I Can Fly

Yesterday was the last official day of soccer. Not that there's been much soccer this season. Between the hurricane, the flooding, and the freak October snowstorm, we've had enough weird weather on the East Coast to make a case for global climate change all on our own. Which means a lot of canceled soccer games.

So today, post-season playoffs began for Peabo. Which was interesting, because my redhead is sick. He's been sick since Friday, running a fever that got slightly higher on Saturday, and slightly lower on Sunday. But we all wanted to go to the game. The weather was mostly warm and very sunny, so I bundled up the redhead and snuggled him up on my lap.

The playoffs were a bit weird. There are five teams in the league. So the 2 and 5 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then the 3 and 4 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then, after a 30-minute wait, the winners played each other in another 30-minute game. The winner of *that* game goes on to play the number 1 seed next weekend for the championship.

Peabo's team - the 3 seed - won the whole playoff shebang. On penalty kicks after their second 30-minute game ended in a 0-0 tie.

If you do all that minute math, it adds up to 90 minutes plus penalty kicks. Which meant we were there long enough for a 6-year-old bladder to need a bit of relief.

So my redhead, feeling the joy of being outside and in something other than pajamas, challenged me to a footrace to the port-o-potties. Except, when we got there, we found them defaced with bad words. Bad words he could read. So he wouldn't use them.

The local middle school, on the very far side of the very large, multi-field field, was open. So I suggested we head up there to find restrooms. Another footrace ensued. He did his business, and then raced me once again back to our seats.

Which means I ran.

In fact, I ran quite far. For me, anyway.

I hate running. Hate it like the chore that it is. I've always felt like I was slogging through pudding just trying to get one foot in front of the other. I am slow and ungainly. Running is totally not my thing.

Except today it was. I ran with my redhead, and I felt fast. I felt like I flew across that field. I even beat him, which sounds ridiculous - I mean he's 6 - but he's a fast 6, and I'm a very slow 45.

And, amazingly, I wasn't breathless. Not even a little. If you'd talked to me right then, you'd never have known I'd run anywhere.

It was awesome.

The last time I tried to run, I was red and flushed and, yes, breathless, and I very nearly passed out. I also injured my hip so badly I could barely walk and spent 6 months in pain and 6 weeks on a daily regimen of ibuprofen.

The last time I tried to run, I weighed 56 lbs more than I weigh today.

I did not feel like I could fly.

Today, I ran. And I flew.

I like being an after.

(Not that I'm going to go run a marathon or anything. I'll leave that to folks like my friend Anne at Mom & Dad Track Stars, who just finished the Marine Corps Marathon and did not throw up. Kudos, Anne!)

No time

If I had time to blog ... which I don't ... I'd tell you about my son, Peabo. He somehow became a teenager overnight on me, complete with stinky teenaged feet and a compelling need to use (moderately) foul language around his mother.

That last part? Totally won't fly.

He wanted total world domination for his birthday. Again. He got this cool book called Rule the World: 119 Shortcuts to Total World Domination from his grandparents. Now he's well on his way.

I'd tell you about the cupcakes I made for his party: Martha Stewart's mint-filled brownie cupcakes. Not one of the kids liked them, except for my diva, but she likes brussels sprouts, so you never know with her.  I'm still transitioning from the Big Get Healthy to the Big Stay Healthy, so I couldn't even try them. I was smart enough to bring a back-up cake to the party, though. Talk about over-prepared - I mean, who brings a back-up dessert to a birthday party? But at least all those brownie cupcake haters had something sweet and sugary to chase down their pizza and popcorn.

I also made Peabo cinnamon buns from scratch, and the world's most chocolatey brownies, also from scratch. My first ever from-scratch brownies. And homemade mac & cheese with chicken and ham and broccoli. It tickled me pink that my Peabo, who used to eat nothing but chicken nuggets and frozen pizzas, wanted a slew of homemade birthday treats. Needless to say, I made him everything he asked for.

If I had time to blog ... again, I don't ... I'd tell you about how the crazy dog is no longer satisfied with barking at my beautiful children but is also herding them and occasionally nipping at them, and twice left little bitty tooth bruises on my Peabo's thigh. This, after all my researching and training and learning to use a clicker and pretending I don't mind having stinky, oogy fingers from treating my dog with cut up hot dogs and chicken. We're now down to the last option, the one where I call the rescue group and suggest that we may not be the right family for this beautiful dog. They are investigating. But I think the upshot of it is, perhaps, that kids with loud voices and spectrummy tantrums do not work and play well with border collie. We are stressing him out.

We'll see how it goes.

If I had time, I'd tell you about the afghan I started knitting, with fat circular needles in a rich purple and olive. It's for a friend. I think she doesn't read the blog, but if she does, well, dear, it's NOT for you! (It is, but we'll keep that between the rest of us.) I made up the colorwork myself - the pattern was for a solid - and it's blending beautifully. Except that not having time to blog means I have no time to knit, either, so I probably won't finish it until 2015. If I'm lucky.

I don't have time, though, to tell you about it. Instead you get little snippets that are not particularly well thought out.

Better than not blogging at all. Right?

And now I'm going to bed.

The Big Get Healthy, part deux

As of today, I'm an "after."

Before, with my diva,
at Christmas time

21 weeks ago I was a "before." I hated looking at pictures of myself because I didn't recognize the woman I saw. I could no longer zip my size 14 jeans, mostly because I needed 16s and couldn't bring myself to buy them. I was obese and sedentary. I wasn't sleeping. And even a little bit of stress sent me diving into a carton of mint chocolate chip.

I couldn't live that way anymore. Because of the pictures and the clothes and the bad example I knew I was setting for my kids. And because it wasn't me. So I called my longtime friend, Rhoda Waiss, now a health coach with Take Shape for Life. And I asked her for help.

That's exactly what she did. She helped.

A week later I started my Big Get Healthy.

It's a journey, and it's not over. Maintenance is a lifetime commitment.

But this stage is over.

Because today, I'm an "after."

After ... I'll get a
better picture, promise!

Today, I wear a size 4. Well, sometimes a 6, but just as often it's a 4. I wear jeans without lycra, and I can button them too. I can fit into my prom dress, which I know because today I tried it on. And it zipped, or, well, it would have if the zipper weren't broken because it's spent the last few years in my daughter's costume box. But I could clutch the edges together comfortably. And that's around a waist that has grown around 3 very large babies.

Today, I move. I take the crazy dog for a nice, long walk nearly every day. I avoid elevators and take the stairs whenever I can find them. I lift hand weights during conference calls and do sit-ups when I watch TV. I park far away from where I want to go ... and then promptly lose my car. But just think of the calories I burn hunting for it!

Today, when I get stressed ... well, I stop sleeping, as always. You can't be all healthy all the time. But I don't turn to food. I make an herbal tea and vent on Facebook.

I've lost 51 pounds.

And I'm happy. Because the woman in the mirror is the woman I expect to see. A little tired, maybe, with her fair share of crow's feet and a sprinkling of gray hair hidden artfully by highlights. She's 45, after all.

But she's me. And I'm happy she's back.

Wrap Me In Happy

I found myself in my basement earlier this week. It doesn't happen often, because my basement is scary as hell. My ex-husband collected pretty much every collectible thing ever made, and he left all that collectible detritus behind him when he moved out. Now there are mazes of old boxes and the empty wrappers of baseball cards everywhere. It's a rodents paradise.

I don't have rodents, of course. I mean, who the hell knows, really, rodents are squirrely little things. But since my basement is also full of mousetraps, I seriously doubt it.

So I was down there, climbing over the tipping towers of crap in search of Peabo's old size 7s to pass down to my redhead, when I ran into a treasure trove of clothes. My clothes. My old, teeny, tiny, I used to be a skinny person clothes. 

Skinny for me predates Peabo, which means this stuff is really, really, colossally old. Like, 14 years or better. And I should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. But some stuff you just can't part with.

Like the first interview suit I ever bought, back when I was in grad school.

The only bridesmaid's dress I had that I ever considered wearing again. Except that I squeezed into it pretty much that just that one day before I grew right out of it.

An old, blue sheath dress that once fit me like a glove. I don't remember where I wore it, but I remember I felt fabulous in it. And that was apparently reason enough to keep it forever.

The slim-waisted, full cut white skirt my mom bought me for my birthday the summer after eighth grade.

The nearly backless, slit-up-to-here revenge dress I wore to my 10-year high school reunion, where I knew I'd run into my very recent ex. I'm pretty sure he didn't notice, and actually it wasn't really that racy, because when you get right down to it I'm just not that flashy. Or revengy. But it gave me the courage to walk into the room, and that's all I needed that night.

And a whole slew of what we'll call vintage Victoria's Secret - that is, some very pretty bras that I retired when I was pregnant with Peabo and never fit back into. They all have real wire underwires. Can you imagine? Real wire.

It all fits. Even the skirt my mom bought me when I was 14. Granted, it's snug. But it buttons. And I can sit down in it. And it still fans out beautifully when I spin around. Which I most definitely did when I tried it on.

That's what happens when you lose 47 pounds. You fit into not just your skinny clothes, but your very skinny clothes.

Most of this stuff is ridiculously dated. I'm talking giant shoulder pads and pocket hankies here, folks. But it fits. And while I may never, ever wear it, I put every bit of it back into my now empty closet.

Right next to the size 14s I can't bear to part with.

The black and white dress I bought at the Loft on the one and only shopping trip I've ever made with both my sisters together.

The dark orange shirt with 3/4 sleeves that I bought for my very first post-divorce date.

The soft gray sweater that made me smile every single time I put it on, mostly because someone once told me I looked pretty in it.

The form-fitting blue dress I wore on a very special Christmas date with my fella. I still remember walking home, warm and happy, in tall black pumps that left soft prints in the snow that had fallen ever-so-gently while we were at dinner. It's a great dress.

My closet is empty now, but for this handful of outdated or oversized memories. I've shrunk right out of pretty much every single thing I own.

I miss my clothes. I don't miss the extra weight, of course. And I don't want to fit back into that stuff again. But I miss my clothes. I miss the memories, and the feeling you get from wearing something that wraps you in happy.

Time to make some new happy. Which would be a lot more fun if I didn't have to go shopping to do it.

33 Pounds

Okay, so now my blog looks like something designed by a perky tweenager with a sherbet fixation. Sheesh.

That's not my topic of the day, however. This is.

You know that Big Get Healthy thing I've been doing? Well, at this point, I've lost 33 pounds.

Pausing now for dramatic effect.

That's 33 pounds. 33 pounds that took my Body Mass Index from obese into the very top end of "healthy" for my height. 33 pounds that finally, for the first time in a decade, have me weighing less than my driver's license says I do.

33 pounds that have shrunk me right out of my entire wardrobe.

Given that I'm not finished yet - seriously, I've got about 18 pounds to go, and YES that's a healthy weight. But given that 18 pounds is a whole other clothing size, I don't want to invest in much right now. The thing is, when your pants are falling off and even your unmentionables have become unmentionably large - because after your third child you just gave up and kept all those oh so comfy maternity bikinis - you realize you need to go shopping.

My reward for passing that driver's license landmark was that I got to buy new unmentionables from a certain world-famous, colossally expensive and slightly snooty lingerie store. Mostly because the last time I was there I stood in the dressing room and cried because nothing fit and I looked horribly ugly. And so I left, vowing never to return.

On the way there, though, I got distracted by Ann Taylor. Which is easy to do. I love their stuff. And it's the end of season clearance. And I found a really pretty purple dress, a silky fancy thing that I could wear, maybe, to my sister's wedding next summer. I was holding a 10. And then an 8. And then a 10. And then the saleswoman asked me if I needed help.

"Um ... I've lost a lot of weight recently and I don't know what size I am anymore."

"Oh, honey," she said, looking me over. "You want the small."

So I took the 8. And a size 8 skirt. Two small tops. And a really stunning knit wrap dress that would have looked horrifyingly awful on me 3 months ago. Also an 8.

I tried on the wrap dress first. Fit like a glove. Made curvy things curvy. Made the middle all slender and sleek. It fit. It fit beautifully.

And I cried.

And then I tried on the purple dress. In an 8. And it was too big. Too. Big.

I know they make sizes bigger today than they used to. But still. This body hasn't seen an 8 since 1994, when I was between boyfriends, working out 4-5 days a week, and flirting outrageously with the fella I'm dating now (oddly enough), who steadfastly refused to ask me out like I wanted him to (for a lot of very good, very gentlemanly reasons).

And it's never, ever, ever seen a 6. 

So I cried. Because 12 weeks ago I could no longer button my size 14 jeans. And I didn't want to go up another size. 12 weeks ago, I'd crossed that invisible line between overweight and obese. And I didn't want to get any bigger.

But it's not just about being thinner. It's about being happier. Healthier. More active. Less stressed. Sleeping better.

It's about setting an example for my kids of what a healthy life looks like. And being there for them when they teach those lessons to their own kids.

Those wonderful ladies at Ann Taylor? They sold my teary self that full-price wrap dress that I didn't need. With a 30% friends and family discount because, they said, I deserved a celebration.

I really hope it fits when I'm finished.

...
I'm not doing this solo. I've been lucky enough to work with health coach Rhoda Waiss, a long-time friend who works with Take Shape for Life. She's got a web site of her own at feelfabnow.com. This isn't a sponsored endorsement. 'Cause it's not like anyone would pay me to blog. Certainly not with this ridiculous cotton candy design, anyway. And yes, I'll be changing it very, very soon.

56 days

I just got through 8 weeks without childcare. 56 days. 1,344 hours. And I am still standing. So are my kids. In fact, they were pretty darn fabulous for 8 straight weeks. Cooperative. Cheerful. Eager to help.

I so love my kids when they're like that. I love them all the time, of course, but it's easier when they help.

My friends and neighbors rock. For those 8 weeks, they walked my kids to school and back, invited them for playdates, fed them, hugged them, and even hooked us up with a good sitter.

All that was a lot easier to manage because there was a vacation at the end of it. In Florida, with a beach and a sunset and my fabulous fella. And that part was awesome.

My vacation was also kid-free. It was one of two weeks this summer they'll spend with their dad. I missed my kids. Weird that you can have fun and relax when your heart aches because you left three giant pieces of it back home.

I grew up - at least for a little while - on the Gulf Coast of Florida. We were there for just over a day, and it still feels like home. I don't want to move back there, because I like winter just enough that this barely Southern part of the world is the right part of the world for me. But I want to visit more, and I want to bring my kids.

But not right now.

Two weeks ago, my old au pair came to visit, and to help. Our new au pair came to stay. My kids had a week with their dad. I went off on vacation. Then we said good-bye to our old au pair, with a fanfare of tears. So now we're in full-on transition mode.

You know how my kids do with transitions? It's not pretty.

I don't know why, but my kids keep telling me they're stupid. One little mistake and they go all, "I'm an idiot!" Do yours do that?

Oddly enough, Peabo - the one with Asperger's, the one you'd think would struggle the most with change on this scale - he's the one who's handling it best.

It's the redhead who worries me. But I think he's starting to come around.

I did not get a lot of blogging done in those 8 weeks. I did not sleep much. But the Big Get Healthy is working. I'm not sleeping much, but I'm sleeping more. I'm not moving much, but I'm moving more. And I've lost 22 pounds.

Which means all my pants are falling off while I try to catch up on work, get my kids through yet another transition, and go back to missing my San Francisco sweetheart.

Eh. Who needs pants.

Narcolepsy. The good kind.

I keep falling asleep.

My kids left the house today for their weekend with their dad. Five minutes later, zzzzz on the sofa.

Last night, I put everyone to bed, took a minute to sit down and do a quick email check. Next thing I knew it was midnight and all I wanted to do was go back to bed.

I'm awake for important stuff. Meetings. Driving. Playtime with the kids. But give me a quiet moment, and the last five years of sleeplessness hit me over the head with a big rubber mallet and knock me cold for a good two hours.

This is what life off caffeine will do for a girl.

You'd think I'd mind, but I don't. Not even a little bit. This is a relief. A huge, giant relief. Because somewhere deep in my soul I'd started to believe I'd never sleep again. Never. Which is a scary thing, worse that the worst serial killer nightmare, and since I've had a fair number of those you're-being-chased-through-a-department-store-by-a-bad-guy-who-will-encase-you-in-ice-and-pour-acid-on-you kind of dreams, you can trust me. That's scary.

Of course, I haven't dreamed at all in years. When you don't sleep, you don't have those flashes of dream memory, those moments where you can feel yourself flying through the city streets touching the trees as you go by, or watching a sunset over the Gulf of Mexico and the ocean reflecting colors more vivid and striking than any you'd see outside your own mind.

Who knows, I might even start dreaming again. How awesome would that be?

Assuming, of course, that the serial killers keep to themselves.

The Big Get Healthy

A few days ago, I made reference to The Big Get Healthy. I debated sharing anything else about it. I mean, my success on these types of things is spotty at best.

But I'm having fun, and that bears repeating. Publicly, even.

This whole thing started, though, with some serious unfun. Just over a week ago I stepped on the scale - which I do sometimes - and realized I'd just crossed the teeny tiny line between reasonably plump and not so reasonably anything. Between that and the regular sleeplessness and the lack of movement and the amped up stress ... well, I'm on a fast track to heart disease or diabetes or something equally uplifting. And, in that sense, I'm also setting an unhealthy example for the three little people I'm raising.

So I did something about it. I got in touch with a woman I met when I was a ripe old 17-year-old. She's a health coach. She's awesome.

Just over a week later, I'm on a healthful, well-supported, medically researched diet that is having an impact. And, like I said, I'm having fun. I'm having fun because, while most of the day is heavily proscribed and well mapped out, relatively dull, and totally practical, once a day I get to be all creative and play with a meal in a way that's healthy and good.

For the record, the healthy and good part is just as fun as the creative part.

Sunday night, I had a shrimp salad. Shrimp sauteed in a teeny tiny bit of olive oil, with a clove of garlic, a bit of chopped parsley, 1/4 cup of mushrooms and the juice of half a lemon, served over a bed of greens with 3/4 cup (combined) of tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions, with light balsamic vinaigrette sprinkled over top.

Monday, it was tilapia marinated in a little fresh lemon juice and baked till flaky. I blended up a quick tapenade from 8 gorgeous, fresh green olives with a little parsley and a little more fresh lemon juice and a clove of garlic and some pepper, with 1/2 cup diced tomatoes thrown in at the end, I spread all that over the fish, then stuck it back into the oven. Great olivey goodness, with a cup of steamed broccoli on the side.

And tonight? Hard-boiled eggs - 3 of them - with a cup of steamed green beans, 1/2 cup of tomatoes and diced red peppers, a sprinkle of chopped fresh chives, pepper and 2 tablespoons of red vinegar.

See? Healthy. And yummy enough that Veggie Girl begged me - yes begged me - to make an egg salad for her.

The egg salad's the only one I thought to take a picture of. But if I come up with anything else interesting, I'll let you know!

It's been a week, give or take. That's it. And I realize this is just the beginning of a very long - a lifelong - journey that will keep me well and healthy and give my kids a mom they can emulate and be proud of.

Just a week.

But I'll take it. And you know why? It's not the life lessons I'm learning. Or the 7 lbs I've lost already.

I'm sleepy.

For the first time in years, I'm sleepy. When I'm supposed to be.

Which means it's time for bed. Good night, y'all.

Over-Caffeinated

You know what's weird? When one cup of coffee does you in. Utterly. Shakes in the hand, woozy feeling in the tummy, kinda wobbly on the legs.

Many many years ago, I gave up all of my caffeine. Every bit. I didn't even eat chocolate. This is because I found a lump and it scared me. I was diagnosed with fibrocystic breast disease, and I decided it was better to be safe (i.e., minimizing cysts by limiting caffeine) than sorry (mistaking a real lump for a cyst and ignoring it).

In the middle of all this decaffeinated goodness, I started dating a fellow who brewed his own beer. Very very yummy beer. He made one particularly yummy brew, a chocolate cherry stout, that we popped open on New Year's Eve. Within 30 minutes, my heart was racing and I was shaking so badly that I couldn't read the cards in my hand (yes, we celebrated the New Year with a card game because I am just that kind of party animal). I was shaking like a madwoman. From the caffeine in a chocolate beer.

Caffeine doesn't like me.

So I ignored it. For, like, six straight years. Until I had my second child, and a full-time job on Wall Street, and I realized that umpteen million years of pregnancy and breastfeeding had made all the fibrous cysty bits go the way of the dodo.

So I had some chocolate. Then I had some more. And some tea. And then, maybe four years ago, a cup of coffee. And then a cup every morning. And sometimes one in the afternoon, too, because Starbucks is just that yummy.

And it seemed to be going okay. Except that today I realized maybe it wasn't.

The past few days I've been on a bit of a nutritional cleansing exercise. It's part of my attempt to Get Healthy (yes, this deserves capital letters, because once you gain that last pound that pushes you across the line into obesity you realize you need to get serious). Getting healthy means eating much, much, much better. It means managing my stress. It means sleeping. Which, in turn, probably means a bit less blogging, but I'm gone so often now I'm sure y'all will hardly notice. I'm gone because the new au pair left, and I'm smack dab in the middle of 8 weeks with nothing but the public school system and a few stalwart friends for childcare, eagerly awaiting the arrival of au pair number 10, who is awesome and asks me questions and writes me emails and introduces me to her boyfriend.

So, the caffeine.

This morning, on Day 3 of the Big Get Healthy, I brewed up a cup of coffee. I left it black, which is just exactly not how I like it. And I drank it. All of it. Because I'd mixed my morning meal into it, and I had to finish the morning meal.

Hey, there, shaky shaky. In 30 minutes flat. Shaky and woozy and vaguely nauseated. After exactly three caffeine-free days.

Caffeine really really hates me. Probably it's time for me to realize I need to hate it right back.

Starbucks, I'm gonna miss you.