Christmas Is Not About Me

Christmas is next week, and I am feeling a bit "bah-humbug" about it all.  A lot bit "bah-humbug" if I'm completely honest.

I am not a fan of Christmas.  Once upon a time I'm sure I was.  I have endless magical memories of Christmas grandeur from my childhood.

And then I grew up, and life turned out being so much harder than I had ever imagined, and every looming year marks another milestone of a wish, hope, dream not yet met... and somehow I've turned into one of those tired people who actually full on dread the holidays.

I'm the one who bakes everything, buys everything, brings everything, juggles everything, wraps everything, orders, stuffs, addresses, seals, mails all the cards, sends and replies to the millions of texts and emails trying to obtain and give the perfect and complete wish lists along with the organization of all the said food and party details of that stated earlier... so that everyone in my family can just put on their coats, get in the car, and "arrive and enjoy" their big day ~ which ends up lasting for an entire week or longer as we bounce from one celebration to the next, and then all needs to be unpacked and put away when we get home.  Throw in blended families on multiple sides, an adopted child, the empty space of a child lost too soon, all topped with a thick layer of the mom-guilt of someone who deep inside honestly knows she's just feeling sorry for herself and really just wants someone in her house to remember to go shopping for something meaningful, thoughtful, and special for her...

And well... yeah, the holidays are just hard.

I honestly have the best of intentions every year to intentionally stay slow... to do less, care less, spend less... and then somehow Halloween passes, the calendar flips to November and the crazy just seems obliviously inevitable.

I've been walking around at war with myself for days about all this, and it finally spilled out all over in the form or tears this morning at work.

I'm tired and not sleeping well, I'm stressed, I'm attempting (and failing miserably) at dieting ~ even through I am diligently doing what I'm supposed to in the eating and exercising avenue... apparently stress, age, and hormones still have the upper hand within my stubborn body.  I'm finding it harder and harder to get up every morning and face the day, poised to make the right health decisions when there is no fruit from my labor.  My stamina and hope is fading quickly....

And now the calendar says that Christmas is next week.  Next week.  My pulse quickens and my emotions rise.  I try and take a deep breath and tell myself to just "not care..."  Take a step back and remove myself emotionally from the reality at hand.  Put up the wall. Remain numb. Sustain survival mode.

But I am one of those Type A, obsessively organized, planner people, and remaining emotionally unattached does not come easy for me.  Hence, I'm walking around all "bah-humbug-y" and have piled on a good 'ol heap of stressed out self-pity.

But Christmas is not about me.  Deep inside, I know this.  It's what eating away at my soul right now.  Christmas is NOT about ME.

Christmas is about grandparents going to the church Christmas Programs.  It's about parents having their children and grandchildren all home under one roof, celebrating together, despite the chaos.  It's about inviting friends and neighbors to worship on Christmas Eve, opening the doors of the church and welcoming one and all.  It's about creating the childhood magic and grandeur for my own children within our home.  It's about seeing the unseen, hearing the unheard, loving the unloved.  It's about breathing deep, honoring tradition, gracefully packing away our life's disappointments for a small season, loving family unconditionally (despite the quirks), and putting others first.

And at the very intimate core of all of this, it's ultimately about the tiny baby born in Bethlehem, who would die on a cross thirty-three years later, in order that I would be able to live and be saved over two-thousand years later.  That is the true magic and wonder of Christmas, the true gift and ultimate giving.  That is the perfect picture of sacrifice, of setting aside self and giving completely.

It's about the giving. It's not about the getting.

My heart is heavy as I think about how this simple fact, this indescribable act, has gotten so commercialized and self personalized, both in my life and in society at large.  It is my prayer that the unattainable expectations and unrealistic hopes of this Christmas do not overshadow the greater sunshine and shining eastern star announcing the arrival of the One who will one day set us free from all our discontent.

May the true message and reality that Christmas is NOT about ME softly settle deep within my self-pity filled soul, and may all our hearts be filled with the magical childlike awe and wonder over the Child of God this Christmas.

{ next blog post }

My Words Do Not Matter

I’ve been staring at this blank page for days. So much to say, and yet nothing. So many emotions and feels right now, and yet… nothing.

The nation elected a president last week and we’re having big conversations in our little home made up of multiracial heritages. As if the adoption struggle of grief, loss and attachment at the core family level isn’t hard enough, we now add the confusion of identity and place within a society and a county where our beautifully tan skinned son is a legal citizen of. I’m also caught up battling and sharing about my weight and my treadmill, on a blog dedicated to sharing about the love and loss of a tiny baby who’s eyes only saw Jesus when they first opened.

And I’m left felling like my words do not matter, and my story is irrelevant.

But that’s actually not true. That’s what is being whispered in my ear. But the pulse within my heart beats something entirely different. God gave me this life, this story, this journey for a reason. And I had decided to share that, in hopes to merely love others well, to share my pain, my shortcomings, my losses and my overcoming victories within a realness that gently tells others they are not alone, they are seen, and their story also matters.

Ultimately, I just want my life to somehow paint God’s light into the darkness.

As I have stumbled along in my journey I have dealt with eating disorders, perfection complexes, divorce, miscarriage, blended home, career changes, infertility, adoption, stillborn loss, and more disappointments than I could have imagined. And yet, through all of those rungs on this ladder of my life, the Lord has continued to be the one at the bottom holding it steady against the wall of His goodness. I’m doing the climbing – one foot slowly in front of the other – but He continues to wake me up each morning for a reason and provide me the next rung. I reach one hand as high above as I can, trying to grab on to the “what’s next,” forcing one hand to always have to hang on through the entire season of that current rung. I continue upward on onward, sometimes wishing it would go faster, sometimes wishing to stay put just a little longer. Always willing myself to trust the lesson and blessing of each season, whether it's visible or felt within that moment or not.

One hand always reaching, one hand always clinging to that which supports me.

The change and shift are always occurring. The growth and risk and are always being presented to me. I know my foundation is firm beneath me as I blindly navigate the unknown beyond me, the next season of my continued journey always on its way.

And my words do matter and my story is relevant, and I need to stop letting society or satan or whoever, tell me otherwise.  I was created for a reason, you were created for a reason.  Our lives and our stories are meant to meet and weave and create vibrance and beauty in this tapestry of life.  So live it - and share it - but most importantly, love it well.

Love yourself... love others... love the journey well...

{ next blog post }

The Mountain Still Before Me

It's been a while since I've posted.  Partially because I've been busy, mostly because I have been in a overall state of frustration and bitterness, and for me that's not a great place to write from.  So my fingers have remained quiet.

I was eating healthy.  I was exercising.  I was choosing the salad, the fruit, the veggies, the low fat - not just some of the time, not just most of the time, but EVERY single time, every single day.  And when I would weigh in - nothing.  And then I'd even gained.  And I was struck with that frustrated "So why am I doing this then anyway??"  If I'm choosing and doing all the right stuff and it's not making any difference, then why do it??  Eat the damn chocolate and be done with it.

I simmered in frustration and bitterness for quite a while.  I'm still kinda there, if I'm honest.  I quit exercising.  I quit weighing in.  I quit being so careful what I ate.

My friend came over and I told her I'd quit.  She told me she'd joined Weight Watchers. (This is exactly why you need a friend to hold your hand during all this - she isn't going to let me quit.)

Well, I had promised myself that I would not pay money to lose weight (beyond the higher cost of purchasing healthier food at the store).  No gym membership (I own a treadmill for cry'n out loud - just get on it!).  No fad plan membership or special food / pills / shakes / supplements.  No magic pink drink Fridays.  Hey, I'm not saying anything personal against any of those businesses, I just personally do not have the cash in my wallet to be able to even consider it.

My friend has done Weight Watchers in the past.  It's her go-to, it's what she does, and has worked for her before.  I've done "low fat" and I've done Medifast in the past that have worked for me.  The "low fat" was obviously not currently working.  I eyed the dusty box of left over Medifast meals every time I got in my van in the garage.

I went to the chiropractor and started working on the pain in my feet and back and knee.  I got back on the treadmill.  There is no half-marathon in my near future, but there is a continual nudge to want to tackle that bucket list item once-and-for-all.

I finally caved and started the Medifast meals.  I'd forgotten how horrible it all tasted.  I'd forgotten how much I missed dairy and fruit.  I did some online reading on Weight Watchers.  They meet on Wednesday nights - I work on Wednesday nights, and I'm not even sure if they meet in the town I live.  Their membership fees aren't even in my realm of being able to consider.  Their points system intrigued me though.  Something different, but possibly something doable.  It looked complexly easy.

So here's where I currently stand.  I'm using up my old Medifast meals (from four years ago) and I've ordered a set of basic PointsPlus Weight Watchers books off eBay that have a basic list all the foods and points.  When they arrive, I will take a closer look and perhaps give it a try (on my own, not via a full membership... I'm not sure if that's something a person is supposed to publicly admit to or not, but I just did ~ please don't hunt me down Weight Watchers police!)

In the meantime, I did force myself to weigh today.  By gosh by golly, I was down 2.4 pounds.  I'm still frustrated, I'm not pleased with how I'm doing or how it's going, and I'm discouraged. But even the smallest of negative number is better than a plus number on that scale.

Today's small victory in the face of the mountain still before me.

{ next weight journey update HERE }

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Another nine day update

Nine day update…

Well, this update crept up on me really fast. Today I can at least report that since my last update, I have finally pretty much jumped in with both feet.

I received a message from a dear friend and fellow blog follower asking if I’d like to journey with her, weigh in with her, set some goals together, help hold each other accountable. With grateful tears I said “you bet - let’s do this!"

I got myself on the scale the next morning. I knew it wasn’t going to be good. Thirty-one pounds. I have gained thirty-one pounds since shortly after losing Faith. Granted, I was at my thinnest at that point and not well, but thirty-one pounds is still a significant amount of weight. Yeah, I’m one of those who has been “blessed” to not have any stretch marks on my stomach from pregnancy, but I sure have them on my thighs from excessive and roller coaster weight gain.

The shame umbrella hanging over me is massive right now. It’s shading my sunshine and blocking my view. I've allowed it to hide most of my more shining qualities.

My friend and I set an initial small goal and date. I set a secondary slightly longer term goal and date. I’m not sure if the second is achievable or not. It’s nothing excessive by any means, but I know myself and I’m not sure if it’s going to be achievable or not. And no, I do not plan to re-lose all thirty-one pounds. I would honestly be ecstatic at this point to simply meet in the middle with fifteen pounds. Fifteen pounds is a great compromise that will at least get me back into the jeans hanging in my closet, well hopefully anyway!

I also decided that I needed to choose some sort of diet-ish type plan. There’s so many to pick from, but I decided to just stick with what I know. Low fat. It’s kind of what I’ve always done in the past, and for the most part still allows me quite a bit of the food that is easy and that I like (and most importantly I don't have to sign up and order anything). Yes, I realize cereals and breads and fruits and veggies contains lots of carbs and other things many diets scream against, but it’s what I’m going to do - basically because it’s what I know and what I can fairly easily follow.

I have continued to get up and exercise for 30 minutes every morning. Basic, boring walking.  And most days, even that is really hard to get done. Shame has me believing it’s a waste because I’m not running, and I’m having a hard time coming to grips with the reality that I probably will not run again. I will not race train, I will not ever have the stamina or ability to 10K and I will never probably get to cross a half marathon off my bucket list.  Deep inside I do know this is ok, even though it really isn't.

I'm already starting to get a little obsess-ish, which is not what I want.  I think about how to get out of eating socially, how to get by eating a bowl of cereal vs the entire full meal I'm needing to serve my family, how I'm going to get in my daily exercise and keep my daily fat gram intake under 25 grams if I go ahead with social obligations I've already scheduled.  I have either stellar rockstar diet days, or I have complete epic failure diet days.  There's no medium ground for me - I'm either all in or all out.  I make one poor choice, I let myself have one little indulgence, and then those feelings of shame and failure kick in and rather than stop after a few bites, I just crash and burn and eat it all (and then some).  Always knowing regret will immediately move on in...

Like always, I just want to hurry the whole thing along, to stay in super control long enough to lose the desired weight and then just work on trying to maintain.  After 30 years you would think I would learn this is not how it works, but apparently old habits die hard.

I am trying to continue on every day, trying to eat more healthy and move around a little bit more.  I am a little edgy and borderline irritable.  I hate having thoughts of food and exercise continually creep in my mind and conversations.  I just want to turn down the volume and quit, and I've only barely gotten started.

I weighed in today and I have lost a few pounds.  Huge success, yes.  And oddly enough I'm already nervous that the next time I will have already gained it all back, because all of this is just really really hard.  Baby steps I guess... getting started steps I guess... but hey - I'm doing it steps!  And this time I'm not alone... In fact, I just got a text of encouragement from my friend - she's counting on me to keep a goin' with her on this journey!

{ next update HERE }

Emotional Triggers

This morning I had a mammogram. Tomorrow is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.  To say I've had an onslaught of underlying emotions is an understatement.

I was supposed to have my mammogram already back in February.  I was in no way emotionally able to walk back in that room, exactly one year after our Journey to Faith began there that day.

At first I just ignored the email and mail notifications stating I was due, and then overdue, for my yearly mammogram.  Finally in June I called to scheduled the appointment, but I told them I needed an appointment in October...  after camping season was over for the summer.

You see, I'm also a planner.  While I knew I emotionally couldn't handle repeating this appointment again in February, I also did not want to lose a summer at the lake to surgery, chemo, and sickness if something were to be found on my mammogram.  And I know I will live with an insane guilt over waiting if something were to be found after extending the time in which I knew I should have had it done. I wish I was ~haha~ joking, but it's the honest truth in how I think and process.   Avoidance and denial.   They are two of my top coping mechanisms.

I've never talked about it, but I also carry a great fear of cancer, especially breast cancer.  I lost an aunt at 39, a cousin at 33, my sister-in-law was diagnosed at 29, and I have friends who have lost their precious mamas. In my mind I've basically just lived with the fear of "when will it be me?"  Interestingly enough, way back in February 2014 I also had started the process of setting appointments for genetic testing, and was very open to the option of having a preventative mastectomy.  Needless to say, that was all stopped the moment I walked from the mammogram room to the ultrasound room and heard the words "Oh... there's a baby in there..."

Those words led to a long and painful journey of great loss and devastation for our family, and nothing more was ever said about that initial cancer screening since.  We are approximately 20 months out from that initial life altering moment, and while we are not all the way picked back up and put all back together... we are diligently working on living one more day, one more day at a time.

It's times like these that trigger all those memories and emotions all over again, and by the time I crawled in bed last night I had all sorts of crazy feels going on and all sorts of fabricated stories woven in my head of multiple scenarios of hypothetical outcomes based on the finding and results of my mammogram today, and all sorts of flashbacks and memories of the life and loss of our little Faith.

Why do we do this to ourselves??  I mean seriously - why do we let our minds take over and rob us of so many sane, calm, restful, and rational thoughts each and every day??  I once again could not reign in the chaos of my mind's overactivity, and my basic sanity paid the price and took the lofty toll.

I did finally sleep, and I did get myself to the hospital, checked in, and allowed myself to be led back to that same little waiting room.  I instantly remembered the things I was thinking about as I waited that day, I remembered the book I was reading, I remember what part in the book I was reading...  I remember the fear of my mammogram results and the heavy dread of ultrasound results within me, never once wondering if all the sickness I was experiencing could have been caused by pregnancy.  I was mourning the reality of possibly talking hysterectomy... And within an hour from the moment I entered that waiting room, our world would be turned upside down.

I fought back tears and choked down fear throughout the appointment today.  I answered all the questions and I survived the procedures to get the six images they needed for medical review.  And then I walked out and went home to wait for the results, my legs heavy with the past depth and sadness they now carried along.

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Those Mornings

Do you ever have those mornings... Those mornings when you lay in bed earnestly pleading with the Lord to bless your day, bless your words, bless your very heart and soul, to fill you patience and peace and compassion... and then your feet hit the floor and you bump into the eight-year-old little pile of blankets camped out on your floor. He groans and moans and grumbles and the morning struggle begins, and instantly the sweet moment of resolve and sanity vanish.

Through clinched teeth and deep breathes you somehow get through breakfast.  The tension continues in his bedroom over getting dressed, and you know there's still making the bed, spelling words, brushing the teeth, finding the coat and gloves, and cold lunch still to pack.

You walk into your bathroom and are met by the pile of dirty laundry.  You pick it up in an angry huff and mutter to yourself "Why in the world am I the only one in this house that has to do all the the laundry?!?" After starting a load you walk into the kitchen and see the stack of dirty dishes on top of the dishwasher.  The little green light indicates it's clean, but obviously not emptied.  You fling the door open and bang and crash dishes around putting them away and reloading in an attempt to clean the off the counter, again muttering "Why in the world am I the one in the house that has to empty the dishwasher nearly every time?!?"

The struggles with the grumpy eight-year-old continues and soon I hear my husband from the bathroom where he's getting ready.  He's yelling at us to to stop yelling at each other.  I know in approximately seven minutes he will walk out, completely dressed and ready to go - he will give us a kiss goodbye, and simply walk out the door for the day.

I give him a curt kiss with angry eyes and my mind screams at him "Why in the world am I the only one in this house that has to do all this crazy crap every morning?!?"  I don't say it, but I make it clear he knows it.

Soon I'm juggling the laundry that was still in the dryer from the day before, which I discover when I go to change loads.  I plop it down on the bed and start folding.  I see socks sticking out of dresser drawers that aren't closed all the way.  I see closet doors sitting wide open. I see piles of clean clothes on the floor still not put away.  I see the decorative bed pillows thrown down haphazardly.  Buttons - all little buttons being pushed causing me to nearly explode.

I make a mental note of the thirteen things that I need to still get done over my lunch hour.  My husband will probably be going out to eat somewhere while I will be swapping laundry, making appointments, prepping for supper, and replying to emails from school.

After twenty-seven more "get your shoes on!" we finally get in the van and are on the way to school, where I will have to endure the dreaded "drop off zone" of crazy cars.  I won't even go there to try and describe this frustrating task.  By the time the van door shuts, I wave my ten good bye waves and kisses, somehow manage to pull back into traffic and not get hit by the other vehicles dropping off kids, and arrive five minutes late to work - I am left feeling like a complete and total pile of crabby poop.

I seem to have "those mornings" every single morning.  They are typically followed by "those days" and "those nights" every single day as well.

Why in the world is this?  How have I managed to almost daily destroy my happiness, hope, and self-worth before 8:00 a.m.?  Why do all those stupid little things, those little buttons that cause the crazy to kick in inside us, get to take over and decide the quality of my worth and the happiness within my home?  When did the bar of expectation get raised to a height no one will ever be able to achieve?  And why do all these small things matter to me to such a large degree?

Do you even love your husband you're probably wondering with a gasp under your breath?  Absolutely.  Without a doubt.  I can't imagine life without him.  Yet some days I can hardly stand daily life with him, and I'm fairly certain the feeling is mutual.  We do not speak the same love language and we most certainly do not speak each others love language well, sometimes if at all. It's a never ending battle of grace. And yet at the end of the day, we just have this odd thing, this kind of relationship I can't really describe, one I know is maybe different than most, or at least I assume not everyone is like us behind closed doors, but who knows, maybe I'm wrong on that.  We're two opposite individual mixed with an incredible dose of crazy, sealed with just enough glue to somehow keep us all together.

But I digress...  back to the original question - why is this?  Why are so many of us continually battling the life sucking insanity of unattainable perfection and expectation?  Why do we let this invisible demon rule and run and direct and dictate so many of our feelings, responses, relationships, and ultimate worthiness?

Our houses do not need to be perfectly kept, our to-do lists do not need to always have everything crossed off, our spouses and families do not always need to do everything perfectly and immediately for us. Who is telling us they have to be, and more importantly why are we believing them?  I am not perfect.  They are not perfect.  So why do we keep killing each other trying and expecting to be?

I need to learn to find a way to live in a better peace amid the mess.  I need to learn to find greater patience and grace amid the chaos.  I need to learn to grant forgiveness and greatly lower my expectations on both myself and everyone around me, especially those within the walls of our home.

It's time to starting taking out all the "Why in the world am I the only's" and insert a whole lot more "Who in the world am I going to bless today's..."  And who knows... maybe in my attempt to bless them better, I will in turn allow them to bless me better.

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Weight - Day 9 Update

Nine days ago I posted my initial nine pound weight loss challenge, and I'm betting if I logged on and looked at my blog stats that there probably hasn't even been nine people who have even viewed that post yet.  I'm fairly certain I am still on this journey relatively alone.

I thought I would give my first update.

Waaaahlaaa - I've lost nine pounds.  Ok, that's a lie.  A really big FAT lie.

Truth-be-told ~- I haven't even convinced myself to even get on the scale yet!   I'm one of those people that I have to already know I've lost at least a little weight before I will even find the incentive needed to initially get on the scale to really see how bad I've allowed myself to again get.  I fear I may even still be gaining.

The basic reality - I have no pants that fit right now.  It's that change-in-season wardrobe time.  I had 6 pair of shorts that I wore all summer.  4 denim/dress and 2 athletic.  I dressed them up or dressed them down and that is all I wore thee entire summer.

I had an outdoor event two weeks ago and needed to wear jeans.  I had none that fit.  I was not surprised.  So, I've been continuing to wear the shorts, only now with sweaters.  Someone at work recently asked if I was cold.  Yes, of course I am - but I have no pants that fit because I gained a bunch of weight summer.  And I have these crazy sore bunion feet and can only wear flip flops.

I live in Iowa people - this dilemma will in fact need to be dealt with though sooner than later.  And the sooner has in fact already arrived, and the extremeness of the situation is fully upon me.  I may be in denial, but the reality is upon me.  Hence, I issued myself the nine pound challenge nine days ago.

I wish I could report that I'm well on my way to my new me.  I wish I could tell you I have given up all caffeine, chocolate, and added an hour of intense exercise every day.  But, I'm not and I haven't.

Wednesday morning God woke me up at 3:45am and after wrestling sleep for an hour, I finally gave in to the reality that I knew He had me awake for a reason, and I actually got out of bed and went for the first morning walk in probably ten months.  The same thing happened Thursday morning.  Friday I push mowed the lawn and Saturday morning I even got myself on the treadmill before 7:00am.  I didn't run, I didn't even go very long.  22 minutes / 1.5 miles.  That was my goal, and that was all I did.  It's hard to view that as a #win for the day and not compare it to what used to be my normal pace, time, and distance in the past when I was 10k training...

But, that was 22 minutes longer and 1.5 miles further than I'd gone the week prior... than the entire summer prior.  My feet have been screaming at me, my back continues to hurt, and now I've added an incredible ache in my right knee.  I know much of it stems from the additional pounds I'm dragging along to each workout.  I'll continue to try keep setting small goals and pushing through the pain, but I am a little fearful of creating more damage which may stop being able to achieve even the smallest of goals.  Utter frustration.

I bought yogurt, fruit, and granola.  I haven't eaten it all yet, but I have added a few healthier moments in each day.  I've not taken a sleeping pill for the past four nights, and I have not had a cup of coffee after noon all week.  Unfortunately, there are still many many unhealthy decisions still surrounding each healthy one.

Saturday we went to a large gathering of friends at a tailgate party.  I arrived incredibly self conscious and poured into a pair of jeans that did not fit, while I sat next to a buffet table the entire length of the garage, desperately wishing I had held better control of my weight this summer.

I currently sit at the eve to the start of another new week.  My alarm is set, my treadmill will be waiting.  Will I get up and conquer?  Will I hit snooze and begin the week with failure?  Will this be the week I convince myself to weigh in and swallow the hard truth of reality?  Will I give in and order a larger pair of jeans (with money I don't have) or will I continue on in shorts, sweaters, and flip flops for a few weeks longer, desperately praying for no snow and a willpower that will somehow keep me moving forward without completely overtaking me...

Perhaps it's just a fancy excuse, perhaps it's being forty-one and knowing my tendencies, but I do carry a small fear any time I start the journey of weight loss, knowing I may soon be dancing with the demons of obsessive self control and unattainable perfection.  I want one without the other this time around.  I fear I will have neither.

In the next nine days I will weigh myself.  In the next nine day I will set the time frame in which I hope to lose those nine pounds by. In the next nine days I will continue to set small, tiny, baby-step goals.  In the next nine days I will pray there will be more moments of going forward and wise choices than moments of set-back and poor choices.  In the next nine days may I be encouraged by others and continue onward, and may I have eyes that help see who and where to be the encouragement others are needing from me.

And before I hit "publish" I need to stop and simply ask why is that I am even giving myself another nine days before really diving in with both feet?? I could walk into the bathroom and weigh myself in the matter of two minutes and be done with it. Why am I playing this ridiculous game with myself??

Denial and shame.   It's simply my personal denial and shame...

{ next weight journey update HERE }

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