I'm sick again. And I'm trying to organize my garage, which has turned out to be more of a job than what I thought. The whole idea of re-doing the garage came from an article in The Family Handyman (one of my favorite mags) that claimed I could snaz up my garage in one day!
That's a lie.
Of course, the closer I look at the picture, the more obvious it is that the garage in the article does not include three thousand balls, twenty bikes, camping gear, boxes of clothes, a huge freezer, mountains of swimming noodles and bubble machines, and barrels of drinking water. So it's taking a little longer than I anticipated. I'm on week two and wondering why I ever started this in the first place. There is one bright spot, though. I might need to go to Ikea to get some boxes. And that should take all day, right?
I am related to crafty people. Not crafty in the criminal sense, of course. I'm talking in the Martha Stewart sense. You know, creative. It started with my mother, who makes cards for every holiday. And when I was a kid, Mom sewed me and my Barbie dolls some fantastically chic outifts (my Barbie had a leather coat, a blue satin evening gown, and a red sundress that was perfect for long walks through the basement with Ken). Then there's my sisters, who also know how to draw, paint, cook gourmet meals, sew, and sing, among many other things.
Now there's the next generation. First up is my niece Allie, who sews banners from fabric. Here's a few samples of her work:
I dig Allie's sense of color and pattern. Don't you love the Halloween banner? She's a textile artist for sure. You can read her blog (she's a talented writer, too) and see more of her work here.
Then there's my other niece Kaylynne, who's a graphic designer. Kaylynne designed this t-shirt that I just purchased from her online store:
It's the perfect sentiment for when I'm feeling PMS-ish. Which is all the time. So I wear it a lot!
Kaylynne has a whimsical sense of humor that shows in her work. Check out her other designs here.
One of my favorite things to do is to scare my children when they have the hiccups. As soon as I hear the faint tiny burping sound come from their precious little bodies I rub my hands together and smile, my mind already at work on my plan of attack. Then, when they least expect it, I do my best Large Marge impression and yell, "BOO!" They shriek, I laugh, and the hiccups flee.
For years, the scare tactic has worked much better than the standard drinking-a-glass-of-water-without-coming-up-for-breath method. But lately, I've not been able to cure anyone of their hiccups. Mostly, I've just managed to annoy, inspiring such phrases as "Mu-ther, cut it out." Or, "I hate it when you do that." So the other day, when Paul, my eleven-year-old, came down with the hiccups, I knew I had to do add something unexpected to my usual routine. I decided I would hide in Paul's closet, then leap from the t-shirts yelling something frightening, like, "Clean up your room!"
It didn't take long for Paul to come searching for me. With his father busy downstairs on the computer and his brothers fighting over the Wii, there was nothing left for him to do but come looking for his mother. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I stepped into the closet. Now, you need to know there are no doors on the thing at the moment, so it wasn't like I was hiding in a dark pit and Paul would have to search for me. But the closet is deep, with plenty of room for an adult to stand in it without being detected right away. Paul called out, "Mom? Mom? where are you?" he hiccuped as he said it. I had to cover my mouth with my hands to contain my giggles. It was like waiting for Paul to turn the handle of the jack-in-the-box so I could spring out and scare the socks off him.
Paul walked into my bedroom. "MOM?" he said again, hiccuping. I could hear some concern in his voice, like he thought I actually skipped town as I sometimes threaten to do. "Look in your own room," I willed him in my mind. He must have had the same thought, because his footsteps were getting closer. He stood in the doorway, asking one more time, "Mom?" I could just barely see his hand clutching an orange plastic cup from my hiding place. He took a swig from the cup and stepped closer to the closet. It was time for action.
I jumped out and hollered "Ah-hah!" Paul screamed, then instinctively threw the contents of his cup in my face, which, luckily he had just drained. But still, there were quite a few drops left in the bottom, enough to cover me in a small rain shower of Paul spittle. This was unfortunate, considering Paul had been home sick for the last two days. "You scared me," Paul said in a voice filled with fright, tinged at the edges with hurt and accusation. I hugged him. "Maybe so," I said. "But your hiccups are gone, right?" And so they were. Yet for some reason, Paul didn't thank me for curing him. Instead he skulked off, taking the cat with him.
A couple mornings later, my throat felt dry and hot. "It's like the Sahara Desert in my mouth," I told my husband as I lay groaning in bed, trying to swallow. I might as well have been drinking sand for how scratchy it was in there. It was official: I was sick. And I knew how it must have happened: Me, in the closet, Paul raining on my parade with viral drops of fear.
Paul wandered into the room at that moment and looked me over. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.
"I'm sick," I answered. "And you know why? You threw your germs on me when I scared the hiccups out of you."
Paul laughed. I had expected sympathy, perhaps even an offer to make me breakfast in bed as I did for them when they're sick. But, no. In his eyes I could not see concern, only the hard glint of revenge. "Well, that's karma for you," he said.
I didn't know Paul even knew what karma was, let alone how to wield it against me. "That's the last time I cure you of the hiccups," I said. But he was already gone.
I saw an article about Geneen Roth's new book in this month's O Magazine, which, feeling too tightwaddy to buy, I skimmed while standing in line at the grocery store. I've heard about Geneen Roth, how she writes about emotional eating and overcoming food addiction. I've even thought about checking out her previous books from the library. But I never did. I just continued to check out book after book on this diet and that, all the while knowing that food and I were not coming to terms with each other. As far as I was concerned, there would never be a truce, and I would never be at peace. I thought controlling the food would in turn control me. But it has never been about the food. Not really anyway.
A couple years ago, on the advice of The Weigh Down Diet book, I decided to stop eating when I was upset at the kids, which meant that I was eating bites instead of meals. I lost so much weight that even my running tights hung on my twiggy legs. For the first time in many years, I thought I was in control of the food. I was so wrong. The book had taught me that relying on food instead of God was a sin. But, funny thing is, instead of feeling satiated with solace, I felt full of guilt. I began to fear not only food but God, too. "Am I really hungry?" I began questioning when I wanted to buy some crackers at the health food store. "Is God watching right now?" I'd think as I looked up at the sky slowly crunching on said crackers. "Will I have to repent for this too?" I'd wonder to myself as I tried to determine if I was full or not. After awhile, it got to be too much. What with all the other things I did wrong in my life, I couldn't handle the notion that God was mad at me about how much I ate for dinner as well. So I gave it up.
But lately I've noticed my old pattern of eating to the point of pain creeping back. I've started checking out diet books from the library again, promising myself that I'll start eating better tomorrow, right after I make some more cookies. Don't get me wrong. I do not consider myself overweight, nor do I wish to return to my former bird-leg self. I would just like to stop thinking of food as my nasty, controlling Aunt Hildegard who frequently makes a mess of me and never offers to clean it up.
So I bought Women, Food and God. Yep, you heard me. Susan of the Clan of Tightwaddery found it for $15 on BarnesandNoble.com and just went ahead and bought it before sampling it from the library (although I did shop around for the best price). I started reading it the day it arrived. There were so many things in there that I recognized in myself that I had to take a break. It freaked me out too much to read in one sitting. I could feel Aunt Hildegard cackling furiously. She was like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz, screaming "I'm melting!" as I poured water over her ghoulish figure. It took me all weekend to get up the nerve to continue reading, and even then I wasn't sure if I could finish. Finally I made a deal with myself. I would read it through once quickly, just to get a taste of it, then go back and read it again, taking notes while I did so. Kind of like getting seconds, but without the calories. I finished the first run through last night, and this week I will read it again. And perhaps even a third time. It's that good.
Roth's approach is less about the wrath of God and more about the love of God. She advocates emotional awareness--the idea showing yourself kindness rather than berating yourself for gaining back the same ten pounds you lost and gained the year before. She tells us "that the great blessing of [our] lives is [our] relationship with food." Wrap your mind around that one. The last thing I've considered food was a blessing. Rather more of a curse. Roth continues: "…we are not going to fix [your] relationship with food; we are actually going to walk through the door of [your] eating problem and see what's behind it."
You can see why my initial reaction was to close the book and calm myself with some chips. But if I want Aunt Hildegard to beat it for good, this is where I must begin.
Here's a clip of Roth reading from her book:
P.S.
Just a warning. Roth drops a couple of "F" bombs in the book. Twice, I think.
This is Isabel Allende's web site. Click on the picture to learn more about her.
“Women want to be valued,” the woman at the podium, said.
“They want peace and connections.” I think she is right. In fact, I was
listening to this woman speak because I wanted a connection with her world, her
voice, her talent. The woman at the podium was Isabel Allende, an author who’s
work I’ve admired for many years now. When my niece asked if I wanted to go to
this lecture with her, I immediately answered “YES.” I knew that Allende was
passionate about human rights, in particular women’s rights, and I wanted to
hear what she had to say about global connections among women.
Allende delivered a message that was not only compelling,
but funny as well. She started her speech by warning us that she thinks in
circles. “I have no capacity for linear thinking,” she said. We all laughed. “I
have been a mother for too long,” she admitted, as if that explained
everything. And it did. I wanted to give her a standing ovation right at that
moment, for I too cannot think in a straight line. Walk in a straight line, yes.
But complete a thought from point A to point B without stopping by C, making a
U-turn to A, then meandering over to D? I can’t do it. So when Allende told us
to be patient, that she would get to her point eventually, I could wait. I
could even enjoy the journey.
The room was full of people, young college students, older
scholarly types, and middle-aged people like myself. Though outside was
downright frigid—my niece shivered all the way from the parking lot to the
Student Union Center—inside felt cozy. On a cold night, why did we come to hear
this woman from Chile, who lived in Venezuela for some time, then made America
her home, yet claims to be rooted to no land? Allende explained it to us. Like
women all over the world, we want connections. We want to gather, to hear each
other’s stories. We want to share. That’s why we came. Isn’t that why there are
so many female bloggers? Isn’t that why there are so many female blog readers? I read to hear someone else’s story in hopes that
it will inform my own life. I want to know that someone else has experienced
what I’ve experienced, or thought about what I think about. I want to feel part
of something bigger. I want to feel like my life has meaning beyond these
walls, and beyond this mind.
So that’s why when Allende said, “It’s time to admit we
[women] are sentimental creatures,” I could nod my head in agreement. I am not
one to decorate my house with knick-knacks or make elaborate scrapbooks
detailing every moment of our lives, but give me a box of my kids’ pictures and
within minutes you’ll find me sitting at the kitchen table blubbering like a
drunk. I keep words too, letters and cards that have touched me in some way.
And I write my memories, offering them on my blog like a child brings home a
handful of dandelions for his mother. If my kids ever manage to burn down the
house, I will rescue them first, then the cat. And then I will grab this
computer, which holds hundreds of pictures and millions of words. Because words
and pictures are my connections--to myself and to my family. And to you.
This lovely egg was made by me and my first son Calvin years ago. You can see that I suppressed the urge to take over and make it perfect. I remember how much I wanted to show Calvin how to make the frosting pretty, but then as I watched him grinning as he swirled the green icing all over the top in great swoops of the butter knife, I thought better of it. Inside, Calvin placed a picture of Jesus, a few yellow jelly beans and some coconut we dyed green for grass.
When I look at my egg, I remember how determined I had been to make it a Martha Stewart project. I was convinced that I could make it so perfect in every way that Martha herself would want to feature it in her magazine. But I couldn't figure out how to squish out the frosting in pretty flower shapes, the bottom of the egg was uneven and wouldn't sit straight on counter, and my Jesus picture turned out too wide and I had to trim it to a lopsided oval that certainly would not have passed muster with Martha. So I resorted to blobbing frosting all over the top of the egg and sticking jelly beans on top. And that turned out all right, considering I threw five jelly beans into my mouth for every one that I stuck to the egg.
I keep these eggs wrapped in tissue paper in a shoe box under the house, and every year around Easter I drag them out to display in our front room. I put them there so that I will see them numerous times a day. But this year I thought of throwing them away. With no little hands to pick them up to peer inside, they look suspiciously like clutter. My oldest does not remember making them, and the only one who has shown genuine interest in them is the cat, who was caught licking the frosting from one. But the funny thing is, I care. Mine are the hands to pick them up every day to look inside. And every time, Jesus is there, his arm around a child, pointing to a butterfly. And every time, he makes me smile and feel a little more hopeful, a little less frustrated, a tiny bit less crazy than I had been the moment before. It's almost as if that's me he's putting his arm around in there.
When I look into the eggs, I wonder how many times God has wanted to reach down and take over for me. There have been many times when I've messed up his plans. "You're doing it wrong," he might have said when he saw me saying the same thing to my child when he slopped frosting all over an egg made of sugar. But God didn't say a word. He let me figure it out for myself. Or rather, he let my son tell me instead. It took me awhile, but I finally got it, and me and God are still on good terms. That's the thing about God and Jesus. They don't care if your eggs look great or even if you've got them all in a basket. They like you anyway. They even love you. And they don't hold a grudge. (Unlike me and a lot of other people in the world.)
So I will keep the eggs a little longer. Or maybe a lot longer. Because they remind me that the handiwork of children is beautiful in its imperfection. And they remind me that I am loved in my imperfection, too. And most of all they remind me of the time I kicked Martha out of the house and opened the door to Jesus.
Here's a link to a site that has great directions on how to make these sugar eggs.
