No More Weighting

Let me start by saying I know how difficult this topic can be.  I know there are many psychological hot buttons involved here.  I know many of us are struggling, many struggling more than me.  Please know that when I am saying something negative and judgmental here it isn't about you.  It has nothing to do with how I perceive you.  It's all about me and how I feel about myself.  I hope that makes sense.  Now here we go.

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"Are you freaking kidding me?!"  That's what I thought when I looked at the scale.  I had my annual physical a few days ago.  We all know what that dreaded first assessment is going to be.  "Can I get you to step up here?" the 20-something, size 2 nurse asks me.  She was sweet and kind and just doing her job, but I really want to turn to her and say, "Do I look like someone who wants to step on a scale?"

But I did, because we do.  And I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

And to follow that up, when my blood test results came back they showed quite a spike in my cholesterol levels.

And I'm not okay with that.

I'm not sure whether it was the weight or the cholesterol, but now I want to do something about it.  Really do something.

So here it is.  - deep breath - 

I weighed in at 216 pounds.  I am 5'4".  I'm just going to let that sit there for a minute while it sinks in.  While I get comfortable with owning my self.  216 pounds.

I'm not comfortable with it.  Not at all.

I've seen lots of people, mostly women, blog about weight loss and openly share their weight.  I swore I would never do that.  Funny thing.  Now that the decision is made to move in a healthier direction, I can say it.

For years I've told myself I wasn't sensitive about my weight.  I knew I was getting heavier, but I was still able to do most of the things I could before, so how bad could it be?  My skin never felt flabby.  (Yeah, it never does.  It grows with the enlarging mass growing under it.  Duh.)  There was always someone larger than me.  That helped, although it shouldn't have.  It really had nothing to do with me.

But it did bother me.  I'd say it was about being healthy, not about how I looked.  Bull!  What a lie.  One of those self-deception things that helped me get through a situation I felt powerless against.

It was bothering me before I went to the doctor.  I addressed it with him as part of my physical.  "I used to have no appetite and could easily go 24 hours without eating (not healthy).  But now I'm hungry all the time.  I'm more physically active than I've been in a long time, but I'm still gaining weight.  Could it be menopause?"  (I had a full hysterectomy last year.  So even though I'm only 45, I'm in full-blown menopause.)

He told me two of the medications I am currently taking cause weight gain.  Wonderful. :(  Actually, I liked when he said that because it gave me a bit of deniability.  "I would totally be losing weight if I weren't on these meds.  It's the meds' fault."  And that's probably partly true.  But not entirely by a long shot.

I'm getting off one of the meds, for other reasons, and cutting the other one by half.  Finger crossed this helps.  And with my new thyroid medication and the Lamictal I have more energy that I have in years.  (Not a lot, but enough to feel like a tired human instead of a rock.)

This is it.  This is the time.  It's only going to get harder if I wait.  And I'm sick of hiding from friends and from pictures.

There are people I used to work with that I avoid seeing, even though I like them and would love to see them again, because I don't want them to see how much weight I've gained.  And I've hidden from pictures for years now.  There are way fewer pictures of me for posterity than there should be.

Because I'm embarrassed.  There.  I said it.  I'm embarrassed about how I look.  I want to say I'm not.  I want to not care about what others think of me.  But I am.  And I do.

A basic history:

  * Other than being shorter than most people, I was never really petite.

  * In high school (which was the first time I remember even knowing what I weighed) I weighed 140 pounds and wore size 8 jeans.  I was not skinny by high school standards.  There were so many girls around me who were just tiny.  Thin little things.  I was absolutely not that.  I knew I wasn't that but wanted to be.  I developed substantial hips at 14.  I have thoroughbred thighs that run in my family.  I was not tiny.  But when I look back at those photos now I realize how small I really was.  Go figure.

  * I only gained 20-25 pounds with each baby (5).  With my first, I lost the weight quickly and even dropped some extra.  I was very active.  I dropped to 130 pounds and a size 6.  That was the happiest I'd ever been about my weight and how I looked.

  * After each following baby, I kept about ten pounds.

  * In the spring of 2001, when I weighed about 180 pounds and my baby was almost three, the world feel out from under my feet.  By June I was in bed.  All the time.  For the next year and a half.  I was able to function just enough to keep my children alive.  I would lie on the couch and watch videos with them or watch them play.  I would talk my oldest daughter (10) through getting them food.  At night I had a tiny amount of energy and would put together sandwich bags of food for the next day.  Cheese slices.  Carrots.  Crackers.  My attempt at taking care of my kids.  Because that was seriously all I could do.  I couldn't move.  I was so tired it made me cry.  And giving up all the things I did, all the volunteering at their schools and coaching of their teams and taking them to the park - all gone.  I never got a definitive answer about what was wrong, it just gradually got better.  But I've never felt well again since.  I go through times when I can function better than others.  And I go through times when I'm flat in bed.

  * I have no idea how much I weighed in between that time and the next time.  We didn't own a scale.  We still don't.

  * In 2010 I wrote "A Weighty Issue," a blog post about being unhappy with my weight but not ready to really do anything about it.  It really shook me today when I looked back at that and realized it took five years for me to be ready.  I honestly don't remember what I weighed then except that I'd probably just broken 200 pounds.  I'd sworn to myself I'd never let myself hit 200, but I did.  And it devastated me for a few days.  But I shook it off, blamed it on still not feeling well, and moved on.  Seriously, if you can barely get out of bed, how could you be expected to exercise?

  * In 2012 I went to my psychiatrist for the first time.  She asked what I weighed.  I said about 200 pounds, which was hard enough to say.  But it wasn't even true.  Because I had just recently had a physical and the scale said 206.  Stupid scale.  But I wrote some of that off as premenstrual water retention.  You know what I mean; right, ladies?

  * And now, three years later, I weigh 216 pounds and wear size 16 jeans.  Like I said, I had a hysterectomy.  So the excuse of premenstrual water retention is off the table.  I am finally able to move enough to clean my house and function almost like a real human being.  And I know how to do it.  I really have no excuses anymore.  (Well, I still have some flat in bed moments.  But I could work out on the other days.  Which I don't.)

So here's my action plan.  Eat better.  Move.  That's it.  It's more defined in my head, but that's the gist of it.

I don't intend for my blog to suddenly become a weight loss blog.  I may or may not report as things progress (because they will progress, dang it!).  And I don't have a before shot of my body.  Honestly, my fat body hasn't been what's bothered me most or kept me from being in pictures.

It's my fat face.

You can hide your body behind other people, but if you hide your face there's really no reason to be in a photo.  And I've got a big head - like 7 3/8 big.  So when I'm in a photo with other people, my head dwarfs theirs.  I look like Andre the giant.  That was even true before I got so fat.  (Luckily, my husband's head is even bigger than mine.  Thanks, honey.)

But I'm ready to own it.  I'm ready to move on.  And in order to move on, I have to acknowledge where I came from.  So here are some of those photos.  (Sorry I don't have better photos.  Not only do I hide from the camera, but I also haven't digitized many.)

My wedding day - 1990, 25 years ago.  This is the oldest digital photo I had of myself that you could see my face in.  This was two years after I graduated.  I think my face looks pretty good here.

Five kids later - probably early 1999, 16 years ago.  I'm not thrilled with my look here.  My hair is pulled up in my "softball/cleaning" ponytail; not super flattering.  But there's no double chin yet.

I'm guessing this is about five or so years later - let's say 1994, 11 years ago.  See how I'm throwing my head back.  At this point I'd started to notice a double chin in photos and was trying to avoid that.

2009 - 6 years ago.  My daughters are super cute, but that's about the only thing I like about this photo.  See how I'm hiding behind them?  Still trying to tip my head up and back a little?  See those flabby arms?  See that double chin?  Yeah, not cool.  But I got in the photo.  For that, I'm proud of myself.

2011 - 5 years ago.  By this time I'd decided I needed to start being in some of the photos.  I'd also learned that being cheesy in a photo made it less bothersome when I didn't look great.  Okay, I look kind of like a drowned rat here because of the rain, but also notice how round my face has gotten.

2012 - 4 years ago.  This is a photo I both love and hate.  It's a picture of me teaching at church, which is something I absolutely love to do.  It was a wonderful time in my life and I'm glad I have a record of it.  But, seriously, can you believe how fat my face is?  How fat I am?  Oh, my heck!  I about cried when I saw it.

2013 - 2 years ago.  Hiding behind someone again.  Tilting my head away and back a bit to try to hide that double chin.  Failing miserably - Ugh.  That double chin.

2014 - last year.  I'm kind of proud of myself for just letting the shot happen.  I'm not hiding or tilting my head back.  I've come a long way toward acceptance of my true body size by this time.  But, oh, how huge my head is.

2015 - last week.  This is me now.  I voluntarily took a photo of my face and put it on facebook.  I own it.  This is me.  I'm a fat girl.

I'm ready to move forward.  No, I don't want your help.  Yes, I'd love your support.

Taking Stock of My Progress

It's a good idea to take stock of life every now and then.  I tend to get so focused on the mountain ahead I still have to climb that I forget to look back at how far I've come.  I don't take that moment to look out over the view I've already got because I'm so fixated on getting to the top.  And then I just get frustrated and down on myself.  Plus, if I don't take stock, I don't realize I've left the trail entirely and wandered.

So tonight I'm taking stock.  It's been almost a year since I went to the psychiatrist and she basically told me to change my entire life.  Okay, not really, but it felt like that.  I took it seriously.  I worked really hard at it.  Where am I now?

Let's break it down to the different areas she wanted me to work on:
Sleep:  I am getting more sleep.  I am going to bed earlier (not consistently at the same time, but consistently earlier).  I used to be up until 1 or 2 almost every night, frequently 3 or 4.  I then got up to get the kids off to school and crawled back into bed for a nap -- every day.  Now I shut down for the night around 11:30 or 12 (earlier many nights) and am up at seven.  I get the kids up and off.  Sometimes I go back to bed for a nap, but not every day.  And the waking at seven is consistent.  Even on weekends I wake about that time, without an alarm.  My body is becoming conditioned to it.  It even lasted through the summer last year.  Instead of seeing how well I'm doing, I've been noticing the occasional naps and the inconsistent bedtimes and feeling ashamed of myself.  I really am getting much more sleep and have made great progress toward undoing a lifetime of bad habits.  To the point where my family is feeling the effects.  Most nights our house is completely shut down (lights off, most of us asleep) by 9:30 or 10.  On the weekends it might be 11 or 11:30.  For a house full of teenagers who used to routinely stay up until 11 or later on school nights and whenever during the summer, it's incredible progress.  We are night owls by nature, but we've fought that nature and tamed it enough to be healthy.

Water:  I'm drinking more.  For a long time I was hitting that 96 ounces a day religiously.  I've slipped a bit.  I'm working on this one.  Seriously, the hardest part is to remember to take my water bottle to the kitchen with me and fill it up.  If I get back to my room and realize I didn't, I'll usually just put it off.  That means I don't hit my total for the day.  And, no, my kitchen isn't that far from my room.  It's a very poor excuse.  But I am drinking more than I used to and I am working on it.  I have made progress.

Exercise:  She wanted me to walk 20 minutes a day 4-5 times a week.  I suck at this one.  I worked hard at it for a while, but it was making my shins hurt.  I looked it up and realized that my lengthened stride (which I remember training into myself in high school when I spent a lot of time walking with a much taller friend) had to be adjusted back to a natural stride.  This helped.  But I have another problem with exercise (other than the tired and lazy part).  Whenever I do anything physical for more than a few minutes, my face and chest flush.  I go bright red and hot.  Not the traditional exercise overheating.  This can come from simply sweeping.  Even singing does it.  Almost like clockwork, at 20 minutes in I flush.  It's very uncomfortable (the doctor has no idea what this is).  The psychiatrist suggest that I do 2 ten-minute sessions instead.  Yeah, use your logic on me.  Some days I do.  Most days I don't.  Walking outside is less likely (which is too bad because I'm sure the vitamin D from the sun would help).  A bit of dancing with Just Dance 4 on the Wii is more likely.  Even though I'm not where I should be, I am still doing it more than I used to.  Tiny progress, but progress nonetheless.

No soda after 3:00pm, because it interferes with sleep:  Yeah, I kind of completely forgot about this one until I just reread my post from a year ago.  Once I started sleeping better I quit worrying about this.  I may or may not take another look at it.

Food:  I still suck at this.  In a big way.  It's still way too easy for me to not eat.  To forget to eat.  Or to decide it's not worth the work of preparing food.  I'm supposed to eat three meals and three snacks a day.  For months after my visit with her I did this meticulously.  I tracked everything I ate, making sure I was eating every two and a half hours.  Tracking how many servings of vegetables and how many of protein and how many of dairy and so on.  I did fabulously!  Seriously, my therapist and the psychiatrist were pretty much speechless at how well I did and how hard I was working.  And I remember when it fell apart.  My best friend got really sick.  I spent a lot of time in the hospital by her bedside.  I was careful even then.  I packed things to take with me so I wasn't dependent on finding something in the cafeteria.  I was still about 90% compliant with what the psychiatrist wanted.  And after my friend went home and I was no longer spending 8 hours a day taking care of her, I felt like I deserved a break.  I felt like it was okay to relax a bit.  I felt like I had earned a week of not tracking, of not being so careful.  And that week turned into another and another.  I tracked here and there but never really got back on it.  While I work to make healthier choices, I'm not doing fabulously.  There is progress.  I usually eat 2 or 3 meals a day and 1 or 2 snacks.  It used to be 1 meal a day and a snack or two on a good day.  And when I eat junk, I eat less of it.  Usually much less.

But the thing that made me slip up on the food is the same thing that makes me slip in the other areas.  There is still a part of me that says I've earned a break.  When I've worked hard or my life is heavy, I feel like I can stop taking care of myself.  Where does that come from?  When you spell it out like that it doesn't even make sense.  When I've worked hard or my life is heavy, I deserve to take better care of myself.  I deserve more of my attention.  I deserve to feel better.

Because those months when I worked my fanny off on this program, I felt better.  Not healed.  Not healthy.  But better.  I keep forgetting I deserve that.  But now that I've taken stock I remember.

My Visit to the Psychiatrist

Some of you may remember that at my last physical my doctor suggested I get back into therapy and see a psychiatrist.  I am back in therapy, making progress, and this past Monday I finally met with a psychiatrist.

I've been both eager and anxious about going.  I was eager to feel better and had hopes that she could help me.  And I was very anxious about the medicinal roller coaster of trying new meds until we find something that works or give up in failure.  But I trust my doctor and had a good recommendation for this psychiatrist.  So, off I went.

It was kind of like going to therapy with a doctor.  Lots of psychological and medical questions.  She took an extensive history and asked follow up questions about my life and behaviors.  The history part took about forty-five minutes.  I'm telling you, she asked questions I've never been asked.  And considering my therapeutic and medical history, that's saying something.  Some of these questions sparked thoughts I hadn't had before.  They changed my perception.

She asked about my sleeping habits.  I don't sleep well.  I haven't for years.  I gave a description of my typical bedtime, rising, and nap habits.  She asked me to quantify it.  In a twenty-four hour period, how many hours do you sleep?  I'd never quantified it before.  I knew my habits were bad.  I knew I should be getting more sleep.  But until she had me add it up I had no idea that I was sleeping only 4-6 hours on a regular basis, including naps.

She asked about my eating habits.  Ugh!  I hate this topic.  I described my general aversion to food and my typical eating patterns.  I knew I didn't eat well.  I had no idea how bad until she asked me to quantify it.  Do you eat enough to sustain life?  Calorically, probably.  Nutritionally, not even close.

Having someone ask that and having to admit how badly I was failing was eye opening.  But not as much as her next statement.  Earlier in the interview, we'd discussed my history with self-harm.  I'd explained that I hadn't purposely hurt myself for over a year, except for once after a particularly difficult therapy session.

She said that sleep deprivation and starvation are forms of self-injury (common with a history like mine).

Now, I don't know if that hit you hard, but it hit me hard.  I had never thought of those behaviors as self-harm.  But after considering it for a few moments I realized that she was absolutely right.  It didn't mean I was converted and ready to change in that instant, but it made an impact.

She also said that sleeping during the day is a self-soothing strategy.  An unhealthy one.

Again, not something I'd thought of.  (After thinking of that and the other bomb shell I spent a lot of time over the next few days wondering why I am self-injuring and self-soothing my way through my life.  I guess I still have lots of work to do.)

She said she wouldn't think of trying meds until I start sleeping.  So many of my symptoms could be sleep related.  Also, she'd like to build on success rather than failure.  In other words, let's try something we know will help instead of working our way through things that might not.  Once we fix the sleep problems we can see if we still have things to work on.

Of course, she doesn't simply want to work on the sleep problem.  That's just the beginning.  Basically, my life is in complete overhaul.  She wants me to change several of my behavior patterns.  She was very direct and specific.  She said I am well on my way to an eating disorder (something I'd actually considered before).  And then she gave me the following goals.

*  I am to eat three meals and three snacks a day, on schedule.
*  I am to sleep 7-8 hours a night, going to bed and getting up at the same time each day -- zero naps!  (Melatonin is allowed)
*  I am to drink 96 oz. of water a day.
*  I am to walk at least 20 minutes a day 4-5 times a week.
*  No soda after 3:00pm, as the carbonation interferes with sleep.

Having her spell it out so definitively is helpful.  No thinking on my part, just follow through.  She set standards.  It's my job to do my best to meet them.  It was also helpful when she told me that changing patterns like this can take 3-6 weeks.  You see, I've done it for a month at a time before and seen no change.  It helped to have a time frame.

I agreed to do my best.  I will go back and see her in two months.  She also ordered a sleep study; I meet with that doctor next week.

She works in the same office as my therapist.  I saw him a couple of days later.  I am not exaggerating to say that he was tickled pink with how well it went and that I was taking it seriously.  He said only about 30% of patients follow through with a plan like this.  They both also agreed that whether these changes take away all my symptoms or not, they will help my therapy to be more successful.  I know that's true.  Therapy always goes better when I feel better, especially when I have the energy needed to maintain boundaries.

I expected sleep to be the toughest one.  It's not.  Not by a long shot. 

Walking is tough because I have a bit of a social phobia thing happening right now.  The idea of going out and walking through my neighborhood makes me anxious.  It doesn't mean I won't do it, but it's tough.

The water has been relatively easy.  A lemon Propel Zero packet in my water bottle and I'm good to go.  It's also cut way down on my Diet Coke consumption.  I am making a lot of trips to the bathroom, but that is supposed to level out over time.

The biggest difficulty for me has been food.  I really had no idea it could possibly be so hard to eat.  I eat every two and a half hours now.  Meal, snack, meal, snack, meal, snack.  I have to set an alarm on my phone to keep myself on schedule.  I try to make healthy choices, but I'm not working super hard on balance throughout the day yet.  Right now the goal is to teach myself to be hungry and respond to it.

I did okay for the first few days.  I ate on schedule.  I made healthy choices.  But it got harder yesterday.

It was time to eat lunch.  I went to the kitchen and tried to find something that looked good.  Nothing.  So then I looked for something that would meet the basic needs of a meal.  I ended up choosing a peanut butter on wheat sandwich and yogurt.  As I took my first bite I started crying.  I desperately didn't want to eat this food.  It didn't taste bad, I just didn't want to eat it.  I forced my way through.  It was hard just to open my mouth and put the food in.  I sometimes gagged as I swallowed.  And I cried the whole time, but I did it.  Then I was super nauseous afterward.  For several hours.

The high and determination I felt those first few days seems to be gone.  Now it's just a chore.  It's so hard to find food that I like.  It always has been.  I prefer somewhat bland food with few ingredients.  Today, as I make up the grocery list, I find myself struggling to think of things to put on it that I will eat.

It sucks.  It seems like I spend my whole day thinking about food.  What am I going to eat next?  With all these changes I'm working on, I'm struggling to even think about anything else.  I'm not taking on anything new or making any other plans for a while.  I just don't have the time and mental energy to do one more thing.

But I am doing my best.  I have always been one to do my homework.  I just hope it's worth it.

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To see how it was all going a year later read this.

I Don't Like Food

I don't like food.  There.  I said it.  Now it's out there.

I believe there will be some who read this and accuse me of being anti-American or from another planet or something.  I've asked around, and this just isn't one of those things that makes people around me say, "Me, too."  This is weird.  It's just not right.

And I agree.  It's not right.  In fact, it kind of sucks.

It seems that food and I have a different relationship than just about everyone else on the planet.  I listen to people talk about food.  They oooh and aaah like it's magic.  Like it casts some kind of spell on them.  I watch people at restaurants, struggling to choose something because it all looks so good.

I envy that.

I look at the menu and spend a good ten minutes trying to find something I can eat.  Something I might enjoy. 

Sometimes I can eat food just like normal people.  I get hungry, I get something to eat, the taste is pleasing, I am filled.  But that's rare.  And even when things go well I don't seem to be getting the same pleasure from it that others do.  It's not a glorious experience for me.  The food was good.  Now I'm not hungry.  That's about it.

And other times, if I think about it too much, I can't really eat more than a few bites.  I'm not a big fan of the process of eating.  I can be chewing along, eating my meal, and then I think about what I'm doing.  I pay attention to the food in my mouth.  And I gag.  I'm done.  No more food for me.

I go hungry a lot.

It's not uncommon for me to realize it's four in the afternoon and I haven't eaten anything that day.  My body doesn't like that.  I often eat medicinally.  I usually eat because it's necessary to sustain my body and because my headache gets worse if I don't.  My life would be much simpler if eating weren't required.

I've seen people look at cook books like they are food porn, drooling and desiring.  That's just never been me.

So please understand if I don't eat what you offer me.  It's not a statement on your cooking.  Chances are it's just not a good eating day for me.

I know it's strange.  I've come to accept the fact that I'll never be like other people in this way.  Food and I will never have that kind of relationship, that seductive romance that I watch others experience.

I'm strange and that's okay.

**********
To read more about my food issues, go here.
To read more about my resulting psychiatrist visit, go here.

Doing It Out of Obligation

I read an interesting article today that has me thinking.  So, of course, that means I need to write.

This post by Jowita Bydlowska, A Failed Woman Out of the Kitchen: Why I Don't Cook, appears on The Huffington Post website.  It is one woman's explanation of why she doesn't cook.

I do not intend to pull apart her arguments.  I will say that if you say there is a difference between selfishness and self-interest (knowing that you have to state it because people will accuse you of one when you claim to be the other), you ought to at least try to define the difference.  I will also say that while she claims not to have a political agenda, with all her references to societal expectations about gender roles and how they make her feel like a failure sometimes, she has at least taken a political stance.  Also, her assertion that a painting or photograph is a higher art form than a beautifully prepared pie says a lot about her feelings toward women (and men) who consider food an art.

But none of this is what has me thinking.  The idea that bothers me from this essay is that doing something out of obligation is wrong.

Please understand, I don't like to cook either.  I don't cook well.  I don't derive satisfaction from a meal well prepared.  It's part of the reason I got the rest of my family cooking as soon as they were able.  I don't care if this woman cooks, bakes, or pickles.  It's her family and they can all work out what's best for them.

I am also in full support of taking care of one's self.  I believe there is an amount of selfishness in every healthy individual.  I believe it is appropriate.  We must meet our own needs, and that includes the need for creative outlet and relaxation.

I also believe that when I chose to start a family, I chose to accept the obligation to care for them.  My husband and I chose this together.  The obligation is shared.  It is up to us to decide how the obligations involved are to be met.  (And if something were to happen that he were no longer able or willing to fulfill his part of the obligation, I would assume his share as part of my obligation.)

In our case, he is the primary breadwinner and I am the primary nurturer.  It fits us.  I am happy in my role and he is happy in his.  Maybe not every day, but most days.

I think the point that is missing in this article is the idea that we choose to accept obligations.  I chose to have kids.  I chose to care for their well being.  My husband chose to work.  They are our obligations because we agreed to them.

I do not believe in society-dictated obligations, aside from obeying the law.  If society thinks I should cook, that doesn't make me believe that I should.  I weigh my options, listen to my heart, and do what I think is right.

Other people have expectations.  Other people have ideas about what or who I should be.  That does not mean I am obligated to fulfill those roles.

Obligations are something I choose when I make an agreement with someone.  Doing something out of obligation is not a bad thing.  It is a way for me to do my part.  It is how I earn my share of whatever I get in this life.  Fulfilling my obligations, those I chose to accept, makes me feel good about who I am and what I offer to the world.

Holidays from Hell

So I want to know how many people actually look forward to the big holidays.  And how many people live to regret it.

Seriously.

For every happy, cheesy, life-is-wonderful-and-everyone-in-our-family-loves-each-other-so-much movie there are ten about the dysfunctional, we-got-together-and-we're-just-glad-no-one-killed-anyone movies.  Do you think this is just because Hollywood has a grim world view?  I don't.  In fact, I know it's not because I've experienced my share of holidays from hell.

There was the one when I was on the phone with my grandma telling her how much my Christmas presents sucked and found out my mom was on the other phone listening.  (Yeah, I learned a lesson about gratitude that day.  Through my mom's tears.)

There was the one when we were all around the Thanksgiving table and my brother in-law revealed to everyone at the table that our niece was conceived out of wedlock (she knew, others didn't).  Very religious family; it was a big deal.

Or the Christmas when this kid hit that kid with one of the Christmas chimes.  The father of the victim thought there should be an apology.  The father of the perpetrator didn't think it was a big deal.  They ended up in a yelling match, others got involved, someone got shoved into the wall, several people were pulled apart by others, and as we watched everyone storm away in their cars my husband and I looked at each other wondering if we should lock up (we were the only ones still there and it wasn't our house).

And none of us even drink.  These were all without alcohol.  I know there are other, much more intense, stories out there about family holidays gone bad.  Ask anyone who works in the emergency room or as a cop and they'll tell you.  Holidays are ugly.

Why?

I have a few hypotheses.  Nothing proven, but I think you'll agree that the ingredients that go into big family holidays are like mixing bleach and cleanser -- you're lucky if no one dies.

Recipe for a big holiday family get together:
1.  High Expectations - this one's going to be the best; everyone's going to have a great time; everyone's going to show up (on time) and bring what they said they would; things are going to go exactly as planned
2.  Family - we belong together; we love each other so much; we hardly ever get together (maybe there's a reason); we know everything about each other (secrets, maybe?); we have a history together (which often means a few grudges)

I'm calling those two ingredients bleach and cleanser, because really with those alone you're already in the danger zone.  Adding anything else is just for kicks to see how big the explosion will get.  But let's toss some in anyway.

Optional ingredients:
New people who don't know where to tread lightly; the girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse/guest who drives you crazy even on a good day; alcohol; grandma's dementia which leads her to say whatever comes into her head (some of which turns out to be long kept secrets); poor communication/unspoken expectations (we wanted to watch movies vs. we wanted to watch football, we should pray vs. why does God have to be part of everything?); one part of a couple enjoying themselves while the other wants to be anywhere else; food that doesn't go as planned (the turkey timer that won't pop even though everything else has been ready for over an hour); and did I mention high expectations?

Maybe the only real solution is to change your expectations.  Expect things to go wrong.  Take bets on who starts arguing first, who plays one-upmanship the best, and who reveals the tastiest tidbit of illicit information.  Have a backup meal waiting at home or the hotel (as the case may be) just in case it turns out there's nothing edible.  Make sure you have some Excedrin handy.

And if none of these plans give you any hope, do as my therapist once advised.  Go ahead and take a Valium.  Your desire to kill, and your ability to do so, will be greatly diminished.

Good luck!

Dinner Training -- an Experience in and of Itself

A while back I wrote about my struggles with food.  Food and I just don't get along.  I understand that it's necessary for life, but it's hard for me.

Now take that and imagine being a mother.  Someone who is theoretically in charge of keeping others alive.  In charge of feeding them.  Ugh.

It was tough enough when they were little.  Three meals a day, plus snacks, actually spoon-fed to them.  All grocery shopping - mine.  All preparation - mine.  All clean up - mine.  And they would eat most of what I offered.  When they were small.

But as we all know, growing up tends to allow us to form our own opinions.  Even about food.  Pretty soon they were refusing what I offered.  I was cooking to make them happy.  I wanted them to eat so I prepared what they liked.

This wasn't usually too hard for my husband.  He'll eat almost anything.  He's just glad when someone else makes the food for him.

For me it was tough.  I wanted them to have balanced meals, but I don't really like meat.  So they would have meat, vegetables, fruit, dairy.  I would have a potato.  Or corn.  It was more important to me to feed them than to feed myself.  And easier because they liked food.

Now they are teens (yes, I just promoted my baby by a year).  They are practically adults (one is).  Shouldn't they be feeding themselves?  I thought so.

So we divided up the week.  Each of us has one day a week that we are in charge of dinner.  Choosing it.  Purchasing the food for it.  Preparing it.  Serving it. 

Doesn't that sound lovely?

When it works, it is.  At least one day a week they know that they will like what is prepared.  If they don't like it, they are in charge of feeding themselves.  I don't care if they eat cold cereal, ramen noodles, or just tater tots.  As long as they take care of it.

This sounds like a great way to teach them tolerance and understanding of what it's like to be in charge of the food.  Or a great way to teach them to cook.  Or shop for groceries.  Whatever.

But we have cheaters.  Rather than learn to cook or actually do any work, they want Little Caesar's.  Or they buy turkey, rolls, and cheese and announce that we're having hoagies.

And I am just too tired to fight it.  Which is why I gave them the responsibility in the first place.  I'm just too tired to care about food anymore.  We're not quite at the if-you-want-to-eat-you'd-better-go-kill-something stage, but we're close.

It's not without flaws, but it's functioning for now.  Barely.  It will get us through for a bit.

And every once in a while we have a magical moment when one of them comes to me and wants to cook an actual meal.  "Mom, can you teach me how to make chicken enchiladas?"

It's a glorious moment.

And then I remember that I really can't cook.  But that's another story.

Little Miss Persnickety

You know her.  She's your niece or your neighbor that you agreed to watch for the day (or maybe several days).  It's time for a meal.  You prepare the food.  Everyone sits down.  They all start eating.  Everyone but her.

If she's been drilled to be polite, she just looks at the food and pushes it around on her plate hoping to find enough that she likes to no longer be starving.  If she hasn't learned manners well yet you'll likely get a big EW!

Boy, if that's not flattering of your cooking.

She's such a brat.  She's so picky.  Nothing will make her happy.  Her parents have spoiled her, overindulged her.  Fine.  She can go hungry then.  She'll eat it when she gets hungry enough.

Maybe.  And maybe not.

I would like to introduce myself.  I am Little Miss Persnickety.  I eat like a five-year old.  I refer to the food you eat and I don't as grown up food.  I know people find me irritating.  I know they judge me.  I've had to learn to live with that.  But there is more to it than you might know.  Have you ever really considered it from the child's point of view?

I have been picky about food my whole life.  There are so many things I don't like.  It might be the taste.  It might be the texture.  Who knows?  In fact, sometimes I don't like food at all.  Any of it.  Sometimes just the thought of food makes me gag.  But it's necessary.  I get weak when I don't eat.  My headache escalates.  I have learned to see food as medicine to keep me healthy.

I spent my childhood being chastised for it.  I didn't understand why people got so upset.  I was the one going hungry.  It's not that I don't like YOUR potato salad -- I don't like potato salad.  I guess people take their cooking pretty seriously and get highly offended if you don't like it.  I have offended many people.

But I am so jealous of people who like food.  When I go to a restaurant with others I watch them scour the menu.  So many options.  So many things look so delicious to them.  They are so excited.  They are eagerly anticipating.  And when the food comes they revel in it.  Other people get so much enjoyment from food.

I scour the menu for a different reason.  Is there anything here I can eat?  Will the meat be done?  How irritated will my dining mates and waitress get if I send it back?  What if I send it back more than once?

Seriously, I avoid eating out with certain people just because I can't take the judgment.

It's my money.  I am paying for the food.  Shouldn't I get to have something I like?

I don't ask people to prepare special food just for me.  If I don't like what you're serving then I just won't eat.  Why are your knickers in such a twist?  It's just food.

I don't know why I'm so picky.  Maybe it was the only thing I had even a little control over as a child.  Maybe it's because my sense of taste and smell seems to be stronger than most.  Maybe I'm just an irritating little brat who wants my own way.

Whatever the reason, I accept it about myself.  I'm okay with it.  If you are that sensitive about whether I'll eat your food or not then don't invite me for dinner. 

I'm sure there are foods you don't like, too.  I'm sure there are things that would make you gag to even think about eating.  My list is just longer and contains more foods that most people eat.  But I don't.  I don't like eggs, cheese, bananas, mayonnaise, barbeque sauce, meatloaf, sloppy joes, onions, onion rings, hot dogs, fry sauce, and many more every day things.  I want my meat well done, no pink at all.  And I don't like processed meat.  I don't like hamburger, although I will sometimes eat it under the right circumstances.  I want my meat to look like the striated muscle tissue that it is.  I want it in the form that it came off the animal, only a lot more cooked. 

There are so many other things, an endless list.  I have learned to eat bananas even though I don't like them.  And I now eat spinach in my salad.  But that's it for my growth for now.

But maybe you could do me a favor.  Next time you have someone who doesn't like what you're serving, instead of feeling hurt or thinking them a brat, maybe you can remember that thing you don't like to eat -- and cut Little Miss Persnickety a little slack.

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To read more about my food issues, go here.
To read about my psychiatrist visit connected to my food issues, go here.