"Real" Food, part 1

My relationship with food has had some ups and downs. Until I was in my early 20s, it was pretty simple - I got hungry; I ate; I was thin. But sometime during college, I started eating more and more. And gaining weight. And eating more. I often ate until I was uncomfortably full - almost sick. I ate each meal like it was my last.

I reached my heaviest shortly after getting married in 1998. It didn't help that I tended to eat as much as my husband, a 6' 7" ectomorph with a hummingbird-on-meth metabolism. But in the beginning of 1999, without even really trying, I lost 6 or 7 pounds. Encouraged, I started making small changes, slowly - drinking more water, eating smaller portions, getting more active and even exercising. A year later, I was 40 pounds lighter and a fitness fiend.

So began my obsession with food. It started innocently enough - I became interested in eating more healthfully and read as much as I could about it. Some aspects of this were positive - I jumped on the anti-trans-fats bandwagon way before many people even knew what they were. I read “Fast Food Nation” and as a result, pretty much cut beef out of my diet.

But I started equating my control of food with my fitness. I was convinced that if I didn't carefully control what I ate, I would gain all the weight back (even though I was exercising consistently). My meals were carefully planned and of course, recorded. I had to make sure I drank a certain amount of water each day or God knows, the world would cave in. Artificial sweeteners and other “diet” foods were a mainstay. I weighed myself every morning, terrified that I’d see the needle go up a pound (even though I was under-weight at the time).

I never starved myself or binged and purged; I didn’t have an “eating disorder,” but I certainly had “disordered eating.” Traveling with me was a nightmare. I would pitch a fit if I couldn’t find a place to eat that had the “right” healthy foods. I had to bring certain foods with me to ensure I’d have something I “could” eat. I almost skipped what turned out to be an incredible weekend at Put-In Bay with my friends Barb and Leanne because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find the “right” foods to eat.

In retrospect, I see this clearly. At the time, however, I was in denial. “How can I have a problem? I let myself have ‘treat’ foods.” (For example, I’ve always been a sucker for cake with frosting and never gave it up.)

It was a slow process to change my perspective. A recurring stress fracture in my left shin led me to a nutritionist who helped me to see that maybe my eating wasn’t as healthy as I thought. And ironically, getting involved with marathon training through the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team in Training program helped me to view food as a good and necessary fuel for endurance events. Finally, the decision to have a baby really kicked me in the butt – I knew I would have to gain some weight if I wanted to start ovulating, get knocked up, and have a healthy pregnancy.

Blessings

28 January 12
1. Running this morning
2. Sledding with Jim and Ben
3. Getting the house chores done today
4. Bottling Jim's beer
5. Trying a new recipe for dinner
6. Rocking and chatting with Ben before bed

Consistent blogging is not yet my strong suit. There is only one writing practice I have managed to keep consistently for going on fourteen years - that is, my gratitude journal. I learned this practice from my friend Meg K., then came across it again in "Simple Abundance" by Saran Ban Breathnbach.

Every night before bed, I record at least five things from my day for which I am grateful. If I skip a day (which has happened due to vacations/ business trips/ drunkenness/ illness/ labor & delivery/ etc.), I catch up the next and record ten (or fifteen or however many days I've missed). On many nights it is really easy to come up with five, six, or more. But there have been just as many nights, depending on moods, hormones, and the day's events, when I sit and stare at the page, stymied to come up with grateful thoughts:

7 February 06
1. My family
2. The chance every day to start over
3. A steady job
4. Our home
5. Knowing how blessed I am even on nights like tonight when I'm feeling very low and uninspired

And those nights, the lack of gratitude stirs my guilt because I sit there and think, "How can you be so ungrateful?!" But it's a self-discipline, now. I sit and think until those third, fourth, fifth items occur to me.

I've read again and again that gratitude boosts happiness. When I first started, the practice felt forced and a little too "warm and fuzzy." As it happens, it was also a darker time in my life, emotionally. However, I managed to stick with it and truly believe that it has boosted my happiness over the years.

A secondary benefit is that the journals provide snap-shots of my day-to-day life. I like looking back to a year ago or to a certain point of time (like, the day before Ben was born) and seeing what I was thinking about, what made me happy:

18 February 07
1. Waking up without an alarm
2. A good work-out
3. Finding bras that fit!
4. All the things Jim is willing to do for me
5. A relaxing weekend

A lot of entries are repeats such as "rocking Ben before bed" or "running this morning"(I don't have a rule about duplications) - but there are the unique ones:

13 September 11
4. A picnic (Subway) in the car with Ben tonight.

And then there are the journals themselves. I've always had a thing for blank books, and I now have good reason to stockpile them!

I really enjoy blogging and want to stick with it - a goal for 2012 is at least two entries a week. But I am grateful that putting pen to paper, at least for a brief list, is now as much a habit for me as brushing my teeth at night.

Baby Steps

Made some progress on the list this weekend - new beer (Tiger beer from Singapore), new wine (Santa Barbara Landing Chardonnay), and new recipe (bean soup - OK, so I've made bean soup before, but this really was a new recipe to me).

I'm even more excited that I had a tutorial with my mom and NOW remember how to knit! So far, all I have are some garbled knit and purl stitches in scrap yarn but what's important is I can start practicing. Jackie K. lent me a great book - "Pints and Purls" - projects that are designed to go with you to the bar (see why I like this?). The projects are rated by how much you can drink while working on them (4 beers = really easy, 1 beer or Designated Driver = really difficult). There are some cute arm warmers that are rated easy, but I'll probably start with the wine charms (knit a little, put it on a wire - I think even I can manage that!).

Obscene Phone Call

You know about my potty mouth. And how I’m trying to clean it up for my son’s sake. And you know how my husband gives me a hard time because he grew up in a curse-free home.

Well . . .

The phone rang around 8:45 last night (Ben was already in bed, thankfully). I answered, “Hello?” Nothing, just the dead air you often experience with telemarketers, requiring two “hellos” before they answer. I assumed it was just that – a telemarketing call – and irritated by the intrusion snapped, “Who the fuck is this?”

A quiet, familiar voice said, “Jenny?” Oh. Crap. It was my mother-in-law. And not just her, but my father-in-law, too, on the other extension. I was seized simultaneously by abject shame and a case of nervous giggles.

“Uhhh, I’m soooo sorry, I thought you were a telemarketer!” I gasped.

“I guess I know what kind of day you’re having,” she answered wryly. God love the woman, she had a sense of humor about it. Jim just sat on the couch, shaking his head.

After a few more pathetic apologies from me, the conversation moved on, thanks to the graciousness of my in-laws. Later, I told Jim it would have only been worse if it had been our minister. “No,” he answered, “it’s worse with my mom.”

The up side to all this? I got to skip the soap, since Ben didn’t hear me!

F - - -

Before motherhood, I swore like a sailor. I loved to swear. Coming up with creative curses is FUN (my personal favorite is "bumbling fuckbag" - how I described a former boss).

When the boy arrived, I realized it was time to clean up my mouth. This really hit me when he was two - it was winter and I had a close call on a slippery road when I was driving him to the sitter's. Of course, out came "Oh, fuck!" as we nearly slid into another car. As soon as we arrived at the sitter's, a little voice from the back seat started calling, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Sigh. God love the sitter - she told me that if he ever said it at church, I should tell everyone he learned it at her house.

So the f-word disappeared from my vocabulary, to be replaced by "nuts," "nutties," and "scheisse" (thank you Tricia P.!) among other exclamations. Yes, the occasional "damn," "hell," and "shit" would creep in. But I thought I was doing better.

Until recently, when the boy started up. "Damn" here and there ("That's a damn good apple, Grandma!") and "shit" at Thanksgiving when he was playing with his cousins. Just a few days ago in the car, "That's a damn good heater!" So we had a talk about why those words are unacceptable. And of course, Jim was happy to point out how often my speech is still sprinkled with those words. What can I say? I grew up hearing my mom and dad use those words, but knew that I'd better never say them (at least around my parents). My husband, however, grew up in a curse-free home. So I agreed to try once again to clean up my act.

Jump to Saturday - beer brewing day for Jim. I love brewing day - the house is warm and smells so yummy as the beer steeps. Jim was in the kitchen, Ben was playing, I was in the living room reading and enjoying one of Jim's previous brews. Just a few minutes before, I had moved the steeping grains and bag into our mini-compost bin. Jim yelled from the kitchen, "What did you do with the grains?" Immediately, I thought, oh no, he must need to steep them twice, I've messed things up. Unbidden, "Oh, fuck!" popped out of my mouth. Ben started laughing, then said, "Fuck! Muck! Hahahahahaha!" Oh, crap.

I admit, hearing him say "damn" was kind of funny but I absolutely do not want the f-word creeping into his vocabulary at age 5! So I decided on what I thought would be the best deterrent - I told him I would have to wash my mouth out, with his supervision.

We headed up to the bathroom and I put a bar of Dove in my mouth, "Christmas Story"-style. I kept it between my teeth until Ben told me I was done (only about 15 seconds, thank God). Blech, what a wretched taste - but it is good incentive to keep me from swearing. And, Ben knows that if he swears again, the soap is waiting for him.

Time for me to whine . . .

I’ve been reading a book about simplifying – specifically, there are 52 projects to take on in “bite-size” chunks in order to simplify your life. There are lots of good ideas, many of which I already do: “Clean as you go” (vs. letting crud sit around and dry up in your kitchen, on the tables, etc.). “Get rid of junk mail as it comes in your house – don’t let it pile up.” “Make your kitchen paperless” (i.e. stop using paper towels and napkins). “Have a morning routine.” “Have a night-time routine.”

This leads me to two thoughts:
1. Why the hell haven’t I written a book about how to simplify?! and
2. Books like this always seem to be written by women who are not only published authors and widely-read bloggers, but also have a bunch of kids (this lady has 5), home school their brood, volunteer in the community, take regular vacations, and consult/free-lance all over the place, among many fabulous activities.
HOW DO THEY DO IT?! Are they crystal meth addicts who don’t sleep?! I have just one kid, a fairly streamlined household, and a very helpful, chore-sharing husband – and I still feel like there’s not enough time in the day to do everything else I want (e.g. be more creative, stay in closer touch with friends and family, be a more perceptive, compassionate wife/mom/friend/etc.).

As I think about this, these “helpful” authors seem to represent the anti-Erma Bombeck, one of my favorite authors/columnists. Remember her? If you’ve never read any of her columns or books, I highly recommend you give her a try. She wrote about being a mom/wife/caregiver in a way that is easy to relate to – that is, her house was a mess, her kids drove her nuts, and she barely kept things together.

Ultimately, we (I) just don’t give ourselves (myself) enough credit. It’s easy to feel bad because we unfairly compare ourselves to women who have seemingly perfect lives. But we all know NO ONE’S life is perfect. As I’ve whined my way through this post, I’ve decided to celebrate, instead, all the things I do that bring me happiness and help me keep my life simplified – and to keep working on those things I want to do better (after all, that’s why I’ve taken on this project). And to revisit Erma!