Hi, Mom, What's Wrong?

Well, I finally had a dream about my mom.

Actually, the dream was not about my mom at all. It was about one of my children getting run over by a big truck backing up on the street where I (and also my mom) used to live.

I couldn't see what happened. But I could see my family crossing the street behind this truck, and I heard shouts and cries as I passed and turned the corner. I looked in my rear view mirror, and some of my family members were kneeling down on the street. So I knew something had happened, but I didn't know what.

Trying to get back there quickly, I got in an accident of my own.

Then the dream shifted and I was trying to put my children to bed and they kept getting up. When I thought all was finally taken care of, I could still hear one child crying.

I got up to see about that and passed through a big hotel-type lobby in the house in my dream that was my house. (No, I do not actually have a big hotel-type lobby in my real house. In case you're wondering.)

A woman came into the lobby and took off her sunglasses.

It was Mom.

She rushed over to me and embraced me.

I woke up. It was 1:29--the birthday of the child I worry most about. The one who can't seem to stop "crying" no matter what I do. The one who is hurting the most and has been hurt the most.

I cannot believe that Mom's coming to me at exactly that time is not somehow about him.

Then I really worried--why was Mom rushing to my aid just then? Had something happened to him?

I could not go back to sleep.

I finally decided that it was her way of showing me that she is with me in my quest to make things right with and for him.

What do you think?

What Not to Wear or Do with Your Hair

This post is my version of "What Not to Wear." Or do with your hair. (Yes, I am a poet. Thanks for asking.)

I know I'm no fashion goddess, but I think I look okay.

All right, all right, I know everyone thinks they look okay, and that can't possibly be right, so I'll go one step farther for you. I conducted an extensive survey and asked five separate people if I look okay. All of them said, "Yeah."

So, here's just a few things I've noticed--in my humble opinion as a nobody.

If you're fair and blond, and you dye your hair pitch black, you won't be fooling anyone. Are your eyebrows still blond? You might even have blond whispies sticking out. Try a subtler shade--something with some variety in it, like natural hair has. On the other hand, if you want to be Morticia when you grow up, fine.

Gym-goers: please own at least two workout outfits, and interchange them from day to day. Yes: when you go every day at the same time wearing the same outfit, I do notice--even if I don't know you. Then I find myself distracted from my workout, wondering if you really wash your clothes every single day.

Change your hairstyle, at least every decade. If you've had the same hairstyle for over three decades, change your hairstyle.

Little tiny clothes that are 99% spandex are for little tiny bodies that are 99% sparkle. Yes, every fat lump and dimple shows through.

If you are an overweight middle-aged woman (like me), don't wear pants that cut off right below the knee unless they are loose around the knee. Tightish pants that end there emphasize any fat you may have on your upper legs, lower legs, and feet. Put on your favorite pants-that-end-at-the-knee outfit and stand in front of the mirror. Pretend you don't know yourself and you don't love those clothes. Ask yourself if you can pass the Petunia Pig test. If you really want to look like this, at least don't forget the polka-dotted bow for your head!

That's aaaaaaaall, folks!

It's not Easy Being Green

Four out of five sons agree: green is their favorite color.

This just proves my theory that all of their genes did not come from me.

As a color, green is okay. Obviously, much of the world is green, and that's nice. Some shades of green are really lovely. But many shades are, well, just so green.

Maybe my aversion had something to do with the color rhyming with my name. Maybe I was afraid I'd grow up to be Janean Greene.

My oldest son loved and adhered to green as if it were his religion. A colicky summer baby, all he needed to stop crying was to be taken outside--where it was green--for the constant, constant crying to simply cease.

He let me know verbally early on that green did it for him. I remember watching him trying to catch green lights on his arms at the circus, wanting to choose "green meat" for his third birthday dinner, loving pea soup ("green voot") and grapes.

I accepted this very calmly and even encouraged it. Green was only one color. Even if I had six or eight children, there were plenty of favorite colors left for my other children to choose. Little did I know that most of them would choose green.

I had only two children for over a decade. Whenever I bought anything for them, one was always green. Brother would get the red one or the blue one--he didn't have a color religion. In fact, I think his first liked color was pink. I also accepted this very calmly. Pink is a pretty color. I let him like it without hassle. After he got to day care or maybe school, his preference seemed to somehow change.

My third son actually liked orange best first. Then black, or blue. I forget because he decided to very methodically change his "favorite" color according to the rainbow at the time of his birthday each year. (Yes, he's a future organizer of some type.) A few years ago, though, he settled on green, and it seemed to stick. And his little brothers are copying him. (My daughter wisely announced, "I like gold!" But that's a different story.)

The first house I bought was hideous. Decorated by some tasteless, deranged green freak from the mid-fifties, almost every room of it featured some awful shade of green. The dining room wallpaper was comprised entirely of green leaves with small pink flowers on them here and there. The linoleum in the kitchen was a passive yellow and a monstrous green--to match the "Dirty Diaper" paint on the walls, I suppose. The master bedroom sported dull moss green carpet. Even the nursery had enormous, heavy, olive green funeral-parlor drapes across two whole walls and gray-green stripey wallpaper--for a few minutes, until I could burn the drapes and paint the walls blue.

It was actually more than a few minutes, because I moved into the house a day-and-a-half after my first son was born. He had enough time to wet a stream onto the wallpaper before I could get it painted. At the time, I actually attributed that to good taste in him.

By the time we sold that house, I had changed the "Dirty Diaper" paint in the kitchen to "Wedding Cake." I had ripped out the Mike Wazowski linoleum and relaid six floors. I had also ripped out the horrible bedroom carpet to find a wonderful hard-wood floor beneath it--that I had never enjoyed the whole fifteen years I had lived there. I had painted over the foot-long butterflies in the family room downstairs. The house was so lovely that I wanted to move right back in. But we'd outgrown it.

By then, only one room in the house was green--the former bedroom of my oldest son. We had painted it the palest possible green with deep forest green trim. It looked fine.

I regularly wear shades of green. I just don't want to have to look at green exclusively--as in every room of my house--or dye every birthday cake I bake green.

I wonder if I can convince the other boys that green as a favorite was already taken by their oldest brother? All grown up, he still likes green. Now, we're just waiting for his kids--Kelly, Jade, Hunter, Teal, Emerald, Sage, Forest, and Spring, to appear on the scene.

"I Give Myself Very Good Advice, but I Very Rarely Follow It"

When I got out of the shower, I found my husband had come into the bathroom.

"You can look at all of me except three pounds," I said.

The three pounds could be a fluctuation. Given how I've eaten the past two weeks, though, I doubt it.

Which brings me to my question for the day: Why is it so much harder to exercise when you've eaten more than you should, and why is it so much harder to not eat what you shouldn't when you didn't exercise?

In a rational world, getting in only a partial workout should inspire one to cut back on eating. But it doesn't. In some mystical way, getting in only a partial workout makes you think, "Oh, it's okay if I have this donut. I didn't do my full workout, anyway." Which makes NO SENSE.

And eating a donut makes one think, "I'll just do 20 minutes today," which is the complete converse of what you should think when you eat a donut. How about doing 20 minutes more than you usually do? Why don't we think that way?

I think it's because a) compulsive eaters don't think rationally about food--that's why we have a compulsion; b) unless you grew up working out every day and loved it, it's hard to maintain that program. The more rigorous your program is, the harder it probably is to maintain. So, once you let a piece of your program slip, it's very easy to think that you might as well give it all up. Yes, there are benefits to a workout program, but when we get used to them, it's hard to see them clearly. Once we are comfortable in our skin, it's hard to remember how utterly, utterly miserable we were fat.

At least, I was. I hated being fat. I hated not fitting into my clothes. I hated going places and having people see me fat. I hated feeling fat. I hated huffing up the stairs, struggling to stand up from deep couches and the floor, not having energy.

I never want to go back there.

But. Do I ever want to be able to enjoy donuts again? Yes. Chocolate cake? Cookies? Pie? Christmas candy? Yes, yes, yes, yes!

So I have to strike a balance. And my sweet tooth gives me a heavy disadvantage to maintaining that balance.

During the past two weeks, while my eating has been, shall we say, larger than average, I've increased my workouts, too. I already do quite vigorous workouts daily, but I forced myself to burn an extra 500 calories this week. My run this morning was harder than usual. But at least I didn't cave in to thinking the opposite way I should and decrease my workouts. What I really need to do is reign back my eating again. Moderation, moderation, moderation.

There is a weight loss columnist who has not yet hit on the concept of moderation. He will sign up for marathons and triathlons, lose 100 or more pounds, and wow us all with his feats, then go on months-long binges and gain 80 pounds back.

When I read his column, I think, Dude! I wish he would get some counseling and figure this out. Most of us fluctuate, yes, but within 15 or 20 pounds.

He hasn't asked me for advice, and I doubt he ever will. But I'll give myself and you who read me what I think is good advice. He needs to stop setting superhero goals and just set a goal to reach moderation. He doesn't need to be Ironman. If he could only achieve moderate eating habits and moderate exercise habits, day after day after day, consistently, he would probably stay at a reasonable weight.

We all would.

Now, if only I can be unlike Alice in Wonderland and keep my own good advice!

We have to keep our heads and keep thinking correctly about our eating and exercising. We have to make sure we stay as consistent as possible. Through sheer physical force, if necessary. When I had run only 2.8 miles this morning, I really wanted to quit. I could remember times in the past when nearly 3 miles was a really acceptable workout. Yes, I reminded myself, but I was fat then, and I wasn't really losing weight. I reminded myself that I don't want to lose my skill for running 10 miles every week. I don't want to lose any of the progress that I have made. I don't want to gain that weight back.

And then, the clincher (try this--it works every time): would I want to have to only eat 28 percent of what I should eat today? I try to imagine shoving 72% of my food aside--having only half a boiled egg with a quarter cup of milk for breakfast--and I keep running.

Where Did You Find Me, Mommy?

A couple of weeks ago, two of my children told me separately that they did not want to attend the maturation program at the school.

When the second one said it, I was dumbfounded. "Don't you want to know what the other kids will know?" I asked.

This was not the problem I expected to deal with. In my head, I was wondering whose kids these were. Answer: their shy father's. Back when, I was curious.

Still, it seemed unlikely that both of them would have that reaction. I asked my daughter, "Have you been scaring your brother about the maturation program?"

One shoulder came up while a silly look came over her face.

So I talked to my son. A little bit. About his body and how it would be changing. (I had already talked to his sister over a year ago.) Then, looking into his beautiful, innocent, brown eyes, I veered off a bit into discussing what being a man really means. What being a father really means. I talked about working hard, responsibility, treating women fairly and with respect. Being there for his eventual children. Following the example of his father, grandfather, and uncles.

Which is not an altogether bad maturation pre-talk after all, I guess.

I completely agree with having "The Talk" with my kids. I agree that they need to get their knowledge and values from their parents. And information--it shouldn't all come from dubious or out-of-the-home sources. I do not want to be as reticent as my mother was.

But, when you're looking into the face and eyes of your child--that child whose whole existence you have spent protecting and shielding--and you're doing it really just to be ahead of some school's arbitrary schedule and not because this child came to you needing to know--it can feel a lot like you're shattering that child's innocence. So, it's hard.

Ideally, this information should come as the child is ready for it. Ideally, age-appropriate answers should be given when the child asks questions and clearly wants to and is ready to know.

The best talk like this happened when one of my children was two or three years old. He looked up at me and asked, "Mommy, where did you find me?" Clearly, he could not remember how we had met.

First, I laughed at his cuteness, and, second, I was stymied for a minute, but then I answered honestly, "I found you in my tummy. You were just a little tiny baby in there starting to grow, and I was so happy when I found out you were in there." I explained that babies grow in a special place in their mother's tummies until they are big enough to be born. That was all he needed to know at the time.

The next time he brought it up, I repeated, then elaborated, "And where did I find your sister?"

He looked at me sideways to see if I was joking, then said, "In your nose."

Apparently, more talks will need to be had.

Which matches what I told my ten-year-old son before his terrifying maturation program: growing up is a process. You're not a child one day and an adult the next. Not in any way.

Which is why I guess I believe there should not be just one "The Talk." There should be several--at different times, answering different questions, giving different information, with different levels of formality, in different places.

It, like everything else in life, should be a circular, ever-widening-and-deepening-each-time-you-go-around process.

Slashing Spice Cake with Pear Sauce to Fit

After dinner Sunday, my kids asked for dessert.

I felt deflated and defeated. I was trying to go for three weeks without sugar. In fact, the night before, I had avoided four kinds of cookies, several kinds of pop, and birthday cake at a family party. I had been strong then, but, since then, I had been fasting, and I wasn't sure I could last in the face of temptation.

"We have lots of things to use for dessert," my husband said, encouragingly. I looked over to him, wondering what he was talking about. "Peaches, pears, strawberries. . ." he started to list.

I smiled to myself. This is another example of a major difference between Paul and me. My list of things to make dessert with would not be all fruit--it would be things like chocolate, caramel, whipped cream. . . .

It used to be that I made a spice cake with pear sauce for my family. I think it must have been two years ago--I don't think I made it at all last summer, when I was trying hard to lose weight until The Day I Got Old. My family started clamoring for spice cake with pear sauce. They weren't really clamoring, by any dictionary definition of the word, but they wanted it.

I went into my bedroom.

When I came out, I started to make spice cake with pear sauce. I asked Paul if he knew where the recipe for the spice cake I'd used was. He brought out a big green loose-leaf binder, full to the point of explosion with recipes. A couple of them are apparently mine. He helped me find the spice cake recipe I had used back in 2007 or 2008. "Did it have raisins?" I asked, surprised.

"I don't know. Don't think so."

I didn't, either, but I put raisins in, anyway. What i didn't put in was sugar. Or flour. I was brave. I was bold. I thought I should probably put in half sugar and half Splenda (which is basically sugar with no calories and doesn't usually bake as well as sugar does), so it would turn out all right--and half whole wheat and half white flour, but I didn't. I used only Splenda! I used only whole wheat flour! I wanted to be able to eat some when I was done and not just stare at it the way I had the cookies the night before.

I dug up the lemon sauce recipe I had modified for the pear sauce. "Did I double this?" I asked Paul.

"I don't know."

"Did I pare the pears? Or leave the skins on?"

"Don't remember."

"Did I use two, or three?"

"Dunno."

Clearly, I was on my own.

So while my son whose name starts with P made up "pare a pair of pears" jokes in the living room, I made that spice cake with pear sauce, and I made it good. I made it edible on my low-carb diet. I made the pear sauce with Splenda, too. And it was good. Paul said it was fine, but didn't eat any more than one serving. Although he did empty the cookie jars of the two kinds of cookies I had had to make for another family party on Monday. So sweet, that man.

After dessert, I picked up a reference book and figured out how many calories were in the two versions. Answer: 454 per serving with sugar and flour; 250 per serving with Splenda and whole wheat flour.

I felt omnipotent.

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.