A friend wanted to get together for breakfast recently. I asked her if she knew of a good place that had tomato soup in the morning.
It was easy to see that she was trying to think through what I had asked, had she missed something and was she going to respond in a way that would make me think she'd not been paying attention. And finally, a nano-second before I was to repeat myself she asked me "What?" and I laughed a little and said I was really in the mood for tomato soup and would like to have that for breakfast.
The ensuing conversation basically boiled down to this:
She: Let's get breakfast food for breakfast.
Me: I'm in the mood for tomato soup for breakfast.
She: That doesn't seem like breakfast to me.
Me: You can get whatever you like.
She: I guess...
And I really and truly enjoyed that tomato soup. It was exactly what my body was craving and wanting and filled me up and warmed me up in a delightful way. Pea soup is another breakfast food for me and I figure I can't be the only one if it's available during breakfast!
One thing I do find difficult and non-natural, is listening to my body and doing the basic things it wants me to do. NEEDS me to do!
- Sleep when I am tired...not if I am in the middle of the work day or have committed to something, but if 7p is when I need to hit the hay, then so be it!
- Eat the foods I am craving when I am craving them when I am TRULY craving them, not just wanting because of smell or advertised suggestion.
- Having 5 or 6 small meals instead of 2 or 3 big meals throughout the day
- Delaying my first meal for up to 5 hours after waking
- Running further than planned when the run is just going so well
That is just a quick, short list. There are more, to be sure.
Society, whatever that really means, wants to dictate how we do things from such an early age. The way we learn in school, the foods we eat and when, the amount of time sleeping that is 'standard', the bevy of day to day actions that we often conform to instead of listening to ourselves. Allowing our bodies to know what is best for us. It's great to be an individual right until society wants you to be part of the larger, agreeable community that does things like everyone else.
Add to that the pressure we often put on ourselves as women and then layer on that the pressure we tend to add with each role and we sometimes become reactive robots instead of intentional individuals:
Wife
Mother
Employee
Congregant
Volunteer
Child of aging parents
Neighbor
Friend
Homeowner
Pet parent
The list goes on from there, but you get the idea. It is easy to say "Oh, I can't do X because I need to take care of Y" but the truth of the matter is, that when you do what is best for YOU that the trickle down effect is that you are able to be the best version of each layer/role in your life, too.
I remember when my son had his third or fourth surgery, I was simply exhausted and asked if I could have a place to quietly sleep or could I go out to my car and sleep there. The woman was clearly surprised a parent would go to sleep while her child was having major surgery, but my being awake wasn't helping anyone and having an exhausted version of me to meet with the surgeon and be on top of the care of my child when he did come out hours later wasn't going to do anyone any favors. Once she put her eyes back in her head she offered me a convertible chair, like dads get in the L&D suites and I fell into a deep, restorative sleep with lights on, people talking and all manner of things going on around me because I knew sleep was what I needed and what my son was going to need me to have had.
When someone says they have a motto in life they tend to say it singular. I have many mottos and one is from the airlines....PUT YOUR OWN MASK ON FIRST BEFORE ASSISTING OTHERS!
And yes, it is so important that it is in all caps. No matter how much we want to do for others, and I am a huge fan of being there in a very real and present way for others, losing the oxygen to my body, my soul, my very being is not going to benefit anyone but the mortician. I cannot continue to breathe in deeply if I am flying around without oxygen. Which is not to say it is a natural thing, either. I have to remind myself of that and I've been preaching the 'Your own mask first' approach for coming on close to two decades and still it is not second nature.
But it is worthy of deliberate, intentional thought and action.
Take a few moments and think about those times you've taken yourself out of the first place in your priority list and now think about those times you did make yourself a priority. Once people let go of the guilt of prioritizing themselves in their own lives, they tend to share that they are so glad they did it. And I have yet to have someone tell me they regret making themselves a priority.
So go on, put your mask on and prioritize yourself in your life...I'd love to hear how you felt after doing that!
Last night I took a new creation to a party and they were a hit, so I am sharing the ridiculously easy recipe with you. It's a quick one and you can frost or not, your choice!
Brownies:
1 box of SF Pillsbury Brownie Mix
1/3 cup Eggbeaters
3/4 cup water
2 scoops protein powder (I used Syntrax Peanut Butter Cookie)
2 oz cream cheese (full fat)
I heated the cream cheese so it would be easy to mix and added the Eggbeaters and water and when that was at the slightly chunky slurry phase, I added the protein powder. After that was well incorporated I added the brownie mix.
Do not over beat, but you don't want any large chunks of unmixed brownie mix, either.
Put this in an 8x8 baking dish. I used the Pampered Chef unglazed pan and so I spritzed it with PAM. Because I do not add oil to the brownies, they need a little help to lift out after baking.
Bake as directed on package and cool completely (I put mine in the refrigerator) before attempting to put icing on or it will be more of a glaze.
Icing:
1/2 cup natural peanut butter
2 tablespoons PB2
3/4 cup powdered Swerve
4 oz cream cheese (full fat)
1 tablespoon of butter at room temp
1/4 cup water OR SF Torani Syrup
In my food processor I put the first five ingredients and started pulsing until it was fairly well mixed and then added, a tsp at a time, water. I have found the humidity, temperature and even being just a tad off with measuring can really impact the amount of water needed in icing. I have never used the entire 1/4 cup, but that is what I dip my teaspoon into for the water. Better to go slow and really watch the creaminess develop in the icing than to overwater and end up with a runny mess. Which you can correct by either making it a glaze OR adding more of the first five ingredients to even it out and storing the icing for future use.
You can use any flavor protein powder that would 'go' with chocolate. Some choices I've made in the past are:
Caramel Pretzel
Cookies and Cream
Mint Chocolate Chip
Columbian Coffee
Chocolate Truffle
Vanilla Latte
ENJOY!
The 13 year old featured in my entry today is about to turn 23 in a few months, this is a (now) happy memory from a decade ago.
Why,
why, WHY do my children have to be Olympic quality patience testers sometimes?
Let
me begin by saying the removal of a beer by a 13 year old from the kitchenette
we have in our master suite was only a point of light on the milky way that has
been my whole darn day.
We've
had a LONG day--starting with my being called in to rework a flip flapping
report that my new manager decides, after 153 weeks of the OLD way of doing the
report, that he wants it completely redone a new way. And done by 5 p.m.
Sunday. Oh, and this lovely nugget of information was shared with me 30 minutes
after I finished the weekly report FOR SOMEONE ELSE this last Friday.
Joy.
Okay,
so I drive uptown, drop Jackson at the state chess tournament (whole other
story for another day!), work for several hours, contact EVERY lead who hasn't
signed and hasn't told me to jump in a lake to let them know about all the
great things happening at IRW since I last spoke with them (I am LOVING this as
a reason to contact them, BTW), realize I am BARELY going to make it to the
appt I have with the new events coordinator at Michael's and have to light
fires under Nick and Carter to get them out the door.
You
may be asking yourself, 'She seems
bright enough so WHY
would she take a cranky teen (the pod people brought the original version back
a few weeks ago!) and her husband with her? Because the plan I devised and
CAREFULLY reviewed with them THREE times was for them to go sports equipment
shopping (truly, I'd rather have a root canal done!), exchange my mixer for the
new color, go to the batting cages and then come back to get me, go have a lovely bite to eat
and come home and watch a movie and wait for the chess coach to bring Jackson
home.
That
was the theory, here is the actuality.
Went
to Michael's and had an EXCELLENT meeting--the woman was SO TOTALLY into every
idea and class I was pitching to her. I had to look closely to make sure it was
not my own mother in theatrical make-up! Truly, I think I could have said we
were going to set fire to the store and this woman would have said
"Glorious, just glorious. Shall we have marshmallows for the
spectators?" She was just LOVING me and I was LOVING that!
My
time with her ends and I tell her I'm going to start with new class projects
right then and there. She, of course, is LOVING this idea! I pull whatever I
want from the shelves (truly, I had to pinch myself!) and got to work. Two
altered tins with handmade inserts later, thank you very much, I look up to see
Nick in the doorway. "Is your meeting over? Why haven't you come out?
We've been in the car forEVER."
I
remind him that forever is not contained in the sum of 93 minutes, which is
EXACTLY how long I've been in Michael's and ask how long they have
actually been waiting and why, if they were done with everything, had they not
come in to get me. "Daddy came in and couldn't find you."
Okay, so I'm thinking a 35 year old man can't find me so he sends a 13 year old
boy to do it instead? Honestly! So I tell Nick I am going to need 10
minutes to clean up and then we can head out. "Fine. I'll go and tell him
you are here. See you in the car."
Get
out to car and Carter is pouting. Full on, lip showing, pouting. I see
the wrong color mixer in the car. I realize Nick's clothing is clean and
utterly sweat free. I ask why they haven't been to the batting cage or Williams
Sonoma. "We've been out here waiting for you for the past 93
minutes." WHAAAAAT!? I inquire as to the change of plans and both of
them look at me, utterly incredulous. Carter finally says "Well I didn't
think you meant actually go and leave you here without a car. I didn't think
you'd be very long." Ah, yes, I will put in a call to the telepathy
helpdesk immediately
as my mind-reading powers are CLEARLY out of order today. I mention that
I was in the same classroom I am always in at Michael's and don't know why
Carter couldn't find me. "Well, I didn't look in there. I looked in the
store." Suspicious, I ask where
he looked. The answer? "Well, you weren't in the first two
aisles of the scrapping stuff, so I thought you went to Bed, Bath and Beyond to look at the clearance
stuff. But you weren't there." Clearly.
Okay--so
I realize that now I get to go run all over creation on these additional
errands. Fun, FUN, FUN!
So
I take into consideration that a hungry, recently been waiting Carter is a
grumbly Carter and that Nick should probably eat before practice at this point--so off to the
Chinese restaurant we go. Enjoy dinner, come home, Carter has to attend to the
dogs and decides he is too pooped to pop--but of course there is still popping
to be done. So back into the car with Nick, head to the batting cages,
find that his gear from last year when he was merely 5'11" tall and only
190ish pounds is now MUCH too small for my 6'3" 258 lb. son. And his
2 pc. catcher mask/helmet is now 'illegal' for anyone under 18 to use in sport
and he has to go with the integrated hockey style. And his bat needs to be
upgraded. And he needs a new catcher mitt. Chest pad is WOEFULLY too small. And
he needs new pants. And he really should have an impact resistant batting
glove. And his Knee-Aids are shot. The only thing that still works
for him is his cup. The 10.00 item. Not the 200.00 mask. Not the 279.00 bat
(and that IS the sale price). Not the 119.00 mitt. Not the 89.00 chest pad, not
even the 35.00 batting glove. Nope--the 10.00 jockstrap still works fine
and ding dang dandy.
Big whoop.
So
we come home and Jackson
is in tears because the worst possible thing has happened and he can barely get
it out, he is sobbing so much. Carter says he can't understand at that
frequency...Jackson
was so shrill he sounded like a hearing aid that had gone berserk!
Finally I learn the horrible news. He was beaten, BADLY, in the 3rd round. By a
lower ranked player. And a girl. Who is only a 4th grader. Truly, for a
pride-filled and highly competitive 5th grade boy, it doesn't get any
worse than this without having your pants pulled down in front of a large
number of people who know you and are taking photos while pointing and laughing.
Truly.
So
I tell Carter that either I get to go up in my office and have some computer
time or I am going to run away from home for a day and he says fine, he'll get
the boys in bed.
Not 5 minutes later there is a knock at my door.
Nick wants to come in. He wants to relive the excitement of his
purchases. He tells me not to worry about his upcoming birthday. I
take this to mean that he is wanting his baseball gear as an early gift.
I say "Nicholas Alexander, you are my first born son. I am not going to
simply count this equipment as your birthday gift! For heaven sake--you'll be
getting a gift from Daddy and me." He looks at me with such an incredulous
face that I almost wonder if there is a meteor hurtling towards me,
visible in the window behind me, ready to crash and burn in the next
nano-second. "Oh gee Mom, I would never think you'd not get me (note
the plural) gifts. I was thinking you could just not worry about
mailing my invitations on Monday, I asked Daddy to do it." Ah, yes.
How
silly of me, it is ALL about a 13 year old boy and NOT the hokey pokey, as
I was lead to believe growing up.
So
after I bid him goodnight he says he is thirsty, and could he get a Fruit2o out
of the fridge Carter and I keep bedside, stocked with little treats. I
say sure, why not. And shut the door behind you when you leave. I hear
him fiddling in there and finally I get "You are out of what I wanted,
I'll take a Newcastle
out of your fridge. Is that okay?"
Now
this is when nearly 14 years of parenting pays off. My antennae are about to
visibly pop out of my head--this is a critical moment. It could be a tug of war
that will subtract 5 years from a mother's life, or it can be a moment to make
the kid go "HUH!?". I choose the latter.
"Sure
thing, just make sure that bottle makes it into the recycle bin."
"Mom, are you not even listening to me. Newcastle is a BEEEEEER!"
Shocking, amazing, I've been buying a 6 pack a week for as long as I can
recall and NOW I know it is beer. Thank you oh great one!
"Yes,
Nick, I am clearly in the know that Newcastle
is, indeed, beer. If you really want one, go for it. I don't think you'll
like it and once you open it you have to finish it, you can't be wasteful and
Daddy won't want one this late, so it is up to you."
He
pokes his head around the corner and I can JUUUUUUUUUUUST see him out of the
corner of my eye. I will myself not to let him think I can see him.
"Mom,
seriously, that would be the stupidest thing ever. You can't let me drink a
BEER, it could stunt my growth! I don't even think I'd like it. Gee...you are
no fun tonight." YIPPEEE! I wasn't going for the fun factor, I was
going for the 'your Dad said he'd put you to bed and clearly thought simply
saying go to bed equated getting you IN BED!'
So
he put the beer back, takes a diet Pepsi and says "Goodnight Mom, if that
really is who you are. I'll see you in the morning."
I
was thinking that would be the last of him...I was wrong...not 5 minutes later
he is back. "You really wouldn't have let me drink that would you?"
"No
Nick, I really wouldn't, but you made the decision on your own to put it back,
not really knowing WHAT I would do, huh?"
He
smiled, came over to hug me and said "Hey, before I go, do you have 20
bucks on you?"
"GO!"
and he left and I heard him laughing in the hall as he headed to his room and
called out a sweet goodnight to the two other chromosonally challenged members
of our household and shut his door.
I
wonder when he'll stop having that boyish laugh that makes me giggle every time
I hear it. The laugh he's always had. His voice is beginning to change, and
like my brothers, I know he'll develop a deep laugh to go with that soon to be
deep voice--but I cherish that sweet little boy laugh he has so much...hearing
it is like an amazing trip in the WayBack machine--I can actually see him in
freeze frame flashes; 10 months, 2, 4 and 7 years in my mind's eye.
I
guess you never know when the last of something is, until it isn't any longer.
NOTE:
Some writings I had done in earlier years, and shared on a smaller
scale, have been requested to be posted on my blog. So I am going to do a
bit of older posting, the time scale will seem off of some, so I want
to be clear this is from many years ago.
As I sit here and listen to
the joyful noises that are filling my home as my son celebrates his 14th
birthday with friends spilling out from every room downstairs I can't help but
think back about the celebration that was quietly had in 1992.
I had gone to the hospital after
laboring at home for a full night and day and expected to hear that I was
nearing the finish line when I checked in around 3 a.m. on Tuesday March 31. I walked in the ER, fully ready to deliver my
baby by lunch, maybe even by breakfast, that same day. I had the swagger of a
woman who comes from a long line of big babies being born without a
c-section. I felt untouchable by the
scalpel…my biggest concern was would I have an episiotomy or not. The
ultrasound tech had, on my due date 8 days prior, estimated a baby of about 9
lbs in size. A shrimp by the standards of my family and I was convinced that
once I got to 10, a good hard sneeze would eject Nick from my womb and into the
world.
When I got to the maternity
floor I was taken to my L&D room by a nurse who was clearly looking forward
to the end of her shift. She handed me
the standard issue items; gown, bag for my clothing and box filled with sheets
of loofahs masquerading as tissues. My
room had a large bathroom adjacent to it with a whirlpool and commode. I
actually wondered if my labor would be long enough to allow me a quick soak in
the whirlpool. I adore a good soak in a tub and nothing relaxes me quite the
same way.
The nurse showed us how to
use the phone, operate the head/foot of the bed and call for assistance. She
then said “Go ahead and remove all your clothing and slip into this gown. I’ll
do an exam and see where ‘we’re’ at.” Oh
how nice, she’s going to labor along with me. It’s ‘we’.
I glance around the room and
ask “Where do I change?” She blows out
every bit of air from the depths of her lungs, rolls her eyes a tad and says
“I’ll step out and give you a moment.”
As the excruciatingly slow closing door makes an arc behind her, I hear
her call out “We’ve got some serious privacy issues in here.” I imagine her
jerking her thumb towards my room and again rolling her eyes as though she had
been solidly caught in the head during a Vegas prize fight.
Carefully I removed my
clothing, folded them and placed them in the bag. Put on the gown, wondered what sort of design
contest gag had resulted in these being in every hospital throughout the US, and put the
bag on the table beside the bed. I
climbed up and waited for the nurse to return to be checked. I was downright
giddy, knowing that I was so close to delivering my baby boy.
The nurse returned and after
checking me said I was at 4. Nearly ½
way, I couldn’t contain my happiness!
She told me to walk as much as possible and to be back every 45 minutes
to be checked for progress. I was convinced that I’d be at 10 in no time! I was checked by approximately 4.8 million
people during my labor, some of who were misdirected dental professionals and
felt exams should include a molar check, too.
At the beginning I insisted upon a full drape and no superfluous
personnel in the room during the exams. By
hour 16 or so, if the Los Gatos High School Marching Band and Flag Team had
come to watch, I’d have made sure they all had good seats. My ‘privacy issues’ had gone out the window and
high-tailed it to parts unknown.
At 3 a.m. on Wednesday April
1 I was at 4. In 24 hours I hadn’t
progressed at all! Pitocin drip, prostaglandin gel, being walked like a
post-Derby Thoroughbred and denied anything more substantial than ginger ale
for 24 hours. I walked into the hospital
saying I wasn’t going to use any drugs and certainly not a c-section. That was on March 31st.
April 1st, I was
begging for drugs like a junkie on a street corner. But I had to hit the magical half way point.
I had to get to 5 cm. It was hellacious.
It was torture. It was seemingly never
ending. Nurses came on shift, went off
shift and returned to work and I was still there—no different than when they’d
left. Well, crabbier and desperately in
need of a shower and deodorant, but no different progress-wise.
When my doctor came in as the
sun was rising on April 1st I begged him for something—ANYTHING—to
ease the pain. They gave me an injection of Demerol and it was awful. Didn’t
help, just made me feel odd and out of sorts.
When Dr. Montgomery returned at noon I begged him to just give me my car
keys and I’d cut the baby out. I was becoming delirious with pain, with lack of
sleep and with utter hunger. He decided
that yes, a c-section was called for and I’d have the baby around 2. The anesthesiologist was paged and I greeted
him with a brilliant, high-wattage smile most often seen on the runway in Atlantic City while Bert
Parks sings. It took him 4 attempts to
get the epidural seated just the way he wanted.
I recall him asking me if I could feel him touching my feet and legs…but
then I fell into a blissful sleep.
When I awoke it was after 5
p.m. I wondered if I’d had the baby.
No—he was there, kicking away and doing the swirl he’d perfected months
earlier. Apparently the entire pregnant
population of California
was in line before me for ‘emergency’ sections. I had to wait.
Finally at 7:30 I was wheeled
into the surgical suite and at 7:50 p.m. on Wednesday April 1, 1992 Nicholas
Alexander came into this world with a head full of strawberry blonde hair, 22
inches in length and 10 lbs. of sweet baby.
They told me he was indeed a
boy and that they’d bring him back to me when he was cleaned up and I was
stitched up. There is a photo of me
holding him when he was about 30 minutes old.
My hair is an utter mess, my face is greasy and my nose looks wide and
flattened. I am holding him and looking
down on his sleeping face.
I truly have never felt as
beautiful in my life and when I see that picture I am overcome with an incredible
feeling of partnership with God. I am holding a miracle in my arms.
Fast forward 3 years, 3
months and 10 days.
I am checking into the
hospital in Charlotte
to have my scheduled induction 17 days before my due date, and have my 2nd
child. I have done everything I can to
ensure a VBAC delivery and I am so ready to find out if Nicholas is going to
have a brother or a sister.
That morning I got up and
showered, ate a HUGE breakfast and put on my favorite maternity outfit, a pale
celadon flax and linen jumper with an ivory silk shell and of course (and later
thankfully!) maternity panties.
We walk through a series of
doors and after going through one marked 411, the nurse hands me the same
series of standard issue items I was given in 1992; a bag for my clothes, a
gown to change into and a box of those exfoliating tissues. I have been there, done that with the entire
maternity scene. I feel like I can handle it. I reach down and grab the edge of
my jumper, pull it over my head and bring the silk shell with it. Standing
there as pregnant as can be with nothing but panties, bra and sandals on the
nurse smiles and says “Hon, you can do that in your room. This is the hallway.”
Oh what a difference 3 years
can make, huh?
