Just a note.

I really dislike being congratulated on my weight loss.  “You’ve always had a pretty face.”  Or, “Well, I’ve always thought you were beautiful, BUT…”  Or, “Isn’t it fun to shop for clothes now?”  Or how about, “I bet Bryan is loving it!”

Those words are not encouragement.  Those words are not telling me I look wonderful.  Those words are saying, “YOU WERE SO DISGUSTINGLY FAT.”

Why I don’t write these days…

I spend a huge amount of time watching powerlifting videos on the internet and then recreating them in the basement at the Y.  Maybe it’s a coping mechanism to get me through the winter?  Maybe it’s my true calling in life?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I’ve been avoiding my blog because it’s this close to becoming one of THOSE blogs.  You know, the kind with embedded videos of ME powerlifting.  Cause that’s good internet right there.

In all seriousness, folks, the New Year approacheth.  I will survive Christmas, and start 2012 with a 200lb deadlift.

Pray for me.

Pressing on.

Holidays are not for the mentally ill.  All the change in routine, the extra people, the money management, the sugar, the shortening days.  It’s maddening for the perfectly sane.

I thrive in ordinary time, days well guarded by white space and rhythm.

I find respite in Advent calendars.  Tiny doors and boxes opened one day at a time, in linear progression, moving forward in time toward a magnificent goal — the celebration of the Incarnate Deity, and lengthening days.

In November, I start with the lists — I write out every special meal, party, church service, play date, shopping trip, and phone call I will have to make for the month of December.  Then I fill in as much normal activity as I possibly can.  I highlight the mundane days, the totally normal trips to the grocery store, the daily trek to the YMCA.  I do my best to keep my head down, and plow ahead in faith.


Advent miracle.

This day started late, with both girls on top of me, trying to get warm, trying to wake each other up, trying to see how many times they could cram a phalange in one of my warm spots or punch me in the bladder before I broke.  It was dark and raining, so we were all confused about the time.  By the time we got changed, dressed, and downstairs, it was 9, we were late, and there were no coffee filters.

When we got in the car to head to the gym, Bea discovered that she’d left her window rolled down “just an eensy little crack” and the rain had soaked her seat overnight.  I ran back in for a dishtowel for her to sit on, and listened to her bossy little speech about how I really should check all the windows every day so things like this don’t happen, like a good “coachwoman”.

When we got home, no one wanted to eat, especially not Leona, who’s diaper, and pants, and jacket (!), were filled with the spectacular poop of a toddler who has diligently consumed an entire box of non-toxic crayons.  I gently, exquisitely, wiped her backside and made her good as new, while she raged at my audacity with such fierceness, I started to think I really had done something wrong.

Once we’d all settled in to nap time, Beatrice charged in to my room and threw herself on the bed beside me.  “I want to look at dolls on your computer with you and look at all their clothes and see a picture of the bones of a snake,” she opposite of whispered.  “Beatrice, it’s quiet time.  No talking, no touching, no playing.”  “I am being quiet!  Can’t you hear me!?  Look!  Leona’s awake anyway!  YAY!”

Tonight I stood in the kitchen, half an hour past the girls’ bedtime, one with a spatula, one holding on to me for dear life, nursing.  One handed, I fried bacon while I did my best not to help the three year old scramble eggs.

She did not eat them.

Today was a beautiful day.  I was punched, scratched, pinched, screamed at, degraded, insulted, disregarded, disobeyed, and shit upon, but I did not yell at my kids today.