Thursday, March 25, 2010

The Three Tiers of Sanity

First off, my apologees to anyone who may have been offended that the highlight of my day could have been something so unmentionable as previously posted blog. However, for someone who's life follows such parallel tangents with excrement (I change between 25 and 35 diapers a day, people), it only follows that a good deal of what makes me laugh everyday, still carries a lingering aroma. If I didn't laugh, believe me, I would--and have--cried.

So, with that brief apologetic out of the way, let us proceed with the three tiers of sanity. Weight loss, it is said, is greatly hindered by the presence of stress in the life. I'm sure there are numerous chemical reasons why this is true, but forgive me all you wonderful scientists out there, but I don't really care WHAT those reasons are, unless understanding the reasons will help me along my path enLIGHTENment.

What my common sense tells me, is that stress induces stress-related eating, and though you can bolster through for a while on the wings of determination and rice cakes, sooner or later, it's all going to come crashing down. Unless, you replace it with something else, that is.

And that's where the Three Tiers of Sanity come in. Honestly, this terrific trio sneaked up on me (the English teacher in me, must here insist off-topic, that there is no such word as "snuck"). I did not create it, merely to have a jazzy blog title. These three tiers speak to the spiritual, emotional, and physical person in each one of us. This person needs to be adddressed constructively, or--you guessed it--she's going for the Spunkmeyer muffin.

So how did this accidental discovery find me so unwhittingly? Well, a few nights ago, when something WORKED, I asked WHY? WHY did it work? You see, some of my days can be pretty horrendous. Don't get me wrong. I love my kids--my own and everybody elses; however, on the days when everybody is cranky, disobedient, off their schedule, and absolutely out of their minds, I'm as human as the next gal. At the end of the day I am stressed out! I mean, I am at the edge of my personal cliff and daring somebody to push me off. Hand over the muffin and nobody will get hurt!

Well, earlier this week, I'd had one of those days. My son had been put to bed thirty minutes early because he had pushed my buttons just one too many times. At 7:30 my daughter followed her brother off to the land of Nod, and I found myself alone in the quiet. The sun was in the process of setting outside and the birds were all serenading the twilight in calmed tones. I grabbed my Bible, pulled a chair onto the porch, and read until the light was gone.

Then I closed my eyes and had a long conversation with God. I thanked Him for all the good things in my life, and then I thanked Him for the hard things too. I asked Him to forgive the mess I had made out of certain points in the day by forgetting to be thankful. Then I talked to Him about all the friends and family I knew that were hurt or struggling, and suddenly I didn't feel so put-upon by the day anymore. By 8:30, I was much unwound.

From there, I grabbed my pocketbook, the bills, and a calculator and began the weekly task of updating the budget and books. I look forward to it with mixed emotions; I enjoy the job but somehow mostly manage to put it off, so usually I head into the task with a hesitancy brought on by procrastination. By 10:00, the work was done (until next week) and I was feeling a good sense of accomplishment by the time my husband walked in the door.

With the bills neatly prepared and laid out on the oven-top to be mailed in the morning, I enjoyed a bowl of zero point, high fiber soup which left me feeling warmed and filled and ready for bed. By 10:45, I was tucked in and on my way to a full night's sleep. I had gone from sixty to zero in a matter of hours; I had done it without muffins or moosetracks or McDonalds . . . and I had to ask myself WHY.

And that's when the Three Tiers of Sanity, actually started to form in my mind. Eating does NOT minimize the things that stress us. In fact, if we're over eaters, eating just gives us one more thing to stress about. We can't respond to the stress with stress; we'll only offset our emotional balance by one more notch.

Picture a three tiered tea cake stand (WITHOUT tea cakes!). The bottom level--the level with the broadest circumference, is each one of us spiritually. There's really not a problem we have that doesn't hark back to that level and the relationship we have there with God. Stabalize the spiritual level, and much of our equilibrium--if not all--is regained. Tier one: Spiritual Sanity.

But back to the world we live in. Just because you discussed you stresses with God and asked Him to help you see those stresses in His Light, doesn't mean you're going to open your eyes as find the Holy Spirit has done all your housework for you, handed you a train ticket, and given you the week off. There are still a million jobs to tackle and problems yet unsolved. So here it is--tier two: Mental Sanity. Pick one job--just one job that's really nagging you--and feel good that there is one less chaotic element in the universe, and then call it quits.

Tier three: Physical Sanity. If you are stressed to the gills, there is more to be said for one good night of sleep than ten things scratched off your to-do list. When you've quieted the spiritual and the mental, take advantage of all that quiet, and GO TO BED. Chances are you will drift off quickly, rest deeply, and wake up revived.

And speaking of tier three, I think it's about time to head off to bed, except--OH DAD'S PAJAMAS!--I left all the groceries in the trunk of the car. And it's raining.
Well, it was a great theory . . .

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Par for the Fart

So here I am, long delinquent, and in one of those states where I cannot believe I am about to share what I am about to share.  However, since this blog is written in a spirit of utmost honesty, in order to be a help to all those others walking in a path similar to mine, and also to promote personal growth through complete self-honesty; I hasten on, before I can think too hard about it.

Do you ever have a really BAD day? I mean, have you just had the kind of no good, very bad day that you’d like to move to Australia, or at the very least, the nearest Holiday Inn with a decent cappacino maker? Sometimes these days (or entire weeks) show up unannounced and unbidden, and if you’re like me, they usually bring with them the temptation to eat emotionally, and then, well then you just have one more thing to feel bad about.

Well, a couple weeks ago, I had one of those days.  The week was usual—good—but long and tiring.  I was looking forward to a few extra Zzzz’s on Saturday morning, but nooooo.  My kids were up at 6:20 a.m., and my daughter, who is 19 months and learning to express herself verbally announced: “Sun up!”

Rek-a-frek-a-frek-a. So I got up and put the coffee pot on, but before the Folger’s ever hit my cup, and before the clock said 6:45, I had cleaned up two poopy messes and served breakfast.  As I stood in the dining room, staring through the hazy steam of my coffee, I wished I could have an out of body experience in which my detached self crawled back into bed with my husband.

But no.  I was up.  I may as well make the best of it.  No sense in dwelling on what was not going to occur.  I settled onto the couch and opened my Bible to the Corinthians.  There, in the brief time my children let me sit in my quiet place, I was reminded that God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness.  Though this is a great concept, as it turns out, a better verse for the day would have been one from the Proverbs: “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

At 7:45, I threw on some exercise clothes, kissed all family members (less the dog), and headed out the door to my 8:10 session of aerobics. Upon crawling into bed the previous night, I had been non-committal about attendance.  If the children sleep, I told my husband, I’ll sleep too.  Otherwise, I may as well go.  Well, we all know how that turned out.

So off to aerobics I went--to jump about, kick my legs into the defenseless air, and twist my body into unnatural contortions—all before 9:30 in the morning. When I finished, I did not feel the usual sweat induced euphoria, but rather, felt once again, the strong urge just to crawl back into bed.  At this point, I was beginning to harbor a strong suspicions that the curse of the tides and moons was upon me.  Great.

That’s when I got a text from my husband, who had decided a spontaneous adventure was in order.  Only today, it had dawned on him that the church picnic was taking place this weekend at a State Park about an hour and a half away.  Well, I had a cleaning project planned and a picnic sounded infinitely more fun, so I jumped on the band wagon, and soon we were throwing together our pic-a-nic basket.

Two hours later, we were checking the atlas to find out why we were nearly in North Carolina.  We should have known better than to follow the directions we downloaded off of Google.  The last time we tried to go somewhere with a set of directions from Google, we ended up getting more reliable instructions from a toothless gas station attendant who told us “Ya’ll just need to turn right at the F-mart!”

By the time we got where we were going, everyone else had finished eating and headed out to their sundry activities, so we ate nearly alone in the park lodge.  My son was chomping at the bit to play on the play ground, but as it was nearly 1:00, I made him wait and eat lunch first. I’ve never seen a peanut butter sandwich and a bag of Funions disappear so fast in my life.  As promised, we headed out to the playground.

I kid you not.  No sooner did we step out of that building, but the sky opened up, and it poured.  IT HAILED. Back inside the lodge, I sponsored a little rainstorm of my own.  I excused myself from my husband, found an unoccupied room away from the chaotic entry of wet mini-golfers and canoe-ers, and let the cloudburst begin.  What a disaster! The day was wasted.  When I got home, all my work would still be waiting for me, there was no nap in my future, and I had gotten a bag of chips for everyone except me.  It was probably a good thing.

Had the chips have been present, emotional eating would have taken place; however, as the food was gone, and my husband had spirited away the left-overs before I could contemplate eating up what the children left behind (he knows me well), and now I was left to pull myself up by the bootstraps, and find another solution to my current problems.

Honestly, the bootstraps would have stayed entirely disconnected if it had not been for a friend checking in with me and letting me boo-hoo a little.  After chatting with her for a while, I rejoined society, visited a bit, and finally joined in a game.  When the hail and rain finally let up and the sun came back out, folks started to decide that they would head home, but we decided that we would attempt of few holes of miniature golf before we left.

Surprisingly enough, it was on the golf-course that the days true upswing (not an intentional pun, I swear) began.  Seratonin burst upon us—or should I say “from us”—so unexpectedly, that even now, I’m finding it difficult to express it for sake of it’s sheer base mediocrity.  It was so extremely juvenile and Jr. High, but for the first time all day, I felt myself rising above the dark clouds.

I suppose the rising was understandable in retrospect.  So here, I apologize in advance for what I am about to explain.  I wish I had something profound to report, but in truth, the anomaly that lifted our moods, that made us laugh until our sides hurt, and set our golf clubs aside while the tears rolled down our cheeks, was nothing more than good old fashioned gas.

I’m not sure exactly what ingested causitor brought it all on, but every time someone managed to get the little ball in the little hole, the ensuing victory dance was cut short by parted air, and it all seemed so dreadfully appropriate and inappropriate all at once.

So, just like the day, our little golf game was par for the fart.  What I learned was that their are better ways to deal with emotions than eating.  Interacting, overcoming, and LAUGHING, don’t leave you feeling defeated and set back at the end of the day.  You might not be thrilled at your circumstances, but at least you didn’t make things worse, by shoving your face full of things you’re going to regret the next time you check your tracker.

Me personally--I’m going to keep a laugh log—a list of memories that always make me chuckle.  A list of phone numbers for people who nearly always take my mind of my troubles just talking with them.  A list of movies and comedians that keep me rolling in the aisle.  Best yet—a list of inspirational scriptures that will lift my thoughts above my current troubles and give me a better sense of the big picture.

So the next time you have a bad day, don’t move to Australia—don’t even check into that Holiday Inn.  Just get out your laugh log; or at the very least, get yourself some bean salad . . .

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Commune with the Spoon

Picture this: a cherubic child with a blond top-knot, covered from eyebrows to elbows in pureed green beans--and he's mad. Those slimy eyebrows are turned deep south over his decorated nose, and his face is painted the irate crimson of utter indignance beneath a verdant matte of liquid lunch. This scene replays itself from a high chair at my house almost everyday at lunch time, because one of my six dear little ones, does not care to wait for his lunch. Indeed, he does not care to wait for the next spoonfull. For the sake of today's blog, we shall call him King Snirkemous the First.

Snirkemous has a special place in my heart, as he has been with me for quite some time now, and I was priveleged to meet His Majesty when he was only six weeks old. He and I have something in common--we both like our meals and we like them to be prompt. We also both tend to inhale.

At my last Weight Watchers meeting, we reviewed some core guidelines that tend to make us more likely to succeed in our wellness goals. Over the past ten weeks--in something called the "Momentum Challenge"--we have been covering one guideline each week. We've talked about tracking what we eat, eating filling foods that leave us satisfied, being more active, recognizing our hunger signals, being more resilient, taking care of ourselves, dining out on plan, managing our home environments, and avoiding food as a solution for boredom.

If I could have added an eleventh item to this list, it would have addressed "Taking Time to Taste Your Food." I have mentioned in a previous blog that a baby seems to cry every time I put a fork in my mouth. Some of this, I have decided, is just O'Toole's corollary on Murphy's Law (Murphy was an optimist); however, some of this is controllable by me. I suppose this fact could be a sub-point under "taking care of myself" and "controlling my home environment," but anyway, here's what I'm doing about it.

First of all, I am trying to eat my breakfast before all the kids come at eight o'clock. This takes a bit of self discipline, since I don't usually feel hungry that soon, but I'm finding if I don't eat it then, I'll hork it all down at 10:00 whilst all three infants (Snirkemous included) are sending up a petulant cry for second breakfast. If I eat at 7;45, I can take my time.

Lunch is a bit of tricky business. If all goes according to plan, I'm supposed to eat in peace and quiet around one o'clock when everyone is down for a nap; however, all rarely goes according to plan. Consequently, I've been doing one of two things--I either make myself take at least 7 minutes to eat regardless of correspondant screaming, or I drink a protein shake that will satisfy me until a moment of peace finds me wandering senseless among the afternoon hours. Either way, I take my time.

Dinner. I have been waiting to eat until after my children go to bed at 7:30. Now I know that all the gurus out there, say it is really, REALLY BAD to eat later in the evening; however, if I actually eat (versus, just supervise) dinner with my children, I often get up twenty times during a meal. I am not exaggerating; I have counted. Mealtime is a vortex for condiments forgotten in the refrigerator, missing utensils, pooped pants, bitten tongues, phone calls, regurgetated ravioli, general emergencies, and surprise visits from your neighbors.

I met an elderly woman in a doctor's office once, right after my son was born, and she told me as much. Actually, what she told me was that it was easy to lose pregnancy weight; I should simply prepare the family dinner meal, but forego eating it. I thought she was nuts! Only now am I realizing that she meant that it just wasn't worth it to try, and the weight would come off as a natural result of an unhelpable situation.

Well, though I am now willing to confess that this pleasant stranger was entirely right about the dinner situation, I am "Managing my Home Environment" rather than toss my hands in the air and call dinner an absolute loss. I'm just dining alone, that's all. And sorry to tell you gurus, but I've been doing in for quite some weeks now, and it doesn't seem to be hindering my weight loss efforts.

So what does all this have to do with a baby covered in green beans? Well, I'm taking my own advice, you see. Frequently during King Sirkemous's lunch, I have to take a break from shoveling good stuff into his eager beak as he is not usually the only one dining at that time. The other members of the royal family--at least four to five of them--also eat their lunches around 11:45. The cease fire of carrots, or bananas, or greenbeans, etc., never thrills Sweet Snirky, so I give him his baby spoon, and instruct him thus: "Here Snirky. Commune with the Spoon."

And he does. He looks ate the spoon. He sucks on the spoon. He chews on the spoon. Only after every last molecule of babyfood has somehow been relegated to his tongue, does he toss the spoon.

Commune with the spoon. It's not bad advice actually. Since I've started going out of my way to make sure I can eat when I'm able to taste and enjoy my food, I'm finding I eat a WHOLE LOT slower. When I started eating dinner after-hours, I could finish my entire meal and dessert before the second commercial came on during whatever show I was watching; however lately, my meals are lasting for an entire hour, and I'm not even consciously making myself eat slowly!

So there you have it, once again, out of the messy mouths of babes, wisdom is gleaned. My only question is, what inspired mantra am I gonna pass on to King Snirky when he starts using a fork?

Monday, March 8, 2010

Twenty Pounds at Last . . .

Words cannot begin to describe the sense of excitement and victory I am carrying with me throughout this busy Monday. Today, I came home from my Weight Watchers meeting and was able to tell my family that I had lost ten percent of my body weight: 20 pounds!
Even my son--who used to exclaim "Oh no!"--every time I came home with the dire news that I had "LOST" something--finally seemed to understand that I was sharing good news, and I received big hugs all around. The journey isn't over yet, only well begun. My WW leader encouraged me to set my next goal at simply another 10 percent, to keep the steps smaller and more manageable, and I think this is a good approach. However, I think I've decided to set my final lifetime goal at 131 pounds. That would be a loss of 65 pounds, and for once in our marriage, I might actually weigh less than my husband. Not that he's ever complained, wonderful man that he is . . .
Well, I spent the weekend in quiet anticipation of Monday's weigh in, and believe me, I did not have any shortage of projects to accomplish while I waited for Monday to arrive. My children were both feeling rather wimpy, so between taking care of them and doing my normal weekend chores, I had my hands quite full. What do the weekend chores entail? Well, it all depends on the weekend. On the second and fourth weekends of the month, I sanitize our plethora of toys; while on the first and third weekends of the month, I curse Eve.
Yes, I curse Eve--which is to say--I do laundry. Just think about it. If she had just gone and eaten an orange or a banana or a coconut or a mango and left forbidden whatever-it-was fruit alone, we all could have run around naked indefinitely. So I guess Eve is the patron saint of Kenmore and Maytag and the shopping mall, but I'm sure not gonna friend her on facebook unless she starts showing up to help me fold the bi-weekly mountain of laundry.
This weekend, taking care of the clean laundry was not the only clothing related chore I had to finish, though the afore-mentioned was practically a triathalon in and of itself. Event #1: The carry it all up from the basement event. Event #2: The chase the 19 month old pretending to help you fold socks event. And Event #3: The put it all away before your 3-year old decides to try it on event.
No, this week, due to all this losing I've been doing (don't you wish it was as easy to lose weight as it is to lose your socks in the dryer?), I had to rummage through my size 18, 16, 14 wardrobe, and pull out some of the items that now fit. Then I had to go through all my drawers and closet, and weed out the items that most definitely were now total sacks on me. It was an exciting but lengthy task. Off with the old, and on with the new. Well, technically, I guess the new was old too, but I digress . . .
My drive to Weight Watchers on Monday morning, caught me praying I actually had lost the final 2.8 pounds like I thought maybe I had, and wishing oh, so ferventy, that I could somehow wear less on the scale without embarassing myself. I was already wearing only the necessities, a light t-shirt, and a pair of knit shorts. When it was my turn to get on the scale, (after a final visit to the bathroom, of course!) I took off my socks and shoes and glasses, and oh glory! Twenty pounds lighter at last. 185.8 pounds. I haven't weighed that little since before my last pregnancy.
So, another milestone is set up along the road-side, and I'm happily journeying on. Week 13 will find me back at aerobics after a week of rest and re-evaluation, and now that my mid-section is a little less imposing, I've got an Ab-Workout DVD with five short weekday-workouts on it, that I'm determined to fit in Monday through Friday this week. Gotta tone up for that Maid-of-Honor Dress I'm gonna be wearing come August 7th!
Speaking of fitting that video in. All six of my little charges are sleeping (it's a Monday made of miracles apparently!), so I'm off to munch . . . um, I mean, cruch. Froidian slip.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Early Proportions: The Spaghetti Story

You would never know it now--mostly because white pasta has tied my digestive system in knots for almost ten years now--but pasta and I once shared a very intimate relationship. In fact, when I was eleven, a life altering conversation took place between my mother and I, and the full understanding of that conversation would culminate over an innocent plate of spaghetti.
To fully understand where I'm coming from here, you must know that I was raised in one of those families--a wonderful family--that held high emphasis and great regard for, FOOD. Part of this emphasis happened out of necesity, because we were close knit, and Grandpa was an insulin-dependent diabetic. Meals happened like clockwork to assure his good health and balanced blood sugars.
However, most of this emphasis on food happened because we liked to eat, and food--good food and lots of it--was just part of the joy of life. Holiday meals were carefully and artfully constructed with an anual line-up of traditional foods. We ate to celebrate when we were happy, we ate to well-wish when congratulations were in order, we ate to commiserate when times were hard, we ate for comfort when there was nothing else to be done.
Raised in this excellent tradition, and watching the men in the family answer simply "yes" when asked to choose between two different desserts, I caught on quickly, and by my pre-teen years was no novice at filling my plate in tiers. Grandpa always challenged the grandkids to clean their plates just like him, and when your plate was as full as mine, that was no small task.
Consequently, the time came when my mother had to sit me down for the big "discussion." Unlike most pre-teens, the discussion did not involve boys, the birds and bees, or substance abuse. No, for me the discussion was about some strange creature called a "PORTION." My mom, who has been a Registered Nurse now for a great many years and quite qualified to bring up the topic, explained to me that I should limit myself to one "portion" or "helping" (as we called them as children) at dinner, and forego seconds.
I must have nodded my head in a satisfactory manner during this conversation, because my behavior shocked her reasonably that night at dinner. We had company, and she had made spaghetti to assure that there would be plenty to go around. When the spaghetti pot came my way, I filled my plate within an inch of its life and then topped it off with two or three ample ladles of sauce.
As I went for the parmesian cheese, mom stopped me quietly, leaned over, and asked, "Sarah! Don't you remember what we talked about today!?" I nodded fervently and answered, "Sure do, mom! But if I can only have ONE helping, I may as well, make it a good one!" With that meal began the battle of the attitudes that so makes or breaks the process of healthy eating and well living. Do I feel more deprived in my mind by limiting myself to a portion? Or do I feel more deprived if I am deprived of control, health, and energy by eating and lifestyle habits that rob me of those things?
I look back on this time as one of my first GENUINE growing up experiences in my life, because at that young age, I met one of my life's greatest challenges. This conversation, along with the realization that my daily choices could turn out to have serious consequences, was one of the first small steps out of childhood for me. I couldn't be the princess in the stories who lived happily ever after if I got FAT, because the princesses in the stories were NEVER fat.
Well, that particular thought, could spawn a million blogs regarding the unrealistic expectations set before our young girls currently in the form of Barbi Dolls, pre-teen idols, Hollywood actresses, etc., but the point is, the early mis-conception that I could not be successful, liked, or even taken seriously, became a vicious battle as time progressed.
I certainly didn't get these thoughts about myself or my weight from my family, because I was a very loved, encouraged, and affirmed child and teenager. For me however, though losing weight has been difficult, the battle has been, and still is so very much, a mental tet-a-tet. For that reason, I think it will be very healthy to rehash some of these past struggles, face them, see them on paper, and get past them.
The fact is, I know my thought processes have been wrong. I've been able to condemn my thoughts categorically throughout my journey, yet I still catered to and believed those thoughts more than just a little. I remember a time, not so long ago, that I felt it was a shame I did not have enough character to be an anorexic or a bolemic. That's right. I said CHARACTER. Now, is that not MESSED UP?!
I think it's fair to say that I have gained complete freedom from the above thoughts, but I do still find myself worrying that people will judge my character by my girth. I also catch myself looking at home videos of my mom and grandma--both beautiful ladies--and wondering, "Will my kids ever remember me like that? Will their memories and attitudes about me be affected because I'm heavy?" And in the situation of a wrong done or a slight committed against me, I often still think--though I do ever give the thought voice--"That person would never have treated me like that if I was twenty, or thirty, or fifty pounds lighter."
Now. Do I look at these printed words and say "Oh my goodness! That's just outrageous and completely wrong!?" YES! Nevertheless, I still catch myself attaching these mental tags to situations, and more and more, I realize how essential it is to dump thoughts like these with the garbage or I'm going to find myself fighting the same mental battles when I finally DO reach my weight loss goals.
So, bare with me friends, while I type it all out of my little system--because if I'm gonna write something--I may as well write A LOT of it!!!

Monday, March 1, 2010

I Don’t Negotiate with Terrorists

In the last couple of weeks, I have frequently joked that I need a T-shirt for my business, with the name of my child care on the front and the above mentioned mantra on the back.  You wouldn’t think that people under 36 inches high could terrorize a full-grown woman, but the truth is, they possess that capability everyday, and I know it.  I’m finding that the key is, not to let on.     
       In the evenings, as I reflect on my days, the situations I’ve passed through with all my little guys and gals during the day often make me laugh—even if I didn’t feel that way while the moments were passing me by.  Most of the time, I manage to juggle everyone and everything fairly well, but there are always those couple of moments during the day where everyone wants my attention NOW, and everyone cries because no one is getting what he or she wants.
       For example, last Thursday at 4:00, I knew it was time to pack up everyone’s diaper bags.  Child 1 wanted his juice refilled; Child 2 wanted her dinner early; Child 3 was due for a bottle; Child 4 wanted her bottle early; Child 5 wanted a new color marker; and Child 6 just wanted to be carried everywhere I went.

          I told Child 1 he would have to wait until the bags were packed; I told Child 2 it was almost dinner time; I told Child 3 his bottle was in the warmer; I told Child 4 her bottle WOULD be in the warmer next; I told child 5 to use the same color for a few more minutes; and I told Child 6 that I’d been carrying him for the last 15 minutes, and that he would just have to play with toys for a while.
           I’m really not entirely sure that the decibel level achieved by the six of them in their cumulative disappointments was legal within City Limits.  What did I do?  I let them all fuss for approximately 10 minutes, and then I refilled the juice, dolled out goldfish, switched the pink marker for a red one, and laid one baby across each knee while making lion noises at the child suffering separation anxiety and assuaging the children suffering from certain starvation.

           You know what?  There have been terrorists in my life a lot longer than there have been children.  For more than a decade, food has been my terrorist.  All this food that I loved, and that I thought was helping me—some of it was even good for me, in moderation—really, it was controlling me and holding me back.  It was making quite a racket too.  “Eat me!  You know you want a little more! You deserve an extra scoop of that.  It won’t even be worth it without the butter.” And on and on.
            Well, I don’t negotiate with terrorists.  I’m done being controlled by food.  I’m going to be nourished by it, and I’m going to enjoy it as God intended, but I am NOT going to be controlled by it.  Before, I felt deprived if I couldn’t eat what I wanted when I wanted, but I’m LOVING having all this extra room in my clothes, and I don’t want to be deprived of that!
           On Sunday, I went to my tenth WW meeting, and I’d lost another 1.6 pounds for a total of 17.2 pounds lost total.  Only 2.8 pounds to go to reach my goal of 10 percent (20 pounds) lost.  The revolution isn’t just in my waist line, it’s in my mind as well.  I don’t want to have to do this again; I want this to be the rest of my life.
          So, this week is week 12 of the rest of my life.  As it is a “sixth” week, I am taking the week to Rest and Re-evaluate where I am in my journey.  Ironically, it’s the perfect week to rest, as I seem to have come down with another cold/allergy ailment. 

           In the meantime, to keep this blog going, I am hoping to revisit the past, and by doing so, I hope to keep the past from revisiting me.  For tonight, all I’m going to say is that it all started with a plate of spaghetti.  Yeah.  Spaghetti.  Little (o.k. BIG) plate of noodles and sauce.  And so it began.