“Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not through its growth but by washing away from it all that is not gold.” - Leo Tolstoy

I almost wrote this on Monday. Amid a flurry of self-doubt, self-pity and general hopelessness, I almost wrote what I was sure would be a post about how nothing I do is good enough, about how nothing ever changes and I should just give up my stupid dreams of a Jenny that is different than the one I have.

I almost wrote this last week. Amid frustration and fear, I almost wrote what I believed in the moment - that I am not strong enough, that I can’t keep trying, that I am tired and weary and overwhelmed by the sheer weight of everything.

I almost didn’t write this on Wednesday. After I lied to myself and allowed the scale to tell me that I am full of awesome and all my dreams will come true any minute.

I almost didn’t write this at all, because, as much as I let The Crazy out, it seems that there is always more and I’m fucking tired of looking at it.

I wrote this today because I know I have to get out of my own head.

I still can’t decide if freeing The Crazy is helpful or harmful. I know that seeing it written down often proves it to be utter nonsense. I know that, if I let people see what I am thinking, a dear friend will often respond with a well-timed comment or email, reminding me of the truth. I know that I can not allow myself to isolate as much as I do, that being alone provides a breeding ground for insanity. But in some ways, seeing it written down makes it more real. The tension between removing the power of the lie and giving it strength by legitimizing it with letters is too much.

The theme of this round is my proclivity to self-destruct, often as a precautionary measure, in hopes of retaining the illusion of control and warped perfection that I hold so dear. In a dark corner of my brain, there is something telling me that destruction, on my own terms, is preferable to even the potential of failure. I give a lot of lip service to the journey, but in my mind, it is still the destination that proves my value.

Yes, I am losing weight. Yes, I am different than I was one year ago, or five years ago. Yes, I have started habits that I believe will last a lifetime. Yes, all of that is certainly a precious gift that I can not take for granted. But the ugly parts of my heart are still ugly. I still don’t understand what to expect from myself. I know I talk a lot about weight loss and food plans and exercise; they are but small, manageable parts of a much bigger picture. I can set goals and attain them and that gives me the pats on the back I need to feel good about myself. But, in the middle of all that progress, I still worry that I am not making any real changes at the heart level.

The Crazy tells me that until I have finished changing my heart and clearing out all the ugliness, everything I do will be tainted by its remaining imperfection. It tells me that, to avoid the taint, I should sabotage all my efforts until I can be sure that my motives are pure and I hear the crescendo of the happily-ever-after music in the background. It tells me to willfully self-destruct rather than settle for anything less than my twisted version of Doing. It. Right.

My misguided notions of perfection and purity of heart are, to me, the single biggest boulder that block my path to change.

It’s crazy. I see that. I can’t even articulate it clearly because IT MAKES NO SENSE.

Except sometimes, in the dark and twisty corners of my mind, it does.

I am in love with my excel spreadsheet.

Or maybe I’m in love with the nice boy who listens to what I want to track and then makes neat formulas so that I have charts and graphs to cheer my nerdy heart.

Truthfully, it’s a bit of both.

As I entered my distance for my final run in February, the total mileage column magically updated itself and I saw that I ran 42.84 miles in this month of sickness and nasty weather. The total is slightly down from my January number of 47.54, but still pretty damn good, all things considered.

Now that I’m back to full health, I’m looking to really start training for the half-marathon and that means increasing my distance.

Yesterday I seized the opportunity to go on a run in the last hour of daylight. In the course of 20 minutes I had decided to go for a run, informed Justin and Andrew of my plans, changed my clothes, started my ipod and took off. I did not set my watch. I did not check my pace. I just went for a run. As I came to the first turn in my loop (about 2 miles in) I realized that I was too hot. Too hot! I stopped and took off my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist. For a while I kept checking to make sure I was even wearing clothes, it felt so weird to be out with only one layer between my skin and the air. I started in on the nasty, hilly part and started thinking about the progress in the last year.

Almost a year ago, I started the Couch to 5k program. The first week I could not complete all of the 90-second running intervals. The thought of running for 10 minutes straight seemed insurmountable. I remembered the feeling of euphoria when I ran for 15 minutes and then when I ran for 20. I remembered the point when I realized that it would be easier to just keep running for the whole distance than it would be to think about stopping for rest. I realized (as I started on the happy, gently downhill portion of my run) that, even though I wanted to be a runner, I never imagined that I would decide to go running and choose - with glee - to run 6.5 miles instead of the 4 I had planned just because the longer route is so much nicer.

There has been a lot of Crazy floating in my head recently. So much that I often lose perspective and forget all the things that have changed.

Where were you one year ago? Where will you be this time next year?

I read a lot of books when I was sick. Rivals For The Crown and On A Highland Shore by Kathleen Givens, and The View From Castle Rock by Alice Munro.

Check them out on the Book List today!

207.3.

207.3!!!!

I know that is a record low on my graph dating back to April 2007 and I’m pretty sure it is a record low for the seven-plus years since I got married.

And, as an added bonus, I have been running more with no pain in my foot and it is sunny again today!

Yay! Yay! Yay!

(Can you tell I went running this morning? I love adrenaline.)

My excitement about the coming of Spring borders on indecent.

“The illusion which exalts us is dearer than ten thousand truths.” - Aleksandr Pushkin

In every friendship there is a point where you go from putting on a decent, moderately clean face to actually letting another person live life with you.

At dinner on Thursday night, Nick crossed that line. He emailed earlier in the day to ask what he could bring and I assured him that I had everything under control. Of course, I didn’t check the contents of our refrigerator when I made that statement and I didn’t even start getting food out until after he arrived. Only then did I realize that I was working with one chicken breast and less than half a jar of marinara sauce - thankfully I had a lot of pasta and garlic bread. Dinner was fine, if a bit carb-heavy, the boys shared the chicken and I pulled some other stuff out for myself.

Even though I’ve been friends with Nick for more than 10 years. Even though I know that he doesn’t care. Even though everyone left the table nourished and happy. Even though it was a fun night that included, but was not limited to, poop in the potty (!), good conversation, and Andrew turning Nick’s body in to a racetrack for his cars. Even with all these things, my inner Martha Stewart wanted to die.

So much of my self-worth is tied up in doing things right, having everything together and controlling even the casual circumstances so that I come out looking calm and self-assured. As a housewife, having company for dinner becomes my time to put on my best show. The battle between appearance and reality is a constant one and, as much as I want to be a person that is real, too often I focus on the appearance. It’s frustrating that I can’t just laugh about it. It’s frustrating to look back on this small, ridiculous situation and realize how much it bothers me. It’s frustrating that I even try to keep up the appearance with someone who I have known for so long and who reads this blog. Do I think that my facade is still standing?

I do. And try as I might, I can’t seem to let that go.

Justin tells me that when he was in high school they had to track their caloric intake for a month. He averaged 4000-6000 per day. PER DAY. And his weight was up around 160 when we got married three years later.

Oh. Sweet. Mercy. I am not ready for a teenage boy.

Andrew is going through a growth spurt right now.

So far today my three foot high teenager has eaten:
Two containers of yogurt
One peanut butter and jelly sandwich
Three graham crackers
One package of fruit snacks
Two fruit leathers
1/4 cup blueberries
Two mini-bagel pizzas
8oz milk
1/2 cup cereal
Two juice boxes
8oz water
Five Wheatable crackers

I’ll say it again. Oh. Sweet. Mercy.

As we passed the milestone of Andrew’s third birthday, it dawned on me that I should probably stop avoiding the potty-training issue.

I know. I know. Kids learn when they’re ready. You can’t force it. If you watch, you will know when he is ready. Don’t force it. Don’t force it. Don’t force it. Trust me. I know.

But, in the middle of all the not forcing it, there is a definite place of apathy and avoidance. I have no pets for a reason (and it has very little to do with Andrew being allergic to them - although I love having that as an excuse). No, the bottom line is I hate the mess and potty training is nothing if not messy. Diapers are just not a huge deal for me. They are certainly not as big of a deal as a sticky, smelly mess on the floor or in the pants. They are certainly not as big a deal as the fights I have seen in families with potty-training children. And besides, if he needs to wait until he is ready, that excuses me from any responsibility whatsoever, right? I can ignore the questions he is asking and the comments he makes about the potty for a little while more, right? And then one day he will just drop the drawers and use the potty without ever being shown what to do…right?

Yeah, not so much. Because this isn’t about how clean my house is or how easy my day is, it is about my responsibility to teach my child and guide him in the process of growing up. And part of growing up, despite all of Andrew’s protests to the contrary, is getting rid of the diapers.

It is funny (and immensely ridiculous) how predictable we are sometimes. I came to the conclusion that our time had come last Thursday. So, instead of forming a plan of attack or reading up on the issue at hand, I decided to inform Andrew that we were going to take his diaper off then and there and put on his underwear. I also made the huge rookie mistake of resorting to bribery from the start by telling him that once he learned to go potty in the toilet I would yield to his pleas regarding a certain yellow airplane with a propeller and three wheels that he is obsessed with. Following my pronouncement, he put on his underwear and went to sit on the potty. After approximately 5 seconds he looked up and said, “Ok. Let’s go get that airplane!”

Well, that’s what I get for not thinking.

Of course he would assume that his gratification would be instant. He’s three.

The next 90 minutes were spent in a cycle of tears, pleading, screaming, more tears, time-outs, more screaming and more discipline. Oh, and Andrew threw one hell of a tantrum too. We calmed down a bit after that, but it was an awful day.

We finally agreed to institute a sticker chart to keep us focused on our end goal of the airplane, er, I mean, using the potty.

Things got a little better as the weekend progressed. He is nowhere near potty-trained but the sticker chart for practicing is almost full and I am planning on getting the damn airplane and starting over with a clean slate and no bribes.

Part of me knows that this, like everything else in Andrew’s life, is one of those things that he will be behind on for a while and then, one day, he will just up and do it. I remind myself that he wasn’t crawling on his first birthday. That he wasn’t walking at 18 months. That, until very recently, he would not play on playground toys if other kids were there. That he still doesn’t climb or jump like other kids his age. But he is getting there. At his own time, in his own way, he is getting there.

If I can keep my cool and cut the drama, he will get there with the potty too.

We chose to celebrate this mid-winter holiday with the always popular President’s Day Barbecue.

The weather was clear and cold. Perfect for cooking out and eating in.

It was so nice to get reacquainted with my garden and all the joys of our backyard.

My Hellebores are leading the way for all the garden loveliness to come.

Andrew did some important spring cleaning in the quarry…

…and tuned up his lawnmower in preparation for a busy summer.

Hurry, Spring!

Okay, maybe a pox is a bit harsh, but my group was canceled last night due to President’s Day and I really wanted the positive reinforcement of stepping on the scale after a week where food and exercise worked the way they should. I wanted the instant gratification of the scale, not just some knowledge that making the right choices and sticking to my plan is what I should be doing.

But I didn’t get that. Because of the holiday.

My inner-control-freak is thoroughly annoyed.

I guess I just have to keep going and trust that next week is going to be good.

I’ve taken three ice baths in the last 90 hours.

I’ve seen people take ice baths before. I’ve read about their efficacy in reducing recovery time. Intellectually, I can understand how, if putting an ice pack on a sore ankle helps it feel better, then sitting in a bathtub full of ice water could help the whole lower body feel better.

I smirked a bit when people suggested that I try ice baths after long runs, inwardly swearing that I would stick with my pounds of prevention before I tried even an ounce of that cure.

Then, because I apparently must be a glutton for something and food is no longer an option, I asked my much stronger, much faster cousin for some advice on how to better use my 45 minutes at the gym. She suggested I start some short burst interval training using bodyweight resistance exercises.

The workouts kicked my ass. I had sweat dripping off my nose by the middle of the first set and off my earlobes by the end of the workout.

I almost fell down the stairs on my way to the locker room. I could barely walk. I tried to alleviate the pain through my old standards - stretching, hot shower, a little bit of Advil. I tried to ignore the reminders about the ice bath.

Nothing took away the ache.

I surrendered to the inevitable.

It’s really not so bad, once you’re numb. Lamaze helps. And I can walk again.

I guess I’m sold.

Fragile Things: Short Stories and Wonders by Neil Gaiman captivated my imagination. Head over to the book list to find out why.

I asked an important question yesterday: How long have I been fighting the same 4-5lbs?

Thanks to my record-keeping, I have the answer.

Most of the time, I enjoy looking at the lines on my weight-loss graphs. They trend downward and, even when they creep up, they turn around and head down again. And while I want them to only be heading in one direction, I recognize that a line that hovers around the same numbers is certainly preferable to a line that heads up.

At many seasons in my life I would have been content with the line that hovers. This is not one of those seasons.

Right now my line hovers between 214 and 208. I started fighting this section of the battle on October 8, 2007 - that’s 18 weeks ago. Since that time my weight has gone from 214.1 to 208.8, with multiple stops everywhere in between. I’m sitting at the low end of that range now at 209.5.

Talk about standing on the edge of something…

It is almost time for my hormones to start screaming for comfort food again. My goal is to do my part, eating what I have planned for the next two weeks (we don’t have our meeting next week due to the holiday) and working out on schedule. It took me three weeks to lose those 4-5lbs after my last high. I sure as hell don’t want to put them back on again.

Last week, I set a goal to keep my food under control over the weekend. I saw, amidst a multitude of gingerbread cookies, how the weekends were thwarting my efforts. All the work I had done over the week, gone in the space of two days.

I met my goal. I can’t say for sure if my success was due to my own particular brand of awesome or if being sick and eating scrambled egg whites and toast for four meals over the weekend contributed as well. I’m not willing to let the sick take all the credit, so I’m feeling good about the results.

My weight this week was 209.5, a great testament to food control on a week that only included three days of exercise.

I’m glad about the results, and proud of myself, I really am. But that number only illustrates my frustration.

How long have I been fighting the same 4-5lbs?

I feel like I have been teetering on the edge of something big for months. I lean over to admire the view, but I just can’t get the gumption up to actually take a step over the edge. All the usual culprits hold me back. I don’t know how things will look. I don’t know how it will end. At some level, I don’t actually believe that I can do this, or that I am worth this much effort. Those voices that hold me back are still there, but they are fading. They are being replaced with some important Truth about myself and my body. They are being replaced with the voices of people who believe in me, people who don’t see me as a lost cause. Daily, I am confronted with the consequences of my decisions to believe one of these voices over the other.

This idea of standing on the edge creates ones of my favorite visualizations. It reminds me of this picture of our friend Brandon, taken on a camping trip in 2003

Yes, the picture is about a person, but more importantly, it is about a view. A vision. Potential and possibility wrapped up in beauty and grace. That is what I want to see when I look at my future. That is what I want to see when I look at myself.

It’s scary. All that space, all that unknown. The view is terrible and wonderful.

Can you see it in your life?

The North Olympic Discovery Marathon and Half-Marathon is scheduled for June 8, 2008.

Despite the last 6 weeks of ridiculousness, I plan to be at the starting line for the half. The course looks beautiful and I have a training plan that will make me more than ready for race day. I’ve even got one, and maybe two, people on board to run with me.

In the interim, I have a few races lined up - St Patricks Day (of course) in March, the Skagit Valley Tulip Run (a 5-mile run through the tulip fields) in April, and I’m looking for a 10k or a little bit longer for May. Planning races makes me excited to run. They are the gold stars on my chart, legitimizing all the work I have been doing and providing the community that is missing in my solitary athletic life.

The idea of team sports doesn’t work for me right now. Not only because of the obvious problems - practice schedules and the fact that I’m not very good at any of them - but also because the idea of being on a team sounds draining, not invigorating. I am an introvert, storing away the energy gained by completing tasks in order to have something to offer when other people enter my world. Exercise, and specifically running, is a task. It is something that I can just put my head down and do, and when I am finished, I feel better than when I started.

But there is something about a race. All the people lined up, a little bit nervous although no one knows why. Energy flowing through the air. Seasoned veterans who look like they could finish the course in the time it takes you to get moving. First-timers, wandering around looking overwhelmed and lost. Boys in the front, proving something to anyone who will watch. Groups of women toward the back, proving something to themselves. Old, young, skinny, fat, walking, running, talking, moving. It is one of those times that I feel good about my membership in the human race.

Spring is coming, my friends! Who wants to go running?

There it is.

Thankfully, the swelling has mostly gone down and it doesn’t even really show when I have my eyes open. The more stories I hear though, the more thankful I am that I wasn’t home alone, or in public, or in the shower … all that to say, it could have been a lot worse.

I woke up at 2am on Friday with a very sore throat. Since we are on to week 5 of The Killer Cold (and it was 2am), I wasn’t overly concerned about this. I popped a cough drop from the ever present pile on my night-stand and went back to sleep.

When my alarm went off two and a half hours later, I woke up feeling nauseous and feverish. I thought maybe I needed a cold glass of water and maybe something to eat, so I put on my workout clothes and trundled off to the bathroom. The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor of the bathroom with Justin shaking me, a definite note of panic in his voice.

He got me back to bed with some water and I slept for the better part of the day while the troops rallied to do my job.

I come from a distinguished line of fainters. If we had lived 100 years earlier, my mom and I would have been the women swooning every couple of days. But, in all my faintings, I have never ended up injured. This time, however, I hit my head when I went down and write today with a mild concussion, a broken nose, and decent black eye. Facial bruising is funny, you can’t ignore it and everyone wants to hear the story. In the past, I’ve always had a good story to tell - my cousin hitting me in the face with an aluminum bat, or something equally interesting. Then the bruise can be worn as a badge of honor, a trophy, but this? This is ridiculous.

Oh yeah, I also have strep throat.

I will spend the next week armed with Lysol and other disinfectants, cleaning my house from top to bottom, ridding myself of this pestilence once and for all.

Spring, I beg you, please hurry. I need to spend a couple of days with all my windows open.

I quit The Observations by Jane Harris a few weeks ago. Check out the Book List to find out why.

We came home from Andrew’s (ahem) well-child check-up on Tuesday with some hardcore antibiotics to deal with his pneumonia, ear infection and sinus infection. Apparently a child doesn’t need to act really sick in order to be really sick.

Someday I’ll get this whole caregiving thing figured out. Until then, we’ll go to the emergency room for things that require Tylenol and stay home when we need antibiotics.

Justin gained 1lb over the weekend. My naturally-skinny-eat-anything-no-fruit-or-vegetables-perfect-blood-pressure husband gained a pound over the weekend, and he’s upset about it. HA!

Welcome to my world, sucker.

I gained over the weekend too, according to the gym scale. Pizza and enough gingerbread cookies for 25 people divided (unequally) among 8 people will do that. I was still down from my last official weight though, so that is good.

211.7

I’m so tired of the 209-212 range. To get out of that range, I need to revamp my weekends.

On the whole, weekdays are fine. Or, if they are not fine, it is because of an isolated incident that I fully believe is in my power to control. Weekends feel out of control. We have company or go somewhere for dinner. We eat out. We drink. We stay up late Saturday night and lay around on Sunday. I run on Saturday morning and think the miles give me a pass for Saturday night. The problem is that I already used my pass on our Friday night date.

Weekends are hard. I know I am not alone in this. But that does not excuse my tendency to act as though they are completely out of my control and that I am a victim of the food that appears before me.

I have a choice. Action leads to reaction.

My goal this week is to have a weekend that is under control. I will continue to write my food down accurately over the weekend. I will make the best choices I can in the face of some food that I do not control. I will not binge. I will eat one dessert, and then I will stop.

I will do these things, and we’ll see what happens next week on the scale.

The week is off to a good start already, I just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other and walk away from the slippery slope.