is strongly encouraged.

Responsibilities

Men: Men have the greatest responsibilities in this type of social gathering. They must see that all the ladies have the opportunity to dance. Choosing only one lady with whom to dance during the night is selfish and inappropriate. If you see ladies standing on the side waiting to be asked to dance, then choose one with whom to dance. Do not monopolize any single lady. That means, in general, do not dance with a single lady more than twice. Of course exceptions are permitted: married, engaged, or courting couples, or siblings, are free to break this guideline. Many of the dances are "mixers" so the lady with whom you begin the dance is not the lady with whom you finish. You get to dance with all of the ladies in the circle or set. If you ask a lady to dance and she declines, you cannot ask why. If she declines and does not say it is OK to ask later, then don't ask again. When dancing, please be gentle with the ladies. As mentioned before, men must be gentlemen and responsible men.

Ladies: Ladies also have certain responsibilities. They must not ask a man to dance unless he is a family member; [Conduct as well as dress should be modest.] If a lady wishes not to accept a dance, she may decline politely. If she wants to sit out a dance, but doesn't mind if he asks later, she should tell him.

A note to young gentlemen on ball etiquette :
From: Mr. Fritz Hinrichs :

My dear young gentlemen, ~

This ball might be the first for many of you, so you are in need of a little instruction on the rudiments of ball etiquette. A ball promises great delight and enjoyment; however, you must know how to conduct yourself properly to enjoy its pleasures.

First, this is a ball, not a dance. At a dance, many boys simply act without any direction or discretion. This simply will not do at our ball. At all times you must act with complete hospitality towards and respect for the young ladies. At no time are your actions to be controlled by male egotism, passion or cowardice. In order to make sure that you conduct yourself with all proper courtesy and decorum, please follow these guidelines. When you wish to dance with a young lady, approach her and say, "May I have this dance with you?" If she accepts, I offer her your arm, look for an available space on the dance floor and escort her to it. Once the dance is complete, thank her for dancing with you, offer her your arm again and lead her back to where she was originally seated. If you do not act in a polite manner when you ask her to dance (for example, of you approached and said "Hey, let's dance") you will simply be told, "No." If you are polite to her and yet she does not desire to dance, she will smile and say, "No, thank you." or "No, thank you for asking."

A ball is not a place where one comes to find some romantic dream. Therefore,do not wait the entire evening trying to get up the courage to ask a girl for whom you have taken a particular fancy. This is an error that shows both a lamentable fixation on your own passions as well as simple cowardice. One comes to a ball to dance. It is your responsibility to make sure that the young ladies who would like to dance have an opportunity to do so. If you see someone who has not yet had an opportunity to dance, make sure she is given that opportunity. If you find you are turned down, simply smile, walk away and ask someone else.

Your gracious attitude towards the ladies should not stop once you leave the dance floor. Whether it be around the punch bowl, going through doors, or simply chatting between dances, you will be expected to show them all proper deference. Phrases like "'Excuse me", "'Please, you first", "'Thank you", "'You are kind to say so." should be ready on your Ups.

You can expect the finest behavior from your female peers; however, they may be a bit nervous themselves· and resort to that irksome habit of huddling in little female bevies around the peripheries of the dance floor. If this were a perfect world you would not need to face such obstacles, however, manly courage is not daunted but strengthened by such trials. Remember - it is not the woman's place to ask you to dance. It is your responsibility to overcome your boyish timidity,take the part of a man and show a hospitable initiation towards the young ladies.

Politely requesting a girl to dance will say volumes about your character. Also remember, just because a girl looks down at the ground when you approach to ask her to dance, this does not necessarily mean that she does not wish to dance. Often young women are quite shy and find it very difficult to look at a young man directly. If a young woman has come to a ball, it is a fair assumption that she would like to dance.

I do not mean to give you these guidelines to restrict the natural delight that one can take in such events, yet, as with the rest of life, it is within structure that we find the blessings freedom provides.

Mr. Hinrichs
a.k.a. Mr. Manners

Running progress for January

When I started walking in the late fall, I couldn't have imagined walking through the winter. But because of our very mild winter weather this year and my walking partner's company and encouragement, here I am, in the middle of January, and I'm still hittin' the trail three times a week or more.

And it's paying off.

Today, I picked up two pairs of pants from the rack at our local thrift store that are two sizes smaller than what I was wearing just six months ago. I wasn't sure if they'd fit. To be honest, I was afraid to try them on. I just keep worrying that I only think I'm losing weight (I don't weigh or measure myself) and that I'm actually not changing at all.

But when I stepped into the dressing room and pulled on those size twelves? Yes! They fit! I can now say that I really am no longer a size 16!

My energy level is higher, my eating has been healthier (who wants to eat five brownies when you know you had to really, really work that morning to get your butt out of bed and get to the trail?), and I just feel better.

On Thanksgiving, after seeing a group of runners doing a Turkey Day Run, I got inspired. For the first time in my life, I thought, "I could do that." And the thought didn't exhaust me.

I started the Couch Potato to 5K program the Wednesday after I came home from visiting my inlaws for the turkey holiday. It was hard work, but I did it. The next day, Kim said she'd join me in running.

I had horrible running shoes, so I got blisters very badly and my feet were incredibly sore. The first day I ran with Kim, I could barely go 45 seconds. When it came time for the walking interval, I thought I would puke. We didn't do the whole program that day, I don't think. And after that, my muscles, blisters and feet hurt so badly, I didn't think I'd ever run again.

On the recommendation of a reader, I bought a pair of very good running shoes on eBay and we eased back into it.

I had kind of felt discouraged, thinking that I wouldn't be able to complete the Couch Potato program and dreading my sessions until another reader posted that she'd been inspired by my Couch Potato to 5K decision and was going to start the program herself. When I checked her blog, I found that she was on WEEK FOUR! WEEK FOUR!!! And I was still on week ONE! Something about that knowledge encouraged me, and I decided that it was time to kick butt.

This week, Kim and I started week 2. And we did it! What's more, I wasn't totally exhausted AND I didn't even feel like puking!

As we ease into these colder Ohio months, I'm hoping that Old Man Winter will continue to look down upon me with favor so that I can get through this program. My goal is to be ready for our local 5K in May.

At Time to Cook

Over at my other blog, Time to Cook, we're focusing on pizza. Have some tips to share? Come on over!

I'm speechless

When I was in college, I worked at a restaurant where the manager was a tyrant. On any given night, the scene in the galley would include Tom yelling at someone and that someone either yelling back, ignoring Tom or slinking away in tears.

During that time, I probably did more reading that I could ever dream of doing now, and in the course of that reading, I found a nugget of truth that I've quoted many times since.

I so loved this nugget that I wrote it boldly on a piece of cardstock, puncuated it with a smiley face, and tacked it above the window where the chef passed the food to the servers.

As soon as Tom saw it, he snatched it from its prominent location and tossed it in the trash.

The phrase was "Behavior breeds behavior."

Tom knew that his grumpiness and impatience caused grumpiness and impatience among his staff, but he didn't want anyone else to know. He seemed to prefer being bossy and nasty.

His bossiness eventually closed the doors of the restaurant for good.

I've been reminded of my favorite phrase quite often today. I awoke this morning to find that my voice was completely gone. I can barely raise it to a whisper.

This isn't the first time this has happened. I seem to lose my voice around this time every year. Twice I've lost my voice just after being asked to do a radio interview.

Losing my voice always causes me to take pause. It makes me realize how much I use--and abuse--this tool that God gave me. Rather than wishing my voice would come back, I sometimes wish it wouldn't. I've often believed that if I could be a quieter person, my kids would also be quieter people. I don't seem to be able to force this in myself, but when laryngitis strikes, I see that it's likely true.

Because the interesting thing about voice loss is that when I whisper to my family, they whisper back. Sometimes they do it to be silly. But sometimes they do it without even realizing that they're doing it.

Losing my voice tends to take away the things that most offend me about myself; yelling, responding with a sharp tone, calling for people from other rooms or from the other side of the house, being quick to speak instead of quick to act.

So, while I do appreciate my voice, I think it might be nice to lose it for a longer period of time--say, about three months. Long enough to establish new habits and patterns that I could retain after my voice returned. And if God felt that I was straying from those habits, He could take my voice away again until I straightened up.

I doubt that I have months to be voiceless, though. It's likely only days. But in that time, I'm enjoying the fact that I don't have to answer the phone, that people have to come and find me instead of hollering for me and expecting me to holler back, and that I can justify e-mailing instead of phoning.

For just this brief period of time, I get a chance to see what it's like to be a quiet person, and how that behavior can breed quiet behavior in others. And I like it. I hope I can figure out a way to make the behavior stick even after the vocal chords have healed.

Here's to peace and quiet, whatever it takes to get it.

Two Days of Anniversary

Thursday night, Bo informed me that he had taken Friday off work so that he and I could begin celebrating our seventeenth anniversary. I was so thrilled and surprised! The bummer was that I didn't really know what I wanted to do, and neither did he. We're low on cash, so there really weren't a lot of options.

After a bit of thinking, I decided what I wanted to do. I told him that I wanted to go into the Big City and shop for a hand-crank pasta maker. Bo works in the Big City, and since his boss was under a little bit of stress, we decided that he could take part of his vacation day and go get some phone calls made while I did a little bit of shopping, then we would meet back up and do some more shopping together.

So, I awoke Friday morning to meet my walking buddy. We decided to do our Couch Potato to 5K routine, alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of walking. Because I'm a wimp, we've modified it to 60 seconds of jogging and enough walking to regain consciousness. Kim has so much more endurance than I do, but I'll get there eventually. We did the whole session, eight reps of jogging with walking in-between. I can't say that it was fun, but it did feel good, and I hope we can progress to week two before long.

After jogging, I hit my favorite thrift store, because I like to and because a friend who volunteers there had informed me that she had something for me. I found a new pair of rollerblades for Monet and a couple of other small things for The Baby, and when I got to the counter, I discovered that my checkbook was gone. Bo had taken it out to use and I'd forgotten. My friend stepped in and saved the day, paying for my purchase. She's my goat-grain supplier, so I'll repay her when I pick up goat grain on Monday.

When I'd recovered from the embarrassment of not having my checkbook, my friend directed me to the back of the building, where her car was parked. There, she unloaded a large box of beef for our family! I was so thrilled. Meat is a rarity in our house; I really only buy it on special occasions. She said that her family had been blessed with excess and decided to share. What a blessing! She also gave me several loaves of my favorite bread as well as dozens and dozens of eggs (pasta!). I love how the Lord provides!

I stopped at the library to pick up books on pasta and pizza, my two current obsessions, and headed home. Once there, I did some bedroom cleanup, wrote a blog post or two, then Bo and I took our trip to The Big City, which is about an hour from us.

While Bo worked, I abandonned my idea of shopping and read for a while instead. Then I fell asleep. After a nice nap, I was refreshed. And hungry. So we went to eat--where else?--at our favorite Italian restaurant. This, my dear readers, is a very rare and wonderful treat that I do not take lightly. Only on anniversaries and children's 16th birthdays do we indulge such. It was wonderful, but, if I may be so bold, I do still prefer home-cooking. As long as someone else cleans up the mess. :-)

The rest of the evening was spent in pursuit of a pasta maker that never materialized. I was, however, able to score two very well-priced Playmobil toys for The Baby's birthday, which is fast approaching.

*******************************

This morning, we woke everyone but Houdin, who is not feeling well, and The Baby, who isn't the best walking partner, and we hit the trail. Monet and Sweetheart roller-bladed while Bo, Bard and I walked. I have made an unspeakable deal with Bard in exchange for her walking with me every time I ask, without complaining, for six months. I think she'll do it. And I think she'll like it. :-)

Another quick trip to the library, another quick trip to the thrift store (to donate, this time), and a pitstop at the store for a few essentials--fruit, paper products, etc--and then it was on to our favorite dairy for fresh, raw milk. I've been making yogurt almost daily using delicious whole jersey milk, so thick and creamy that we'll never go back to Dannon! Almost as good as Stonyfield, but without the cream on top (how *do* they do that?). Home to refrigerate the milk, and then off to a couple of shops in town to check for pasta makers.

The first shop had just about everything else--ravioli molds, spaetzle makers, electric pasta makers--but no hand-cranked pasta maker.

The second shop...SUCCESS! After searching SEVEN different stores, we finally found a store just fifteen minutes from our home that stocks three different top brands of pasta makers, accessories and attachments. But the prices were quite high, so I opted to check online.

Home again home again, and we decided to tackle cleaning our fruit cellar and basement laundry room. They were HORRIBLE! They're much better now, but not done. Still, we were able to burn a bunch of boxes/paper/paper products, and we hauled a large bag of recycleables out of the house. It was a nice opportunity to get a bite to eat, so we rounded out our two-day celebration with a sandwich and onion rings (now I'll have to run some more) and headed for home.

Regular family chaos ensued, and now everyone lies sleeping but I'm still awake. Even though my husband was the one who indulged in late-evening coffee. Go figure.

Sunday school comes early, so I'll sign off, go check my yogurt, and try to hit the hay.

It's been a good couple of days.

::: happy seventeen years of wedded blisters :::

Yesterday was a pretty good day, and today wasn't so bad, either.
I'm celebrating my anniversary, you see. At least for another twenty-eight minutes. Even though my dearest one is snoring loudly beside me, I'm still delighting in the fact that, seventeen years ago today, my best friend came to spend the night, every night, for the rest of our lives.

You wait for me while I shop. Patiently, you wait; resting in the car or sitting on a park bench or playing solitaire on that jazzy little phone you have. You wait for me.

You laugh with me. I make self-deprecating jokes, and you puff me up with your laughter. I make you-deprecating jokes, and you laugh just as loudly. I love that laugh, that smile, with the deep dimples you so generously shared with our youngest daughter. I love that you laugh.

You spend time with me. Your first priority is always me, always being with me, always thinking of me first. Don't think I haven't noticed, because I have. It only looks like I don't notice because you spoil me in that way, always giving your time so selflessly to me. I love spending my time with you.

You think I matter. You listen to my thoughts, and my opinions, and my worries, and my ideas. You don't ignore me or belittle me when I need to air my frustrations. You listen and you advise. You support and you uplift. You're my best counselor on this earth. I appreciate that I matter to you.

You teach me. I know nothing about things like football and molecules and algabraic equations, but you're willing to teach me. You tell me what first down and eight means, and I try very hard to understand, because what is important to you is important to me.

You indulge me. You know that I want a pasta maker so you spend a whole afternoon and a whole 'nother evening shopping with me, until we find the very perfect one, and even when you're completely bored and totally sick of the whole idea, you still advise me. And when I realize that the one I want is just too expensive, you explore eBay and call to me to show me what you've found. You care, so you indulge me.

You like my food. You were the reason I learned to cook. I hadn't cooked a real meal before I started dating you, and when I realized that we weren't going to have money for dates, I decided that I would woo you with my food, and I bought my very first cookbook. I made you bread and pepper steak and chicken cordon bleu and pot pies and stuffed tomatoes and vegetable grinders and french fries and anything else I could think to cook. And you loved it. It makes it so much more fun to cook, because I know that you will gratefully devour what I've made for you, and you'll tell me how it can be better, or that it's just perfect. I could stand in the kitchen all day cooking just to hear your satisfied approval. You let me feed you, and that feeds me.

You cuddle me. I remember the time, when we were dating, that you fell asleep on my couch while I took that terribly agonizing phone call, and when it was over, I needed your hug, so I curled up next to you, and without even waking, you opened your arms and pulled me close to you, gave me security and encouragement, even while you slept. I'll never forget that.

You talk to me. From the very beginning, when we were just kids gabbing on the phone, I knew that you and I were two of a kind, people who loved to converse, to pick each other's brains and share ideas. When we started dating in college, that whole experience came flooding back, talking on the phone from dusk to dawn, knowing that you'd fallen asleep on the phone, listening to you breathing, waiting for your alarm to startle you awake. Hours and hours of discussions about religion, faith, belief, music, love, relationships, the future, the past. And it continues still. My favorite pasttime is talking with you, planning with you, dreaming with you, working things out and solving the world's problems with you. I love how you talk to me.

You tolerate me. And all of my wacky ideas, and all of my animals, and all of my eccentricities. When I have an idea that's completely and totally wrong, you don't (always) discourage me. You let me pursue it, let it run its course. And you never, ever, ever say, "I told you so." You're so tolerant of me.

You appreciate nature with me. You stop to look at the stars. You call me to the window to see the hawk. You stroll with me to check the bluebird houses that you built with the kids. You marvel at the sunrise and the sunset. You laugh at the goats, talk to the cats, cuddle the dogs, feed them all. I will always remember the day that I was trying to decide whether we should destroy all the clover in the yard, because I thought that maybe I needed a "barefoot" lawn that the kids could run around on without worrying about the bees. I didn't really want to do it, but I was feeling the pressure to "look good" and thought that I should plant a real lawn with real grass. You called me to the porch to see something you described as "amazing," something you really thought I needed to see. And though I was busy, I stopped to come look. The entire lawn was covered with tiny little frittilaries, hundreds and hundreds of them, alighting on the clover before they continued their journey to who-knows-where. We kept the clover.

You encourage me. When I have an idea or a goal or a dream, you tell me to pursue it. You help me, give me ideas, get lost in the dream with me. Whether it's a coffeehouse, or a houseconcert series, or a book idea, or a blog, you give me the courage and cooperation to pursue it.

You desire me. I know that I get embarrassed and often reject your compliments, but I honestly appreciate how you tell me that I'm beautiful, and you reach out to hug me, and you kiss my face, and you compliment me, and you oggle me. I've had a problem with my appearance for so long that your words are hard to believe, difficult to accept, but I'm working on it. And I'm finally getting to the place where I can believe that, even if no one else thinks so, you think I'm beautiful. Thank you for desiring me.

Of course there's more. But I have to save some for the next seventeen years.

Here's to you, and to us. We've known each other longer than we haven't. We've been married almost half as long as I've been alive.

Happy seventeenth anniversary, Bo. I love you very, very much and can't imagine life without my very best friend.

Time to Cook: Introducing a New Blog!

I should take showers more often.

After a day of feeling pretty yucky and under-the-weather, I took a shower so that I could head out to the grocery store looking more like a human being than a monstah. While showering, I got an idea for a new blog.

Time to Cook.

Basically, it's about the basics. It's about slowing down and making meals from scratch, from good, basic ingredients.

It's about taking time to cook.

I'd love to see you there!

Time to Cook!

Yogurt!

I posted a short list of what I wanted for Christmas here, and my darling husband Bo read it. I'm happy to say that, out of the eleven things I listed, I'm a happy owner of four of them. One, the Asics shoes that were recommended to me by TrueVyne, were a gift to myself. I found a used pair on eBay for $24, including shipping, and the money went to a nature preserve in North Carolina. I've been very thankful for them. I think they're the first good pair of walking shoes I've ever had, and they really make a difference. Thanks, True!

The second gift I received was a membership to Feminists for Life of America. This was supposed to be a surprise, but Bo accidentally notified me a few days before Christmas. I'm looking forward to receiving the newsletters, which have always been interesting and challenging for me.

And the third gift from my list was candles. Two of my children gave me candles for Christmas and candle holders to go along with them.

The last gift from my list is probably my favorite, though the shoes are pretty close. On Christmas Day, PeacefulLady came for a visit, bringing with her a quart of homemade yogurt which was absolutely scrumptious. As we were discussing home-yogurt making, Bo confessed that he had also ordered the yogurt maker that I'd asked for which makes a quart of yogurt at a time. It came a few days later, and I've made four batches of yogurt since, thanks to PeacefulLady's yummy recipe, which I now impart to you. PL makes it in gallon batches, so I am including both the version I make, which makes one quart, and her version, which makes a gallon.

Quart Version:

1 quart of milk (I use whole raw cow's milk)
3 oz evaporated milk (which, I think, is a little less than 1/2 cup)
1/4-1/3 cup sweetener (I used 1/4 honey in one and 1/2 cup honey in one, and neither were super sweet. Today I used 1/3 cup sugar)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 cup yogurt which has live active cultures. PL says it doesn't matter if it's plain or vanilla. I've used both with the same results. Once you make your first batch, you can use yogurt from your own batches to keep it going until the cultures weaken, then you have to buy more.
(PL adds gelatin to hers, but I couldn't figure out the right ratio, so I left it out. Because we use whole jersey milk, it thickened just fine without the gelatin.)

Partially fill a sink with cold water and get all of your ingredients ready and measured. It goes quickly, so you want to be ready. Temperatures are very important for good yogurt.

For raw milk, heat the milk to 180 degrees F. I was hesitant to do this because I wanted the good health properties of the raw milk, but my first batch didn't come out so well. When I called PL, she said that heating it creates a creamier yogurt. I tried it, heating it to about 186, and she was right. Very creamy.

Turn of the heat.

Add the evaporated milk, sweetener and vanilla. Stir well.

Place your pan in the cold water and stir. Your goal is to quickly cool the milk to between 110 and 115 degrees. This happens more quickly than you'd think.

When the milk has cooled, add the yogurt using a very clean whisk. Bad bacteria can take over and make your yogurt clumpy and yucky. Very thoroughly mix in the yogurt.

Pour the mix into a quart jar or yogurt maker.

This is the tricky part, and this is why I asked for the yogurt maker. The yogurt must incubate for between 4 and 10 hours at around 100 degrees. Too hot, and you'll cook the yogurt. Too cool and it won't incubate properly. Some people fill a cooler with hot water, place their jars or containers in it and leave it alone until it sets.

Don't touch it. Don't open it. Wait for about four hours, then very carefully check it. If it seems thickened and creamy, you can taste it to see if it's tart enough. If it is, put it in the fridge until it's cool, then you're done!

Add fruit and stuff after it's done.

One Gallon version (makes five quarts):

One gallon of milk
2 T gelatin
1/2 cup cold water
12 oz can evaporated milk
1 1/4 cup sugar or 1 cup honey
2 t vanilla
1 cup yogurt with active cultures

Follow instructions above, except that you should dissolve the gelatin in the water before you start, if you plan to use it. Add the gelatin when you add the milk, sweetener and vanilla. Follow the rest of the directions, pouring your mixture into five quart jars or containers (doesn't matter if it's glass or plastic, just as long as their really, really clean).

90-120 degrees makes yogurt, so keep your temp within the range. I think around 90-95 is optimal.

Enjoy!

Did I Write That?

Per Dawn at 4:53 am, I'm posting the first line of the first post of each month of 2006. It's funny, because when I peruse some of the thousand or more posts I've written in my almost four years of blogging, I sometimes don't even recognize my own posts. I recognize the thoughts and agree with them, as I would agree with someone who has similar tastes and interests as I, but I often find myself reading my prior posts as if I were reading someone else's blog.

That's how I felt reading these first lines of the posts of my year. And I also felt like some of them couldn't have been that long ago. And some of them couldn't have been written that recently!

Wanna play along? Let Dawn know. Leave me a comment, too. I'd like to read your first lines!

January: "Bard's choral ensemble sang at a nearby community's First Night celebration on Saturday."

February: "I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately, and I was just wondering what the rest of the world thinks about friendship."

March: "I got this from Kate at The Tate School."

April: "We just had the most yummy lunch, and as we were eating, I was struck by the beauty of the scene, The Baby still in her pajamas eating cauliflower, my favorite earthenware bowls, tall glasses of raw milk, my healthy family all around me."

May: "I was so excited about my prospective employment at the greenhouse; to me, it was like a gift from God, an answer to prayer."

June: "I'm alive."

July: "Today, I am lying around decadently devouring books that I never get to read, dreaming about starting an herb-farm business, staring solemnly at the ceiling and pondering the wonder of God."

August: "On this day, when it's too hot to do much more than think--and even that's a challenge--I did something so totally wild and crazy that even I can't believe I did it."

September: "On Thursday, I saw an ad for an i-pod accessory that Bard has been wanting."

October: "My darling husband just pointed me to these illustrations by Deas."

November: "A couple of people asked me whose life I'd saved as a result of this post."

December: "When I looked out the window this morning, I knew I was going to have to make a choice. "

To Aspire to...

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
when there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
Grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand,
to be loved as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying [to ourselves] that we are born to eternal life.

St Francis of Assisi

As posted by Donna over at Quiet Life. Very, very good words, indeed. Happy Blogiversary, Ms Booshay.