There were no crowds at the gym this January. I even got up an hour early so that I could be sure to park and find a machine to work out on. Considering that I already basically live on Eastern time, that was pretty early. I smugly did my workout, just sure that by the time I left, crowds of people in their new Christmas sweats would be swarming all around me, desperate for exercise.
I was wrong.
Which was good, because I could stop getting up at 3:30, but also bad, because where were the exercisers? As annoying as a crowded gym is, it is gratifying to see people--at least for three weeks of the year--seeing the need for exercise.
Well, to my surprise, it hit this week. Yesterday and today, I had to park so far away from the gym that I didn't really need the gym quite so much by the time I arrived at it on foot.
Really? That many people thought, "I'd better get a good workout in before my hot Valentines' date!"? Like, two workouts is going to solve your problem? Amusing.
I knew that Valentine's Day was not going to be a big deal for us because my husband has to work and we don't have any money.
We made homemade valentines with the children. Our baby decided to decorate all of his with stamps. He confided to me that he had used a stamp saying, "Kiss!" on Daddy's valentine. "He'll have to kiss me when I give him his valentine!" he exulted. Daddy overheard and snickered silently to himself. Later, the baby told me, showing me the back of the heart, "Daddy will have to kiss me AND hug me! Look!" I updated Paul so he wouldn't blow his cue.
The finished valentines went into a basket on the counter. I didn't give it much more thought.
Which was bad. Huge faux pas time, honest.
Last night, I was working fiercely on writing something that seemed urgent at the time when my husband came home. I shared with him what I was doing and, good sport that he is, he listened and advised. I remember he brought up Valentine's Day twice. Once, to say he thought he would slide the kids' valentines under their bedroom doors. "Good idea," I responded. Twice, to ask about the valentines I had made. "Sure, put mine with them, too."
It wasn't until I got to the gym this morning that I realized that I basically told my husband--without meaning to--to go find his own valentine out of the stack while I was too busy to look at him.
Following that grim realization, I found my valentine from him in my gym bag when I went to shower.
Yes, he can be very cute.
So I reversed my position on purchasing a cookie to decorate from the employee's association at work, and bought one for Paul in order to make up for my lack of romantic thought last night. He can find it when he gets home. Kissing and hugging will be optional.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Enjoy!
Over the holidays, I think I pretty much proved my theory that I cannot gain weight if I only eat one small sugary treat a day. . .and that I will if I eat more. But, honestly, I got through the holidays without really any weight gain. Yay! There was some fluctuation, but on January 2, I actually weighed less than I had on Halloween.
I think that finally, after years of effort and frustration, trying what I thought was my best, I have figured out the solution for myself. It involves, yes, eating healthy and daily exercise, but that's to be expected.
I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought that if I could just lose the weight I'd gained from having five babies in middle age, I could then eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and in whatever amount I wanted. I think I was erroneously looking to exercise to void bad eating.
Acceptance of the concept that I actually have to adopt new habits and rules came slowly.
But, one day, in the midst of the holiday season, I heard two people say something about being on a diet, and I realized: I'm not on a diet--I just keep my rules. It was the most freeing thought I think I'd ever had. Because I can eat whatever I want--just not too much of it if it is not good for me.
I mean, if we really like a new shampoo, we don't get right back in the shower and use it again, right? Or go for another walk right after an invigorating walk? Why is it so hard to enjoy a small something and then quit there? Why does a two-cookie snack become a six-cookie snack? Maybe we don't take the time to savor our treat as much as we should--we just wolf it down. Or maybe a bowl full of four scoops of ice cream has become a "normal" serving to us.
Right now, I am fifteen pounds over what I want to be. Fifteen doesn't sound too bad, but imagine trying to hide fifteen packages of butter under your clothes and have them not show! It's no wonder some of my clothes don't fit. Fifteen pounds of butter equals 60 squares.
I overheard someone asking a friend what she could reward herself with if she lost fifteen pounds. Her suggestions were all naughty food, and it got me thinking. Maybe we jump to food as a reward when we could really think of something else we would enjoy just as much. I bet I could think of sixty things I could let myself enjoy as much as food, if I let myself:
A gorgeous sky.
A tall glass of cold water.
A hug from a child.
Chatting with a friend.
A hot shower when I'm cold.
Flowers.
A reunion.
Trying something another way and finding it works.
Seeing my mother's face on a child.
Being on time.
A nap.
A walk.
The feel of cool water when I'm hot.
A good haircut.
An intriguing novel.
Watching a play.
Watching someone you love achieve something they want.
A vivid color.
Writing on a clean sheet of paper.
Making someone laugh.
An organized drawer.
Learning something new.
Counted cross-stitch.
Getting things done early.
Receiving mail that isn't a bill.
A good cry.
A favorite movie.
A long, hot bath.
A holiday.
Snuggling with a loved one.
Learning about an ancestor.
Looking at houses.
Playing a game.
Working a Sudoku.
Spring.
Reading with a child.
Art.
A clean house.
Fresh laundry.
A massage.
Pine trees.
All the bills paid.
A new item of clothing.
Classical music.
A good story.
Going to bed before dusk and watching the room glow at the point of sunset.
A valentine.
A day off work.
Rain.
Exchanging knowing smiles.
A message.
Clockwork.
An anniversary.
Passing off a song.
Using nice dishes.
Soft fabric or blanket.
Pastel colors in an Easter basket.
Time.
Love.
Understanding someone or something.
What's on your list?
I think that finally, after years of effort and frustration, trying what I thought was my best, I have figured out the solution for myself. It involves, yes, eating healthy and daily exercise, but that's to be expected.
I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought that if I could just lose the weight I'd gained from having five babies in middle age, I could then eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and in whatever amount I wanted. I think I was erroneously looking to exercise to void bad eating.
Acceptance of the concept that I actually have to adopt new habits and rules came slowly.
But, one day, in the midst of the holiday season, I heard two people say something about being on a diet, and I realized: I'm not on a diet--I just keep my rules. It was the most freeing thought I think I'd ever had. Because I can eat whatever I want--just not too much of it if it is not good for me.
I mean, if we really like a new shampoo, we don't get right back in the shower and use it again, right? Or go for another walk right after an invigorating walk? Why is it so hard to enjoy a small something and then quit there? Why does a two-cookie snack become a six-cookie snack? Maybe we don't take the time to savor our treat as much as we should--we just wolf it down. Or maybe a bowl full of four scoops of ice cream has become a "normal" serving to us.
Right now, I am fifteen pounds over what I want to be. Fifteen doesn't sound too bad, but imagine trying to hide fifteen packages of butter under your clothes and have them not show! It's no wonder some of my clothes don't fit. Fifteen pounds of butter equals 60 squares.
I overheard someone asking a friend what she could reward herself with if she lost fifteen pounds. Her suggestions were all naughty food, and it got me thinking. Maybe we jump to food as a reward when we could really think of something else we would enjoy just as much. I bet I could think of sixty things I could let myself enjoy as much as food, if I let myself:
A gorgeous sky.
A tall glass of cold water.
A hug from a child.
Chatting with a friend.
A hot shower when I'm cold.
Flowers.
A reunion.
Trying something another way and finding it works.
Seeing my mother's face on a child.
Being on time.
A nap.
A walk.
The feel of cool water when I'm hot.
A good haircut.
An intriguing novel.
Watching a play.
Watching someone you love achieve something they want.
A vivid color.
Writing on a clean sheet of paper.
Making someone laugh.
An organized drawer.
Learning something new.
Counted cross-stitch.
Getting things done early.
Receiving mail that isn't a bill.
A good cry.
A favorite movie.
A long, hot bath.
A holiday.
Snuggling with a loved one.
Learning about an ancestor.
Looking at houses.
Playing a game.
Working a Sudoku.
Spring.
Reading with a child.
Art.
A clean house.
Fresh laundry.
A massage.
Pine trees.
All the bills paid.
A new item of clothing.
Classical music.
A good story.
Going to bed before dusk and watching the room glow at the point of sunset.
A valentine.
A day off work.
Rain.
Exchanging knowing smiles.
A message.
Clockwork.
An anniversary.
Passing off a song.
Using nice dishes.
Soft fabric or blanket.
Pastel colors in an Easter basket.
Time.
Love.
Understanding someone or something.
What's on your list?
Saturday, February 11, 2012
May I Hang up Your Coat?
I seem to have a manic decorator in my midst. And I mean "midst" quite literally, as this creative energy is bursting from a middle child, starting with her bedroom in the center of the house.
It started with her posting ALL of the pictures from one calendar side by side on her bedroom wall. The calendar featured whimsical fairies in various poses and costumes, so seemed really quite typical for a little girl's tastes, and I let it slide without comment. A few months later, more pictures--original artwork this time--appeared on her walls. Again, it was her room, so no big deal.
Lately, however, her walls have become more crowded. I frowned when I saw her backpack and her jacket nailed up by her bedroom door, as though she lived in a log cabin, and those have come down.
A couple of weeks ago, she helped her baby brother clean his room. I was thrilled, touched, relieved--all the positive feelings a mother can have in such an event as that. Until bedtime, when I went in and saw dozens of stickers plastered all over his closet doors.
It seems to be getting worse. The other night, I noticed her brown hair ribbon push-pinned into the wall among dozens of other things and asked her about it. Like, really, a hair ribbon!? She tucked her chin down in her shy way and said that she and her brother had been playing, and that had been his leash.
That there is no room for anything else has not slowed her down. Tacked up among what can really be called pictures are the following: a dream catcher, documents, a list of phone numbers, butterfly stickers, a paper doll, cutouts from magazines, a table of measures, an ad for Utah tourism, a CD, a cootie catcher, Primary handouts, a pedigree chart, photographs, bookmarks, and a plastic key chain with the six "Be's."
I'm not sure where she got her supply of push-pins, but she even has a broken lamp tacked up by string next to her bed so she can read at night, and--get this!--her scriptures.
Hilarious!
The hair ribbon in the wall led to a discussion about the growing vertical hoarding, and I made a rule: nothing else goes up without permission. She's a girl who quietly goes about doing the things that come into her mind. Most of her ideas are good--she's very thoughtful and helpful. But I've talked to her many times over the years of her life about not cutting and/or drawing on things that are not meant to be cut and/or drawn on.
Despite all this, last night, I found myself staring at flowers and stars drawn in orange and green magic marker on her light switch. I just pointed to it.
She blushed and got her shy look. We looked at each other.
"I'll wash it off," she said, barely audibly.
Earlier, she had asked if she could hang her science fair certificate. The certificate is not for winning, just for participating. I looked up from my perch on the kitchen floor where I sort the laundry into piles each Friday evening. "Yes," I said, "but take something else down."
I thought we finally understood each other. I really did.
Then, this morning, there was a squabble. I let my husband handle it because I was on my way to drive a teenager to two events (you know how it is) and get to a meeting of my own that was to start at the same time. (I was soon to arrive at the meeting giggling at this chapter of my hilarious life.) He put both this child and a different brother on time-out chairs. When I made a mad dash back in to get my wedding rings, I found out why.
My daughter and her brother had been fighting over whether or not she could hang up some things in his room.
It started with her posting ALL of the pictures from one calendar side by side on her bedroom wall. The calendar featured whimsical fairies in various poses and costumes, so seemed really quite typical for a little girl's tastes, and I let it slide without comment. A few months later, more pictures--original artwork this time--appeared on her walls. Again, it was her room, so no big deal.
Lately, however, her walls have become more crowded. I frowned when I saw her backpack and her jacket nailed up by her bedroom door, as though she lived in a log cabin, and those have come down.
A couple of weeks ago, she helped her baby brother clean his room. I was thrilled, touched, relieved--all the positive feelings a mother can have in such an event as that. Until bedtime, when I went in and saw dozens of stickers plastered all over his closet doors.
It seems to be getting worse. The other night, I noticed her brown hair ribbon push-pinned into the wall among dozens of other things and asked her about it. Like, really, a hair ribbon!? She tucked her chin down in her shy way and said that she and her brother had been playing, and that had been his leash.
That there is no room for anything else has not slowed her down. Tacked up among what can really be called pictures are the following: a dream catcher, documents, a list of phone numbers, butterfly stickers, a paper doll, cutouts from magazines, a table of measures, an ad for Utah tourism, a CD, a cootie catcher, Primary handouts, a pedigree chart, photographs, bookmarks, and a plastic key chain with the six "Be's."
I'm not sure where she got her supply of push-pins, but she even has a broken lamp tacked up by string next to her bed so she can read at night, and--get this!--her scriptures.
Hilarious!
The hair ribbon in the wall led to a discussion about the growing vertical hoarding, and I made a rule: nothing else goes up without permission. She's a girl who quietly goes about doing the things that come into her mind. Most of her ideas are good--she's very thoughtful and helpful. But I've talked to her many times over the years of her life about not cutting and/or drawing on things that are not meant to be cut and/or drawn on.
Despite all this, last night, I found myself staring at flowers and stars drawn in orange and green magic marker on her light switch. I just pointed to it.
She blushed and got her shy look. We looked at each other.
"I'll wash it off," she said, barely audibly.
Earlier, she had asked if she could hang her science fair certificate. The certificate is not for winning, just for participating. I looked up from my perch on the kitchen floor where I sort the laundry into piles each Friday evening. "Yes," I said, "but take something else down."
I thought we finally understood each other. I really did.
Then, this morning, there was a squabble. I let my husband handle it because I was on my way to drive a teenager to two events (you know how it is) and get to a meeting of my own that was to start at the same time. (I was soon to arrive at the meeting giggling at this chapter of my hilarious life.) He put both this child and a different brother on time-out chairs. When I made a mad dash back in to get my wedding rings, I found out why.
My daughter and her brother had been fighting over whether or not she could hang up some things in his room.
Monday, February 6, 2012
In Matters of Evil, the Need to be Bilingual
What's more important--the desires of a person who has declared war on his family, or the cognitive development and safety of a child?
We seem to get this wrong every time.
Think carefully. A child holds the future in his mind. The healthier his experiences, the more wholesome the future world will be. A person who chooses to treat his children's lifeblood and caretaker with hostility has already dug a gulch under his children's feet that promises to cave in their world. Why, in the name of everything and anything, should he have any right--or opportunity--to pursue his sick agenda?
We can pretty much know that everything such a person does or says is designed to further his evil purposes. He whines about supervised visits not being private enough? Should we follow the flowchart to a) let him conduct them at his house then, or b) realize it's too bad he caused this consequence?
Josh Powell simply could not have carried out his plot to murder his children if the visit had taken place in public. Not that one, anyway. Why make it easy for him?
In order to prove to the world that he was not a murderer, he took the lives of his innocent sons. In order to prove that he should have custody of them, he blew them up. If anyone was still believing him, they shouldn't be able to now.
Although, people who insist on being blind to the truth have the capacity to invent numerous ways to continue being stupid. There is probably someone somewhere who will say that he just felt so bad at not regaining custody that he couldn't help himself.
But the rest of us need to get better at reading the subtext. Otherwise, evil keeps winning. Violence continues. Tiny children not protected from its poison grow up to perpetrate it to the next generation. If they live that long. We need to do a lot better at handling this in our society. Thousands--even millions--of children are in a similar situation. Fortunately, most such situations do not end quite so spectacularly. Many, in fact, are never resolved, but the emotional, spiritual, and mental devastation that go along with exposure to a disturbed parent wreak havoc in children, and the poison of abuse continues to spread.
We can't go on just believing what people say. We have to listen to what they do. We have to see, for example, that a dead woman in a canal is a murder. But that's another story.
Those of us who have taken a crash course and become fluent in abuser-speak never believed a word Josh Powell said.
What he said: he was a good father who would never harm his children--or anyone--and should have custody. The truth is in the news.
What he said: he had nothing to do with his wife's disappearance--she happened to run off (without her purse and keys) with some other man at the same moment he took his sons on a midnight camping trip to the middle of nowhere in subzero temperatures. The truth: Mommy was in the trunk, and he had two big fans aimed at a wet spot on the living room carpet.
What he said: Susan, his wife, was a promiscuous flirt. The truth: he and his father were both out of control sexually and viewed women and children as possessions, not people.
What he said: he would publish her journals in order to prove her character. The truth: in so saying, he proved his character and his crime. He would have no right to publish her journals if she were still alive. He, alone, knew for certain that she wasn't.
And Sunday was not just a bad day for poor Josh. It takes time to amass ten gallons of gasoline and lay out a foolproof plan. He gave away their toys several days ahead of time. Then there are all the goodbye emails (complete with attempts at beyond-the-grave-control). This was completely premeditated. (Why he requested privacy.)
If Theodore Hesburgh was right that "The best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother," the converse holds true that turning abuse on their mother is among the worst things he can do to his children.
But evil never wins in the end. Josh didn't take the children with him. In order to keep his wife's parents from raising his children, he transferred custody permanently to his wife, where, in the words of their grandfather, they are finally "safe" from him. I trust heaven has enough good in it to heal them from the horror of their last moments.
And that he is still burning.
We seem to get this wrong every time.
Think carefully. A child holds the future in his mind. The healthier his experiences, the more wholesome the future world will be. A person who chooses to treat his children's lifeblood and caretaker with hostility has already dug a gulch under his children's feet that promises to cave in their world. Why, in the name of everything and anything, should he have any right--or opportunity--to pursue his sick agenda?
We can pretty much know that everything such a person does or says is designed to further his evil purposes. He whines about supervised visits not being private enough? Should we follow the flowchart to a) let him conduct them at his house then, or b) realize it's too bad he caused this consequence?
Josh Powell simply could not have carried out his plot to murder his children if the visit had taken place in public. Not that one, anyway. Why make it easy for him?
In order to prove to the world that he was not a murderer, he took the lives of his innocent sons. In order to prove that he should have custody of them, he blew them up. If anyone was still believing him, they shouldn't be able to now.
Although, people who insist on being blind to the truth have the capacity to invent numerous ways to continue being stupid. There is probably someone somewhere who will say that he just felt so bad at not regaining custody that he couldn't help himself.
But the rest of us need to get better at reading the subtext. Otherwise, evil keeps winning. Violence continues. Tiny children not protected from its poison grow up to perpetrate it to the next generation. If they live that long. We need to do a lot better at handling this in our society. Thousands--even millions--of children are in a similar situation. Fortunately, most such situations do not end quite so spectacularly. Many, in fact, are never resolved, but the emotional, spiritual, and mental devastation that go along with exposure to a disturbed parent wreak havoc in children, and the poison of abuse continues to spread.
We can't go on just believing what people say. We have to listen to what they do. We have to see, for example, that a dead woman in a canal is a murder. But that's another story.
Those of us who have taken a crash course and become fluent in abuser-speak never believed a word Josh Powell said.
What he said: he was a good father who would never harm his children--or anyone--and should have custody. The truth is in the news.
What he said: he had nothing to do with his wife's disappearance--she happened to run off (without her purse and keys) with some other man at the same moment he took his sons on a midnight camping trip to the middle of nowhere in subzero temperatures. The truth: Mommy was in the trunk, and he had two big fans aimed at a wet spot on the living room carpet.
What he said: Susan, his wife, was a promiscuous flirt. The truth: he and his father were both out of control sexually and viewed women and children as possessions, not people.
What he said: he would publish her journals in order to prove her character. The truth: in so saying, he proved his character and his crime. He would have no right to publish her journals if she were still alive. He, alone, knew for certain that she wasn't.
And Sunday was not just a bad day for poor Josh. It takes time to amass ten gallons of gasoline and lay out a foolproof plan. He gave away their toys several days ahead of time. Then there are all the goodbye emails (complete with attempts at beyond-the-grave-control). This was completely premeditated. (Why he requested privacy.)
If Theodore Hesburgh was right that "The best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother," the converse holds true that turning abuse on their mother is among the worst things he can do to his children.
But evil never wins in the end. Josh didn't take the children with him. In order to keep his wife's parents from raising his children, he transferred custody permanently to his wife, where, in the words of their grandfather, they are finally "safe" from him. I trust heaven has enough good in it to heal them from the horror of their last moments.
And that he is still burning.
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