Should I Stay Or Should I Go? It's Best She Went.

Warning: This blog contains the words “throw” and “up” several times together in the same sentence. It’s not too awful graphic, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
11 a.m.: Claire arrived for a sleepover. As I watched her, I was aware just how much she emulates the behaviors the adults in her life model in her presence. Claire loves to “exercise,” just like her mom and me. She also loves healthy food: cherry tomatoes, grapes, oranges, and oatmeal, to name a few. Also, like her mom and me, Claire loves chocolate chip pancakes. She ordered them for breakfast this morning and Grammy had a bite, too. With syrup. No problem.

When we got home, she proceeded to rearrange my workout room/office, as she always does.

“Help me exercise, Grammy,” she said as she picked up my 2-pound weights (notice the footwear). I picked up two 4-pound weights and she led the instruction.

“Up, down, up, down,” she said, moving the weights over her head.

Fifteen seconds later: “I all done.”

Claire moved on to the elliptical. She can’t move the pedals in a full circle, but she can lean on the front bar enough to give her the momentum to move the pedals back and forth. “I exercise, Grammy,” she says.

Then she moved on to the Thera-Band. She handed me the blue band and she held the green band.

“Pull!” she instructed me. We pulled and pulled and then I let go. Snap! She was startled and then laughed. She let go of her band and snap! This put her in hysterics.

Claire was thirsty, so I brought her some milk. She drank from the straw at a weird angle and when no milk came up she said, “Fix my milk, Grammy.” I did and she said, “Thank you, Grammy.”

The kid is awfully polite.

It took me an hour to eat my soup because, as you know, whenever a 2-year-old is present, time goes so s-l-l-o-o-w-w-w-l-l-y. They see everything, say everything, and need to know everything. From a busy adult’s perspective, this could be hell or, in my case, a vacation. Claire always puts my life in perspective.

12 p.m.: Claire was a little hungry. I gave her a few Goldfish and “Hot Dog” apples (freeze-dried strawberry and banana bits – not apples – in a package with Goofy and Mickey Mouse on the front. She calls everything related to Mickey Mouse “hot dog” because of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme song – “Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggety dog…”).

Claire crawled on my lap. She seemed a bit lethargic. I knew she was tired, so I said, “Let’s go take a nap.” She went potty, washed her hands and asked for some lotion to put on her owie (a miniscule scratch on her thigh). I put a Pull-Up on her and we headed upstairs.

1:18: Claire and I laid in bed and I closed my eyes (modeling sleeping, right?). She sang quietly the song “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” with a little “Jingle Bells” thrown in. I tried not to laugh. She looked at me once in awhile and said, “Shhhh, Grammy s’eepin’.” If only she’d sleep, I kept thinking.

2:08: “I want Mommy!” This hasn’t happened before so I assumed she was homesick. I called Cassie and we decided it was best I take her home. I hung up the phone and told Claire that she was going home to see Mommy.

“No!! I stay at Grammy’s green house!” she said and climbed on to a dining room table chair and said, “Doggies!” which meant she wanted macaroni and cheese.

Well okey dokey.

I called Cassie and told her the trip was off and that Claire wanted to stay. Cassie said if I ever figured out the mind of a 2-year-old, I’d make millions.

3 p.m. After lunch I let Claire watch a little Wow Wow Wubbzy. Soon after I put it on, she ran up to me and said, “I cold, Grammy! Warm me up!” So I grabbed her blankie and wrapped her up. She was content.

3:30 p.m. Papa Larry came home and we took the doggies (real dogs, not macaroni and cheese) for a walk. When we got home, I put Claire in the bathtub.

4:15 p.m. Instead of her usual bathtub exuberance, Claire laid in the water and poked at the bubbles. Something wasn’t right. I called Cassie and told her I didn’t think Claire felt well. We agreed she should go home and decided to meet halfway at our usual gas station. I got Claire out of the tub and put her in her pajamas. Papa heated up the car and we put her in her car seat. She was sound asleep two minutes later.

5:30 I arrived at the gas station. Cassie looked like death warmed over. She said she had to pull over to throw up on her way to meet me. She transferred Claire and we parted ways. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang.

“Mommy, Claire just threw up over everything!” cried Cassie.

Ugh.

9 p.m. Sickness, sickness everywhere. I know there will be many more sleepovers to come, but right now I really miss Claire and feel so badly that she and her mom and brother (yes, Luca has it, too) are so sick. I hope I don’t get it, but if I do and as I worship the porcelain god, I’ll think about happy Claire eating “hot dog apples” on my elliptical earlier today.

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The Blogger’s Blues

While I did an intense 70-minute workout, backed up my computer files, and vacuumed the first floor this morning, I’m crowing myself Most Unproductive Slug Of The Day.

I’m not hungry, but I want to eat. The dishes are a monstrous pile of sticky smoothie cups, gunky condiment plates, lip-balm smeared cups and mugs, and leftovers-encrusted storage containers. I don’t want to chop veggies for the soup I’m making for dinner; I just want them to magically chop themselves. When I finally showered at 2:00, instead of drying my hair, I let it go curly. I’m wearing a flannel shirt, sweat pants and slippers. I can’t get warm, but I’m not sick.

Believe it or not, I’m in a fine mood! I just don’t know what the heck to write in this blog! What do you do to combat Bloggers Block?

I’ve looked through every blog I’ve written here and on Zen Bag Lady, hoping for some inspiration, but have found none. I did, however, find something I wrote in May 2008 that made me tear up. Do you guys ever cry when you read something you’ve written? Anyway, I decided to share it here for no other reason than it’s a nice distraction from all things weight related. Maybe that’s what’s wrong. I don’t have anything to write about weight right now. Writing, as you know, is a fickle imp. I’ll be back on track in a day or two, I’m sure.

In the meantime, here’s what I’d like to share with you:

(Written in May 2008, when Claire was 7 months old)

Some moments can only be preserved in words and memory. Photography can’t do them justice.

This afternoon, I heard Claire fussing just 25 minutes into her nap. I was in the guest room writing, but I knew my daughter Carlene would tend to her. An hour later, I checked to see where everyone was and I found Carlene asleep in the rocking chair in Claire’s nursery as Claire lay asleep in her arms, wrapped in her fuzzy green blanket and her head resting in the crook of Carlene’s left arm. It was a perfectly awesome moment of peace and stillness, but most of all, love.

Carlene and Claire in Dec. 2007

When I write about Claire, I often mention her mother (my daughter Cassie) or her father (my son-in-law Matt), but Aunt Carlene is probably the third most important person in Claire’s life. It’s been interesting watching my oldest daughter interact with her niece these last 7 months. I’ve not witnessed her interact with anyone the same way before. Carlene is not one for public displays of affection, but she puts seasoned baby-talkers, neck-kissers and peek-a-booers like me to shame when Claire’s around.

Carlene’s not as gushy with her love as Cassie and me. She’s not stoic, but she’s a lot like her father, even though he died when she was a baby.

One way you can really tell Carlene loves her niece is her tolerance of Claire’s bodily functions. Carlene detests puke, snot, pee and poop. When she was little and had the stomach flu, she willed herself not to throw up. She also refused to cough a good hard get-up-the-phlegm cough when she had a cold. I’d beg her to cough and she’d simply say no. And getting her potty trained, well, that’s a whole other story and one I’ll never tell because she’d never speak to me again.

Carlene is more than I ever deserved, and watching her today with her niece in her arms, so soft and tender, I thanked God I did something in my life to warrant such a moment as that.

With my apologies to the Apostle Paul, I’ve rewritten his famous passage on love from his first letter to the Corinthians because, to me, Carlene is the embodiment of what he describes love to be.

“Carlene is patient. Carlene is kind. She (usually) does not envy and she almost never boasts. Carlene is proud in the right way. She’s not rude (except maybe on a really bad PMS day, but she always apologizes). She is not self-seeking, it takes a lot to get her angry, and she’s never thrown something I’ve done wrong back in my face. Carlene does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Carlene always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Carlene’s love never fails."

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A Hodge-Podge Saturday Morning

When I was little, Mom claimed Saturdays as her day to sleep in, which meant my brother and I spent the morning with Dad. It was awesome. We got to wear anything we wanted – stripes on plaid, Friday’s underwear, one blue and one green sock – and the only mandatory rules were to brush our teeth, wash our hands and flush the toilet. We didn’t even have to brush our hair!

Dressed and unkempt, we’d pile in the car and go to the bakery. Dad bought us whatever donut we wanted (as you can guess, anything with chocolate icing was OK with me). We’d eat our donuts while Dad drove the station wagon through the car wash, then we’d go home and watch cartoons.

When my girls were little, Saturday mornings were my day to sleep in, too. At least until Pee Wee’s Playhouse came on. The girls woke me up for that. But beforehand, they’d get up and “make” their own breakfast* and I let them wear whatever they wanted. As long as they brushed their teeth, washed their hands and flushed the toilet, they could watch cartoons all morning.

(*The night before, I’d place a box of cereal on the counter along with two bowls. I’d pour milk in two plastic cups and juice in two other cups, cover them in plastic wrap, and set them in the refrigerator. The next morning, the girls poured their own cereal and added the pre-measured milk. It was their first cooking lesson!)

As I write this, my hair isn’t combed and I don’t have any one thing I want to address in this morning's blog. So in the tradition of my hodge-podge Saturdays, I offer the following observations and a very tasty recipe:

1. You know how I said a few blogs ago that I was going to be more mindful and to not wish away moments? Well, tell me if this is cheating: I acknowledge that it’s 7 degrees outside, and while I don’t like it, I accept that there’s nothing I can do to change the weather. That’s staying present, right? But in defiance of the thermometer, I made a pretty spring-colored breakfast:

A raspberry-banana smoothie with chocolate soy and Greek yogurt and a cup of Spring Cherry green tea. And even though I shivered in front of my space heater, eating tropical fruit and thinking of cherry blossoms kept me warm in my mind.

That might be cheating a little, but it was a very good moment within a moment.

2. Cammy at Tippy Toe Diet posted a great blog yesterday about how jam packed the grocery stores get whenever the weather’s about to turn bad. What is it about predictions of snow and ice that cause people to suddenly need copious amounts of milk, bread and eggs? It’s like snow causes masses of people to crave French Toast!

3. Sometimes it takes more than will and intention to get me on the elliptical. That’s when I rely on my favorite workout shirt for motivation (you know, the pink one?). But when I put it on this morning, I realized it had already seen its last workout. It’s been washed too many times; shrunk up and threadbare. Goodbye, old shirt. Thank you for the great workouts.

4. Two things I love: Middle Eastern spices and simple recipes. My Moroccan Stew is inspired by two recipes, one from Weight Watchers and one from Taste Of Home. You can make it in a crock pot or on the stove.

1 C onion, chopped
2-3 garlic cloves, chopped or minced
1 large sweet potato, peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks
2 C carrots, roughly chopped
1 C celery, chopped
2 C canned crushed tomatoes
1 C veggie broth
1 cinnamon stick (or ½ t ground cinnamon)
1-2 t cumin (depends on how much you like cumin)
½ t chili powder (you can also use red pepper flakes if you like it a little hotter)
15 oz canned chickpeas, drained and rinsed

Sauté onion and garlic in a pan coated with cooking spray until slightly browned. I also add a tablespoon or two of broth which prevents burning or drying. Throw the onions, garlic and everything else in a crock pot and cook on low for 6-8 hours or in a stock pot and simmer for an hour.

5. If you want to join Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook, click here. We’re a fun little group of losers…and I mean that in a good way.

Wear what you want, don’t worry about your hair, just enjoy your Saturday. See ya’ll Monday!

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It’s Still Plenty Good…Even With Accoutrements

When I was a kid, I’d jump on a horse by grabbing its mane and throwing my legs over its back, and we’d run through a field or down a dirt road with no tethers. No saddle,  no bridle. Just me, the horse, the wind, and oh-my-god freedom.

When I was a kid, I’d ride my bike down a hill at breakneck speed, sitting straight up on the seat. Look ma! No hands! Just me, the bike, the wind, and oh-my-god freedom.

When I was a kid, I threw a softball further than any girl before me – almost as far as the record-holding boy – and held the grade school record for more than 10 years.

When I was a kid I walked everywhere. I played cops and robbers, kick the can, flashlight tag, and kick ball. I loved jump rope (Who put the cookie in the coo-cookie jar?), cheerleading (I was the back bend/cartwheel/handstand queen, not to mention I had a set of lungs that could outscream any “We’ve got the spirit” taunt from the other side), soccer, broom ball, ice skating, snowmobiling, and swimming in the lake (actually swimming, not skinny dipping, which came later in my childhood...:))

When I was a kid I could do most anything without assistance. To borrow Great-Great-Uncle George Gjertson’s review of most things in life – including lutefisk and unwashed underwear – my body was “plenty good.”

Now? Well…my body is still plenty good. It just needs some assistance.

As you know, I only mention products here that I believe in, and I’m not paid to say what I say. In fact, none of the manufacturers have a clue that little old blogger me is even talking about them! I just like to pass on my experience with the stuff I love and loves me back.

Right now, I’m really loving my Pattstrap. Because of my arthritic knees (which, for those of you new to my blog, need to be replaced but I’m biding my time), I’ve developed a fun little disorder called Iliotibial Band Syndrome, which in turn aggravates my tensor fasciae latae muscle, giving me a true honest-to-god pain in my ass.

To combat this, I use and ADORE the Pattstrap, a simple little piece of non-latex band I wrap around my thigh or just below my knee, depending on which part of the tendon is hurting. It’s a godsend.

I also use a tennis ball to work out the kinks in my ass, often stopping during a cardio workout to roll around with it on the floor, as dirty nasty as that sounds. But it works! I’ve also stopped a bike ride and sat on a rock or a metal guide post along the road to work out those ass kinks. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do when the pain strikes, you know?

I love Perform Better’s foam roller and am considering investing in this Trigger Point Performance massage ball. I’m pretty sure my butt and thighs will hate me for a little while, but they’ll thank me later. Especially when I go to bed and they’re happily at rest on a pillow and warmed by a Thermaphore heating pad.

On to the arthritic wrists and “tennis elbow” (again, both wrists need to be replaced or fused, which would make me look like a mannequin…although without the anorexic skinny part and jutting nipples). I use (on the bad days) what my kids call “floaties” and wrist splints. I look tough with my wrist splints on, but I can’t type for crap. It takes awhile to get all the Velcro in place, but once I’m dressed and ready to go, I’m feeling fine.

I’m telling you all this in hopes that someone reading this is looking to re-inaugurate their body as “plenty good.” We age, we get arthritis, we aren’t kids anymore. I’m not a cheerleader in the physical sense, but I certainly know how to shout out to my weight-losing friends. I would love to ride a horse again, but not with the same abandon as when I was 10. I can’t throw a softball a gazillion feet, but I can toss a ball to my grandkids. I ride my bike with both hands on the handle bars and thank god I’m still able to peddle 10, 15, or 20 miles. I don’t skinny dip or ice skate, but I trust my grandchildren to do that and tell me not to tell their mother.

With the help of a few “friends,” I can still be active. Some day those friends might include a cane, a cast, and even a few bionic parts. Whatever. I trust that even then my body will still be plenty good.

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Staying In the Moment, Even in the Snow

I am a most forgetful ZenBagLady/quasi Buddhist. One of Buddhism’s tenets is staying present in the moment and being curious about/mindful of/attentive to what’s happening, and not wishing away the moment.

Yet that’s exactly what I do more often than not, particularly this time of year.

Last week I wrote about Seasonal Affective Disorder (see Four Little Words: A SAD Remedy) and how when I feel the most depressed this time of year I think about when things aren’t so gloomy. While I’m all for looking on the bright side of life…

(Sorry…couldn’t resist)

…seeing and experiencing what’s going on here and now doesn’t have to be such a dreaded thing. 

Never was this more apparent than when I went hiking on Saturday. Yes, hiking. With bad knees in western Pennsylvania in January. And I thought hiking in November in our little piece of nowhere was decadent!

Larry bought me the perfect Christmas gift:

 They look like ballerina legs, don’t they?

They are LEKI Makalu Trail trek poles. I expected to use them in non-snow conditions, but when the temperature edged up to near 40 on Saturday – and suffering from a huge dose of cabin fever – I suggested to Larry that we go hiking. In the snow. He said Why not? and so we bundled up, packed up the poles and some water, and headed to the Longfellow Trail in Cook Forest

As we hiked up to the Ancient Forest, the recent melting and refreezing made for a treacherous trek, at least for Larry. My spiffy poles kept me from wavering. (For the record, I offered him a pole, but being the macho hiking man he is – he’s hiked several mountains in the Adirondacks, after all – he declined.) Except for one set of “stairs” that I had to sit down on my bum (instructions I give my grandkids all the time) and maneuver to the bottom, my poles kept me upright and, more importantly, free from knee pain and injury.

In the last few days, it’s occurred to me that I could have wished for the things I thought were exclusive to my hiking happiness: flowering rhododendrons, fawns bounding through the forest, chirping summer birds, the smell of decaying leaves, the warmth of summer sun. But then I’d have missed the beauty of the ice along the path, the sun shining through leaf-bereft white ash, black cherry and red maple trees, the paw tracks of winter-hardy wildlife, the contrast of water flowing freely through Tom’s Run with the snow on its banks, and the new challenge of winter hiking. I had no idea winter hiking could be so fun and rewarding.

This has me thinking about other things I want but aren’t present here and now; situations and experiences that may not be ideal but are what they are in the moment and require an open minded approach to resolution. SAD and an unexpected weight gain…is it possible to just let them be what they are and investigate my feelings before moving on to solutions? Can I take a step back before lunging into the future, to be present right now?

I am a forgetful Buddhist. I am restless and wanting. It’s the end of January and I have SAD. Things are what they are. So without judgment, I think sit on the old cushion, breathe, and meditate on the Longfellow Trail. It really was a wonderful hike. In January. In the snow.

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32:6

2004. I needed something to wear to a friend’s wedding. When every 28 I tried on didn’t fit, I tried 32. I walked out to the 3-way mirror, looked at myself, and thought, “This is nuts. I can’t do this anymore.”

Three years later, I was a size 6.

2009: I opened a letter from one of my credit card companies. They said, cryptically, that even though I was a “valued customer,” they were raising my interest rate to 32 percent. I thought, “This is nuts. I can’t do this anymore.”

As of yesterday, I’m paying 6 percent.

32 might be bigger, but 6 offers a lot more breathing space.

For me, being morbidly obese is a lot like being in debt:

• Size 32: I had no idea how many calories I consumed every day.
• 32 percent: I had no idea how much money I spent every month.
• Size 32: I masked emotional issues with overconsumption of food.
• 32 percent: I masked emotional issues with overconsumption of goods.

Just like five years ago when I confronted my weight, confronting my financial situation wasn’t as scary as I’d imagined. The process also feels familiar because debt reduction takes the same kind of commitment and persistence as weight reduction. I have to get all mom on myself, use tough love, and find alternative rewards for goals, but the freedom that comes from being on a cash-only budget is like knowing I can fit in an airplane seat or won’t be winded climbing stairs. It forces me to be more creative and a better planner. Mostly it’s helping me to better appreciate what I have as opposed to mourning what I don’t.

But familiar doesn’t mean easy. Nothing life-changing is ever easy. Becoming debt free doesn’t happen overnight and it’s taken me into the path of some degrading people. Explaining my personal finances to someone who doesn’t give a ratsass and only wants me to pay my *bleepin* bill feels a lot like being called a fat name when I was 300 pounds. I guess just as people have a million excuses not to lose weight, they have a million excuses to not pay their bills and it’s not easy to know who is sincere. Still, to assume everyone’s lying isn’t fair either. But I digress…

Remember how you felt the first time someone noticed you lost weight? I do and it felt really good. I had the same feeling last week when my change in attitude from “I have no idea how much I spend a month” to hard-core financial diva caught my husband’s attention.

“You’ve embraced this whole financial thing like you did your weight.”

Why, yes. Yes I have. *smile* Thank you for noticing.

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The Great Lefse Experiment

After the Great Lefse Debacle last week (let’s just say there was a salt snafu), I was determined to reclaim my crown as Lefse Queen of Western Pennsylvania. (OK, so there’s no such thing, but I do – usually – make a mean batch of lefse. Minnesota worthy lefse, no less.)

Marie at Peas Pass the Beans left a comment on last week’s blog, “Lefse and Facebook,” and it was like she was reading my mind:

“LEFSE!!!! So good…If you ever try it with whole grain flour, let me know how it works. I’m tempted to try, but it’s so much work and I don’t want to waste anything.”

She’s right. Lefse is a LOT of work. You peel a buttload of russet potatoes, cut them up, boil them, rice them, let them cool, make the dough, roll out rounds, cook each one on a griddle, then let them cool under towels for several hours. And the flour mess! Goodness! No matter how careful you are, it gets everywhere.

Lefse is made from potatoes, butter, half-and-half, white flour, salt and sugar. The rolling is intense because you have to get the round paper thin or it won’t cook right. Whoever mans the griddle has to be sure to flip at just the right time to avoid crusty edges.

It’s a very intense process.

Lefse is usually at least a two-person job. But because I’ve been thinking the same thing as Marie about changing the recipe (which might be a felony in Minnesota) and using more healthy ingredients, I decided to venture out on my own, like Hermey in “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” After all, I had my reputation to mend. So today, unbeknownst to my lefse-making crew, I made a small batch using fat-free half-and-half, light butter, and whole wheat flour. I’m quite sure my Grandma Katinka rolled over in her grave.

Unlike regular lefse, these rounds popped a little as they cooked on the griddle because of the whole wheat flecks. Sounded like a soft crackling fire in the fireplace. Made me smile. I rolled and grilled and rolled and grilled while listening to Classic Vinyl on Sirius. (Nothing says lefse-making quite like “Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo,” right?)

After letting it cool for an hour, I tried one with a little butter and sugar.

It. Was. FABULOUS. (And hellyes I’m bragging!)

I’m talking I liked it better than the original. And I know good lefse and bad lefse. You don’t eat a food all your life and not be more than a little acquainted with it. Even my husband, who isn’t a lefse fan, liked it. This gives me hope for daughter Carlene, who obviously inherited her father’s Dutch taste buds because she doesn’t like lefse either. In fact, when I told her last week that I was thinking of making it with whole wheat flour she said, “Great. Take a bad food and make it even worse!”

Bite me, Carlene. This stuff’s goooooood.

Of course, selling the rest of the family on whole wheat/light lefse might be a problem. I’m the Mr. Jimmy of lefse. The supplier. The sole provider. I have a laundry list of people who rely on me for their lefse fix. That’s why I’m sending a few rounds to my little sister Emily in California for a taste test. Just as I’m the queen of lefse, she’s the queen of honesty. She won’t let me make a fool of myself.

I’ll still make the “real” stuff, but I think I’ll throw in a few whole wheat rounds in the next shipment. Call it a free sample. The true test will be my dad. If he likes it, I should probably market it. Dad is to lefse what Heidi Klum is to fashion. He should have his own show.

So do you lighten up your tried and true family recipes? Do you even dare? I mean, some things can’t and shouldn’t be messed with. But some foods, those cherished recipes from childhood, if we want to eat them responsibly, are worth trying to give them a healthy overhaul. If you do it in the privacy of your own home, no one would ever have to know.

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