Well my lovely faithful readers it has been just over two months since I started writing here at The Skinny Truth, and I have loved doing it very much. These past two months have kind of been a trial period for me, testing the waters to see if I could actually work up a few posts now and then, if I enjoyed it and if anyone was actually willing to read what I wrote.
I have just broken 1000 page views for my site, thanks to you all. However, I feel I can do more and I want to. Earlier this week I began reviewing what I am currently doing and what I need to do to improve. Blogger has been a great home for me to start with, but it has some glitches, from my end as the writer and for my readers (more than one person has complained about the commenting process), that coupled with the fact that I can grow my little blog better on other sites has convinced me that it is time to move on to bigger and better things.
So... please be patient with me for a week or two while I begin the somewhat complicated business of moving this blog over to WordPress and dive into the deep end of social media. I am hoping to have a nice unveiling of my new blog sometime mid-August for you to be impressed with!
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
How I Became a Good Cook
When graduated high school I was not known for my domestic skills. I had taken Home Economics classes and passed them, although a great deal of my grades were dependent simply on effort and not the actual outcome. My cooking abilities at home were kind of a family joke. Occasionally I would end up fixing dinner for the family when my parent's were able to due to their jobs, but if it didn't come out of a box I did not make it (and even then there was a chance it would be over or undercooked). Baking was about the only area I felt semi-confident in, but even there I was sloppy and while my treats came out tasty they did not often come out pretty. This was okay though, I was planning on going to college, getting a degree landing a great job in some metropolitan area and living a grand single life of eating out.
I has been thirteen years, four kitchens, one eating disorder, three children, one marriage and countless cookbooks since then... and I am still shocked when my husband compliments my cooking to a new acquaintance. It is even more shocking when I get rave reviews on something I have brought to a potluck (compliments from people who are not linked to me by vows under God, you know...). Becoming a good cook was never something had actively thought about working on. I never showed any natural talent for it, but overtime I just began to pick up on things and fell slowly in love with my kitchen and the process of preparing food for my family.
Although I did not know it, this process probably really began when I got my first apartment in college. I can recall going shopping with my roommate and nearly swatting her hand from reaching for a jar of Ragu. I am fussy about my spaghetti sauce, my mother made the sauce that went on our table and I have never developed a taste for bottles of premade sauce. So I directed her to cans of tomato sauce, paste and a good collection of spices. Later that week I made my first pot of spaghetti by myself. For a long time my cooking came in small spatters. I would get excited about a recipe, get the ingredients, try it and gauge the results (sometimes great, sometimes awful). Between those moments of inspiration we ate out or I went back to the old habit of cooking from a box or a can.
When I decided to be a stay at home mom though things really began to shift. Suddenly I was home during the day and had more time to plan, shop, prep and actually cook meals. Making food for my little baby boy became important to me. Now that I have yet another child and I am living out in a rural area of North Dakota cooking has gained even more importance, knowing how to make a meal from scratch is going to help us survive our first winter up here. It also might help me keep my sanity as I have come to really truly love cooking.
How did I get to this point, though? As I have stated it was not a planned endeavor, just something I have fallen into, but here are some tips that might help if you are being more thoughtful about your desires to be a better cook.
No I mean watch real people cook. Sit in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, help a friend make dinner at their house (or yours), volunteer at a soup kitchen... anything you can do to watch someone else cook a meal. You start learning techniques, and that is what this is all about. Seeing how your aunt peels potatoes, or how your best friend boils eggs. These are things you need to pay attention to.
Secondly I recommend devouring cook books. I have a small collection that I have bought or been given as gifts, and then I dive into the shelves at the library and supplement with those as well. However, lately I have discovered that cookbooks are not for collecting recipes. Shocker! I can do that anywhere, the internet is my favorite place to look up new delectable recipes. What I use cook books for is their wealth of information. Skim over the recipes, if one really catches your fancy make it, but read the introduction. Getting cook books on a specific topic (I picked up one today on garlic) is best. Learn all about that topic, learn about baking bread, learn about roasting, learn about cheese and wine and seafood. The knowledge contained before and between the recipes in a cookbook can be difficult to find elsewhere and it's pure gold.
My husband loves his meat this way. I was intimidated. Fearful that any attempt to properly roast beef would end up in a charcoal-like mess (an expensive mess with the cost of beef currently), so I steered away from it. Then one year my husband bought a quarter of a cow to stow in our freezer. I was still scared and ended up putting most of the roasts in the crock pot and cooking them into tender stews. This was good, but my husband complained that it was still probably a waste of a good cut of meat. He was right, so when we went in on half a cow the next year I was determined to give up my fear of roasts and learn how to properly cook beef. I went to the library and picked up 'All About Roasting' (I would check this book out three times and it is currently sitting on my Christmas list because I probably just need a copy on hand), and began my journey. The first attempt was actually good. Not great, but edible and my husband praised it. As I made my way through the little white packages in the freezer I started getting more comfortable with my talents as a roaster. I have yet to do a Prime Rib, but that has mostly been due to budget instead of fear. One day I will splurge and throw one in the oven.
This is how you make progress with your cooking skills, dive in. Make mistakes and keep on trying. I now make sourdough bread regularly, I roast, I bake, I make sauces, and even lasagna.
This is not the end, I still have some things to figure out. While I can make a mean sourdough from scratch I seem to be currently unable to make cut biscuits that rise, and I have yet to really master any kind of baked dish with a red sauce (they almost always end up too dry). I am working on learning how to do more things from scratch and how to properly store my food so it is easier to use when it comes time to do actual cooking. But I finally have a good set of skills under my belt and with some reading and experimenting I know I will figure it out someday.
I has been thirteen years, four kitchens, one eating disorder, three children, one marriage and countless cookbooks since then... and I am still shocked when my husband compliments my cooking to a new acquaintance. It is even more shocking when I get rave reviews on something I have brought to a potluck (compliments from people who are not linked to me by vows under God, you know...). Becoming a good cook was never something had actively thought about working on. I never showed any natural talent for it, but overtime I just began to pick up on things and fell slowly in love with my kitchen and the process of preparing food for my family.
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This is how adorable I envision myself in the kitchen :)
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Although I did not know it, this process probably really began when I got my first apartment in college. I can recall going shopping with my roommate and nearly swatting her hand from reaching for a jar of Ragu. I am fussy about my spaghetti sauce, my mother made the sauce that went on our table and I have never developed a taste for bottles of premade sauce. So I directed her to cans of tomato sauce, paste and a good collection of spices. Later that week I made my first pot of spaghetti by myself. For a long time my cooking came in small spatters. I would get excited about a recipe, get the ingredients, try it and gauge the results (sometimes great, sometimes awful). Between those moments of inspiration we ate out or I went back to the old habit of cooking from a box or a can.
When I decided to be a stay at home mom though things really began to shift. Suddenly I was home during the day and had more time to plan, shop, prep and actually cook meals. Making food for my little baby boy became important to me. Now that I have yet another child and I am living out in a rural area of North Dakota cooking has gained even more importance, knowing how to make a meal from scratch is going to help us survive our first winter up here. It also might help me keep my sanity as I have come to really truly love cooking.
How did I get to this point, though? As I have stated it was not a planned endeavor, just something I have fallen into, but here are some tips that might help if you are being more thoughtful about your desires to be a better cook.
Watch People Cook
I do not just mean cooking shows, although they certainly can be a way to learn great things. However I find cooking shows to be too 'perfect' for my tastes often. Their kitchens are perfectly laid out, the ingredients for the meals are all prepared ahead of time in cute little ramekins, the mistakes and the clean up are all edited out. Cooking shows are about getting inspiration, not about real cooking.No I mean watch real people cook. Sit in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, help a friend make dinner at their house (or yours), volunteer at a soup kitchen... anything you can do to watch someone else cook a meal. You start learning techniques, and that is what this is all about. Seeing how your aunt peels potatoes, or how your best friend boils eggs. These are things you need to pay attention to.
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I definitely need to cook with this lady!
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And this lady... just maybe not both of them at the same time...
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Cookbooks, Lots of Cookbooks
First I recommend that every single house needs a good basic cookbook. Mine is the Fannie Farmer cookbook that used to belong to my grandmother (it still has bookmarks in it made from 1960's newspaper clippings and coupon books). This is a great no frills cookbook. It tells me how to make waffle mix, how to boil corn, and make muffins. You will not find recipes like 'Stuffed Cinnamon and Vanilla French Toast', 'Pastry Wrapped Salmon Tarts', or 'Double Chocolate Salted Caramel Brownies'. No this book just gives you the basics, but that that is what you really need to learn how to cook, the rest is all added fluff you can add on once you get those basics figured out.Secondly I recommend devouring cook books. I have a small collection that I have bought or been given as gifts, and then I dive into the shelves at the library and supplement with those as well. However, lately I have discovered that cookbooks are not for collecting recipes. Shocker! I can do that anywhere, the internet is my favorite place to look up new delectable recipes. What I use cook books for is their wealth of information. Skim over the recipes, if one really catches your fancy make it, but read the introduction. Getting cook books on a specific topic (I picked up one today on garlic) is best. Learn all about that topic, learn about baking bread, learn about roasting, learn about cheese and wine and seafood. The knowledge contained before and between the recipes in a cookbook can be difficult to find elsewhere and it's pure gold.
Be Fearless
I grew up in a home where beef was served well done. Whereas my husband grew up in a home where beef was served rare, on Christmas Eve each year his mother makes Prime Rib that is served to the table with a bloody circle pooling at the bottom of the dish (this took some time for me to get used to, and I still get the edge piece although I am finding beef is better pink than black).My husband loves his meat this way. I was intimidated. Fearful that any attempt to properly roast beef would end up in a charcoal-like mess (an expensive mess with the cost of beef currently), so I steered away from it. Then one year my husband bought a quarter of a cow to stow in our freezer. I was still scared and ended up putting most of the roasts in the crock pot and cooking them into tender stews. This was good, but my husband complained that it was still probably a waste of a good cut of meat. He was right, so when we went in on half a cow the next year I was determined to give up my fear of roasts and learn how to properly cook beef. I went to the library and picked up 'All About Roasting' (I would check this book out three times and it is currently sitting on my Christmas list because I probably just need a copy on hand), and began my journey. The first attempt was actually good. Not great, but edible and my husband praised it. As I made my way through the little white packages in the freezer I started getting more comfortable with my talents as a roaster. I have yet to do a Prime Rib, but that has mostly been due to budget instead of fear. One day I will splurge and throw one in the oven.
This is how you make progress with your cooking skills, dive in. Make mistakes and keep on trying. I now make sourdough bread regularly, I roast, I bake, I make sauces, and even lasagna.
This is not the end, I still have some things to figure out. While I can make a mean sourdough from scratch I seem to be currently unable to make cut biscuits that rise, and I have yet to really master any kind of baked dish with a red sauce (they almost always end up too dry). I am working on learning how to do more things from scratch and how to properly store my food so it is easier to use when it comes time to do actual cooking. But I finally have a good set of skills under my belt and with some reading and experimenting I know I will figure it out someday.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Makeup Bag Woes
'What can I do to reduce the size of the makeup bag in my purse?'
This was the question I recently saw posed in the advice section of a magazine. What came next was a paragraph or so on some products that served double duties and/or came in small compact containers.
My first thought was, 'wear less makeup'. My second thought was, 'or hell... even none'.
That would certainly save a lot of space in your purse. Of course the magazine was not about to suggest such a thing, and risk offending some of their best advertising partners. I however, do not have to worry about such things.
Makeup. Makeup. Makeup.
As if I did not have enough reminders that I am not living up to the standard of beauty enough already, the makeup industry makes certain to plaster their reminders just about everywhere. Nothing about my face seems to be right, and there is a product out there that will solve that. Mascara for my eye lashes, creams and powders to smooth out my complexion, more powders to enlighten my eyes and cheeks, pencils to outline and redraw, lipsticks to brighten my lips... etc... etc... etc...
Admittedly I do look prettier with makeup on. And yes I own a small bag of makeup, I know the basics of how to put it on. That bag only comes out maybe once a month, and sometimes closer to once every two or three months. Usually when I go out for a nice dinner or some 'formal' occasion. Even then I tend to go very conservative and the makeup I do end up taking with me in my purse would probably make the woman who wrote into the magazine shudder, because it consists of a tube of lip gloss (not even full lipstick usually, just some glittery gloss to toss on after I am done eating).
Every now and then I decide, typically after an event where I wear makeup and get lots of compliments about how nice I look (because you know normally I'm sporting ratting stay-at-home mom style), that I am going to try and wear a little more makeup regularly. I will try to dab on some mascara (my eyelashes match my hair, thin and gingery) in the morning, or I will keep the glittery gloss in my purse to use instead of chap stick, or if I am feeling awfully brave I might even try to powder my face twice a day. These efforts end pretty quickly. I start to realize I hate taking off mascara, and it causes little sty's to appear on my eyelids. The glittery gloss gets lost in the many transfers of my stuff between diaper bags and purses. As for the powder, I find I have better things to do with my life than reapply makeup all day and it bothers me to touch my face and find stuff on it.
So most of the time I just give it up. My kids do not care if I wear it, my husband does not really (and honestly I think he prefers me not to so he doesn't get covered in whenever he tries to kiss or touch me), it saves me a lot of money, and my skin is probably healthier for it anyway.
Go ahead society, judge me by the size of my makeup bag, or lack there of... I have better things to concern myself with.
This was the question I recently saw posed in the advice section of a magazine. What came next was a paragraph or so on some products that served double duties and/or came in small compact containers.
My first thought was, 'wear less makeup'. My second thought was, 'or hell... even none'.
That would certainly save a lot of space in your purse. Of course the magazine was not about to suggest such a thing, and risk offending some of their best advertising partners. I however, do not have to worry about such things.
Makeup. Makeup. Makeup.
As if I did not have enough reminders that I am not living up to the standard of beauty enough already, the makeup industry makes certain to plaster their reminders just about everywhere. Nothing about my face seems to be right, and there is a product out there that will solve that. Mascara for my eye lashes, creams and powders to smooth out my complexion, more powders to enlighten my eyes and cheeks, pencils to outline and redraw, lipsticks to brighten my lips... etc... etc... etc...
Admittedly I do look prettier with makeup on. And yes I own a small bag of makeup, I know the basics of how to put it on. That bag only comes out maybe once a month, and sometimes closer to once every two or three months. Usually when I go out for a nice dinner or some 'formal' occasion. Even then I tend to go very conservative and the makeup I do end up taking with me in my purse would probably make the woman who wrote into the magazine shudder, because it consists of a tube of lip gloss (not even full lipstick usually, just some glittery gloss to toss on after I am done eating).
Every now and then I decide, typically after an event where I wear makeup and get lots of compliments about how nice I look (because you know normally I'm sporting ratting stay-at-home mom style), that I am going to try and wear a little more makeup regularly. I will try to dab on some mascara (my eyelashes match my hair, thin and gingery) in the morning, or I will keep the glittery gloss in my purse to use instead of chap stick, or if I am feeling awfully brave I might even try to powder my face twice a day. These efforts end pretty quickly. I start to realize I hate taking off mascara, and it causes little sty's to appear on my eyelids. The glittery gloss gets lost in the many transfers of my stuff between diaper bags and purses. As for the powder, I find I have better things to do with my life than reapply makeup all day and it bothers me to touch my face and find stuff on it.
So most of the time I just give it up. My kids do not care if I wear it, my husband does not really (and honestly I think he prefers me not to so he doesn't get covered in whenever he tries to kiss or touch me), it saves me a lot of money, and my skin is probably healthier for it anyway.
Go ahead society, judge me by the size of my makeup bag, or lack there of... I have better things to concern myself with.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Posting Blame for my Eating Disorder
Many college freshman end up with the fabled 'Freshmen Fifteen' after their first year of college. An additional fifteen pounds wrapped around their young frames that comes with partying and poor eating choices under their first real taste of 'freedom'. I did just the opposite though. I lost fifteen pounds, fifteen pounds I could not afford, since I began college at maybe 115 lbs. My eating disorder did not appear when I got to college, it simply got completely out of control when I got there.
One of the lower points I experienced then was the evening I wound up sitting on the floor of dorm laundry mat. I was tired, I was hungry, I was shaking from malnutrition and fear, and I was balling my eyes out. The boy I was madly in love with (I think he suspected something but had yet to say anything about it) was staring at me, wondering what in the world was going on. Eventually I admitted that I had a problem, that I wanted to eat, I needed to eat, but I simply couldn't make myself eat. The boy, bless his soul, did his best to comfort me and I did eventually calm down. It was a low, but I still really did not understand how far I was falling.
A few weeks later I was at my parents house for winter break, and finally caught sight of myself in a full length mirror as I got ready to step into the shower. The view stopped me in my tracks. What stared back at me was not a cute shapely 19 year old who was preparing for medical school and had it all together. Instead it was bordering on a skeleton. My ribs and hips poked out of pale thin skin, my eyes seemed sunken in. I was frail and broken. I cried a lot more that day.
When I got back to school I began looking for help. My university had free counseling available, so I called their office and got set up with a counselor. He sent me to the campus health clinic where I met with a nutritionist (who suggested I eat as much fatty food as I could, she said peanut butter was my friend). So I was working toward recovery, but the gears seemed to move slowly. I would do okay for a few days and then would slip right back.
My counselor talked to me a lot, he went over relaxation techniques and asked about what in my life was bothering me so much. So I started delving deep into my life, trying to find the source of my eating problems. As with most people there were a lot of possible reasons.
However, one day I sat down with a hot dog, a hot dog that would kind of change my life. I stared at it, my nemesis. A roll of sausage wrapped in a white bun and slathered with some ketchup. It was mocking me, I could feel it. I imagined how it would squish and feel slightly rubbery in my mouth, how hard it was going to be swallowing it, and even worse how the chunks might taste as they came back up in half an hour. The hot dog was wining, I was losing my appetite. Suddenly though a voice from somewhere deep down inside of me spoke up.
The truth that voice had mentally uttered was astounding. I was starving myself. No one else was. I could trying laying the blame for what I was going through on everyone else.
I could say it was because I was a military brat and my father was gone a lot. I could say it was because my parents had a very rocky marriage to which I was witness. Or I could say it was because my grandparents and other grown up's had been trying to make me eat more all my life. Maybe it was because I was teased a lot by other kids growing up. Maybe it was because my mother yelled a lot. Maybe my friends were not as supportive as they could have been. Maybe the college was not as supportive as it could have been. The problem also could have laid with society, and the excessive pressure it put on girls to be popular, pretty and perfect. Or maybe I could claim the problem was a lack of education on the issues of eating disorders that had left me unable to handle my situation.
But that was all bull. It was ME. I was the one who was not eating the hot dog. No one was stopping me from eating. And even though it felt like it, there was nothing actually physically wrong with me. I was broken, inside, and it was my fault. I had let everything around me poison me.
When I realized that this was my fault, that I had caused my own eating disorder, I also realized that I was the only one who was going to fix it. No one else could make me eat, sure if it got bad enough I could be force fed through a tube, but that was only a temporary solution. Likewise I could not do anything to change what had happened to me, or even what I was currently living with. Waiting around for the world or people to change before I could change meant I was going to starve.
The change had to come from me. So I took a deep breath and told myself to stop being stupid and eat the dumb hot dog. Bite by bite I did. It took awhile, and it would be another several months before I could eat a meal without reminding myself that I had to. But it worked.
I took responsibility for my eating disorder, and in doing so I also took on the responsibility for curing myself.
One of the lower points I experienced then was the evening I wound up sitting on the floor of dorm laundry mat. I was tired, I was hungry, I was shaking from malnutrition and fear, and I was balling my eyes out. The boy I was madly in love with (I think he suspected something but had yet to say anything about it) was staring at me, wondering what in the world was going on. Eventually I admitted that I had a problem, that I wanted to eat, I needed to eat, but I simply couldn't make myself eat. The boy, bless his soul, did his best to comfort me and I did eventually calm down. It was a low, but I still really did not understand how far I was falling.
A few weeks later I was at my parents house for winter break, and finally caught sight of myself in a full length mirror as I got ready to step into the shower. The view stopped me in my tracks. What stared back at me was not a cute shapely 19 year old who was preparing for medical school and had it all together. Instead it was bordering on a skeleton. My ribs and hips poked out of pale thin skin, my eyes seemed sunken in. I was frail and broken. I cried a lot more that day.
When I got back to school I began looking for help. My university had free counseling available, so I called their office and got set up with a counselor. He sent me to the campus health clinic where I met with a nutritionist (who suggested I eat as much fatty food as I could, she said peanut butter was my friend). So I was working toward recovery, but the gears seemed to move slowly. I would do okay for a few days and then would slip right back.
My counselor talked to me a lot, he went over relaxation techniques and asked about what in my life was bothering me so much. So I started delving deep into my life, trying to find the source of my eating problems. As with most people there were a lot of possible reasons.
However, one day I sat down with a hot dog, a hot dog that would kind of change my life. I stared at it, my nemesis. A roll of sausage wrapped in a white bun and slathered with some ketchup. It was mocking me, I could feel it. I imagined how it would squish and feel slightly rubbery in my mouth, how hard it was going to be swallowing it, and even worse how the chunks might taste as they came back up in half an hour. The hot dog was wining, I was losing my appetite. Suddenly though a voice from somewhere deep down inside of me spoke up.
"Samantha. This is stupid. It is a hot dog. Eat it, move on with your life. YOU are starving yourself."
The truth that voice had mentally uttered was astounding. I was starving myself. No one else was. I could trying laying the blame for what I was going through on everyone else.
I could say it was because I was a military brat and my father was gone a lot. I could say it was because my parents had a very rocky marriage to which I was witness. Or I could say it was because my grandparents and other grown up's had been trying to make me eat more all my life. Maybe it was because I was teased a lot by other kids growing up. Maybe it was because my mother yelled a lot. Maybe my friends were not as supportive as they could have been. Maybe the college was not as supportive as it could have been. The problem also could have laid with society, and the excessive pressure it put on girls to be popular, pretty and perfect. Or maybe I could claim the problem was a lack of education on the issues of eating disorders that had left me unable to handle my situation.
But that was all bull. It was ME. I was the one who was not eating the hot dog. No one was stopping me from eating. And even though it felt like it, there was nothing actually physically wrong with me. I was broken, inside, and it was my fault. I had let everything around me poison me.
When I realized that this was my fault, that I had caused my own eating disorder, I also realized that I was the only one who was going to fix it. No one else could make me eat, sure if it got bad enough I could be force fed through a tube, but that was only a temporary solution. Likewise I could not do anything to change what had happened to me, or even what I was currently living with. Waiting around for the world or people to change before I could change meant I was going to starve.
The change had to come from me. So I took a deep breath and told myself to stop being stupid and eat the dumb hot dog. Bite by bite I did. It took awhile, and it would be another several months before I could eat a meal without reminding myself that I had to. But it worked.
I took responsibility for my eating disorder, and in doing so I also took on the responsibility for curing myself.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Parenting Fail: Baby in a Box
The purpose of this blog is to be honest, to strip the lies and get down to what we are really about.
Sometimes being a parent means we pretend to be perfect. Dress the kids up, shove all the dirt under the carpet, unwrap some store bought muffins and toss them in a basket so it looks like you baked them and act like everything is under control. But come on... we are all just making this up as we go and along the way we make some mistakes. Some of those mistakes are small, others are large... I am going to stop the pretending, be honest and share some of mine (although the muffins on the counter probably are homemade...).
I put my baby girl (18 months old, whom I shall call Little Bit) down for her nap after lunch. My son did not want to play in his room and I decided I was not going to argue with him, so he was playing train on the floor while I ate my lunch, worked on the computer and watched a little TV. This sounds wonderful right?
Well it was until I thought I heard a noise coming from upstairs, a noise like Little Bit crying. I paused and listened some more, trying to gauge how serious this was before getting up. After a few moments or so I could still hear her, but it was pretty muffled. Mommy alarms started going off, concerned I paused the show and headed upstairs. The closer I got the more concerned I got as the crying seemed muffled and yet pretty hysterical.
As I opened the door I started doing a quick survey of the room... Little Bit was not in her bed... I did not see her on the floor... where was my baby...? And then I saw her, or at least part of her. Her two little legs, kicking and sticking out of the top of a box I had put in her room to hold some of her toys. Apparently she had reached inside for a toy on the bottom and had fallen in and gotten stuck. I rushed over to her and pulled her out... poor crying red faced baby who had also gotten so scared that she had thrown up in this awful upside down state.
I immediately checked my tiny Little Bit over and she was okay, breathing fine and no longer throwing up. Quickly I cleaned her up and then just held her, curling up in my bed until I got her to calm back down.
Once I got Little Bit calmed down and felt certain that everything was going to be okay I realized that I needed to learn from this harrowing experience.
The first thing was the box she had fallen into. I had misjudged how tall and narrow it was in comparison to her little body, so when she toppled into it she was unable to push herself back up and out of it. That box has already made it into the trash pile and is no longer in my house. Since then I have replaced it with a plastic milk crate, these boxes are lower and wider than the old box. The toys fill the space better and Little Bit should be able to get herself back out of it if she were to fall in again.
Second was installing the baby monitor in the room again. I had thought that I could hear well enough between the floors (the walls are thin here) but again I had misjudged things. The baby monitor came back out and was put back in the room. It did not do well with the move, and is pretty full of static, so a new one is on its way from Amazon. Nothing fancy mind you, but enough to keep me better appraised of what is going on upstairs.
Crisis solved and hopefully avoided in the future (at least that one... we shall see what new crisis they invent for me tomorrow).
Sometimes being a parent means we pretend to be perfect. Dress the kids up, shove all the dirt under the carpet, unwrap some store bought muffins and toss them in a basket so it looks like you baked them and act like everything is under control. But come on... we are all just making this up as we go and along the way we make some mistakes. Some of those mistakes are small, others are large... I am going to stop the pretending, be honest and share some of mine (although the muffins on the counter probably are homemade...).
July 1, 2014
I put my baby girl (18 months old, whom I shall call Little Bit) down for her nap after lunch. My son did not want to play in his room and I decided I was not going to argue with him, so he was playing train on the floor while I ate my lunch, worked on the computer and watched a little TV. This sounds wonderful right?
Well it was until I thought I heard a noise coming from upstairs, a noise like Little Bit crying. I paused and listened some more, trying to gauge how serious this was before getting up. After a few moments or so I could still hear her, but it was pretty muffled. Mommy alarms started going off, concerned I paused the show and headed upstairs. The closer I got the more concerned I got as the crying seemed muffled and yet pretty hysterical.
As I opened the door I started doing a quick survey of the room... Little Bit was not in her bed... I did not see her on the floor... where was my baby...? And then I saw her, or at least part of her. Her two little legs, kicking and sticking out of the top of a box I had put in her room to hold some of her toys. Apparently she had reached inside for a toy on the bottom and had fallen in and gotten stuck. I rushed over to her and pulled her out... poor crying red faced baby who had also gotten so scared that she had thrown up in this awful upside down state.
I immediately checked my tiny Little Bit over and she was okay, breathing fine and no longer throwing up. Quickly I cleaned her up and then just held her, curling up in my bed until I got her to calm back down.
Response
Once I got Little Bit calmed down and felt certain that everything was going to be okay I realized that I needed to learn from this harrowing experience.
The first thing was the box she had fallen into. I had misjudged how tall and narrow it was in comparison to her little body, so when she toppled into it she was unable to push herself back up and out of it. That box has already made it into the trash pile and is no longer in my house. Since then I have replaced it with a plastic milk crate, these boxes are lower and wider than the old box. The toys fill the space better and Little Bit should be able to get herself back out of it if she were to fall in again.
Second was installing the baby monitor in the room again. I had thought that I could hear well enough between the floors (the walls are thin here) but again I had misjudged things. The baby monitor came back out and was put back in the room. It did not do well with the move, and is pretty full of static, so a new one is on its way from Amazon. Nothing fancy mind you, but enough to keep me better appraised of what is going on upstairs.
Crisis solved and hopefully avoided in the future (at least that one... we shall see what new crisis they invent for me tomorrow).
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Why I am a Stay At Home Mom
I just finished reading this article on the rising numbers of stay at home moms and felt inspired to share how I became a stay at home mom.
When my husband and I decided to try and get pregnant I just knew deep down inside of me that I couldn't bear to leave my children with someone else for 40 hours a week. Personally I felt that if I was going to have children I should be the one to raise them. So the ideal for me would be to stop working once our first born was finally here. How that was actually going to work out I wasn't sure.
It took us awhile to get a stable pregnancy underway, nearly a year an a half (perhaps another day I will go into that story), but finally I was in the second trimester of my pregnancy and started looking into what it would take to stay home with my son. Which is of course when my husband got laid off from his job. He was an apprentice electrician at the time and there were few open jobs thanks the recession. We kept crossing our fingers and praying that things would work out.
I was seven months pregnant when our health insurance, through his union, was running out, he was still unemployed and due to my denial we had nothing worked out for my son once he arrived. Terrified beyond belief I started the process to get onto the health insurance through my job and began looking into day care facilities.
This process scared me even more it turned out. I was making about $13 an hour at my job, full time, but with little potential for overtime or a raise (those got frozen with the recession too). The job required me to make a 20 minute commute each way. Moving the health insurance to my job also meant that $200 dollars a month would be going to there instead of my pocket. Child care for infants in my area ran around $250 a week, about half of my paycheck. Once you added the extra gas I would be spending driving to and from the child care facility and work, general baby expenses, the health care and probably formula (my office would accommodate my pumping, but there were few places appropriate for it and I was not sure how I would do keeping it up) there was really nothing left of my paycheck, and there was still the mortgage, utilities, car payments, and upcoming medical bills. I came to greatly admire single parents during this search...
In the eighth month our miracle happened, my husband finally got a job. This was one week before our insurance actually ran out and he was able to keep it active so I did not have to apply for the insurance through my job. We still were not sure how stable this job was and if we could make it on his paycheck alone, he was making roughly $20 an hour but that was after all the union expenses were taken out.
I was also beginning to wonder if I could actually stay home and stay sane. During the last trimester of my pregnancy I was experiencing a lot of contractions and my doctor ordered me to take it easy, I started working half days at home, only going into the office for 4 hours at a time. That meant I sat around at home a lot, and it was starting to drive me crazy. Cabin fever started edging in on me and I began to wonder if trying to work part time might be a viable option for me.
Then it finally happened, I went into labor (two days after my due date). I actually went into work that morning. They laughed at me, I was due to have a baby two days prior, but I could not sit around the house anymore, I had to get out, so I went in for a few hours and then went home. I watched TV and made muffins. Those muffins turned out to be a godsend because they were the last thing I ate before going into labor for the next twelve hours. By the next morning I was cradling my beautiful baby boy, and feeling the pressure of responsibility his little presence placed on me like a great big weight.
We went home and I began my maternity leave. It was a cold winter and we were stuck in the house most of the time. However I quickly discovered that I was not going stir crazy like I had thought I would. With the baby around I found I was actually enjoying my stuck in the house time. It gave me a great opportunity to really bond with the little guy, and I found I could spend hours just watching him sleep. Plus I was no longer under medical directions to take it easy, so I could do the laundry and the dishes and other projects between nursing baby boy. I took to being home with him so well that my husband laughed when our pediatrician told him to look out for signs of post partum depression. He said that I had the opposite... I was miserable during the last few weeks of my pregnancy, but as soon as I gave birth I became a happy vibrant mommy.
So as the weeks turned to months I realized I needed to make a decision and let my job know when, or if, I was going to return to work. My maternity pay had been very minimal, I think they cut me a check for $1,000 for the 6 weeks they covered. Most of that went straight to the hospital bills for the delivery. Otherwise we had been living on my husband's paychecks for two months, and it looked like the job was actually working out. We crunched some numbers and realized that if I went back to work full time I would maybe bring home $100 a week after child care and gas expenses. If I only worked part time that amount would drop even lower as the gas prices wouldn't go down but my paycheck would. The office was not interested in letting me continue to work from home regularly, so that was not an option for us. I also started to realize that if I stayed home I could work on saving us money, by making our food from scratch, and devoting more time into projects like rehabbing things in our house and researching coupons. Not to mention I was pretty certain now that I wanted to stay home and that going to work was going to break my heart.
Finally we decided that it just made more sense for me to stay home. I called the office and gave them my notice. The small amount of money I would be bringing in just was not worth it for us. Since then the old job has called me up a few times and I did some independent contract work for them, mostly at home, although for about a month when my husband was again between jobs I did go in for a few hours a week to help with some backlog. That has occasionally helped out with our finances but it has never been something to count on. Now that we have moved out of state it really isn't an option anymore and I have started dabbling in this blogging thing, although we shall see how, if, it helps with our finances any. Other than that I have been a full time mom, and I don't regret it.
This job has been nothing like I expected it to be. I work harder than I ever have before. I am tired, dirty and stressed out most of the time. I do not get paid for any of this. I get yelled at and peed on on a regular basis... but it's wonderful. I plan on keeping this up for at least another four years (when my daughter is due for Kindergarten) and from there we shall see.
When my husband and I decided to try and get pregnant I just knew deep down inside of me that I couldn't bear to leave my children with someone else for 40 hours a week. Personally I felt that if I was going to have children I should be the one to raise them. So the ideal for me would be to stop working once our first born was finally here. How that was actually going to work out I wasn't sure.
It took us awhile to get a stable pregnancy underway, nearly a year an a half (perhaps another day I will go into that story), but finally I was in the second trimester of my pregnancy and started looking into what it would take to stay home with my son. Which is of course when my husband got laid off from his job. He was an apprentice electrician at the time and there were few open jobs thanks the recession. We kept crossing our fingers and praying that things would work out.
I was seven months pregnant when our health insurance, through his union, was running out, he was still unemployed and due to my denial we had nothing worked out for my son once he arrived. Terrified beyond belief I started the process to get onto the health insurance through my job and began looking into day care facilities.
This process scared me even more it turned out. I was making about $13 an hour at my job, full time, but with little potential for overtime or a raise (those got frozen with the recession too). The job required me to make a 20 minute commute each way. Moving the health insurance to my job also meant that $200 dollars a month would be going to there instead of my pocket. Child care for infants in my area ran around $250 a week, about half of my paycheck. Once you added the extra gas I would be spending driving to and from the child care facility and work, general baby expenses, the health care and probably formula (my office would accommodate my pumping, but there were few places appropriate for it and I was not sure how I would do keeping it up) there was really nothing left of my paycheck, and there was still the mortgage, utilities, car payments, and upcoming medical bills. I came to greatly admire single parents during this search...
In the eighth month our miracle happened, my husband finally got a job. This was one week before our insurance actually ran out and he was able to keep it active so I did not have to apply for the insurance through my job. We still were not sure how stable this job was and if we could make it on his paycheck alone, he was making roughly $20 an hour but that was after all the union expenses were taken out.
I was also beginning to wonder if I could actually stay home and stay sane. During the last trimester of my pregnancy I was experiencing a lot of contractions and my doctor ordered me to take it easy, I started working half days at home, only going into the office for 4 hours at a time. That meant I sat around at home a lot, and it was starting to drive me crazy. Cabin fever started edging in on me and I began to wonder if trying to work part time might be a viable option for me.
Then it finally happened, I went into labor (two days after my due date). I actually went into work that morning. They laughed at me, I was due to have a baby two days prior, but I could not sit around the house anymore, I had to get out, so I went in for a few hours and then went home. I watched TV and made muffins. Those muffins turned out to be a godsend because they were the last thing I ate before going into labor for the next twelve hours. By the next morning I was cradling my beautiful baby boy, and feeling the pressure of responsibility his little presence placed on me like a great big weight.
We went home and I began my maternity leave. It was a cold winter and we were stuck in the house most of the time. However I quickly discovered that I was not going stir crazy like I had thought I would. With the baby around I found I was actually enjoying my stuck in the house time. It gave me a great opportunity to really bond with the little guy, and I found I could spend hours just watching him sleep. Plus I was no longer under medical directions to take it easy, so I could do the laundry and the dishes and other projects between nursing baby boy. I took to being home with him so well that my husband laughed when our pediatrician told him to look out for signs of post partum depression. He said that I had the opposite... I was miserable during the last few weeks of my pregnancy, but as soon as I gave birth I became a happy vibrant mommy.
So as the weeks turned to months I realized I needed to make a decision and let my job know when, or if, I was going to return to work. My maternity pay had been very minimal, I think they cut me a check for $1,000 for the 6 weeks they covered. Most of that went straight to the hospital bills for the delivery. Otherwise we had been living on my husband's paychecks for two months, and it looked like the job was actually working out. We crunched some numbers and realized that if I went back to work full time I would maybe bring home $100 a week after child care and gas expenses. If I only worked part time that amount would drop even lower as the gas prices wouldn't go down but my paycheck would. The office was not interested in letting me continue to work from home regularly, so that was not an option for us. I also started to realize that if I stayed home I could work on saving us money, by making our food from scratch, and devoting more time into projects like rehabbing things in our house and researching coupons. Not to mention I was pretty certain now that I wanted to stay home and that going to work was going to break my heart.
Finally we decided that it just made more sense for me to stay home. I called the office and gave them my notice. The small amount of money I would be bringing in just was not worth it for us. Since then the old job has called me up a few times and I did some independent contract work for them, mostly at home, although for about a month when my husband was again between jobs I did go in for a few hours a week to help with some backlog. That has occasionally helped out with our finances but it has never been something to count on. Now that we have moved out of state it really isn't an option anymore and I have started dabbling in this blogging thing, although we shall see how, if, it helps with our finances any. Other than that I have been a full time mom, and I don't regret it.
This job has been nothing like I expected it to be. I work harder than I ever have before. I am tired, dirty and stressed out most of the time. I do not get paid for any of this. I get yelled at and peed on on a regular basis... but it's wonderful. I plan on keeping this up for at least another four years (when my daughter is due for Kindergarten) and from there we shall see.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
This Mamma Doesn't Mess Around with Bedtime - and the Surprising Reason Why
I will not start this by saying that bedtime is a smoothly oiled machine in my house. I have a three and a half year old son and an 18 month old daughter, so there are plenty of antics. Like any parent of small children I have carried sopping wet, screaming and kicking toddlers from the bath and into their rooms, forced pajama's on them, shut off the light, closed the door and prayed on the other side that they wouldn't come pounding on the door the next moment, and they usually do. However, bedtime is not a place where I give in easily.
Other parents have different philosophies when it comes to bedtime. Their children stay up with them until the wee hours in the morning sometimes. Hours are spent getting drinks, bathroom breaks, new stuffed animals, one more story, one more show etc... before the kid finally collapses into their bed. Or the kids never even make it to their own beds and snuggle up with mom and dad in the big bed. These things don't work for me, but who am I to judge if they work for you?
For us though, getting those kids to bed at a decent hour is absolutely essential. The reason it is essential is not for the kids though. It's for us, for my husband and I. Sure there are probably benefits to getting kids into a regular sleep schedule, and refusing to give up and let them dictate the situation likely has some good discipline and life lesson benefits as well. But in the end it comes down to the preservation of our marriage that makes me so determined to win this battle.
Evenings are family time in our house. My husband works long hard hours but is home most nights in time for dinner so I always try to make sure that the few hours we have each night go well. We eat dinner, all of us, at the table. After dinner everyone chips in on clean up. If there is time my husband and son will watch some television together then the bedtime routine starts. Bath's if necessary, brushing teeth, changing diapers and taking potty trips, determining what to wear to bed (here I am ultra flexible, as long as it isn't going to strangle them while they sleep I pretty much allow whatever they want), bedtime stories and songs... then the lights go out and it is officially sleep time. For the kids that is.
When their evening with dad ends my evening with my husband begins. This is a special time for my husband and I. We have a Netflix account and always have a show that we are binging on, luckily we have enough common interest in television shows to make this possible. So we get something to drink and maybe snack on, grab a blanket and snuggle up on the couch to watch an episode or two of our latest fix (currently we are into the original Star Trek series). We talk during the show, about the show, about our friends and family, about the kids, about work, about whatever weird thing we read on the internet or heard on the radio... whatever. We talk, we snuggle, we watch TV. We have been doing this since before we even started dating. Back when we were just college friends we did this, and I wanted to make sure we didn't lose it just because we had kids.
It doesn't always work out perfectly, life never allows that. Just last night Star Trek had to be stopped twice to tend to my son before he finally settled down. But each time he was redirected to his room and we came back downstairs and picked up where we left off. The important thing is that we are trying, trying to connect with each other each day and trying to keep alive the memories of when we were young and so much in love we couldn't even fathom being apart. We need this time, so our children must get to bed.
Other parents have different philosophies when it comes to bedtime. Their children stay up with them until the wee hours in the morning sometimes. Hours are spent getting drinks, bathroom breaks, new stuffed animals, one more story, one more show etc... before the kid finally collapses into their bed. Or the kids never even make it to their own beds and snuggle up with mom and dad in the big bed. These things don't work for me, but who am I to judge if they work for you?
For us though, getting those kids to bed at a decent hour is absolutely essential. The reason it is essential is not for the kids though. It's for us, for my husband and I. Sure there are probably benefits to getting kids into a regular sleep schedule, and refusing to give up and let them dictate the situation likely has some good discipline and life lesson benefits as well. But in the end it comes down to the preservation of our marriage that makes me so determined to win this battle.
Evenings are family time in our house. My husband works long hard hours but is home most nights in time for dinner so I always try to make sure that the few hours we have each night go well. We eat dinner, all of us, at the table. After dinner everyone chips in on clean up. If there is time my husband and son will watch some television together then the bedtime routine starts. Bath's if necessary, brushing teeth, changing diapers and taking potty trips, determining what to wear to bed (here I am ultra flexible, as long as it isn't going to strangle them while they sleep I pretty much allow whatever they want), bedtime stories and songs... then the lights go out and it is officially sleep time. For the kids that is.
When their evening with dad ends my evening with my husband begins. This is a special time for my husband and I. We have a Netflix account and always have a show that we are binging on, luckily we have enough common interest in television shows to make this possible. So we get something to drink and maybe snack on, grab a blanket and snuggle up on the couch to watch an episode or two of our latest fix (currently we are into the original Star Trek series). We talk during the show, about the show, about our friends and family, about the kids, about work, about whatever weird thing we read on the internet or heard on the radio... whatever. We talk, we snuggle, we watch TV. We have been doing this since before we even started dating. Back when we were just college friends we did this, and I wanted to make sure we didn't lose it just because we had kids.
It doesn't always work out perfectly, life never allows that. Just last night Star Trek had to be stopped twice to tend to my son before he finally settled down. But each time he was redirected to his room and we came back downstairs and picked up where we left off. The important thing is that we are trying, trying to connect with each other each day and trying to keep alive the memories of when we were young and so much in love we couldn't even fathom being apart. We need this time, so our children must get to bed.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Gaps in Our Beauty
The Mythical Thigh Gap
While wandering through Pintrest one day I came across a pin about attaining The Thigh Gap. And had a fascinating image, drawn, of a woman's legs with a square drawn between her two legs the one end resting under her rather personal parts. This piqued my interest. My thighs aren't supposed to touch? When did this happen?
I did what any real researcher would and went straight to Wikipedia and learned the answer, and felt a little better because according to them it really started being a thing only about two years ago. Thanks to a Victoria's Secret fashion show (of course) when several models sported this 'gap'. Apparently afterward the internet started buzzing with the term and has been ever since.
Well I, like everyone else, decided to check to see if I had this desired gap in my beauty. I stood up, put my knees together and low and behold, I have a gap! It does not rise as far as my unmentionables but pretty close... look at that I have a desirable beauty aspect. I did not even know it, and I barely ever show it off. Dresses that fall above my knees are generally not part of my wardrobe (I have to bend over too much to take care of small children and don't want those unmentionable parts of me to suddenly become the topic of the local grocery store). And pants that are tight enough to show it off, are 1. surprisingly hard to find for me & 2. uncomfortable.
I might have taken a few moments to puff up a little at this realization but it quickly dissolved. This is an absolutely ridiculous beauty standard.
What really got to me was the Wikipedia entry that stated it is associated with 'femininity and fragility'. Fragility!? I don't want this! Why is fragility associated with beauty? Shouldn't I be strong? I want these thighs...
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| Photo from this site |
Thighs that will fill out my jeans and my tight skirts...
Thighs that will stay together when you sit down, so you do not show off the color of your underwear or unknowingly give out invitations you had not meant to send...
Thighs that will strike fear in any man who even thinks of assaulting me because I could easily ram my knee with such force into his groin that he will sing soprano for a week... or strangle him between my legs...
Powerful, beautiful, womanly thighs...
But instead I am stuck with this stupid thigh gap. I risk showing off my unmentionables when I wear a skirt. Dropping something into my lap might mean fishing for it on the chair because it falls between my legs.
So while you admire my thigh gap (when it actually gets shown off) and secretly do your squats or thigh crunches or whatever exercise you are supposed to do to get delicate waif like thighs of mine... just know that secretly I am drooling over your satisfyingly full thighs.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Adventures in Sourdough Part 2: The Bread
Now that you have a sourdough starter turning out beautiful yeasty bubbles on your counter you are ready to make some bread. I went through a few attempts before I finally found this recipe.
I nabbed this recipe from The Good Hearted Woman, and have only made a few tweaks of my own to make it fit into my schedule better.
So lets get baking!
First gather up the ingredients, this doesn't take long...
Take all of that and mix it together in your stand mixer, with the dough hook. Once it is thoroughly mixed let it stand for 20 minutes.
Using the dough hook knead the bread for 10 minutes. While you are kneading it (or the machine is) oil a large bowl for the dough to rise in.
Once the dough is smooth and elastic transfer it to the bowl and turn it over so every side is coated in a thin layer of oil. This dough can be pretty sticky I usually remove my rings and sometimes oil my hands before handling it.
Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let it rise. The original recipe said for six hours... but this was not working for me. The half hour of preparation time, a six hour rise followed by another two hour rise and then an hour of baking meant this bread took 9 1/2 hours to complete, to have this ready for dinner time, which happens around 6pm at our house, I would have to start it at about 8am, which is before my kids wake up and thus not going to happen. If the 6 hours works for your schedule great. I have started preparing the bread before I go to bed and then letting it rise overnight and this has worked great.
Once it has doubled in size it is ready to be formed into a round loaf. Again be careful because it can be sticky still. Form into a loaf and place on a square of parchment paper, or a silicone mat. If you are going to bake this in a Dutch Oven use the parchment paper (not wax paper, I learned the hard way that wax paper will simply adhere itself to the crust of your bread... whoops). If you do not have parchment paper or a Dutch Oven you will want to put it on a silicone baking mat atop a cookie sheet, use a baking stone and then a large oven proof pan to put over the bread during the first half of the bake (I used my crock pot liner).
Using a wet serrated knife cut a few slices in the top of the bread. Cover the loaf with a damp cloth and allow to rise for another two hours.
During the last 30 minutes or so of this rise put the Dutch Oven or baking stone into the oven and then turn it on to 450 degrees F. Let the oven heat up with the Dutch Oven or baking stone.
Once the oven is fully heated take the Dutch Oven out and very carefully lift the loaf up by the corners of the parchment paper and place inside the pot. Or transfer the baking sheet with the loaf on it onto the baking stone. Cover the loaf with either the lid to the Dutch Oven or that large oven proof pan we talked about before. Bake for 12 - 13 minutes then remove the lid and bake for another 12 - 13 minutes.
Once the crust is a nice golden brown take it out and immediately put on a wire rack to cool. DO NOT cut into the loaf until it has cooled at least 30 minutes, it continues baking on the countertop.
Finally, slice and enjoy a piece of the wonderful homemade sourdough bread you have worked so hard on.
A quick recap:
Mix ingredients in stand mixer
Allow to stand for 20 minutes
Knead in stand mixer for 10 minutes
Put in oiled bowl and let rise for 6 or more hours (until doubled)
Form into round loaf and place on parchment paper
Let rise another 2 hours
Place Dutch Oven into oven and preheat to 450
Place loaf (using parchment paper) into Dutch Oven, cover with lid
Bake 12 - 13 minutes
Remove lid bake another 12 - 13 minutes
Cool on rack for 30 minutes
I nabbed this recipe from The Good Hearted Woman, and have only made a few tweaks of my own to make it fit into my schedule better.
So lets get baking!
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| Collecting all the ingredients, yes I have a thing for green |
- 3/4 cup sourdough starter, unfed & room temperature
- 1 cup water
- 3 cups flour
- 1 Tbsp maple syrup (or honey)
- 1 1/2 tsp salt
Take all of that and mix it together in your stand mixer, with the dough hook. Once it is thoroughly mixed let it stand for 20 minutes.
Using the dough hook knead the bread for 10 minutes. While you are kneading it (or the machine is) oil a large bowl for the dough to rise in.
Once the dough is smooth and elastic transfer it to the bowl and turn it over so every side is coated in a thin layer of oil. This dough can be pretty sticky I usually remove my rings and sometimes oil my hands before handling it.
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| Dough transferred to bowl |
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| Doubled in size, after rising 6 hours |
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| Getting ready for the final rise |
During the last 30 minutes or so of this rise put the Dutch Oven or baking stone into the oven and then turn it on to 450 degrees F. Let the oven heat up with the Dutch Oven or baking stone.
Once the oven is fully heated take the Dutch Oven out and very carefully lift the loaf up by the corners of the parchment paper and place inside the pot. Or transfer the baking sheet with the loaf on it onto the baking stone. Cover the loaf with either the lid to the Dutch Oven or that large oven proof pan we talked about before. Bake for 12 - 13 minutes then remove the lid and bake for another 12 - 13 minutes.
 |
| Cooling |
Finally, slice and enjoy a piece of the wonderful homemade sourdough bread you have worked so hard on.
A quick recap:
 |
| Well isn't that beautiful!? |
Mix ingredients in stand mixer
Allow to stand for 20 minutes
Knead in stand mixer for 10 minutes
Put in oiled bowl and let rise for 6 or more hours (until doubled)
Form into round loaf and place on parchment paper
Let rise another 2 hours
Place Dutch Oven into oven and preheat to 450
Place loaf (using parchment paper) into Dutch Oven, cover with lid
Bake 12 - 13 minutes
Remove lid bake another 12 - 13 minutes
Cool on rack for 30 minutes
Monday, June 16, 2014
Adventures in Sourdough Part 1: Building your Starter
I have stated before that I have an eating disorder, for me at least one thing that helps is surrounding myself with good food. Choosing to eat is much easier when the food you have to choose from is appetizing. Cooking the food also helps, putting all the time and energy into selecting recipes, going to the store, and finally making the food makes it easier to eat, no sense in wasting all of that time and effort. So cooking great food is highly therapeutic.
During our recent move I was unable to do much cooking, I did not have the time, energy and as the house got packed the supplies, to cook much more than Hamburger Helper. This is edible of course, but not exactly inspiring. So when we finally got settled into our new home I started cooking like crazy. In fact I just pulled the fifth loaf of sourdough bread out of my oven, and it looks very very tasty. This journey into making sourdough bread has been full of fun little mistakes, learning experiences and pretty yummy pay outs, so I thought I would share it with you.
Why Sourdough?
There has been a lot of buzz lately about sourdough breads. According to Real Food Forager the fermentation of the starter and then the long rise required for these breads makes them healthier than most breads. They contain high levels of lactic acid, the starches and gluten are more broken down making them easier to digest (possibly even for those with gluten sensitivities, but please talk to your doctor before running out and eating every sourdough loaf around if you have a gluten sensitivity), and it might even help regulate your blood glucose levels.
Oh and then there is the great benefit that it just tastes great! When baked to perfection sourdough is a soft tangy bubble of bread wrapped up in a crunchy golden crust. What more could you want?
This all sounds too good to be true, and maybe it is. I am not going to lie, the process to get that perfect loaf of sourdough can be a bit... lengthy. This is not an adventure for the impatient.
Your Sourdough Starter
Before you can even think about making a beautiful loaf of sourdough you first have to get a starter built up.
For those of you unfamiliar with baking sourdough let me try and simplify what a starter is exactly. This is a small amount of bread dough that has been allowed to sit and ferment, making a lovely culture of yeast, bacteria and enzymes. Once the starter is fully stable you will bake only using a small part of the starter the rest will be saved and regularly fed to keep it active and ready for whenever you want to bake another one of these heavenly loaves.
The easiest way to do this is to obtain a portion of an already established starter. If you are really lucky you know a friend or family member who has a little jar of fermenting bread dough on their counter, they would probably be happy to let you take a cup or so home to start your own adventures. Otherwise you can buy a starter. Some bakeries will sell them, or you can find places online to purchase one, such as the one by King Arthur Flour.
If you cannot get your hands on a free starter, and either do not feel like paying for one or just really want the experience of making it completely from scratch (in other words you are slightly sadistic, like me), you can whip up your own starter at home, for what probably comes to mere pennies (no I have not actually figured up the price, but it's cheap). The only issue is it will take about a week to get really ready, so be patient.
Starter Instructions
I read a lot of sites describing how they began their own starters and of course no one agreed on what the proper technique is. What I came away with was the understanding that there is no one set way to make a starter and that they really are forgiving concoctions. I merged together a few different techniques and found what I felt was the easiest way to make a starter (this already took a week to prepare, I felt that any additional steps were just going to annoy me more).
Equipment
During our recent move I was unable to do much cooking, I did not have the time, energy and as the house got packed the supplies, to cook much more than Hamburger Helper. This is edible of course, but not exactly inspiring. So when we finally got settled into our new home I started cooking like crazy. In fact I just pulled the fifth loaf of sourdough bread out of my oven, and it looks very very tasty. This journey into making sourdough bread has been full of fun little mistakes, learning experiences and pretty yummy pay outs, so I thought I would share it with you.
Why Sourdough?
There has been a lot of buzz lately about sourdough breads. According to Real Food Forager the fermentation of the starter and then the long rise required for these breads makes them healthier than most breads. They contain high levels of lactic acid, the starches and gluten are more broken down making them easier to digest (possibly even for those with gluten sensitivities, but please talk to your doctor before running out and eating every sourdough loaf around if you have a gluten sensitivity), and it might even help regulate your blood glucose levels.
Oh and then there is the great benefit that it just tastes great! When baked to perfection sourdough is a soft tangy bubble of bread wrapped up in a crunchy golden crust. What more could you want?
This all sounds too good to be true, and maybe it is. I am not going to lie, the process to get that perfect loaf of sourdough can be a bit... lengthy. This is not an adventure for the impatient.
Your Sourdough Starter
Before you can even think about making a beautiful loaf of sourdough you first have to get a starter built up.
For those of you unfamiliar with baking sourdough let me try and simplify what a starter is exactly. This is a small amount of bread dough that has been allowed to sit and ferment, making a lovely culture of yeast, bacteria and enzymes. Once the starter is fully stable you will bake only using a small part of the starter the rest will be saved and regularly fed to keep it active and ready for whenever you want to bake another one of these heavenly loaves.
The easiest way to do this is to obtain a portion of an already established starter. If you are really lucky you know a friend or family member who has a little jar of fermenting bread dough on their counter, they would probably be happy to let you take a cup or so home to start your own adventures. Otherwise you can buy a starter. Some bakeries will sell them, or you can find places online to purchase one, such as the one by King Arthur Flour.
If you cannot get your hands on a free starter, and either do not feel like paying for one or just really want the experience of making it completely from scratch (in other words you are slightly sadistic, like me), you can whip up your own starter at home, for what probably comes to mere pennies (no I have not actually figured up the price, but it's cheap). The only issue is it will take about a week to get really ready, so be patient.
Starter Instructions
I read a lot of sites describing how they began their own starters and of course no one agreed on what the proper technique is. What I came away with was the understanding that there is no one set way to make a starter and that they really are forgiving concoctions. I merged together a few different techniques and found what I felt was the easiest way to make a starter (this already took a week to prepare, I felt that any additional steps were just going to annoy me more).
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| This is my starter jar |
Equipment
- A decent sized jar
- This jar should be glass or ceramic, I prefer glass as I can see inside the jar easily. It needs a lid, this can be a lid that comes with it, a cheese cloth or even a paper towel held on with a rubber band, just something to keep things from falling in the starter.
- A spoon or whisk
- Many sites recommend a wooden spoon, but really anything to mix the dough in the jar you have chosen will work fine.
- Water
- Distilled is probably better, although filtered tap water is probably just as good, and even straight tap water is fine.
- Flour
- Just about any type of flour is fine. I used non-bleached all purpose flour.
- Patience
- I have said it before but this bears repeating, it will take at least 7 days before you can bake your first loaf.
- Mix your first batch
- Add 1/2 cup of flour and 1/3 cup of water in the jar and mix thoroughly.
- Feed your batch regularly
- Every 12 hours add another 1/2 cup of flour and 1/3 cup of water and mix well.
- Cover the jar
- The batch needs to breathe to collect all of those good natural yeasts and bacteria, but it does not need to collect flies. Secure a paper towel or cheese cloth to the top or simply put the lid on slightly askew.
- Maintain a proper amount
- Keep the jar about half full, if after mixing the jar is more than half full remove enough volume to maintain a half full status. This extra starter should simply be gotten rid of until you have the starter fully stabilized, once it is stabilized you can use this extra starter to bake with, or give to a friend if you do not want to throw it away.
- Do not get scared about the Hooch
- A brown liquid might form on the top, this is called 'hooch'. Mixing it back into the starter is perfectly fine. If this liquid ever turns strange green colors instead of brown the starter has been compromised by harmful bacteria and you should get rid of the starter.
- Watch for signs of 'Life'
- For the first few days there will be perhaps a few bubbles but very little will appear to go on. Around day four or so it should bubble up a little and will then appear to 'die'. For the next few days feeding it will seem to create no results, but this is part of the process. Between day 7 and day 10 it will almost magically bounce back into life and will start doubling in size after each feeding (which is why you should keep your jar only half full).
- Once it has begun doubling in size regularly it is stable and ready to use!
- If you are going to bake pretty regularly with your starter, say at least once a week, you will be best leaving the jar out on the counter and feeding it once a day. The same 1/2 cup of flour and 1/3 cup of water each day should do it. Do not fret if you forget for a day or two, just feed it when you remember and make sure it bounces back.
- If you only plan on baking sourdough now and then put the jar in the refrigerator with the lid fully on once it is stable. The night before you want to bake pull it out, feed it and let it sit on the counter until you bake.
- Remember to feed it each time you remove some of the starter to bake with as well.
- I wrap a rubber band around my jar when I feed it, marking the level of the starter, this way I can be sure it is doubling in size.
- When I made my starter I did not realize it would 'die' for a few days... I ran out of flour... and got very discouraged... so I stopped feeding it for about two days. A thick hooch formed on the top and when I finally got around to getting more flour I fed it again with little hope. The next morning I woke up and found it had bubbled up delightfully and has been going strong since! They are forgiving cultures!
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Skinny Mommy and Distance Triage
The other night, around midnight, I was working on my blog when I heard a loud thud come from upstairs, followed by my three year old son crying. I waited a minute, my husband was in the next room (if not for a wall the beds are actually only like 5 feet apart) and I was hoping he would be roused and go see what the problem was. When I heard nothing, men can sleep through anything it seems, I went upstairs and found my darling little boy trying to pull himself back into bed, with a delightful little trail of blood dotting his sheets to show his progression.
He had fallen out of bed, which is actually less than a foot from the ground since it is only a twin mattress on the floor, and apparently landed face first on the hard wood floor, busting open both upper and lower lips. Dad, finally, heard the commotion and I took care of the boy while he changed the sheets. Maybe fifteen minutes and a failed attempt at getting ice on those already bulging lips he was curled back up in bed fast asleep. It will be fun to see just how large his little lips get by tomorrow morning, we might have popsicles for breakfast.
This got me thinking about how I handle the potential 'emergencies' my children get themselves into rather regularly. I am the mom who sits on the bench at the playground, when my child falls down, even the little 1.5 year old, I bend my head to make visual confirmation and most of the time do little more than talk to them from the bench. Sometimes I get raised eyebrows at my non-reaction from other moms. However, despite what they might think my mind is quickly assessing the situation to determine the level of assistance I need to provide.
Most of the time I do not have to get up. Kids are pretty rubbery, they can get banged up and keep going.
I also find my method of assessing from a distance has a few benefits. First my kids learn how to pick themselves up and go on. They are not afraid to get hurt a little and try new things. Second, it saves me from having to get up every. single. time. I spend enough of my day running after them, cleaning up after them, and otherwise on my feet. If I can sit on the bench at the playground or on my couch for half an hour and everyone is still alive... well that sounds like a perfect way to spend an afternoon.
He had fallen out of bed, which is actually less than a foot from the ground since it is only a twin mattress on the floor, and apparently landed face first on the hard wood floor, busting open both upper and lower lips. Dad, finally, heard the commotion and I took care of the boy while he changed the sheets. Maybe fifteen minutes and a failed attempt at getting ice on those already bulging lips he was curled back up in bed fast asleep. It will be fun to see just how large his little lips get by tomorrow morning, we might have popsicles for breakfast.
This got me thinking about how I handle the potential 'emergencies' my children get themselves into rather regularly. I am the mom who sits on the bench at the playground, when my child falls down, even the little 1.5 year old, I bend my head to make visual confirmation and most of the time do little more than talk to them from the bench. Sometimes I get raised eyebrows at my non-reaction from other moms. However, despite what they might think my mind is quickly assessing the situation to determine the level of assistance I need to provide.
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| Photo Education News |
- Are the immediate surroundings safe? Has my child fallen down in a crosswalk, or at the bottom of the slide with ten other antsy children bounding at the top, or half way down a flight of stairs? Or have they fallen down in the middle of a sandbox, or a sidewalk that is otherwise empty, or in the middle of my living room? If they seem to be in a situation where getting up or not moving fast enough might cause further injury to them I get my skinny tush off the bench and collect my child. Otherwise I let them get up on their own time.
- Is there blood? Blood always gets me going. One drop or a full out gush, it does not matter. I need to at least wipe the area off and determine just what the wound that decided to leak my babies life blood looks like. I infect easily and I am not trying to find out if I passed that trait on to my children just yet, so a leaking wound often at least gets a dab of antibiotic ointment and a Band-Aid. So far nothing has needed stitches... so far... but I am prepared to pack them in the car and head to the nearest medical center when that is needed. If there is no blood I sit still and continue my observations.
- How do those limbs look? Next I will do a quick survey of those precious little arms and legs and such. Making sure nothing looks outright broken, twisted, swollen, overly red or already showing signs of bruising. This is also the point when I start looking at the evidence my child is giving me. Is he/she cradling a specific body part, or perhaps even saying that a specific body part hurts? If any of these signs seems apparent I will again get involved, and if the baby has taken a really hard hit (I heard the thud from across the house kind of hit) I inspect her decently up close.
- Can the kid get up and move around on their own? So the kid is in a safe place to temporarily recover from the fall, they do not appear to be bleeding, and there is no obvious sign that anything has been broken. My next step is to coax the kid to stand up. If they seem reluctant I tell the to stand up and come to me. They can get hugs and kisses to make them feel better, and I get a chance to make sure all that fussing is because they are scared and not actually hurt by watching how they get up and walk. If they are very reluctant, and not just being dramatic (my son can really ham it up), I will again get up and go to them.
Most of the time I do not have to get up. Kids are pretty rubbery, they can get banged up and keep going.
I also find my method of assessing from a distance has a few benefits. First my kids learn how to pick themselves up and go on. They are not afraid to get hurt a little and try new things. Second, it saves me from having to get up every. single. time. I spend enough of my day running after them, cleaning up after them, and otherwise on my feet. If I can sit on the bench at the playground or on my couch for half an hour and everyone is still alive... well that sounds like a perfect way to spend an afternoon.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Supporting vs. Slandering: Miss Indiana 2014
I do not have television so sometimes I am a bit behind on world events, so this story just came to my attention:
During the Miss USA 2014 competition this weekend Miss Indiana, gained a lot of attention in social media. She did this by flaunting her so called 'normal' body in a bikini.
Let me start off by saying... God she's gorgeous. I would LOVE to have that body, and if I worked out I probably could. I also will state that I did not watch this competition and have no idea what the other competitors looked like. However, I found some of the support for her bordering on that thin shaming edge I have written about before.
One such tweet went as follows:
"okay miss Indiana was the most human and not a stick and she didn't make it"
'Most human' !? Somehow being thin makes us less than human? Even without seeing the competition I am certain that non of them were any less human than Miss Indiana, perhaps there was less actual mass than her, but certainly not less humanity. Humanity should really be judged by one of two criteria, either our DNA or the amount of compassion we extend to those around us. Putting a girl in a swimsuit is no way to judge her basic right to the title 'human'.
And nearly every single tweet on the article I linked to mentioned 'stick'. I hate this term, it always makes me think of a little dead twig you find in the yard, probably with a few soggy wet leaves hanging on it sadly.
Thin, or skinny, does not necessarily equate to little dead inhuman things. It does not even immediately mean that you are unhealthy. Stop shaming us for being small. Not that I have any problem with getting excited over seeing some different body shapes showing up in arenas that speak of beauty. It IS a shame that these pageants seem to only represent one specific demographic of beauty. But please remember that the skinny girls have feelings too.
During the Miss USA 2014 competition this weekend Miss Indiana, gained a lot of attention in social media. She did this by flaunting her so called 'normal' body in a bikini.
Let me start off by saying... God she's gorgeous. I would LOVE to have that body, and if I worked out I probably could. I also will state that I did not watch this competition and have no idea what the other competitors looked like. However, I found some of the support for her bordering on that thin shaming edge I have written about before.
One such tweet went as follows:
"okay miss Indiana was the most human and not a stick and she didn't make it"
'Most human' !? Somehow being thin makes us less than human? Even without seeing the competition I am certain that non of them were any less human than Miss Indiana, perhaps there was less actual mass than her, but certainly not less humanity. Humanity should really be judged by one of two criteria, either our DNA or the amount of compassion we extend to those around us. Putting a girl in a swimsuit is no way to judge her basic right to the title 'human'.
And nearly every single tweet on the article I linked to mentioned 'stick'. I hate this term, it always makes me think of a little dead twig you find in the yard, probably with a few soggy wet leaves hanging on it sadly.
Thin, or skinny, does not necessarily equate to little dead inhuman things. It does not even immediately mean that you are unhealthy. Stop shaming us for being small. Not that I have any problem with getting excited over seeing some different body shapes showing up in arenas that speak of beauty. It IS a shame that these pageants seem to only represent one specific demographic of beauty. But please remember that the skinny girls have feelings too.
Suitor or Stalker... and How Do We Know?
I was scrolling through #YesAllWomen on Facebook last night and one of the posts caught my eye. At the time, of course, I just clicked on it, read it and moved on. Since then it has stayed with me. Regrettably I was unable to relocate that post today but even without the link I am sure most of you understand the subject all too well.
The post was about all the various, and although non-violent, annoying responses they get when turning a man down. Those times when 'No you can't have my number...' are followed by 'But I'll make it worth your while...' or when after a bad date you stop returning their phone calls and suddenly you notice their car outside your window, or find unwanted flowers at your office.
This made me immediately think of countless romantic comedy movies I have watched over the years. Movies where the leading female character is too fixated on her career or her previously broken heart to see Mr. Wonderful standing in front of her. She spends half of the movie turning him down. While he is so in love with her that he simply cannot give up. Finally his escapades work and she caves, often with a deal that if she goes out with him once she never has to talk to him again. Of course they fall madly in love with each other and live happily ever after.
On the flip side we have all seen movies, often on Lifetime, showing the other side of that coin. The movies where Mr. Wonderful quickly turns into Mr. Stalker. There is no happily ever after and the lead female spends the last half of this movie changing her phone number, her address, her name and praying that Stalker-boy does not find her. Of course he does, and from there the chances of her surviving the film can be determined by flipping a coin.
Every woman I have ever known has had an experience that walks this fine line. Weight, age, race, even current relationship status mean nothing. I was actually rather young when I had my first run in with one of these hopelessly 'romantic' guys.
I was a freshman in high school when an upper classman began to cast his eyes my way. He was a tall strong boy and rather outspoken, he also was not overly popular. We got to know each other because his older sister would drive us to an after school activity we were both involved in. I simply was not interested. But he asked me out, many times, and I always said no as politely as I could, I needed his sister as a ride you know.
I do not recall the actual progression of things anymore but I do recall a few events that really stuck out. He would stick notes in my locker through the little slots at the top, and once figured out how to break into my locker, around Valentines Day, and put a note and a few chocolate roses in it. This might have been romantic, but I wasn't interested and sending me notes and chocolates was something a boyfriend would do, it was creepy. I realized by things he said that he was checking up on me too, asking my friends where I was and what I was doing. Once he even carved my first initial in his calf, which was somehow supposed to impress me. It didn't.
I distinctly recall being invited to his birthday party one year. I got very few social invitations and so I went. His family lived on a farm so there was a large plot of land to roam around on. At one point someone suggested it would be fun to play hide-and-seek. All of the places I hid were close to the house, I remember thinking that I did not want to be found too far away from the others. What exactly I thought might happen I'm not sure. But I was a girl, and as a girl you pick up on certain survival skills, and that night I just knew that getting too far away was not safe. Luckily nothing happened that night, and eventually he got the message that I was not going to 'cave in'. Years later it was apparent that he was still interested but was no longer persistent. I suffered mostly from some very awkward and uncomfortable situations.
How is a girl to know though? In our culture it really is a gamble... is that guy who won't leave you alone really in love with you? Are you ignoring Mr. Wonderful from the romantic comedy? Or are you steering clear of a Lifetime Movie villain who will terrorize your life and possibly do much worse?
The post was about all the various, and although non-violent, annoying responses they get when turning a man down. Those times when 'No you can't have my number...' are followed by 'But I'll make it worth your while...' or when after a bad date you stop returning their phone calls and suddenly you notice their car outside your window, or find unwanted flowers at your office.
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| Heath Ledger in 'Ten Things I Hate About You' |
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| Mark Wahlberg in 'Fear' http://wrennswritebrainers.com/2014/02/11/messed-up-movie-romances/ |
Every woman I have ever known has had an experience that walks this fine line. Weight, age, race, even current relationship status mean nothing. I was actually rather young when I had my first run in with one of these hopelessly 'romantic' guys.
I was a freshman in high school when an upper classman began to cast his eyes my way. He was a tall strong boy and rather outspoken, he also was not overly popular. We got to know each other because his older sister would drive us to an after school activity we were both involved in. I simply was not interested. But he asked me out, many times, and I always said no as politely as I could, I needed his sister as a ride you know.
I do not recall the actual progression of things anymore but I do recall a few events that really stuck out. He would stick notes in my locker through the little slots at the top, and once figured out how to break into my locker, around Valentines Day, and put a note and a few chocolate roses in it. This might have been romantic, but I wasn't interested and sending me notes and chocolates was something a boyfriend would do, it was creepy. I realized by things he said that he was checking up on me too, asking my friends where I was and what I was doing. Once he even carved my first initial in his calf, which was somehow supposed to impress me. It didn't.
I distinctly recall being invited to his birthday party one year. I got very few social invitations and so I went. His family lived on a farm so there was a large plot of land to roam around on. At one point someone suggested it would be fun to play hide-and-seek. All of the places I hid were close to the house, I remember thinking that I did not want to be found too far away from the others. What exactly I thought might happen I'm not sure. But I was a girl, and as a girl you pick up on certain survival skills, and that night I just knew that getting too far away was not safe. Luckily nothing happened that night, and eventually he got the message that I was not going to 'cave in'. Years later it was apparent that he was still interested but was no longer persistent. I suffered mostly from some very awkward and uncomfortable situations.
How is a girl to know though? In our culture it really is a gamble... is that guy who won't leave you alone really in love with you? Are you ignoring Mr. Wonderful from the romantic comedy? Or are you steering clear of a Lifetime Movie villain who will terrorize your life and possibly do much worse?
Sunday, June 1, 2014
My Eating Disorder is Not About My Weight
I have an eating disorder. Note I say 'have' not 'had'. I often relate it to alcoholism. There really is no cure, there are simply times in my life when I have it under control and times when I don't have it under control, but it is something I am going to struggle with my entire life.
For anyone who knows me this is not a surprise. I do not keep this part of my life locked up in some secret closet. Explaining that I have an eating disorder is not as easy as explaining the complexity of mine though. Most people seem to assume that it means I think I am fat. This is very far from the truth. I am not obsessed with weight, I do not even own a scale. If I were to decide to do something to improve my body it would be working out and putting ON perhaps 10 - 20 pounds, in muscle. I have always been skinny and I have always known it. Most of the time I actually wish I was larger.
No for me eating, or not eating, is much more complicated. For me the issue is related to control instead of body image. I do best when my life is organized, orderly, and predictable. Unfortunately this is a luxury none of us can maintain very long. Life's inherent chaos makes me anxious and one of the nasty manifestations of this anxiety is an eating disorder.
The experience, for me at least, is highly physical. When I get overly anxious it is like I am experiencing morning sickness, or a nasty case of food poisoning. The smell of food often makes me reel, the greasier the worse it gets. Sometimes the mere sight of food can turn my stomach upside down. If I try to actually eat in this state I find that the mere process of chewing food can make me gag (calorie intake then gets regulated to soft foods and liquids, things like milk, yogurt and soup). Simply forcing myself to eat is not enough either, because it has a nasty habit of coming back up. I cannot tell you how many nights, or early mornings (times when the anxiety is often worst) I have spent hovering over a toilet, despite the fact that nothing was actually wrong with my physically.
At one point in my life this anxiety driven eating disorder got completely out of control, my freshman year of college. I lost the freshman fifteen instead of gaining it, which dropped me below 100 lbs. At that point I did seek help, through the college mental health services. In the end though I finally realized I was starving myself and that I had to snap out of it. I learned relaxation techniques and I am working still at simply trying to accept the things which I cannot control, and focus my energies on controlling what I can (in a healthy way). I have not gotten completely out of control since, although I still have days, or sometimes months to be honest, when I skip meals, wake up with dry heaves and force myself to nibble on some cottage cheese when I can.
So when I tell you that I have an eating disorder do not automatically assume that it means I think I am fat. It means that I am anxious and scared, just like you probably are. It's just that for some reason in my body that anxiety makes food my enemy. The medical community does not seem to recognize this, of all the listed types of eating disorders only binge eating does not seem to have obsession with being thin listed as a symptom, and I definitely do not suffer from binge eating.
It would be great to hear from others who have an uncommon eating disorder out there. Maybe one day the connection between control, anxiety and our eating habits will be better understood.
For anyone who knows me this is not a surprise. I do not keep this part of my life locked up in some secret closet. Explaining that I have an eating disorder is not as easy as explaining the complexity of mine though. Most people seem to assume that it means I think I am fat. This is very far from the truth. I am not obsessed with weight, I do not even own a scale. If I were to decide to do something to improve my body it would be working out and putting ON perhaps 10 - 20 pounds, in muscle. I have always been skinny and I have always known it. Most of the time I actually wish I was larger. No for me eating, or not eating, is much more complicated. For me the issue is related to control instead of body image. I do best when my life is organized, orderly, and predictable. Unfortunately this is a luxury none of us can maintain very long. Life's inherent chaos makes me anxious and one of the nasty manifestations of this anxiety is an eating disorder.
The experience, for me at least, is highly physical. When I get overly anxious it is like I am experiencing morning sickness, or a nasty case of food poisoning. The smell of food often makes me reel, the greasier the worse it gets. Sometimes the mere sight of food can turn my stomach upside down. If I try to actually eat in this state I find that the mere process of chewing food can make me gag (calorie intake then gets regulated to soft foods and liquids, things like milk, yogurt and soup). Simply forcing myself to eat is not enough either, because it has a nasty habit of coming back up. I cannot tell you how many nights, or early mornings (times when the anxiety is often worst) I have spent hovering over a toilet, despite the fact that nothing was actually wrong with my physically.
At one point in my life this anxiety driven eating disorder got completely out of control, my freshman year of college. I lost the freshman fifteen instead of gaining it, which dropped me below 100 lbs. At that point I did seek help, through the college mental health services. In the end though I finally realized I was starving myself and that I had to snap out of it. I learned relaxation techniques and I am working still at simply trying to accept the things which I cannot control, and focus my energies on controlling what I can (in a healthy way). I have not gotten completely out of control since, although I still have days, or sometimes months to be honest, when I skip meals, wake up with dry heaves and force myself to nibble on some cottage cheese when I can.
So when I tell you that I have an eating disorder do not automatically assume that it means I think I am fat. It means that I am anxious and scared, just like you probably are. It's just that for some reason in my body that anxiety makes food my enemy. The medical community does not seem to recognize this, of all the listed types of eating disorders only binge eating does not seem to have obsession with being thin listed as a symptom, and I definitely do not suffer from binge eating.
It would be great to hear from others who have an uncommon eating disorder out there. Maybe one day the connection between control, anxiety and our eating habits will be better understood.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Women Who Inspire: Clara Barton and Memorial Day
I recently found myself enjoying some child-free time and watching a documentary on the Civil War (yes this is how I choose to spend my free time). Clara Barton and her humanitarian actions were mentioned several times during the film and I found myself drawn to her story. Her actions during, and even more so after, the Civil War reminded me what Memorial Day and true patriotism is truly about.
The documentary, American Experience: Death and the Civil War, focused on how the war changed our perspective on death in this country. One of the points it discussed was how the military and the government were forced to revise how they dealt with the business of death. Prior to the Civil War there was no government supported ambulance service, burial details, means of identifying fallen soldiers, compensation to living relatives or even a system to notify family members of a death. These duties traditionally fell on individual commanders. The sheer numbers of casualties during the Civil War, however, were too great for those commanders. So the dead and wounded were not given the treatment they so deserved.
During the Civil War strides were taken to remedy many of these issues. Ambulance services were started to carry the wounded and dead from the field. Individuals began making a greater effort to place names on bodies and record where they had been left. Hospital registries were created to notify family members and answer their inquiries. National cemeteries were set up, including one at Gettysburg where President Lincoln gave the famous Gettysburg Address at it's dedication ceremony.
Clara Barton was working in Washington DC when the Civil War began and as soon as wounded Union soldiers began arriving there she was at their sides, nursing them back to health. Not long after she moved her work to the front, taking with her wagonloads of supplies and working side by side with the field doctors.
It was her work after the Civil War that most impressed me the most, though. As many of those involved with the war headed home to celebrate their victory, or mourn over their defeat, she recognized that the work was not yet done. Thousands of soldiers were still missing, some were wounded and still recovering in various hospitals, but many of them were left in unmarked graves or worse yet in abandoned fields. She started working with the War Department and founded the Missing Soldiers Office. There she personally conducted interviews, collected statements and began a database of information to determine the fate of hundreds of Union soldiers. At one point she even led a team to Andersonville, Georgia a Confederate prison camp, with a soldier who had once been held there. His information helped Barton locate hundreds of men, and even identified many of these. All of these men were reburied in National Cemeteries. Her efforts helped many and spurred the government into taking more drastic measures to help others learn the fate of their loved ones.
What her story reminded me of was that while the government has a responsibility toward its citizens, especially those that have served and died in its defense, we too must not forget that we have our own duty as private citizens.
Unlike many of the others who took up the banner for the soldiers during the Civil War Clara Barton had no personal connection. She was not spurred by a loss of her own. Instead she simply saw that help was needed and she offered it. The only thing motivating her was a deep sense of patriotism. So on this Memorial Day I suggest that we all take a little inspiration from that. It is our duty, not as mothers or daughters or sisters or wives of soldiers but simply as American citizens, to give the honor and respect that is due to each and every soldier.
Support Our Troops - a great list of ways that you can show your support
If you know of other ways that a private citizen can to 'help soldiers' please feel free to post it here in the comments section.
The documentary, American Experience: Death and the Civil War, focused on how the war changed our perspective on death in this country. One of the points it discussed was how the military and the government were forced to revise how they dealt with the business of death. Prior to the Civil War there was no government supported ambulance service, burial details, means of identifying fallen soldiers, compensation to living relatives or even a system to notify family members of a death. These duties traditionally fell on individual commanders. The sheer numbers of casualties during the Civil War, however, were too great for those commanders. So the dead and wounded were not given the treatment they so deserved.
During the Civil War strides were taken to remedy many of these issues. Ambulance services were started to carry the wounded and dead from the field. Individuals began making a greater effort to place names on bodies and record where they had been left. Hospital registries were created to notify family members and answer their inquiries. National cemeteries were set up, including one at Gettysburg where President Lincoln gave the famous Gettysburg Address at it's dedication ceremony.
Clara Barton was working in Washington DC when the Civil War began and as soon as wounded Union soldiers began arriving there she was at their sides, nursing them back to health. Not long after she moved her work to the front, taking with her wagonloads of supplies and working side by side with the field doctors.
Clara Barton (National Archives)
It was her work after the Civil War that most impressed me the most, though. As many of those involved with the war headed home to celebrate their victory, or mourn over their defeat, she recognized that the work was not yet done. Thousands of soldiers were still missing, some were wounded and still recovering in various hospitals, but many of them were left in unmarked graves or worse yet in abandoned fields. She started working with the War Department and founded the Missing Soldiers Office. There she personally conducted interviews, collected statements and began a database of information to determine the fate of hundreds of Union soldiers. At one point she even led a team to Andersonville, Georgia a Confederate prison camp, with a soldier who had once been held there. His information helped Barton locate hundreds of men, and even identified many of these. All of these men were reburied in National Cemeteries. Her efforts helped many and spurred the government into taking more drastic measures to help others learn the fate of their loved ones.
What her story reminded me of was that while the government has a responsibility toward its citizens, especially those that have served and died in its defense, we too must not forget that we have our own duty as private citizens.
"If I can't be a soldier, I'll help soldiers."
- Clara Barton
Unlike many of the others who took up the banner for the soldiers during the Civil War Clara Barton had no personal connection. She was not spurred by a loss of her own. Instead she simply saw that help was needed and she offered it. The only thing motivating her was a deep sense of patriotism. So on this Memorial Day I suggest that we all take a little inspiration from that. It is our duty, not as mothers or daughters or sisters or wives of soldiers but simply as American citizens, to give the honor and respect that is due to each and every soldier.
Support Our Troops - a great list of ways that you can show your support
If you know of other ways that a private citizen can to 'help soldiers' please feel free to post it here in the comments section.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Why I Don't Exercise
If you have spent any time online looking at popular blogs, especially those written by fellow ladies and moms, you've no doubt run across a slew of them discussing their latest marathon, or how they make time to go to the gym, or the new yoga class or fitness regiment they just began (or even more sickening that they have been successfully doing for years). Well this is not one of those blogs.
I read those blogs and I end up walking away from the computer, or putting down my phone, feeling like 'Sure I could do that, hell I SHOULD do that...' They inspire me, sometimes I will even do more research and consider starting something up myself. Somewhere between twenty minutes and 5 days later, however, I realize what a complete idiot I was for even thinking I could aspire to those heights. I don't exercise. I never have. I doubt that I ever will with any real conviction. Here are my reasons why:
At first it would seem that a gym would be a great idea! (yes exclamation point because otherwise I might not get excited about this whole exercise thing) To begin with I would be paying membership dues, unless I get it free somehow through work (which did happen once, will get into that later), and that might just kick me in the pocketbook enough to actually use their services instead of letting the money go to waste. They have trainers who will help keep me motivated and teach me the proper way to do all this healthy physical stuff, they have classes like yoga, zumba, spin and hey all of those sound fun. So yeah maybe I should join a gym!
Except... To begin with I have to get to the gym. And this may sound easy, you get your stuff, you get in the car, you drive there. But I have two small children, so this becomes monumentally more difficult. Now I must find someone to watch my children, on a regular enough basis to make this membership fee worth my while.
I could ask my husband, I am probably owed a few hours a week of time without the children and since he is half of the reason they are on this planet in the first place maybe he should be the one to take them. But there is that 'regular basis' thing that makes this hard. Being the breadwinner in the family he has a lot to do, until recently he was holding down a job and going to school in the evening, and when he isn't going to school he is often working overtime hours. And since weekends often revolve around family activities (and I would really need to go more than one a week anyway), this can be difficult to work out.
I could get a baby sitter. I could find someone to come over and take care of the kids for me. I would have to find someone, and convince them to regularly take my children off my hands, which means realistically I would need to pay them. So now I am not only paying a membership fee, but now I am also paying a babysitter. This is getting expensive. And possibly scheduling-wise complicated.
I could just find a gym that has a child care watching facility. I use the term facility loosely... I imagine these 'facilities' are really just colorfully painted rooms stuffed with toys and maybe a TV where some college kid sits around watching my kid for an hour or so. While I have never verified this, I admit this completely, I would suspect that the price for such a gym goes up, again back to expensive. And while I am actually, almost, completely ok leaving my children for an hour or so with another human being that I have not done a complete back ground check on prior to this occasion, I am not sure how well it would work. My son would be very upset about not going to 'work out' with mommy, especially once he caught sight of all those glittery child smashing machines in the gym. In addition I would have to get the kids ready... pack the diaper bag, get them in the car, out of the car, wrangled past the machines and into the colored room... I was not planning on doing half of my regiment before I even arrived.
But okay, I pick one of those solutions albeit not a perfect one and actually get rid of my beautiful children so I can exercise... now what?
First I would have to venture into the locker room. Need I really go on? What woman actually enjoys a locker room? Do you change out in the room, where everyone can see you, and the pair of panties you wore that inevitably have a stretched out waist band? Or do you go into the stall and seem prudish? Do you weigh yourself on the conveniently placed scale by the door? Do you shower before the workout? After the workout? Is there a system for obtaining a locker, and a lock? And dear lord how many different scents of perfume can actually mix together before it becomes a hazardous gas?
If I have not completely broken down of an anxiety attack at the locker room then it is time to actually venture out into the gym floor and do what I intended to do in the first place, exercise. It seems that there are two types of gyms, those that allow both genders and those that allow only women. I have several friends who love going to only women gyms, they claim it really helps them focus and feel less judged. To these comments I have always nodded as if I knew what they were talking about, when in fact I admit I have no clue. I would never join a women only gym. First reference my comment about perfume above. Second, what do you mean they don't judge you? Women are some of the most judgmental and nasty creatures I have ever met. They might not say it to my face, but I know as soon as I leave that locker room they are at least reviewing every single stitch of my elasticly-disabled underwear mentally, if not in whispers to each other. Honestly I would prefer a gym full of men, preferably hot men. I know that I look decent enough to get a few looks and I might get some real full on flirts too, and what woman couldn't use a little ego boost like that now and then? I do not want some girl who weights twenty pounds more than me spotting me and telling me to give it all I can, when I suspect secretly she is hating me for being twenty pounds lighter than her and could at any moment drop the bar on my chest. No I want some cute guy (who is oblivious to my underwear issues) with a six pack smiling down at me and asking me how my day went...
Um.. where was I? Oh yes... gyms, with all those hot sweaty men in them. I do not think this beautiful ideal gym with free child care and hot men just lining up to help spot me exists. And in lieu of that I think I should reconsider where to work out.
Well this sounds like a nice compromise. I no longer have to get rid of the children completely. This feat can be accomplished while they are asleep, either during a nap or before I go to bed (waking up early to exercise is such an absurd idea I will not even pretend to list it here), or if I am super awesome and creative with them somehow. I do not have to worry about what I am wearing, the kids and husband have all seen my stretched out panties and do not care, or maybe it is just that I don't care if they do. Okay, let us try this at home!
Hmmm... first problem. I have no idea what I am doing. Beyond high school, where Coach used to make us run stair laps, I have had no formal education in the proper way to exercise. Not that this is beyond my capabilities. This is 2014, I have a computer with internet hookup and access to a public library. Researching this can be extremely overwhelming, however. Knowing which system is the best, which video or workout plan will really work to target the areas you want targeted while not killing you is not easy. To do this I usually do a quick and dirty search and pick the system that has the least amount of poses and directions to start with, always under the theory that I will pick up more once I get the hang of those. When it comes to actually practicing what I have found it gets more sticky. I am always doubting if I am doing the exercise correctly, with no one else there to give advice it can be unnerving, especially knowing that doing the exercise wrong could result in injury or even worse no actual benefit. This does not help the process any.
When selecting the program I am going to follow by myself I am also limited by the fact that I am not a gym. I have no equipment. There are no exercise balls bouncing around in my basement, no tread mills, or light weights, no stretchy band things or fancy poles (once I found an exercise regiment that claimed it only needed a wall, the catch was it needed enough clear wall space to accommodate my leg span... which I did not have). So I either have to go and spend a small fortune on equipment I will hopefully, but not realistically, use, or skip anything that seems too complicated for my exercise less house.
Finally, as any stay at home mom can attest, finding that time to exercise, especially when it is not something completely scheduled out and virtually immovable, is harder than it sounds. I might decide to exercise during naptime for instance. Only to get three minutes into my regime and suddenly hear a loud blood curdling scream erupt from the bedroom. After helping my daughter recover her blankey from under her bed I seem to have lost my steam. Besides, it might be best that I did not start back up, ten minutes later I am summoned to my sons room who has had yet another potty training accident...
Exercise is good for you though, so I break down and decide that I need to do it, no matter where I do it. Once I was actually fortunate enough to have a gym available to me for free at work, this was even before I had children. I could go during my lunch break, or right after work. So I did, kind of. Inevitably the cycle would go something like this. I would work out regularly for two or three weeks, and then something would happen and I would stop. Four months later I would start again, get in another two or three weeks and then stop. This went on for three years. The reasons I stopped then are often the same reasons I stop now.
Weather plays a big part in this. I do not mind weather. I love thunderstorms, I find snow falls peaceful, hot sunny days are invigorating, cool fall days are relaxing. However, if I have to actually go outside... it had better be a nice spring day. The gym at my work was in another building, and if it was raining too heavily, snowing, frigidly cold or even too windy for me I would talk myself out of going, or would 'wait to see if it would clear up' which was almost the same as not going. Inevitably the next day it would be easier to convince myself that the weather again was too bad to go out and soon enough it had been a week and I was back on my four month hiatus.
Health also plays an important role. I get colds every winter, and every spring. As soon as I begin sniffling I stop exercising. My immune system needs to rest and spend it's energy kicking some germ's butt. At least that is my reasoning. Mainly I do not want to do anything strenuous like exercise when I feel like hell. A night of insomnia has a similar effect on me. Sleepy me also refuses to do anything strenuous. Logically I understand that exercise will help boost my immune system and also level out all those soupy chemicals in my body to help me sleep better. Apparently it takes more than three weeks of good behavior to reap these benefits, though, and I have never made it longer than that to attest to the actual results myself.
Then there is the issue of pain. Exercise hurts. When one is as out of shape as I am there is no getting around it. I can distinctly recall trying to follow a video on getting your abs into shape after having a baby. I made it through the first ten minutes, barely, my stomach was aching after the first round of creative crunches. During the next ten minutes the instructor did what I have come to learn is a side plank. She even explained that right after having your child it might be difficult and that you can start by putting your hips on the floor and build up to a point when you can lift them off with the rest of your body. Through my tears I laughed as I clumsily tried to position my body, in the easier position, and failed, my poor tired abs collapsing and leaving me in a heap on the floor instead of the pretty side plank the pretty blonde was in. The next day I did not try it again, I had endured enough.
So there it is, my list of excuses. I do not like gyms. I find exercising at home to be confusing and difficult to fit into my schedule. Even if I do commit myself to something I quickly find that weather, my health and my overall lack of fitness stops my progression any further.
I understand all of the benefits of exercise, but I cannot seem to make it work. My journey toward a healthier me is not over yet, and perhaps someday I will find something that actually works for me and I will stick with it, I'll blog all about it if I do I am sure. For now though I don't, and if you don't either maybe you won't feel so bad about it, you are not alone.
I read those blogs and I end up walking away from the computer, or putting down my phone, feeling like 'Sure I could do that, hell I SHOULD do that...' They inspire me, sometimes I will even do more research and consider starting something up myself. Somewhere between twenty minutes and 5 days later, however, I realize what a complete idiot I was for even thinking I could aspire to those heights. I don't exercise. I never have. I doubt that I ever will with any real conviction. Here are my reasons why:
Gyms
At first it would seem that a gym would be a great idea! (yes exclamation point because otherwise I might not get excited about this whole exercise thing) To begin with I would be paying membership dues, unless I get it free somehow through work (which did happen once, will get into that later), and that might just kick me in the pocketbook enough to actually use their services instead of letting the money go to waste. They have trainers who will help keep me motivated and teach me the proper way to do all this healthy physical stuff, they have classes like yoga, zumba, spin and hey all of those sound fun. So yeah maybe I should join a gym!
Except... To begin with I have to get to the gym. And this may sound easy, you get your stuff, you get in the car, you drive there. But I have two small children, so this becomes monumentally more difficult. Now I must find someone to watch my children, on a regular enough basis to make this membership fee worth my while.
I could ask my husband, I am probably owed a few hours a week of time without the children and since he is half of the reason they are on this planet in the first place maybe he should be the one to take them. But there is that 'regular basis' thing that makes this hard. Being the breadwinner in the family he has a lot to do, until recently he was holding down a job and going to school in the evening, and when he isn't going to school he is often working overtime hours. And since weekends often revolve around family activities (and I would really need to go more than one a week anyway), this can be difficult to work out.
I could get a baby sitter. I could find someone to come over and take care of the kids for me. I would have to find someone, and convince them to regularly take my children off my hands, which means realistically I would need to pay them. So now I am not only paying a membership fee, but now I am also paying a babysitter. This is getting expensive. And possibly scheduling-wise complicated.
I could just find a gym that has a child care watching facility. I use the term facility loosely... I imagine these 'facilities' are really just colorfully painted rooms stuffed with toys and maybe a TV where some college kid sits around watching my kid for an hour or so. While I have never verified this, I admit this completely, I would suspect that the price for such a gym goes up, again back to expensive. And while I am actually, almost, completely ok leaving my children for an hour or so with another human being that I have not done a complete back ground check on prior to this occasion, I am not sure how well it would work. My son would be very upset about not going to 'work out' with mommy, especially once he caught sight of all those glittery child smashing machines in the gym. In addition I would have to get the kids ready... pack the diaper bag, get them in the car, out of the car, wrangled past the machines and into the colored room... I was not planning on doing half of my regiment before I even arrived.
But okay, I pick one of those solutions albeit not a perfect one and actually get rid of my beautiful children so I can exercise... now what?
First I would have to venture into the locker room. Need I really go on? What woman actually enjoys a locker room? Do you change out in the room, where everyone can see you, and the pair of panties you wore that inevitably have a stretched out waist band? Or do you go into the stall and seem prudish? Do you weigh yourself on the conveniently placed scale by the door? Do you shower before the workout? After the workout? Is there a system for obtaining a locker, and a lock? And dear lord how many different scents of perfume can actually mix together before it becomes a hazardous gas?
If I have not completely broken down of an anxiety attack at the locker room then it is time to actually venture out into the gym floor and do what I intended to do in the first place, exercise. It seems that there are two types of gyms, those that allow both genders and those that allow only women. I have several friends who love going to only women gyms, they claim it really helps them focus and feel less judged. To these comments I have always nodded as if I knew what they were talking about, when in fact I admit I have no clue. I would never join a women only gym. First reference my comment about perfume above. Second, what do you mean they don't judge you? Women are some of the most judgmental and nasty creatures I have ever met. They might not say it to my face, but I know as soon as I leave that locker room they are at least reviewing every single stitch of my elasticly-disabled underwear mentally, if not in whispers to each other. Honestly I would prefer a gym full of men, preferably hot men. I know that I look decent enough to get a few looks and I might get some real full on flirts too, and what woman couldn't use a little ego boost like that now and then? I do not want some girl who weights twenty pounds more than me spotting me and telling me to give it all I can, when I suspect secretly she is hating me for being twenty pounds lighter than her and could at any moment drop the bar on my chest. No I want some cute guy (who is oblivious to my underwear issues) with a six pack smiling down at me and asking me how my day went...
Um.. where was I? Oh yes... gyms, with all those hot sweaty men in them. I do not think this beautiful ideal gym with free child care and hot men just lining up to help spot me exists. And in lieu of that I think I should reconsider where to work out.
At Home
Well this sounds like a nice compromise. I no longer have to get rid of the children completely. This feat can be accomplished while they are asleep, either during a nap or before I go to bed (waking up early to exercise is such an absurd idea I will not even pretend to list it here), or if I am super awesome and creative with them somehow. I do not have to worry about what I am wearing, the kids and husband have all seen my stretched out panties and do not care, or maybe it is just that I don't care if they do. Okay, let us try this at home!
Hmmm... first problem. I have no idea what I am doing. Beyond high school, where Coach used to make us run stair laps, I have had no formal education in the proper way to exercise. Not that this is beyond my capabilities. This is 2014, I have a computer with internet hookup and access to a public library. Researching this can be extremely overwhelming, however. Knowing which system is the best, which video or workout plan will really work to target the areas you want targeted while not killing you is not easy. To do this I usually do a quick and dirty search and pick the system that has the least amount of poses and directions to start with, always under the theory that I will pick up more once I get the hang of those. When it comes to actually practicing what I have found it gets more sticky. I am always doubting if I am doing the exercise correctly, with no one else there to give advice it can be unnerving, especially knowing that doing the exercise wrong could result in injury or even worse no actual benefit. This does not help the process any.
When selecting the program I am going to follow by myself I am also limited by the fact that I am not a gym. I have no equipment. There are no exercise balls bouncing around in my basement, no tread mills, or light weights, no stretchy band things or fancy poles (once I found an exercise regiment that claimed it only needed a wall, the catch was it needed enough clear wall space to accommodate my leg span... which I did not have). So I either have to go and spend a small fortune on equipment I will hopefully, but not realistically, use, or skip anything that seems too complicated for my exercise less house.
Finally, as any stay at home mom can attest, finding that time to exercise, especially when it is not something completely scheduled out and virtually immovable, is harder than it sounds. I might decide to exercise during naptime for instance. Only to get three minutes into my regime and suddenly hear a loud blood curdling scream erupt from the bedroom. After helping my daughter recover her blankey from under her bed I seem to have lost my steam. Besides, it might be best that I did not start back up, ten minutes later I am summoned to my sons room who has had yet another potty training accident...
Standard Excuses
Exercise is good for you though, so I break down and decide that I need to do it, no matter where I do it. Once I was actually fortunate enough to have a gym available to me for free at work, this was even before I had children. I could go during my lunch break, or right after work. So I did, kind of. Inevitably the cycle would go something like this. I would work out regularly for two or three weeks, and then something would happen and I would stop. Four months later I would start again, get in another two or three weeks and then stop. This went on for three years. The reasons I stopped then are often the same reasons I stop now.
Weather plays a big part in this. I do not mind weather. I love thunderstorms, I find snow falls peaceful, hot sunny days are invigorating, cool fall days are relaxing. However, if I have to actually go outside... it had better be a nice spring day. The gym at my work was in another building, and if it was raining too heavily, snowing, frigidly cold or even too windy for me I would talk myself out of going, or would 'wait to see if it would clear up' which was almost the same as not going. Inevitably the next day it would be easier to convince myself that the weather again was too bad to go out and soon enough it had been a week and I was back on my four month hiatus.
Health also plays an important role. I get colds every winter, and every spring. As soon as I begin sniffling I stop exercising. My immune system needs to rest and spend it's energy kicking some germ's butt. At least that is my reasoning. Mainly I do not want to do anything strenuous like exercise when I feel like hell. A night of insomnia has a similar effect on me. Sleepy me also refuses to do anything strenuous. Logically I understand that exercise will help boost my immune system and also level out all those soupy chemicals in my body to help me sleep better. Apparently it takes more than three weeks of good behavior to reap these benefits, though, and I have never made it longer than that to attest to the actual results myself.
Then there is the issue of pain. Exercise hurts. When one is as out of shape as I am there is no getting around it. I can distinctly recall trying to follow a video on getting your abs into shape after having a baby. I made it through the first ten minutes, barely, my stomach was aching after the first round of creative crunches. During the next ten minutes the instructor did what I have come to learn is a side plank. She even explained that right after having your child it might be difficult and that you can start by putting your hips on the floor and build up to a point when you can lift them off with the rest of your body. Through my tears I laughed as I clumsily tried to position my body, in the easier position, and failed, my poor tired abs collapsing and leaving me in a heap on the floor instead of the pretty side plank the pretty blonde was in. The next day I did not try it again, I had endured enough.
So there it is, my list of excuses. I do not like gyms. I find exercising at home to be confusing and difficult to fit into my schedule. Even if I do commit myself to something I quickly find that weather, my health and my overall lack of fitness stops my progression any further.
I understand all of the benefits of exercise, but I cannot seem to make it work. My journey toward a healthier me is not over yet, and perhaps someday I will find something that actually works for me and I will stick with it, I'll blog all about it if I do I am sure. For now though I don't, and if you don't either maybe you won't feel so bad about it, you are not alone.
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