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?"