Confession

I named this blog “Confessions of a Working Mother”, so I suppose there should be some confessions here once in a while. So here goes . . .

I don’t think I’m very good at being a working mom.

Now I know that women tend to be too hard on themselves, and I’m no exception, but I just think that other working moms seem to handle it better than I do. I just haven’t been able to figure out how to work full-time, keep the house clean, spend enough time with the kids so they won’t be scarred for life by my absence, keep them fed with good, nutritious food (which must be organic and free of high fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated oils, MSG, steroids, hormones and any other evil I can’t think of at the moment or haven’t heard about yet), nurture my relationship with my husband, work on my personal development and expand my skill-set so that I can advance at work, watch enough t.v. so that I have a clue what people are talking about around the watercooler, work on the novel that’s been percolating in my head for the past 6 years, keep up with the latest fashion and hair styles, stay slim and in shape, and make sure I have enough “me time” so that I don’t go crazy. Oh, and don’t forget the necessary 8 hours of sleep every night. There’s more, but I think that gives you a basic idea.

I just don’t have enough hours in the day to do all that. I’ve gotten pretty good at multitasking, but still something is going get put off or pushed to the side.

I’m ashamed to admit that my children eat too many meals that consist of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, mac & cheese with chicken nuggets, or cheeseburgers and french fries. I know they should be eating organic eggs from free-range chickens with nitrate-free bacon for breakfast and grass-fed beef with pesticide-free veggies purchased from the local farmers market, but I have two hours from the time I get home till they need to be getting ready for bed and I’d like to spend some of that time interacting with them in a way that doesn’t include the sentence “You’ll eat it because it’s good for you and I said so.”

Another area in which I am failing miserably (much to my own embarrassment) is housekeeping. I don’t like to invite people over because my house is never clean. Ten minutes after I finish cleaning something, it is dirty again. When I had only one child and didn’t have a job, I mostly kept up with it, but now it’s out of control. In some ways I’ve given up trying to have a clean home because the amount of time it would take to keep everything clean would leave me nothing left to do any of the other things I listed above. So, somewhere along the way, I decided that it was more important for me to spend time actually playing with my children rather than following them around the house with a vacuum in one hand and a wet wash cloth in the other.

Does that make me a bad mom? Maybe by some standards. Sometimes by my own. Most days I’m ok with it. Now and then, though, I encounter another mother at the mall who works full time and looks like she just stepped out of Vogue magazine with her kids who could be featured in a Baby Gap ad. She talks about the dinner party she had at her home last weekend and the gourmet meal she made, from scratch. I start wondering why I can’t keep it all together they way she does. What character flaw do I have that she is obviously lacking?

Then her four year old daughter throws herself on the floor in a kicking, screaming tantrum because she just saw my daughter wearing a Tinkerbell costume and it reminded her that she wanted to wear her Cinderella dress, not this outfit that matches her baby sister!
That’s when I realize that looking perfect doesn’t mean being perfect. (And I make myself feel better by telling myself that she probably has a rich husband and a housekeeper to do all the things that she’s not doing while making herself and her children look so good.)

I can only hope that when it comes time to pass through the Pearly Gates, “Thou shalt have a clean house” won’t be the 11th Commandment that all who enter must have kept. Maybe God will forgive me for not trying to be perfect. ^_^


But the Lord said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

Unexpected News

Well, it’s official. I’ve had suspicions for the past couple of weeks, but didn’t really know until today that it is true. I almost can’t believe it.

So what’s the big news, you ask? No, I’m not pregnant. No, my husband isn’t cheating on me. No, I haven’t been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for blogging. The news is that as of today, I wear a size 8. Yes, a size 8, as in a single digit on the tag in my jeans. I tried on 8’s in three different brands at Macy’s, just to be sure. For me, this is an occasion for celebration! I haven’t been able to wear this size since I was a freshman in high school.

For those who don’t know me personally, I’ve spent the last year and a half working hard to lose weight. Low carbing is my method of choice. (If you are interested in learning more, ask, and I’ll point you in the right direction.) In October of 2005 I weighed in at a little over 200 lbs. I count my starting weight as 205, but I don’t really know for sure what it was, since I didn’t have a scale and only weighed at other people’s houses. I was growing out of my size 16 stretch jeans. I knew it was getting bad because I didn’t like to get down on the floor to play with my daughter because all my belly fat squished my lungs when I leaned over and made it hard to breathe. I preferred to wear slip-on shoes because tying my shoelaces was so uncomfortable. I had very little energy and tried not to stand up and sit down too much because my knees were starting to hurt. All these things should have clued me in that I needed to make a change, but somehow I just kept telling myself that it wasn’t that bad. The person I saw in the mirror needed to lose some weight, but certainly wasn’t obese.

Then I saw a picture taken of me at my birthday dinner. I actually really saw myself. I don’t know why it’s so much different to see it in a picture rather than the mirror, but it was different. I could no longer deny that my weight was out of control. Something clicked in my mind and I decided at that moment, “This is it. I have to lose this weight. I’m done being fat.” I knew that Atkins worked for me because I had lost around 40 pounds a few years earlier on that plan. (The weight came back because of a lot of drama in my life that took my focus off my eating as well as having and nursing two babies.)

I changed the way I was eating that day and I haven’t looked back since. I certainly haven’t been perfect, but I have been consistent and I think that that is the one of the primary things that has gotten me to where I am now.

Along the way, I met a very special group of ladies on LowCarbFriends.com that have helped me to be accountable and stick with this thing when it got hard. Actually, there was one lady in particular who has been with me through it all. Pri17cess, I don’t think I ever said “Thank You”. I hope you know how much I appreciate you.

So, back to my original topic. Size 8. I actually thought that it was not possible. I really believed that size 10 was probably as small as I could go. If you had told me two years ago that I could get down to an 8 and even think about trying for a 6, I probably would have thought that you were making some kind of cruel joke at my expense. All my life I’ve been told that I have what are affectionately referred to as “good birthing hips”. My mom told me that I was a “pear-shape” when I was a teenager, since I carried most of my weight in my hips and thighs. This was true, but it led me to believe that it was a condition that would never change. I was told many times that I “carried my weight well” which was supposed to be a compliment, I know, but told me that I was just meant to be on the heavy side. Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that I’m not as big-boned as I thought. My hips aren’t forever doomed to stay size 10 or larger.

I still have a little bit of weight to lose. Maybe 10 or 15 lbs. I don’t really know for sure because I’ve never been at this weight as an adult. I’m just going to have to get there and see how it looks on me. I think that I’ll know if I ever get past the point of looking slim to emaciated. If not, my husband loves me and will tell me if he thinks I’ve lost too much.

It’s funny for me to talk about the possibility of losing too much. I’ve been at least slightly overweight since I started puberty. I spent several years trying to convince myself that I should just accept that I was overweight because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life loathing my body because it wouldn’t function like others and be naturally slim on the typical American diet of pasta, donuts and french fries. Being too skinny was not something that could happen to me. But here I am, trying to make sure that not only do I get myself to a healthy weight, but keep myself in a healthy mindset about it, too. It’s a paradigm shift, to be sure.

It didn’t happen overnight, and I think I’m glad it didn’t. I’ve had a few stalls, (and actually am in the middle of a long one right now) but I think those times have helped give me time to adjust to my smaller body as well as the changes in the way people interact with me as a result of it. I’m not ready to say that I’m at my goal weight, yet. But this is a big milestone for me, and I couldn’t help but share it with anyone who would listen (or read, as the case may be).

Yoga

I did my first yoga workout today. I don’t think it went quite the way it was supposed to, though. There wasn’t much peace and serenity involved. The problem could have been the two children who were extremely interested in what I was doing.

Anna narrated the whole workout for me.
“Those grown ups on the tv are acting like they are sleeping.”
“Now they are pretending to wake up.”
“Mommy is sleeping. I will wake her up now.”
“Mommy is going to crawl now. I will do it with her.”


In the mean time, Christian thinks that mommy is in prime position for playing.



Downward dog pose quickly became a tunnel to be crawled through.


Cobra pose obviously was an invitation to climb on my back for a ride.



Cat pose became a wonderful slide. I don’t think you are supposed to go from cobra pose to cat pose with a 43 lb child on your back, but the instructor on the video didn’t say that. Maybe it’s an advanced variation.


The Warrior pose also made a great tunnel. Too bad I wasn’t supposed to stay in that pose long enough for him to get all the way through. Of course, he thought that getting squished was great fun, so he crawled under me with every chance he got and stayed there until I either squished him again or moved so that he wasn’t in my way.


I did manage to get through the entire 30 minute workout (for the most part). I hope that yoga isn’t an all or nothing thing. With my two little ones running rampant while I am trying to do something good for my body, closing my eyes and dismissing “every thought that enters the mind” just doesn’t seem like a safe thing to do.


Is it still possible to get some of the benefits of it even if I can’t engage in the peaceful meditation part of it?


Any yoga experts out there in the blogosphere who might know?

Musings

At church yesterday, the pastor talked about service. He spoke about all service being equal in the eyes of God. Cleaning the bathrooms is the same as preaching to millions if both are done with the right heart and motives. Service is service and God does not designate one as greater than the other. There certainly are those that appear more glamorous and important to us, but glamorous isn’t necessarily valuable and important isn’t necessarily effective.

So, now I’m wondering if my desire to do more and be more is just my own insecurity surfacing once again. I’ve realized recently that I have a high need to see the results of my work to feel that my effort has been worthwhile. For the most part, results means others seeing what I have done and recognizing it. My attitude has been, “If I spend hours or days working on something and no one sees it or is affected by it, what’s the point of doing it in the first place?” I guess it comes down to a need for external validation.

I know that there are those who serve doing what many would consider menial tasks, but for them the act of serving itself is all the reward they need. I wonder if my need to see the results of the work I do is a character flaw that I need to work on or just a function of the gifts and talents that I’ve been given. In other words, how effective is a painter who paints and then hides the canvases in his attic? What good can a musician do if he never plays his music for others? What use is a writer whose words are never seen? It’s something I’ll have to think and pray about.

Any words of wisdom?


Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

Running Scared

I have a confession to make. It might make me a bad mom, but it’s time to be honest. So here it goes. . .

I like it when my son gets scared.

I don’t, of course, like that he is afraid, but I like what happens when my little man is scared. A loud noise from construction outside or the siren of an emergency vehicle sends him running, as fast as his chubby two-year-old legs will take him, for the protection of my arms. He scrambles up into my lap and hides his face in my shoulder. He holds onto me with all his might. That is the part I like. Some days it is the only cuddle time I get from him.

Since the day the little guy started walking, he hasn’t stopped moving unless he was eating or sleeping. Occasionally he does come and give me a spontaneous hug or drooly kiss, but those moments are gone as quickly as they begin. A good scare can give me perhaps a full minute of soft, wonderful baby hugs. If he has a bad dream or other night-time fear, I might get 15 minutes before he either falls asleep or wakes up enough to decide it’s time to play. 15 minutes! It’s like heaven.

So. . .there it is. I enjoys those times when my son gets genuinely scared. Do you think it makes me a bad mom? Oh well. It could be worse. I could scare him on purpose.

Hmm. Now there’s an idea.

Pancakes!

I went to lunch the other day at a local diner. Shortly after I ordered my food, a boy, about nine or ten years old was seated near me with his mother and grandmother. He picked up the menu and announced, “I want pancakes!”

“We came here for shakes, not pancakes,” his mother said from behind her menu.

“I want pancakes! I want pancakes!” This kid had whining down to an art. His voice pierced through the air and made me cringe and grit my teeth.

“No. If you are going to have food, I don’t want you to have all that sugar.” What? They came for shakes, but she didn’t want him to have sugar?

“I’m going to have pancakes! I want pancakes! I want pancakes! I WANT PANCAKES!” He really seemed to believe that if he asked frequent enough and loud enough his mother would relent and let him have the PANCAKES! he so desired.

“Stop it! Stop! You aren’t having pancakes,” the harried mother hissed. The boy leaned across the table and yelled in her face . . . You guessed it, “I WANT PANCAKES!” I couldn’t help but think about what would have happened if I had ever dared to try that with my mom. There would have been no pancakes. There would have been no shake and probably no dinner. I may even have had to wait in the car while everyone else ate their lunch.

The waiter returned at the end of this tirade. After some conversation, the mother convinced the boy to get a root beer float, since they didn’t have an Oreo cookie shake. About this time, I finished my lunch, paid for my food and headed back to work, grateful to leave.

I really felt bad for that mother. Her son caused such a scene in the restaurant and it was very obvious that she was embarrassed. I can’t imagine, though, that this was an unusual occurrence. I wonder how many times he had done this very thing in other places. I also wonder how often it gets him what he wants.

Can you imagine how this same kid will be in, oh, say, six or seven years?
“I want this car. Mom, buy me that Mustang! I want that car! GIVE ME THAT CAR!”

How about in 15 years . . .
“I want a raise! I deserve a raise! I want more money! Give me a raise!”

He’s in for a rude awakening, and if it doesn’t come from his mom in the very near future, it will be very painful when he gets out into the world and discovers that whining doesn‘t get you whatever you want. For his sake, I hope it happens sooner rather than later.


He who ignores discipline comes to poverty and shame, but whoever heeds correction is honored.

Waves

Overwhelmed
Waves wash over me
One after another
Sand shifting beneath my feet
I stumble backwards
Regain my balance
Start forward again
Another wave
The tide gains strength
The waves grow higher
But I’m getting stronger, too
Learning what to expect
Brace myself for impact
When to stand firm
When to relax
And let myself be carried
By the currents of the sea
To places I don’t know
Unfamiliar lands
That I’d never have
A chance to see
If I’d fought each wave
And tried to stay
Where maybe I’m not
Meant to be