Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

This picture says it all.

For the first time in 14 years, I have a full-length mirror again. Actually, a whole wall of them, since my Master closet has those  things of high-styling 80s innovation - mirrored doors. Still, gaudy polished brass and wall-sized mirrors aside, I'm grateful for them. Even if they are positioned so that it's the first thing I see when I step out of the shower.

Last week, I had an epiphany as a result of those life-sized pieces of reflective glass: I saw myself in the mirror.

Myself. My body. The body that has failed me on more than one occasion.  The body covered in skin that still looks like it did 20 years ago when my mother told me, "It won't always look this way." (She was partially right - it didn't - now it looks the way it did 20 years ago PLUS it has the fine-line wrinkles I'm supposed to spend my life's savings chasing away). The body that would never land me on the cover of a single magazine. The body that rejected 35 bathing suits this spring because it is (like everyone else's body) disproportionate. The body that is intent on rejecting one food after another - on the speedy path to a life at 80 on a plain oatmeal only diet. The body that inherited my mother's translucent skin, my father's fur coat and an unknown genetic ancestor's penchant for scarring. The body that has lumps and bumps and sags and cracks and follicles and wrinkles and oddities in places where none should exist, if I were to subscribe to the popular notion that my body isn't good enough unless it has been altered (either virtually or literally) beyond any natural predisposition.

But, I also saw something else: Myself. Not someone else. I saw my body - the one that has born two children, the one who has survived two near death experiences and has come close to several others, the body that has health and strength and vitality, the body that has four fully functioning limbs and sight and hearing, the body that is mine - a gift bequeathed from a loving Father in Heaven who knew it was a prerequisite for exaltation. I saw my body - the one I have, not the one that is a fairy tale plaguing us all at one point and time. And I thought, "for a thirtysomething mother of two with all the above bodily issues, I am really okay with how I look in a bathing suit."

I almost didn't admit this out loud - because I can hear it now, the chorus of, "I hate yous." For some reason, as women, we get insanely uncomfortable when one among us proclaims that she isn't trying to lose weight, isn't on a diet, and can fathom herself wearing a bathing suit somewhere beside the kiddie pool sans a full-body cover-up.

But the truth is, I was blessed with decent genes, and I work really hard at being healthy - so why shouldn't I be okay with how I look in a bathing suit, even if I'm in no danger of having to fend of modeling scouts? Why shouldn't I see the muscle definition that is illustrative of stronger muscles resulting from pursuit of cardio and resistance activity? Why shouldn't I see the unhealthy pounds I've managed to keep off for almost six years as a result of eliminating calories that aren't worth it and swapping them with calories that are? Or the unhealthy things that never were because I set a goal at 12 to treat a chronic condition with healthy lifestyle choices rather than medication? Why shouldn't I celebrate the fact that I'm in a place in which I see very few of my female friends and colleagues (regardless of size or health) - not a place of supermodel glitz and glamour, but a place of, "I'm okay. I'm healthy. I feel good, and I'm happy to be me,"? Why shouldn't I be glad that I have been blessed (genetically) and worked for (lifestyle) the health to spend a weekend afternoon running foot races with my 4-year-old? Or the health to anticipate a glorious outdoors trek with my father this summer? Or a body that has grown and sustained two little girls? (Even if I was certain it would, at some point, probably kill me).

It was a liberating split-second moment - to see myself as who I am and to rejoice. If I could give anything to my girls, that split-second revelation would be near the top of my list.

Starvation by Elimination

Sometime ago I blogged about the medical nightmare of my stomach. Mostly because I had shelled (or was about to shell) out a whole lot of money for me to be diagnosed with (drumroll, please...) Chronic Functional Dyspepsia. That's a fancy sounding word that those who went to medical school made up to justify the thousands it cost to come to the conclusion of, "Her stomach hurts, we have no idea why, but we must give a diagnosis."

 

The translation? Upset stomach lasting more than 3 months.

 

The breaking point came the day I ran my 12k. 7.44 miles. That day, I gained TEN POUNDS. Of course, that night was my high school reunion - the only one I've ever attended. I felt miserable. I was so bloated, my pants didn't fit and I was mad - I had run almost 7 1/2 miles that morning - I didn't deserve to feel akin to a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. Two days later, it vanished.

 

A month later, at the end of my rope, I was lying shirtless on the exam table at my kids' allergist with 30 different scrapes on my back, testing for food allergies. I had been on the "diet of the month" (or starvation by elimination diet) for 7 months. I knew it was food. I just couldn't figure out WHAT food. The allergist came back and said, "Sorry, not allergic to any foods."

 

I wanted to cry. Then she said, but I suspect you have an intolerance of some sort. You know you're lactose intolerant. You know you're not gluten intolerant. What about fructose intolerance?

 

I shrugged her off. Couldn't be. And then I started reading - and it turns out the MD behind her name meant more than "more dollars," I now owed her $100, but even though the tests failed, she had stumbled across the source of my "dyspepsia" (I can't bear to write "functional" - really what is functional about chronic stomach pain?).

 

And that is when the Starvation by Elimination really began.

 

Anyone who knows me knows that I think about food constantly. I'm very particular about food. I plan my menus two weeks in advance, track what I eat (most days), and really try to be healthy. Some of it stems from having a body who has had a lifetime battle with food in general. Now, however, I've entered an entirely new phase in my life - think about COMPONENTS of food. What foods have a lot of fructose? What foods have more fructose than glucose? (Glucose helps reduce the symptoms) And why on earth did I not pay more attention in nutritional chemistry in college?

 

Just for kicks starvation elimination diet looks pretty much like this:

 

"List of things to avoid unless you want to feel like [fill in the blank with your favorite euphamism for a 4-letter-word]"

Apples

Cherries

Pears

All Melons

Jam/Jelly

Pineapple

Grapes/Raisins

Mangos

Artichokes

Avocados

Onions (all kinds)

Peppers

tomatoes

Lettuce - most greens in general other than spinach and mustard greens (which I loathe)

Eggplant

Whole wheat anything (other than in the morning, when I can tolerate some)

Pasta of any kind

Brown rice

Cous Cous

Squash

Pickles

Molasses

Agave

Honey

Stevia

Raw Sugar

Sucralose (splenda)

Beans

Ice cream

Milk chocolate

Coconut anything - oil, milk, coconut flakes

 

You get the point - pretty much 80% of everything. this is a very partial list.

 

Foods that never cause pain:

Fish

White rice

Celery

Spinach

Pumpkin

White Potatoes

Seeds

Nuts (when I'm not at home)

Plain yogurt

Grapefruit

Limes

Lemons

Cranberries

Berries (other than strawberries)

Cornmeal

Oatmeal

Buckwheat

Rye

 

Sometimes I can handle small bits of banana, apricots, lentils, chick peas, red peppers, sweet potatoes, raw carrots, cucumbers, sugar, maple syrup, soy and such. Yay for me - my special treat is adding something colorful to my food.

 

Keep in mind I'm also lactose intolerant and have a weird intolerance for most chocolate. Yeah, now we're down to about 85% of foods.

 

 I've fallen off the wagon in January - and been in bouts of pain the entire month - I've gone with "too lazy to think around my issues" and just made meals for the family and eaten those - bean burritos with roasted tomato salsa, minestrone soup, chili, etc. Hello bean and tomato overload - my stomach has bloated six inches just thinking about it.

 

There is, however, a bright spot to Starvation by Elimination. As I told Himself: "Sushi on a daily basis may actually become a medical necessity."

 

And that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Especially if it came with a side of sparkling water and lime with a fancy paper umbrella, a good book and a chaise lounge. Hey, if I'm dreaming, I may as well dream big. After all, one can only eat so much pumpkin oatmeal and spinach and plain Greek yogurt smoothies.

Musical Beds

So the new house is fabulous. The girls love their window seat (upon which all of their stuffed animals have taken residence) and their reading corner. They love the fact that their clothing are now at child-height and mom hasn't yet put any sort of latch on the closet, providing all kinds of tempting dress-up entertainment (the same goes for mom's closet by the way - *sigh*). They love the pale pink walls (we inherited them) and the mauve (*gasp* - inherited that too) carpet.

 

They do not love sleeping upstairs after 2-4 years of sleeping in a dark basement where the only noises were from the creaky floor upstairs or the noises that Himself and I made inside (a lot of noise, but comforting, familiar noise, apparently). They do not love the shadows that play across the floor in the dark from their sunburst window (must find a window covering) or the freight train whistles which start up about bedtime or the traffic sounds or - well, apparently anything about their room once the sun goes down and it's bedtime.

 

My amazing sleepers have turned into crazy little people.

 

Their mother is turning into a crazy big person.

 

White noise. No noise. Jazz music, lullabyes, BBC radio, nightlight in the room, nightlight in the hallway, door open, door closed, prayers, songs, stories ... and firm "Everyone stays in bed. Period." All to no avail.

 

Take last night. Quiet story and letter game (a new favorite) in a dimly lit bedroom. Family prayers. Individual prayers. Promises that sleep would come and that everyone would be in her original bed come morning. All seemed to work beautifully until I came up to bed 2 hours later. There I found one sleeping Woodstock - sprawled out on the landing. No blanket, no pillow, but apparently prefering the open hallway to her comfortable bed and the light sleeping noises of her sister.

 

I put her in her bed. She murmured. I gave her Meow (her stuffed snow leopard).

Twenty minutes later, she'd joined me in bed.

Himself came up, but her to bed, came to bed.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a train whistle sounded (keep in mind we're MILES from the tracks - it's not like we live RIGHT NEXT TO THEM), Pebbles, who normally sleeps the sleep of the dead, woke screaming "Scared of choo choo. Scared of choo choo!" and could not be consoled. On my way to get her, I tripped over Woodstock, who was now fast asleep on the floor next to my bed - a blanket, but no pillow.

I ended up with BOTH kids in Woodstock's TWIN bed. Woodstock next to me. Pebbles lying on top of me (a position, which, since birth has been the fastest way to get her to calm down - with her head on my chest). They immediately drifted off. I read the BBC and Washington Post and played a dozen games of solitaire on my phone.

When they were sound asleep and my brain was screaming because it was so tired, I gently put Pebbles in her bed. Her eyes flew open and she remembered why I was there in the first place - and despite the fact that there were no choo choos anymore that could be heard, she was not listening.

She toddled off and climbed in bed with Himself.

I went back to soothe Woodstock, who was now awake. She went back to sleep.

I went back to bed. In my delirum, I completely forgot Pebbles was in bed with us.

I woke up an hour later when Pebbles kicked me. I sat up, and tripped over ... you guessed it, Woodstock, who was back to sleeping on the floor next to our bed.

 

I give up. Last night was worse than normal, but aliens have invaded my children and no one is sleeping. I'm planning a train trip to nowhere (again) to show them that trains aren't scary, but I am almost as tired as I was when I had a newborn. Sleeping in hour to 90-minute stretches is not working out.

 

Apparently, Woodstock doesn't like it either - she asked if we could live in the new house during the day and go back to the old house at night.

 

I'm thinking those noise-cancelling headphones that Bose sells for a small fortune don't sound half bad. And I'm putting sheets on the guest bed, so when everyone invades me, I can run and hide - the door sticks in there, no one will ever find me.

I Resolve

I hate New Year's Resolutions. Mostly because I hate January (mostly
because I hate being cold, cooped up and forced to look at dead sticks
sticking out of the ground). I am in no way motivated to do anything
other than trying to keep myself from hibernating, which given that it
feels like the sun never actually reaches the ground in January, is
more challenging than it would seem.

Last year's resolutions were loosely defined in January, but not
refined until my toes started to thaw out - sometime just before the
Memorial Day Snowstorm. This year, I feel like since I'm starting the
year out with a new house, new neighborhood and new commute, I should
actually resolve to do something besides "survive until Daylight
Savings Time comes back."

I'm just not sure what. There are a thousand things floating around in
my head that I have contemplated listing - running a half marathon to
further prepare for my backpacking trip (which in and of itself could
be an item), saving up to replace the pink (mauve?) carpet in the
living/dining room (it looks beautiful with the pale baby blue walls -
I'm pretty sure that color combination has never been authorized by
the likes of Pantone or Parsons School of Design), reading more to my
kids, reading more myself, taking a class, finally putting in a garden
that produces more than tomatoes and beets ... well, you get the
point, I could go on forever.

At the moment, however, it all just makes me tired. And hungry. And
feeling very much like a bear that has missed half her winter's nap.
So if I resolved anything right now it would be this:

-I resolve to love more visibly and yell less
-I resolve to be more dedicated in work and in play - finding a better
balance of both
-I resolve to develop a hobby
-I resolve to learn something new
-I resolve to stretch myself physically and mentally
-I resolve to make a friend in my new neighborhood
-I resolve to be better at budgeting, menu planning and saving (the
last thing on this list is an automatic given since I set up an auto
transfer - go me - mark one thing off, and it's only the 5th of
January)
-I resolve to keep stamps on hand and actually send mail (this means I
resolve to get out my 2011 holiday cards that arrived just as I was
packing up).
-I resolve to eat foods that make my body happy and do better at
eliminating the ones that make my body hate me
-I resolve to be better than I was in 2011.

And I resolve to write more. To get all the jumbled thoughts and ideas
out of my head and onto paper so I can sleep at night (providing the
girls get over their newfound fear of freight train whistles and stop
inviting themselves into my bed).

Onward. Bring on 2012.

Imaginary Mayhem

Woodstock has imaginary friends - has for about six months.

There is Aena (closest approximation I can come up with for spelling
"Long A sound with 'na' on the end" - sort of feel like I'm making up
crazy Utah names/spellings), who died abruptly this fall and Samantha,
who is still living, but, as it turns out, is allergic to blueberries
- and Woodstock always reminds me not to feed Samantha blueberries if
she (Woodstock) forgot Samantha's epi pen.

For months, Aena went everywhere with us - she was 4 (even when
Woodstock was still 3) and was an Orphan. No mention was ever made of
her father, so I'm not really sure what the situation was, but
Woodstock said that her mom got sick and died and she (Woodstock) was
Aena's new mom.

About August, things started to turn for the worst with Aena. She came
down with the flu and Woodstock told me that Aena stayed at home when
we went on our week-long camping vacation. Samantha, a new imaginary
friend, showed up and enjoyed her camping trip. As the fall
progressed, Samantha took more of an active role in Woodstock's life -
accompanying her nearly everywhere we went.

The imaginary friend was quite a demerit against my mothering skills.
I frequently (much to the exasperation of Woodstock) forgot to buckle
Samantha or Aena into a carseat. I inadvertently squashed one or more
imaginary friend when putting groceries in the cart right on top of
the poor imaginary child. I once committed the cardinal sin of
abandoning one in a cart at Home Depot.

So when Woodstock announced that Aena had died, I felt rather bad -
but I wasn't surprised, given that Aena had taken a bit of a back seat
to Samantha recently. I wondered if Woodstock was deep in mourning,
and I felt rather bad that my sloppy mothering of an imaginary child
may have been to blame.

Woodstock's answer surprised me. "I'm not sad," she said.

My heart turned cold and I briefly wondered if I had given birth to a
sociopath. Isn't the first sign nonchalance about things others find
deeply disturbing?!

Casually I asked, "Why aren't you sad? Aena died. I think that is very sad."

Woodstock rolled her eyes (she began practicing to be a teenager about
halfway through her 3rd year of life). "Mom," she said with a dramatic
"going on 13" sigh. "Aena's in heaven. With Jesus and Heavenly Father
and her mom, why would I be sad about that?!"

I will admit, relief flooded me to know that I did not indeed have a
sociopathic child. But I also felt a bit chagrined in the fact that my
child's faith was so absolute that she wasn't sad about death - she
recognized its temporary nature and the blessings of heaven beyond the
veil.

So, Aena is in heaven with her mother and Jesus, and I continue to
drag, squish, run over, forget and generally cause problems when it
comes to the remaining imaginary friend, Samantha (who is,
incidentially, also an orphan - but she is five and goes to
Kindergarten).

I just hope I don't feed her blueberries. I'd hate to have another
lesson on death from a child who clearly understands it much better
than I do.

I am not, it turns out, who I temporarily aspired to be

When I moved to The Frontier some (gasp) 4 1/2 years ago, I found hte neighborhood just to the north of us simply charming - beautiful brick bungalows, craftsmen and Tudors from the 1940s-1950s. Beautiful tree-lined streets with replica gas lamp posts and oozing tons of charm. Many gutted and updated (read:expensive), some in mostly original condition (read: a huge amount of work and money).

For 4 1/2 years, I've assumed if we stayed here, I'd move into that neighborhood, priding myself on the "small house in the city" aspirations. I had no intention of being a big-house suburban dweller. None at all.

Until ... well, until our new house fell into our laps one chilly November day. And fall it did. We were becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the 70s Palace, the landlord, the whole "hasn't been painted in 10 years, never looks clean, kitchen causing Sara anxiety out the wazoo because both kids want to help and someone is going to end up doing a face plant on the stove" kind of dissatisfaction. So when the opportunity presented itself, we figured, "what the heck," and went with it.

Inside, I panicked - the house was BIG, and it wasn't just in the suburbs, it may has well been on the far side of the moon for how much I knew about the location. Never mind 1/3 of it would be rented to our baby sitter and would be occupied by pint-sized playmates for the kids 5 days a week (without that, it truly would be much too large). Never mind, the suburbs have all of my regular haunts - and the house is on a quiet street in a quiet development rather than on an Interstate cut-through. Never mind that every play date, every person that came to the door, every bin of outgrown children's clothing I had to add to the stack in the garage left me in cold sweats.

I was a city, small cottage dweller. A minimalist who didn't need much.

As it turns out, as much as I wanted to be right, I was woefully disillusioned. My idea of what I wanted - which has pretty much been the same since the beginning of time - had been taken over by the same romantic notion someone has when asserting that a 500 sf studio in Manhattan is large enough to share with a couple of roommates.

Now that the kitchen is unpacked, I can find clean underwear and the keys to the 70s palace are turned in, there is this beautiful sense of calm. Inside, of course, the voices in my head scream (loudly), "Space! Space! There is enough space! Maybe your house will be clean. Maybe your kids can have normal play dates. Maybe you'll actually make friends because you can host things."

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. But right now - I am delirious. I've driven around the neighborhood shouting gleefully - "Look! A ___ (store/library/gym/place of worship/park/service)!" I've met more neighbors in 5 days than I did in 5 months at the last place. And there is already talk that the parentals will visit more - and *gasp* perhaps we'll even be allowed to host a holiday function or two.

There is a hymn that states, "It is well with my soul."

Indeed, it is well. Very well, indeed.