You Lose Some, But You Win Some Too

Today has been a competitive kind of day. It started way earlier than my one day to sleep in should due to Seth needing to be in a nearby town for his Destination Imagination competition, which started at 7:30 am. Yawn.

We got off to a precarious start when I ran over Henry's scooter as I backed the van out of the garage. We don't have three cars. We don't need a three car garage. But, man, I'm telling you there is constantly something behind my van. The crunch set me off and I totally yelled at all three boys. I hate it when I do that. It wasn't all three's fault. I don't even know why I had such a hair trigger this morning, but I'm going to blame it on my failed Rhodes Cinnamon Rolls. Rhodes things never work for me. They either over raise or do nothing, as was the case this morning. Even though I cooked them for more than the recommended time, they were gooey, dense and uncooked. I don't know why I'm writing about failed cinnamon rolls. I don't even know why I'm blogging about a broken scooter. I suppose my point is that we had a rough morning.

There are always two components of the competition - the Instant Challenge, where the team has to think on their feet and come up with a solution to whatever situation the judges give them, be it a theatrical improvisation or to build something using only the supplies given and the bigger category challenge the team has been preparing for competition for months.  Seth's instant challenge started at 7:38 this morning.  They other part of the competition involves choosing one of seven different challenges.  This year, Seth's team chose the category, "Foiled Again" which involved building a weight bearing structure out of wood, aluminum foil and glue, which had to weigh less than twenty-five grams, as well as coming up with a skit where a character is "foiled" or thwarted in something they wanted to do.  While the skit is in progress, each structure is tested to see how much weight it could hold.  There were other size requirements, including height and width, and it was really interesting to see the variety of structures the different teams came up with.

The entire point of DI is to allow the kids to work together to come up with their own solutions.  Seth's team built a structure you'd probably expect a bunch of ten and eleven year-olds to build.  It wasn't level and when they set it into the testing mechanism, it failed the height requirements.   Unfortunately, this drama threw their concentration during their skit and they didn't finish their performance in time.  It was so sad to see these really bright and good group of boys and girls who really had worked hard so disappointed.  Seth especially took it hard, I'm not exactly sure why.  Their skit was really cute and clever and they all said they felt they did well in their Instant Challenge, but they still ended up placing 9th out of 11 teams.  No moving on to state for them.



Both of the fifth grade teachers came to cheer on their students.



Happily waiting for the "go" signal.



Once they get the go, they have eight minutes to set up, perform and get they weights on the structure.  You can't really see it, but the thing on the far right hand side that looks like a plunger sticking up, is the top of the mechanism for testing the structure.  They had to fit their design inside a box and then the judge put the square red top on.  If the red square touched the four corner posts, the structure didn't meet the height requirements, which is what happened to our team.  They messed around with it a little, and at one point had all four points not touching, but then the structure started to lean and it was disqualified.



Seth and his friend, Elise, star as nerds who get bullied by a couple of pranksters.



The pranksters get the nerds by throwing a bowl of foil on them.  But, they were eventually "foiled" when their next prank ended up getting them.



The team with their team managers after they were done.  You can see how upset Seth is.

Jay wasn't able to watch Seth because he had signed up last fall to run in the Moab Half Marathon.  Winter is always a difficult time to train but whatever Jay has been doing is working because he destroyed his PR (personal record).  Last year, he ran it in an hour twenty-five minutes and this year, a year the winner ran almost three minutes slower than last year's time, he ran it in 1:19.  He came in second in his age group and fifteenth out of more than three-thousand runners.  I love it when people I love succeed in their endeavors and it was fun to hear the excitement in Jay's voice when he called to tell me about the race.

This evening, we enjoyed watching the BYU game against Gonzaga and Jimmer Fredette's incredible three-point shots.   Having lived in Spokane for five years, we love the Zags too, so it was hard to see them lose, but when I say things like that, Jay tells me I'm not a very good fan (I hate that teams have to lose!).  Henry is so sick of having basketball on the TV all the time so right in the middle of the game, he found the remote control and switched it over to Wonder Pets.  Of course, being the sensitive child that he is (we are three for three in that department) he got more upset that we all got upset.  He spent the night in his room in protest, creating all sorts of havoc (like hiding all of Sam's bedtime things) but I had learned my lesson from this morning and didn't get upset a third time.  In fact, I made sure I gave each of my beautiful boys an extra kiss (or two.  Or five) when I tucked them into bed.  Hey...I'm calling that a win.

Remodeling

My parents just remodeled their kitchen.  For them, it wasn't an extravagant affair.  There was a crack in the twenty-five year old counter top, so new ones were in order, and my mom decided to update her wallpaper while the big change was taking place.

I hate wallpaper.  Even when it is tastefully done and interior decorators use it to give "texture" and "pattern" to a room, it always looks busy to me.  Needless to say, my mother and I, like most mothers and daughters, have different tastes.  Fine.  No big deal.  It's not my house.

After putting up two panels, however, my mom didn't like her new wallpaper.  She told me she was going to redo her walls with (gasp!) paint instead.

I love paint, even though you wouldn't know it from the still-white-a-year-later walls in my own home.  I was even more delighted when she announced the paint color she chose was gold, a color I have a certain fondness for.

Her remodel talk got me a little excited.  What else were they going to do?   Were they going to get some fancy new appliances to really update the look?  Stainless ones?

My mom responded, "Our appliances work just fine."

"But, your refrigerator is white and your dishwasher is black and isn't your stove really old?"

I hope I didn't insult her with my "but what about"s but she remained as grounded as she always has been and never got swept up in the whirlwind that remodeling can create .  She fixed what needed to be fixed and has beautiful new corian countertops and gold paint to brighten her walls.  She might get crazy and sew a new valence for her kitchen window but that's going to be the extent of it.

Her example came to mind this morning while working out with my trainer.  I was the only person to show up for both Boot Camp and the second hour, so I had two straight hours of personal training.  It's the first time that has happened and the one-on-one time allowed for a more intimate conversation.  I was shocked, truly, when my beautiful, kind and lovely trainer confessed that she feels like she will always struggle with her weight.

"What in the world!?" I scolded.  "You have THE perfect body."

"No, I don't.  I'm not thin, like these other girls.  I have to work really hard to keep weight off.  For as much as I workout, every day, I should be stick thin."

"But, why would you want to be stick thin?" I rebutted.  "You are strong and lean and fit and and perfectly healthy."

I left feeling a little bit of despair, not that I showed it, because if she of the five percent body fat isn't happy with her body how will I ever be, but then I thought of my parents and her their simple contentment, and had a little bit of hope for my own remodel.

You see, I don't want to spend the rest of my life chasing after a model image.   I think that's my predisposition.  It was a bit incomprehensible to me how my mom could be content with a kitchen only half remodeled.  What about new cupboards?  Pretty new tile?  The appliances have to match, don't they?  These are what our kitchens are supposed to look like.   These are what the models shown in magazines, TV shows and stores look like.  And they are beautiful.

And yet, kitchens are a room designed for a function.  They are the workhorses of our homes and while the granite, Sub-Zero appliances and copper tile backsplash are lovely (all things I want, by the way.  Just in case you were imagining me up on a high horse of some kind), they aren't necessary to the function of the room.  My mom taught me that.

So, while I remodel my body, I want to remember what is really important.  My body is a workhorse.  I want it to be better so that it functions better.  While I wouldn't be opposed to looking like a model, I think the chances of that happening are pretty slim.  It's just not in my DNA or personal habits, if you want to know the truth.  Before I get caught up in striving for the model image, I thought I'd record a reminder of what I really want from my body.  Please refer me back to myself should I ever become a skinny person who gets a bit too caught up in looking like the models.

My goals:

To sit on an airplane seat without needing to lift the armrest for additional hip room.

To not freak out the poor soul who has to ride tandem to me on my first sky dive.

To be able to kneel during family prayer and sit back on my heels without my legs falling asleep.

To use a hotel towel and actually have it cover my body (maybe not possible considering the size of those towels but I'm gonna try).

To climb all the 14,000 ft peaks in Colorado.

To be able to get up on one ski while water-skiing, behind any boat, not just the ones with the super-turbo engine.

To be able to walk into any store and buy something off the rack.

To be an example to my children.

To go on any ride at an amusement park without worrying if I'll fit in the seat.

To be able to cross my legs comfortably.

To be under the weight restriction to do the bungee trampolines at the ski resort.

To never have to worry if someone is sitting on the other side of a picnic table so I don't flip it.

To wear a cute black wrap dress and black boots at my twenty-year high school reunion (it's a weird vision of mine).

To be able to get back up after I fall when skiing without having to take my boots out of the bindings. Right now, I make sure I ski so that I don't fall.

To become a certified Zumba instructor (did I just write that????) and have hips that don't lie.

To sit on my husband's lap without squishing him.

To stop stressing if there are a lot of people on an elevator that I'm using up more than my share of the weight limit.

To fearlessly take the Mesa Verde cliff dwelling tour that requires crawling through a "narrow" tunnel. I've always avoided that one because I've never known if I'd get stuck.

To NEVER, EVER, EVER have the indigenous people of a third-world country motion with their hands to let me know that they think I'm big or to get a special position in a boat after being referred to as "Grande." I'm big anywhere but I'm especially big in Myanmar and Guatemala.

To be strong enough to do anything I need to be able to do. Like climb up one of those rope ladders into a helicopter should I ever need to be airlifted out of somewhere. Or, more likely, just to be able to keep up with my physical boys.

I think if I could do all of these things, I'd be pretty happy. Shape Magazine, or even People might not ever put me on their covers. But that's not what I'm going for. I've seen that spirit of discontent in far too many people I know and love. There has to be a point where you are healthy and happy and not obsessed about ten pounds or the size of your pants. I guess I want to be like my parents. I want to be content with my improved, updated and more functional remodel without caring about whether or not I look like the models.

Dr. Bloxham's Advice

Years ago, I considered myself an ambitious young thing.  Not overly ambitious, mind you.  My same spirit that was, is and probably always will be keenly afraid of failure still called the shots but my youthful spirit had an advantage when it comes to ambition over my current older and more pragmatic self.  It was single.

Before I married Jay, before I even knew Jay, I had decided that I wanted to be a doctor. Of course, this came after I wanted to be a professional singer, psychologist and hippie who traveled the world wearing worn-out Birkenstocks, but by this point in my life story, I wanted to be a doctor.   There were various motives for my career choice ranging from the philanthropic desire to help others' bodies be well and my fascination with how the body worked to the less noble: wanting a career that paid well.    It also wasn't too shabby walking around campus yacking about "pre-med" this or "pre-med" that.  I've confessed before that I suffer from pride (insert sheepish grin).

When my pre-med self met pre-med Jay, our single-mindedness certainly accelerated us falling in love (at least I'm giving partial credit to that reason.  We were at BYU, after all.  Things happen fast there).  We studied for our Chemistry tests together, wrote a paper about HIV for a technical writing class together and I gave him all of the old tests from my frenetically paced Spring/Summer organic chemistry class which I think helped him receive a better grade than me (single-mindedness should rule out competition, but it never has in our case).

When the time came to sign-up, pay and study for the MCAT, however, I came to a crossroads.  Should I, or should I not, go to medical school?   Feeling wise beyond my years, and looking at things from the doe-eyed perspective of a newlywed, I decided that I wouldn't go to medical school. I wouldn't even try.  I didn't take the MCAT.  I didn't fill out any applications.  I didn't spend thousands of dollars traveling and interviewing to see what might happen if (and, realistically, it was probably a very big if.  Med school is very competitive to get into) I was accepted by a program.  Instead, I'd support my husband through his schooling, follow the counsel of my faith and start a family and put my marriage, which was and still is my most prized possession, first.

Feeling confident, nay, smug with my righteous decision to forgo medical school for the sake of my future family, I met with the pre-med advisor, Dr. Bloxham, for an exit interview to fulfill a graduation requirement.  I was very surprised by his reaction and his challenge to my decision.  He urged me to reconsider, insisting, "I think you will one day regret and then resent not going."  What?  Did he know what school we were at?  I was making what I considered THE Mormon wife decision.  Before my interview, I anticipated that my deep-down-inner-feminist would be annoyed by his patronizing pat on the back.  The absence of patting and the words, those unexpected words, unnerved me. It unnerved me then, although I never have regretted my decision, and I hear the echo of his advice every time I approach another crossroads.

Two weeks ago, I decided to resign from the choral society I joined last fall.  When I auditioned and first participated, singing with this eclectic and surprisingly talented group of singers filled a noticeable void.   I love music.  I love singing.   I want both to be a major part of my life.

Then, one evening, I overheard a conversation before the start of rehearsal.  It was actually unusual for me to be there that early as I had made a habit of arriving about five minutes late to avoid the neck rubbing and cave man grunting, but that week I was there and I heard an older woman say to another, "I love Tuesdays.  It is my favorite day of the week because I get to come to choir."  I immediately knew I needed to quit.

Because, I hated Tuesdays, or did, when I was going to choir.  Rehearsal was always fun enough once I got there but I dreaded going.  Jay's call schedule seemed to frequently include a Tuesday night and I hated leaving the boys alone until he got home.   Wednesday night came and I resented having to leave again for Young Women.  I'm not going to lie and deny that my new, early-morning workout schedule didn't play a part in my struggles.  Waking up early on Wednesday and Thursday mornings felt extra hard because I had been out late both nights before.  Mostly, I felt like I never saw my boys.  Jay and I were tag teaming between my extra curriculars and his work schedule and my family....the thing I promised Dr. Bloxham was worth my sacrifice, was not getting the attention it needed or deserved.

What has been interesting to me since I made my decision is the response I sense and sometimes hear from friends, family and choir members when I explain the reason for my hiatus.  I sense... disappointment.  I feel, and this may be my hyper-sensitivity's fault, that others think I'm giving up too easily.  That once again, I am going to regret and then resent my decision to sacrifice a "me" thing in the name of family.  Will I?

Even though I could almost be considered allergic to poetry, I keep thinking about Robert Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken."

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;


Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.


I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


What if I'm on the wrong road?  What if at every crossroads, I have taken the road MORE traveled, the one MORE trodden.  What if the path I think nobly requires sacrifice is simply the easier one with the less resistance?  I'm not saying raising a family is easier but if I could do it all - graduate school and things that make use of and develop my talents, should I be doing those things as well? Will not doing those things make a difference down the road- a difference I will one day resent?

I hope not.  I hope that one day I'll sigh in my old age and say I'm glad I took the roads I did, even if our walls never hold any advanced degrees with my name in calligraphy and my voice atrophies from underuse.  I hope that one day, my boys and husband will say, "Having you home made all the difference."

Book Review - The Remains of the Day

For a book that I loved, it sure took me long enough to read it.   While it's not a large book, or even difficult to read, the meandering thoughts of an old English butler reminiscing wistfully about scenes from his past service, while traveling on his first holiday, didn't have the glue to keep my attention for long periods of time.

Still, once I got away from the distractions of my life and could focus on Stevens, and his marvelously flawed perspective of things, I chastised myself for any criticism or name calling (I think I used the term "boring") because this is a beautiful story.  It is the story of a man who devotes his life to service, dignity and honor, and in the process, misses out on quite a lot.  When hindsight makes him wonder if those priorities were worth the sacrifices required to maintain the standard he expected from himself, his own limited awareness of his life and the life of those around him is written with achingly stiff perspective.  The title is perfect for such a poignant novel.

Biggest Loser - Week 10 - The Law of Averages

How much do I hate it when these Biggest Loser posts are my only posts for the week?  A lot.  It's my personal goal to leave this post up on top for less than a day.  That means I need to write some book reviews, recap our very mellow Spring Break or really stretch and try to turn into words some of the things I've been thinking about. We'll see.

I'm happy to report that after three weeks of seeing the same number on the scale, I have a new number.  I'm down 4.4 pounds from last week.  It's good.

Do you ever do that unwinnable math game, though, when you project what your average...whatever...is into the future and expect that number to be your reality?  It happens to me all the time.  When I'm saving for something (if I put this much away every two weeks in this amount of time I should have X amount saved) or driving (if I'm going this fast, I should arrive at X o-clock).  It rarely works because things happen.  Cavities need to be filled without dental insurance, which makes a chink in my savings plan, or someone's got to go to the bathroom or road construction or I get behind a tractor-trailer and my average speed slows down.  The same thing has happened to my weight loss projection.

For quite awhile, I was on a three pound loss a week average.  Obviously, if you've followed my progress at all, I don't have many three pound a week losses.  Some weeks, I have big losses and some I have small (or none) but I've been able to hold on to that three pound average.  Until now.

At week 10, I am down 27.4 pounds  It's close, but my average is shot.  In my head, I'm thinking, "Week 11, I should be down 33 pounds," but that means I need to lose close to six pounds this week and I think that's unlikely.  It's time to let my mental average go.

It was a great workout week because my sister, Jen, did my Thursday, Friday and Saturday workouts with me.  I can't even describe how fun it was to have a buddy there.  She was a star and willingly went to Spin AND Zumba with me (twice) even though she had never done those classes before and wasn't looking forward to shaking her groove thang.  Still, I loved having someone to make eye contact with when the push-ups got tough, a fun song came on, or the older gentleman with poor flexibility made an already awkward move almost uncontrollable giggle worthy.  I love my sister.

Now she's gone and it's back to the grind.  I have three more weeks of Biggest Loser.  Three.  That should be nine more pounds (Or.  If I lose four a week I'm right back on track with my average).  Ack!  Must get that out of my head.

I could do it, though.  Right?

Biggest Loser - Week 9

Short post today because I'm extra grumpy.  Believe me...the snow doesn't help.  At all.

Another week with no weight loss.  Same weight as last week which was the same weight as the week before.  I've been working my tail (and quads, hamstrings, abs, triceps, shoulders and chest) off and I feel stalled.

Also, it was really hard to get up this morning.  I had the thought, "I'm going to have to do this for the rest of my life."  I guess the thought depressed me because I've sort of compared my current effort to, say, getting a college degree.  As in, I can make a focused effort right now for a highly desired outcome.  But, what if it's not like college?  Or, what if it is only I never get to graduate?  Am I sentenced to a life of never ending studying, tests and early classes?  I think I'm depressed today.

It's Spring Break!

Can't you tell?

(Heavy, heavy sigh)

Lemons Into Lemonade

As we drove up to the ski resort yesterday, Jay had the radio tuned to ESPN, a rare occurrence in my van as I consider myself allergic to almost all kinds of talk radio. As has been the case frequently this week, the commentators were discussing the BYU basketball player, Brandon Davies, and his dismissal from the team due to an honor code violation.

Their discussion was fair and they even had a former BYU athlete on to explain what is expected of all BYU students, including student-athletes, and how the Honor Code and its tenets are never downplayed during the recruiting process and how all incoming students would be very aware of its rules and consequences. As a former student myself, I can vouch for how aware students are of the Honor Code. It's something you sign anew each year and requires the endorsement of a bishop, or ecclesiastical leader if you're not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. So, yes, it's safe to assume Brandon Davies was well aware that having sex before he was married would be against the Honor Code and a serious enough violation to be considered for dismissal from the school.

I have a conflicted opinion of the Honor Code. While I was a student, particularly during my Freshman year, I found several parts of it restrictive, harsh and judgemental. Twice, I got notices from the Honor Code office: once for having boys in my dorm too late (a friend. In our kitchen. Past midnight) and once for wearing shorts that didn't go to my knee at the testing center. I understand the ridicule from the outside world at standards that seem conservative at best and prison-like at worse. But what I eventually came to understand while I was at school, and what I whole-heartedly appreciate now, is that BYU is not like other schools. They don't want to be. The standards expected there may seem extreme but in a world where values are relative and enforced at an age when life long paths are begun, I rally around a school that does its best to create an environment that encourages and supports students efforts to live a life in accordance to the commandments they've been taught all their lives. And, of course, like everyone has been saying all week, no one HAS to go there. If you want something different, there are plenty of other colleges to choose from (which I definitely considered during my time there, but, with hindsight, am so glad I decided to stay).

While it's been interesting to listen to and read the debate about Davies and the timing of his mistake, an unexpected benefit arose from yesterday's broadcast. I suppose I'm a little desensitized to what sports and athlete's behavior can expose my sports-loving boys to, but suddenly, the commentators were using their radio show to discuss pre-marital sex and how and why the school would even know or care so much about Davies's behavior. Jay and I sort of looked at each other, both aware of Seth and Sam's attention to the program, and I felt impressed that we needed to turn the information into a teaching moment.

Jay obviously felt the same because he turned down the radio and asked the boys if they had any questions about what they had just heard.

Sam answered. He said, "I know they were talking about Brandon Davies."

"That's right," Jay replied. "Do you understand what happened to him?"

"He had sex with his girlfriend." There it was. There was no going back.

We both paused for a bit. We've never had the talk with Sam. He did, after all, only recently turn eight, but I'm a firm believer in having this discussion sooner than later. Then, my hero, my love, my partner said bravely, "Do you know what sex is, Sam?"

He didn't so we proceeded to have a great and caring conversation about our bodies, what they are made to do, what Heavenly Father's commandments are what some of the consequences are when we break those commandments. He had all the age appropriate questions and comments, including the connecting-the-dots "Do you guys do that?" question that's always good for a chuckle (although we did our best to keep straight faces so that there was never an impression that sex is silly or embarrassing to talk about). Seth was very silent in the back seat but I could tell he was listening. As we (make that Jay. As I recall, I was reading Goodnight Moon in the next room) had the talk with him a couple of years ago, I was especially glad that he was getting a low pressure refresher course before the big Health and Maturation discussion that the school is planning on presenting to the fifth graders later this spring. We asked if he had any questions (he didn't). It was so comforting to my mother's heart that I knew my boys had just received good, accurate and loving information from not only me, but also from their father and role model, who they admire and adore.

Henry was in the van too and made several comments like, "Jesus loves me!" and "Heavenly Father made me!" when he felt like interjecting into the conversation. I don't think he really paid close attention to the details of what we were saying, but you never can tell with Henry so we may be hearing some anatomical terms in the near future:)

I'm sad for Brandon Davies and really sorry for the public attention he has received for a private and personal matter but I'm appreciative of the opportunity it gave us as parents to talk to our boys about what we believe, what our standards are, and what some real consequences are to a sacred and powerful act.

If only....

my laundry was always this cute and impish.

Actually, cute and impish clothing would probably frighten me. But, I still think he's cuter than a bunch of socks that don't have pairs!

Three on Thursday - The Circle of Life

1. One of our two cats, Scout, went missing Saturday night.  Sam, the keeper and feeder of the cats, was very sad and, if I'm being honest here, so was I.  Like would probably be too strong of an emotion, but I was fond of Scout.  Between her and her sister, Jem, Scout is much more curious and bold which makes her more...interesting.  Plus, she's quite a pretty Siamese looking feline.  

Country life can be rough, however, and our cats are almost feral.  They never come inside and are very skittish around humans.  So, when she was gone, she was gone.  We didn't put up posters.  We didn't look at the humane society.  Jay and I figured that a bigger, meaner animal had gotten her.

I have no idea where she was or what she was doing (I have a hunch she was up to no good) but she showed up again this morning.  From the looks of things, she's no worse for the wear, though she was much sleepier than usual.  Mostly, I'm happy for Jem, who was lost without her sister, and Sam, who is thrilled to have his charge back (and happy to stop thinking about a dead cat carcass out there.  We never shielded Sam from our theories and I think Scout's happy ending brought a little of the innocence back).

2.  I got a funny call today.  One of the ladies I visit teach called me to explain that her ex-husband was at my father-in-law's house and noticed that one of the heifers was struggling to deliver her calf.   She said he could pull it but needed an extra set of hands (mine?????)  Perhaps it was due to the unusual source, but I wasn't quite sure what to do with that information.  My in-laws are gone from their ranch several days a week to fulfill their Temple presidency duties, so I called Jay to ask him what, if anything, I should do.

He was as confused as I was about who was out there and why but he asked if I wouldn't mind driving over to see if it was one of the heifers in the corral or an older cow out in the field.  Upon my arrival at the scene, I introduced myself to the ex-husband, who happens to know my in-laws well enough to call him "Doc" and sell him jerky, and their faithful fencer.  He said he had already pulled one calf but this other mama cow was really distressed and the legs of the calf were coming out wrong and....I'm not sure what else.  I called Jay back with my new information and I could tell he was busy or in the middle of something because he told me, "I'll take care of it.  You can go home."  What?

I didn't know if that meant he was coming or if I should tell these men to go home or what, so the three of us just stood outside the corral, watching the cow alternate between lying down and try to push (with nothing happening) and standing up and the calf's little hoofs disappearing back inside its mother.   After about a half hour, one of them called me "boss" and it became clear that they were awaiting my instructions.  I explained to them how far down the chain of command I was and that I had no authority to make any sort of birthing decision.  Thankfully, at this point, my sister-in-law, Patty, drove up after receiving a call from her husband, Jay's brother, Vaughn.  Patty was on the phone with Vaughn, who had been called by Jay.  Patty handed her phone over to the ex-husband and between the two, a plan was made to help the mama cow out.

It involved moving the cow to the chute, where the ex-husband could pull the calf out.  My job was to push the lever to close the chute once the cow's neck got through it.  Even though I knew I didn't have to handle a birth sack, or pull anything out of anywhere, I was still nervous.  However, the mama cow did all sorts of evasive maneuvering and the ex-husband ended up just kind of cornering her in the alleyway to the chute and pulling the calf out there.  Amazingly,  the little calf was alive (and really cute!).  I'm so glad the ex-husband called his ex-wife, who I visit teach, who called me, who called Jay, who called Vaughn, who called Patty so that neither calf nor mother died.  

3.  Jay and I went skiing on Monday, while my van was being fixed (battery had cracked and the acid had corroded off the battery cable), and it was so deliciously sunny and warm.  Unfortunately, I got a sunburn on my chin.  That's right, the rest of my face was shielded from the sun's harmful UV rays via goggles, helmet and coat, but my chinburn turned a bright red.  Today, new skin must be forming or something, because when a dribble of my oil and vinegar dressing dripped on my chin during lunch today, it stung!  It has continued to sting, in spite of my application of moisturizer.   Come on, new epidural cells!  Momma needs a new chin!

Biggest Loser - Week 8 - February Results

A couple of days late, but only because I have been busy.  And, yes, that includes busy working out:)

The last week of February fit perfectly into a month that was wacky and inconsistent.  As much as I enjoyed the weeks when the weight seemed to come off effortlessly, in spite of traveling or eating poorly, I knew in my heart of hearts that I would not, could not last.  And it did not.

I missed the second hour of exercise on three of the five days, Monday through Friday, for various reasons.  I only did a 35 minute treadmill workout on Saturday.  I ate quiche and cake at bookclub.  And my car broke down on Saturday, and all of my emotional eating demons came out to taunt me while I was stranded at home, missing my choir concert.  All things considered, when I stepped on the scale on Monday to discover that I hadn't lost any weight, but hadn't gained any either, I felt disappointed but relieved.

We also did our measurements and that was a little more encouraging.  I didn't lose nearly as many inches as I did in January but I am five inches smaller than I was a month ago, and I'll take smaller in any number.  I also dropped another 3% of my body fat, so I'm heading in the right direction.  It's just crazy how sneaky my own sabotage can be.

Nevertheless, I am determined that March becomes the month where I turn the corner leaving my insecurities, my demons, my old habits forever behind me.  The Biggest Loser is being offered for one more month and I'd be a fool to deny that the program has been a powerful source of my success.  Sadly, only myself and a sixty-year old woman are continuing on and so the program will change significantly.  With only two of us, the trainer has decided to essentially split us up and have us working individually with her a different times, while the other is doing something cardiovascular, probably on the treadmill or elliptical.  For the past two days, I've been the only one in class, so after spin is over, it's just me and Kim, her and her perky fit self pushing me to do more push-ups, deeper squats and just ten more seconds in the plank (I still hate hate hate this exercise.  I'm sure it's mental but at this point, if I never had to do it again, I'd be a happy lady).  I know this is going to be awesome.  I mean...essentially, I am getting personal training for an hour, five days a week.  But, it's also hard having the eyes on me the entire time.  There's no going half-way.  I feel too guilty not using her $50 an hour time, that I am getting for a lot less, to its full advantage.

I should point out, however, that she's invested in seeing me succeed.  Today, in between tricep sets, she again told me about her desire for me to become one of her Zumba instructors.  Now that I know the full story about how she started her business and how her trainers have come to be trainers, I see that I fit the mold.  All of her trainers, but one, have been former clients of hers.  She's still trying to build her business and thinks having someone like me, who found success through her business, would be really good for business.  She uses the term inspirational, but I see it more as savvy marketing.  I'm not being critical at all.  I adore this woman and truly feel like her encouragement and positive energy have made a huge difference in me wanting to stick with her program.

But, I saw first hand yesterday how she plans on using me.  I attended her Pilates class, which was filled with very fit women who were all clearly regulars.  It was a really hard class but I was mostly able to keep up.  At the end of the class, while we were stretching, she said, out loud, "Lucy, do you mind if I introduce you?"

Having a feeling where this would go, I was tempted to say, "No" but I'm a pleaser so I said yes.

"This is Lucy and she has been doing my Biggest Loser class.  How much weight have you lost so far, Lucy?"

"Twenty-three pounds."

The class all whooped and cheered and I blushed.  THEN she said, "Did you see how well she did in here?  If you could have seen her only two months ago, you would be amazed by how she has improved and how far she has come."

Again...applause.  I know she didn't mean it this way, but I felt like she was saying, "Let's hear it for the big girl!"   No, really, she really wants me to have success.  Almost as much as me.  It just comes out a bit embarrassing sometimes.  I know she wants me to be her internet girl.  That means pictures, numbers....all of it, on her web site.  I don't know if my gratitude and enthusiasm for her program means I want the world to see my stomach stretch marks, however.

Till next week!

Book Review - The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

I'm not quite sure when I decided writing a book review turned into work. I used to enjoy it so much, putting into words the thoughts that were flowing in my head. I loved the comments and the record creating, both making the solitary hobby more meaningful and lively.

Lately, however, I look at my list of books read-awaiting-review, and I wonder if I should even bother anymore. I'm still on the fence, but thought I'd trying writing about the most recent thing I've read instead of attempting to remember things I felt or wondered months ago. Who knows? Maybe this will ignite that reviewing spark once more.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks takes a Google Earth's perspective at the woman responsible for giving science the first human immortal cell line. For analogy's sake, imagine a cell is...say...the country of Portugal. Why Portugal, you ask? No reason, other than it's something you probably know a little bit about, like maybe how you think about a cell, but you haven't really bothered exploring much further. Now, imagine you had the power to zoom out of Portugal, understanding its relation to its neighboring countries in Europe. Zoom out a little further and, wow, now you see where it fits in with the Middle East, Africa, how it borders the Atlantic Ocean and how those colonists might have made their way to Brazil. In short, you see the part Portugal plays in the world.

Next, zoom in. Zoom in to see the mountains and valleys, its rivers and inlets, cities and even hospital locations (so easily spotted with their red crosses). It looks like a really interesting country that I'd like to visit.

Huh.  You're probably thinking, "That's a lot of information about Portugal for a book about Henrietta Lacks." You're right. It was totally unnecessary to include such a long-winded and not very interesting analogy, but that's what I thought about when I considered the angle Skloot took when deciding how to tell Henrietta Lacks's story. To begin with, all she had was the name of a cell line she heard while attending a community college biology class: HeLa. Her professor briefly mentions that HeLa stands for (He)nrietta (La)cks and Skloot wonders, "Who is she?" Years and years worth of research later, she zooms out to answer that very question.

Henrietta Lacks was a poor and uneducated African American woman who happened to have an extremely aggressive form of cervical cancer in her thirties. During a treatment session at the famed Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland, her doctor removed a sample of tissue from her cancerous tumor and gave it to a scientist working on establishing the first human immortal cell line, or a cell line that continues to divide indefinitely. This was done without Lack's knowledge and without her consent. She died less than a year later but her cells continue to live today. The story about what happened to her family when they discovered that their mother's cells had become famous twenty years later, as well as what advances in science have come about because of these immortal cells is fascinating.

Most of the book's point of view is written while zoomed out and is easily understood. The family's plight and general information about vaccines, gene therapy and other scientific discoveries are all written with human interest details and never get bogged down with boring histories or complicated procedures.

Occasionally, Skloot zooms in specifically on the HeLa cell and when she does, the microbiologist in me was fascinated. I worked for two years in a diagnostic virology laboratory and one of my duties was to regularly make more tissue for culture. Without any real thought, I'd take my bottles of culture, go into a sterile room, and perform each necessary step to take living cells and divide them into eight more bottles. Not once did I wonder where these cells had come from. Now, years later, I'm wondering. Were they HeLa cells? This is the part of the book I'm not sure is as easily digestible as the rest, but I find the cell and its parts an absolute wonder. I loved reading about what made Henrietta's cervical cells so virile and how that virility has caused havoc throughout the science community. I loved every single detail about its rapid mitosis and self-generating telomeres. I think Skloot's journalistic style to bring cell biology to the masses is commendable.

In the end, I think this book addresses the real Machiavellian issue when it comes to science. Do the ends of scientific discovery justify the means? The world has made innumerable advances to understanding our bodies and every single one of us has somehow benefited, in one way or another, to having HeLa cells available to study. But, as the author points out by referencing the historical Tuskegee Syphilis studies and the atrocities committed by Nazi's to Jews at Nuremberg, human rights should trump science. Whether or not that line was crossed in regards to Henrietta's story and the family she left behind, is what would make this a really great book to discuss with others.

Biggest Loser - Week 7

The scale never ceases to bewilder me.

I had a pretty bad week, both workout wise and eating and I still lost four pounds.

I actually lost 4.6 pounds, but Becky tuned me into my bad math with her comment last week and I realized all of those point twos and fours matter. But, now I am all evened out and my seven week total is 23 pounds lost.

That was with missing both Thursday and Saturday's workout in addition to really only giving about a fifty percent effort on Friday. In addition, I ate sugar in some illegal form every day this week. It started when I purchased caramel filled gourmet cupcakes for the boys for Valentine's Day. The rich chocolate torte's weren't really their thing so guess who helped them finish? Doh! They would have been happy with Oreos or Twinkies, which I can easily resist, but instead I bought them something I crave. It led to a downward spiral and included handfuls of M&Ms on several days. You see why the number on the scale shocked me today. It's what George W. Bush would consider fuzzy math. It's supposed to be calories in and calories out but some kind of grace helped me out today. Maybe it wasn't grace. Maybe my muscles are just burning more calories now. Who knows. I don't intend on relying on eating cupcakes and missing workouts to lose weight in the future, however. I'm back on the straight and narrow Biggest Loser path although I'm already starting off on the wrong foot this week because my trainer sent me home after only an hour today telling me, "You don't look well." So, I came home, took a shower and promptly fell asleep for two more hours. Ahh. I am hoping that morning nap helps me turn the corner today. I'm sick of being sick.

Twenty-three pounds is a notable difference and I'm starting to get comments about my weight loss. Is it weird that I kind of hate it? I feel like wrapping my arms around my body and shouting, "Don't look at me! I'm not done yet!" I know they are meant as encouraging and I should feel encouraged, but I always feel more....I don't know...observed. And then sometimes I enjoy the comment. It just depends on the who and the where and the when.

I'm also starting to need some new pants! I have to wear a belt with everything now and I haven't worn a belt in years. I even tucked in my shirt the other day....INTO the pants with the belt. This may not seem like a big deal to most of you but I have found solace and comfort for about a decade now in my untucked shirts and layers. It's not as if that fashion statement made my hips and waist look smaller but it also didn't declare that I was somehow under the impression that they were small either. It's like a fashion code of ethics.

You know what I just realized? Henry is gone. I gained about 45 pounds with each pregnancy and every time, I'd hold on to twenty of those pounds for...forever. But, I've officially lost my Henry pregnancy weight (although I think it stops being pregnancy weight by the fifth year, no?) Now, Sam's got to go!

Sixteen on Sunday

Heh, heh. Maybe not sixteen but...maybe! A lot of things have happened during the week and there were lots of moments when I thought, "I'd like to write about this." Of course, it didn't happen. Apparently, I can only handle bullet-list sized thoughts. And that's o.k...for now.

1. I'm sick. I haven't been sick all winter and was getting quite puffed up about it. But, now, I've been hit with a doozy of a cough that has become progressively worse since Tuesday. I missed my Thursday workout thinking that was the apex of my illness only to wake up feeling worse on Saturday (missed another workout) and again missing church today. I'm ready to be healed!

2. On Tuesday, I received a Valentine's card from an older woman in my last ward. She's been sending me cards for about a year, mostly during a holiday season, but other times as well. At first I thought it was really sweet. I mean, it's still sweet. Cards in the mail are the best. But, once we moved, I wondered why they kept coming because I thought her sending cards was more linked to using her Relief Society directory than knowing me personally. I still think that because A) I saw her once at the grocery store, made eye contact, and before I could say "hello" she turned and walked away. Translation: She doesn't actually know who I am. And B) I sent her a Christmas card (only fitting, right?) making sure she had our change of address and the Valentine's card was still sent to the old address. What makes it even stranger was the personal message she wrote in the card. She wrote, "Love is worth celebrating when I've been blessed with great friends." I felt horrible reading it. I think she must think I am someone else. Someone she really likes, but must think has my name, is not getting her cards!

3. I also received not one, but TWO Christmas cards this week. Each included lovely photos and fantastic letters joking about why their cards came late. I'm telling you, both just made my day. I highly recommend sending out cards late if you never got around to it during the busy Christmas season. I agree with one sender in that the notes get a lot more personal attention in February than in December.

4. I've read four books in the last ten days. I finished an entire book today while in bed.

5. Sam drew a disturbing picture in his journal at school that got the attention of the school counselor. He had told both Jay and me about a girl in his class who regularly pinches him and kicks him and we sort of laughed it off, telling him that she probably liked him and was just trying to get his attention. I honestly hadn't thought of it much more, although I did tell him he had to give her a Valentine card too when he declared that he really didn't want to. Everything came to a head on Thursday when one of the girls (because of course they act in a pack) saw the drawing. I haven't seen it but both the counselor and Sam described it to me as Sam lying on the ground, dead, with the four girls standing nearby laughing, one of them holding a gun. I know! Both the counselor and I asked Sam if he genuinely felt threatened by these girls and he says he doesn't but he really dislikes them and I think what really distresses him is that he doesn't know why they all dislike him so much. He was in tears when he explained to me about how they constantly laugh at him and make an "L" with their hands and stick it to their foreheads (he had to ask what that meant. He also wanted to know what sticking up only your middle finger meant. Sigh). What really bugged me is I don't feel like the counselor really had Sam's back. I think if he were a shy, quiet kid, or someone without friends, she'd be running to his defense but she thinks Sam must be somehow egging them on or getting his friends to. Why can't kids just be nice to each other?

6. There was a youth stake dance on Friday night which I attended both as a chaperon and because I got put in charge of a bowling activity. It brought back such great memories. Having never served in Young Womens before, I haven't been to a youth dance since...well...since I was a youth. I'm not counting the square dancing during Trek this past summer because square dancing in no way makes me feel young again. It was weird to be the middle aged observer in the chair along the wall. If I were a free spirit, I might have just jumped up and joined them but something held me back. Instead, I watched with a smile on my face as every kind of dancer was represented that evening. The girls who dance in a pack with synchronized moves, the not-very-cool-but-couldn't-care-less boy whose dance was moving his arms as if he was using ninja nunchucks. Always sure to impress the ladies. There were line dances I've never seen but loved how they pulled everyone on the dance floor because it felt safe. There really is something enviable about being young. Except for the all the bullying, of course.

7. I thought I had more to write about but it all disappears the moment I start typing. Ah well. Seven is much more palatable than sixteen.

Friends, Phones and Ski Trips

Chad, KariAnn, me and Jay on the chairlift.

I've realized through the years that I am not a particularly good friend. I'm not a bad friend. I abstain from most forms of neediness and have a highly sensitive "I'm being annoying" gauge. In general, I am concerned and thoughtful, usually interested in the details of your life and have been known to humor others with witty repartee and occasional vigorous dancing.

While those attributes keep me from spending my life in solitude and misery, they aren't quite enough to secure a long-term spot in most hearts. I've narrowed down the reasons for my frequent permanent acquaintance status and can confidently blame it on one major flaw: I hate talking on the phone.

You can imagine how this might handicap a friendship. You call -- I groan. Not while we're talking and not because we're talking and most definitely not because I don't like talking to you (actually...that can sometimes be the reason), but inwardly, before I answer, I have to check my mood to see if I'm even up to it. Likewise, it takes a great deal of effort and motivation for me to pick up the phone and call someone else. I always imagine their reaction to be similar to what mine would be and if neither one of us really wants to talk on the phone, why bother? It's bizarre, not at all normal, and something I try to work on. My only consolation is that Jay suffers from this ailment even more than I do. I don't know why that makes me feel better but it does (you should hear our conversations when we're forced to call each other. It's not pretty. Text messaging has been great for us).

The result of my phone phobia is a disappointing lack of close friends. How can I expect to have bosom buddies when it appears that I have no desire to talk to any of them? I can't expect that kind of closeness and yet my desire for that Anne/Diana, Elizabeth/Charlotte, Oprah/Gayle type of relationship burns bright.   That's why it's so great when I get a chance to hang out with some old friends who know I love them, know I love to spend time with them, even if I never pick up the phone to tell them so.

One such chance happened last weekend with a lovely couples ski trip. My friend, KariAnn, casually mentioned it in an email back in December when she wrote to inquire after our new address, and twenty-four hours later, I sent her an email with our confirmed flight plans. I said earlier that I abstain from most forms of neediness, but not all, and I needed to get away from the doldrums of February and see these beloved friends from our residency years in Washington State.

We cheerfully flew into Kalispell, Montana last Thursday night in spite of United's best effort to ruin our trip by charging us an extra $100 for our ski bag because it had two pairs of skis in it instead of one. Had we used individual ski bags, the charge would have been the advertised $25/bag, but in the teensiest small print you can imagine, two pairs of skis in one bag, even a double ski bag that is well under the weight limit, qualifies as "special" and they charge an additional $100 for anything "special." It could have made us grumpy (O.K. It totally made us grumpy but after five hours of flying, we got over it), but we chose to just let the money go into United's greedy little pocket.

With curbside pick-up, thanks to Chad and KariAnn, we arrived at our cute little lodge only minutes after landing to see the smiling faces of Andrea and Jason and Rebecca and Devin. It was instantly comfortable to be together again and I am so grateful to have these kinds of friends with whom it never feels as if any time has passed. We stayed up way too late that night, no doubt annoying the front desk people who wished we'd go to bed, and finally convinced ourselves that a long day of skiing awaited us the next day that would be better enjoyed with some energy.

Even though I'm from Montana, I've never skied at Whitefish (or Big Mountain as it was known to me growing up). I loved the mountain and even though we skied for two straight days, from nine until four both days, I was never bored. It's...well...really big!

I've never experienced skiing back to back days and it was an interesting adventure. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that there was some mental fatigue going into the second day. I wouldn't label the emotion as dread but there was a certain reluctance to wake up early, put on the gear, and do it all again. I'm so glad we stuck to the plan because I think skiing two days in a row improved my skiing a lot. I was definitely more confident and willing to try harder and harder runs. That only backfired once when I decided, "Sure! I can ski in knee-deep powder through trees and down chutes." Because I can't. Actually, that isn't true. I did it, so I suppose the truth is that "I can" but I didn't like it. I thought I was going to die and I never want to do it again. They have these signs posted everywhere warning of the dangers of tree wells, pockets of soft and unpacked snow in the circumference surrounding tree trunks, which have caused two skier deaths this winter. What do you think surrounded every single tree I weaved through while I nervously followed Jay down a black diamond, back of the mountain, with no other sounds except the beating of my adrenaline fueled heart run? Tree wells! I imagined my death only every few seconds and by the time we got to the bottom of the mountain, I was a sweaty mess and throughly fatigued.

Thankfully, after a cup of hot cocoa and an hour in the lodge, I got a second wind and had the best afternoon ever. My friends are so fun and we just explored the mountain together, chatted it up non-stop on the lifts back up and all decided at the end of the second day that we couldn't have had a better weekend together.

I'm so glad we went. I'm a lucky girl to have wonderful parents who stayed after Sam's baptism to watch our boys while we were away. I'm fortunate to be married to a man who plays just as hard as he works and delights me with face-to-face conversation. I hope life continues to bring new opportunities for friendship, especially ones that don't rely on phone conversations for their strength, but I'll be eternally appreciative of people who, even after years of absence, don't find it too strange to invite a couple of mediocre friends to play. You, sweet ladies, are like gold.  Call me (or not).  But, let's do that again!




After each day of skiing, the ten of us would sit in the lodge's large hot tub for over an hour.  Pictured from the bottom left corner and moving clockwise:  Nancy (who I did not know before the weekend but was perfectly amiable), Rebecca, Devin, Chad, Jay, me, Troy (Nancy's husband, also newly introduced), Jason and Andrea.


Devin, Rebecca, Andrea, Jason, KariAnn, Chad, Nancy, Troy, Jay, me.

The entire group at the summit.  I'm grateful to KariAnn for sharing these pictures.  I brought a camera but forgot to bring a memory card along with it.  Memories are always just a little bit brighter with pictures so I'm glad I'll have these to remember this fantastic weekend down the road.

Biggest Loser - Week 6

I often think about the show Biggest Loser in relation to the program I am doing.  I think about how much more weight I'd lose if I worked out for six hours a day instead of two.  I wonder what it would be like to have all of life's distractions removed and to lose weight with the fear of being kicked off the island, so to speak.  I think that kind of situation and pressure creates the drama for the show as well as those huge, huge numbers that seem impossible to me.

While I do have the structure of an exercise program led by a trainer and the accountability of eating well due to someone looking over my shoulder every day to see what I've eaten, normal life has not gone away or been reduced to a distant memory.  Although I'm envious of the television show's participants chance to lose weight in an atmosphere designed for their success, I'm also grateful for the habits that inevitably form from trying to lose weight in the midst of my real life.

Real life was the theme of my week.  My parents were in town all week which meant going out for lunch a few times with my mother.  It also meant cooking bigger meals with more side dishes I needed to ignore since we had a table of seven instead of five.   The clincher was a four day weekend away with my sweetie that took out two days of my structured exercise routine, airport food, social dining with friends and all meals provided by restaurants.  I'm pretty sure Jillian and Bob would have freaked out.

I tried to do my best.  I worked out to my max Monday through Thursday to make up for missing Friday and Saturday.   I ordered things as light and as healthy as I thought possible.  Egg whites and veggies in the morning.  Chili and stir-fry for lunch.  The under 600 calorie option at Famous Daves and a small steak with extra veggies and no potato at a steakhouse.  Water.  Water.  Water.

I also skied my heart out.  I am not a hard core skier but by the end of the second day, I was surprised by how strong I felt going down harder and harder runs.  Normally, I like to ski swiftly down the smooth blue runs that parallel the bumpy black ones Jay goes down. This time, more often than not, I went with him, even though those runs aren't my favorite and take me so much longer.  I felt stronger.  My legs, though burning, remembered how long I could hold those squats on the Bosu ball and kept going.  My heart, pushed to threshold during Spin, kept delivering fresh blood to my muscles, keeping them from over fatiguing.  The best part?  I was never sore the next day.  More on my fabulous weekend later.

Still, the scale doesn't lie and it was a hard week.  Restaurants are notorious for over salting and adding calories with butter and oil to make their healthy options taste better.  I was hoping for a loss but knew my week hadn't really set me up to expect one.

Seven pounds.  I lost seven pounds.  I lost seven pounds!!

Does this mean I should eat out more?  Travel more?  Ski more?

One more pound and I will have lost twenty.

I think I'll stick with real life:):)

Hey.....You

One of the most exhausting parts of serving in the Young Women program is the weekly mutual activity.  I know, I know...the girls are supposed to plan them.  Maybe that works in a big ward.  Or maybe that works with a more competent leader or someone who doesn't have control issues. We only have ten active girls so a lot of weeks, we end up combining and it seems easier, in theory, for one person to plan a single activity than three of us planning three separate activities.  Suffice it to say that there are a lot of weeks where I spend a good deal of time and mental energy thinking of an appropriate, fun and purposeful activity for Wednesday night.  

This week, however, I have been drawing a blank.  I thought early on that we'd do some sort of valentine craft or activity that could be service related.  Unfortunately, most of the things I looked at online exceeded my crafting ability.  There were some great ideas but the instructions included words like, "cut out wood" or "modge podge" or "sewing felt."  Yikes!

Feeling rather lame, I decided that we would just make handcrafted valentines.  I have all those fancy scissors from my scrapbooking days and thought with some embellishments like ribbon, stickers and glitter, we'd have fun making some cards.  Then, I complained to my friend, Michelle, about my worry that this could end up being a pretty disappointing activity for the girls and she, like the wise 1st counselor she is, suggested calling a woman in our ward who does monthly classes doing this exact kind of thing.  With an almost desperate hope of not having to lead the girls doing something I would essentially be winging, I made the call.

It's not as if I don't know here.  I mean, we're not exactly friends, but I certainly know who she is.  Her daughter is in Young Womens, for goodness sake.  Their family is an established family in the ward.  There was no reason or explanation for what happened next.

I punched the numbers into my phone as I backed my car out of the garage to go pick up the boys from school.  As the phone rang, I realized I couldn't think of her first name.  No longer in front of my computer, where I found her phone number online, I had no way of getting her name back in my head once I realized it had left.  I panicked as the phone continued to ring and I realized I'd have to use a less friendly and much more stuffy form to address her.

She answered the phone and I asked, "Is this Sister _______?"  (in the LDS faith, we can address fellow church members with a "Brother" or "Sister" title.  It goes back to the early days of the church and is a title of respect.  It's not like we're sister wives or anything.  Plus, I did remember her last name).

"This is she."

We went on to converse, she graciously offering her help by coming to mutual tonight to teach the girls three different valentine crafts, and I thought I was in the clear until I found myself in mid-sentence, needing to use her first name again due to a story I chose to share.

My mind raced as I stuttered and rearranged my sentence structure to get out of my predicament, but my only clumsy solution was to refer her as her daughter's mother!  I was mortified.   I have no idea if she realized that I  never called her by her name and, of course, I remember her name now.

I plan on making a big show of knowing her name tonight.  Lots of eye contact and first name usage to redeem myself.  No more, "Hey....you" for me!

Biggest Loser - Week 5

What could I expect?  I barely worked out on either Monday or Tuesday (Monday being the big measurement day so we did that instead of Spin and Tuesday, the Boot Camp gym was locked so they sent us to spin but I didn't have bike shorts on and had to leave early anyways to get Seth to an orthodontist appointment so I just drove home and ran on the treadmill for 20 minutes) and then I had family in town this weekend and a Super Bowl party at my house.  So...yeah...not ideal.

Still, it could be worse.  I did lose one pound.  And I am feeling thin...er.  I know this will be an odd statement but I am like an anti-anorexic.  I seriously forget how big I am until I look at pictures of myself.  So, team that sentiment with losing weight and looser and looser clothing and I have a totally unrealistic image of myself in my head as smaller (and thus more able to eat things like a handful of chips and a cupcake during a Super Bowl party) than I really am or ever will be unless can stay focused on what is real and what my goals are.

It's not like I'm not working hard anymore.  I got my spin shoes set up with cleats and they make such a difference in my workouts.   I am able to do the sprint portions with so much less bouncing and more control.  Also, today, I did three sets of 50 second planks when 20 seconds was more than I could handle only a month ago.  So...I'm getting stronger.  I know I am.

But, I still have a long, long way to go.  And I can't forget that.  I can't think that I'm close and allow myself little cheats here and there.  If I do, I am only cheating myself by making this....really great experience/ordeal go on longer than I'd like.  Because, really, I'd like to be at my college weight by September.  That's my goal. And I think it's attainable.  Again...only if I keep my eyes on the prize.

I know life happens.  I know that I did a lot better eating-wise yesterday than I would have had I not been in this Biggest loser program but I have got to keep myself from slipping into old habits.  Old habits are what got me into this weight crisis anyway.  My old habits are BAD!  

Highlights of the week:  Doing the punching bag with boxing gloves on.  I've really only air boxed before but I can hit that bag!  I'd consider myself a pacifist but hitting that bag makes me think I'd really be a contender.  Or at least someone you might want to avoid in a rumble.

Also, we had a stair workout where we had to go up the stairs one at a time, then sprint down, then take the stairs two at a time, the sprint down and then three at a time and sprint down.  We had seven minute intervals and the goal was to do as many sets as we could fit in.  I have become quite good friends with another woman in the class and I think we mostly like each other because we're both competitive and push each other to work out harder.  She did the stairs before me and as I was going up and down, she shouted from the elliptical machine that she was doing, "Lucy, I did sixteen sets.  If you can't do sixteen sets then you're not working hard enough."  Now, you might think that kind of statement would be annoying.  It could be.  But, I know she said it because she saw how tired I was and that I was slowing down.  Not knowing where I was in the seven minute time frame, I picked up my pace, even though my heart rate monitor was going crazy and even started beeping at me for being dangerously above my maximum heart rate zone.  I got to sixteen sets and knew time was short and her husband said when I got to the top of the stairs, "One more and you beat her."  I replied, "Oh...I'm going to beat her."  And I did!  I did seventeen sets and almost fainted but when the time was up, we gave each other hugs and she told me I was awesome.  It's really fun to make friends, especially ones that challenge you to be more than you even think you can be.

Lowlights:  Only four of us stayed in the program.  Our class feels small and if one of us is gone then you almost feel let down.  I suppose the pressure is good but I liked our class of seven.  It was more...festive.

I am leaving on Thursday for a ski trip in Montana with Jay and some of our old friends.  I'm beyond excited to see them and to ski at Whitefish (squee!) but nervous about having two weeks in a row with poor results.  So, my goal for the week is obviously to push myself hard during the Mon-Thurs workout and to eat clean, clean clean!  While we're gone and eating out for every. single. meal, I need to remember that the purpose of the trip is to ski and be with friends - NOT to eat.  I can go to a restaurant and order a fruit plate.  I can order a salad with things withheld and on the side.  Even if others order dessert, I can watch and smile and enjoy the conversation and not covet their cheesecake.  I can travel and not gain weight.  I know I can...I know I can....I know I can....

All About Sam

As a middle child myself, I'm aware of the lack of distinction that comes from being "somewhere in the middle" in terms of birth order.  Of course, Sam doesn't have to share the title of "Middle" with anyone else, whereas I had three other siblings to join me inside the family sandwich.  I'm not sure if it is he or I that had the advantage though.

Either way, Sam sometimes comes up short on the attention scale.  Seth has the advantage of being the oldest and usually the first to get to do things and Henry...well...Henry is Henry and between the two, it can be hard for a person to get noticed.   Thankfully, Sam and his amazing Sam-ness make that all but impossible.  The boy is a star.

Because he turned eight this last month, I have quite a lot of photos to share.  But before I get to those, I want to remember how Sam is at eight.  I don't think I'm insulting my other children or giving them a complex by stating that Sam has always been my easiest child.  As a baby he was good tempered and that hasn't changed in eight years.  He gets along with others.  He makes friends easily.  He eats, sleeps, plays and works all in a manner that would delight any parent.

Before I make him sound too perfect, and come off as a braggart parent, Sam, like every one, has some things to work on.  He can be a defeatist.  He doesn't handle criticism well and can mope for longer than most situations warrant.  And some of his good behavior seems to be motivated by the pure sake of being competitive - simply wanting to be better than others - i.e. one-up-man-ship.  Still, I'll take his crooked smile and his eye that won't stay straight without glasses and enjoy his quirky habit of creating his own March Madness brackets all year long.  Or his astonishing (because it's so, so absent in his brothers) cleanliness.  A lover of comfortable pants, he refuses to wear jeans.  He still sleeps with a beloved pet bunny and favorite blanket made by Aunt Peggy.  He loves math.  I admire how quick he is to learn things and how willing he is to help his classmates with their work when asked to do so by his teacher.  I love his athleticism.  He is so naturally athletic that I already know he'll be successful in whatever sport he eventually chooses to play.  During soccer this fall, he was hard to stop.  He instinctively knows where to be on defense and how to use the field to get around defenders.  Now, watching him play basketball, I marvel at his hustle.  The boy loves sports and is blessed to be able to play them.

Best of all, Sam is a boy of great faith.  He loves singing and he loves the gospel.  His baptism yesterday will be forever a highlight in my memory as a mother.  He planned his own program from start to finish with only a few things needing to be adjusted by Jay and me and my favorite part was Sam singing "I Belong To The Church of Jesus Christ" right after he was confirmed.  All by himself.  So adorable!!

Happy Birthday, Sam!

I brought gluten-free cupcakes to his class as he has had to miss out on many class treats.  All the boys enjoyed them (post edit:  I realized I wrote "boys" and not "class."  That is because his class is made up of 20 boys and only 8 girls.) and when they tried to answer my challenge to see if they could tell me what was different about these cupcakes, most said, "They taste better than other cupcakes!"  I'm not sure about that but I'm glad it wasn't the other way around.

Chocolate was the choice for the school treat.

Thanks to Grandma for sending a chinese candle for the birthday boy.  Don't you think these should be legal in the US?

It calms down soon as the rose unfolds and sings, incessantly, "Happy Birthday to You!"

It's pretty (And bigger than the cupcake below)

Three girlfriends!  He strongly disagrees as he "doesn't like girls at all.  And they don't like me!"  Apparently, a group of girls like to tease him by pinching him and kicking him.  I'd be worried if Sam was the kind of kid who could be bullied, but he isn't.  Which makes me think this is more along the lines of Second Grade flirting.    Or, they could just be really mean girls.

His own set of scriptures with his name engraved!  It's like a rite of passage.

All boys need to know how to make proper paper airplanes.

All set for scouts!

A few days later we had a birthday party for him at the bowling alley.  He chose some friends from school and we had pizza and soda and two hours of bowling!  I thought it'd be so much easier than having a party at my house, and I suppose it was, but I've decided keeping track of this many boys is hard no matter where you are at.

His glasses always make it hard to have a really good face shot, but I think he looks so handsome here.

Most of the group.  I love hos Henry celebrates.

Watch how Sam bowls.  First, get a ball that is too heavy.

Next, use two hands to swing it back while you run towards the waxy lane.

Finally, throw the ball into the air towards the pins.  I am amazed by how hard those floors must be to not have any dents in them.  Because Sam can't be the only person to bowl like this.

Finally, yesterday evening we had Sam's baptism.  Yes, we are those super fun people who scheduled a youth baptism right in the middle of the Super Bowl.  Fun fact:  Sam was born on Super Bowl Sunday.  So, even though we knew it was an unpopular time, it seemed fitting (and necessary as Jay had to work both Friday and Saturday and this was the weekend my parents had arranged to visit).  I was surprised by the number of people who came.  I was expecting only family.  My parents and my sister, Sarah.  Jay's parents and brother's family.  But, friends from the ward came, friends from our old ward came and even people who I never would have expected came.  The room was full and the spirit throughout the program was wonderful. I am so, so proud of Sam and who he is.

Sam with his dad.

Sam with Jay's parents.

Sam with my parents.

Sam with me.

Sam and his brothers.

Sam in his baptism white.

He is my friend.  He is a constant source of happiness to me.  He is essential to our family.  He is my wonderful, compassionate, fun-loving, dare-devil, gluten-free, bespectacled, charming, eight year-old, middle son.  

I love you, Sam.  Always.

Grumpy

It's 9:48 pm and I just got home.

Jay got called into the hospital so there are dinner dishes waiting for me.

I think it's going to have to be a hot lunch day for the boys because I really don't have the energy to assemble a sandwich right now.  But, that comes with guilt because poor Sam can only get the salad bar (which he likes.  But I still reserve the right to feel like a slacker mom).

My shoulders hurt.  I need a massage.

I didn't read a book the entire month of January.  That's not right.

I can hear the wind blowing.  Boo.  Hiss.