So, remember the story I told you about how Gabby got to meet Keith Urban on our flight back from Chicago? I know, you’re probably so over that story, but! Apparently, I took video of her reaction (how did I forget that I did this!? Jet lag is REAL!) and it is absolutely precious.
I wanted to post it here. Please note that I feel like the worst mother in the world that I did not assure he HE ABSOLUTELY MEANT IT and was not faking it.
Writing Through It.
I want to write.
I want to write something that will make you laugh. I want to write something that will make you cry. I want to write something that will make you nod your head in agreement. I want to write something that will make you shake your fist at your computer monitor in anger. I want to make something that will make you think. I want to write something that will make you appreciate what you have a little bit more. I want to write something that will make you jealous. I want to write something that will make you want to be my friend. I want to write something that will make you hate me just a little bit. I want to write something that will make you pick up the phone to call someone to tell them you love them. I want to write something that will make you want to hug someone. I want to write something that will make you want to turn on your music and dance all by yourself. I want to write something that makes you wish you were a kid again. I want to write something that makes you want to grow old. I want to write something that will make you close your eyes and remember the time. I want to write something that makes you weak in the knees. I want to write something that gives you butterflies. I want to write something that makes you crave something delicious to eat. I want to write something that makes you never want to eat again. I want to write something wonderful. I want to write something awful. I want to write something that doesn’t make sense. I want to write something that makes everything clear. I want to write something that inspires you to be a better person. I want to write something that makes you appreciate every minute you have with your loved ones. I want to write something that you wish you had written first.
I just want to write.
Words. Thoughts. Stories. Observations. Opinions.
Good. Bad. Stupid. Funny. Smart. Thought provoking. Silly. Hilarious. Serious. Simple. Complicated.
Words. I want to write words.
But I’m afraid.
I’m a wimp.
I’m plagued with insecurities.
I’m afraid you’ll hate it. I’m afraid you’ll love it. I’m afraid it won’t be good enough. I’m afraid it will be so good. I’m afraid it won’t make you laugh. I’m afraid it won’t make you cry. I’m afraid you’ll roll your eyes. I’m afraid you’ll shut the page and never come back. I’m afraid you’ll go on message boards and talk about how much you hate me. I’m afraid you’ll mock me. I’m afraid you’ll call my children names. I’m afraid I’ll never write another post as good as the one before. I’m afraid it’s all been said before. I’m afraid I’m too boring. Too fat. Too dumb. Too ugly. Too bland. Too generic.
I want to write. But I hold back. I hold back so much, so many times. I’ve written and deleted post after post after post. Too chickenshit to hit publish.
I want to stop worrying and just start writing again.
I’m going to hit publish on this post and walk away. And I’m going to do the same thing tomorrow and the day after that.
Every day that I can find time, I will write. No matter what you think. No matter what I think. No matter what my one troll in Alabama thinks.
Writing is what I love to do and I’m tired of not doing what I love.
I Took a Ride on This and Lived to Blog About it.
I am afraid of many things.
Earthquakes. Bees. Beetles. Porta-potties. Bears. Raw chicken. Flying on airplanes.
And those are just a very few things. My list is long. I am a paranoid, overly cautious person who begs my kids not to dive into pools because I am afraid they will hit their heads on the bottom and paralyze themselves. And that is a true story. Just ask my boys who absolutely HATE when I come out to watch them swim (at other peoples houses because we do not have a pool.)
At the top of my Things I Am Afraid Of list is “Ferris Wheels.”
It’s not the *height* that scares me as much as the thought that the car (box? seat?) that I am in will flip over and because there are NO SEATBELTS (which, WTF, Ferris Wheel Safety Board?) I will fall to a painful, messy death.
On Saturday, my family spent a few hours on the Navy Pier in Chicago. There was no doubt in my mind that the second my daughter saw the ferris wheel she’d want to go on it.
I was right.
“Mommy, can we please go on the ferris wheel?” Is what she said most of the time we were walking around. I finally told her yes, she could go on with her brothers and her daddy because Momma don’t ride ferris wheels.
When I got in line to buy their tickets, the kids started begging me to go on with them. They said things like “it would be so great if the whole family rode it together!” and “we want you to go with us, it won’t be fun without you!”
I kept politely saying NO! WAY! until Ethan said something like “Ohh, you’re the one who forced us to go on roller coasters! You’re the one who said not to be afraid of them and now you’re too chicken to go on a ferris wheel?”
I couldn’t say no after that. I would have looked like a (rhymes with) “wussy.”
So, I said yes.
While we were in line, I made sure that my family was clear on the rules. Basically, the rules were “DO NOT MOVE ANY PART OF YOUR BODY WHATSOEVER IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM.”
I realized .03 seconds into the ride that it was a mistake on my part to make such a big deal about the whole “moving your body thing.” The second they shut the little gate on our car (cart? seat? WHAT IS THAT THING CALLED?) my kids started making Unnecessary Movements. And they continued to do so throughout the entire ride. This prompted me to freak out more than once. Which of course prompted them to laugh at me and say things like “Mom, you’re being too paranoid. Calm down.” And then they’d move their arm again FOR NO GOOD REASON.
The important thing is that I did it, I rode the effing ferris wheel.
But I can promise you this– I will never do it again.
It wouldn’t be fair to my vagina.
My Daughter Has a Boyfriend and He’s Famous
She fell in love with his music when she was just four years old. She would listen to his CD with her dad while they drove around town running errands. They’d walk in the door from a long day and she’d be singing his songs.
Oh, how she sings his songs.
She fell in (4 year old) love with The Man the first time she saw him on TV.
“That’s Keith Urban?” She asked, with her eyes wide open.
“Yes. It is.” I responded. “Isn’t he handsome?”
She giggled. “I want to marry him!”
She would talk about him daily. She would draw pictures of him and for him. She would write letters to him.
“I want to be your girlfriend, Keith Urbin.” She’d scrawl across the blank white paper.
The day she found out he was married, she was devastated. “You’re lying!” She shouted. “He’s MY husband!”
Once she accepted this reality, she started writing letters to his wife, “Micole.” They were sweet and said things like “I like the way your husband sings.”
But she never stopped loving Micole’s husband. She never stopped singing his songs. She never stopped writing him letters and drawing him pictures.
One night while we were sitting on the sofa watching a Keith Urban special, she asked me to pause the TV. “Mom, if he has a show by our house, will you take me there to see him?”
“Of course I will, love.”
“And after the show, will you take me to meet him? I just want to meet him so bad.”
I explained that it probably wouldn’t be possible to meet him after the show, but you never know! Maybe?
“Oh, I hope I can’t meet him!” She said, with her hands folded as if she was saying a prayer.
*******
“Babe, doesn’t that look like Keith Urban?” My husband asked as we were sitting in the airport waiting to board a flight from Chicago to LAX.
“That IS Keith Urban!” I gasped.
Gabby was sitting next to me. “Gabby! That’s Keith Urban sitting over there.” I said, as I pointed. (Pointing is rude! I know! But I had to show her!)
She wants to meet Keith Urban and there he is sitting just a few feet away from her.
I wanted to go say hello to him, to introduce my daughter– his biggest, littlest fan- to him. I wanted to watch as she met the man of her dreams right there in the airport terminal.
But he was on the phone. And I didn’t want to be rude and interrupt his phone call. So, I sat and waited for the right time.
The right time never came. An American Airlines employee came over to him and walked him over so he could board the plane first. I was bummed for my daughter and quite possibly for myself because there’s nothing more beautiful as a parent than watching your child’s dreams come true.
“Mommy, where did Keith Urban go?” Gabby asked when she noticed his seat was empty.
I explained to her that he had already boarded the plane. I told her that maybe we could say hello to him when we got on the plane, if he wasn’t busy.
“No, Mommy!” She whined. “I was just kidding about loving him! I don’t love him and I don’t want to meet him!”
“You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, but I think it would be so wonderful if you said hello to him. You’ve always said you wanted to meet him.”
She got very quiet as we stood in line.
“Mommy? My heart is beating so fast. Is yours beating fast too?”
I about died right there. HER HEART WAS BEATING FAST.
”
Sweetie, it’s okay to be nervous and it’s okay if you don’t want to say hello. I don’t want you to be nervous.”
“I do want to say hi to him, Mommy. I’m just so nervous.”
When we stepped onto the plane, I noticed Keith was sitting in the first row. He wasn’t on the phone, so I politely made my move.
“Hello, I am sorry to bother you, but my daughter adores you and she would love to say hi to you.”
He smiled at her and said “Hi, what’s your name?”
“Gabby.” She answered.
“She just loves your music.” I said.
“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite song, Gabby?” He asked.
She was silent and I’m pretty sure it was because her little heart was pounding so hard.
“I Wanna Kiss a Girl.” I said.
“I wanna kiss a girl…” He sang.
She smiled.
I thanked him and we walked to our seats.
Shortly after takeoff, Gabby asked if she could write Keith a note. “I just want to tell him thank you for saying hi to me.” I told her she could write the note, but that I didn’t think we would be able to give it to him. However, I had a fabulous conversation with the flight attendant while waiting to use the restroom. I told her all about Gabby’s encounter with Keith and how much she loved him. I mentioned the note she wanted to write for him.
“Have her write that note and I’ll take her up front to give it to him.”
I practically ran back to my seat to give Gabby the good news.
She wrote her note (I helped make sure she spelled all of the words correctly, but they were definitely her words.)
Dear Keith Urban,
Thank you for letting me listen to your songs. I like you.
Love,
Gabby
The flight attendant walked over, took Gabby by the hand and said “let’s go give that to Keith Urban!”
I sat in my seat and watched as my daughter made her way to the front of the plane. I watched as Keith leaned over and accepted the note she had written. I watched as she smiled and spoke to him. My heart felt like it was going to burst open. IT WAS THE SWEETEST MOMENT. You just have to believe me. It truly was.
When the flight attendant returned my daughter to me, I asked her to replay what had just happened. She told me what Keith had said to Gabby and what Gabby had said to Keith. The absolute funniest moment was when Keith asked her if she wanted his autograph.
“No thank you.” She answered sweetly.
We both agreed she had no idea what an “autograph” was. So, the flight attendant took the notebook to Keith so he could sign it.
This is what she brought back.
When we read it together, my daughter smiled. Then started to giggle. That giggle turned into laughter.
“OH MY GOSH!” She said while putting her hands over his face. “Why did he call me HIS GIRLFRIEND? He must really love me or something!”
I cried. I did. Because it was the most precious thing to witness.
She stared at that paper for the entire flight. Sometimes giggling. Sometimes asking me questions about it. Sometimes doubting that he was being sincere.
“I think he was just faking it. I don’t think he really wants me to be his girlfriend.”
My husband and I can’t stop talking about how great Keith Urban was to Gabby. It was a late night flight, he had just done a show. It would have been understandable if he didn’t want to be bothered. But he was gracious to our daughter. He was genuinely kind. A true class act, that man.
I’m buying a frame for that note tomorrow and hanging it on her wall. I never want her to forget the day Keith Urban sang to her and called her his girlfriend.
(Happy, but SO VERY TIRED. Traveling is hard, y’all.)
I’m Totally Bringing an Annual to BlogHer
“What is this book, Mom?” my daughter asked, as she held the journal up for me to see.
“Where did you find that?” I asked.
“In the hall closet.” she responded.
What she had found was The Infamous Journal of 1987. A.K.A. The Infamous Journal of AWKWARD.
Being different or a little weird wasn’t new to me. I was the child of an evangelist who believed that we were “from this world but not of this world.” So, I wasn’t allowed to do any in any activity that did not involve “glorifying Christ.”
That meant no dances. No sports. No field trips. No boyfriends. No wearing makeup. No wearing anything stylish. No “high bangs.” No hanging out with friends after school or on the weekends. No going dressing up on Halloween. No pretty much ANYTHING AT ALL. It made for a AWESOME high school experience!
My sophomore year in high school, my parents would not buy me a yearbook. It was just ONE MORE THING that made me Different Than Everyone Else. I was devastated! Mostly because I wanted people to sign it so I could spend all summer reading my yearbook (only after I finished reading my bible, of course!)
I came up with the most brilliant plan ever!
I went to Pic’N Save and bought a journal. And I called it my “Annual.” And I wrote my name on it and called it “My Annual.”
And I took it to school and asked my friend’s if they would “sign My Annual.”
They would all laugh. But then, they’d say things like “this is really cool, love writing on lines!” or “hahaha you so crazy!” Or “DEAR DIARY.” I’d laugh with them, but deep down inside I was embarrassed.But hell if I was going to let anyone know that. I walked around as if I was PROUD of My Annual and as if it was a privilege if I allowed you to sign it.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was a total badass.
On How I’ve Lost 52 Pounds
A common question I get asked is “what are you doing to lose the weight.”
I’d like to answer that question here. On my blawwwg.
The first thing I did was get proper medical care. I didn’t give up when Doctors told me to “work out harder” or “eat less.” I knew that there was something wrong with my body and I fought until I got the tests that I needed to get a diagnoses and treatment. It’s important to know that I was unable to lose any weight before I was on the proper medications.
When I first found out I was insulin resistant and that I’d have to take Metf*rmin, I pretty much stopped eating sugar and All Things White (bread, pastries, etc) I was terrified of developing diabetes (insulin resistance= pre-diabetic.) If the only option for breakfast was a muffin, I’d skip breakfast. That is no longer the case. I’ve learned to cut most sugar/White stuff out of my diet, but I will allow myself a dessert (CHEESECAKE!) or a scone every once in a while now.
Here’s the thing– I am not on a diet. In fact! I will not go on another diet for as long as I live. And here’s why– I never want to gain the weight back. I want to be able to maintain this loss, I want it to be forever. The reality is that simple sugars aren’t something I should eat and for the most part, I don’t. If I want a burrito, I use a whole wheat tortilla. If I want a piece of toast- it’s whole grain/wheat. I no longer choose sourdough bread for sandwiches, nor do I have a sugared up latte every morning. However, if I want a piece of cheesecake while out to dinner with friends, I’ll have a piece of cheesecake.
So, while I’m not “on a diet.” I most definitely have made some changes, but these changes are for the rest of my life. I am not going to go off of a diet and binge. It won’t happen. I may have a piece of sourdough bread sometime in the future, but I won’t be writing a blog post about what a failure I am for going “over my points” or “blowing it” ever again.
The most drastic change for me has been in the form of physical activity.
The first few months were difficult. Workouts had become complicated due to my thyroid condition going untreated for so long. Irregular heartbeats. Chest pains. Difficulty breathing. Nothing like a ride to the ER in the back of an ambulance and 2 shots of Nitro to make you live in fear of dying of a heart attack on the treadmill. The first few months of working out after that incident were rough. I was scared to push myself. Even after I was medicated properly and my heart was working as it should (according to two doctors)– I was terrified. I would stop and check my pulse every other minute. And if it got too high, I would stop.
That is why I said that I never imagined I’d be able to run 3 miles. I didn’t think I was capable. I was operating from a place of fear.
I’ve since conquered that fear. While I am still mindful of my heart rate and how my body feels, I no longer fear to control me. I push my body a little bit more each time. And I am constantly amazed at what it can do.
I try to work out at least 5 days a week. 30 minutes or more of cardio (usually running, sometimes elliptical and sometimes step, jump rope.) and alternating upper/lower body workouts with weights, squats, push ups each night. For instance: Last night I worked my arms with free weights and some machines. Tonight, I will do legs.)
The night before last night, I ran another 5k on the treadmill. I need to prove to myself that the first time wasn’t a fluke. That my body is truly capable of such things.
I not only did it again, but I improved my time by 2 minutes.
I don’t write about that to brag- there are millions of people who can run farther and faster than I can. I write about them because I am in awe of how far I have come on this journey towards a healthier, more efficient body.
The truth is I’m stuck in the weight loss department. I’m still holding steady at 186 pounds. (180’s are the new 200’s, apparently!) But that isn’t stressing me out because my body IS changing for the better. It’s stronger, faster, healthier and that is what this journey is all about for me.
(Although, I really do need to drop another 36 pounds so I can get off of this metf*rmin, which is still wreaking havoc on my body– more specifically, my digestive system. I’ll spare you the details, but HOLY NOT POOPING FOR 5 DAYS AND THEN FOR 4 HOURS STRAIGHT ON THE 6TH DAY.)
So that right there is what I’m doing to lose weight. Eating as healthy as possible for my body and exercising at least 4-5 days a week.
And because I’ve not posted photos in a while- here is a before and a current (taken today) photo of my progress. There is a very good reason my hand is covering my belly button and that is because my belly button is JACKED THE EFF UP. No one needs to see that. Gaining 100 pounds and losing 50 of that 100 can do that to a belly button, I guess. I cover it up because I care about you, is what I’m trying to tell you.
Here’s to losing another 50.
And By “Today” I mean “Yesterday.”
Man. Today.
Today was a bad day that involved bad news that led to more bad news that led to me hyperventilating into the phone asking me husband to talk me down from a panic attack.
Today had the potential to break me.
But it didn’t.
Because today I took all of the fear, frustration, negativity and used it as fuel to do something I’ve not yet been able to do.
Run 3.11 miles.
I ran 5k.
When I was 237 pounds I couldn’t walk for 5 minutes on the treadmill. Everything hurt. I couldn’t breathe. I felt so pathetic. I would cry, right there on the treadmill. Tears of frustration, of shame, of anger. I’d leave the gym feeling like a failure. I wanted to give up many times.
I’ve kept with it, even though the weight loss results have been painfully slow. I’ve kept going because with each workout, I felt a little stronger. With each new milestone, I felt more confident. I felt more energetic. I felt more… capable.
Of anything and everything.
I want to say this to anyone reading who is where I was a year ago.
You are capable. Capable of running. Capable of losing the weight. Capable of pushing your body to do amazing things.
I know from experience that when you’re overweight, people love to tell you how “you’re doing it wrong.” And most times, they are demeaning in their tone and cruel with their words.
I know what it feels like to be severely overweight. I understand how hard it is to get up and move. I understand why you want to give up. But please, don’t give up on yourself.
Start small. Start slow. Five minutes on the treadmill. And if you can go another five, then do it. Don’t beat yourself up for not doing more than you think you should be doing. Do what you can, but push yourself a little bit more each time. When you think you want to quit, push yourself for 15 more seconds.
When you’ve done what you can do, be proud of yourself for doing it. Don’t worry about what you *should* have or *could* have done. Revel in what you did. And promise yourself to do it again tomorrow.
One year ago, I would have never believed that I could run 3.1 miles. Hell, I wouldn’t have believed that I could run.
I can and I did.
And it feels better than I ever imagined.
Teacher Gifts: It’s the Thought That Counts, Not the Size or Spacing of the Writing. Right?
One thing that I have accepted about myself is that I am not a crafty/creative person.
It doesn’t keep me from trying every once in a while. My kids usually cringe in fear (embarrassment?) when I announce that I’m going to try to make a gift instead of buying a gift.
“Homemade gifts are special.” I say. And when I make them, they are extra special. If you know what I’m saying and I think that you do. (See: These creations for a reference.)
Today is my daughter’s last day of Kindergarten. I wanted to give her teacher something special. I decided to try to replicate a gift that we had made for The Teenager’s kindergarten teacher. I couldn’t find the picture of the one we had made eleven years ago, so we did the best we could based on what we could remember.
I was up until 1am last night putting the final touches on it.
This is what Gabby will be giving to her teacher today.
We tried. We really did.
Looking Up
So, About That Last Post…
I know all about depression.
Eight years ago it nearly destroyed me.
I was sad. I was crying all of the time. I didn’t leave the house much. I drank too much. I felt worthless. I felt ugly. I felt like the world would be a better place without me.
Getting out of bed was painful. Both physically and emotionally. But I did it, every day, because there were two beautiful little boys who needed for me to get out of bed.
Those were the worst days of my life.
I was sick. So very sick. And even though I was surrounded by people who loved me, I felt alone. I felt unworthy of love. I didn’t know where to turn for help. No one around me understood what I was going through. I had two beautiful children, a loving husband–why in the hell was I so sad? Didn’t I realize how lucky I was?
Unable to turn to the people closest to me, I began to write about what I was going through on my blog. In graphic detail. (I’ve since deleted a majority of those posts. They were too difficult to read and I was mortified at the thought of my children reading them.) I started receiving emails from people suggesting that I seek professional help. I knew that was what I needed to do. But I was afraid. Terrified, even. People Who Love Jesus don’t need psychiatric help. They just pray harder and trust in God. Because People Who Love Jesus don’t get depressed and they certainly DO NOT TAKE THE DEVIL PILLS CALLED ANTIDEPRESSANTS. I knew that going to a psychiatrist would be frowned upon by my family. I knew that they would tell me that satan was responsible for my depression and I just needed to draw closer to God.
So I continued to live with and in Depression out of fear. Fear of being judged. Of being scolded. Of being the subject of Friday night prayer meetings.
But then, one afternoon, something happened. Something awful.
I had a mental breakdown. In front of my children.
My husband called me a bad mother.
“I know you love your kids and you take care of their basic needs.” He said. “You make sure they’re clean and dressed and fed, but you don’t show them love beyond that. You don’t go that extra mile for you kids anymore.”
(He was angry that I hadn’t done the dishes again.)
In that moment, all of the sadness, loneliness, worthlessness that I had been experiencing came out of my body. I won’t go into detail, but I will tell you that it was horrifying. My husband had to refrain me from injuring myself. All while my precious little E watched in horror while hiding underneath the kitchen table. (A memory I wish I could forget, but can’t erase from my mind.) It was in that moment that I knew I had to get help. It didn’t matter at that point what other people thought about my decision. I had to get well. For myself, but especially for my children.
Taking the step to get help was the best decision I ever made. I now have a deep understanding of depression, of how my brain works. I am no longer ashamed to seek help from a mental health professional or afraid of taking anti-depressants. If I hadn’t done that, I don’t know that I’d be around, typing this.
I know that I’ll always struggle with feelings of depression. But now I am better equipped to deal with them. I know when I need to make an appointment with my psychiatrist, when I need to allow myself to feel the sadness. I know when I need to be quiet and when I need to speak up and give my feelings a voice. I know when I need to pull away from people but more importantly, when I need to surround myself with people that I love.
I’m not as sad as I was when I wrote my last post. I’m able to talk about things now.
I guess this is a really long, drawn out way of saying I’m feeling better and I’m going to be just fine. Really.