Justin is in Virginia this week and I decided to take the opportunity to write comments for some of the books I have been reading. Apparently the list is finally long enough to propel me to action (either that or I just enjoy being an insomniac while flying solo).

So run to the book list and check out the new additions.

We got a new indoor lens on Craig’s List. Hooray for used camera equipment.

Andrew and Eva had fun playing together.

We managed to have fun at the King County Fair, even if there weren’t as many John Deere Tractors as last year.

David, Jaylie and Andrew had dump truck races in the back yard.

We celebrated Ryan and Emily’s birthdays.

It was a busy week, no wonder I didn’t have time to write.

We braved the crowds and went to see The Dark Knight last night with some friends.

I’m horrible at writing reviews. Let me just say that even after all the hype, this movie did not disappoint.

Amazing. Disturbing. Terrifying. This was so much more than just an action flick.

You should see it. No, let me clarify, first you should see Batman Begins and then you should see The Dark Knight.

Wow.

*Sorry. I couldn’t resist.

Andrew was watching a show while I regained my sanity cleaned the kitchen this morning.

As I worked, I heard this call, “Hey Jen, when you get a minute will you please bring down my milk?”

Granted, Justin usually asks for beer, but other than that it was exactly the same.

At least they both say please.

Justin takes good pictures.

It’s that time again. Time to give myself a firm shake and re-focus on the bigger picture. Again, I am bogged down in the details. Bogged down by a schedule that feels unpredictable and chaotic, unable to enjoy the spontaneity of summer. Bogged down by nebulous tasks all of which need to get done, none of which have a due date. Bogged down by the little numbers that go up and down on the scale, forgetting that there are other measures of success.

Food continues to be a struggle. My group is taking the majority of the summer off, and while I appreciate the need for the break, I have missed the accountability of meeting every week.* It occurred to me the other day that much of my rebellion in my food choices is because I have the mindset of a dieter. For me, dieting comes from a place of self-loathing and disgust. In this mode, I am not good enough and I need to change something about myself. I am comparing myself to my friends, to magazines, to some imaginary ideal and finding myself woefully lacking. Dieting focus on the details. What does the scale say? How do I look compared to her? When I obsess about the scale, I fall in to the trap of believing that a lower number means that I am a good person, or that I have done a good job, and when I see a higher number I am automatically a bad person and a failure, and, if I’m a failure, then I might as well act the part.

Dieting is a vicious cycle. There is no joy in it, no comfort. I am never good enough.

Athletics and strength and health, on the other hand, are part of the bigger picture. They come from the mindset that I am good enough. That I owe it to myself to at least reach my potential. My only competition is myself - what I did last week, last month, last year - so every improvement is a victory. Food is put in its place, as fuel for my machine. You wouldn’t fill your car with crap, why would you use it to fill your body?

The difference between eating for the purpose of dieting and eating for the purpose of health seems subtle, sometimes I don’t even see it. But it is real. For me, being skinny enough, or pretty enough, or size perfect enough is just not enough. I don’t care. But being strong and fast and capable? Those work as motivators. And the fact that, as I accomplish all those things, I become smokin’ hot doesn’t hurt either. I love my body when it’s working hard. I love to see my muscles and sense the connection between brain and tissue. I feel strong, not because of what I am doing with my limbs, but because of what I am doing with my mind. I love doing things I never thought possible, like push-ups (someday soon I’ll do the real ones) and pull-ups (someday I will do one) and running half-marathons.

I need to see these things as the reward for my efforts, no matter what the scale says.

*Because I am not getting an “official” weigh in every week, I am going to take a break from posting my weights here. It would drive me over the edge to have official weights from two different scales. It’s The Crazy, I know, just roll with it. I did take my measurements, since 10 weeks have passed and my waist stayed the same but I lost an inch off my hips. Yay!

I finally read American Gods by Neil Gaiman, apparently it is usually the first Gaiman novel people read, but I like to buck the trends.

Head over to the Book List to hear me rave about it!

I sent my baby off down the hallway; clutching his stuffed pooh bear against his right ear, a habit established as soon as he could clutch.

The library books - “What to Expect When You Go To The Dentist”, “Charley, Maisy And The Wobbly Tooth”, and “A Trip To The Dentist” - are stacked on the library shelf, waiting to be returned. We won’t need them after today.

The papers seemed so straightforward when I first read them -

Treatment Policy: Our office asks parents to stay in the waiting room while their children receive dental treatment.

Followed by a list of potential procedures and actions that may be performed by the dentist and staff, everything from stopping the treatment and talking to the child about holding still to putting a child in the papoose (think straight-jacket) to administering full anesthesia in order to complete the procedure, each followed by a space for the parent to initial their consent (or not). The concept seemed logical when they explained it to me. I understood. Kids react differently when their parents are around. Parents bring their own “dental anxiety” in to the room. (Lord knows I do.) The dentist has a job to do and they need to get it done.

It all seemed fine. Until it was my kid.

I sat in the dentist’s office a couple of weeks ago, biting the inside of my lip and struggling to maintain eye contact as the dentist said, “You know, when a three year old has cavities it is not their fault. It is the fault of the person who chooses their foods and brushes their teeth. You are the adult in this situation. You need to do a better job.”

Before you get all irate on my behalf, let me just say: I really like Andrew’s dentist. He has been a pediatric dentist for something like 17 years and he comes highly recommended by people that I respect, including our pediatrician whose own children go there. He’s a good guy who really enjoys kids. And he’s right. I have done a crappy job brushing Andrew’s teeth. I have chosen not to fight that battle.

My guilt doesn’t help as I sit in the waiting room.

I sit and wait. Staring down the hallway where my baby walked, holding the hand of the hygienist and clutching pooh bear to his right ear.

I try to pray for him, for the dentist and the hygienist, for myself. Nothing comes. I fall back on the old standard, “Lord help. Lord help. Lord help.” I stick with it for a while, until my heart rate returns to normal and I have overcome the urge to sprint down the hallway after him. God is in that room too.

I try to read but the magazines are stupid and the plot of my book is too confusing. I can’t focus.

Thirty minutes pass. They said he would be done by now. Forty. Forty-five.

About an hour after I watched him walk away, I hear his piping voice in the hallway. Talking a mile a minute, unintelligible through the Novocaine. I hear the hygienist laugh and turn to see the dentist crouch down for a high-five. I can finally make out what he is saying, “I did a good job! I was a brave boy! I did it just right!”

His face is crusted with dried tears, but he is glowing. The hygienist leans over to me, “he had a hard time at first but we talked to him and we didn’t have to use nitrous or the papoose”. I’m impressed and I tell him so. I can tell that he knows I mean it.

He collects his prizes from the box and keeps pooh bear clutched to his ear as we make our way out to the car.

He is asleep before we got out of the parking lot.

I sent my baby off down the hallway. My little boy came back to me.

I’m so proud of him.

Someday he’s going to be too big for this.

I read Blue Shoe by Anne Lamott while we were at the beach. Sashay over to the book list and see what I thought.

I ran in to the sunrise this morning.

Southeast and then north, facing the dawn as long as I could.

I ran to wipe out the worst week I have had in a while. (Apparently Weight Loss Group On Summer Hiatus = Death Spiral. I thought I was prepared.)

I ran to celebrate the last couple of days, which were much better.

I ran in silence. I left my ipod at home and listened to my breath, the birds and wind.

I ran in to the sunrise this morning.

It was sacred.

Andrew is an unbelievably good sleeper.

He wasn’t always, but he is now. At least 10 hours at night and 2-3 (often more) hours every afternoon - like clockwork. It’s a beautiful thing and I do everything possible not to mess with it.

But there was a day last week when it all got messed up. As usual, I had a plan. He would wake up at 6:30 (he always does, you know), we would play hard all morning, down for a nap at 12:30 and up in time to go for a walk with my friend at 4:00. Perfect. Foolproof.

Except he slept until 8:30.

I watched him carefully all morning for signs of tiredness, but he was going strong. 12:30, 1:00, 1:30. I knew he needed to go to sleep soon if I wanted to avoid having to wake him up to go for the walk. (Aside: The concept of ‘waking the dragon’ may have been created specifically to describe what happens when one tries to wake Andrew up. It’s frightening.)

At 2:00 the unthinkable occurred to me - maybe he should just skip his nap and rest in the stroller while Arlene and I walked.

I was feeling brave, so I broached the topic.

“Andrew, what do you think about skipping your nap today?”

He looked up at me, surprised, “No nap? But why?”

I started the explain the intricacies of our schedule and reminded him how grumpy he is when I have to wake him up and then I realized that I was over thinking (and over-explaining) the situation.

“We’re just not going to take a nap today, buggy. I’m sure you’ll be okay.” (read: I’m sure I’ll be okay.)

He went back to his sandbox, wide-eyed at the impossible turn the day had taken.

And, much to my chagrin surprise, it turned out just fine. He asked to go to bed at 3:00 and we compromised by watching two episodes of Curious George and snuggling.

As I sit here today, two hours in to his nap, a part of me still shudders to think that the day will come when he will not need a nap. When my introvert will have to look elsewhere for time to recharge. The thought of being on and engaged all day still terrifies me a little bit. But then I remind myself that those days are a ways off, and that he will be in school for some of the time, and that, as he gets older, he will become more and more independent. And I think of all the options we could have if we didn’t have to be home every afternoon, all the fun things we could do, all the places we could go.

I think that I caught a glimpse of the future, and I think that I’ll be okay.

Despite the gray clouds and pounding rain of yesterday morning, I think it is safe to say that summer is here.

Nothing tastes sweeter than the first ripe strawberries, washed with the hose.

We arrived at our neighborhood park to find that it had turned in to a construction site, something about expanding a culvert. The exciting part was that, when they went to lunch, the workers said that they would leave the doors open on their equipment and Andrew could sit in the cabs and pretend he was a construction worker!

O Happy Day! Who needs slides when you have heavy machinery?

I was going to write a letter to the city thanking these workers for going so far above and beyond the call of duty, but then Justin pointed out that they would probably get fired if anyone found out they were letting kids climb on the equipment or leaving it unlocked while they were at lunch. He has a point - considering the litigious state of our society. So I will trust that their good deeds will not go unnoticed.

Hooray for a themed Works-For-Me-Wednesday! This weeks WFMW theme is recipes with five ingredients or less.

This may be cheating, as the potential ingredient list for this meal is virtually unlimited, but I’ll list the five ingredients I always use and then some of the options.

Tuna Salad For Grown-Ups

1 can tuna, drained (I love to use albacore!)
1 tbl reduced fat mayonnaise (or to taste)
1/3 cup dried cranberries
1/2 cup finely chopped/shredded carrots
1/2 cup finely chopped pickles

Drain tuna and mix with mayonnaise. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Serve over salad greens, in a wrap, sandwich or pita pocket, or eat with a fork straight out of the bowl. Keeps well in the refrigerator for 3-4 days.

I use these five ingredients every time I make this salad. Other tried and true options include sesame seeds, chopped celery, red onions or raisins. You can also substitute chicken for the tuna if you prefer. I’m always trying to think of new things to add, what would you put in this salad?

It’s quick, filling and makes a great lunch or light dinner on hot summer days. Enjoy!

Check out Rocks In My Dryer for more great Works For Me Wednesday ideas.

or something really cool is happening.

The scale last night said 202.2. Up 3 lbs. And then I weighed myself this morning, 195.8. Really? 6+ lbs overnight? Whatever. I hate the scale.

But that’s not the cool part. No, the cool part came last week when I had another epiphany. (Or was it a continuation of the same epiphany?)

As fair warning, I will advise that you brace yourselves, this story might seem weird.

I was sitting at my kitchen table last week, early in the morning. The house was quiet. The street was quiet. The sun was starting to rise. I had just finished reading in 2 Corinthians (chapter 12) about Paul’s thorn in the flesh. The thing in his life (no one knows for sure what it was) that held him back. The thing that bothered him, frustrated him, pained him and forced him to depend on God’s strength, rather than his own. No matter how hard he tried, Paul just couldn’t shake his thorn.

I read the passage and felt the frustration welling up inside of me. I have always seen my issues with food as my thorn. I started journaling, raging at the unfairness of God. I don’t want this to be my thorn. Why would you give me this thorn and then give me such a strong desire to overcome it? God, I believe that you want me to take good care of the body you have given me, yet this thorn is keeping me from taking good care of myself. I don’t understand! I went on in this manner for some time. I was so frustrated with my failure, so frustrated with what seemed to be a hopeless situation. Nothing ever changes, God. Why would you give me the desire for change and then not give me the ability to change? Paul, PAUL, never overcame his thorn. How can you expect me to overcome mine?

And then (and this is where it gets weird), I heard a clear and distinct voice in my head. This isn’t your thorn, Jenny. Food isn’t your thorn. You have made it in to your thorn. You have chosen to live like it is your thorn. But food isn’t your thorn.

I felt like somebody dropped a ton of bricks on my head. My issues with food are sin. God does not make me sin. When I sin it is my choice. I am not the victim, I am the perpetrator. If my struggle with food is life-long, it is because of the choices that I make. Food is not my thorn.

We can go round and round picking about the theology of this whole experience, or debating if I should call the men in white coats, or suggesting that - since I am hearing voices - maybe I should get some more sleep, and all of those options seem safer to me than clinging to the promise that I heard and acting accordingly.

Change is scary. Letting go usually means that you will fall. Our tendency, as humans, is to cling - white knuckled - to the norm. But the norm is not working for me, so I’m going to cling to that voice in my head that tells me things can change.