Lucky

I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend.
Lucky to have been where I have been.
Lucky to be coming home again.
Lucky we're in love in every way. 
Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed.

 Ten years ago today, I married my perfect match.

I will be the very first to tell you that I am only mediocre at the romantics.  Flowers are nice every once in a while; however, love manifests for me in so many other forms:

Standing at the altar, promising to love and to cherish.

Honoring that promise during that first rocky year.

Promising we were in it together when our infertility was finally diagnosed as "my" problem.

Rejoicing with me four years later when we learned we were pregnant.

Holding me up when my heart was collapsing due to the loss of our first son.

Loving me through my fear when we learned our second child was on the way.

Making me proud when he took his oath of citizenship.

Crying with joy when we heard and saw Z's heartbeat for the first time.

Attending EVERY doctor's appointment with me.

Worrying about me to himself but only showing me strength.

Crying right along with me as our son cried his way into the world.

Rejoicing with me in our ups.

Standing firmly with me in our downs.

In the end, there is one resounding force behind it all: love.

Cliche as it might sound, I have been blessed to find the love of a lifetime.  I know how lucky I am to have been gifted with this time with my husband, and I take not even one second for granted.

The last ten years have been the best of my life.  My husband and I have grown over the years.  We have grown wiser.  Grown separately as people.  Grown as parents.  And most importantly, we have grown together.

So today, I rejoice in the day we went from him and me to us.  I am looking forward to every other second we are granted together.

I cannot wait to see what each one brings us.

This Christmas

Each year, one of the houses on my way home from work becomes a veritable smorgasboard of Christmas light merriment.  There are Santas, bears, Nativity scenes, a dragon, a ship...and more.  And all of this is set to music.  Pull up in front of the house and roll down the window and Christmas Carols fill the air.

Every year before this one, I couldn't believe that someone would put all of this in one yard.  Don't get me wrong, it's still a lot more decoration than I would choose for my yard.  But it's not my yard.

I will be quite honest.  When I first planned this post, it had a different feel to it.  It was still my Scrooge-y thinking.  I started out thinking that there was no reason for a person to have that much stuff.

As the days of Advent passed and our family was drawn more and more into the anticipation and true feeling around the season, I really began to see why people love this time of year.   The fun, the wonderment, the all-around good feelings that seem to be sizzling in the air around us all.   There is so much to be learned and gained from this time of year.  I watched the pure child excitement from my son and have been completely caught up in it with him.

And that includes the lights.  I have begun to look at them in a different light.  Yes, there might be more than I would put in my yard.  But, what if the people who live in the house are simply trying to share the joy they feel during the Christmas season with others?  The display has grown over the years, and I would like to think it is because the joy of the season has grown in the hearts of those who own the house.

This Christmas has been about renewed hope, new traditions, and a new outlook on many of the aspects of our family life.

And while Christmas is still not my favorite holiday (St. Patrick's Day still winning top honors), it is certainly mow running a close second.

Birthday Blessings

I have decided that we all approach our birthdays in different ways.  First, there is trepidation.  We worry about getting older. We fret about all the things we wanted to do and didn't.    Next, there is ambivalence.  It is simply another day in life.  Nothing more, nothing less.

And then, there are those who look on their birthday with joy.  Joy for having been given another year to live life, be with family, share with friends. That's not to say there is only one choice. Every birthday is different.

Today, on my birthday, there is joy.  I am well and truly blessed. I also started the day with tears.  The good kind.

The morning started off with my wonderful husband bringing me these beautiful roses:

You have to understand the type of relationship we have to understand how sweet this is.   I will be the first to tell you that I am not primarily a romantic person.  My husband is a fantastic mate, partner, husband, father, etc.  He does so very much for me to help me be a better person.  So, when flowers show up, they are even more special because they are not the most common way we express love.

And I would have it no other way.

He also brought me what has to be the sweetest card EVER.  For a man who can be silent, he does a phenomenal job at finding what he wants to say in the middle of a Hallmark card.

After work, I thought I'd go have a birthday dinner with myself.  A little time alone to celebrate me. That idea lasted for about five minutes.

Birthdays are about love and togetherness for me.  So, hubs had to work. So what?  Ziggy was still at home. And while he might not fully understand the "specialness" of birthdays.  I do, and I wanted to spend it with him. Instead of a steak and veggies and free birthday cheesecake, I had Sloppy Joe's made with my son.  One of the best birthday dinners to date.

The day started with tears. The day ends with them as well. Both times, good tears.  My day has been one of joy. Thankfulness for another year of life.  Appreciation for more love than I ever could have imagined.

And anticipation for what the next year (if I am again so blessed to have it) will bring.

Lessons and Carols

When it comes to Christmas carols, I am a traditionalist.  I love Bing and Nat.  I enjoy the simple melodies of Oh Come, All Ye Faithful and O Come, O Come Emmanuel. 

For the last couple of weeks, I have seen the Lessons and Carols in the announcements.  For once, I actually didn't research it (I know, right?).  I don't think I actually made a final decision about going until after service this morning.  Mrs. Jo  is a wonderful, wonderful lady at St. Paul's to whom Z has taken a liking.  She is so very sweet and asked if we were going to be there later.

That's all it took.

Z then asked me over and over again if we were going.  Who was I to say no?  Stipulation:  must have a nap.  It's been a while since he has gone to sleep that fast.

I know that society tries to teach us that life is all about excelling, standing out, and that bigger is better.

That is SO not my way of life.  I like simple. I like pure beauty.  I find beauty in all of life, not just what society tells me what is beautiful. I find it in nature, in watching a child learn something new, in an elderly couple with stars still in their eyes.

The service tonight was the epitome of beauty.  The Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols is comprised of nine Biblical selections about man's fall, the promised Messiah, and Christ's birth all interwoven with musical selections.  These musical selections are sang by the choir, children's choir, and/or the congregation.

There is little in life that matches the beauty found in the sound of a few hundred voices lifted in song together to rejoice in His coming.

Traditional. Simple.  Beautiful.

Pick One

It never ceases to amaze me the boxes we try to put each other and ourselves in.  We want categories: black, white, gay, straight, fat, thin, short, tall, smart, not-so-much...boy, girl.

I am not now, nor have I really ever been, a fan of the box ideology.  I don't get why I can't just be me, whoever that is.  And I will be the first to tell you that it probably changes daily.

That's also why I try to prevent putting my own child in a little box.  Take this afternoon for example. We have started a family tradition on Sundays.  After church, we hit the Big M for a happy meal.  They are very known for carrying two different toy campaigns at once.  Currently, the choices are Transformers figures or Sanrio watches.   This, of course, leads to the economical way to ask which toy a child would like.  When I placed my order today, I got the expected "is that toy for a boy or girl?"

The manager I worked for was quite unique in this regard.  When I worked for the Big M in high school, she  was adamant that we asked in terms of the campaign.  She wanted no parent to feel compelled to place his/her child in the gender box.  So, today, when I was asked that question, I responded with "a Sanrio watch, please."

I won't put my child in a box.  He watches Dora AND Diego.  He has Transformers AND Sanrio watches.  He likes Scooby Doo AND Disney Princesses. He plays with cars AND cuddles his teddy bears.

I don't want my child to pick one.  I want him to be free to like what he likes and be who he is.

Whoever that is.

And even if it changes every day.

Out of Place

My entire life, I have felt on the edge.  In school, I wasn't exactly a standout.  I did well academically, but while there were those around me who had one subject they excelled at over the others, I didn't.  I was the jack of all trades and the master of none.

This has really continued into my adult life.  As I have gotten older, I have probably become more and more guarded.  With a hidden desire to find my place, this doesn't really help me reach that end.   I want to feel like I have a place, I am just not sure really how to find it.

My self-esteem issues as a child and young adult have passed into my adult life in some aspects.  I want to be accepted for who I am, even though I am still learning who that is.  I spent such a great deal of time being looked over that I am not exactly sure what it feels like to be looked at. 

Six weeks ago, I decided to make a major change for us as a family.  My son and I started to attend St. Paul's Episcopal Church at the advice of some wonderful people.  It was a huge change, but I believe change, when entered into at the best time, is a good thing.  When I first started attending, I was amazed at how friendly and welcoming everyone seemed to be. I was cautiously optimistic, really waiting for it to change.

It had been such a long time since I felt that warm, welcoming feeling that I had grown accustomed to cold distance. I am fairly confident that this isn't how you are supposed to feel in church, but it had become that way.  I felt like I was opening myself up to those around me (in our old church) and not feeling much in return.  My method of stepping out is to take a couple of steps forward and wait for the same to be done on the other side.  Over time, we meet in the middle.  I felt like I was walking across a never-ending chasm.  That no matter how many steps I took, I would never reach the other side.

Since we started attending St. Paul's, I have felt such a renewed lease on belonging.  I have begun to believe that the welcoming nature of the people in this church is at their heart, not just how it will be in the beginning.  A couple of weeks ago, I decided to ask for a nametag to be made.  St. Paul's does this so that people can get to know one another.  For me, making this small decision was the first step on a journey to be a part of something.   I feel like a piece of the whole.  In a world where most people fight to stand out, I simply want to fit in.   And at St. Paul's, I do.

Even without that nametag, I have never felt more welcome.  People I have never met before greet me weekly like I am an old friend.  My son has been cuddled and coddled and has been more open than I have ever seen him.  

Each week, I feel more and more like this was the right decision for us.  I know that this is just a small, small step on a much longer journey.  I am enjoying journey and following the road before me.

I can't wait to see where it leads.

Farewell

Kwaheri!  Au Revoir!  Auf Wiedersehen! Slán Leat! A Hui Hou!


Regardless of how you say it, I am not happy to be saying goodbye.  


For the last few weeks, I have been doing run through weigh-ins.  I run in, get on the scale, call it to the nurse, and she then marks it in my chart.  I haven't actually set eyes on Dr. B in over a month.   This past weekend, I learned why.


While straightening up the living room in preparation for putting up the tree, I found a letter hiding amongst the coupons still to be reviewed and rejected as needed.  The letter was from Dr. B.  It was simple.  She has left the medical clinic where she was practicing.  The second page was a list of referrals.


I was stunned.  I had finally found a doctor who not only supported me in my desire to change my life, but who really worked to make sure I stayed on track.  I mean, the woman gave up her lunch so I could try something new for mine.  


She also kept me from rationalizing.  If I ate crap, I was going to feel like crap.  If I ate the good stuff, I would feel good.  She didn't let me use PCOS as an excuse to continue avoiding my weight issues.  She called me to the mat and told me that the only way I would change was to stop with the bullshit and change.


Might seem like harsh words from a doctor, but they were a welcome respite from the doctors who have glossed over my weight issues in an effort to be fat-friendly.  I don't need fat-friendly.  I need someone to tell me like it is and keep me motivated to stick to it. 


So, with a heavy heart, I go in search of a new doctor.   Requirements:  must be up front, friendly without trying to be my buddy, call it like you see it, and do NOT let me make excuses.


I will still stop by the clinic for my weigh-ins weekly.  I might be disappointed by the loss of Dr. B, but I am not giving up.  I am killing old habits and finding excuses was one of them. Dr. B might be one of the catalysts to the change, but I still have to do it on my own.  No one else can make me eat what's right for me, stick to the plan, and keep my butt moving.


Nope. That's all me.  


I will be eternally grateful for Dr. B.  She was the first doctor who really helped me take a look at myself and make the change. 


Farewell Dr. B.   A la prochaine.   

Four

肆


४


ארבע


๔


Four.  


Today, my son is four.   And I am blessed,  For four years, I have been gifted with this wonderful human being.  I have been allowed to watch him grow, learn, and love.
  

Since Ziggy isn't to the point of asking for a birthday party as yet, we have decided to forgo that activity until he does. Instead, we continued the family tradition of  birthday dinner.  To make sure everyone could attend (well, all six of us anyway), we had dinner yesterday.  Ziggy opened presents, which really consisted of two Pillow Pets...which he has been asking to get for about the last six months.  

Since it was birthday time, Nana and I obliged.  My son later said something to me that marks this transition from toddler to little boy more profound than anything else could have.


He told me he was thankful for his gifts.  

This morning, the other man in my life (hubs) did what has to be the sweetest thing.  Since Z had gotten his presents yesterday, he didn't have any for today.  I had already planned a surprise trip for him, so I didn't think about it.  To make sure he also got something on his actual birthday, Dad brought Z the balloon to the right and a Scooby Doo DVD.  Having grown up with a single Mom and a father whom I haven't seen since I was ten, I am continually amazed by how thoughtful a good Dad can be.


As for today's surprise, that occurred after Z dutifully posed for his four-year-old pictures this morning.  

A few weeks ago, my mother had brought me some coupons.  In that stack of coupons was one for Chuck E. Cheese tokens.  So, we went.  160 tokens, 2.5 hours, countless helicopter rides, three photos, 430 tickets, and several prizes bought with said tickets later, we headed home.   We played, we laughed, and we spent that time just being together.  






Four years ago, I walked into a hospital full of anticipation, fear, trepidation.  Soon, a doctor was going to bring my son into this world and give him into my safekeeping.  Such a daunting task.  For the previous 42 weeks (he wasn't in any hurry), he had been cuddled: safe, warm.   Not a care.  Not a worry.  No concerns from me about how I would make sure this little creature never had those cares or worries.


Four years later, there are sometimes cares.  There are sometimes worries.  I make mistakes.  I learn from them, and I move on.  


But, more importantly, there is love.  There is laughter.  There are moments when I wonder how I was chosen for this task.  I wonder what I did to be so worthy of the gift that is my son.  No longer a toddler, he is now and will always be my little boy.   


And that makes me the luckiest Mom on the planet.

Anticipation

I will be the first to tell you that while it's okay, Christmas is not my favorite holiday (truth be told, it's St. Patrick's Day, but that is another post).   Since my birthday is just a few days before, I grew up being overshadowed by this holiday.

As I got older, it really stopped mattering that my birthday got forgotten in the craziness that ensues with the hustle and bustle of the season.  However, the season still didn't come to mean much more to me than the motions: cooking, eating, shopping, visiting family, practicing for Christmas programs, etc.  In going through the motions, the meaning was lost for me.  I spent so much time trying to cram everything in that I felt like I don't get to enjoy it all.  I normally end the holiday season exhausted, wondering where all of the time went.

This year, it's a little different.  Since I left the previous church, practicing for a Christmas program is off the list.  Most of the gift buying and financial stress of the season is gone because we have minimized our Christmas shopping as a family agreement.  And so, the season is slower for me.  This opens the opportunity for a change in the way I see it.

About a month ago, the boy and I started attending St. Paul's Episcopal Church.  I have talked about how welcoming and wonderful the church has been.  I even requested that a name tag be made for me, signifying that I plan on staying.  In the Episcopal church, the time leading up to Christmas is known as Advent.   Advent is Latin for "coming or arrival."  It is a season of anticipation and preparation for the arrival of Jesus Christ.

As a family, we are starting a new tradition this year: the Advent Calendar.  As I research everything, I researched the "right" way to do this.  Essentially, there isn't one.  There also isn't a wrong way to do it.  As with most everything in the Episcopal church, it is all about finding your own way.  Among their combined Christmas Decorations, my mom and her fiancé found the Advent calendar to the right.  I had actually started to make my own, of which they were aware, and offered that one to us.   Answer?  Yes, please!

For our family, I have put a Bible passage on a card for each day.  I have also included a small goodie for Z on each day.  The plan?  Each night, we will dig into that day's pocket and see what surprises await us.  

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I am excited about the coming season.  I am looking forward to learning more about Advent as the Sundays of the season progress.  I am thrilled about starting a new family tradition.  And I am anticipating the coming days.  I cannot wait to see how the season unfolds and what it will bring to our family.    No matter how it plays out, I know that it will be wonderful.

Although, I am a little concerned about the lack of Christmas Carols...

Halfway

Over the weekend, I gave in to my curiosity and stepped on my bathroom scale.  I have tried to wait two weeks between weigh-ins, simply due to the time factor.   I have been focusing on watching what I eat and trying to walk as much on breaks as possible.

It has apparently paid off.  I weighed at home this weekend and again this morning (for the "official" weigh in).  And in both cases, I am down 25 pounds!!

This did, of course, lead to a celebratory break in the meal plan.  I didn't go crazy.  I didn't eat an entire week's worth of carbs in one meal (which is possible, in case you were wondering).  I didn't overload on cheesecake, eggrolls, chicken and broccoli with white rice, or anything of the like.


Instead, I took the limited (?) time opportunity to partake in one of my favorite fast food items...the McRib.   I worked at the Big M in high school during McRib's last national run, and I am no stranger to this paragon of yumminess.  Touted as a boneless rib patty, anyone who eats it is not fooled.  It really is chopped, pressed, and formed pork.  And for anyone who loves it, we don't care.    After cooking on the grill, it is then soaked in sweet barbecue sauce, nestled on a bun with pickles and onions.  Having never been a fan of the sliced onions (oddly enough, I have always preferred the reconstituted onions reserved for their regular burgers), I order it with no onions, extra pickles.  

As a tip for the other McRib lovers, I would like to point out that its last nationwide run was 16 years ago (when I was cooking them) and it is only around for four weeks.  So, eat up!!

I, however, enjoyed my McRib and am back on track.  It was a nice treat, but its purpose was to serve as an incentive not a roadblock.   It was meant to break up the monotony that sometimes finds its way into the day in and day out eating on the meal plan.  

Today, I am back on the meal plan.  I am now looking to the next stop on the journey, 50 pounds gone.  Sadly, I will have to figure out a new treat for the 50 pound mark.

I wonder where I can get a really good slice of turtle cheesecake...

The Call

As I have previously mentioned. Z and I have gone to St. Paul's Episcopal Church the past couple of weeks.  As with all churches, St. Paul's requested that it's visitors fill out a little card and put it in the offering plate when it passes by.  

First week, I was again caught up in "what-if-I-insult-someone-by-making-a-mistake" mode that I forgot to fill it out.  So, week two, I dropped it in.

I have visited other churches before, and the process to which I have become accustomed is for a member of the congregation to either call, send a letter, or stop by my house.  It's perfectly fine, very standard, so not a big deal.

Earlier this afternoon, my cell phone rang.  A little tied up with a customer issue, I let it go to voice mail.  Imagine my surprise a little while later when I checked the message and heard the warm and friendly voice of Father Polk Van Zandt, the rector of St. Paul's.   It was such a pleasant surprise.   I know church leaders are busy, so I understand why congregation members serve as the ones who reach out.  To have a church where the minister personally calls those who come to visit it such an amazing thing to me.

Father Polk, whom I did not get a chance to meet officially on Sunday due to a hungry child, is fantastic!  He is so very nice, was willing to answer any and all of my questions, and made sure that we had felt welcome in the services.  I assured him we did and mentioned how wonderful Ione had been to Z and me.  As I was speaking to him, he asked about our family's church background.  I gave him the denomination background and decided to go for what we have come to call in our family the "deal breaker."

Okay, I am going to be very transparent here.  I am cynical.  I have trust issues, and I know that.  It stems from learning that people I once trusted are not as okay with my marriage as they initially say they are.  Because of work, hubs doesn't normally get to attend church with me.  It became easy for people to simply forget about the fact that my husband is African.    However, all we have to do to remind them is show up together and the tension is palpable.

And so, when I was discussing my decision to seek another church, I told Father Polk it was due in part to wanting to ensure my son grew up feeling like he belonged. To note, the other church didn't single him out, but my experience has been that the attitude towards the parents will eventually land on the child (or children).  I simply refuse to allow that to happen to him. I told Father Polk about our biracial, multicultural family.  This is normally where a pause occurs and then I get a canned answer that it doesn't matter when it clearly does.

Not today.  There was no pause. No hesitation.  I got a "it doesn't matter, we are all children of God."  And it was a heartfelt, honest response.  That never happens.  That is not the reaction to which I have become accustomed.

But it's nice.  Welcome even.  It is the reaction I always expect and am always disappointed when I don't receive it.  Because, deep down, even though I anticipate the rejection, I always hope for the acceptance.  I always pray that we will be welcomed warmly and that it truly won't matter that my family is different.

Today, we were.  And it didn't.

The Body of Christ

For anyone who has been to a Baptist church in recent years, well, ever actually, you are very aware of the frequency of the Lord's Supper (rarely called communion).  It doesn't happen more than four or five times a year.  Normally, you can count on the Lord's Supper once per quarter to be relegated to a Sunday evening service.  Now, I point this out not to be critical of the practice.  I am simply relaying it in order to draw a comparison later.

For the last two Sundays, Z and I have been visitors at St. Paul's Episcopal Church here in the Boro.  At St. Paul's, Holy Eucharist (Communion) is observed every Sunday and Wednesday.   In my desire to learn more about the Episcopal faith, I found a most wonderful reason for the frequency (beyond tradition, that is):

"God's saving act, reconciling the world to Himself, is so important and yet so hard to internalize that it bears repeating."

There is also the matter of wine versus grape juice.  I know the reasoning from the Baptist side. The fruit of the vine is interpreted literally.  As in, it came off the vine, went into a cup.  No time for fermentation.   Since I am not well versed in the Episcopal faith, I am going to take it at face value that the word wine in the Bible translates literally to wine.   It is pretty much semantics for me, as I think it is important to focus on the symbolism over the contents of the cup.

Reality or not, there was always an idea for me that I couldn't participate in the Lord's Supper in a Baptist church unless I was a member there.   St. Paul's makes it very clear that if you have been baptized in any faith, you are welcome to take communion.   So, on Michael's recommendation, I took communion the first week.  I am so glad he suggested it, and so glad I listened.

I am going to give you my personal take on communion.   Even with its prior infrequency, the act of observing the Lord's Supper has always been a moving experience for me.  I wish I could adequately express how taking of the bread and wine (juice, whatever) transports me to those moments before the betrayal and the ultimate sacrifice provided for insignificant me.  To a time when a man destined for greatness was trying to tell his best Earthly friends that his time with them was growing to an end.   Teaching them to create a ceremony that would allow them to remember those last glimpses of his greatness before he left to be seated at the right hand of the Father.

The first Sunday at St. Paul's, I was so afraid of making a misstep that I missed the preparation of the Eucharist.  This week, I didn't feel quite so nervous.  After having been so welcomed among strangers, I truly felt that no one would laugh if I happened to make a mistake.  And so, this left me freer to watch the process.

There is such...beauty in the preparation.  Instead of following along with the words, I watched Father Colin as he spoke them and prepared to provide these gifts to us.   At the pinnacle of preparation, he lifted a communion wafer, larger than those to be provided to the congregation, announced "The Body of Christ," and broke it in half.

I can still feel the chills that ran down my spine and hear the echo in the silence that followed.

When it was time to go forward, I didn't hesitate.  I didn't feel odd, I didn't feel out of place

I felt blessed.

Like A Weed

"At 3 years and 11 months:

your child is 36 pounds, and that is in the 54th percentile for weight.

your child is 42 inches, and that is in the 84th percentile for height."

In just over two weeks, Ziggy will turn four.  I am NOT ready.  I know it really doesn't matter if I am, it's going to happen.  Today, on a shopping trip for new Sunday morning clothes, I realized that my toddler is on the cusp of becoming my little boy.

And I wanted to cry.  (Still do, truth be told).

That 84th percentile in height means that Ziggy has to wear a size larger in pants to make sure they are long enough.  While an almost-4-year-old is "supposed" to wear a 4T, Ziggy has to have a 5T.  When I wandered into the toddler section of a store today, I was hit with a stark realization.  The clothes for children carried by this store stop at a 4T. This means that I had to look for clothes in the little boys' section.  In an instant, my toddler ceased to be my toddler.

As I perused the little boys' section, the last five years of my life replayed.  I still remember the day I discovered I was pregnant. This discovery followed nearly five years of tests, medication, mood swings, migraines, saying goodbye to my first son, and more negative pregnancy tests than I care to remember.

My mind flashed through first nights with no sleep, months of teething, numerous ear infections, tubes, testing, and allergy shots.  I remembered crawling, toddling, walking, running, jumping, playing.  And giggles...smiles...hugs...kisses...cuddles...and hearing my little boy tell me he loved me for the first time.

While I would love for time to slow down, I wouldn't trade one minute of the last (almost) four years.  I would  not give back one moment of time I have been gifted with him or trade any of it for all the riches of the world.  And I won't worry about stores that do not allow me to stay in the toddler section just a little while longer, clinging to the last precious moments of toddlerhood.

I will just shop at the ones that do.

Secret Garden

I have spent my entire Christian life in one Baptist church or another.  They have ranged from the ultra-conservative Missionary Baptist of my grandfather to the sort-of contemporary Baptist church of my teen years.   For the last several years, I have attended one more out of habit than any particular connection to that denomination.

I decided a few months ago that some habits need to be broken.  So, on the suggestion of my BFF and with the support of new friends I have met through her, I took my son to St. Paul's Episcopal Church this morning.

The usher (female, I will get to why that is important later) handed me the bulletin, which had the entire service. She greeted my son, which many adults fail to do.  When she asked if I knew where to go, I told her it was our first visit. Her response?  GREAT!

She then introduced me to Ione.  Ione would be my guide through service today.  Ione asked about my family, background, etc.   Not only did she show me around, she gave me great insights into the Episcopal way of worship.  She reasserted what the church believes.  She told me that there should be no worries about making a mistake.  It's not about perfection, it's about worship.

Ione took Z and me to see the nursery (just in case) and Z was hooked as soon as Nick (the nursery worker) showed him the trains.   I initially had no intention of leaving Z there. However, I found myself kissing him goodbye with a pager in my hand.  Ione also sat with me through the service, guiding me from start to finish.  She, along with other members of the congregation, were so warm, friendly, and inviting.

Today was All Saints' Day.  It is set aside to honor all of the named and unnamed saints. I will leave it at that, since I have already mentioned that I am NO expert on the subject.   What I can tell you is that the service itself is the epitome of beauty.  The sermon, delivered by the youth minister, was about how important it is to come as you are and come in love for Christ.   He spoke of his Great-Grandmother, led to Christ by a neighbor friend, who wasn't perfect.  She didn't know how to worship, didn't realize the alter is for kneeling and not sitting, had never been to church.  But she came to church with an open heart, leading to a life serving Him.  Her son became a minister, his son became a minister, and his son (the youth minister) followed as well.

At no point did I feel out of place, awkward, or unwanted.   Following sage advice from Michael, I took communion.  I know I wouldn't have done it if I felt even mildly out of place, and I didn't.  These people, who had never met me, welcomed me warmly and greeted me openly.

The feminist in me was also singing during this service.  A woman is the music minister.  Women served as ushers. Young women served as acolytes.  A woman read the scripture during the service.   This might seem trivial to some, but when you come from a background where women are limited to singing, playing piano, and working with the children's ministry, it is amazing to see woman in places of prominence during worship.

The only "down" side I can point out is that hubs and I would be the only interracial couple in the church.  But, you know what, I don't think we would even notice.  My son, who is clearly biracial, was welcomed by everyone, even those of older generations who snub us when they see my family.  Not at this church.  No snubbing. No ignoring.  Just genuine care and concern.

And speaking of Z.  The most amazing thing happened.  My son is VERY introverted.  It takes weeks or months for him to get to the point where he will even make that noise at the back of his throat in the affirmative or negative when asked a question.  Today, when I went to get him from the nursery, Nick was asking him questions about a piece of plastic fruit. Benign, I know.  But the amazing thing is that Z answered. Not just vague noises. Words.  Full sentences.  Speaking.   For any parent whose child is painfully shy, you know this just never happens.

While I do have some questions about the Episcopal faith as a whole, I will be going back.  I want to learn so much more about these welcoming, beautiful people and their church.  Maybe, after some time, it will become my church.  I am excited to find out what the "Secret Garden" (thanks Michael) has to offer to me and my family.

If today is any indication, there are so many beautiful flowers to discover.
 

Small Victory

For me, Fall brings a lot of what I love in life.  The color-changing Bradford Pear trees that resemble flame  The crunch of leaves as I walk through my yard.  The crispness of the air when I step out my front door.



And Candy Corn.



That sugary, honey, tri-colored goodness that will send the consumer straight into sugar shock if he or she dares to ingest too many in a single sitting.

I have been a fan since I was a small child.  Me being me, I take a lengthy amount of time eating them.  I think it is a cross between the desire to savor them for as long as possible and the OCD in me that is overcome with anxiety when I contemplate eating anything in a color variety.

I will explain.  I am obsessed with patterns: number, color, alphabetizing, chronology...you get the idea.  Life became grand for me when the M&M Mars company began selling M&M's in single colors.  I could then get each color in individual bags, thus satisfying my desire to follow the ROY G BIV of color-coding.  Jelly Belly jelly beans?  Thanks so much for selling variety packages with individual flavors separated.  I appreciate you.

So that brings us to candy corn.  As you can see, three colors.  So, I start by eating the pointed ends, move on to the yellow tops, then eat the orange middle.  Why?  I couldn't tell you.  It is my idiosyncrasy.  I just go with it.

Today, I found myself faced with something that could have been disastrous for the meal plan.   My local neighborhood Kroger supermarket was advertising ten bags of this tri-colored yumminess for the bargain price of $2.50.   You read that correctly.  Full size bags of temptation for only 25 cents per bag.  Not the piddly little Brach's bags.  I was caught in day-glo orange colored bags of carb-laden treats.

And I sent out an SOS text message.  And the response, my voice of reason?  She told me that I would regret it later.

And she is absolutely right.   One, because I feel like I am getting back into my groove.  I have been maintaining my 20 carb per day limit for the Atkins induction phase.  I am feeling pretty good about Monday's weigh-in.  Two, because the over abundance of sugar would have surely led to several days of feeling like absolute crap.

So, I walked on by, checked out, and took my Atkins-approved items home.  I proceeded to make dinner (ham and cheese omelet), and I felt wonderful, both physically and mentally.

I needed help, I asked for help, I got help (thanks to Rachel), and I know I can do it. Temptation is there. It's not going away.  But it's not worth it.

Not even for the bargain price of 25 cents.

Speed Bumps

Today was weigh-in day.  Yeah, well.  I would love to say that I hit some magical goal, birds started singing, the sun started shining, blah blah blah.
Instead, it was very perfect that it has been cold, drizzly, and blech outside. The perfect day for staying in bed, pulling up the covers, and sleeping through it. 

But rather than curl up with a good book and some hot tea, I went to face the scale. And today, the score stands as follows:  Scale 1.  Robin 0.  

I am going to be very transparent and honest with myself and say that I have not been following the meal plan.  I got off track with the wedding a couple of weeks ago, and I have had trouble getting back into the groove.  I started a new work schedule around the same time, and I haven't worked to find my flow.

So, what's a girl to do?  Why, text her BFF for a much needed perspective.

Me:  So, I weighed in this morning *sigh* one step back...

Her:  Don't look at it as a step back, just another step on your weight loss journey. You are learning a whole new way to live, it takes time and patience. You're doing great. A step back would be quitting altogether. This is just a bumpy stretch. You'll get through it and be better for it.

And with those words, she shows again how amazing she is.  I am continually thinking that I have to be strong enough to do this on my own.  This time, I have to reach out.  I understand that no one can make me eat well, exercise, and stay on the path.  But I also understand that without the support, I WILL fail.

And failure just isn't an option.

So, I WILL get back to the plan.  I WILL exercise daily. And I WILL reach out when I need a reminder that I can do this.

Because I CAN.  And I WILL.

Riding the Fence

Recently, someone posted scathing remarks about my Facebook profile.  Said profile states the following:

Political Views: Liberal
Religious Views: Saved by a gift freely given, because Heaven knows I could never earn it!

Apparently, he disagrees.  According to him, claiming to be liberal automatically means that I must completely follow the Liberal agenda.  Really?   According to the dictionary, being liberal means to be "open-minded or tolerant, especially free of or not bound by traditional or conventional ideas, values, etc."   By claiming Christianity and a liberal point of view, I am now riding the fence.  I must choose the right or the left.  Too bad I am actually ambidextrous. Maybe I should go make the "l" lowercase, because having it capitalized must mean that I am praying for the downfall of our entire social system. 

It apparently doesn't mean that I believe that Christ loved us all and set the example by making salvation open to EVERYONE.  It doesn't mean that I believe every person should be loved as a person.  It apparently also means that I have to pick.

And to that, I say why?   I don't believe having a liberal way of thinking and being a Christian are mutually exclusive.  I am perfectly fine being a blend of both.  As a matter of fact, I relish it.  It is for this reason (among others) that I am currently a Christian without a church home.  After spending several years being quiet and uncomfortable in my previous church, I made the decision to leave.  I had grown tired of feeling like an unwelcome visitor in the church where I was actually a member.  I did not want my child growing up feeling like he was less of a person based on his family or his race.  I want him to be loved and cherished, welcomed and wanted.

So, the search is on.  My first visit will be to St. Paul's Episcopal Church here in the Boro.  Now why would I, a lifelong Baptist, choose the Episcopal Church?  Well, first of all, based on a recommendation from Rachel. With that recommendation came research (again, lifelong Baptist...and research-minded individual). With that research came the statement from the Episcopal Church's website:

"The Episcopal Church strives to live by the message of Christ, in which there are no outcasts and all are welcome."

Hmmm...no outcasts? ALL are welcome?  Not bound by traditional or conventional ideas?  A church that is both liberal AND worships Christ? 

A church that is, like me, "riding the fence?"

The Wagon

Friday was Biometrics day.  My company offered free screenings for diabetes, cholesterol, weight, height, and BMI.  Although I had all of this done a few months ago, I figured I'd take advantage of The Company paying to make sure I was still on the right track.  I also want to see if the change in what I eat has impacted my cholesterol in any way (less carbs, more protein...could be bad).

Obviously these things weren't my concern.  My concern was the weight.  I hadn't weighed in eighteen days, and I hadn't exactly been sticking close to the meal plan.  The wedding was during this time. There was food, drink, merriment...and while I tried to keep the non-food plan food and drink to a minimum, there was tea and Elijah's loaded mashed potatoes...not to mention Copper Ridge White Zin.  I tried to balance the eating with exercise as a way to minimize the damage.

So, with slight trepidation, I stepped on the scale.

And was pleasantly surprised.  I was hoping for at least no major gains.  Instead, I had lost another almost two pounds.  Now, two pounds in eighteen days isn't fantastic, I will give you that.  But, I also didn't gain anything in that time. I ended lower than I had started before.

And, even better, I was able to get back on track after being off my routine.  I might have hopped off the wagon, but I was able to hop back onto the next one.  I didn't let it run me over.

This next week, I will be searching for low-carb recipes to bring some life to the meal plan.  I want to stay on track and canned tuna and salmon are not really helping me do that.  I have become bored recently, so it is time to inject some life into the meal plan.  If I am bored, I am NOT going to stick to it.

Thankfully, there are tons of low-carb recipes available.  I also updated the ticker with my end of year goal. I think having the shorter goal will help make it feel more attainable.  I have eight weeks to lose 27.4 pounds.  It is entirely doable.  This week's focus will be exercise and experimentation.  I am looking for meals to keep me engaged with the plan, so that is the challenge for this week.

We'll see how it goes.

Beautiful Spirit

I have wanted to post some version of this blog for quite some time.  When it goes through my head, I battle with how I want to word it, how I want it to sound, and my own emotions.  I have started and erased this blog post more times than I can count.

So, what's different today?  Today I have seen so many people display their support through posts, pictures, clothing, and accessories.  I have seen many refuse to stand idly by as others are bullied to the point that they think ending their lives is the only option they have.  I have watched them display their solidarity in varied shades of purple.  Brilliant and bold.  Brave and beautiful.

Today, on Spirit Day, I finally found the words I have been longing to say.  And not all of them are mine.

My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. John 15:12

Hatred stirs up dissension, but love covers all wrongs. Proverbs 10:12



I love people.  I have always loved people.  I have already mentioned my perpetually perky state.  Along with that goes a genuine caring about the well-being of my fellow human beings.  Color, class, creed, gender, sexual orientation, etc: none of those things have any bearing on who I care for or about.  If I take offense from a person, it is going to be solely based on the way that person and I interact (the reality is there is no one who gets along with everyone).   As a Christian, I take God's charge to love one another very seriously.

For a long time, I felt like I had to hide many of my personal feelings.  I felt stifled by those who use the Bible to support hate and judgment.  God is a God of love, not hate.  He calls upon us to care for one another, not to tear each other down.   Once, I thought that there was no one to support what seemed to be the contradiction between being a Christian and being open-minded.  I felt alone in my desire to really drive those around me to Christian caring without judgement.  I don't feel that way so much any more.

I have been blessed to meet so many who stand strong together to exhibit the love that should be the example.   Many who join with me in teaching our children that #loveislove.  Those who are brave enough to love in the face of ridicule and judgement. These beautiful people with their beautiful spirits who wore splashes of purple to remind others that we care. Those who share in my belief that enduring love comes in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and varieties.

Because in the end, the LOVE is the important part.

Tea Time

When I think of tea, I have two warring images.  The first is a tall glass, ice cubes, and golden nectar heavy on the sugar.  The second image is of finely dressed women with elbow length gloves sipping from fine bone china cups with pinkies extended.  So, when I was invited to tea with my soon-to-be newlywed best friend, her then-fiance (now husband, her mom, and her stepdad, I was a little concerned about making a fool of myself.  The reason?  This was not to be the cool, tall glass version.  We were having sort-of formal tea.  And I had NO idea what that would entail.  

But, I am by nature curious and adventurous.  While this wouldn't really fulfill that adventurous component (it wasn't extreme tea, after all), it fit quite nicely into the curious part. 

Tea was to take place at the Wilmington Tea Room, situated on the Riverfront in Downtown Wilmington, NC.  While I was initially expecting a shopping trip would be needed to find appropriate attire for the tea, I was told jeans would be fine.  Hmmm...that certainly changed my first idea of stodgy boring tea.  The second thing to break down that image?  The interior of the tea house.

If you are looking for boring and sedate, then bright purple is probably not the best choice for wall coloring.  Of course, that is the first hint that tea at the Wilmington Tea Room is going to be amazing!  The second?  The menu.  There are SO many fantastic choices of tea, sandwiches, desserts, soup, salads...you name it!

The other hint that this would not be quite what I expected?  None of the china matched.  At our table, there were eight place settings.  Eight different place settings.  All of the cups and saucers matched, but they didn't match the plates below them, nor did they match the other settings on the table.  My first reaction when looking around was that it was an OCD-sufferer's nightmare.  So, it was MY nightmare.  I was earlier than the rest of my group, so I started mentally rearranging the plates, cups, and saucers from other tables.  I can't help it.  Patterns are my nemesis.  Any disruption in that and my brain begins to focus on putting the patterns to rights.  Once we got started with tea, all of that went rearranging out the window. As I relaxed into the experience, the hodge-podge, quirky mix became endearing and homey.  

We all had different kinds of tea to drink.  The choosing was probably the hardest part of the experience.  I love tea of all kinds: herbal, black, green, white, you name it.  At the tea house, you have a choice of at least thirty-six different teas (although our list was longer due to seasonal additions).   I love its warmth and all of the flavors that comprise a fantastic tea blend.  In the end, I settled on Vanilla Creme.  

What we had in common was the food:  full tea all around.  With a choice of soup or salad, I went with this creamy, wonderful, Seafood Bisque.  Probably not the best meal plan choice but I am sure completely forgivable as this was the only meal I ate that day (also probably a bad idea).   Also to be found in full tea were scones (berry and plain) with strawberry jam and Devonshire cream.  Layer two?  Yummy little puffs with cucumber and dill, others with tomato, small ham and cheese sandwiches on cinnamon raisin bread (a little strange, that), and some delicious chicken salad with craisins on marble rye.   Top of the stack was dessert: choices between mini carrot cakes with cream cheese icing (this is the only one I ate and learned I adore carrot cake), a coconut macaroon, a chocolate dipped strawberry, and the house specialty Gooey Bar (fudge square with chocolate chip cookie dough on top and bottom).  

In the end, this was one of the most amazing experiences I have had in quite some time.  I committed no major faux pas and had such a wonderful time.  The staff was fantastic, and the food and tea were superb as well.  If you are ever visiting Wilmington, I strongly recommend a stop by the tea room.  Make sure you have plenty of time to sit, eat, chat, and simply take in the surroundings.  You can also sit at tables out on the deck and take in the view.

It is one that I will not soon forget.

The Joy of Cooking

I love to watch cooking shows, and I am a huge fan of Food Network.  Food is like art to me.  The beauty in its simplicity or complexity (whichever applies) is something that draws me.  I love to watch the creation.  I love the image of a beautifully constructed project.

With art, I can only create it through the lens of a camera.  I couldn't draw a straight line if my life depended on it. And anything "abstract" looks like it could easily be made by my three-year-old.

With food, its creation can only be accomplished by me with the use of a menu.  I am, sadly, culinarily-challenged.

When I was growing up, the emphasis was on what was quick and easy.  My amazing mother was providing for two growing children on her own, so anything we made had to be inexpensive, easy to make, and even faster to complete.  We were never hungry, and I learned early that my mom was working hard to take care of us.

As I got older, I can only blame myself.  I still love food, I just never really got into preparing it beyond what I knew.  I stuck with the quick and easy.  Until lately.

I have suddenly developed this overwhelming desire to branch out.  I think it is due in part to the new meal plan and the increasing boredom that I am experiencing.  I am afraid that if I don't inject something new, I might just fall off of the plan.  Eating fish repeatedly is not keeping me interested in staying on task with this food.

Additionally, the constant images created by CanonChefTom and bluebelleinbg are inspiring.  I have to point out that there is NO way that I will ever be able to create most of those dishes (spaghettios are an exception). And that is perfectly fine.  Everyone has to start somewhere.

My first experiment was beef stew.  I went in search of a recipe that would stick to my simple requirement but still allow me to stretch my wings a little.  Traditional beef stew contains carrots and potatoes, and this one was no different.  However, both of those items are definitely off-limits for the meal plan.  The solution?  Eat around them.  I did splurge on the organic honey wheat low-carb bread but after 9 weeks of carb deficient food, I figured I was due a reward.

It was during this experiment that I discovered something:  I LOVE cooking.  While it took longer than my normal 20 minute meal, I found that I enjoyed the peeling, cutting, the creation.  The smells from my kitchen were warm and comforting.  And I made them happen.  I cannot even begin to describe the feeling of accomplishment over something so simple.  It was empowering.

So, I decided to try again.  I have for some time been enthralled with the spaghetti squash.  I love pasta, but I have to abstain due to the meal plan. I have contemplated the possibility of substituting something for the noodles for some time, but I really couldn't figure out what. And then I saw the spaghetti squash at the grocery.   I had no idea what would happen or how to cook this thing, but I was feeling adventurous.  I did a little research to find out how to actually prepare it and learned it could be the perfect partner for my standard spaghetti sauce with turkey meatballs.

And that is what I did.  I don't think I cooked the squash long enough.  It ended up being a little on the crunchy side.  I was too afraid of making spaghetti squash mush, so I cooked it until it came out of the skin easily.  While the texture was a little off from what my brain was expecting, the outcome was delicious!  Paired with my favorite broccoli salad, I came out with way fewer carbs than I would have if I had broken down and had actual pasta.  Add to it another feeling of cooking accomplishment, and it was totally worth the substitution!

And last, but certainly not least (or truly last), I decided to stretch my taste buds (and skills) and venture into the world of Tom's celery root soup that had been much touted by Rachel.  This one was a little harder for me (and hard to find, it took four stores to find the main ingredient - the celery root itself).  I had to force myself to be patient, as this one took some major time.  I didn't want to rush the process and the payoff was worth it.  I left it a little thicker than planned, as it will be reheated today and more stock added to thin it out.  I also now own an immersion blender, meaning the first time won't be the last.  I didn't eat the soup until tonight.  I initially tried it on its own, and it was a little on the sweet side for me.  So, I took the advice in the recipe optionals and added sour cream to cut the sweetness a little.  One word:  divine.  The taste matched the smell that had overtaken my house last night.

I can say with a great deal of certainty that this would never be my career.  I still need to work on patience and realizing that some of the best rewards come to those who wait.  But I do know that there is joy in the process.

And satisfaction in the results.

Bluegrass (Part 2)

When I was in high school, I worked at the Big M of fast food.  I also had a teacher whose belief it was that I would spend the rest of my life doing just that.  One day, he asked the class how we would pronounce the capitol of Kentucky.  "Do you say 'Looeyville, Loolvul, or Lewisville?' "  When he got to me, I politely answered "None of the above.  I say 'Frankfort'."

He wasn't amused.

There is just no pleasing some people.

But, I was correct.  And the capitol of Kentucky, Frankfort, is located in the Bluegrass region.

Visitors of Frankfort are welcome to visit the capitol building.  The highlight of the tour is actually the grounds that surround the building.  Immaculately kept, the gardens are home to beautiful landscaping that includes a clock designed out of flowers.  For understandable reasons, tours inside the building are guided only and do end fairly early in the day (3:30 pm).

For the history buff, the region is home to Fort Boonesborough. When Daniel Boone and company arrived on the Kentucky River in 1775, they created this second permanent settlement in Kentucky.  Today, skilled artisans keep the fort running to give visitors an idea of what life would have been like in the 18th century.  A newer addition, The Kentucky River Museum, is also here and tells the story of how commerce was developed on the river.

Henry Clay's home, Ashland, is also open to the public and is located in Lexington.  Guided tours are provided through the 18-room mansion.  There are also outbuildings (self-guided), as well as a permanent exhibit on Clay's life, a garden and walking trails, and a cafe (open seasonally).

Finally (for purposes of this blog, anyway) there is Duncan Tavern.  Located in bluebelleinbg's hometown of Paris (say hello to her while you are there), this tavern was a popular gathering place for pioneers in the area.  Currently, it is home to the Kentucky chapter of the Daughters of the Revolution.

I have it on good authority that a trip to Lexington should also mean a trip to Columbia's Steakhouse.  As the name suggests, Columbia's offers steaks, as well as chicken and seafood.  However, the restaurant's real claim to fame is its focus on the traditional fare of Kentucky (such as the hot brown pictured to the right...thanks managerflo for the visual).  I have also been told that the other must haves are as follows:  the Nighthawk Special, Flo's Sweet Potato Casserole, and the Corn Pudding.

Another area specialty that CANNOT be missed while in the Bluegrass region is Ale8One ("a late one").  This soft drink has been bottled since 1926 and was named based on one of America's first "name-the-product" contest.  I remember many nights in the dorms at LWC enjoying this favorite "smuggled" into our room by bluebelleinbg.

While I don't remember this other local favorite ever being brought to the hallowed walkways of Lily Hall, I have been educated that it is another "not-to-be-missed" item while in the Bluegrass region.  Mingua Brothers beef jerky is handmade in Paris and available at multiple locations throughout the Bluegrass.  As I am a long-time connoisseur of all things dried meat, I am a little disappointed that there are no stores that stock it closer to me.  Of course...there is always online ordering, the great equalizer.

 The Bluegrass region is also home to three of the stops on the Kentucky Bourbon Trail.  Four Roses, Wild Turkey, and Woodford Reserve distilleries are all located in this region.  All three offer tours and tastings.  Four Roses and Wild Turkey tours are free.  Woodford Reserve, the oldest distillery in Kentucky, offers tours for $5 for those over 18.  A more extensive tour option is also available for a mere $10. 










It is essential to point out that this is no way begins to scratch the surface of the Bluegrass region.  I have to thank bluebelleinbg, MJansenMiller, CanonChefTom, thommarshall, and managerflo for providing ideas and visuals.  More importantly, thank you for sharing your home with me.


If there is one region that pulls me towards it outside of my own, it is the Bluegrass region. It is home to my dearest friend and the new ones I have met through her.  The life and love of this region is evident in the fondness that they each expressed for what they love that is there.  


It is with a heavy heart that I move on, in blog only.  But the farewell will not be for long.  I plan to physically visit this wonderful region in the very near future.