Firsts

My first Christmas without my father has passed.  In a couple of weeks, it will be the first time his birthday arrives without him.  He would have been 65 this January.

Actually, it was the first Christmas without my father and my grandmother, and only the second without my grandfather.

At Thanksgiving, my mother remarked that we’d be done with the firsts by about October of next year. As if to say, if we can get through this first year after, things will be better.

I’m not sure that’s totally true.  Will I ever not miss him on Christmas? Will January 9th ever be the same for me? It might get a little easier, but not necessarily better.

Clean slate

I have that feeling again, though. That feeling that I desperately, desperately want to change my life. I want to be different. Better. I think my therapist would ask me what’s wrong with me right now. Not good enough, my inner critic says. Never good enough.

Yesterday I made a long list of things I want to change, things I want to do more of or less of.

  • 20 minutes of intentional movement every day
  • an hour a day of focused attention on Devyn
  • walk the dog more
  • create more daily rituals
  • organize my closets
  • donate, donate, donate — get rid of STUFF (I always have this urge after Christmas)
  • yoga practice
  • meditation practice
  • organize my finances
  • invest
  • be more loving
  • be more thrifty
  • get outside
  • embrace the seasons
  • ask for help
  • stop gossiping

The list goes on. That’s just some of them.

I’m not sure what good it does to make these lists. Science tells us that 88% of people will make a New Year’s resolution, and only about 8% will keep it.

Connecting the Dots

When I told my therapist, Amy, about Devyn’s shit fit, and my subsequent crying jag (a friend of mine said, “I’m sorry you hit a grief pocket,”), Amy asked me, “So why were you taking on her stuff?”

Six months ago, a friend miscarried, and when I told Amy about it, I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. She said, with slight amazement, “if someone walked in here right now, they’d think you we’re the one who lost a baby. You can’t grieve for her, you know.”

I take on other people’s shit. It’s why I cry at commercials and why reality shows make me uncomfortable. I am way too empathetic — to the point that I don’t have clear boundaries.

I then told Amy about a problem I’m having with a client right now; she disappeared for three weeks and didn’t respond to email so we couldn’t do our work, and now doesn’t want to pay because we didn’t do any work. And I compromised with her, and offered to make up part of what she’d paid for.

And Amy asked me, “Why are her needs so much more important than yours?”

Another running theme in my life, that everyone else’s needs and problems take precedence over my own. I don’t even keep promises to myself very well, yet if I make a promise to someone else, you can bet it will get done.

Finally, I told her my humiliating wedding dream, and we talked about how I’m awfully mean to myself. “You’ve gotten the message from others, when you were a kid, that you weren’t good enough, and you internalized it. That’s made you really hard on yourself. It’s made you get in the habit of putting others’ happiness first, because you felt yours didn’t matter, and because you’re always trying to figure out if people are happy and how to make them happy, you’ve become so attuned to what other people feel, that your boundaries are non-existent and you take on other people’s shit.”

Wow. Ding ding ding. Give the lady a prize.

Now we just have to figure out what to do about it.

Washed Away

I was emptying the dishwasher when my dad died.

He was in Dallas and I was in Denver, and there was nothing I could do about it. There was nothing I could do. So I emptied the dishwasher.

And then my mom called to tell me. But I already knew.

~*~

I was reminded of that moment as I was emptying the dishwasher today. I was crying as I pulled the forks out of the basket and wiped the accumulated water off the bottoms of the glasses.

My toddler had just engaged in an epic, 45-minute shit fit, which I had handled like the most perfect parent ever (mostly). She had finally cried herself to sleep in my arms, so I put her in her bed, went downstairs and started to cry uncontrollably.

I thought about pouring myself a drink, but ever since she was a tiny baby (and routinely reduced me to tears) I have had a strict “no drinking while home alone with the baby” policy, because it seemed like a slippery slope.

So instead I just cried. And emptied the dishwasher.

There is nothing so lonely as disciplining your child. You feel like the only person on the planet.  I called my husband for support.  I called my mom to cry to her. It didn’t help.

I was still just as alone as before. Alone with a crying, screaming baby — which was clearly an indication of my failings as a parent and, let’s be honest, as a person.

Sweep it under the rug.

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship to housework. I don’t like it and it doesn’t like me.

But there is a part of me that loves order.  I turn to tidying in times of deep emotional stress.

Once, when I worked at a magazine that was run by a psychopath, I was put in charge of getting the magazine to the printer on time for deadline.  By myself.  For the first time.

It was awful. I had to tell myself multiple times that night that I was NOT going to let the publisher see me cry — although I desperately, desperately wanted to.

Instead, I completely cleaned and organized my editor’s desk. She would be the first to tell you, she is not a tidy person. Her desk was a veritable landfill of papers, granola bar wrappers, old magazines, file folders, etc.  And I cleaned and organized the entire thing.

I’m pretty sure she was horrified, but luckily our friendship (and my job) survived it.

It wasn’t about her, though. It was about giving me something to focus on that I could control.

When I was sixteen or so, I went through and cleaned out my bedroom. I put so many trash bags at the curb for pickup that the neighbors came over and asked my parents if we were moving. For months afterward, my family gently mocked my new drive for simplicity.

But 16 was a hard year for me. I was growing up and didn’t want to. I didn’t like the way I looked, or my social status among my peers. I was bored to tears with school and madly in love (as only teenagers can be) with a boy who just wanted to be my friend. It was rough. And so I tried to control the thing I could control, and I cleaned my room.

Airing my dirty laundry.

I go through periods where I decide I’m going to get better at cleaning in general.  I decide that it’s an important part of being a grown up, or a wife, or a mom, or a woman, or whatever, and I make a concerted effort to do better.  I make up lists and schedules and plans. I spend an entire Saturday getting us back to zero so I can expend less effort keeping it up (what??).

I went through a FlyLady phase when I tried really hard to drink the kool-aid that I could be the perfect housekeeper in just 15 minutes at a time. I even bought one of her purple brooms, and while it is a seriously awesome broom, I am just not cut out to be a “Fly Baby.”

The very term makes me shudder a little, I’ll admit it.

I went through a phase of trying to do it every weekend.  Or every Monday morning. Two or four hours straight with the music blasting and getting my exercise in for the day by mopping. (And probably doing a really shitty job of it, too.)

Right now I’m in my hire-a-housekeeper phase, and I feel both giddy and guilty about it.

Giddy, because it’s something I’ve always wanted. Ever since I’ve been out on my own, I’ve dreamed of having the luxury of being able to hire someone else to do all the chores I don’t like to do. (OK, not all the chores: I haven’t outsourced folding laundry yet.)

Both my grandparents resisted getting housekeepers after their spouses were gone and they were “up in 80” and unable to do as much as they used to. My mother says she wouldn’t like it, that she would have to clean up before the cleaner got there.

I don’t have that particular issue. I do make sure we clean up all the clutter the day before the cleaners come — but only so that they have unfettered access to sweep and dust and spritz and spray to the best of their superhuman abilities.

On the other hand, I feel totally guilty about it.

It feels like an absolute waste of money.  It feels like something I should be able to do myself. Hell, I work from home. Part-time. What the hell is wrong with me that I can’t keep the house clean?!

But I can’t.  Or, maybe more accurately, I don’t. Cleaning isn’t a priority for me. I’d much rather read a book, or write a blog post, or play with my kid, or cook something, or go shopping than clean the house.

Until I need to clear my mind. And then I opt for cleaning up any day.

Resolve

It’s cold and snowy today, one of the first snowy days of this season, and I am on day three of a head cold. It’s a good day to cocoon, sip echinacea tea, and accomplish small chores that make a big difference, like washing the linens.

I went to bed last night with a strong conviction that it’s time for a change.

My daughter is going through something right now. The divine Miss D is throwing fits left right and center over… nothing.  Well, it looks like nothing to us. I try not to belittle her feelings and remember that it is something important to her. But it is still baffling and frustrating. Yesterday she cried and cried because I couldn’t make her braided pigtails any longer. (Despite her beliefs, I don’t possess that kind of magic.)  The day before, it was a screaming, crying fit because I dared serve her homemade macaroni and cheese instead of the stuff that comes in the box.

There have been a lot of little fits like that over food lately. She always wants a “snack” instead of a meal, which is usually something sweet and carby from her snack box — whether that means a long-hoarded piece of Halloween candy or something slightly healthier like freeze-dried apple slices. She’s also avoiding vegetables more now than ever before. Both are habits I’d like to nip in the bud.

And, while it’s easy to focus on what I want to change about her, I am in at least as much a need for a change.

What I don’t eat (right now).

My therapist and I have been working around the fact that I am an abstainer. She doesn’t use that word, but it’s one I discovered on Gretchin Reuben’s blog. There are moderators, those who can have a single bite of cheesecake and be satiated, and abstainers, who find it easier to avoid the cheesecake altogether than to go back after that first bite.

And, as I discovered during my month doing the Whole 30 program, I am an abstainer.

It really burns my biscuits, but there you go.

I don’t want to be an abstainer, but moderation is as hard for me as abstinence would be for someone else.

So Amy has suggested I have a list of foods I eat and foods I don’t eat. And I have resisted this terribly. The idea that a homemade chocolate chip cookie would be on the “foods I don’t eat” list, because they tend to be a binge food for me, is anathema.

It makes me want to punch something.

We even added the qualifier, “Things I Don’t Eat Right Now,” and it’s only slightly more palatable.

And yet, I know she’s right. (Hate that.)

I need to commit to a list.

Defining my list.

The other big problem with this exercise is that I don’t know what should go on my list of foods I don’t eat.

Crackers, candy, cookies — definitely.

But then what?

White flour? White sugar? All grains? All sugars? Industrially produced oils? Soy? Meat?

The problem (again one that Amy helped me identify) is that I have way too much information, and no way of determining what is right for me.

Enter my mom.

Tomorrow, my mom will go in for a blood test to confirm her doctor’s diagnosis of celiac disease. It’s pretty certain that she has it, and if she has it, Devyn and I are more likely to have it as well:

Celiac disease affects 1 in 133 Americans. The disease occurs in genetically predisposed individuals. That means if someone in your family has been diagnosed with celiac disease, you are at an increased risk for the disease.

1 in 22 first-degree family members (parent, child, sibling) and 1 in 39 second-degree family members (aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, grandparent, grandchild and half-sibling) are at risk for celiac disease. Your risk may double if your brother or sister has celiac disease. Source

I don’t think I particularly have any symptoms, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a sensitivity. It could be latent, waiting to spring on me. And it’s possible that I could be protecting Devyn from future health problems by limiting her exposure to gluten now.

Completely unrelatedly, I’ve also been reading about the Weston Price diet and the nourishing traditions kitchens and recipes. One major component of these diets is that they rely on soaked and fermented grains:

One study found that when a sourdough bread was made with wheat (and other non gluten flours) that it broke down the responsible reactors in wheat so that of the 17 celiac testers, none had reactions (though they did react to yeasted bread).  They concluded that fermentation was a “novel” tool (though I think it’s really an old fashioned tool!) for decreasing gluten intolerance. [iv]

All signs are pointing to the fact that I need to learn to avoid gluten. I also know that avoiding refined sugar will help me battle my sugar cravings.

So it seems that those two are going to be at the top of my “Foods I Don’t Eat (Right Now)” list.

The best time to start…

…is now. I learned from years of Weight Watchers that waiting until Monday, or the first of the month, or the first of the year is just a delaying tactic. The only time to start is now.

So I’m starting now. (Luckily, it’s Monday.)

Is it crazy to start this right before Christmas? Maybe. But all my Christmas parties are behind us, except for one I’m throwing Christmas Eve — where I can control the food, for the most part.

Making resolutions.

I’ve never been very good at keeping resolutions.

Making them? Absolutely. All the time. Keeping them… Not so much.

But I want to.  I’m ready. I’m ready to stop feeling so mad at myself all the time. I’m ready to change my habits and feel better about it.

I watched an interview with Pema Chödrön and Oprah yesterday, and she said that self-improvement is a myth; we cannot improve ourselves, only get closer to our true selves (which are already perfect).

I’ll have to remember to tell Amy that she and Pema agree that I’m perfect.

Last week, when I went to therapy, I told Amy that I felt good and that was scary. She told me that I was pretty damned mean to myself all the time and I should cut that out.

And then I had a dream.

I dreamed I was a bridesmaid in a big Catholic wedding, for a bride I didn’t know, and as we got ready, I realized that the bride just had me there to make fun of me and humiliate me — telling me I had to go down the aisle on my knees, and all the wedding party doing a flash mob dance I didn’t know about. So I left, went out of the church, and hailed a cab in the rain. And I think, at some point, I realized my dress was on backwards because they told me the zip went in front.

And my friend Allison pointed out that everyone in dreams is some aspect of yourself, so basically I was being really mean to myself.

Yikes.

But in the dream, I was also done with it. I walked away. I got out of the bad situation.

And hey, if dream-me can do it, so can real me.

It’s time to make a change. I’m not going to rush exactly what that change will look like at every level, but I am going to keep thinking about it. Keep working on it.

And I’m excited to see what I become.

Foods I Don’t Eat (Right Now) And Why

This post explains why I have a “Foods I Don’t Eat” list.

This post explains the concept of being a moderator or an abstainer. (I’m a very grumpy abstainer.)

Binge Foods:

These are foods I have a tendency to eat too much of, in any situation, and I have to limit my exposure to them:

  • Chips
  • Crackers
  • Cookies
  • Fried foods

Foods that aren’t good for me:

These are foods I’ve identified that aren’t good for my body, for various reasons.

  • un-soaked or un-fermented wheat flour
  • refined sugar
  • industrially produced oils (canola, vegetable, corn, etc.)

This list could grow, but I’m putting it here to inform and explain my choices.

My Body is My Temple

The Laughing & Lucky Buddha! A stroke of Luck!

by williamcho on Flickr


That’s been my mantra for the last couple of days. Twice this week, I’ve done a yoga flow that prompts me to speak different affirmations along with the poses, and I keep coming back to the idea of trusting my body, listening to my body, treating my body as my temple.

Then I saw this poem today, in a blog post by Dr. Elisha Goldstein:

Your history is here inside your body.

Your body is your storehouse

Of learnings, feelings,

Thoughts, and experiences.

Only waiting to be invited to

Reveal your treasures to yourself.

Help yourself.

As you let the learning emerge

And take shape, you can

Appreciate the wisdom of the body.

Each cell alive with

Spirit, emotion, and intelligence.

Ready to help you at any moment,

Always with you and for you.

Trust

by yewenyi on Flickr

It’s been something of a challenging week, chez moi, and I’ve been dealing with a lot of thoughts that have come up.

First of all, I went to see the therapist on Monday. She’s recommended that I talk with someone who specializes more in my issues, but one thing she said really stuck with me.

She told me that whenever a person has a goal they want to reach, like weight loss for instance, one should ask oneself if they are ready, willing and able. Ready, meaning that they have all the information they need to achieve the goal; willing, in that they have decided that there are more pros than cons for achieving the goal; and able, meaning that they believe they can succeed.

In her opinion, from the hour we spent talking, I was lacking the third ingredient.

And I think she’s right. I’ve yo-yoed up and down so many times that I’m not sure I truly believe I can lose weight and keep it off any more. I don’t trust my own ability to lose weight successfully—never mind trusting myself to eat without a diet “plan” to guide me, or trust that my body would level out at a healthy weight if I listened to what it really needed and wanted to eat.

When I am feeling my most desperate, I cannot decide what to put in my mouth; every morsel, every bite of food is a land mine fraught with danger regardless of whether I’m considering organic strawberries or a bag of potato chips. All the data I’ve collected—the points values, the good carbs vs. bad carbs, the proteins and fiber that keep us full and the empty sugar that spikes our blood sugar—fights in my brain for supremacy, and I can’t make a decision until I’ve decided which program or plan I’m going to follow.

So when I decided I wasn’t going to follow a “program” or a “plan” anymore, perhaps you can see why I suddenly couldn’t move past that sticking point.

I’m not sure how to get to that “able” stage, but it’s definitely something to think about.

The Blight of Purposelessness

My friend Anne at One Little Window has a great piece about why she chooses to live green.

I know I always talk about “green things”, living sustainably, “saving the planet”, and whatever catch slogans you want to add. Well, I will do so here again. Not because I think the planet needs to be saved, although I think it does. Not so much because I worry about all the wasted resources, although I do. Not so much because I am terrified of the results of the oil spill, even though I am. I talk about it because I see it as a symptom of a blight that doesn’t have anything directly to do with the environment or the planet. It’s the blight of purposelessness. It’s the blight of busyness. It’s not living intentionally and choosing what you work at.

This gets to the heart of something I’ve been trying to verbalize and internalize for myself lately. Rather than asking “Why do this thing to be green?” I tend to ask, “Why not?” To me, so many choices are so small and so easy to make that it seems ridiculous not to.

First, a caveat: I do realize that I’m speaking from a place of privilege. I own my home and have a huge yard (by suburban standards), mine is a two-income family, I have a job, a car, and opportunities like single-stream recycling and natural foods stores within my reach. These are things that many people don’t have, and I don’t want anyone to think I take these things for granted.

But where I’m at in my life, there are choices I can make that are SO simple as to hardly even seem like a choice any more. For example, we switched to cloth napkins, cloth hankies and cloth dishrags (in place of most of our paper towels) almost three years ago and the paper products I do buy are all recycled paper. We do not miss wiping our bums with quilted anything, nor do I find that I do significantly more laundry than I used to.

Speaking of laundry, I buy only natural cleaning products now, and I use less of them than I used to. Baking soda and vinegar are awesome and super cheap. I don’t buy bleach, and I gave up using dryer sheets—with no negative results.

This is not a toot-my-own-horn post. This is not to say that I’m perfect, because I’m absolutely not. There are plenty of things I don’t do—yet—that I absolutely could. This is about the choices that, now made, seem awfully simple and intuitive. Better still, they feel purposeful. They feel meaningful. Maybe that’s a little bit of vanity on my part, but I feel good and virtuous about making these kinds of choices because they support what I believe in.

And, as Anne points out, it’s about more than just “saving the planet.” Doing these small things is a certain kind of mindfulness, an exercise in being present. It’s about actually making a choice, rather than simply going with the flow.

Why do you do the things you do? How much of your life is dictated more by habit than by any sort of conscious choice? Are you living your life in accordance with what really matters to you?

It’s a question I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. I’m not ready to give up my car and bike the 15 miles to my office every day, nor am I willing to spend two hours and more money than it costs to operate my car to ride the bus. But I’ve thought about it, and it’s a choice I’ve consciously made. And when I spend two hours in front of the TV after dinner instead of gardening or cleaning or reading or writing, I have to wonder if that was a choice I consciously made, or if I was lured to the sofa by the hypnotic flicker of the mindless entertainment.

I don’t have all the answers, but I think this is one time where it’s the questions that are more important than the answers.