Picking My Battles

Making new habits is simple.  Simple because you only have to do something for 14 days until it becomes a habit.  Unfortunately, making new habits is not easy; if it were easy, we would all eat healthy food, exercise, and have tidy homes.  I have been making great strides in the exercising more area.  I have also been doing a better job of self-care (daily showers!), getting more work done, only letting laundry go two weeks before getting done, doing at least one load of dishes a week, and keeping up with bills.  Given that I am forever fighting the urge to want to do anything besides hang out under the covers all day, I think I've been VERY productive.

I admit that there is a LOT more that needs to be done, and many more areas for improvement.  However, there's only so much energy to go around, and fighting myself all day every day uses most of that up.  The result is that some things have to slide.  My main area of failure--healthy eating.  It's never been much of a priority for me to begin with and--let's face it--I'm still grieving and food is one of my main comforts.  Moreover, having added exercise to the mix, my bad eating will not be *as* problematic, and it sure as heck beats out-of-control-spending.  So, I'm not working on the food stuff.  Not yet, anyway.  Instead, I'm picking my battles.  I know me.  If I try to take on too many things at once, they will all fail.  Each one will receive less of my attention than it needs to be successful, and I will quit them all.  I have chosen to focus my energy on self-care, exercise, and work.  These three things are my top priorities.  Once I have managed to get these things to the point that they are automatic, I will attempt adjustments in my other bad habits.  It's not ideal, but I would rather succeed at adding exercise than fail at changing both food and exercise.

And, at least on the exercise front, I am proud to say that I am making progress.  I have completed seven workouts since the first of the year; my scale told me I am 9 pounds closer to my goal weight; and I am able to exercise for longer before feeling tired (although the whole back pain thing has been putting a cramp in my efforts).  It's not a perfect plan, but I am not perfect--in fact, I'm actually working on remembering that perfection is unattainable.

This is my truth.  Your mileage may vary.

Eating My Way Fat

I am fat.  This is pretty obvious, but it's still hard for me to admit.  I wear my weight *very* well and know how to dress it to hide it.  I'm not saying I don't look overweight; I do.  I just don't look as heavy as I am.  Even my docs say I don't look that big.  But this year is about truth.  The truth is, I take lots of pictures and find the ones that I think make me look smaller.  I know I've always done that to some extent--picking pictures that make me feel pretty, or at least prettier--but one of the things about finding my truth is peeling back the layers, removing the veneer, and exposing myself.  I need to look at things in the hard light of day.  So, here it is.  

I weigh 265 pounds.  My BMI is 38.  I was startled to discover that I am only a few pounds away from a classification of "clinically severe obesity".  I am already at an increased risk of diabetes, not just from my weight, but having had gestational diabetes--twice.  I am also a comfort eater.  I eat to make myself feel better.  I eat to reward myself for a job well-done.  I eat when I'm bored.  I love sugar and fat.  There are times I can eat just a little of something "bad," but more often than not, I cannot control myself.  I have come to understand the struggle of addiction.  I *know* I shouldn't eat something.  I *know* I will hate myself after I eat it.  I *know* I will feel miserable when I weigh myself.  I *know* it's bad for my health.  None of that stops me from shoveling it into my mouth anyway.  The more difficult thing about food addiction is that there is no going "cold-turkey."  No complete abstinence.  You can't rid your house, or your life, of all food.  You also can't just stop going places where it's available.  Food, particularly junk food, is ever present.  You *have* to find a way to moderate yourself.  This is, and has always been, my biggest struggle.  

In the past, the solution for me has not been to stop eating the junk entirely.  Rather, I would exercise to compensate.  It's not a perfect solution, but it's better than my current combination of eating crap and *not* exercising.  So, I'm going to make time for exercise.  I have chosen to motivate myself by signing up for a mini-marathon in May.  That's 13.1 miles.  I have done 3 half-marathons before, so I know I am capable of doing it.  It's just a question of getting my body back in a condition to get it done.  And, to keep myself moving forward, I am already verbally committed to do another one next January.  My plan will be to complete at least two half-marathons each year to keep myself in better health.

In the process, I expect I will release some weight (I call it releasing instead of losing because I usually end up looking for things I've lost).  According to the BMI calculators, I should weigh no more than 173.  That's 92 pounds from where I am, and a weight I haven't seen since I got married.  Since little goals are easier to achieve, I have set myself the following benchmarks:  240, 220, 200, 180.  At each benchmark, I get to reward myself, but not with food, or a day off of exercise.  I haven't figured out what my reward will be yet, but I have some time to figure it out--about 25 pounds worth of time.

Here's the thing.  I want you to hold me accountable.  To those of you who are friends on Facebook, I will be posting my workouts using Map My Run.  If you think I have started slacking, feel free to call me on it.  I will post a starting picture and then at least a monthly picture.  I will also post updates here.  Since my word this year is truth, my plan is to post the good and the bad.  I want to be honest about my struggle and how I'm trying to make myself better.  So, that's part of my plan for this year.  Stripping away fat; stripping away layers of camouflage; and finding the true me hiding underneath.  I hope you'll join and support me.

Me at 265:

Goodbye Joy, Hello Truth

It's New Year's Eve, and I could not be more ready for this year to end.  To be honest, I feel like I have been dealing with ever bigger struggles since we first started having trouble conceiving in 2008 and I am terrified about the year ahead.  Meds and surgeries in 2009; IVF and rough pregnancy in 2010; CHD diagnosis, hospitalizations, heart caths, and open-heart surgery in 2011; miscarriage and failed IVF in 2012; IVF, rough pregnancy, CHD, rough delivery, surgeries, deaths, and hospitalizations in 2013; surgeries, hospitalizations, depression, and Patrick's death in 2014.  Six years of increasingly difficult experiences.  I am tapped out.  I don't know if I can handle any more.  I know that I said that last year, and that this year was much worse and I'm still standing.  It has become obvious that each time I have said enough, the universe has tested me and pushed me and showed me that, in fact, it could give me more and I would survive.  I'm also well aware that there are many worse things that could be sent my way.  I don't want them.  I am trying desperately not to challenge the universe.  I don't want to know how strong I can be.

At the same time, I don't want to focus on the negatives.  I want to focus on something positive, under the theory that we manifest those things on which we focus our energy.  As 2015 has approached, I began the task of figuring out my word for the year.  Let me back up--in my family, instead of make New Year's resolutions, we pick a word or attribute that we want to focus on, work on, or manifest in the year ahead.  I have previously picked words like discernment and abundance.  One year, I picked patience, before I knew better.  Last year, having had such a crummy 2013, I picked joy.  I wanted to manifest joy in my life.  Hahahahaha!  What I got was lots of opportunities to find joy in the rough and tumble world of hospitals and death.  As a result of the experiences this year, I've been (I think reasonably) scared of picking my word for 2015.  I felt like it needed to be "perfect"; that, somehow, if I could just pick the right word, I will have an easier year in 2015.

I thought I had finally managed to narrow it to three:  miracles, release, and connection.  Then, this afternoon, I read an article by someone else who was picking a word for next year.  The article included a list of questions to ask in formulating said word.  In asking myself those questions, I came up with a few other thoughts, including success, family, truth, comfort, and insight.  As I tried to decide which of these words would be the best one to select, it occurred to me that I was picking my word out of fear.  Fear that it would be hard.  Fear that it would bring more struggles and grief.  I was, once again, trying to outsmart God--as though that were actually possible.  So, I tried my best to get my head out of it.  I wrote the words on paper, folded them, put them in a hat, and picked one.  The result was unexpected.  Of all the ones I thought might come up, this wasn't it.  Maybe that's why it came up.  Who knows.  For good or ill, my word for 2015 is:

Truth

And as I thought about the word, I was reminded of a line of a covenant from a church I attended in my youth:  to seek the truth in love.  So, I wrote my own covenant for the year, to help keep me on track with my word:

Love is the spirit of my life,

And truth shall be its law.

I will seek the truth in love.

I will speak my truth with love.

And I will help others find their truth.

This is my covenant.

So, goodbye #Joy2014 and hello #Truth2015.  See you next year.

Children and Grace

Confession time:  I cut church on Sunday.  I didn't feel like going, but Mira really wanted to, so I got up and got us ready, and off we went.  When her godmother and friend showed up, she ran off to be with them, so I slipped out and went to go visit Patrick.  Turns out, it was probably better that way.  Not sure I could've handled what came next.  The details aren't exact, since I got the story second-hand, but you'll get the idea.

So, at Storytime, Phil called all the kids up.  Once they arrived, he said something innocuous like, is everyone here?  One little boy, whose little sister was in the nursery, said, "No.  My baby is in the nursery."  Mira then says, "My baby's dead."  *oof*  Just hearing that as a story kicked me in the stomach; it's probably good I wasn't there.  Anyway, whispers ran through the congregation and people tried to find out or confirm what she said.  Phil said something like, "Yes.  And that makes us sad," and then managed to get thing back on track.

But then, a beautiful thing happened.  The kids were dismissed to Sunday School, and Mira and her friends went/ran to the toddler room as usual.  One of her good friends, who just turned three, ran into the room, grabbed a doll, ran back to Mira and gave it out to her, saying, "Here's your baby, Mira.  His name is Patrick."  Mira hugged the baby and apparently it was just what she needed at the time.

How is it that a four-year-old's truth can cut us to the quick and a three-year-old can know just how to bring comfort.  It was a moment of Grace.  I'm just glad I only heard about it--I would have been unable to function if I had witnessed it.

I Am Not Wonder Woman

Truly, I'm not.  And it's hard to admit.  I wish I was Wonder Woman.  I *want* to own that mantle.  It took me forever to accept the label when people first started using it.  And, I think, maybe I was for a while.  But, not anymore.  Now?  Now, I'm just broken.  I don't care that I haven't showered in days.  My alarm goes off, but I can't bring myself to get up.  My mind tells me I need to get up and go to work, but I can't manage to convince my body.  My poor husband, who is also overwhelmed with his own grief, and who doesn't get a pass on the holidays what with being a pastor, is now shouldering the burden of caring for a wife who is succumbing to her grief, and a 4-year-old who is struggling with things much too old for her, as well as the normal 4-year-old stuff.  He's Superman--at least to me (I dunno--maybe he doesn't want a mantle either?).  Still, somehow, he can drag himself out of bed to take care of church things--big church things like funerals, and small church things like a weekly bulletin.  Me?  I am forcing myself to type this in the hopes it will help me get my stuff together and get my butt back to work where I can earn money.  

It doesn't help that I feel guilty because I gave in to the need to fill the hole inside me by buying "stuff," thinking I was eligible for disability pay while I recovered from my surgery.  Nope.  GUILT!!  Phil takes Mira to daycare in the morning while I stay curled up under Patrick's frog blanket--my ever present friend since he died.  GUILT!!  To my credit, I made it to my mental health evaluation this week. They will have some counselor recommendations as well as any other services they think might help me next week, but in the meantime, I seem to just be sinking further down the grief hole.  When the counselor asked me if I could *briefly* describe why I was there, I told her the short answer was the death of my 10-month-old son in September, but the truth is, I have been swimming upstream since 2008 and just can't seem to catch a break.  Have there been moments of joy and fun?  Absolutely.  But, if I were to take one of those stress inventories, I imagine I would create a whole new high score.  I watched as the counselor maintained her outer professional facade, while her mind tried to figure out how I was still standing.  Even as we spoke, and I kept remembering other things to mention as we talked, even to me, it sounded like a joke.  Like, truly, no one could possibly have to deal with all that crap in a 6-year period.  Up until now, I had managed to avoid most of the addictions to which people succumb when they are finally overwhemeled (except food, of course, but that one is socially acceptable).  But, the spending thing scares me.  

I grew up without, so when I finally got access to a credit card, I went whole hog.  By the time Phil and I married, I was 24 and $60,000 in debt, only $25,000 of which was student loans.  We worked hard to get ourselves to a comfortable place--more than comfortable, really.  Even though we financed it, we were able to do four rounds of IVF.  Four!  But two medically-needy kids and lots of time away from work to care for them blew through what we had.  Friends, family, even people we don't know, have been extremely generous to us.  And we were making it.  We had enough to get by until my scheduled return to work.  Then, I let myself "comfort buy."  Please know--we're not currently in danger of losing our house.  We put things on a credit card with a high interest rate that we had intended to pay off without interest, and now have to pay the interest.  We're ok.  For now.  But if I can't reign this shopping thing back in--if I can't get my grief under control to the point where I can get back to work, we could get there.  And it scares me.

So, no, I am not Wonder Woman.  I am not *coping*.  I am broken and falling apart.  And you, my friends, my readers, my support people, you deserve to know that.  Or rather, I deserve to let you know that.  So, when you ask how I am, and I say "fine," know that I'm lying to you.  I am not fine.  In time, I may get there--I sure hope so.  But, I'm not wonder woman.  Not right now anyway.  Hopefully, with time, meds, and counseling, I will be again.  But, if I'm really lucky, life will get easier, and I won't have to be.

Getting the Rage Out

I previously blogged about my difficulty with tantrums when I was younger.  The truth is, I was a pretty emotional kid.  I cried pretty easily also had difficulty with rage and impulse control.  At least twice, I got angry at the taunting from the kid sitting in front of me and took my 3-inch-thick textbook and hit them on the top of their head with it.  (Needless to say, I am very lucky the world was not as litigious back then).  I finally managed to get my rage, and indeed most of my emotions, under control, but at a cost.  I pushed them all down and got lots of stomach and digestive issues as a result.

Even worse, I haven't ever really figured out how to get them back out.  They come out now and then when I'm completely overwhelmed, or too tired to stop them, but most of the time, they stay stuck way down.  So far, I've managed to do a pretty good job teaching Mira constructive ways to "get the angries out."  I just haven't been able to do it myself.

I've also been struggling recently with the discovery that I have a lot of rage and guilt inside of me.  I am angry that Patrick died and feel guilty for causing his problems.  Oddly, I'm not second-guessing our decisions with respect to hospice.  No, I'm second-guessing our decision to have him in the first place.  Was I being greedy?  Was my determination to have another child worth it?  Should I have just been happy with Mira and not tried so hard?  If I could have accepted that, he wouldn't have had such a difficult life.  This is not to say I wish I hadn't had him.  He has given me so much, and I would not trade the good memories for anything.  I just worry that he made the best of a bad situation and that he wishes he hadn't been here.  I wish I could talk to him and ask--make sure he's okay with everything.  Part of me believes that he signed up for it--that he knew how it was going to be going into it, but I worry that I only tell myself that to make it easier on myself.

Bigger than the guilt, though, is the rage, the anger that he is gone.  My head knows that being angry isn't going to change anything, but I still have this rage boiling inside of me that needs a way out.  I know this isn't fair.  I know I've been dealt a crappy hand.  Screaming, "It's not fair," and tossing breakable items will not change that, but trying to think my way out of having the emotions isn't working.  I've realized that pretending the rage isn't there isn't going to fix it.

I remember some years back seeing a morning news show talking someone in California started a business where people could buy plates and glasses and smash them.  I wish someone had a place like that around here; I would totally go.  I want to do something like this, but I need some place where I won't scare anyone.  I can't just grab some plates and smash them in my driveway without raising some eyebrows.  I thought about asking my friend if I could come to her woods and beat some trees with sticks to get it out.  I don't know.  I'm not really sure what to try.  I just know I need to do something.  I need to get this rage out of me so I can move forward and not do any more damage to myself by holding it in.  What say you readers--any suggestions?

Learning to Be Flexible With the Rules

I'm pretty much a rule person.  They keep the world tidy and orderly.  I believe in consequences for breaking rules, and I believe that we need to teach our children that there are consequences to their actions when the costs are small, rather than continuously bail them out and make their first experience of consequences come at a large cost.  I am also a pragmatist who also understands that pretty much every rule needs an exception because there will be circumstances that require it.

Parenting requires a fluidity and a balance between rules and exceptions.  Indeed, one of the reasons I said I wanted to be a parent was to learn flexibility and how to go with the flow.  Yes, the rule is generally "x," but because of "y," you can do/have "z" this one time.  There are times to hold fast to the rules, and times to bend (for some reason, I have Kenny Rogers' The Gambler running through my head), and parenting styles tend to dictate which rules we are more flexible with and under what circumstances.

Phil and I have been very lucky that we are pretty much on the same page about things.  We've been even luckier that the few times we have disagreed, it wasn't over anything big, and we still backed each other up in front of the child, and waited until later to discuss and reach consensus on whatever it was.  One thing which we agreed on before Mira was born was that she would sleep in her own room from the start.  And, except for when we were on vacation and there was only one room, we held pretty fast to that.  Even when she was in our room, we had her sleep in a separate pack-n-play.  We both held the line on this rule, with few exceptions.  Even so, there were some.  When she was scared on the cruise to Alaska, we let her sleep with us, and we all shared a bed for nap times during GenCon one year.

When I was pregnant with Patrick, we decided that it had been a pretty successful rule and planned to implement it with him as well.  In many ways, it was easier with him--no sleep training was necessary, as he was used to sleeping in his own bed away from us after a month in the hospital.  Moreover, he had too many tubes and wires to allow us to sleep with him even if we wanted to.  However, once we started being gone to Detroit for long periods of time, it was clear Mira needed reassurance, and we began to let her sleep with whichever parent was at home.  It was a rough time and making her feel safe was more important than holding the line.

When we brought Patrick home, we tried having her sleep in her own room, but she is scared of shadows and noises.  More than anything, though, she is scared she will wake up and we won't be there.  Scared of being taken away to live somewhere else.  Knowing the number of times she went to bed and I ended up taking Patrick to Detroit so she woke up to no mom or brother, and the multiple times she was taken by her grandparents for extended periods of time to Tennessee, these are not really irrational fears on her part.  So, we have allowed her to continue sleeping with us.

It's been difficult, to be sure, but there are some lovely moments--when she rolls over, drapes her arm over my shoulder, and says, "I love you, mommy," or when she scratches my back or smooths my hair with her hands in a soothing motion.  There are heartbreaking moments, too--when she wakes up crying because I am not there (I have been sleeping in the guest room so I don't get kicked in the stomach by her while I am recovering).  Each night, we let her choose where she wants to sleep--her room, our room with daddy, or the guest room with mommy.  Last night, she picked sleeping in the guest room with me.  I could tell she really missed me because she ended up putting a blanket over her face so she could not see the shadows made by the headlights of passing cars; she was willing to brave shadows to stay with me!

And then, there are the moments when I know I can't force her back to her room.  When she reaches out, multiple times, every night, to make sure I am still there.  If I have gotten up to go to the restroom, she wakes up to figure out where I am.  Once, she went walking through the house in the dark to find me and, when she did, she climbed up in bed and snuggled in next to me.  When Phil woke up and she wasn't there, he went on a search and found her snuggled up with me.  I love that she loves me, and wants me near, but it breaks my heart that she feels so scared, and her world feels so unstable to her.

In October, we had talked with her about having her start sleeping in her room every other night in November, and she was really excited about the plan--until it was time for the first night away.  Then it wasn't fun; it was scary.  Phil and I talked and we agreed that we would rather her feel safe and secure than rush her back to her room and potentially make things worse.  After all, it's only been since April that we've been allowing this.  Even if it lasts six more months, one year--even two--isn't long in the scheme of things.  We would much rather figure out how to make her feel secure enough to go back to her room willingly than force her to go back there now.  The world is scary enough when you are three--it's even scarier when your parents disappear at what seems like random, and your brother comes and goes and then is gone forever.  I can't even imagine.

So we bent.  Our firm "no co-sleeping" rule had to adapt, because, when we made it, we never anticipated the current circumstances.  None of this is to say that there are no more rules.  There are still rules, expectations, and consequences.  She figured out pretty quickly that people would treat her differently and let her get away with things if she said, "I'm sad because my brother died."  She discovered the words were a magical incantation that, once uttered, changed how the world worked.  We reigned that in pretty quickly (we think), and she is doing amazingly well for all she has been through, particularly given her age.  But things like this remind me that good parenting is a moving target.  There is no one single set of rules; no one perfect way that everyone should do it.  We learn; things change; we adapt.  It drives my type-A, OCD brain crazy, but I am learning when to be flexible, in hopes that it will keep me from breaking.