After months of hostile communication between myself and my Wii Fit Plus, I am pleased to report that my honorable (albeit extremely cheeky) nemesis has conceded to my point of view. Well, perhaps not so much conceded as received updated data, but nevertheless, as of Tuesday night, this woman no longer has to hear "That's Obese!" at the end of every Body Test.
Now, I just get told "That's Overweight!" Not much of an improvement so far as name-calling goes, but with it's surplus syllable, perhaps a bit harder for my three year old to parrot in the moments following my Body Tests. On the quite bright side, I don't think I have to lose quite as much weight to get from Overweight to Normal weight, as I did to get from Obese to Overweight. We'll see.
Actually, the scales were kind all over town this week. At my Monday meeting, I weighed in at 175.6 pounds, which put me at 30.4 pounds lost total! THE BIG THIRTY! I remember when that number seemed so absolutely impossible, and now I've made it. Later that day, I had a very good time putting on the jeans that fit me at Christmas and modeling them for a picture that celebrated the huge empty space behind the zipper that was no longer full of me!
Then, as it is never safe to rest on one's laurels for too long, I was off into the new week, with a new set of short term goals and an eye on my overall plan. I spent Weeks 1 and 2 revisiting the importance of vitamins and good old fashioned water, and this week, as called for by the 17 week plan, I made plans to amp up my activity. As fortune would have it, it was a good week for my walking buddy and I to walk all five of our planned upon evenings. We are now up to a mile and a half per walk. In addition, I cleared my schedule and planned on all three sessions of aerobics.
Oh. And did I mention that I spring cleaned like a maniac this weekend? I tremble to think of the calories I must have burned and the activity points I earned, but happy day, I managed to get through my busy weekend at 23 points a day and only 22 flex points!
Next week promises to remedy the scarcity of my blog postings--a new month and some new meditations on the journey. In the meantime, here's to the new week, new progress, and mouthy little mat-like devices that have been put in their places at long last!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Bellyache in a Bottle
I never thought I'd finding myself wishing I could keep a bellyache in a bottle, but this weekend, I gave myself a torrent of tummy trouble that could be genuinely valuable in capsule form--a pill that brings on discomfort just long enough to convince myself that I really DON'T want to eat whatever it is I'm considering eating.
It all started Friday night when I took the kids to Wendy's for their traditional chicken nuggets, mandarin oranges, and chocolate milk. As has become my tradition, I had decided on a meal before ever walking through the doors of the restaurant. I was going to have a Bacon and Bleu Burger and a Diet Coke. The burger was an indulgence, but do-able for a Friday--especially since I hadn't used any of my flex points for the week.
Then, as poor karma would have it, an extra small fry made its way into our order, and so the rationalizing began. I was craving salt, and after snitching a couple of the kids' fries, I dutifully marched myself over to the nutrional information posted on the wall. By the time I returned to the table, I had talked myself into an additional seven points for the small fry. This liberty only took me three points into the flex points zone for the day. Not too shabby.
If it had ended there, I really wouldn't have been in bad shape; but later that night, I sat down to second supper with some friends who had watched my kids while I got a haircut. When I got home, I fixed supper for my husband, and standing in the light of the open refrigerator, I was struck with the plight of a poor chicken sausage. Immediately, I thought how much improved the situation of the chicken sausage would be by the presence of ketchup and a bun.
Thirty minutes later, I had done my good sausage deed for the week and elevated myself to lonely food saint by doing similar favors for a Mini Snickers and a Reese's Peanut Butter Egg. When I went to bed, I felt exactly how I deserved to feel--overstuffed. No more splurging for me. No sir. Seventeen of my flex points were gone, and I wasn't using any more.
One would think that the minor indigestion I experienced on Saturday morning would have kept me in line, but nooooo. When the kids and I headed out to Downtown Greenville for an outing with friends, they suggested that we finish our walk with an ice cream cone. Immediately pushing past misgivings that no doubt, had something to do with the fact that I had absolutely no idea how many points were in a single scoop, AND a mix-in, AND a waffle cone; I cooly remarked that I would just use my remaining flex points to cover the damage.
What followed reminds me of a portion of scripture in which an angel instructs the apostle John to ingest a book that would be sweet like honey to the taste, but bitter to the belly. Yes indeed, that Swiss Chocolate Butter Cream Waffle Cone with Reese's and Nestle Crunch Mix-ins was like honey on the tongue, but at nine o'clock that night, I still felt like I had a bicycle pump attached to my stomach.
The next day, I continued to develop a whole new respect for the bellyache. When I walked into Sunday School and found that doughnuts were in attendance near the coffee pot, I was not even tempted. At lunch, I resorted to pure ruffage, hoping to keep the bellyache at bay; and at dinner, wild horses could not have shoved the usual hot dog down my throat.
So yes, oddly enough, I AM wishing I could incapsulate this weekend's bellyache, so that everytime I think I REALLY want to throw points to the wind and eat like I used to three meals a day, seven days a week--I can experience just enough of the consequences, to return to choices that I know are GOOD for me.
Those GOOD choices are the ones that resulted in today's weigh-in of 179.2 pounds. Therefore, on the wings of success I sail into the next 17 weeks of the journey to my skinny jeans. This week, I'm starting back at the beginning with my multi-vitamin, which truth be told, I have slacked on a little. I am also comitted to walking 4 to 5 times a week with a friend, so as to prepare for a 5k walking race sometime before the end of July.
And no. My 5k race will not conclude at the ice cream shop.
It all started Friday night when I took the kids to Wendy's for their traditional chicken nuggets, mandarin oranges, and chocolate milk. As has become my tradition, I had decided on a meal before ever walking through the doors of the restaurant. I was going to have a Bacon and Bleu Burger and a Diet Coke. The burger was an indulgence, but do-able for a Friday--especially since I hadn't used any of my flex points for the week.
Then, as poor karma would have it, an extra small fry made its way into our order, and so the rationalizing began. I was craving salt, and after snitching a couple of the kids' fries, I dutifully marched myself over to the nutrional information posted on the wall. By the time I returned to the table, I had talked myself into an additional seven points for the small fry. This liberty only took me three points into the flex points zone for the day. Not too shabby.
If it had ended there, I really wouldn't have been in bad shape; but later that night, I sat down to second supper with some friends who had watched my kids while I got a haircut. When I got home, I fixed supper for my husband, and standing in the light of the open refrigerator, I was struck with the plight of a poor chicken sausage. Immediately, I thought how much improved the situation of the chicken sausage would be by the presence of ketchup and a bun.
Thirty minutes later, I had done my good sausage deed for the week and elevated myself to lonely food saint by doing similar favors for a Mini Snickers and a Reese's Peanut Butter Egg. When I went to bed, I felt exactly how I deserved to feel--overstuffed. No more splurging for me. No sir. Seventeen of my flex points were gone, and I wasn't using any more.
One would think that the minor indigestion I experienced on Saturday morning would have kept me in line, but nooooo. When the kids and I headed out to Downtown Greenville for an outing with friends, they suggested that we finish our walk with an ice cream cone. Immediately pushing past misgivings that no doubt, had something to do with the fact that I had absolutely no idea how many points were in a single scoop, AND a mix-in, AND a waffle cone; I cooly remarked that I would just use my remaining flex points to cover the damage.
What followed reminds me of a portion of scripture in which an angel instructs the apostle John to ingest a book that would be sweet like honey to the taste, but bitter to the belly. Yes indeed, that Swiss Chocolate Butter Cream Waffle Cone with Reese's and Nestle Crunch Mix-ins was like honey on the tongue, but at nine o'clock that night, I still felt like I had a bicycle pump attached to my stomach.
The next day, I continued to develop a whole new respect for the bellyache. When I walked into Sunday School and found that doughnuts were in attendance near the coffee pot, I was not even tempted. At lunch, I resorted to pure ruffage, hoping to keep the bellyache at bay; and at dinner, wild horses could not have shoved the usual hot dog down my throat.
So yes, oddly enough, I AM wishing I could incapsulate this weekend's bellyache, so that everytime I think I REALLY want to throw points to the wind and eat like I used to three meals a day, seven days a week--I can experience just enough of the consequences, to return to choices that I know are GOOD for me.
Those GOOD choices are the ones that resulted in today's weigh-in of 179.2 pounds. Therefore, on the wings of success I sail into the next 17 weeks of the journey to my skinny jeans. This week, I'm starting back at the beginning with my multi-vitamin, which truth be told, I have slacked on a little. I am also comitted to walking 4 to 5 times a week with a friend, so as to prepare for a 5k walking race sometime before the end of July.
And no. My 5k race will not conclude at the ice cream shop.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Celebrating 25 Pounds
On Tuesday of this week, I went to my Weight Watchers meeting, stood on the scale, and weighed in at 180.6 pounds. During the meeting, I recieved my keychain charm for 25 pounds lost. I know a lot of you are wondering why you haven't heard from me before now, but quite honestly, I was just enjoying a few quiet moments of absolute disbelief. If you would have told me at the New Year, that Easter weekend, I would be experiencing this kind of success and shopping off the size 16 rack, I would have laughed you out of town. It's Biblical you know, for Sarah to laugh . . .
I'm laughing now, because for the first time since college, I feel free from the cycle of food and failure that's kept me in bondage for all of these years. Finally! I don't HOPE to lose weight, or hope I MIGHT be able to lose a few more pounds; I look forward to the day when I WILL meet my weight loss goals.
Now that I'm this far down the road, I am so glad now I decided to write it all down. To all of you who have been reading and commenting along the way, I thank you for choosing to make yourselves a part of this success. I appreciate you all so much!
So, where do I go from here? Why on to the next pound, of course, and then onto the pound after that. When it comes to where I would actually like this journey to end up, I still find myself vascillating. Some days, I feel I would be perfectly happy just to make it to BMI 25--around 146 pounds; while other days, I feel peaked and primed to meet the advanced challenge of a mid-level BMI 22--around 129 pounds. As I have mentioned previously, there is something quite thrilling about the idea of weighing less than my husband! Anyway, I still have some time to decide.
In the meantime, I am taking my week of Rest and Re-evaluation a week early, as despite my victory on the scale Tuesday, I started into this week feeling rather worn out. Consequently, I opted out of aerobics until Saturday morning and got some yardwork done instead. Besides, there won't be time for rest next week as I'm starting into the Weight Watchers 5k walking challenge with my friend Darcey.
I've also been giving my weekly commitments a lot of thought. What do I like about a system of commitments, and what could I do to make them more permenent and effective? What I like, is that a weekly commitment keeps me constantly aware of what I'm doing to stay on track to reach my goals for health. What I would like to see improve, is the level at which I resolve to recall and revisit my commitments as the weeks pass.
Consequently, next week, I will be starting over at Commitment One and cycling back through 17 weeks of commitments. This time, I will strive to make each commitment a more naturally flowing part of my days. Another words, rather than keeping a commitmebnt so I can then check it off of my to-do list at the end of the day, I want to get to the end of the day and realize that I have kept my commitment because it is becoming part of who I am and what I do.
With this new approach, will I be busy and challenged for a lifetime? Probably. But that's o.k., because Weight Watchers is not a diet, it's a lifestyle. Now, just so I'm clear with where I am heading in the next 17 weeks, here's the run down from Commitment 1 to Commitment 17. When I get to 17, I'll start over again, and with 17 weeks, I can repeat the cycle 3 times in a year with a week to spare. Close enough!
Week 1: Take my multivitamin every night before bed.
Week 2: Drink water--at least 6 glasses a day
Week 3: Evaluate activity--already doing pretty good?
Amp it up this week for variety and challenge
Week 4: Blog challenge, write a couple extra entries to stay directed
Week 5: The kitchen--try a couple new foods to keep it interesting at the table
Week 6: Rest and Re-evaluation
Week 7: Positivity through laughter--re-vist the Big, Fat Greek Weddings and
Wake Up Ned Divine!
Week 8: Bad habit/good habit week--get rid of a negative & replace it with a positive
Week 9: Evaluate activity--do I need to change it up soon? Am I bored? Push a little!
Week 10: Blog challenge--Face the demons, get whining out of my system
Week 11: The kitchen--Control environment, what temptations need to disappear?
Week 12: Rest and Re-evaluation
Week 13: Positivity through gratitude, make this the week to say thanks
to friends and family who help keep me successful and sane
Week 14: Evaluate activity--Change up strenth training. Don't get predictable!
Week 15: Blog challenge--plan the Week 16 push and blog to get ready!
Week 16: The PUSH. Psyche out that plateau. Plan extra activities, fast from unnecessary flex points, and push hard to have a special victory on the scale! You can do anything once every four months. =)
Week 17: Rest, re-evaluate, and CELEBRATE successs!
So come on with me! Victory dances are always more fun when the party is well attended!
I'm laughing now, because for the first time since college, I feel free from the cycle of food and failure that's kept me in bondage for all of these years. Finally! I don't HOPE to lose weight, or hope I MIGHT be able to lose a few more pounds; I look forward to the day when I WILL meet my weight loss goals.
Now that I'm this far down the road, I am so glad now I decided to write it all down. To all of you who have been reading and commenting along the way, I thank you for choosing to make yourselves a part of this success. I appreciate you all so much!
So, where do I go from here? Why on to the next pound, of course, and then onto the pound after that. When it comes to where I would actually like this journey to end up, I still find myself vascillating. Some days, I feel I would be perfectly happy just to make it to BMI 25--around 146 pounds; while other days, I feel peaked and primed to meet the advanced challenge of a mid-level BMI 22--around 129 pounds. As I have mentioned previously, there is something quite thrilling about the idea of weighing less than my husband! Anyway, I still have some time to decide.
In the meantime, I am taking my week of Rest and Re-evaluation a week early, as despite my victory on the scale Tuesday, I started into this week feeling rather worn out. Consequently, I opted out of aerobics until Saturday morning and got some yardwork done instead. Besides, there won't be time for rest next week as I'm starting into the Weight Watchers 5k walking challenge with my friend Darcey.
I've also been giving my weekly commitments a lot of thought. What do I like about a system of commitments, and what could I do to make them more permenent and effective? What I like, is that a weekly commitment keeps me constantly aware of what I'm doing to stay on track to reach my goals for health. What I would like to see improve, is the level at which I resolve to recall and revisit my commitments as the weeks pass.
Consequently, next week, I will be starting over at Commitment One and cycling back through 17 weeks of commitments. This time, I will strive to make each commitment a more naturally flowing part of my days. Another words, rather than keeping a commitmebnt so I can then check it off of my to-do list at the end of the day, I want to get to the end of the day and realize that I have kept my commitment because it is becoming part of who I am and what I do.
With this new approach, will I be busy and challenged for a lifetime? Probably. But that's o.k., because Weight Watchers is not a diet, it's a lifestyle. Now, just so I'm clear with where I am heading in the next 17 weeks, here's the run down from Commitment 1 to Commitment 17. When I get to 17, I'll start over again, and with 17 weeks, I can repeat the cycle 3 times in a year with a week to spare. Close enough!
Week 1: Take my multivitamin every night before bed.
Week 2: Drink water--at least 6 glasses a day
Week 3: Evaluate activity--already doing pretty good?
Amp it up this week for variety and challenge
Week 4: Blog challenge, write a couple extra entries to stay directed
Week 5: The kitchen--try a couple new foods to keep it interesting at the table
Week 6: Rest and Re-evaluation
Week 7: Positivity through laughter--re-vist the Big, Fat Greek Weddings and
Wake Up Ned Divine!
Week 8: Bad habit/good habit week--get rid of a negative & replace it with a positive
Week 9: Evaluate activity--do I need to change it up soon? Am I bored? Push a little!
Week 10: Blog challenge--Face the demons, get whining out of my system
Week 11: The kitchen--Control environment, what temptations need to disappear?
Week 12: Rest and Re-evaluation
Week 13: Positivity through gratitude, make this the week to say thanks
to friends and family who help keep me successful and sane
Week 14: Evaluate activity--Change up strenth training. Don't get predictable!
Week 15: Blog challenge--plan the Week 16 push and blog to get ready!
Week 16: The PUSH. Psyche out that plateau. Plan extra activities, fast from unnecessary flex points, and push hard to have a special victory on the scale! You can do anything once every four months. =)
Week 17: Rest, re-evaluate, and CELEBRATE successs!
So come on with me! Victory dances are always more fun when the party is well attended!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Pink Rugs and Pepsi Cans
I have this set of pink bathroom rugs. A few years ago a friend of mine kindly sent them to me when she changed the color scheme of her boudoir, and they were in beautiful condition. At the time, her sons were in college and high school, while my son was just about to break upon the world scene. Little did I know, these rugs had an uncanny propensity for disaster. Either that, or I just have the world's WORST rug karma, and I'm ruling that option out, merely because I cannot face a life of tomorrows in which I have bad rug karma.
You think I'm paranoid, naturally, but you haven't even heard about my daughter's paranormal connections to every Pepsi can I ever have, and--no doubt--ever will, open. Now, I'm not an addicted consumer of diet carbonated beverages; however, I am an obsessive compulsive scheduler, and I have a diet soda scheduled into every week day at 10:15. My daughter's sub-concious day planner correspondantly prompts her to find and dump that Pepsi by 10:45. I rarely get to finish my Pepsi. Whether it's full or empty, left on a table, in the trash, or on something's fifth shelf twice as high as she is tall; she will find it, and onto my carpet go the contents. Again, we're choosing to rule out bad rug karma here.
So, if not to discuss the absolute presence of bad rug karma within these four walls, where am I going with these discouraging anecdotes? Why, to the kitchen of course--the soul of the house. Just as every good sermon grabs the attention of the sinner and takes it's discourse straight to the heart--every good diet blog begs a bit of sympathy and then heads straight to the supplier of the stomach--that is to say, the kitchen.
Another topic we've covered in our Weight Watchers meetings is controling the kitchen environment. Anotherwards, don't keep stuff around that you can't say "no" to, or that is going to tempt you in a moment of weakness, because chances are, if the stuff isn't around, your head is going to win the argument with your stomach. You are going to make a good choice from the good foods you have in your wisely stocked kitchen. Your stock, of course, will not include the pink rugs and pepsi cans of your existence that might make it practically impossible for you to succeed. After all, you might walk to the kitchen for that tasty temptation at 10:00 at night, but you're sure not going to drive to the grocery store in your pajamas for it.
We all have that food or two--for me it's cheese puffs and ice cream--that if they are present in the house, we will eat them every day until they are no longer available. It may even be that most of the time, we are successful at portioning these foods reasonably, so that no major sin of the tracker takes place and the scale is not transgressed; however, usually, before it's all over, we're sitting there with a double (or triple, God forbid) serving of whatever it is, just because we have some flex points on our hands.
Now what is this accomplishing? Maybe for someone else, this situation would not be a problem, but for me, it's entirely defeating the point. Yes, I am trying to lose weight, but more than that, I am trying to overcome the mental and emotional failings that got me here in the first place. My mind says I can have that extra ice cream because I have 18 flex points left. But at 3 points a half cup serving, my mind also knows I could do six scoops of ice cream with that kind of a flex-point bank roll. Am I gonna do it? Chances are, no. Have I done it in the past ten years? Yep.
And that's just the mental. What about the emotional? I deserve that big bowl of ice cream right? I mean, after all, I've worked my tail off all week long. I take care of six kids under four! Who's gonna blame me for having a scoop of ice cream per kid? This line of reasoning could--and has--gone on ad infinitum. Before I know it, I'm eating leftover candy from Halloween all because . . .
I take care of six kids,
and kids make laundry,
and laundry takes half of my life,
and by the time I dig myself out
I'll be 100 and too geriatric to brush my teeth or shower,
but why does that matter because no one lets me take care of basic hygene as it is because they're too busy waiting for me to cook six meals a day,
and then there's dishes left over that breed like pheremonal rabbits
And on, and on, and on.
Yes, if there are cheese puffs or ice cream options in the house, I'm going to find a reason to eat them, and then I'm going to reason a reason to eat a little more. They are the pink rugs and Pepsi cans of my kitchen. If they are present, they draw me almost surely to failure. That failure is not necessarily cataclismic and entire, but it has the potential to start a chain reactions of smaller failures--the mental and emotional failures--that could threaten to undermine my attempt as a whole.
Case and point, last week, my son begged me to buy a Mega-container of cheese balls at Sam's Club. I usually do let him choose one snack, so I let him talk me into it. Guess who ate cheese balls three nights in a row? (In my defense, I did count out a serving even though my husband laughed at me!) Then, I had to buy ice cream for a Friday night get together I was hostessing. Three half gallons of ice cream sitting in my freezer is NOT a good thing. I did fine while the ice cream was still virgin, but after the plastic seals came off on Friday night, all bets were off. I ate a serving Friday, then two servings Saturday and Sunday. I have entirely sworn off ice cream and cheese balls this week!
Like the pink rugs, if I remove them from the big picture, bad things are going to stop happening. I can't get rid of them entirely as there would be a family revolt if they caught me pouring the cheese balls in the dumpster and letting the icecream melt down the drain, but I am removing them from my menu!
So, let's stop the bad karma in it's tracks, because the only thing worse than bad rug karma, is bad SCALE karma.
You think I'm paranoid, naturally, but you haven't even heard about my daughter's paranormal connections to every Pepsi can I ever have, and--no doubt--ever will, open. Now, I'm not an addicted consumer of diet carbonated beverages; however, I am an obsessive compulsive scheduler, and I have a diet soda scheduled into every week day at 10:15. My daughter's sub-concious day planner correspondantly prompts her to find and dump that Pepsi by 10:45. I rarely get to finish my Pepsi. Whether it's full or empty, left on a table, in the trash, or on something's fifth shelf twice as high as she is tall; she will find it, and onto my carpet go the contents. Again, we're choosing to rule out bad rug karma here.
So, if not to discuss the absolute presence of bad rug karma within these four walls, where am I going with these discouraging anecdotes? Why, to the kitchen of course--the soul of the house. Just as every good sermon grabs the attention of the sinner and takes it's discourse straight to the heart--every good diet blog begs a bit of sympathy and then heads straight to the supplier of the stomach--that is to say, the kitchen.
Another topic we've covered in our Weight Watchers meetings is controling the kitchen environment. Anotherwards, don't keep stuff around that you can't say "no" to, or that is going to tempt you in a moment of weakness, because chances are, if the stuff isn't around, your head is going to win the argument with your stomach. You are going to make a good choice from the good foods you have in your wisely stocked kitchen. Your stock, of course, will not include the pink rugs and pepsi cans of your existence that might make it practically impossible for you to succeed. After all, you might walk to the kitchen for that tasty temptation at 10:00 at night, but you're sure not going to drive to the grocery store in your pajamas for it.
We all have that food or two--for me it's cheese puffs and ice cream--that if they are present in the house, we will eat them every day until they are no longer available. It may even be that most of the time, we are successful at portioning these foods reasonably, so that no major sin of the tracker takes place and the scale is not transgressed; however, usually, before it's all over, we're sitting there with a double (or triple, God forbid) serving of whatever it is, just because we have some flex points on our hands.
Now what is this accomplishing? Maybe for someone else, this situation would not be a problem, but for me, it's entirely defeating the point. Yes, I am trying to lose weight, but more than that, I am trying to overcome the mental and emotional failings that got me here in the first place. My mind says I can have that extra ice cream because I have 18 flex points left. But at 3 points a half cup serving, my mind also knows I could do six scoops of ice cream with that kind of a flex-point bank roll. Am I gonna do it? Chances are, no. Have I done it in the past ten years? Yep.
And that's just the mental. What about the emotional? I deserve that big bowl of ice cream right? I mean, after all, I've worked my tail off all week long. I take care of six kids under four! Who's gonna blame me for having a scoop of ice cream per kid? This line of reasoning could--and has--gone on ad infinitum. Before I know it, I'm eating leftover candy from Halloween all because . . .
I take care of six kids,
and kids make laundry,
and laundry takes half of my life,
and by the time I dig myself out
I'll be 100 and too geriatric to brush my teeth or shower,
but why does that matter because no one lets me take care of basic hygene as it is because they're too busy waiting for me to cook six meals a day,
and then there's dishes left over that breed like pheremonal rabbits
And on, and on, and on.
Yes, if there are cheese puffs or ice cream options in the house, I'm going to find a reason to eat them, and then I'm going to reason a reason to eat a little more. They are the pink rugs and Pepsi cans of my kitchen. If they are present, they draw me almost surely to failure. That failure is not necessarily cataclismic and entire, but it has the potential to start a chain reactions of smaller failures--the mental and emotional failures--that could threaten to undermine my attempt as a whole.
Case and point, last week, my son begged me to buy a Mega-container of cheese balls at Sam's Club. I usually do let him choose one snack, so I let him talk me into it. Guess who ate cheese balls three nights in a row? (In my defense, I did count out a serving even though my husband laughed at me!) Then, I had to buy ice cream for a Friday night get together I was hostessing. Three half gallons of ice cream sitting in my freezer is NOT a good thing. I did fine while the ice cream was still virgin, but after the plastic seals came off on Friday night, all bets were off. I ate a serving Friday, then two servings Saturday and Sunday. I have entirely sworn off ice cream and cheese balls this week!
Like the pink rugs, if I remove them from the big picture, bad things are going to stop happening. I can't get rid of them entirely as there would be a family revolt if they caught me pouring the cheese balls in the dumpster and letting the icecream melt down the drain, but I am removing them from my menu!
So, let's stop the bad karma in it's tracks, because the only thing worse than bad rug karma, is bad SCALE karma.
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 . . .
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 . . .
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?
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?
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