my hopes for mother's day

Yesterday we honored my grandma for Mother's Day.  My mom cooked a delicious lunch of pot roast, corn on the cob, sliced fresh tomatoes, cucumbers with onions, watermelon wedges, and fresh baked bread.  She served the meal on my her grandmother's china and decorated the dining room with pictures of our mothers and grandmothers.  As we ate, we all took turns telling a favorite story about each of our mothers and the conversation soon turned into sharing precious happy memories and laughing about good times.

After our meal, my dad and Dave did the dishes and took care of the kids so we could sit in the living room and continue our discussion.  We started talking about what a conflicting holiday Mother's Day is for the actual people it honors.  For one, because every living person has a mother, the honorees of Mother's Day are supposed to simultaneously enjoy their special day while showering their own mothers with praise, gifts, and attention.  And not having to honor your mother is even worse because that means that you are missing her instead.

Secondly, there is the question of how to celebrate your mother.  How do you combine a lifetime of gratitude and unpayable debt into one single arbitrarily assigned day in May?  When you really stop to consider all that a mother does and gives, it makes all the Hallmark cards in the world seem like a drop in the bucket compared to all of the service and care and love mothers give.

So we sat there, three generations of mothers, each with a different perspective on motherhood, pondering this.  I'm sure we each took a moment to consider what we really wanted for Mother's Day.  We concluded that it was impossible to repay your mother but that just wasn't what Mother's Day is about.

And, in the end, that's not really what I want from my children.  I'm not doing this because I expect some grand gesture of gratitude, or because I want them to feel burdened by a debt to me they'll never be able to pay, or even because I'm hoping that someday they'll feel obligated to care for me when I'm too old to care for myself.  I don't want any of those things.  I just want them to be happy.  My mom said that what she really wants is for us to live happy, successful lives and pay it forward.

I hope I'm doing it right, Mom.

I hope you know that I model my motherhood after all that you did.  Whenever I make a decision for my children, I find myself asking, "What would Mom do?"  If I don't know, I call you and ask.  I hope you know that I'm grateful for that.

I hope you know that I make my way through three hours of church with two active children every Sunday because you did.  I know that you wanted to provide us with a stable foundation in a gospel that has brought you so much true happiness and joy throughout your life and has done the same for mine.  When the fear and anxiety go after my testimony, I hope you know that it's your belief that gets me through it.  "Mom knows it's true and that can be enough for me today."

I hope you know that I take the terms "Smother" and "Helicopter Mom" to be compliments.  I know that the original implication of those terms was not meant to be a positive one.  But to me, they are titles of the highest honor.  Also, until I read the book about being a "Tiger Mom," I thought it meant a mother who was like a tiger to those who wronged her children, a woman who ferociously defended her cubs who were not yet ready to be out in the wild.  That's what "Tiger Mom" means to me anyhow.  I learned that from you.  You were our biggest advocate and growing up, I never doubted you would protect us from the people who didn't have our best interests at heart.

I hope you also know that I'm proud to be a homemaker.  I remember being a young girl and watching you drive off to "Homemaking Meeting" each month and being in awe.  Homemaking sounded like such an impressive term and I couldn't wait to be a homemaker as well.  It sounded like the most important job in the world.  Society has tried to tell me otherwise but I still know better.

I hope you know I get it now.  I get why you were so frustrated when we got out of bed because we smelled popcorn.  I get why you sometimes didn't let us go somewhere when you had an ominous feeling and sensed there might be danger.  I get why you couldn't go anywhere on Mondays during Jack's mission because that was P-Day and you needed to stay by the computer waiting for his email.  I thought it seemed silly then but now I have a son of my own and, although it's still sixteen and a half years away, I'm not sure how I will let go of him long enough for him to serve the Lord for two years.  I get it when I was going through the divorce and you said that it felt just as bad for you.  I was frustrated at the time.  I couldn't understand how it could be bad for you when I was the one traveling through my own personal hell.  I understand now that it was worse for you, that my feelings were broadcast through your soul at an amplified volume.  I hope you know that I get some of it now.  In five years when I have children in school, I will get it more.  In ten years when I have teenagers, my eyes will open a bit more yet again.  In twenty-five years when I'm watching Kate and Sam with families of their own, there will be new and more complex things for me to grasp.  But for now, I hope you know I have at least some understanding of what it means to be a mother.

I hope you know that my children adore you.  Their lives are better because you are in it.  They get love and care directly from you but also your support and advice makes me a better mother.  They are lucky to have you in their lives.

Mostly, I hope you know that I'm grateful for you.  I hope you know I wouldn't be who I am today without you in my life.  I hope you know that you did a great job, that your best was more than enough, that your children will love you forever.

And lastly, I hope you got what you wanted for Mother's Day.

fruits of summer

Sam is our little fruit eater.  His very first favorite food was mandarin oranges.  Next, he went through a banana phase.  Like his sister, he loves a good strawberry.

Last summer, we introduced Sam to watermelon.  He loved it, of course.  As soon as he had cleared his plate, he begged for more.  One day he just kept repeating that cycle of eating his plateful and begging for more.  He ate and ate and ate until his little tummy couldn't take it any more and he spewed pink vomit all over my kitchen.

Fortunately, last year's experience didn't ruin his appetite for watermelon.  On Saturday, I cut a huge melon for Kate's birthday party.  When I had more than enough for our guests, I was left with a beautiful wedge of cool pink fruit.  I saved it for Sam.

Sam had watermelon with his lunch yesterday and he loved every bite of it.  He ate it literally down to the rind and even took a bite of that too.  When I finally took away the remainder of it, he cried in anger at me. I guess I know what we'll be making room for in our fridge this summer.

fun in the sun!

Katelyn had her fourth birthday party this morning.  She invited all of her friends and we planned on having a "Fun in the Sun" themed birthday party with sprinklers and wading pools out in the backyard.

We were nervous all week because the weather report predicted an 80% chance of rain for today.  I made some back up plans in case we would be stuck inside and hoped for the best.  This morning, as Dave and I were getting everything ready for our guests, we looked out the window to see a wall of dark clouds rolling our way.  Fortunately, it rained for a few minutes and the clouds moved by quickly.  We had a beautiful sunny day for Kate's pool party!

Kate and her friends had so much fun sliding into the pool, running through the sprinkler, and playing a relay game with cute little watering cans.

My mom made the most adorable beach cake for Kate.  She created a very detailed ocean side scene of Teddy Grahams sunbathing on little licorice towels and swimming in the ocean with their "Life Savers."  It was perfect for our "Fun in the Sun" party.

Kate had so much fun today.  She is so lucky to have so many great friends.  Thank you to everyone for making Kate's fourth birthday party such a terrific day!

the best date ever

For what seemed like a year of my young preteen life, my sister Lauren watched the movie Miss Congeniality nearly every single day.  Sometimes she would watch it more than once in an afternoon.

Needless to say, I became very familiar with the plot, the characters, and some memorable quotes.

In one of those quotes, Miss Rhode Island is asked to describe her idea of the perfect date.  To which she replies...

"That's a tough one.  I'd have to say April 25th because it's not too hot, not too cold.  All you need is a light jacket."

Four years ago, April 25th was scheduled to be the "perfect date."  My first little baby was due on that day.  But while Miss Rhode Island (and later Miss America) was right about that day being "not too hot" and "not too cold," she was a little off on what would really be one of the best dates of my life.

Here are a few of the most memorable moments from that perfect day, April 28th.

The day before Katelyn was born, Dave graduated from Utah Valley University.  That was two days past my due date.  Everyone told me I wouldn't be able to attend the graduation and I said, "Watch me."  I determined that whether I had a baby in my belly or a baby in my arms, I would watch Dave receive his diploma.  And I did.

Katelyn was induced because I went for a routine checkup and there happened to be an empty room in labor and delivery.  I was overdue and tired and nervous about going into labor.  Dave had graduated that morning and we were going to have a family dinner that evening so he suggested that instead of walking over to the hospital to be administered magical potions that would make my delivery delightfully pain free, I should wait until the following Monday.  I remember thinking that it would be hard to deliver a baby after my head exploded into a million pieces all over Dave.

After making the (nearly) unanimous decision that we would have the baby that night, I started to panic.  I called my mom and told her to GET TO THE HOSPITAL RIGHT AWAY.  She asked if she could wait for half an hour so my brother could give her a ride.  I proceeded to make a scene right there in the lobby of the hospital next to the "It's a Girl" balloons.

I never felt any pain at all because of the epidural but I almost did pass out.  Passing out is one of my biggest fears right behind rabies, SIDS, and bird feathers.  As soon as whatever cocktail of medicinal juice was injected, I went into a cold sweat and the corners of my vision got really black and I panicked.  I remember thinking that my last frame of vision would be the dream team of my mom and Dave furiously fanning my face with the legal papers we were still filling out.  Apparently, passing out from an epidural is fairly common and I didn't have the chance to pass out before the anesthesiologist pushed some different brand of liquid into my IV.

Once the epidural was administered, I was supposed to sleep because it was the middle of the night but I couldn't.  I was way too excited.  After Dave fell asleep and my mom settled into a chair, I turned to watching reruns of Roseanne (which I love) that eventually turned into reruns of Three's Company (which I hate).  In the hustle of the grand event, the TV was left on and Katelyn was greeted to the world by the sounds of "Come and knock on our door.  We've been waiting for you," which, now that I think of it, was kind of appropriate given the circumstances.

When Katelyn was finally born and placed on my chest my world changed in a way that I don't think I'll ever have words to eloquently describe.  Although I had carried that sweet baby around for forty weeks and three days, in that moment I knew that I had become a mother right then.  And yet, at the same time, she was so familiar.  It was like a portal of heaven had opened and in walked the Katelyn, my baby, who I had known for eternity and missed for twenty five years.  It was an other worldly experience that was so special it makes me want to consider having litters and litters of children.

Dave went with Katelyn while she was being bathed.  The nurses gave me fair warning that she was being taken into another room but I assumed a bath would take about five minutes.  She was gone for several hours! (It was really more like forty five minutes.) My mom and in laws started filing into the recovery room I had been wheeled into.  The mood was festive and everyone seemed to be celebrating.  I just kept asking different people, "Where's my baby?  Have you seen my baby?  When are they bringing her back to me?"

Katelyn had a bit of a cone head and some swelling in her face from birth.  I remember everyone kept telling me that the swelling would go down and her head would round out eventually.  I had no idea what they were talking about.  I'm not just saying this to be dramatic but, to me, I looked at her and was staring into the face of perfection.

I was really worried that a baby snatcher would come in and swipe this jewel of a baby.  I refused to keep Kate in the nursery and made my mom and Dave help me by taking shifts in an all night vigil to watch over my precious Katelyn.  Eventually, my mom turned into Hercules and actually moved my bed so that it would block Katelyn's crib.  That way, if anyone wanted to take her, they would have to physically climb over my body to get to her.  I finally slept but with one eye open.

When I came home from the hospital, my mom had cleaned my apartment and my Dad and sister were on their way home from the store with fresh groceries for my fridge.  This included a twelve pack of Diet Coke which I had somehow abstained from during most of my pregnancy.  I felt like I had stumbled into heaven.  I remember sitting on the couch with my tiny new baby surrounded by my family and feeling so excited about the rest of my eternity.

Sometimes it feels like April 28, 2012 was just yesterday and some days it feels like a lifetime ago.  That beautiful baby girl made me a mother and in these four short years has taught me so much about happiness and laughter and Hello Kitty and Peppa Pig and unconditional love.  Four short years and one day ago, I hadn't even met her and now I can't imagine what life would be like without her in my life.  She is one of the best things to ever happen to me and I am so grateful that I get to be her mother.

Happy Birthday Katie Girl!

car washes and dieting

Katelyn and I are facing our fears one car wash at a time.

She is terrified of the car wash.  I took her once as a young toddler, thinking she would be delighted by the experience of driving through a tunnel of soap suds and whirling scrubbers.  I've always found car washes to be a combination of peaceful and fascinating.  I imagined my child would feel the same.

I've avoided taking Kate to the car wash since then.  However, a few weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon, I had her with me running errands.  Sam was taking a nap at home with Dave and Kate wanted to tag along as I picked up groceries at Walmart.  Getting into the car, I realized that our vehicle was a crumbly mess of crushed graham crackers, a random assortment of forgotten toys, and a single brown crayon that had melted in the heat of springtime in Houston.  The exterior of the car matched its interior.  My once bright red minivan was now a rusty orange, thanks to a thorough coating of pollen, a by product of, once again, springtime in Houston.  We needed to go to the car wash.

Being an adult, I knew for certain that a car wash was not dangerous, that buckled into our seat belts with the windows rolled up, we would remain dry from the spray and safe from the curtains of water and soap.  I knew this.  But Katelyn didn't.  She begged me to let her stay by the vacuum station while I drove the car through.  However, I was not about to let my three year old sit alone on a curb while I got the car washed.  She was going to have to tough it out and face the dreaded car wash.

As we approached the end of the tunnel and sunlight flooded our car again, Kate unplugged her ears and looked up at me in the rear view mirror to exclaim, "That wasn't so bad.  I think I like the car wash now."

We laughed and laughed and drove off to Walmart in our freshly vacuumed and scrubbed van and I thought to myself how much the experience reminded me of dieting.  I know I need it.  I can hear the people around me assuring me that it's safe and good for me.  But in the moment, it doesn't feel safe and good for me.  It feels bad and scary.  It feels like a darkened tunnel with sharp stinging sprays of water and soap that is burning my eyes.  And like Kate entering a car wash, I can hear you but I just have a hard time believing it.

Of course, from experience, I know that as I approach the end of that tunnel, I encounter the sunlight of success and say to myself, "That wasn't so bad.  I think I like this new healthy lifestyle."  Because a clean car is always better than a dirty one and a healthy body and a controlled appetite is always better than the chaos of an eating addiction.

I know all these things and have forgotten them all at the same time because, in the beginning, car washes and dieting are both kind of scary.

sick sick sick

For the past two weeks, we have been sick.  And by we, I mean the kids and I.  Dave was lucky enough to miss out on the fun.  One by one, we fell like dominoes.  First Sam, then me, and finally Katelyn came down with the flu.  Kate was so sick that she developed bronchitis and had to take antibiotics for a week.  It was terrible.

Thankfully, we had Dave to take care of us.  He was like a super hero running around fixing people hot chocolate and soup, cleaning and tackling laundry mountain, and running errands with the kids so that I could nap in peace.  And he did all this while working from home, answering emails, and fielding phone calls.  The only breaks he got were when we brought the sick and afflicted over to my parents' house where my mom took good care of us.

When we finally decided we were not contagious and no longer walking germ factories, we took the kids to Chick-fil-A to get everybody out of the house.  We met my mom for dinner and Dave bought kids meals for Sam and Kate.  After we ate, we traded the toys (which is always really lame at Chick-fil-A) for ice cream cones.  We thought the kids would be so happy to enjoy an ice cream treat.

But Sam had other ideas.  Sam just wanted to play in his dessert.  Instead of eating, he wanted to squish the ice cream between his chubby fingers and crush the cone in his little sticky fist.  This just had "Bad Idea" written all over it so I tried everything I could to keep him from making such a huge mess.  Finally, I had to take the cone away.  And Sam threw a fit.  So Dave took him out to the car while my mom and I cleared the table and got refills with Kate.

I came out of the parking lot to find my two guys sitting by the car like this, Sam with a triumphant look on his face and a sticky smooshed up ice cream cone in his hand.

Sam: 1   Mom and Dad: 0

motivational speaking

Yesterday I was talking to my mom about why I started writing blog posts concerning my weight.  This is not the first (or even the second or third) time I've begun a weight loss journey and publicly announced my intentions.  As you may have guessed, the other attempts were not successful.  This really got me thinking about the question: "Why do I keep doing this?"

And I thought and thought and thought and decided that I wanted to write about my blogging motivation because it's also a stop along this road I'm traveling.

You might be assuming that starting a weight loss blog is all about accountability.  After all, I've been posting statistics and, at times, even pictures of my poorly pedicured toes behind the numbers on the scale.  It would seem that having to announce my weight every so often would be motivation enough to keep me on the path.

But it turns out that the digits on the scale are just a number, a way of quantifying what you already know about me.  I'm a big person and I eat too much.  And in the midst of a food addiction, accountability merely takes a tiny bite out of the elephant I'm eating.  (Do you see what I did there?)  I have been a full fledged paying member of Weight Watchers and have stood there on the scale while the ornery receptionist records my weight gain and thought to myself, "Whatever.  She doesn't know me."  Accountability does very little for me because I derive my confidence from my own self and loved ones.  My family members love me for reasons that have nothing to do with my weight.  They don't see a size.  I am surrounded daily by a fierce tribe of people who build me up all the time.  And besides, at the end of the day, the person who truly decides whether or not I'm fabulous is me.  For accountability to be effective, you have to be a little bit embarrassed about your weight.  And I'm just not ashamed of myself or my size.

You might wonder if I'm looking for virtual support from my online social media community.  Or maybe I'm hoping someone will give me the wisdom that I haven't heard or the magic elixir that will set me free.  I'm always pleasantly surprised by the number of people who like, comment on, or follow my blog.  I love hearing your words of encouragement, pieces of advice, and, most of all, plans to join me.  This is a wonderful unintended consequence of writing these posts for which I'm very grateful.

Perhaps you might wonder if I'm looking for sympathy.  I mean, society tells us that being fat is the worst thing that can happen to you.  Maybe I started blogging in the hopes that people would take pity on me and tell me wonderful things to make me feel better.  But don't feel sorry for me because I certainly don't feel sorry for myself.  And while I love reading people say positive things about me (because who doesn't?!), I didn't do this so that readers would feel give me compliments or tell me I'm great.

So if I didn't start blogging about my weight for those reasons, why did I?

After years of struggling to lose weight, I've realized that a huge portion of this challenge is mental and emotional.  For a very long time I've grappled with two different very firmly held beliefs that I have.  One is that my self worth has nothing to do with my size.  Neither does my weight affect my self esteem.  I have a very strong testimony that my value as a daughter, sister, wife, mother, friend, human being, and child of God never has been and never will be dependent upon my outward appearance, including my weight.  Obesity is just one aspect of who I am and it is one of the least important.  I'm not embarrassed about my weight nor am I ashamed of myself or feel like I need to prove anything by reaching a certain number on the scale.

The second belief I have is that I need to lose weight.  I have a lot of reasons for this.  Right now, my biggest one is that I want to have more energy.  I am so tired.  I'm just spent all the time.  I hate it.  I know that, as a mother of young children, I can always expect some level of exhaustion but the way I feel is beyond that.  I know that losing weight would take a huge load off my shoulders.  (Did you see that?  Another pun.) I also worry about my health.  Any time my left arm hurts or feels weird, I worry that I'm having a heart attack.  This is not a normal concern for a twenty nine year old healthy person.  But because I obese, I know that I'm taking a risk and testing my body's ability to handle this weight.  Lastly, I believe that moderation is an eternal principle that God wants me to figure out.  Even if I could eat all the cake in the world and keep my girlish figure, that would not be what is morally right.

So how do I reconcile those two beliefs?  They are both so true to me and so important. What was really holding me back was the knowledge that, while most people would agree with me about the second school of thought, there are many who simply do not feel that someone can have worth and be obese.  And for the most part, I don't really care what people think of me.  But there is this stubborn portion of my personality that just wants to be contrary.  It's the rebel gene that has been passed down to me from a long line of an ancestry that says, "I don't have to take this."  And that is the part of me, that in my weakest moment becomes the devil on my shoulder saying, "Why don't you just show them?  Don't give any of those haters the satisfaction of seeing you lose weight.  Then they will look at you all thin and say, 'Megan finally got off her fat lazy behind.'  Don't give them the opportunity to say that about you.  You do you, girl and you are fat.  There's nothing wrong with that and don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

I know that this doesn't make sense.  I know that this is, as my mom would say, cutting off my nose to spite my face.  In theory, I get it.  But in reality though, when I'm tired and hungry and feeling anxious or stressed, when I'm standing at the fridge late at night and a piece of Target cake is smiling invitingly at me, it's just enough to push me over the edge.

So I decided to write about it.  I told myself I would say my piece and let it go.  Instead of wondering what other people are assuming is my story, I would just let them in and read my story to them.  If they don't understand after that, it's on them and not me.  I've spoken my truth and said what I needed to say.

And the irony is that after I had harbored all of these indignant feelings about ideas that the people around me may or may not be having, I found that most people don't think badly about me because of my weight.  I mean, no doubt there are some people who do.  There are also some people who just don't get it and never will.  There will be people who think I'm too lazy to do it or too stupid to understand how weight loss works or too pathetic to overcome my challenges.  Some people will feel sorry for me.  Some will read my future triumphant blog post when I lose the weight and fit into non-plus sized clothes and cheer with me while quietly thinking to themselves, "She finally did it.  She finally earned her self worth back."  There will be those who read my blog but never really hear what I have to say.  And that's okay because we all view the world through our own personal lens and it's not my job to force mine on anyone else.

I have no doubt there are still some people who think I'm a literal waste of space and will breathe a sigh of relief when I finally figure this out.  But I don't think most people feel that way and if I can't reach them, that's not my burden to bear.

So really, I started writing about my weight as an outlet to unload some emotional baggage.  I did it so I could share my story and then forget about it and get to work on tackling the real issue.  Even if everyone I know reads all this and not one single person hears me, I get comfort knowing that my truth is out there and I don't have to dwell on it.

And while that may be my initial motivation, I've found myself really enjoying these moments behind the keyboard where I get to write my monologue and share my feelings.  I realized that I have lot to say about this issue and although my voice is just one tiny squeak in an online ocean of a million screaming tones, it feels good to let the sound of that squeak resonate in my little corner of the world.  And despite the fact that I promise I didn't do this for validation or nice comments, I find your kind words of encouragement popping into my head sometimes when I want to give us and stop doing this.  It takes away some of the loneliness and silence that so often accompany the topic of obesity and that is nice.  So keep talking.  Let's have a discussion and learn from each other.  Tell me your truth while I tell you mine.  Maybe we can make the world a little bit better by trying to understand each other.