Weight. It’s Just a Number… Currently, An Uncomfortable One

I am always very apprehensive talking about my weight and body image. Uncomfortable because I am and have always been considered tall, thin, and lanky. Therefore, any displeasure or discomfort I may express with my body usually results in the opposite party rolling his/her eyes, exclaiming my ridiculousness, or expressing disdain for what is often seen in our society as an ideal body type. I do not like to discuss my body because I do not like to bring attention to my body. Bringing attention to my body brings attention to my flaws, flaws that, to me, are glaring. That being said, I recognize that I am a victim of today’s media that values flat abs, tight asses, and cellulite free thighs. Being an intelligent, educated individual, I expect myself not to fall victim to these skewed values, and yet, I do, everyday. Therefore, discussions surrounding my imperfect body also contain an element of shame. Knowledge should equal power, and yet, I feel mentally incapable of accepting my imperfections despite my understanding of the media.

            I am today, the heaviest I have ever been. A brutal winter, a rainy spring, and a summer consumed with packing have raised my stress level (and, therefore, my appetite) and almost entirely eliminated my ability to workout. I have watched my stomach become increasingly flabby, my thighs become increasingly large, and my waist become increasingly less defined. My waistbands have become tighter affording less wiggle room, and my tank tops have a distinctive belly bulge. The number on my scale has slowly but surely crept up to an uncomfortable high.

            I generally avoid talking about numbers when referring to weight. I have always been a believer that numbers don’t matter, but health does. I avoid conversations about weight around my girls, but rather, continually stress eating healthy, exercising, and being strong. If I were still running half marathons, lifting regularly, and eating healthy the current number on my scale would be irrelevant. However, it is, today, a glaring reminder that I am not taking the necessary steps to be strong and healthy. It is a glaring reminder that external and internal forces have made me apathetic and lazy.

            Within the next week, my family will arrive at our new home in a new city. I pray that the change of scenery, the change in climate, and the shift from a rural to an urban life will re-energize me both mentally and physically. I look forward to once again being within walking distance of a grocery store, a coffee shop, and a Target! I am anxious to lace up my running shoes, plug in my iPod, and hit the streets running. I expect the numbers on my scale to slowly recede, my waistbands to gradually loosen, and to become more comfortable with this imperfect body that is mine alone.

The Un-Funny One

Each of my girls had a dentist appointment today. While my youngest, Lily, was clinging to my lap with enthusiasm, my oldest, Lucy, was called by her dental hygienist to begin her cleaning. Two minutes later Lucy’s hygienist returned and laughingly whispered something to Lily’s hygienist, who also proceeded to chuckle. It wasn’t until later that Lucy’s hygienist let me in on the secret and the joke. While making herself comfortable, Lucy boldly declared to her hygienist that Dr. Diner should beware because she was sure Lily would bite his fingers simply because Lily, “is a feisty one.” Needless to say I chuckled. Lily, however, did not bite the dentist’s fingers.

Lucy is my dramatic, intelligent, social and extremely funny child. Her ability to make people laugh is uncanny. It is not always what Lucy says, however, that evokes a chuckle, but rather, the expressive deliverance of honest information. Her personality is magnetic. Adults and children alike can’t help but like her. On a day last year when Lucy was absent from school her teacher tried telling a joke only to have the children in Lucy’s class inform her that the joke was much funnier when Lucy delivered it.

Lucy’s magnetic personality and humor don’t fall far from the tree. I was first attracted to my husband, Jody, for the same reasons. Like Lucy he is extremely charming and one of the most hilarious individuals I know. People are naturally drawn to him. Jody’s best friend and I often agree that it is impossible to remain angry with Jody, simply because at the height of your anger Jody will make you laugh.

Then there is Lily. Who like her sister and father is hilarious but for different reasons. Like a little parrot she repeats whatever she hears. While riding in the car with my parents last week she repeatedly quacked like a duck, to the point of annoyance, until she exclaimed, “I am a pain in the butt!” She has the face of an angel and a smile that melts hearts, two attributes she is fully aware of. Her cuteness alone incites laughter.

And then there is me, the un-funny one. Though I have moments of brilliant comedy, I cannot maintain the same level of funny that my husband and children do. Instead of regularly inciting laughter, I am the one laughing. I laugh to the point of crying. I laugh until my belly hurts, or I have to pee my pants, sometimes both at the same time.  But I fail to incite such a reaction in others. It is somewhat discouraging to be considered the serious, neurotic influence in the family. To receive smiles but not a lot of laughs. However, I try and tell myself that four funny individuals in one house would be too much. That the competition would be too fierce. That laughing is just as important as inciting laughter. I consider my un-funny self and thank God that in a house with three comedians I at least have a sense of humor.

A Daughter with Diabetes

           Three weeks ago, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. After the barrage of normal questions regarding my health and family history, and after the routine peeing in a cup, the nurse tested my hemoglobins with a prick to the finger. It was, as always, more shocking than painful. However, immediately upon being stuck, I began to tear up. All of a sudden, after six months, I felt my daughter’s daily pain.

            Even before Lily-Anne was officially diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, I suspected that she had the disease.  Not only had she woken up from several naps, shaking from head to toe, but she also suddenly began voraciously drinking and peeing, leaking through diapers within a coupe of hours of changing her. However, it wasn’t until she began vomiting and became extremely lethargic that I knew definitively that something was terribly wrong. Even Jody, who never shows worry, expressed concern over her condition, urging me to get her into the doctor.

            Because her doctor was off that day, I made an appointment to see the nurse practitioner. It wasn’t until I expressed my concern that the NP decided to test her blood glucose levels. Lily-Anne’s regular nurse performed the test and immediately ran out of the room without a word to me. When she returned with the doctor on call and the nurse practitioner, I was informed that Lilly-Anne’s blood glucose was 488 (normal is 80-200). Her diagnosis was definitive. We spent the next 3-4 hours in the ER, where she was hooked up to IV’s and an insulin drip was started, waiting to be transferred to the pediatric ICU at Dartmouth Children’s Hospital, two hours away.

            We spent three days at the ICU. Three days, which today, is much of a blur. I remember sitting by her bedside watching her unable to move because both arms were hooked up to IV’s. I remember her sleeping for the first 24 hours. I remember the hospital cafeteria, where I ate three meals a day. I remember the hotel room where my mother and I stayed. I remember people constantly coming and going, throwing more information at me than my addlepated brain could handle. And I remember crying, everyday.

            I spent the first 3 months after Lily-Anne diagnosis in a tunnel, my emotions lingering close to the surface. One word, one look of concern or look of sympathy from someone and I would break into tears. Surprisingly, not because I felt sorry for Lily-Anne, after all this was now her reality, a reality that would last a lifetime, but because I felt sorry for myself. I despised everything about having to take care of her, from having to wake at two in the morning to test her sugar levels, to having to count every single carb that entered her mouth. I hated the strict schedule that is a natural consequence of diabetes, a schedule that effects mealtime, travel, and even everyday errands. I hated the constant preparations, and the constant worry over her lows and her highs. I hated regular calls to the doctor and constant mealtime ratio changes. I hated giving her 4-5 shots a day, not because it hurt her, but because it seemed like such a hassle and a burden. I hated this disease.

            It took four months for the fog inside my brain to begin to burn off. Four months for me to feel relatively comfortable taking care of Lily without having to call her endocrinologist for every high and low. After four months, I began to control my emotions a bit better, though, I admit, I still have my days when tears are easily accessible. After four months, I began to accept the reality of having a daughter with diabetes.

            However, it took a small prick to my own finger, and six months for me to feel Lily-Anne’s pain. To empathize with her plight. To pity her reality. In the course of a second, I imagined having my finger stuck five to six times a day. I saw Lily-Anne’s tiny little fingers riddled with holes. I saw myself receiving regular shots, and I pictured her exclaiming, “I’m all done!” after every one.  I realized that my two year old has handled this disease with more grace than I have. Despite being poked, prodded, and unable to eat whenever she wants, she has remained a happy, joyful little girl. A little girl who is stronger, more accepting, and far more brave than I will ever be.

           

            

The Ghost of Writing Past

While packing today, I ran across some old journals of mine. Journals that are bursting with pages from my previous MySpace blog, written during the time when MySpace dominated the world of social networking. Also written before the appearance of both Lucy and Lily-Anne. I perused these writings for about a half an hour before I realized that I used to write, A LOT! Thoughts flowed freely, and easily, on each page. Small happenings from my day became subjects for my writing. Thoughts my brain had been playing with turned into blog entries unhindered by my judgment. My fingers didn’t stall, stop, and stall again in an attempt to capture and record my emotions as they do now. Instead they typed quickly without hesitation or regret.

I rarely read through writings of the past. When I do, I usually feel foolish or embarrassed by my naiveté during those times. Surprisingly, these emotions were not present today. Instead, I felt a sense of pride in my ability to write without fear of judgment. I felt a sense of pride in the way I expressed my emotions so freely. I felt proud of how easily I took care of myself. And I realized that I have changed and I have grown. Much of the growth and change that I have experienced has shaped me into a more humble individual. However, reading my past writing has made me realize that I have also experienced a great deal of loss, loss that has made me my own worst enemy.

The arrival of two children has led to a loss of time, energy, and self care. At one time, I had all the time in the world. Besides work and a husband, my responsibilities were few. Little responsibility and a lot of time gave me, what seem today, inordinate amounts of energy to care for myself.  At one point in time, I worked out 1-2 hours a day, 6-7 days a week.  I also treated myself to facials, pedicures, and highlighted hair on a regular basis. I traveled and I slept. All this self-care enabled me to put two coherent thoughts together, so I wrote.

Today, the demands of two children, a husband, and a house not only occupy the majority of my time but also zap most of my energy. I do not have 1-2 hours a day, every day, to work out. Fitting in a half an hour can sometimes be a challenge. Professional facials, pedicures, and highlights are a thing of the past. I am now responsible for treating myself when I have 15 minutes, which generally occurs at the end of the day, when my energy is so low I want to do nothing more than crawl into bed. It takes every ounce of energy to floss and brush my teeth most nights. I sleep, but not the deep sleep of one without cares or worries. Instead, I sleep lightly, attuned to every creak on every step and board, my ears constantly aware of the sounds Lucy and Lily-Anne make both when awake and asleep. Lack of time, energy, and self care, has made my blog postings sporadic and often times not of the caliber quality I am capable of producing. My ability to put coherent thoughts together only sporadically has made me judgmental toward my writing. My exhaustion has made me guarded, unable to open myself emotionally for fear I will be thought of as, “negative” “unhappy” or “miserable”.

My old journals reflect an individual untouched by the stresses that life can create. An individual who knows not the pressures and anxiety that motherhood can produce. The individual expressed in those past writings lacks the wisdom that life can offer. However, I have quite a bit to learn from that individual and those writings. She knew about balance. She knew how to make time to care for herself physically, emotionally, and spiritually. She understood that her writing was a way of not only expressing her emotions, but also a way of connecting with individuals near and far. She reserved her judgment and wrote what was both in her mind and in heart. That individual and those writings will haunt me each time I sit down at my keyboard and, with any luck, inspire me to be both a better person and a better writer.