Banking On It!

What if every good thing you ever did, every warm word you ever uttered, every loving thought you ever had was deposited into a giant universal bank?  What if it was that way for everyone?  Every single good thing ever done, spoken or thought by anyone anywhere was placed, like a precious golden coin, into this universal depository.  And what if, like a 401K, your deposit was matched by the deposit of the good feeling, the sweet smile, the inner joy (each a golden coin in its own right) that YOUR action caused.  Can you imagine how full of love, goodness and joy this "bank" would be?  Can you imagine what an amazing place this depository would be to visit?  Now, what if this bank was named......"Heaven"?  Just a thought.  Keep making your deposits. And max out on that Heavenly 401K while you're at it.  I'm banking on it! 

Desiderata

The common myth is that the Desiderata poem was found in a Baltimore church in 1692 and is centuries old, of unknown origin. Desiderata was in fact written around 1920 and copyrighted in 1927, by lawyer Max Ehrmann (1872-1945) of Terre Haute, Indiana.

The Desiderata myth began after Reverend Frederick Kates reproduced the Desiderata poem in a collection of inspirational works for his congregation in 1959 on church notepaper, headed: 'The Old St Paul's Church, Baltimore, AD 1692' (the year the church was founded). Copies of the Desiderata page were circulated among friends, and the myth grew.


Regardless of its origins, I find this piece highly inspirational and turn to it whenever certain elements of my life come out of balance.  Those of you who are friends with me on Facebook will recognize it, but I wanted to share it again today.  It's value is timeless and it is worth multiple readings, especially when you find yourself struggling for some sense of peace.  

 Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; 

and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and

lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs;

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals;

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the Universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
You have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the Universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

Ezzy has landed

It's November 1rst and, here at the Rudman residence, we have had yet one more successful landing by "Ezzy" the Halloween Witch.  If you do not know who "Ezzy" is, please see my former post entitled "Move Over Santa, the Halloween Witch is Coming to Town."  

Two Halloween books for each child nestled in gift bags were placed on the front step by "Ezzy" and they were thrilled.  And as "Ezzy" carted away the bag of Halloween candy, she noticed a note placed carefully in the bag on top of all the colorful sugar bombs.  The note read as follows:

"Dear Ezzy:

I hope you had fun last night trick-or-treating or just flying around on your broom with your black cat. Do you think you could tell me the name of your black cat because if I don't get the name of him I'm going to have to just call him "black cat". 

Remember to come to my house when I have my own kids so that we can sign the contract.  One more thing...does your black cat have kittens? 

The end.  

from:  Elleyna"

So, while the existence of Santa hangs in the balance, Ezzy the Witch is safe from exposure and lives to fly around the world on her "hemi-powered broom" for yet another year.  Now, to name that darn cat.

Full Body and a Bouquet for Ten Years' Runnin'

Ten years ago today, I married my best friend, my "Rock".  It's nice to have someone beside you who keeps you "real" and who, in turn, you can bring back to reality as well.  In ten years' time, marriage experiences alot.  You get busy, you get out of sync.  There are times you get angry or resentful with each other, but we (me and Kevin), we always manage to find each other again.  I'm lucky I found a guy who could make me laugh.  I mean, REALLY belly laugh.  And he knows how to do it even when I want to bite his head off.  Especially then.   I think marriage is kind of like a heartbeat.  It has its ups and downs, its peaks and valleys.  But just like a heartbeat, those ups and downs mean that you have life in your marriage.  It's dynamic and energetic, palpable and enduring.  And marriage, like a heartbeat, sometimes beats faster, sometimes slower and sometimes it skips a beat all together.   

So having said all this, I reflect on our wedding day ten years ago.  It was such a great, unforgettable day.    And it was fun.  One of the gifts we got on that wonderful day was a box of 7 bottles of red wine of varying names and vineyards.  Each had a label affixed to its neck with a number printed on it:  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 10.  The enclosed note indicated that we were to drink the bottle of wine on the indicated anniverary and that each bottle was scheduled to mature on or about the anniversary date on which we were supposed to share it.  How cool was that? 

Kevin and I have so enjoyed this gift and we have looked forward to it over the years.  We drink it out of the special glasses we had for our wedding dinner.  We use them only once a year.  There is usually a bouquet of flowers, presented to me by Kevin, in the room with us and together we sip the wine, experience its "full body" and "bouquet".  We reminisce on the past year together and talk about what we plan for the future.  On two anniversaries (our first and third), the "full body" experience also extended to the baby in my belly, in which case a sip or two of the wine was all I could enjoy, but the anticipation of the "sharing of the wine" was there just the same. 

Tonight we will share our last bottle of wine from that gift.  10 is a milestone for any marriage.  So much growth has already taken place, individually and as a couple.  And still we have so much to look forward to.  Perhaps, together, we'll go in search of wines to share on our 11th, 12th, 13th, 14th, 15th, 17th and 20th anniversaries.  Sounds like another trip to Sonoma is in order. Here's to "full bodies" and "bouquets"  for another 10 years. Cheers, everyone!
Happy 10th Anniversary, Honey.  I Love You.  

Sibling Car Conversations

Driving from St. Peters, MO to Edwardsville, IL tonight:

Elleyna:  "Oh, Mom, I forgot to tell you that I signed up for a speaking part audition in Drama Club today."

Mom:  "You did?  OMG, Elleyna, I'm so proud of you."

Danny:  "See, now those are the experiences I want you to have, Elleyna."

Elleyna (looking at Danny though I can't be sure cause I was driving):  "Um, Danny, you're my BROTHER, not my FATHER!"

Danny:  "What does THAT matter?"

Elleyna:  (((shakes head)))  --witnessed via rear view mirror

Mom:  ((chuckling and amused))

End of Conversation. 

"What I Know For Sure, as a Mommy"

 

1) I'll never get caught up on laundry.

2) Within an hour of Kev going on an out-of-town business trip, someone will puke.

3) Just when I think I have it all put together, my wonderful, beautiful, astute, 8 year old daughter will shove it up my behind and teach me a valuable lesson all at the same time.

4) My children love when I put "Mommy Love Notes' in their lunches for school.

5) My children hate when I forget to put "Mommy Love Notes" in their school lunches.   

6) Out of all the screaming, Hi-DB (high decibel) "Mommy voices" at an ice hockey game, my son can distinguish MY voice.

7) The time I spend with my kids in the waning hours of the evening, laying in bed next to them, asking them the "best and the worst" part of their day and singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" are some of the best moments of my life.

8) The time I spend with my kids in the waning hours of the evening, laying in bed next to them, asking them the "best and the worst" part of their day and singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" are some of the best moments of THEIR lives.  How do I know this?  They've told me so.

9) Someone is going to need me in the middle of the night...any night...every night...

10) And I know for sure, that if I could stop time right now...that's what I would do.  I have no issues with diapers, potty training, strollers, cribs, bottles, or breast feeding.  I have no issues with drugs, sex, talking back (well, in all honesty, that's starting), boyfriends I don't like, girlfreinds I don't like and driving.  Life is good.  Time could stand still and I would enjoy every minute of the toothless smiles and the wants and the needs of semi-independent children who still love their Mommy and look up to their Daddy.  

But the biggest part about "What I Know For Sure as a Mommy" is that I'm blessed to be one and that the two souls who chose me to lead and guide them through THIS lifetime are amazing...and my time with THEM is amazing...and nothing, and no one can take any of that away from any of us.   

That's pretty much all I know for sure as a Mommy.  

Be More Than You Seem

I traveled to the Eastern Shore of Maryland recently to attend the "Life Celebration" of a very dear friend.  He passed in February and the Eastern Shore, specifically a place called Oxford, fed his soul. 

Paul was a community college professor when I met him in 1989.  Being a college textbook sales representative at the time, it was my job to call on such professors and try to sell the the newest, best and brightest textbooks of the publishing season.  We continued a 21 year friendship, mostly through emails and written letters, but occasionally, we were able to get in a visit or two despite the great distance that eventually separated us. 

He was an unassuming guy.  His dress and his looks were "casual".  He was not a fashion fiend and I doubt that world ever even turned his head.  His monetary means were on the slim side of "slim".  He treasured his books, his gift for the written word and his son.  Nothing in his demeanor ever gave you even a hint that he wanted anything more for you than life's very best and he cared about every single word you, as his friend, uttered.  He was observant about the needs of those around him and did his best, where he could, to fulfill the small needs and wants of those he cared for in extraordinarily thoughtful ways.   I appreciated him for all that I believed he was and I viewed him only as I could, from my limited, yet honorable, perspective of him. 

From the memories that were shared two weeks ago in a small church, in the middle of a small town, surrounded by the Chesapeake Bay and it's resident seagulls, I learned that Paul was many things to many people.  But the common message emanating from that day was that Paul was a trumpet to the unseen capabilities of his friends and family.  Where they were blind to their own potential, he gave them sight and where they hesitated to take the first step of many on a new, promising paths, he gave them a push and held their hand all at the same time.  He was this for me as well.  But what really was amazing was that I could now see him not only from my own limited perspective, but through everyone else's eyes as well.  How truly striking it was to see the impact his life and his actions had on so MANY others. 

In the 21 years that we shared our wonderful friendship, I knew that he was a scholar and I knew that he hungered for knowledge and new experiences the way a river seeks the sea. I knew he was remarkable and inspirational.  Anyone who earns their PhD from Yale at the tender age of 73 is remarkable.  Anyone who goes on an archaeological dig in Utah for evidence of the Anasazi Indians in his late 60's is inspirational.  We spoke about life and the world, his aspirations and my plans on many occasions.  I thought I knew him well.

Here's some of the things that I DIDN"T know about Paul:  I didn't know he was from Cleveland originally.  I didn't know that he had THREE children and that one of his daughters had died in infancy.  I didn't know that he was awesome at photography and had several photos published in numerous magazines and I certainly didn't know that he did training seminars for the US Navy's submarine crews.  I also didn't know these other people at the life celebration and the extent to which Paul had also touched their lives.  There was so much more to this man than I knew, even over the course of a 21 year friendship.  These things, and many others, I learned only two weeks ago in Oxford.   

His son, "P3" as they call him, did a fabulous job of planning and executing an unforgettable life celebration for his father.  A Rennaisance man like his father, P3 uttered the words  "Mehr Sein Als Scheinen." during the church ceremony.  The translation, we were told, is " Be more than you seem."  It really struck a chord with me.  I thought the saying beautiful and profound and really was touched by the fact that it was so fitting for Paul and the way he lived his life. 

And I find those words now to be something I aspire to.  We can all "seem" to be a certain way, but isn't it our life's work to create more?  To build from what we "seem to be" something that runs a little deeper, a little more genuine.  And in keeping with that idea, perhaps we too should strive to see others with clearer, more appreciative eyes.  Perhaps we should seek to see them as more than THEY seem.   Just a thought.



Paul and Sue
St. Michael's, Eastern Shore, Maryland 1999



The Santa Fantasy

So, laying in bed this morning with my two beautiful children when Elleyna turns to me and informs me that, two days ago, a sixth grade girl in the neighborhood told them that Santa wasn't real.  It's bound to happen at some point, I'm know.  Elleyna then asks, "So, are you the one that puts out the gifts marked "Santa"?  Um, really no room for wiggle here.  Those types of questions from her really confirm my belief that she's destined for law school. 

I asked her what she thought.  She indicated to me that she was "infinite % sure that Santa was real."  Danny chimes in, "I don't think Santa is a crook.  I think he's as Jolly as a Roger."  What "crook" had to do with the conversation, I really can't guess.  I asked him what a "Roger" was and he, well, he didn't really know.  That makes two of us. 

But my question is this;  to what degree do you "lie" to your children to continue administering CPR to the Santa fantasy?  At third grade and first grade, I would really like it to last a few more years.  However, I'm not overly comfortable with this new turn of events.  Elleyna, my lawyer girl with her pointed questions, makes it hard not to feel that I am truly lying to her face.  I'm hoping there are no perjury laws when it comes to parenting.  How old were your kids when they "found out"?  And how much is too much before you just tell them the truth?  Please discuss.

From Laundry Baskets to Looney Bins

I apologize for this extra long post.  But laundry is just that kind of subject in this house. 

So, as a Stay-at-Home mom, I know that one of my duties is to handle the laundry.  Gag.

I don't know about other households in the US, but this one, THIS one has a laundry personality all its own.  I suffer from self-esteem issues stemming strictly from my inability to juggle Tide, Downy and Oxyclean and to utter the statement, "It's okay, honey, I'll get it out." with the same self-confidence and assurance as my mother did some 30 years ago. 

My Mom is the ultimate 50's mom.  She refuses to get an over sized, Energy Star, front load washer because it is her contention that she must still pre-soak, pre-wash and hand "swish" her laundry prior to actually turning the machine on.  Bred of the generation who actually ironed her sheets and pillow cases, this is a woman who can fold a fitted sheet tight enough and beautiful enough to look like it needs to be replaced in the Bed, Bath and Beyond aisle from whence it came.  This wonderfully talented woman scours the house for the one lone sock that has escaped its mate, scoops it up and within one wash cycle has every stinkin' piece of cloth under the roof of the house clean, sorted, folded neatly and loaded into a laundry basket looking sharp enough to pass morning muster by a Marine Drill Sergeant.  And within the blink of an eye, the basket has been whisked upstairs, unloaded of its contents, each piece reunited happily with its like pieces in the appropriate owner's drawer.  At the end of the day, ANY given day, there will not be a stitch of dirty linen anywhere to be found.  And by the way, my equally talented mother-in-law is born and bred of the same mold.  I believe some of my self-esteem issues emanate from this exact place.

Six years ago when I quit my law enforcement job to stay at home with the kids, I warned my husband that I would probably not make a good "housewife".  My desire was to be home for the kids, not necessarily home for the "house'.  I stated to him then, "Honey, I can tell you now that there will be days when you come home from work and the house will be clean, but there will be no dinner.  There will be times when you come home from work and the house will be a mess, but dinner will be ready, respectable and probably somewhat good.  And then there will be those days when you come home and the house will look like a tornado hit it AND you will have no dinner.  I recommend that you exercise your right to silence on those particular days."  He's taken my advice and has been quite the sport about it all, even on those days when he's had to go to work "commando", that is sans clean underwear.  My 6 year old son has now learned the art of "going commando" which, when you get right down to it, eases my overall laundry stress.  But really, it's all still there.     

My "sorting" complexities start when I try to conceptualize how laundry should be done most effectively and efficiently in our household.  I have attempted to separate laundry out by person.  On Mondays, person A's laundry is done; on Tuesdays, Person B's laundry gets done and so on, with Friday being towel, and possibly, sheet day.  This didn't work out because always, person A needed her soccer shirt done and it was actually Person B's day for laundry.  Which meant I had to mix, which meant that my "system" just went down the toilet, which meant, basically failure.  Lack of  "laundrical grace"or whatever.  And by the way, if its being washed in hot water and soap, do you mix kitchen towels and dirty underwear??

Then there's the question of volume.  I mean, for a family of four, how many days a week do I really need to do loads of laundry? My mom asserts that if I do one load a day, it will all workout.  Me:  Roll eyes, tap foot and exhale like a teenage daughter.  Okay, I'm not anymore, but I can still act like one.  REALLY?  EVERY day?  I hate to do laundry so I only do it when, like, it's piled up.  You know, like, I can't get to my shoes in my closet anymore.  Which means that, to catch up, I have to do umpteen loads a day for, like, a week!!

Has anyone else ever loaded up their van with loads and loads of laundry headed for a laundromat with about $100 in quarters just so you could get it ALL done without having to spend days doing it?  I have.  I'm ashamed, but I admit it anyway.  Two totally healthy laundry machines at home, a functional washer and a functional dryer and there I am in the local laundromat, monopolizing pretty much 15 machines in a row trying to get the family undies and such clean in one fell swoop.  Beauteous, I say!  And then, AND THEN, (here's the rub), I gleefully head up to kiddo's rooms to put it all away and there's another three days worth laying on the floors of their rooms.  How does THAT happen?  It's enough to drive me crazy, "looney bin" crazy.  My husband tells me its a "short trip". 

I was so proud of myself when I started my children, ages 8 and 6, on the road to "laundrical independence".  They were tall enough to reach their highest drawers, therefore, old enough to put their clean laundry away.  With the volume issue fresh in my mind, I sent young son up to his room to put a whole basket of clean clothing away.  The basket would have taken me 20 minutes.  It took him all of five.  Busy and otherwise occupied, I believed him when  he, on his way out the door and headed down the block, told me he was done putting his clothes away.  Several days later, I realized why laundry volume might be a household problem when I came to realize that the laundry I was trying to load into the washer was still "somewhat" folded.  Young son was NOT putting his clothes away as originally required, but unfolding them and putting them in the dirty laundry pile again.  This action is what I coined the "wash-fold-repeat" syndrome.  This has since stopped as young son was a first-hand witness to my head rotating faster than the washing machine on the "fast spin" cycle.

Anybody suffer the stench of the "Forgotten Load"?  I'm not talking diapers here folks, though I might as well be.  I know for a fact the neither my mother, nor my mother-in-law have EVER experienced this.  (deep sigh)  But I have.  It's that load that cycles through the final spin and remains forgotten until the stench of it can no longer be ignored some three days later.  The beauty of this is that I have discovered the power of Odoban (which can be purchased at Sams in a gallon bottle).  A cup of Odoban in a secondary wash cycle and that particular sin is somewhat forgotten.  Well, that is until my husband sweats in a golf shirt that was part of THE load.  The smell of goat (not my husband, but the shirt) is a fabulously unwelcome reminder of my "laundrical" inadequacies.    

And finally comes "clothing management".  That's the time when the neatly folded, clean smelling (or, in some cases, Odoban-masked) clothing is packed into the wash baskets and bought upstairs for proper disbursement to their rightful drawers.  Clothing management is not one of my strong points.  In fact, I totally suck at it.  It ranks right up there with emptying a suitcase after a trip.  That doesn't get done either.  Ultimately what happens in our household is that we end up living out of a line-up of full wash baskets.  Children yell out to me in the morning, "What should I wear?" and I yell up, "Your jeans and a long sleeve shirt, blue basket and white basket!"  Sad, I know.  In this respect, I am bolstered by dear friends of ours who have admitted, only after a long standing relationship, that they too had clothing management issues.  In their family, now grown and gone, they finally tossed in the proverbial towel (I'm sure it was washed),  placing all clean laundry unfolded onto a centrally-located love seat.  Each morning, family members would find their allotted outfits from the love seat's stash of clean clothes and move on their merry way.

From folding fitted sheets to "clothing management", I admit defeat.  In fact, I wash my hands of it.    They're pretty much the only things I can wash.

Cucumber Smiles




  An Expository writing exercise completed in school by my 8 year old daughter...word for word...no grammatical corrections...She is in third grade and this is the first year she has started writing actual essays.  I so look forward to more of these.  They are such a healing force to a long and tiring day.  Enjoy and I hope it makes you giggle as much as Kev and I did. 


The assignment:  Write an expository paper about your favorite food.  Tell what your favorite food is, how you make it and why it is your favorite food.

"Sour Power Cucumber Salad"

"My favorite food is cucumber salad.  The ingredients are 4 peeled and sliced cucumbers, Maggie, green onions, some tipe of seasoning I forgot the name of it and a few other ingredients but I forgot them.  After it's done it looks like a bunch of sliced cucumbers dipped in a salad dressing but its not just so you know. 

It tastes sour that's why I like it so much.  We have these big popcorn bowls and my mom would make the salad in it and I could eat the hole bowl and I would still want more.  Then one day, she made a salad with tomatos and cucumbers so when I was done eating my family was still eating but I went up to the counter and plopped my fingers into the salad and ate all the cucumbers exept a couple because I didn't see them but when I was done I said I now pronounce this salad cucumber free!!  Cucumber salad charges my happy batteries.  I like it because its sour and its awsome and because it was made by my mom."

Please share with me some of your favorite "writings" by your young kids!

Move Over Santa, the Halloween Witch is Coming to Town!




 




 

I signed the contract of a lifetime at Halloween of 2007.  My two proud little Power Rangers, then 5 and 4, sat amongst the mounds of multi-colored candy, happily surveying the rewards of their recent Trick or Treating efforts.  At least that’s how they saw it. 

My take was a bit different.  I scrutinized the colorful piles of tooth decaying, hyperactivity-inducing sugar bombs that had been tossed excitedly from their bags to the living room carpet with anxiety and disbelief.  The potential sugar intake was enormous.  And these two children of mine would consume every last gram if I let them.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a couple pieces of candy now and then.  After all, I do indeed succumb to the undeniable chocolate cravings demanded by PMS more often than I care to admit.  But moderation is key.  There was no moderation in the piles of candy on my floor that evening.  I had to do something and I had to do it quickly.

“Look at all this candy!” I exclaimed.  “Esmerelda will be so proud of you!”  They both tore their gaze away from the candy stash and looked up questioningly at me. 

“Who’s Esmerelda?” they both asked at once.

The story came from my lips effortlessly, in a form and fashion that made me wonder if it had been heavenly inspired.  I explained that Esmerelda was the Halloween Witch.  “Ezzy” has green skin and purple hair and she wears the traditional black dress, hat and boots known to be worn by witches everywhere.  But her stockings are colorfully striped orange and yellow.  Esmerelda the Halloween Witch travels around the world on her Super Broom, complete with hemi engine, which moves her around the globe at a decent clip.  She collects Halloween candy and gives it to children who can’t, for whatever reason, Trick or Treat themselves.  Ezzy has a big heart and really wants to help those children. 

My children had forgotten the sea of candy they were sitting in by this time.  And frankly, I was impressing myself.  I don’t typically have the imagination for good storytelling. 

“Ezzy told me that if you guys helped her make Halloween special for those children, then something special, maybe even a toy, would come your way.” 

“I want to help!” screamed Elleyna.

“Me too!” cried Danny.      

They were on board now.  I told them that they could each keep ten pieces of candy which they could eat over the next few days.  The rest of their Trick or Treat candy had to be put in the brown shopping bag that I had placed in the middle of the candy-strewn floor.  Each child worked diligently at separating their candy into “gotta keep”, “like it” and “yuck” piles.  Their goal was the “Treasured Ten”.   When they were done and the brown bag was full of rejected candy, my daughter asked, “Now what?”.  I explained that that we each say a prayer for the children who don’t have it as lucky as we do.  And we did.  And then I told the kids that we had to set the bag on the step outside the front door so Esmerelda could pick it up while they slept. 

“How come Lexie and Riley don’t give candy to the Halloween Witch, Mommy?  It was my very astute daughter referring to her neighborhood friends.  Again, the answer came curiously easy. 

“Honey, there’s something called a ‘contract’.  A contract is an agreement between people or groups of people.  Mommy and Daddy signed a contract with Esmerelda.  We told her that we would help her help those children.  In return, she will do something special for you.  It’s possible that Riley and Lexie’s parents didn’t sign that contract.  Ezzy only comes to people who have contracts with her.” 

The explanation sufficed.  The bag went on the front door step.  The kids went to bed.  And I raided the gift box in the basement that I keep stocked with items that can serve as last minute gifts for forgotten birthdays and such. 

At 5 a.m. the next morning, my husband loaded the bag into the trunk of his car.  It was destined for his office and the colleagues with whom he works. 

 We placed one small gift for each child in the brown bag’s place on the front doorstep.  They woke up that morning and descended the stairs stumbling and running for the front door as if it were Christmas morning.  Move over Santa, the Halloween Witch is coming to town! 

The concept of Ezzy the Halloween Witch has served our family well for three years now.  To date, neither of my children has had a cavity.  They both believe that good hearts and good intentions do not have to be contained in a body with Hollywood good looks.  And every Halloween serves as another opportunity to say a prayer of good will for those who are not as fortunate as we are. 

My husband’s office mates give thanks as well, though I cannot attest to their cavity count.  Production is up, however, so I guess there’s something to be said about hyperactivity in the workplace. 

We have renewed our contract with Ezzy for yet another year.  The kids are thrilled.  So am I.

All Ye Watchers of Weight

      Hi.  My name is Sue and I'm a Watcher of Weight.  At the tender age of 45, I really have no choice.  Actually, I NEVER really had a choice.  I always had that special knack of seeing my fat cells increase in volume at the mere thought of chocolate.  Thank God I was a competitive swimmer in high school.  I have no idea what I might have looked like back then if I hadn't been swimming seven to eight thousand yards in "two-a-day" practices.

     And then there were those two pregnancies in my late thirties.  Yup, at the end of each of those pregnancies, I tipped the scales at a whopping 215 pounds both times.  Oh yeah, did I tell you I'm 5'5"?  Of course, the first birth resulted in an immediate weight loss of 8 pounds and 9 ounces.  The second birth produced a bit better instantaneous weight loss record of 9 pounds 10 ounces.  But that left the additional 42 pounds or so that still remained on my "swimmer's frame".    It was "sticky" weight.  It stuck.  How long after pregnancy can you actually get away with calling your excess poundage "baby weight"?  Does it still work after 6 years?  God knows, I tried.  It's so hard being overweight.  Hard on your body.  Hard on your mind.  Hard on your self-esteem.  But if you're a Watcher of Weight, then you already know this. 

      Last June, I had enough.  Enough feeling sluggish.  Enough feeling unhealthy.  Enough feeling "lumpy".  Enough feeling like I was a poor example for my kids and unattractive to my husband (though he never said as much if he, in fact, even thought it).  Oh, and I had heard MORE than enough "out-of-the-mouths-of-babes" comments from my brutally honest children, then ages 7 and 6, about Mommy's 'jiggly butt'.  They have since been educated in the skills of sensitivity. Now they are Watchers of Words.

       So, last June 1rst, I hiked Mommy's "jiggly butt" down to the local Weight Watchers in town and got down to the business of doing some hard work.  Did I want to sign up for a week at a time?  Nope.  Let's do this month by month.  The money outlay for four weeks is upfront.  In my mind, it made the deeply "committed" even more so.  I would at least be kept honest for the next four weeks because, hell, I've already paid for it.

        It's hard to lose weight.  It's hard to get yourself moving, to do "more than you did before" as WW encourages you to do.  It's hard to be vigilant about your food choices, to eat healthy, to eat correct portions, to limit your partying and your celebrating.  It's hard to keep yourself reeled in when you turn to food to lighten other hurts, the emotional ones. I did the hard work.  I lost 22 pounds between June and Christmas.  At that point, I had another 10 to go.  But even there, I felt good about how I  looked.  And physically and emotionally, I felt awesome. 

         It's been a little over a year since that initial decision.  I'm up a bit, but I continue to go to my WW meetings.  In fact, was down .6 pounds today.  Yay for me.  This will always be my "state of being".  Somewhere over the past 30 years, I've reconciled myself with this fact.  And that's okay.

       I want to leave you with a quote from WW.  I don't know who specifically said it, so I am left only to give WW, the organization, the credit for it.

"It is hard to be overweight.  It is hard to lose weight.  You get to choose which 'hard'."

My hope is that, after reading this piece, just one of my readers will choose the healthy "hard".

May the Blessings be.

Sue