Oh, yeah, oops

So guess what? I'm going on vacation! Last week!

Don't hate me because I'm so organized. Heh.

Jan

Love accepts what is

I learned one thing at a very early age. (I learned many more than one thing, but one thing related to my meanderings today.) That thing is this: fat is unacceptable.

I blame nobody in particular for this, though it was certainly my mother's influence that taught it to me. To this day she is in a constant state of worry over how her body looks, and in a constant state of conviction that however it looks, it's Not Good Enough.

It's no coincidence, I'm sure, that I, too, have spent much of my life feeling negatively about my body. When I was a child, I despaired of being so short. I hated always being the kid at the front of the class picture holding the sign. When I hit puberty, I was terribly embarrassed by my breasts and the roll of extra flab that developed around my belly at around the same time. I have never understood (and frankly still don't) the girls who anxiously awaited the arrival of their first menstrual cycles. I cried the day I got mine.

I dieted and cursed my body all through my teens and twenties. I hated it for being unable to wear the latest fashions well, then, later, much more for being equally unable to keep my unborn children alive. I knew that "making the most of my assets" was really code for "try to hide the worst stuff". I had outfits in which I felt less fat, perhaps, but nothing in which I felt stunning.

The irony, then, is that today, when I am the heaviest I've ever been (save during pregnancy), I am slowly learning to accept and even love the body I have. I can finally say, truly, when I try on a top that looks dreadful, that that top is not right for me, rather than the other way 'round. This is a huge paradigm shift for me.

I don't mean to say that I won't continue to make efforts to be healthier. I work very hard to make good food choices. I don't eat enough fruits and vegetables, I know, but I do get my daily dose of fiber, and it comes from actual food. I'm sure I eater a lower-than-average amount of processed food, particularly white flour and sugar. I make it a point to get enough protein to keep me feeling strong and energetic. We've joined the YMCA, and I've made it a goal to try to do at least one active thing every day.

The difference is that today I'm doing these things with the full understanding that they may not bring me to that sought-after nirvana that is Thinness. And furthermore, I'm really OK with that. And FURTHERfurthermore, I still believe it's worth the effort. I believe that controlling my sugar intake, and moderating it with lots of fiber, is my path away from diabetes. I believe that regular exercise is import for my mental health, even if it doesn't change my waistline. I also believe that exercise that's fun counts, too, not just hours spent Working Out.

The hardest beliefs for me to change, though, have been the ones about my body. When I had a daughter, I knew right away that I wanted to teach her to accept her body, and I knew that teaching by example was the best way to do that. But I truly believed the only way I'd be able to do that was by pretending that I didn't cringe every time I saw a recent photograph of myself, or walked by a mirror. Slowly, though, I've begun to change that. I wouldn't be honest if I said I love what I see in the mirror when I get out of the shower. But I can honestly say that for the first time in my life, I love and appreciate this body.

This body is a reflection of who I am, and I have come to the conclusion that who I am is not a bad person to be. I inherited my lack-of-waist from my mother, and she from hers. I also inherited a good strong back and naturally low blood pressure. I'd take some without the other if I could pick and choose, sure, but they came as a package, and I appreciate that package. That unattractive flab on my abdomen is the aftereffect of two c-sections in close succession. I'd love to have a nice firm tummy, but I sure wouldn't trade the product of the c-sections for it. I'd be better toned if I spent an hour at the gym every day, but I wouldn't have that hour to spend with my children or my husband, living my life.

Awhile back, the Munchkin went through a phase where she was snapping a lot of photographs. The angle at which a 3-year-old takes pictures is about the most unflattering one this side of a funhouse mirror, and I was tempted to delete the pictures, to destroy the series' of ones and zeroes that conspired to shatter my self-esteem. I'm not sure what stopped me, but I didn't.



It's still hard for me, sometimes, to realize that this is what I really look like. But every day I'm learning that it is, that it isn't so bad, and that it isn't what really matters, when it comes right down to it.

Love got me there. First love for my daughter that gave me the courage to start down the path, and then, somehow, amazingly, love for myself that snuck in and gave me the strength to keep on that path. I may not ever get all the way there, but I'm proud of the fact that I have made a decision about the direction I'll be travelling in.

Happy Love Thursday, everyone. I wish you all the love that strengthens you.

Jan

Perchance to dream (a cautionary tale)

I've never been particularly good about creating clever categories for my posts and I've been ever worse about using the categories I have created, of which I think there are a couple. But if I did, I strongly suspect one category would have to be entitled "Sleep, Glorious Sleep (to the tune of Food, Glorious Food". I have a great deal to say on the subject. I am a self-proclaimed expert on getting the little ones to do their thing. (Look, there are two bits of parenting that I apparently do well: get a good sleep schedule going and teaching them to pee in the potty -- allow me the small indulgence of believing that my theory is Right In Every Way And Would Work For Any Child. Yes, even if it's total nonsense. Thanks in advance.) Heaven knows I've had my own issues with sleep, or lack thereof -- lifetime insomniac here, present and accounted for. And I've managed, so far, to refrain from doing it on the blog, but I do have a bad habit of trying to describe my dreams after they've finished. Which, as I'm sure you know, is both impossible and irritating to the recipient of your nonsensical ramblings.

So thank your lucky stars that this post has nothing whatsoever to do with my dreams. Except tangentially -- I don't suppose I've ever articulated it as such, but I have always dreamed of being well-rested.

And I haven't been. Well-rested, that is. Not for a very, very long time.

I'm not sure when it started, actually. I mean, I was definitely exhausted in the fall of 2003 when I was in the first trimester of pregnancy with the Munchkin. And then there were months of getting up for late-night feedings followed by what seemed like a literal eon of rising daily at 5:30 (not my favorite stage, let's just stay). Hormones, interrupted sleep, an unnatural (for me) schedule -- I'd expect to be tired, non? Then I got on the pregnancy train again before the Munchkin's first birthday. Tired first trimester, gestational diabetes (undiagnosed for that middle of trimester that I recalled as a gloriously energetic time -- what a disappointment!), then an infant and toddler at the same time. Lather, rinse, repeat the sleep deprivation cycle with the Little Dude. Again, nothing abnormal about being tired a lot of the time. I thought nothing of it.

Seriously, I thought nothing of it, even when I began drifting off not just at after-lunch meetings (whose brilliant idea is it to schedule these at 1 p.m. and then dim the lights for PPT presentations?) and evenings at home in front of the TV, but at the occasional stoplight. "I have two kids under 2 [or 3 or 4]," I'd tell myself, "and everyone knows that moms are supposed to be tired."

In fact, when I rather insistently told my doctor a couple of months ago that my snoring had really gotten out of control (Pediatrician: "Do you sleep with Mommy and Daddy?" Munchkin, in her patient 'explaining' voice: "NO. Mommy snores. And Daddy sleeps on the couch. Mommy snores too loud." I'm so delighted to be the mother of such a verbal and honest child.), I responded in the negative when he asked if I'd noticed excessive daytime tiredness. "Sure, I'm tired," I told him, repeating my two-kids-under rationalization, "but nothing out of the ordinary."

It wasn't until I filled out the questionnaire at the Sleep Disorders Lab that I realized that, hello, falling asleep while operating a motor vehicle is probably not in the range of normal. Especially not when you consider that I am pretty well off-duty for parenting from the hours of 8 p.m. to 7 a.m., and I generally spend a good 9 of those hours in bed (probably 8ish sleeping). Furthermore, it is not normal to be unable to function without a constant influx of caffeine, nor to be unable to concentrate on any one thing for longer than, say, 12 nanoseconds.

So they scheduled me for a Study.

A Study, in case you're not familiar, looks something like this.In my case there was less chest hair, more head hair and a significantly less revealing set of pajamas. They put approximately sixty-twelve-billion monitors on you in various places. It took over an hour just to get it all hooked up. I had electrodes all over my head and face, a microphone taped to the corner of my mouth (unnecessary -- the Munchkin could've told them that), an air movement monitor up my nose, and even a wire down my pants, for pete's sake (Jan: "Oh my .... what are we doing here?" The sleep tech laughed at me -- it's to monitor for Restless Leg Syndrome. Like I would know.) Then they plug it all into a machine by the side of the bed. There's a video camera that sees in the dark and your every move and every sound are monitored by the sleep tech in the next room.

"If you need anything," she chirped cheerfully, "just say so. I'll be able to hear you."

Creepy, a little, but not bad once I got over the fear that as soon as I fell asleep some of my more embarrassing bodily functions (think "rhymes with cart") were going to embarrass me without my consent.

I was also somewhat afraid that I wouldn't be able to sleep, since I've become somewhat addicted to a little pre-snooze TV at night, but that didn't turn out to be a problem. My tech's other patient was tired early, so I got the late hookup, which meant that I didn't get my lights turned out until 11:30, which a solid hour past my bedtime.

It took just about 2 hours for my tech to return to awaken me. Ahh, the memories ... of the two-hour sleep cycle. Neither of my children ever placed a rubber mask over my nose and then blew air into it for the next three hours, though. The tech hooked me up to a C-PAP (sexy, n'est-ce pas?) for the rest of the night. (I use the term "rest of the night" here, quite liberally, as I do not believe the 5 1/2 hours between 11:30 when they put me to bed and 5 a.m. when they awakened me constitutes an entire night. Did I forget to mention that I've been extra tired lately?)

According to the tech, who you understand can't tell me anything official, right?, the snoring stopped while I was wearing the C-PAP.

And a diagnosis is born: Obstructive Sleep Apnea. I'm apparently the typical candidate (except more are men). In my 30s, smaller-than-average jaw (I've had two different dentists make a joke about how I should never let anyone tell me I have a big mouth. I wonder if they refine that humor in dental school?), a bit of TMJ that doesn't trouble me, but does result in an attractive clicking sound when I chew hard foods. The doctor says this could explain both my recent weight gain (OK, lack of loss after pregnancy) and my "mood issues", both of which can be exacerbated by sleep apnea.

I finally got an official diagnosis on Friday, a prescription C-PAP awaits me at the sleep clinic. Or I'm awaiting it, since I couldn't get in to have it fitted until next Tuesday.

Nobody wants to have something wrong with them, but I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to feeling rested again. I have felt tired-like-a-new-mom for almost 5 years now. Enough is e-bloody-nough already.

Also? I'd really love to have a warm body next to me at night again. You know, one that sheds significantly less than my current companions.

Jan

Love steps back

As a part of my ongoing quest to be A Little Less Messed Up -- I have the lofty goal of someday passing through the land of Pretty Much OK and on into the territory of Really Well-Adjusted -- I have done a little reading and done a little joining, which is leading to a lot of thinking.

Thinking is good.

[But first, do you know about Love Thursday? Away back in the dark ages (say, 2004 or so), a particular blogger started a photo-sharing group with the theme of Love. Each person was to post a picture each Thursday, and a description of the picture's connection with the Love theme.

I don't have a picture to go with what I want to write about, but I do want to try for a Love post on Thursdays for the time being. Starting today.]

In particular, yesterday I was directed to think about self-sufficiency. In particular, not my own self-sufficiency, but the self-sufficiency of my family and friends.

Doesn't that sound counter-intuitive? I know, right? That's why the joining: I never would have thought to even think about that one.

Specifically, the question I was pondering was whether I allow my friends and family the space that they need to be self-supporting. And if not, why not? What I discovered was interesting.

First of all, it was a pretty simple answer for me. I (sort of) try, but really, no, I don't. I like to be in control and I like things done my way and I very much like being depended upon. I like it in my personal life and I like it in my professional life. I was, at one time in my life, an absolute killer -- if I do say so myself -- Assistant To The Head Honcho. I lived to be his right-hand-man, so to speak.

Maybe I should rephrase that. "Like" isn't exactly the right word. "Crave" is better maybe. "Am drawn to" is better yet. "Compelled to" is possibly the best description.

The truth is, supporting someone else is really all about me. I get a real self-esteem boost from being needed. From being essential, irreplaceable even. I seek out situations in which I am the strong one, the smart one, the capable one, especially if I think someone will notice and tell me how strong, smart and capable I am.

The problem, of course, is that one (or both) of two things happens. I begin to resent my unfairly large "share" of responsibility, or others begin to resent my constant need to be in charge. Either way, anger follows resentment, and the overall health of the relationship suffers.

There's a fine line, as a partner, as an employee, and most especially as a parent, between supporting enough to be, well, supportive (for lack of a better word), but not so much as to discourage self-sufficiency. There are times when my husband needs me, times when it's right to do things for my children even if they haven't asked, times when I should step up and take responsibility for seeing a project through at work.

The challenge for me, then, is first to learn how to find that line, and then to practice respecting it, not just for myself, but for the health of my adult relationships and the mental, emotional and physical growth of my children.

Even at this young age, when I constantly take responsibility for something my kids can do themselves, I'm giving them the message that I don't think they're capable. Not only that, but by having an obsessive need to be The Most Capable, I show them that I think it's tremendously important. The last thing I want is for my actions to show them that they aren't capable of something of such tremendous importance.

So I'm going to practice stepping back a little. I will allow the other people in my life to experience the consequences of their own actions. I will look after my own needs, and expect at least the adults to look after theirs. I like to think that I am, by nature, a giving and supportive person, but I need to give other people room to appreciate that instead of cramming it down their throats.

Happy Love Thursday everyone.

Jan

To continue the Seinfeldian analogies ... a post about nothing

This is about the 5th time I've started this post. I have thoughts swirling around in my brain -- deep thoughts, important thoughts, witty thoughts -- that are simply refusing to congeal into anything.

I've forgotten how to blog, y'all.

Fortunately, this is not my first time. Not my first time blogging; not even my first time forgetting how. The illustrious Mir said it best, I think, when she compared writing to physical exercise. There's a muscle, of sorts, that, when unused, atrophies. And the more you use it, the better-toned it gets and the less effort is required to make use of it.

So, um, metaphorically speaking, I've got shin splints. In my brain.

Fortunately for me (and I know I'm getting into dangerous territory here, because the rule says that there is nothing more boring on a blog than writing about blogging itself), not many people actually read my blog, so I'm not exactly starting out with the Boston Marathon here. There's nobody around but the slugs and the spiders to see my first crooked attempts at getting back into the groove.

No offense to the slugs and spiders out there, by the way. You guys are my favorite! I lurve you most of all! Smooches all around!

I wrote last week that much interesting had happened in the last several months. (And it has, though I realized after I posted that one of them includes the reason I'm so tired. [No, I'm not pregnant.] So maybe it's possible that nothing interesting happened after all. Except then I wouldn't have a reason to be so tired. Stopping that train of thought now.) It's funny, though, how in a way nothing's changed. Sure, the Little Dude says a lot more words and there are more shorts than sweaters making their rotation through the laundry, but I'm still getting out of bed 20 minutes too late to get to the office by 9 and it's still ten-to-one odds that if you showed up at my house unannounced there'd be at least one toilet in need of a good scrub. I still have the cutest children in the northern hemisphere (oh yes I do -- this is MY blog and I get to make the rules), and the Hubby and I are still bickering over whether leaving the cabinet doors open in the kitchen constitutes a clear and present danger to the taller members of the household or is simply effort-efficient.

And, last but not least, I'm still composing blog posts in that last half-hour before the end of my work day, when the urge to take a nap on the floor of my cube is the strongest.

The first workout is always the hardest, isn't that what they say? Tomorrow will be a little easier. For all of us.

Jan

Yadda yadda

Hey remember that one episode of Seinfeld where Jerry was dating some woman who told stories by saying "I did [x] and [y] and yadda yadda yadda ... [a], [b] and [c]"? You know, leaving out the boring, unimportant and downright disinteresting details? If you'll recall, the gang thought was quite clever. Right up until she "yadda yadda"-ed something that wasn't boring, unimportant or disinteresting -- sex.

Well, I'm going to do something here and I want to caution you kids not to try this at home without a net. And possibly a spotter. Here goes:

Back in January, we had a previously-described crazy-ass month consisting of, among other things, an anniversary trip, a move, a new job for the Hubby and basically a total upheaval of our day-to-day schedule, because the Hubby's OLD job was a self-employment gig that was truthfully about twelve parts procrastination to one part paid work. Which is to say that he was categorically Not Busy and then when he started his new job he was Holy-Crap-BUSY in a way that would be somewhat stressful under the best of circumstances, but combined with the huge adjustment and the move and the living with of two small children .... well, it was a little wild for awhile there, is all I'm saying.

Life goes on, though, and adjustments are made, and boxes unpacked, and seasons change and YADDA YADDA YADDA ... now it's July.

Did you see how I did that there? I just "Yadda Yadda"-ed almost half a year.*

I think I may have sprained something, but I'm not one to complain (shut up). I should be able to keep up a healthy posting rate of at least one per month from here on out. Go ahead, hold your breath.

Jan


* A half a year which, I might add, was in no way boring, unimportant or disinteresting. Specific examples of why it wasn't any of these thing elude me just at this moment, but they're out there. It must be so, because otherwise? How could I possibly be this tired?

Full house

The Munchkin has officially reached the age of The Imaginary Friend. Never one to do anything halfway, she has a whole posse of 'friends', and by friends I mean other (presumably) children that she spends the entire day bossing.

"Himby," she'll say sternly, "if you cannot use a quiet voice, I'm going to have to ask you to leave my classroom."

Yes, Himby. No, I don't know where she came up with that.

In addition to Himby, we have:

ToTo
Himba
HoHo
HaHa
Meelosh

I'm inclined, based on the names she's saddled them with, to think that she has a somewhat antagonistic relationship with these 'friends', but she seems to enjoy them.

Sometimes her various dolls and stuffed animals stand in for her friends, but she is unbothered if there's no physical manifestation of her imaginings.

We've also got Baby (who stands in for ToTo often enough for me to think of them as one and the same, Baby ToTo) and Dolly and Baby Rachel and Baby Carol. And Chance, who is a small white off-white puppy.

Sometimes I come down the stairs to find two or three of the posse lying face down on the couch, neatly covered with a blanket. Or a handful of them lined up neatly in the sitting position on the bottom step.

From another part of the room, I'll hear the Munchkin scolding, "Meelosh, I have already asked you nicely to stop playing with that. I'm taking it away now."

By the way, I would just like to clarify, lest there be any confusion: When I say that I would like to have another baby, I am referring to (1) a human baby; and (2) a physically manifested baby.

And you can be darn sure I'd name it something a little more dignified than 'HoHo'.

Jan