When I'm not playing Candy Crush on my Kindle, I'm reading a very interesting book called A Year Without Sugar by Eve Schaub. As someone who struggles with a sweet tooth (especially after 7:00pm) and have only managed to go three days without some kind of dessert, I just had to read how the author lived without sugar for an entire year.
It turns out, she wasn't alone in this quest. She convinced her husband and TWO CHILDREN to go on this little journey with her. Although the kids weren't initially keen on the idea (they actually burst into tears at the mere thought of giving up sweets for 365 days), their parents built in a few compromises to keep everyone on track. The family would be allowed to have one dessert per month and birthday party behavior would be at the discretion of the invitee.
I haven't finished the book yet so I'm not sure what my final response will be to the very scary facts presented within. I will say that I'm reading labels much more carefully (do you know how much sugar is in ketchup?) and I'm rejecting a lot more purchases at the grocery store. (Goodbye, Frosted Mini-Wheats; Hello, Cheerios.)
The author talks about how it's nearly impossible to find a cereal without sugar (shredded wheat and/or oatmeal being the lone holdouts) and how much waitresses hate her. Her observations on the struggle to abstain from fructose are funny and enlightening and I'm learning a lot. I still haven't watched the YouTube video that started her experiment, "Sugar: The Bitter Truth" by Dr. Robert Lustig but it's on my list of required viewing. Maybe he'll be able to scare me off the sweet stuff for good, too. With statistics like "Our generation is on average twenty-five pounds heavier than our counterparts from twenty-five years ago" and "Americans are currently consuming sixty-three pounds per person of high-fructose corn syrup per year" he's made me sit up and take notice. Maybe I'll have to find a way to live without donuts. Maybe I'll have to find a substitute for double chocolate brownies. But, even if I do, there's always one sweet treat I can still indulge in.
Candy Crush might be another addiction but at least I can turn to that without gaining a pound.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Monday, June 16, 2014
Careful What You Wish For
When I started writing this blog a few years ago, my goal was to document my transition from full-time mom to whatever I turned out to be when I grew up. (Still waiting.) Since my original mission statement, "All I ever wanted to be was a mom; now all I want is to get my kids out of my house") still resides on my page, you could easily conclude that a) Not much has changed and I'm still eagerly awaiting their departure or b) Things have changed but I'm just too lazy to come up with a new sound-bite for my weekly journal.
As of yesterday, it's a little bit of both.
I've known for awhile that my son has been contemplating a major life change. I got a big clue when he moved back in with us in December, a week after our daughter packed up her stuff and vacated her room for good (or so she says . . . married, pregnant offspring have been known to show up on their parents' doorsteps . . . or have you not seen Father of the Bride Part II?). After living on his own for two years, I knew he wasn't heading back to the ranch for my home cooking or sparkling conversation - he was coming back because he knew it was the quickest way for him to save up the cash he needed to get out of Dodge for good. All this togetherness would be temporary; he had made up his mind; he was finally going to relocate to his habitat of choice - Colorado.
And now we have a date.
On August 9th, my husband and I will become empty nesters. We will help our son pack up his belongings (a lot of clothes, a laptop and several crates full of Legos) and load them into a POD bound for Denver. We will stand on the driveway and wave as he pulls out of the cul-de-sac, knowing that we're going to go from seeing him every day to seeing him two or three times a year. We'll walk back into a quiet house and realize that that day I so glibly wished for when I started writing this blog, has finally arrived.
Funny. I don't think I'll feel like celebrating.
As of yesterday, it's a little bit of both.
I've known for awhile that my son has been contemplating a major life change. I got a big clue when he moved back in with us in December, a week after our daughter packed up her stuff and vacated her room for good (or so she says . . . married, pregnant offspring have been known to show up on their parents' doorsteps . . . or have you not seen Father of the Bride Part II?). After living on his own for two years, I knew he wasn't heading back to the ranch for my home cooking or sparkling conversation - he was coming back because he knew it was the quickest way for him to save up the cash he needed to get out of Dodge for good. All this togetherness would be temporary; he had made up his mind; he was finally going to relocate to his habitat of choice - Colorado.
And now we have a date.
On August 9th, my husband and I will become empty nesters. We will help our son pack up his belongings (a lot of clothes, a laptop and several crates full of Legos) and load them into a POD bound for Denver. We will stand on the driveway and wave as he pulls out of the cul-de-sac, knowing that we're going to go from seeing him every day to seeing him two or three times a year. We'll walk back into a quiet house and realize that that day I so glibly wished for when I started writing this blog, has finally arrived.
Funny. I don't think I'll feel like celebrating.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Who's on First?
I'd be the first to admit that I sometimes take sports just a little too seriously. When the Cubs were a couple of outs away from getting into the World Series and blew it (I know it wasn't your fault, Mr. Bartman); when the Bears failed to beat the Colts (and that no-talent Peyton Manning) for their second Super Bowl; when the Europeans stole the Ryder Cup from us at Medinah, I let those crushing defeats get to me in a way that was only marginally less than how it must have affected the actual participants. I know it's only a game. But it's a game I often get way too emotionally invested in.
Take last Monday.
After watching my favorite hockey team lose Game 7 at home in overtime (after coughing up several leads), I'm sorry to say I had a rough time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that stupid puck bounce off our defenseman's shoulder into the goal. Crazy, right? The next morning, still bummed out about an event that had no affect on my actual life, I had to ask my bleary-eyed self one question. Why do I care so much? Why do I take someone else's endeavors so seriously? Why do I let a sports disappointment affect me in such a negative way?
I'm not sure if I know the answer but I think I know what I have to do about it. I have to try to use some of the energy I expend watching and worrying about whether my team is going to do what I'd like them to do and start worrying about how (and when) I'm going to start focusing on what I want to accomplish in my own life. It's not as if Jonathan Toews is worrying about whether or not I get my book edited. It's not as if Patrick Kane is tossing and turning trying to figure out how I'm going to turn my love of writing into something that can pay a couple of bills. And, more importantly, not one of my beloved Blackhawks is going to help me deal with the fact that my youngest child is about to move very far away in the very near future.
Getting through that last one is going to be tougher than any Game 7 I can imagine.
Take last Monday.
After watching my favorite hockey team lose Game 7 at home in overtime (after coughing up several leads), I'm sorry to say I had a rough time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that stupid puck bounce off our defenseman's shoulder into the goal. Crazy, right? The next morning, still bummed out about an event that had no affect on my actual life, I had to ask my bleary-eyed self one question. Why do I care so much? Why do I take someone else's endeavors so seriously? Why do I let a sports disappointment affect me in such a negative way?
I'm not sure if I know the answer but I think I know what I have to do about it. I have to try to use some of the energy I expend watching and worrying about whether my team is going to do what I'd like them to do and start worrying about how (and when) I'm going to start focusing on what I want to accomplish in my own life. It's not as if Jonathan Toews is worrying about whether or not I get my book edited. It's not as if Patrick Kane is tossing and turning trying to figure out how I'm going to turn my love of writing into something that can pay a couple of bills. And, more importantly, not one of my beloved Blackhawks is going to help me deal with the fact that my youngest child is about to move very far away in the very near future.
Getting through that last one is going to be tougher than any Game 7 I can imagine.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Real Heroes
There are certain songs that, no matter how many times I hear them, bring me to tears. I Hope You Dance, a mother's anthem to her children, encouraging them not to "sit it out" but "dance" every chance they get, does me in every time. In My Daughter's Eyes by Martina McBride and Our Story Goes On from the musical Baby, sport lyrics that speak of the gratitude that comes with being a mom and both reduce me to a puddle whenever they pop up on the radio.
And then there's Goodnight, Saigon by Billy Joel.
Listening to a young soldier lament the horrors of the Vietnam war as the chorus chants "We said we'd all go down together" is the stuff of every mother's nightmares. Every time I hear it, I think of all the promising young men we've lost to wars; all the hopes and dreams that were vanquished by the stupidity of military conflict. But yesterday, as I listened again to the haunting lyrics, I was especially moved by the line "we promised our mothers we'd write" and I couldn't help thinking of all the moms who've sent their precious baby boys (or girls) off to fight, not knowing if they would ever get the chance to hold them in their arms again.
I honestly don't know how they do it.
Today is Memorial Day, a day we honor our military forces and all the brave men and women who have paid the ultimate price defending our freedom. I can't imagine what it would be like to be the mother of a soldier; to send my child off to Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan. I can't imagine the worry, the fear, and the sadness that would come with that task and, while I'm beyond grateful that I never had to make such a sacrifice, my heart breaks for those who have.
I'm glad I heard the song. It made me stop and think about who our country's real heroes should be. Forget about those vacuous celebrities who are spending millions of dollars to get married in some castle in Italy. Forget about the cheating sports stars who buy off their wives with ice cube-sized baubles. Forget about politicians who can't work for the greater good of the country because they're too busy trying to get re-elected.
In this celebrity-crazed world, it's easy to lose sight of who the real heroes are but the brave women who wait and pray for their sons and daughters (and husbands) to return safely from their tours of duty and the heroic men and women who have fought and continue to fight for freedom all over the world seem like a good place to start. They should have nothing but our unending admiration and respect (not to mention a Veteran's Administration that doesn't make them wait months to see a doctor).
One day on the calendar is not nearly enough.
And then there's Goodnight, Saigon by Billy Joel.
Listening to a young soldier lament the horrors of the Vietnam war as the chorus chants "We said we'd all go down together" is the stuff of every mother's nightmares. Every time I hear it, I think of all the promising young men we've lost to wars; all the hopes and dreams that were vanquished by the stupidity of military conflict. But yesterday, as I listened again to the haunting lyrics, I was especially moved by the line "we promised our mothers we'd write" and I couldn't help thinking of all the moms who've sent their precious baby boys (or girls) off to fight, not knowing if they would ever get the chance to hold them in their arms again.
I honestly don't know how they do it.
Today is Memorial Day, a day we honor our military forces and all the brave men and women who have paid the ultimate price defending our freedom. I can't imagine what it would be like to be the mother of a soldier; to send my child off to Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan. I can't imagine the worry, the fear, and the sadness that would come with that task and, while I'm beyond grateful that I never had to make such a sacrifice, my heart breaks for those who have.
I'm glad I heard the song. It made me stop and think about who our country's real heroes should be. Forget about those vacuous celebrities who are spending millions of dollars to get married in some castle in Italy. Forget about the cheating sports stars who buy off their wives with ice cube-sized baubles. Forget about politicians who can't work for the greater good of the country because they're too busy trying to get re-elected.
In this celebrity-crazed world, it's easy to lose sight of who the real heroes are but the brave women who wait and pray for their sons and daughters (and husbands) to return safely from their tours of duty and the heroic men and women who have fought and continue to fight for freedom all over the world seem like a good place to start. They should have nothing but our unending admiration and respect (not to mention a Veteran's Administration that doesn't make them wait months to see a doctor).
One day on the calendar is not nearly enough.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Senior Year
If I won the lottery tomorrow, I'm pretty sure I would still be a regular customer at my local thrift stores. I'll be sure to confirm that assumption as soon as those damn ping-pong balls fall into line but until then, I'll be on the hunt for unique bargains anywhere I can find them.
It's not just purveyors of second-hand goods that get my blood pumping. Places like Marshall's and TJ Maxx were my mainstays long before they started having cool TV commercials featuring savvy twenty-somethings touting designer fashions at discount prices and the new flyers from Costco or Trader Joe's are my idea of scintillating reading material. I clip coupons (okay, I forget to bring them to the store but I do clip them), drive ten miles to save a couple of bucks on toilet paper, and head straight to the clearance rack in any store I enter.
With all that said, I have a great deal of trouble accepting one particular discount that has recently come my way. I was getting ready to check out at the local Goodwill store. I had an armful of Coldwater Creek and Banana Republic outcasts that were going to add up to less than the cost of a Target t-shirt when the youngster behind the desk asked me if I had my Goodwill frequent buyer card. When I replied I had one but didn't have it with me, he innocently responded that he "just wanted to mention it in case I was eligible for the Wednesday senior discount".
Talk about a mood killer. Here I was on a bargain hunter's high, getting designer duds for pennies on the dollar when, out of the blue, this kid shoots me down with his insinuation that I might be eligible for a senior discount. And it wasn't even the over 55 variety. It was 60. That little punk thought I looked 60. If it had been one of my bad hair days or one of my rushing out of the house without make-up days, I might have cut him some slack. But this was one of those "I just washed my hair and look pretty darn good" days. Or so I thought.
After confirming that I was indeed eligible for his stupid 15% discount, he packed my now tainted bargains into a bag, collected his $15.82 and wished me a nice day.
Too late.
It's not just purveyors of second-hand goods that get my blood pumping. Places like Marshall's and TJ Maxx were my mainstays long before they started having cool TV commercials featuring savvy twenty-somethings touting designer fashions at discount prices and the new flyers from Costco or Trader Joe's are my idea of scintillating reading material. I clip coupons (okay, I forget to bring them to the store but I do clip them), drive ten miles to save a couple of bucks on toilet paper, and head straight to the clearance rack in any store I enter.
With all that said, I have a great deal of trouble accepting one particular discount that has recently come my way. I was getting ready to check out at the local Goodwill store. I had an armful of Coldwater Creek and Banana Republic outcasts that were going to add up to less than the cost of a Target t-shirt when the youngster behind the desk asked me if I had my Goodwill frequent buyer card. When I replied I had one but didn't have it with me, he innocently responded that he "just wanted to mention it in case I was eligible for the Wednesday senior discount".
Talk about a mood killer. Here I was on a bargain hunter's high, getting designer duds for pennies on the dollar when, out of the blue, this kid shoots me down with his insinuation that I might be eligible for a senior discount. And it wasn't even the over 55 variety. It was 60. That little punk thought I looked 60. If it had been one of my bad hair days or one of my rushing out of the house without make-up days, I might have cut him some slack. But this was one of those "I just washed my hair and look pretty darn good" days. Or so I thought.
After confirming that I was indeed eligible for his stupid 15% discount, he packed my now tainted bargains into a bag, collected his $15.82 and wished me a nice day.
Too late.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Not So Great Expectations
Since yesterday was my 27th Mother's Day celebration, I had a pretty good idea how it would go down. I felt confident that I was not going to be whisked off in a limo for a relaxing day at the spa or be handed tickets for a three day culinary cruise to Bermuda. Maybe stuff like that really happens to the rich and famous (or wives with incredibly guilt-ridden husbands) but I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen to me. What I did expect was a couple of cards, maybe a flower or two and some heartfelt Facebook postings about "being the best mom ever".
I wasn't far off, except for the whole cooking my own breakfast thing. I didn't see that one coming.
With one of my kids (the boy who barely remembers Christmas) out of town, it fell to my pregnant daughter to take one for the team. She and her new hubby gave me a brightly-colored box filled with tiny slips of paper extolling my various virtues. While mine ("You bought me that cool bacon cooker") could hardly be compared to the list that Chelsea Clinton might have given Hillary ("Thanks for helping find Bin Laden"), it never hurts to hear your kids say nice things about you.
Once my son finally got home (after a nasty thunderstorm diverted his plane to Detroit), he promised me a lunch at the place of my choice, which I hastily collected this afternoon. With his imminent departure to the Pacific Time Zone looming, I'm not messing around. So I didn't get a mushy (or even funny) card from him (although I did get a sweet one from his girlfriend). I got something even
better - a sincere, "Love you" and pineapple/mango gelato. He's a man of few words but he knows about priorities.
Despite doing work than I wanted to yesterday (couldn't someone have handed me a glass of Sangria while I was making that bruschetta?), it turned out to be a very special day. And it didn't have anything to do with gifts, cards, or spa treatments. It had everything to do with getting the chance to be a part of my niece's very first Mother's Day. She, very much like her aunt, waited a long time to see her dream of becoming a mom come true and as I watched her dote on her adorable little guy, I felt transported back to those early days of motherhood; the days when you can't get enough sleep but don't really care; the days when you will do anything to provoke a laugh from a ten pound human being; the days when you thank God every fifteen seconds for bringing this tiny person into your life.
My daughter will be in those shoes next year. And I'll be promoted to "grandma" (or "Mimi" or "Oma" - I haven't decided yet).
With macaroni necklaces and handprint t-shirts in my future, who needs another pedicure?
I wasn't far off, except for the whole cooking my own breakfast thing. I didn't see that one coming.
With one of my kids (the boy who barely remembers Christmas) out of town, it fell to my pregnant daughter to take one for the team. She and her new hubby gave me a brightly-colored box filled with tiny slips of paper extolling my various virtues. While mine ("You bought me that cool bacon cooker") could hardly be compared to the list that Chelsea Clinton might have given Hillary ("Thanks for helping find Bin Laden"), it never hurts to hear your kids say nice things about you.
Once my son finally got home (after a nasty thunderstorm diverted his plane to Detroit), he promised me a lunch at the place of my choice, which I hastily collected this afternoon. With his imminent departure to the Pacific Time Zone looming, I'm not messing around. So I didn't get a mushy (or even funny) card from him (although I did get a sweet one from his girlfriend). I got something even
better - a sincere, "Love you" and pineapple/mango gelato. He's a man of few words but he knows about priorities.
Despite doing work than I wanted to yesterday (couldn't someone have handed me a glass of Sangria while I was making that bruschetta?), it turned out to be a very special day. And it didn't have anything to do with gifts, cards, or spa treatments. It had everything to do with getting the chance to be a part of my niece's very first Mother's Day. She, very much like her aunt, waited a long time to see her dream of becoming a mom come true and as I watched her dote on her adorable little guy, I felt transported back to those early days of motherhood; the days when you can't get enough sleep but don't really care; the days when you will do anything to provoke a laugh from a ten pound human being; the days when you thank God every fifteen seconds for bringing this tiny person into your life.
My daughter will be in those shoes next year. And I'll be promoted to "grandma" (or "Mimi" or "Oma" - I haven't decided yet).
With macaroni necklaces and handprint t-shirts in my future, who needs another pedicure?
Monday, May 5, 2014
A Tale of Two Siblings
Every time I happen to catch a snippet of the 19 Kids and Counting TV show, I can't help wondering what it would have been like to have had more siblings. Having just grown up with one sister, I can only imagine what life would have been like to share bedrooms/bathrooms/parents with a boatload of other kids.
I'm sure being part of a large family would have its ups (always having someone to hang out with, always having someone to blame) and downs (jockeying for attention, not being able to afford taking a big clan on vacation) but the idea of having an additional sibling or two gathered around the Christmas tree was one that always sounded pretty appealing.
And then there is reality.
While it would be nice if every family behaved as unselfishly as that Duggar brood, the truth is many families just don't get along. For one reason or another, siblings who had once been buddies sadly grow up to fight about money, parental responsibilities, material possessions and misplaced loyalties. They betray trusts, break promises, and neglect communication. They can be consumed with jealousy and greed, taking actions that break their families into a million little pieces.
When you hear about familial discord in the news, you can shake your head in disbelief. When it happens to people you care about, it breaks your heart. It also makes you stop and take stock of your own relationships.
I thank God every day for the unbreakable relationship I have with my one and only sibling (since I highly doubt that either one of my 84 year-old parents will provide me with another.) I know you can be certain of very little in this world (never getting another perm can safely claim a spot on my list) but I cannot envision any scenario that would break the bond I have with the wonderful woman I'm lucky enough to call my sister. No amount of money, no amount of stuff and no man (short of Ryan Reynolds) would be reason enough to jeopardize the relationship I have with her.
I only wish everyone in my life could be so fortunate.
I'm sure being part of a large family would have its ups (always having someone to hang out with, always having someone to blame) and downs (jockeying for attention, not being able to afford taking a big clan on vacation) but the idea of having an additional sibling or two gathered around the Christmas tree was one that always sounded pretty appealing.
And then there is reality.
While it would be nice if every family behaved as unselfishly as that Duggar brood, the truth is many families just don't get along. For one reason or another, siblings who had once been buddies sadly grow up to fight about money, parental responsibilities, material possessions and misplaced loyalties. They betray trusts, break promises, and neglect communication. They can be consumed with jealousy and greed, taking actions that break their families into a million little pieces.
When you hear about familial discord in the news, you can shake your head in disbelief. When it happens to people you care about, it breaks your heart. It also makes you stop and take stock of your own relationships.
I thank God every day for the unbreakable relationship I have with my one and only sibling (since I highly doubt that either one of my 84 year-old parents will provide me with another.) I know you can be certain of very little in this world (never getting another perm can safely claim a spot on my list) but I cannot envision any scenario that would break the bond I have with the wonderful woman I'm lucky enough to call my sister. No amount of money, no amount of stuff and no man (short of Ryan Reynolds) would be reason enough to jeopardize the relationship I have with her.
I only wish everyone in my life could be so fortunate.
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