In a Rut

How do you climb out of a rut?  What is the first step?

I am 42.  Happy to be 42 because it sure does beat the alternative.  Happy actually in my life in general.  I have the normal concerns, but nothing that cannot be overcome.  We haven't had an easy few years, but we are okay, and isn't that the goal in life:  To let things explode and implode and still be okay.

I love my husband.  He loves me.

I love my kids.  They love me.

I have a good job.

So, what is the problem?  I'm dealing with a significant weight gain brought on by previous stress, real life situations, and frankly, age.  Also, I am trying to figure out if the weight gain is from the rut, or did the rut come first?  Chicken and egg, people!

Reasons why I am hitting the proverbial wall and ready to finally acknowledge said fat:

1.  I don't want new clothes.  I don't have the money for a new wardrobe.
2.  I am not ready for mom jeans.  I don't want to look like old ladies in elastic pants yet.  I still have time.
3.  I am still vibrant.  I am not old, so why should I live that way.
4.  I miss being healthy.
5.  I miss being cute.
6.  I want to be my best for my family.
7.  I am not ready to accept my rut.

This is not the first time I have written about wanting to change, but this is the first time I have faced the fat head-on.  I took a good hard look and I don't like what I see.  In the past, I have made excuses, and those can longer be part of my vernacular.  Fat is fat.  No use in saying anything else.  I am not curvacious.  I am not voluptuous.  I am fat.

This is no longer about me being cute.  I need to be able to walk without my joints hurting.  I need to live without being afraid.  Fat is a great shield for hiding and dodging life's real issues.

So, I declare, right from this minute on,  I will no longer:
1.  Give lip service to the universe.  Writing about good health is not the same as living good health.
2.  Think this is as good as it will get.
3.  Think that I don't deserve a bit more or that wanting more is shallow.

One more thing, my stomach size doesn't define me.  I am more than a number; however, if I don't get a grip on these numbers, I won't be able to live the life I want.

Today I make this decree:   I am beginning my climb. 

Words, Words, Words

I am a reader.  I was born to self-described readers, and I even married not one but two readers.   With great joy, I can now proclaim I am a mother to two readers.   We are a family of words.  Every person under my roof loves the written word and often writes on their own time.  We aren't great at it, and we may not win any prizes or make a living from it, but it is an important part of our self-expression. A more poetic person would write about how we wrap ourselves in words of soft comfort.

We are a family of talkers.  We share stories and events and ideas.  We sit around tables and tackle sex, politics. religion. and question what we would do if we had superpowers.  Words allow us to plan, hope, and cope with life's tribulations.  We entreat in prayers.  We yell to be heard.  We giggle through the absurd.  Our home's foundation is built upon the words we speak.

I heard yesterday that more affluent families speak more than poorer families, and this shows in their children's performances in Kindergarden.  Educational programs are now being set up in urban areas so families can learn to communicate with their youngest members and increase vocabulary skills (and test scores).  The gist of this research is basically this:  when you live in a culture of poverty, you don't waste words on idle conversation.  It is used for direct commands for survival.  Do this or don't do this is basically all the kids learned.  When reading a children's book,  a teacher realized they knew the word fruit, but they were limited in knowing what types of fruit were being presented on the page.    Researchers developed a recorder that didn't capture the actual conversations in test subjects but rather who was speaking and to whom.  Families can wear this in order to see how they can better engage their children.  Some didn't want to participate because of the "Big Brother" factor even though nobody would hear their conversations and all information is deleted after the data is collected.

As a teacher and as a parent I find this so-called word gap horrifying and fascinating all at the same time.  I was far from rich when my children were little.  In fact, I was living below the poverty line, but I was fortunate enough to have the skills needed to engage my babies.  I was educated, verbal, with a writer for an ex-husband and was blessed with a babysitting granny who had previously taught  language arts.  It wasn't perfect.  My oldest has a speech impediment which impeded her reading comprehension until she was in third grade.  I think our success came from talking to the children rather than at them.  If they had a play date, they were asked about it.  If we went to Disney on Ice, then we talked about our favorite parts.  If I didn't give them a cookie, then we talked about why cookies were bad before dinner.  Our conversations now range from video games, the argument for a pet, and the resolution of East of Eden.

Baby talk and speaking in third person were outlawed around the time they began to toddle.  I recently heard a parent speak in third person to her teen son.  He looked at me and rolled his eyes.  I don't think he is really listening now to anything she has to say.  After knowing more about the home life, I would say she is completely disconnected from her son.  In her eyes, he can still be pacified with a few sweet words, and then she can go and do her thing.  No real conversation.  One day, when he needs a word and some advice, where will he go?

My question is the "now what" of the word gap.  I hear and see the consequences of it every day in my secondary classroom.  They struggle with basic conversation and complain often about my use of big words (aspiration?).  I attempt to engage by talking, talking, talking, listening to replies, and then parroting back with different word choices.  For some, vocabulary is the least of their worries.  The words they are exposed to are often filled with vulgarity, hate, and fear.  They are weapons.  In cases, like these, vocabulary builders and frayer models are not the answers.

Some of them are already parents.  Most will be parents within the next ten years.  Now what?  How do we give power to their voice and words?  Now what?  How do we encourage a vocabulary that is needed for college and career readiness?  Now what?  How do we break the cycles that limits potential?  Now what?  Have we lost a generation of words?

Simple Stuffed Pepper Casserole

This came at the request of my husband.  He wanted stuffed peppers but without the work of stuffed peppers.  I researched a few recipes online, and based on what we had in the house, we came up with this:

Stuffed Pepper Casserole:

2 Green Peppers, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
2 Cloves garlic
A pinch of salt and pepper
2 tablespoons of Worcestershire Sauce
1 can of traditional flavored spaghetti sauce
1 can of sweet corn
2 cups cooked rice
1 lb. ground beef
1 cup of mild cheddar

Preheat oven to 350.

Brown ground beef with onion, green pepper, garlic, salt, pepper, and Worcestershire Sauce.  After you drain the grease, add spaghetti sauce, corn, and rice.  Simmer for just a few moments and then place mixture in your casserole dish.  Add cheese.  Back until cheese is melted and beginning to brown, about 20-25 minutes. 

That is it.  Almost too simple, and it was husband approved. 

Between this and the tomato pie I made this week, he almost believes I can cook.  We won't tell him any different. 

I Love How...

I love how, even when he is sleeping, he will reach out and place his hand upon me, making sure I am still here.  I am.

Just One of Those Days, Part II

Have you ever had "I don't feel good, and I want to pout day"?  I think we all need one now and then, and today was my day.  My husband and I argued before bed last night, and of course, as he snoozed, I analyzed every single word of a five minute waste of time.  I have to admit my stupidity; I wasted a full night sleep agonizing over a five minute argument, which in the long run, won't matter.  I feel lost when we fight.  It brings out my insecurities.  It brings out my irrational fears.  It brings that cruel, nagging voice in my head.  Today I needed to heal from it all, and I fortunately had the luxury to do so.  Funny how I can argue with him, but I need to step back and repair myself from myself.  I am the cliché...my own worse enemy. 

So, how did I celebrate my self-proclaimed day of rest and laziness.  First of all, I read and read and read.  I picked up Elizabeth Berg's The Year of Pleasures, from 2005 and read it all in one, selfish rush.  I almost wished I had saved it for the winter, because it would go perfectly with my favorite throw and a cup of hot chocolate.  It is a small read, and there seems to be so much the protagonist isn't saying.  It could have easily been expanded into a larger novel.  I read one review on GoodReads that said it was like a Hallmark novel, and yes, I can see this as a Saturday afternoon Hallmark movie, or even a woman's television drama.  It focuses on Betta and her grief following the death of her husband.  She is completely lost when he dies, and leaves Boston for the mid-west to finish the dreams they shared together.  My only complaint is that when it ends, it ends.  I really wish it could have been longer and allowed me to see their lives as they continue on.  Just when you fall in love with them, they are gone. 

The best thing about this book is my belief that I was meant to read it.  A friend of mine, just last Friday, asked if I had ever read Elizabeth Berg, and no, I hadn't.  She was once an Opera pick, and Opera and I don't always agree on literature; but A.'s description told me I had to give her a try, especially one book she just finished.  She talked about how the author captured the texture and the little beauties of being a woman.  The tiny details brought the characters to life for her and allowed her to identify with them. I went to a used bookstore Saturday and bought the book...because of its cover.  Yep, that clinched the deal for me.  I just finished A Homemade Life last week, and the cover was too beautiful to forget.  This cover has the same sense of peace and home.  I didn't fully realize it was the same book my friend loved so well, until later that evening.  I am so thankful to have found it, and it isn't going into my books to swap.  I now plan to go deeper in and annotate the lines that meant the most.  I will remember it for a long while.

Just One of Those Days

Seriously? Baby Steps Toward Aging.

According to Redbook, the chances of me getting pregnant naturally is 20%.  I am too old.  What?  How did that happen?  I don't want another baby, at this point.  I am good with two step-sons, one girl child/woman, and one boy who is growing into his own stinkiness; however, I like knowing I could if I wanted one.  I guess there lies the rub. 

I have truly enjoyed my early 40s.  Life isn't that horrible, and I have a husband to thinks I am beautiful and kids who love me.  Yet, here I am, facing my own mortality because I may/may not be fertile anymore.  I wonder what is really bugging me:  age, my definition of womanhood, or not being in control of these changes?  Maybe it is the fact my ability to grow a full beard is right around the corner.

I have high school friends who are now grandparents.  Good for them.  They love their grandbabies and love posting pictures on Facebook.  I am not ready for that, at all.  For some reason, when I think of being a granny, I picture the other side of the mountain, and I am clinging to the peak, with every ounce of strength in me.  When my own granny met me, she was only forty-six, five years older than what I am now.  I wasn't her first.  My other grandmother was only in her 30s when she was called "Mamaw" for the first time.  Something about that just ain't right.

Different time; different expectations, I guess.

Now, for my oldest, I don't want to see you rushing toward pink or blue.  Find yourself, travel, meet the "one", be satisfied with yourself before you even consider it.  Move slow.  Not for me, but for yourself.  I was twenty-six, when I first held you, and I now realize, I was still too much of a baby.  You are the best thing that ever happened to me, but I could have done better for you.  Life moves too quickly, why add to the rush.

Now, with that being said, don't wait until 41, unless you are wealthy enough for doctors to help.  Twenty percent, baby!