Hi, Dad, Where's Mom?

I want to see if any of you can help me figure something out.

Lately, I have been having several dreams I can remember, as opposed to dreams I cannot remember--which I'm merely taking on faith from what I learned in high school health class that I am having, since I can't remember them.

Anyway.

In all these dreams, I dream that I am at "home," sleeping, getting ready for work, hanging out, or whatever, but in all these dreams that I am at home, I am actually in my parents' home, where I was raised. That's not actually my question, as I have always dreamed that I am in that home when I dream that I am home. I never dream about my current house, and I only dreamed about the previous house, where I lived for 15 years, when I dreamed about my ex.

My question is, how come in all these dreams, my dad is at home, sleeping in his bedroom, or just standing in the kitchen, or something like that, but my mom never is? Don't get me wrong--I love my dad, but I was much closer to my mom, and, well, I really wouldn't mind dreaming about her, too. It used to be that she figured in a lot of my dreams as just someone who was in the room or place with me. Not really saying anything, just there. Which I took to mean she is still a presence in my life, or that she is a core part of me. Something like that.

But, lately, I dream that I am in their house (which we sold after their deaths several years ago), but she is not in the house, although my dad is. He's not usually a part of the central action, but he is there. (Which is actually symbolic of his role in my life--he was always there for everything but not often putting himself forward to be the center of attention.) And I find myself thinking something like, "Oh, yeah, Mom's work schedule is completely off from mine"--which makes no sense when it comes to Mom but actually applies in real life to my husband or my grown son.

Oh, and one other detail. Typing the title of this post made me cringe, because it's a lot like the last thing I ever said to my dad. I actually asked him how Mom was doing while his heart was winding up to give him the coronary of his life, so to speak. Just as we hung up, I thought to ask, "And how are you, Dad?" but it was too late. And then it was really too late.

Any thoughts? If you have any guesses at all, please be brave. My sister who was good at helping me with my dreams is no longer available, either.

The Lies that Bind Us

Ugh.

These are the things I was losing weight for (besides my health and happiness, which are huge): My anniversary. Easter. A family reunion. THE WEDDING! My cousins' party. My high school reunion.

All of these events are now behind--not ahead of--me.

How did I do? Pretty well. Was I happy with myself at each of these events? Yes. Did I reach my goal weight? Not quite. But I'm close enough now that I could reach it by my husband's birthday. Maybe for his birthday, I could present myself to him at my dating weight! On the other hand, if there happens to be any kind of correlation between something being given to him for his birthday and how much he actually uses it--I'm not saying there is, but just if there happens to be, that might not be good.

(And let me just insert here in this very natural place for it that the wonderful man I married had a meal on the table for me when I got home from work, as he does almost every night. Thanks, hon! I know how busy you are!)

Apparently, though, I still need something to motivate me.

Here's how things have gone once the last event--my reunion--came and went.

At the reunion, after several "perfect eating" days, I had da-da-da-da! one small dessert. Which is exactly what I'd planned to have. So far, so good. My husband had a small plateful. Then came back with another white roll and two more. I gave him a look. He said, "Well there were two more that I hadn't seen before." The next day, he said, "They were small."

Yes, they were small, but probably 200 calories each. Times whatever. I know--I've been thinking this way for months.

The next day, I had two taffies out of my goodie bag from the reunion. Not so good--I didn't really need them. But I was really tired and they were, well, just sitting there! What else was I supposed to do?

Today started out pretty well. Only I was late for the gym, so I only burned 2/3 of the calories I usually burn. This wouldn't be a problem if I would just make it up during the rest of the week. I also wore a very cute lime green dress that I haven't worn in years. It was a little tight, though. Maybe if I'd burned those 300 other calories. . .

A very young, very cute coworker gave me very large compliments when she saw me. She also told me she had brought home-baked chocolate chip cookies. "But you are not allowed to have one!" she said, by way of encouragement, I'm sure.

And, no, I'm not blaming her.

I'm blaming all the years of lies I've told myself, before I started telling myself the truth about treats--that each one is so many calories and would take so long to burn off, and so forth. The lies that support my triggers, which all seemed to be cocked and waiting today.

Well, I knew that Miss Manners would say that the only polite thing to do in this situation was take her seriously and not have any of her cookies. Anything else would be, well, begging.

I also knew that another coworker had a stash of fun-size Hershey bars that I was welcome to. I knew that very well because I'd avoided them like the Black Death all last week. One day, I wouldn't even go near her cubicle.

Early this morning, it had occurred to me that I could maybe allow myself, now that the reunion was over, to have one of them.

But when I wasn't allowed to have one cookie (because I'm sure I would have called it quits there), I helped myself to one Hershey bar.

Not that the dress wasn't tight enough or anything, and not that I hadn't started out very well eating my one orange, then an hour later my two eggs and glass of milk, then my nut snack, then my lunch. Well, by the time I went home, I had had 259 Hershey bars. Or something like that. I was driven--compelled--to make that dress tighter and tighter and tighter! Maybe, who knows--it would explode and I could shoot off like a popped green balloon around and around the ceiling and land weighing absolutely nothing.

That didn't happen.

After all, the only compelling reasons to NOT pig out were my health and happiness. Who cares about those?

So, what lies do you tell yourself when you overeat?