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.