Today was pretty unpleasant for me. Nothing happened, specifically, but rather a cluster bomb of twaddle, hormone-induced rage, and an inability to move without groaning after two excellent workouts. By excellent, I mean, they would be magnificent for someone who had some semblance of being in shape. I, by the way, am not that person. (Is smooshy a shape? Because if so, I totally retract my earlier statement.)
I should have known better to step on that stupid scale this morning. That started it. First of all, this is the very last week that I should even consider pressing a toe onto a scale. Not so much as my pinkie toe. Just like every other inappropriate weighing times, I can never seem to help myself. Eat a pound of chocolate at two o'clock in the morning, or binge-eat Apple Jacks in the middle of the night? The following morning seems like the perfect time to see how my weight is doing, don't you think?
I've had three sodas in a month and a half. If left to my own devices, I would drink one soda after the next until I floated away in a sea of lively carbonation. I've upped my H2O intake; I've tried to make better eating choices. I finally hit the gym for the first time in months. I attempted to run for the first time in I can't even remember how long. Never mind the fact that my shins acted like I'd never gone for a run, like EVER. I still went. Is it too much to ask that the numbers on the scale, at the very least, stay in the same general locale, or drop a bit here and there? I'm just asking that they stop climbing like they're trying to scale Everest, for the love.
Clearly the number today wasn't ideal. Combine this with feeling the need to swear whenever my legs move, being unable to locate my coat (or my wireless headphones, or my son's Moon Journal, or my keys, or my youth), not having time to fix myself the healthy breakfast I undeniably need, and this morning may have gotten off to a rocky start.
There may have been some outbursts. Perhaps a few doors were slammed. It's a possibility that full-on screaming tantrums were thrown. On the way to Bible Study. In the best possible nice Baptist girl way, of course. *Insert eye roll here for emphasis*
I then spent some glorious (yes, that's sarcasm, for those of you who don't know me well) time at Chuck E. Cheese with two legitimately adorable 4-year-olds, a good friend, and my mom. It actually would have been great, had my overall attitude not already been in the toilet, swimming around with my hopes of maintaining a diet.
If the scale is already being a complete tool, why not help it out by eating at Chuck E. Flipping Cheese. If you've already eaten a load of pizza, then why not have an ice cream cone while you're there? If you've already had a load of pizza and an ice cream cone, and you hurt everywhere, why not shrug your shoulders and agree when someone offers to grab Freddy's for dinner? Most importantly, if you're already eating super-de-duper nutritious Freddy's, then by all means, drink a large (because a medium just won't suffice) Mountain Dew. Mmm mmm good.
I'm hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. In fact, I'm afraid I must insist on it. That leaves me twenty-six minutes to finish this one off with a bang. If that scale so much as whispers an invitation to step on it tomorrow, I'm throwing it out the window. Wait, no... that's not right. Better day, better day, better day *muttered under her breath*. I will, ummmm... hide it until I can get myself together, NOT step on it, NOT jump on it from a height sure to destroy it permanently, and NOT break any other items in our house.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Han Solo and Our Resurrection Garden
Palm Sunday started with a light snow this year, which considering it was in the seventies a few days ago, would have been shocking, had I not lived in the MidWest my entire life. Kansas likes to keep you guessing. "It's part of our charm," she said facetiously as her eyes rolled to the top of her head.
I'm not sure if my memory is failing, (which is possible, because Hello Peri-Menopause! Nice to meet you, ya schmuck.), or if the emphasis on the Triumphal Entry wasn't as prominent in the churches I grew up in. It is just as likely that they didn't spend a ton of time explaining the details in a way that the kids understood the relevance.
Blessed with a church that places a lot of significance on the entire Holy Week leading up to Easter; our children consistently have lessons and hands-on activities regarding everything that led up to the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ. On the Wednesday before Easter, they have a "Walk Through the Bible" event that starts with waving palm branches and shouting Hosannah in our little 'Jerusalem' and then moves into having their feet washed by our very gracious and humble servant leaders. It includes an example of the Last Supper, a Prayer Garden representing the Garden of Gethsemane, and ends with the reading of the Easter story and an explanation of the Resurrection. On Maundy Thursday, we have a self-guided silent communion service. Friday, we have a Tenebrae service (which for a girl who grew up in a small, old-fashioned, we ain't kiddin' around, we're Southern Baptists church is UNHEARD of) that is one of the most meaningful and touching services I've ever experienced. Lastly, the week culminates with the celebration that He is Risen; He is Risen Indeed.
My point being, my littles seem to know much more information than I did at their age. They're probably just smarter than me, so there's that.
Last week, as we prepped for Palm Sunday, my youngest came home with her construction paper palm branch that she made "just for me." She was explaining to her daddy and her big brother all about Jesus riding a borrowed donkey through the streets of Jerusalem. She bowed low at the waist, waved her branch, and with a very sincere little voice, shouted, "Han Solo, Han Solo!"
As we questioned if she meant "Hosannah," she dismissed us with a wave of her small hand, and a "yeah, yeah."
We returned home from church this afternoon (complete with a purple clothes-pin donkey, again made 'just for me' and actual palm branches) and set to work on our Resurrection Garden. I located this amazing thing on Pinterest. Check it out.
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/26458716535243572/
Today was the day to plant the grass seed. We will likely have an abundance of new grass now growing beneath our deck, because child-sized hands, a giant bag of grass seed, and a plant saucer may be asking for too much coordination out of a four and six-year-old. I am excited to see the grass start to grow. We need to go searching for our large rock that will be in front of the tomb. Monkey already picked out six sticks that we will form into the three crosses on Good Friday. I like that this is a full week and a half to two-week project that has separate lessons. It reiterates the main points. I love that my babies know and understand what I failed to grasp until I was older.
May each of you enjoy the rest of your Holy Week. If you're looking for a great place to worship, I may know a place. *wink, wink*
I'm not sure if my memory is failing, (which is possible, because Hello Peri-Menopause! Nice to meet you, ya schmuck.), or if the emphasis on the Triumphal Entry wasn't as prominent in the churches I grew up in. It is just as likely that they didn't spend a ton of time explaining the details in a way that the kids understood the relevance.
Blessed with a church that places a lot of significance on the entire Holy Week leading up to Easter; our children consistently have lessons and hands-on activities regarding everything that led up to the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ. On the Wednesday before Easter, they have a "Walk Through the Bible" event that starts with waving palm branches and shouting Hosannah in our little 'Jerusalem' and then moves into having their feet washed by our very gracious and humble servant leaders. It includes an example of the Last Supper, a Prayer Garden representing the Garden of Gethsemane, and ends with the reading of the Easter story and an explanation of the Resurrection. On Maundy Thursday, we have a self-guided silent communion service. Friday, we have a Tenebrae service (which for a girl who grew up in a small, old-fashioned, we ain't kiddin' around, we're Southern Baptists church is UNHEARD of) that is one of the most meaningful and touching services I've ever experienced. Lastly, the week culminates with the celebration that He is Risen; He is Risen Indeed.
My point being, my littles seem to know much more information than I did at their age. They're probably just smarter than me, so there's that.
Last week, as we prepped for Palm Sunday, my youngest came home with her construction paper palm branch that she made "just for me." She was explaining to her daddy and her big brother all about Jesus riding a borrowed donkey through the streets of Jerusalem. She bowed low at the waist, waved her branch, and with a very sincere little voice, shouted, "Han Solo, Han Solo!"
As we questioned if she meant "Hosannah," she dismissed us with a wave of her small hand, and a "yeah, yeah."
We returned home from church this afternoon (complete with a purple clothes-pin donkey, again made 'just for me' and actual palm branches) and set to work on our Resurrection Garden. I located this amazing thing on Pinterest. Check it out.
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/26458716535243572/
Today was the day to plant the grass seed. We will likely have an abundance of new grass now growing beneath our deck, because child-sized hands, a giant bag of grass seed, and a plant saucer may be asking for too much coordination out of a four and six-year-old. I am excited to see the grass start to grow. We need to go searching for our large rock that will be in front of the tomb. Monkey already picked out six sticks that we will form into the three crosses on Good Friday. I like that this is a full week and a half to two-week project that has separate lessons. It reiterates the main points. I love that my babies know and understand what I failed to grasp until I was older.
May each of you enjoy the rest of your Holy Week. If you're looking for a great place to worship, I may know a place. *wink, wink*
Friday, March 18, 2016
Chaos, Then & Now
If you met me twenty years ago, I pray the resemblance to present-day Sarah would be vastly different. A few things would be similar. My entire life was shrouded in chaos, so that hasn't changed. My hair was red. That's about it.
In the last two decades, I have gained enough weight to create a whole other person. In fairness, I was anorexic back then, so I needed to gain at least a young child. Not the medium-sized adolescent that seems to have attached itself to my hind end, mind you, but at LEAST an eight or nine-year-old. My swearing has vastly improved. Not that I've gotten better at it (although...well, never mind), but I don't do it as often. I no longer hit movies on opening night with my girls, but I'm older, and therefore pretty tired. Friday night movies are a thing of the past. I no longer smoke a pack and a half a day. I can't tell you there aren't days when I miss that, though, if we're being one hundred percent honest.
I was reminiscing (or what's the word when you're recalling the past, but not looking over it fondly and with longing, because trust me when I tell you, twenty-something Sarah can stay in the nineties, people. She doesn't need to be popping back up into this century) and giggling a little about the absurd things that was just my normal.
My ex-husband was a piece of work. That is so beyond-the-pale polite, I can't even tell you. I was specifically recalling a time when I was working a mid-shift in the exciting world of telecom, and he was planning to attend a bachelor party. Now we had already argued quite a bit about said party, because you know, he wasn't a bachelor. My twenty-something self wasn't thrilled that my husband was going to be doing all manner of depraved things with this particular group of "friends," but he had babbled incessently about how he was just going because he was a DJ, and he would just be handling the music. Let's keep it real folks, I wasn't his mama, so I could only put up so much of a fight. I was even less entranced at the notion that he would be gone before I returned from work, and wouldn't be home until two or three the following morning.
We only had one vehicle at the time: a shortbed Ford Ranger. This meant my mom had to come pick me up from work so that he could use the truck to haul the stereo equipment. She also had to watch our daughter until my shift ended. Accomodations were made, and he went to participate in his stupid party.
I clocked out at 8:00 P.M, hopped in my mom's car with her and my girl, and headed home. I had an exciting evening of TV viewing to get to. I'm giggling thinking of that, too... because this was back before the cable box came with a remote. It was a little sliding thing on a box with three rows. Remember those things? No? Just me? Fine.
When we got to my apartment, I grabbed the diaper bag and my purse while my mom got the baby out of her carseat. I ran up our stairs, dropped the diaper bag, headed to the television, and tossed my purse behind me onto the couch. Instead of the silent landing you would have expected from a small purse landing on a large, overstuffed sofa, I instead heard the loud thump of my purse hitting the wall, and then a screechy noise as it slid all the way down to the floor. I was confused. What was happening? I turned in circles. Where is my couch? I walked into the kitchen. Where are our kitchen chairs? Why is there no furniture in my house except a television and a king-sized waterbed in the bedroom? Why is our balcony door wide open? Remember that cursing I mentioned in the second paragraph? I was using that skill set like a BOSS. My mom came in, and decided that she'd just take the girl back to her house. There wasn't really anywhere to put her anyway, SINCE OUR FURNITURE WAS GONE.
Keep in mind that this was pre-cell phone days. I'm pretty sure I had a pager back then (a little tiny purple one, if memory serves), but the dingbat I was married to did not. I didn't know for sure where the party was, and even if I did, I had no car to get there anyway.
About one in the morning, the phone finally rang. Dum-dum wanted me to know he'd probably be a few more hours.
"Um, where is my couch?"
"I have it. Where did you think it would be?"
"Well, I really didn't know, bleep bleep bleep. I guess I thought it would be in my living room. Because who in their right mind goes to a party, and thinks, you know what? I'm going to bring my COUCH."
"They needed extra seating. I was HELPING."
"When people ask for extra seating, I think they may expect, you know... folding chairs. NOT. A. SOFA."
There were several more exchanges containing quite a few more bleeps. It ended with me telling him in no uncertain terms that he better be home toot sweet with all of my furniture in tow.
Did I mention this was in the spring of 1993? Do you remember what happened in 1993? Perhaps hearing about a major flood in our neck of the woods? Knowing the cause of floods, you should also realize that we didn't have a tarp. I tell you that point, so you'll understand what happened when his drunk (so drunk) self showed up two hours later with my brand new fabric-covered sofa in the bed of the trunk while it was pouring rain.
Imagine my surprise (not really) when the front door was flung open and above the thunder claps and lightening strikes, the man I used to be married to bellowed for me to get my bleep outside and help him get the couch inside.
"Did I take the couch outside"?
"Sarah, I don't have time for this. It's pouring. Get down here and help me"!
"How'd you get the couch outside?"
"Richard helped me."
"Well, you'd better go get Richard to help you get it back inside."
"He's drunk."
"Then you'd better go get Richard's drunk bleep to help you, because I didn't take it out of the house, and I'm not carrying it back in."
Inevitably, I ended up carrying that ridiculously heavy thing into our apartment. I also nearly pulled my shoulder out of my socket when Drunky-Drunk dropped the top end while going up the stairs. While I haven't spoken to that man in years, I would lay money down (you know, if I weren't a good Baptist girl who doesn't ever gamble) that to this day, he would tell you that I completely overreacted, and that he still doesn't understand "what the big deal was?" I do NOT miss those days, even if they did provide for some pretty entertaining stories.
I'll take the chaos of two littles running around and exhausting their forty-something Mommy. The complete pandemonium of my man's spinal cord injury, the teenagers, the soon-to-be-graduate, the idea that I'm a Gigi. The peri-menopausal, un-medicated, ADD mess that I now embody on a daily basis is leaps and bounds ahead of where I was twenty years ago. There's been a lot of growing up, and lot of patience added (okay, well at least a little), and a whole lotta Jesus. Make no mistake, I'm still a hotbed of bedlum. Funny stories and hysterical children are absolutely an every day occurrence at the the Bye house, and I see no end in sight. In the end, though, I'll take the extra weight (to an extent, let's not get carried away...), the non-smoking, the lack of late Friday nights, because this crazy comes with Happy, Contentment, and Joy, Joy, Joy).
In the last two decades, I have gained enough weight to create a whole other person. In fairness, I was anorexic back then, so I needed to gain at least a young child. Not the medium-sized adolescent that seems to have attached itself to my hind end, mind you, but at LEAST an eight or nine-year-old. My swearing has vastly improved. Not that I've gotten better at it (although...well, never mind), but I don't do it as often. I no longer hit movies on opening night with my girls, but I'm older, and therefore pretty tired. Friday night movies are a thing of the past. I no longer smoke a pack and a half a day. I can't tell you there aren't days when I miss that, though, if we're being one hundred percent honest.
I was reminiscing (or what's the word when you're recalling the past, but not looking over it fondly and with longing, because trust me when I tell you, twenty-something Sarah can stay in the nineties, people. She doesn't need to be popping back up into this century) and giggling a little about the absurd things that was just my normal.
My ex-husband was a piece of work. That is so beyond-the-pale polite, I can't even tell you. I was specifically recalling a time when I was working a mid-shift in the exciting world of telecom, and he was planning to attend a bachelor party. Now we had already argued quite a bit about said party, because you know, he wasn't a bachelor. My twenty-something self wasn't thrilled that my husband was going to be doing all manner of depraved things with this particular group of "friends," but he had babbled incessently about how he was just going because he was a DJ, and he would just be handling the music. Let's keep it real folks, I wasn't his mama, so I could only put up so much of a fight. I was even less entranced at the notion that he would be gone before I returned from work, and wouldn't be home until two or three the following morning.
We only had one vehicle at the time: a shortbed Ford Ranger. This meant my mom had to come pick me up from work so that he could use the truck to haul the stereo equipment. She also had to watch our daughter until my shift ended. Accomodations were made, and he went to participate in his stupid party.
I clocked out at 8:00 P.M, hopped in my mom's car with her and my girl, and headed home. I had an exciting evening of TV viewing to get to. I'm giggling thinking of that, too... because this was back before the cable box came with a remote. It was a little sliding thing on a box with three rows. Remember those things? No? Just me? Fine.
When we got to my apartment, I grabbed the diaper bag and my purse while my mom got the baby out of her carseat. I ran up our stairs, dropped the diaper bag, headed to the television, and tossed my purse behind me onto the couch. Instead of the silent landing you would have expected from a small purse landing on a large, overstuffed sofa, I instead heard the loud thump of my purse hitting the wall, and then a screechy noise as it slid all the way down to the floor. I was confused. What was happening? I turned in circles. Where is my couch? I walked into the kitchen. Where are our kitchen chairs? Why is there no furniture in my house except a television and a king-sized waterbed in the bedroom? Why is our balcony door wide open? Remember that cursing I mentioned in the second paragraph? I was using that skill set like a BOSS. My mom came in, and decided that she'd just take the girl back to her house. There wasn't really anywhere to put her anyway, SINCE OUR FURNITURE WAS GONE.
Keep in mind that this was pre-cell phone days. I'm pretty sure I had a pager back then (a little tiny purple one, if memory serves), but the dingbat I was married to did not. I didn't know for sure where the party was, and even if I did, I had no car to get there anyway.
About one in the morning, the phone finally rang. Dum-dum wanted me to know he'd probably be a few more hours.
"Um, where is my couch?"
"I have it. Where did you think it would be?"
"Well, I really didn't know, bleep bleep bleep. I guess I thought it would be in my living room. Because who in their right mind goes to a party, and thinks, you know what? I'm going to bring my COUCH."
"They needed extra seating. I was HELPING."
"When people ask for extra seating, I think they may expect, you know... folding chairs. NOT. A. SOFA."
There were several more exchanges containing quite a few more bleeps. It ended with me telling him in no uncertain terms that he better be home toot sweet with all of my furniture in tow.
Did I mention this was in the spring of 1993? Do you remember what happened in 1993? Perhaps hearing about a major flood in our neck of the woods? Knowing the cause of floods, you should also realize that we didn't have a tarp. I tell you that point, so you'll understand what happened when his drunk (so drunk) self showed up two hours later with my brand new fabric-covered sofa in the bed of the trunk while it was pouring rain.
Imagine my surprise (not really) when the front door was flung open and above the thunder claps and lightening strikes, the man I used to be married to bellowed for me to get my bleep outside and help him get the couch inside.
"Did I take the couch outside"?
"Sarah, I don't have time for this. It's pouring. Get down here and help me"!
"How'd you get the couch outside?"
"Richard helped me."
"Well, you'd better go get Richard to help you get it back inside."
"He's drunk."
"Then you'd better go get Richard's drunk bleep to help you, because I didn't take it out of the house, and I'm not carrying it back in."
Inevitably, I ended up carrying that ridiculously heavy thing into our apartment. I also nearly pulled my shoulder out of my socket when Drunky-Drunk dropped the top end while going up the stairs. While I haven't spoken to that man in years, I would lay money down (you know, if I weren't a good Baptist girl who doesn't ever gamble) that to this day, he would tell you that I completely overreacted, and that he still doesn't understand "what the big deal was?" I do NOT miss those days, even if they did provide for some pretty entertaining stories.
I'll take the chaos of two littles running around and exhausting their forty-something Mommy. The complete pandemonium of my man's spinal cord injury, the teenagers, the soon-to-be-graduate, the idea that I'm a Gigi. The peri-menopausal, un-medicated, ADD mess that I now embody on a daily basis is leaps and bounds ahead of where I was twenty years ago. There's been a lot of growing up, and lot of patience added (okay, well at least a little), and a whole lotta Jesus. Make no mistake, I'm still a hotbed of bedlum. Funny stories and hysterical children are absolutely an every day occurrence at the the Bye house, and I see no end in sight. In the end, though, I'll take the extra weight (to an extent, let's not get carried away...), the non-smoking, the lack of late Friday nights, because this crazy comes with Happy, Contentment, and Joy, Joy, Joy).
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
No Kidding, Interuppted...
I keep telling myself (in my head, that is) that I MUST start writing again. Of course, then I find a reason to do something else. Occasionally, it is something totally worthwhile. Periodically, it may even be momentous occasions that distract me from my goal, but more often than not, it's something completely and totally trivial. I may need a nap. (Who am I kidding... I LOVE NAPS!) Perhaps there has been a TV series that I'm not completely caught up on. Perhaps my ADD has kicked into high gear, and I actually sit down to write but then forget what my topic was going to be...or start a sentence and remember that I forgot to start dinner, or forgot to stop the timer on something. In the end, excuses are excuses, and I need to get back in gear.
Those of you who know me, ok, all of you know that my sweet man had a spinal cord injury three years ago and that last year, well... last year sucked, to put it mildly. We thought he was regressing, the doctors had not a clue (someday soon I'll write a fabulous story about the importance of being an advocate for your loved one that requires intensive medical care) and we were clueless as to where our life was headed.
Isn't it amazing that after witnessing miracle after miracle, watching our sovereign God work in unexplainable ways, that your trust in Him can still waver when you're in the thick of it? I was swallowed up in depression, as was my man. He very literally could have died. Doctors thought he was in neurogenic shock. Want a real heart-stopper? Google that mess while you're sitting in an ER with your man. Lucky for me, I had a senior pastor that googled it on my behalf and sent me a text telling me not to.
I am lucky and grateful to have friends that love me enough to make me aware of when I'm having a pity party. They encourage me in my faith. They remind me of where we've been and what we've overcome. They smack me around a bit to help me get my head on straight.
Last week, I finally started the process of getting off medications that helped me cope with the last three years. It's time. It's time for a lot of things. Time for me to get the extra 40-50 pounds off my hind end. Time for me to live abundantly again. Time to be free of any bindings I may have allowed myself to be trapped by. Time to remember that my identity should be wrapped up in Jesus, and not in my junk. Time to hit Reset again, as many times as is necessary going forward. So on that note...
*reset*
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