When the Prince Comes

Sunday, I found myself sprinting down the street from church to home to get the diaper bag and the Primary bag we had neglected to bring. And I was mad. I'd told my daughter to set them by the door so we wouldn't forget them. I'd glanced at the area near the front door on my way out and hadn't seen them, so I'd thought my husband had taken them with him. I'd thought, "How gallant." It was fine with me for him to carry them both and not leave one for me to tote.

However. Once there, these bags were nowhere to be found.

Our daughter is verging on teenagerism, and I should have specified which door she should have put them by.

But I wasn't mad at her. I was mad at him.

"We'll have to go back for them," I said, by which I meant, "You, the MAN, should go back for them."

He didn't pick up on that. "You have time. . ." he started to say. It was 1.5 minutes to the hour. So I sprinted.

I was probably able to run home faster than he was. I was wearing flats, and running was no problem in my shoes. I am used to running. Flying down the street in my brown skirt and tan jacket, I didn't even break a sweat. I grabbed the bags, which were set by the kitchen door, heaved them up on my shoulder (the diaper bag was suspiciously heavy, considering we don't even have a child in diapers), and ran back up the street and the 17 steps to the church without any trouble at all.

And I did get there before the meeting started.

So, why was I mad?

Paul asked where they had been and we had a brief discussion in which I said I'd thought he'd picked them both up and he said he had not seen them, either. "Are you mad?" he asked.

"Yes," I admitted. Then, as the meeting started, I reassured him by saying, "Don't worry--I'm not any madder at you than I usually am."

I continued examining my assumptions and biases. Within two minutes, I had decided to go with feeling glad that my husband considers me an equal.

Why should he necessarily be the one to go back for the bags? Because he's the man? Yes, it might be the chivalrous thing to do, but was it the most practical? I did it just as well as he could have--maybe better. In his suit coat, he would have broken a sweat. He was doing that, anyway.

I wasn't dressed in a way that made it hard. I wasn't weak or sick or pregnant. I was closer to the door. There were lots of ways to look at it practically that suggested I was actually the better candidate at the moment. Or at least just as good.

It reminded me of when it dawned on me, years ago, that men are really just people. They might be a little big bigger and stronger, but they can still be tired after work. They can still have physical issues, or down days. They aren't born with every skill, or all-knowing. They don't necessarily like to take out the trash.

I was actually surprised when my sixteen-year-old son didn't automatically know how to just go out and get a summer job.

I guess I'd heard so many stories describing my dad's confidence in his ability to do many things that I had grown up thinking men were superhuman. Dad could fix anything. He was smart about handling people. He didn't have a college education, but he could pick up his briefcase and go cold-calling on businesses and acquire customers. He ran his own business--no one told him how to. Although, my mother did have suggestions, to which he listened.

And I'd heard a lot of fairy tales. You know how fairy tales go--all your problems are over the minute the prince appears on the scene. They don't tell you that the prince shows up with his own list of problems.

I tell my daughters they can do anything they want. I believe in equal pay for equal work. I insist on fairness and equality in my relationship, as far as that is possible--at least that we each contribute to our family the best we can. We are not exactly the most traditional couple. My job has always been the more important job, and he usually does the cooking.

Yet, I don't mind at all if he is the one to stick his hand down the disposal or kill the spider.

I guess we all need to tease out for ourselves how we want to view equality and men's roles versus women's roles. We should decide what we think should just be people's roles, or adult's roles.

I think it's tricky--we grow up with certain experiences and ideas that give us biases and beliefs. Do we examine those? We should at least explore and discover them, and turn them over in our minds to see what we really would choose to believe about them. We should stretch ourselves to grow beyond stereotypes and harmful, false beliefs that we may have swallowed whole.

I knew a woman from Eastern Europe who believed herself to be completely modern, yet was really locked into caretaking roles for family members of various generations that used up time she didn't have, and who firmly believed that if her husband ever saw her once without lipstick on, it would be the end of her marriage.

I had a sister who was known as a champion for feminism--she was bright and employed, empowered and convincing, yet was often found baking cookies and cared about being pretty. Personally, I find nothing contradictory in this, and I don't think she did, either. She thought things through and decided what she wanted to think and stuck to it.

And then there are the people who will say things you know they swallowed whole and never really thought through. Like the man who told me that he had to believe men over women because they "held the priesthood." He wasn't an evil man--just uneducated and unexposed to critical thinking skills.

What do we think? And why do we think it? After turning it over and looking at it from different angles, do we want to keep thinking it, or modify it? If we're going to stand by a thought we have, shouldn't we at least know why?

Naughty or Nice--It Won't Matter

So, a friend and I were having a discussion about which of us owed whom a doughnut. I think I won, but then I had to decline. Part of me was saying, "I like the chocolate cake kind," and the other part was saying, "Remember your jade dress that you want to wear next week?"

It was exactly like those cartoons with a devil (devil's food?) on one shoulder and an angel (in a jade dress?) on the other.

Which morphed our discussion into the nature of being naughty or nice. I teased that I thought I was basically a naughty person forced into a saintly mold. He said I wore that mold well, which I really had to think about.

He also pointed out that I probably had not been forced into anything.

So then I had to take all of this on and be accountable for it--the naughty, the nice, the mold, my niche in the whole eternal struggle--but, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which shoulder you're on), not the doughnut.

I began to think, "Maybe someday, I'll be in the Celestial Kingdom, and completely happy, and then I won't want to be naughty anymore." My next thought was that my first thought was probably backward. Probably, I have to not want to be naughty anymore, then I can achieve total happiness. And then, we'd see about the Celestial Kingdom much later.

It makes one wonder.

And, while we're wondering about being in the Celestial Kingdom, I have to wonder if we'll be resurrected with armpit hair on our "perfect" forms? Because, well, that just doesn't seem like perfect form to me.

I worry about it.

If resurrected, "perfect," bodies have not one hair lost from their heads, does that apply to other parts, too? And if resurrected bodies cannot ever be ill or hurt, does that mean they will be unable to be tweezed, waxed, or shaved? I mean, what would indestructible armpit hair be like? I have never been able to stand the normal kind. Is titanium armpit hair that I cannot get rid of in all eternity something I can look forward to?

And, what about all the moles and whatevers that we've made sure to get rid of? Will they reappear, too? Maybe things like moles are considered imperfections and will thus not be resurrected with us. Maybe Cindy Crawford will wake up in the Resurrection and go, "Dang!"

Who's to say what things will be considered "blemishes" needing to be healed or made perfect, and which will simply be restored according to the DNA blueprint we were created with? (Okay, God.)

And what about the people who, through great expense and effort, have straightened their teeth? Will the Resurrection honor what we consider to be the "perfect smile," or will it honor the way the DNA blueprint thought the teeth should grow in as "perfect form"?

I'm very much looking forward to my middle son having the natural lenses and perfect vision he was meant to have, to seeing my mom with white, lovely arms unscarred by fire. But who knows what we might get stuck with? It's not like we can avoid our eventual fate by being naughty--the Resurrection is apparently for all.

My brother thinks maybe it would be nice to choose these things for one's spouse's resurrection. I'm just hoping for a tiny say in my own.

The Day I Got Old

I had a birthday recently, but that is not the Day I Got Old.

It reminded me of it, though.

The Day I Got Old was a little over a year ago. It had started out as a normal Thursday--out of bed around 4:00, heading to the gym with a suitcase and two carryons to tide me over until my long day as a state employee in Utah ended.

A normal day except that I was a little bit stupid in the morning. Which worried me later, when I had to wonder if I was having a stroke. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It was the first day that fall cool enough to wear my jacket to the gym, which threw everything off. Instead of making sure I had four things--gym membership card, keys, baggie with a Clorox wipe, and locker lock--in my hands before locking my car, I assumed I had it all in my pockets and accidentally locked my keys in my car. I took my glasses--which I do not need at the gym--in with me instead.

I had been sick earlier in the week with a sinus infection and had missed a workout, and I was trying to make up those 900 calories a little at a time. So, instead of burning 900 calories on the elliptical machine, I burned 1000. This should not have been a big deal, because I had done that intense of a workout many times before. I had been on antibiotics for a couple of days already.

However, after I showered and had discovered I did not have my keys, had called a coworker to pick me up and was on my way home to borrow my sleeping husband's--after my pulse and respiration had calmed down, that is, I realized that my vision was not normal.

Around the outside of my vision was a flashing border continuously going around in a rectangle like some kind of marquee. And, the middle of my vision was pixilated. When I finally got to work and was talking with a woman, if I looked right at her, parts of her face were missing, like jigsaw puzzle pieces. I didn't want to believe that, so I looked at her straight on a few times to see. . .and it was really true.

But I felt fine. I felt strong. I wasn't numb anywhere or weak on one side or anything like that. I wanted to believe I was fine.

After talking with a couple of people about it, including a woman who had had some small strokes, my husband, and the university stroke center, I went to my supervisor, who was copying papers for a meeting.

"I need to go to the ER," I blurted. "Can you drive me?"

"Sure," she said. "Just let me finish copying this."

I went to the bathroom, called my husband, packed my lunch back up, and went to my supervisor, who was still at the copier. "You know what?" I said, less than graciously, "I need to leave right now, so I'll just drive myself."

"Okay," she said. I couldn't believe it. But that's what she said. (She later apologized.) And I had to take accountability that I had not been as straightforward as I should have been, so I got in my car and drove--pixilated vision and all--to the stroke center.

I didn't know how or when I had gotten hurt, but I was worried about the three-hour window for most successfully treating strokes, as it was well over two hours since I had stopped working out. The traffic up to the university is unbelievable in the mornings. I tried to avoid it by getting into the left lane, planning to turn left and go along a less busy street the rest of the way. Only, when I finally crawled to that intersection, there was a no left-turn sign.

Everything in front of me was stopped for blocks ahead. I didn't have that kind of time left. I decided it was a good thing I had pixilated vision and couldn't see everything in front of me (like signs) and made the turn. The traffic was still slow, but not as bad. I passed up another hospital's ER, which was a tough decision, but I wanted to get to the place that had the best reputation for dealing with strokes.

Finally, finally, with just minutes left (I thought), I pulled up to the ER, left my car keys in the hands of a valet, and went in. I told the person at the counter that I had been experiencing stroke-like symptoms. He had me squeeze his hands. "You didn't have a stroke," he told me.

I told him about my vision--only the funny thing was that that symptom had almost completely disappeared, so I started to doubt myself again. I felt fine, and now had no symptoms. If I hadn't had a stroke, what on earth was I doing there, about to hand over a huge ER copayment?

"Well, I'm an EMT, and I can tell you you did not have a stroke," he said.

My tears started falling onto the counter. That was not what I needed to hear in order to stay. I didn't know what to do. He told me that if I had a problem with my vision, that should definitely get checked. "But not at an ER," I said, feeling stupid.

"I'm just trying to comfort you," he said.

"It's not working."

My symptom was gone. I nervously munched some almonds. I was taken back into a private part of the ER. My husband and youngest child came in.

Another person asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms. I complied, knowing none of this would tell her anything. A nurse came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot. A doctor came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot, walk a line on the floor. I complied, knowing it wouldn't tell her anything, and feeling more stupid each time.

A nurse came in to hook me up to an IV. I asked why. I wavered. I really wondered what I was doing there. My symptoms had been gone for hours. I was fine. I didn't want to pay the copayment if there was nothing wrong with me. My husband gently--maybe too gently--suggested I might as well go along with it and try to find out why my vision had been pixilated.

I complied, then took a break to have a hacking cough fit.

The day waned on. I did Sudoku puzzles and wondered what I was doing there.

A neurologist came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot, walk a line on the floor. I complied. A second neurologist came in and asked me to squeeze her hands, touch my nose, push against her hands with my feet, look at the light, raise my arms, lower my arms, balance on one foot, walk a line on the floor. I complied.

She mentioned to the first neurologist that one of my pupils was not the same size as another one. Then, I had a CT scan, and the IV came in handy instead of just being a nuisance.

My husband had left. He had taken the baby to a neighbor's and had gone to pick up the other kids from school.

A completely new doctor walked in and said, "You have a dissection in your carotid artery. We're admitting you and putting you on a Heparin drip. You're at risk for a stroke." I felt my world shift beneath me. As I scrambled to regain my psychological footing, he continued. "No working out for at least a month (by which he really meant 14.5 weeks). You'll be on blood thinners. You're not going home tonight." Then, the clincher. "We'll refer you to a pulmonologist--you are not allowed to cough like that ever again."

That is what I mean by the Day I Got Old. I had a problem that was a real, serious problem. Not just sinus infections, or acne, a cavity, or thinning hair. Something that could kill me, or alter my life so badly I could wish it had killed me. Something I would have to watch out for, take precautions about. FOR. EV. ER.

So, feeling as strong as I ever had, I spent twenty-four hours in the hospital. I underwent an MRI, then several more CT scans. I learned how to give myself shots in the stomach, paying $250 for that privilege alone. I met with a pulmonologist, then a new ENT. I accrued a team of neurologists, participated in a genetic study, endured almost-daily finger pricks. Eleven pounds from my weight goal, I had to put it on a shelf. I went to the gym every day and just walked, which I found took more discipline to my regular workouts. I felt the pounds pack on around my hips as the holidays came and went. And--forget the ER copayment--I had to make arrangements to pay off a hospital bill. And I felt old for the first time.

But I fought my way back through those extra pounds and got even closer to my goal. I can run farther and lift more than I could before. I'm here, and I'm looking forward to getting older and older and older.

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.