Happy Un-Thanksgiving!

After publishing a post complaining about our over scheduled holiday plans, I ironically found myself suddenly faced with the prospect of a Thanksgiving Day with no plans whatsoever, no family or friends or feast even. The idea was both relaxing and somewhat depressing at the same time. This would be the first time since I could remember when there would be no flurry of activities to prepare for a huge elaborate mostly-home-cooked meal, no frenzied rush to hide dirty laundry and put out clean bath towels, no frantic scuffle out the door racing down a chilly road to someone's home before the turkey was carved. In fact, since none of us are big fans of the typical turkey dinner, there would be no turkey at all this year as there was no motivation to erect the traditional facade of choking down forkfuls of dry meat drowning in chunky globs of mottled brown gravy.

It was ironically a tradition that I became misty-eyed at the prospect of missing for the first time since my childhood. And now with two of my own small children, the thought of skipping it was further compounded by a large portion of maternal guilt. Was I a bad mother for allowing this to happen, the un-Thanksgiving?

In the past, if we had not been invited elsewhere to celebrate the repast, I had always magnanimously hosted at our home inviting friends, family, and anyone else whom I thought might have been forgotten by their own friends and family that particular season. Of course, this year WE were the forgotten, and while, in all fairness, we had received an invitation to dinner from a friendly family, they had a last minute change of plans. Interestingly enough the many folks whom I had so generously welcomed into my home in years past were strangely silent. Hmm. Does this make me feel like a more gracious, magnanimous, and, therefore, BETTER person than all of them combined? Why, yes it does!

But I digress.

So there we were, two days before Thanksgiving, my holiday blues waffling over whether or not to perch on my shoulders, when I saw it sitting innocuously in my email inbox: Dodge Ridge now opening. Due to an early generous precipitation, our nearest ski resort (still 3 1/2 hours away) would be open on Thanksgiving Day. Initially, I didn't take the notion very seriously. After all, we were strapped for cash, definitely NOT in ski condition, and totally unprepared. It actually didn't register on my radar until the next day, i.e., the day before Thanksgiving.

But my dh, dreamer that he is and oddly attuned to my shifting mood swings, perhaps sensed my impending disconsolation. The next thing I knew, he had dug out our old snow gear from storage, bought a few road trip snacks, made us sandwiches, sweet-talked my stepson into an hour drive to pick up our dogs (as the kennels were closed at 7 p.m. on the eve of Thanksgiving), and hustled us to the nearest Sports Basement for some cheap ski rentals within a half hour of closing for the holiday. That's the thing about my crazy impulsive husband; when he sets his mind to something, he makes it happen. He is the quintessential rainmaker.

So at 7:30 am on Turkey Day, about two hours later than we had hoped for, we set out on the road for an ambitious day trip, our first skiing venture of the season, on a shoestring budget and an impulse.

My amazing four-year olds were delightful essentially the entire trip there. Of course I already had this expectation due to a prior surprisingly fun car ride to Carlsbad last summer but it is always nice to have a repeat performance. Chattering away happily and munching on pogie bait car treats, they gradually fell asleep as my dh and I took advantage of a rare opportunity: hours of adult conversation. Forgoing a much needed nap, I basked in the glow of my love's undivided attention, something I hadn't experienced in a looong time. As the miles stretched on, the air grew slightly thinner and though the California sun still shined brightly above us, the outside temperature gauge dropped ever so slightly as the passing patches of grass grew more and more sparse replaced first by frost then by thin blankets of snow. (The quote of the trip was from my newly wakened son who asked me wide-eyed with wonder, "Mommy, is the white stuff snow?")

It was already 11:00 when we reached the resort, sunny blue skies, crisp air, and a perfect parking spot in an uncrowded lot. The day already held great promise! After slipping my tousle-haired children into their snow wear and watching them squeal with delight over dirty chunks of icy snow next to our front tires, it occurred to me that they would have been just as happy playing in a dirty parking lot as on a pristine groomed ski slope.

With the forethought of a seasoned veteran mom, I took multiple pictures with my smart phone while we were still standing by the car in the lot. After all, who knew what kind of day lay ahead of us? I wanted to capture the memory of this trip while we were still smiling! Clomping across the lot in our ski boots lugging our skis clumsily, in a flash I remembered how arduous skiing really is and I silently cursed my silly romanticized highly edited memories of ski trips past. We made a beeline for the bunny slope with our excited children in tow where I got a rude awakening from the rope tow.

I had not skied in at least 5 years. I had not comfortably skied at least 50 pounds ago, long before children and even before marriage. So lugging a 34 lb. child between my legs while frantically gripping a rope tow hauling my own lugubrious form was quite an endeavor the first time. And the second. And the third. Well, pretty much the entire duration that we were there.

But, oh, the ironic bliss of being with my beloved family, my children glowing with the thrill of their newfound love for skiing, and my beloved husband flushed with the return of a forgotten love for the sport. He even managed to squeeze in a solo run sans wife and kids finagling an unauthorized trip on a chair lift which we soon followed as a treat to the kids. Their first chair lift ride. It was nothing short of magical.

As we sat at the picnic tables basking in the sunshine reflected off the snowy slopes with our bellies full of a splurged meal of chili and fish and chips, from the depths of my heart and soul I was incredibly and spontaneously thankful to be where I was at that exact moment in time, sore calves and cramped toes and all. It was breathtakingly perfect. And I realized in that moment that there was no better way for me to truly experience Thanksgiving.

We limped off the slopes, tired and happy with the kids yearning for more, a fantastically positive sign of success as far as I am concerned. My happy contented children slept for most of the ride home, and the words exchanged with my beloved as the sun set and the dusk powdered the sky with hues of orange then purple were more intimate and honest than we have spoken in years. I did not think it possible, but our perfect day was actually outdone by the renewal of our vows to each other that night, vows to be each other's ally and friend for life, to always be on the same team, and to never give up hoping and dreaming for our family and for ourselves.

We still bask in the glow of the memory of that day. As averse as I am to use superlatives, dare I say it? It was the perfect Thanksgiving.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Burning the Midnight Oil

Midnight? Try 3:36 am which is precisely what time I woke up and realized yet again that while my entire household sleeps, I cannot. Two four-year olds, my darling husband, my loyal Schnauzer, even the new 5-month old Yorkshire terrier on her first night in our home lay in deep slumber. I am listening to the symphony of their breathing, snores and quiet wheezes, the life breath of my family. Even though I know I should be fast asleep with them, that tomorrow there will be Hell to pay because a poor night of sleep for a mother of two active young children is a recipe for disaster, I honestly can't help myself.

Dare I say it? I love my family intensely always - but they are so much easier to love when they are sleeping.

When they are in sweet slumber, I can pretend that I am the perfect mother, wife, and dog-lover. All needs at the present time, in this magical late-night instance, have been met. I need not feel guilty for buying my kids hoagies for dinner because I was too tired to cook another meal, or for responding to my husband with an ill temper because I am overwhelmed by work and household chores, or for not taking my patiently loyal dog for a walk (yet again). I once heard a fantastically hippie-dippy speaker once say, "You don't need to change anything in your life to be happy right now, right this instance." Yeah right, buddy. Tell that to my waistline and my bank account.

But here, in the quiet and calm darkness amidst those whom I love the most, I can see how his words ring true. I know it will be a different story when the dawn comes and the first streaks of sunlight penetrating the darkness will beckon me to the kitchen to whittle away through the litany of to do's that roust me every morning before my mind is flooded with the rest of the day's chores, worries, and responsibilities. But for now I am at peace. I am so incredibly grateful for my beloveds. I am happy.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

I adore Lorraine!

My first bona fide homage is to my good friend Lorraine, whom I just adore for a myriad of reasons. She is loyal and smart and incredibly supportive not to mention creative and artistic and did I mention she is beautiful as well? She is kind and whimsical and has an even keeled temperament that I not-so-secretly covet.

She loves my kids who love her too which is always an added plus. She has been my friend for the last 12 years through thick and thin. I've known her longer than my husband. She had a front row seat to all our pre-marital drama and break ups and reconcilations and conflicts. She is always a sympathetic listener and a ready shoulder to cry on. She is one of the few pre-marital girlfriends I still have who, despite my problems with dh, was able to overlook them once we decided to get married. Therefore, she is one of my few pre-marital girlfriends who can enter our home without the slightest resentment from dh. A HUGE plus.

But none of these reasons is why I adore her so. Here is the REAL reason I value our friendship so much:

She reminds me of the outside world, the one that has nothing to do with potty training or preschools or time outs or play dates. The one that could care less about the fight I had with dh that morning or whether or not they liked me at my new job.

When I get together with Lorraine, somehow our conversation always drifts from the details of our daily routines to the greater issues. Media censorship and moral responsibility. American government and foreign policy. Racial discrimination. The economy (and by this I mean its global effect on society, not whether or not we can afford to vacation in Mexico this Christmas). For a brief period of time, I get to feel a part of that greater good that we all deep down long for and need. I get to re-join the rest of society, everyone else's joys, sorrows, and challenges.

Please don't misunderstand me. I love my children and husband deeply (strangely revealing that I place the children first? I think not...) They are, after all, ultimately my world all day every day. I do get a sense of satisfaction (albeit weary) at the end of each long day knowing that I have given my best effort to enhance and support the lives of each member of my family by whatever means necessary. Need more fiber in your meal? Here are the apples and broccoli. Need more household income? I'll work extra days and weekends; I'll even find a second job. Need friends, education, diversion? Play dates, preschool, trips to the zoo or museum -- I plan and schedule them all. I work part-time at two different jobs while still looking for more work. I take the kids shopping for birthday gifts, teach them manners, pack up the big swim bag for every lesson after making sure I've slathered them with the "right" child-friendly sunscreen. On most outings I pack snacks and lunches for them while forgetting to pack so much as a water bottle for myself. I get it. They come first now before my needs, the most basic of which oftentimes barely get met (food, rest, bathroom breaks, and time alone with dh). Ever since my children were born, I have been in serious survival mode feeling as though THEIR very survival depends on me. It's the curse of the modern day working mom/hover parent.

After 4 years, I can honestly admit that it wears on me. And it takes its toll. I dance around with the other parents at the Mommy and Me music class while our amused progeny look on. I've kowtowed to the raging tantrums of a screaming toddler more times than I can remember. I carry CD's of children's music in our car and I download child-friendly animated movies on my iPad. The guilt of working and trying to fulfill their every need is overwhelming. Many, perhaps most, days I don't even feel human any more. I am this sleep-deprived creature, this servant, mindlessly chasing after the elusive holy grail of "Perfect", mother, worker, and wife. I am charged with a task that can never be completed, a prize that can never be won because it doesn't really exist. But I don't really know that, do I? I am the obedient worker drone, tunnel visioned and focused. I am lost.

After a conversation with Lorraine that has nothing to do with my problems or daily activities, I get to feel, dare I say it? human again. I am still here. I may be a working mother and wife now, in all its glory and pain, but the real me is still here.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Happy Campers!

How did this happen? I usually prefer four star hotels and five star restaurants. My limited childhood memories of camping are from when I was very young and our family was fairly poor. Camping was the ONLY option for our summer vacations (the alternative was staring at each other and arguing over whose turn it was to stand in front of the window air conditioning unit). I mostly remember how tired and incredibly miserable my mother was during those frugal vacations from my early childhood. The packing, the cooking, the cleaning -- it was all such an incredible chore. (Ironically, even as we became more upper middle-class affluent and could afford a more upgraded lifestyle, my mother still remained tired and incredibly miserable -- hmm.)

Several decades later, I no longer have to subject myself or my 3 1/2 year old twins to the inconveniences and discomforts of outdoor living. While my husband and I are by no means wealthy, we definitely have alternative options.

Yet here we are, deep into the summer, with three camping trips behind us and three more to go before the school year begins.

It's still a lot of work. I can understand firsthand my mother's weariness during these trips. But here is the difference: while I am certainly exhausted much of the time, it is a happy exhaustion. I am with my own beloved family, awestruck by the wonderment of the outdoors reflected in the eyes of my happy children and more deeply in love with my husband by the glow of the campfire than I have ever been over a five star candlelit dinner table. After my filthy and happily exhausted children drop off to sleep reeking of marshmallows and unbrushed teeth, we talk deep into the night under the stars bathed in a moonlight that is sometimes brighter than a street lamp, throwing caution to the wind without any concept or care of bedtimes or morning plans.

I realize that camping is not for everyone, as my more fastidious mommy friends are quick to point out. And had it not been for a preschool camping trip this past spring, I might never have realized how much my children enjoy it. For their sake, we packed up everything but the kitchen sink (only to discover once we got to the campsite that we had forgotten matches), pitched tents on lumpy tree roots under the leaves of a bug and spider infested tree, and endured arduous treks to the distantly located bathrooms down a dusty road every time we needed to pee, poop, or brush our teeth. There was dirt everywhere, the food was clumsily prepared, and washing the cookware was a challenge each and every time.

What can I say? We had a blast. My next camping trip is a mommy-and-me trip, no dads allowed. I'm excited!

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Look Who's Losing Weight!

So while I am not thrilled to be diagnosed with diabetes at the tender age of 43, imagine my surprise when I stepped on our new electronic scale and saw that I had lost 8 pounds since my diagnosis a mere 3 weeks ago! I suppose it only stands to reason considering how recently food has lost its appeal for me. That's what happens when the only carbs you get to eat taste like cardboard and they wad up in your mouth with every bite like tissue paper. Yum -- NOT. While my BMI still technically classifies me as "obese", it is slowly inching towards the less obnoxious sounding "overweight" category which is infinitely less demeaning to my already battered self-esteem.

So I guess there is kind of a bright side in all of this, just in the nick of time too since my children have started calling me "fat". To explain, there is a new t.v. show called "Huge" starring Nikki Blonksy, the portly girl from the movie "Hairspray". It's a drama series about a bunch of obese teenagers. The pilot episode was a free download so I figured, What the heck? It was like watching a horrible car accident -- I couldn't turn away. Of course my 3 1/2 year old kids were watching over my shoulder with me in complete fascination. When it was over, my daughter asked me why everyone on the show was fat. Then she astutely pointed out how I was fat as well.

It's not the first time she has called me fat but in the past we have had discussions about how calling someone fat is a rude thing to do. But that was before my diabetes diagnosis. This time when she called me fat, I withheld my initial response which would have been to chastise her. My darling husband immediately stepped in and reprimanded her. However, since we had just watched an entire t.v. show about fat people, the evidence was inarguable. My darling daughter lifted up her shirt to show me her concave belly. Then she proceeded to explain to me how she was NOT fat because her belly didn't stick out like mine. In the midst of this heated discussion, my poor little son tried to mitigate the rising emotion by explaining that my tummy stuck out because they had stretched it when they were growing inside me. (God love him for trying but that was over 3 years ago and the statute of limitations for that excuse has long since expired.)

My dh was still furious with her but I still had to give pause. I mean, the reality is, my BMI is over 30 and I have diabetes. Really, aren't I, um, ACTUALLY FAT? How terribly confusing it must be for my poor children to see these huge actors and actresses on t.v. who are so open and honest about being fat yet their mother before them takes offense at the same terminology. They're 3 1/2 but they're not stupid.

The most I can do is be honest about how it hurts my feelings to be called fat, but I can't deny the obvious truth. And after seeing the surprising number on my scale yesterday, maybe I won't be called fat forever.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Food is Not My Friend

I was recently diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. I suppose it shouldn't come as a shock considering how little I exercise, how poorly I eat, and how my BMI has just tipped into the "obese" category. Welcome to middle America. As a self-proclaimed spokesperson for the ballooning (no pun intended) middle class, I can assure you that it is not lack of knowledge that has led to my current condition. The VAST majority of us know what to do: exercise daily, eat vegetables with every meal, drink plenty of water, don't smoke, don't do drugs, get plenty of rest every night. The problem is that we live, uh, ON PLANET EARTH. Here in the REAL world there are mortgages and bills that oftentimes necessitate extra workdays, there are active needy children that require long endless hours of attention, and there are domestic conflicts and date nights and girls nights out, all of which cut into the time, money, and effort required for the recommended "healthy lifestyle" necessary to avoid chronic obesity-related diseases like diabetes. There are meals on the run, comfort foods, responsibilities, stress, pure exhaustion - the mantra of every unhealthy and overweight person.

"I don't have time." How many times have I said or thought that phrase in response to admonitions to change my lifestyle? I have an endless supply of justifications for my unhealthy choices. There were bad days, bad break ups, celebrations, Happy Hours, holidays, parties, vacations -- and this was all before I became a mom. After my children were born, it only got easier to validate my poor choices. I stopped going to my gym because I didn't want to take precious "quality time" away from my children (the burden of every working mother and the subject for another discussion). I was tired every day because my kids kept me up at night so exercise fell ever further down my priority list. I no longer even thought of a balanced diet for myself because I only had enough energy to cook meals appealing to my little toddlers.

I read somewhere that "the currency of love is time" and I wanted my children to have as much of my love currency as possible. If it came at my own personal expense, then so be it! After all, I reasoned, isn't this type of sacrifice the true hallmark of a good mother?

My kids are going on 4 years old. I was diagnosed with diabetes less than a month ago. It now occurs to me that if the currency of love is time, perhaps I should have spent some of that precious time loving myself. Of course hindsight is always 20/20.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my variety of diabetes is not simply a number after getting my blood drawn showing a steadily rising hemoglobin A1C level that is about as frightening as a bad grade on an exam. No, I had the misfortune to present with actual symptoms. Less than a month ago, a sharp stabbing pain started throbbing along the side of my head. Assuming it was a tension headache, I took Tylenol then ibuprofen. After a couple of days, when the pain did not abate but rather intensified waking me up in the middle of the night from a deep sleep, I called my doctor and requested Vicodin to get me over this bout which I still assumed was a tension headache. She reluctantly acquiesced and I used Vicodin to get me through two more painful days and nights. But instead of subsiding, the headache only intensified. By the end of the 5th day I was literally reduced to tears, writhing in pain and unable to sleep at night despite the Vicodin (which has the lovely side effects of nausea and constipation). When I was in so much pain I was unable to stand up for any prolonged period of time and I had to call in sick to work, that's when I decided to go to my doctor and get checked out. One blood draw later and I had a diagnosis of diabetes. I didn't even know that diabetes could cause headaches. I learned something new, albeit the hard way.

Since my diagnosis, my lifestyle has drastically changed. And, quite honestly, most days it sucks. On days when I've ingested a few too many carbohydrates or sugars, my headache comes back, a klaxon alarm and reminder that I now have a chronic illness. While I never considered myself a true foodie, I was able to enjoy and appreciate a magnificent meal at Manresa or Pampas from time to time. I was able to indulge in carbohydrate laden snacks at movie theaters. I didn't think twice about putting crackers in my soup or eating a roll with my salad.

Those ingrained habits are now a thing of the past. No juice or even fruit in the mornings at breakfast. No desserts, ever. I don't even carelessly pop an after dinner mint into my mouth after a date night dinner out. Speaking of which, the first several date nights following my diagnosis usually ended with me in tears of self-pity after scouring the nutritional content of every food item while bitterly reflecting bygone carefree meals of the past.

No, food is no longer my friend.

My 44th birthday is rapidly approaching. There will be no birthday cake for me. I don't even want to go out to dinner with friends because I know that I will be salivating over their entrees and turning every shade of green with envy. I am cranky and short-tempered with my husband and kids. I find myself angrily regarding people who are waaay larger than myself wondering why THEY can eat a plate of pasta that would give ME a headache so severe I would end up in the fetal position for a week.

I know it's not cancer. I know there are WAY far worse diseases to have. And I know that I am fortunate to be aware of my diagnosis while I am still young enough to do something about it. My sainted husband scours the internet studying up on what will or will not help me avoid the many complications of diabetes, and every evening is a new experiment in how to make home-cooked meals that are within the tight confines of my new diet yet still palatable (a work in progress).

Still, for now, if I want to cry a little when no one is looking, I will.

This is an original post to Year of 4s. 

Summertime

No more school, daycare, dance lessons, or music classes. Lazy days of summer, right?

WRONG. Our "lazy" summer is suddenly very packed with birthdays, triathlons and 10K races, camping trips, a family vacation to Carlsbad (yes, including Legoland), and ...

Swimming lessons!

This is an original post to Year of 4s. 

An Impromptu Visit to Sanborn County Park

What do you do after your 3 1/2 year old twins have had a meltdown at music class and it is too early to go home for naps? Why, drive around until you find a park you haven't visited yet, of course!

This is an original post to Year of 4s.