Again...and again, and again.

Honestly. 

I've been hiding out for the last two weeks thinking I would kick it into high gear and come back with an amazing one-week-off-rebound story. That didn't happen. I'm sitting here bloated and ill, back to the old lonely feeling again of why. WHY?

This why this time is not my answer why. It's not my conviction why: why I am changing, why I feel so passionately about being "here," in the zone, ready to move mountains and run marathons. This why is the question. Why do I feel like this again? Why has the cycle repeated itself again? Why am I up. Up. UP? Again? Why am I back to Square One?

My emotions get the best of me. When I'm up, I'm WAY up. When I'm down, I'm dug down deep. I wouldn't call myself depressed currently, however, I would walk the line of calling myself defeated. I'm angry at myself for being here, exactly where I need to be, and flawlessly at that. I'm lonely for not getting myself up and out quicker. Getting to this point, again, is a very isolating feeling. Rock bottom is a stone's throw away. 

This is make it or break it time. 

This is time-to-make-a-decision time. 

So, in going with my theme of stepping out of my comfort zone and in finding the how this is all going to happen, and in witnessing all that I am and how it came to be, let's get really uncomfortable for a moment. 

My weight has equalized back to the number that I started at on May 1st when I started this thing (do I dare point out that was 7+ weeks ago?). At that point in time I made a promise to myself that I would never see over that number ever again. And I'm flirting with it big time now. But in that promise, I promised myself that I would do everything to never go back. And this is where writing it all out has helped.

No matter how embarrassed I feel in this moment, no matter how I feel like I perceive that I am letting others down, no matter how this reflects me upon the world, I'm using the external pressures to change what I need to change internally. And how I feel about me, is all that truly matters. 

What I have learned from this process so far is how my body feels in health and how it feels in illness. 

I feel ill when I'm in a pattern of feeding my body junk, non-nutritive garbage. My knees hurt more. It takes more time to walk up the stairs. I don't think as clearly. I sleep poorly. I get annoyed and agitated at normal life occurrences. I just want to sit and be lazy. I feel bloated. My bowels hurt. I have no will to get up and self motivate to live. When you're my weight, waking up and facing the day is difficult. 

I'm not trying to play victim here. I'm just stating facts for those who have no idea. For those that do, you know this is bad. You know this must change. 

So today I'm at a whopping loss of ZERO pounds, which only 15 pounds less than my highest pregnancy weight, nine months in. Post-pregnancy now over a year and a half later, let's wipe the slate clean, again. 

ZERO. 

Another beginning. 

Friends, this is why I'm 34 and 347 pounds. I haven't found "it" yet. Thanks for bearing with me and supporting me to find it. But if I can give you advise, please be compassionate to those of us killing ourselves physically or emotionally trying to change this. We are working with years of bad habits. Years of bad feelings. Years of toxicity that we're trying to filter through. No matter how pumped we get and seemingly find the way, at times we'll get lost. At times that old person from the past finds their way back to the surface. 

It sucks. But I'm here to say it is what it is. I'm going to do it anyway. Recognition has happened. I'm always reminded that success comes when you take 7 steps back but you take 8 steps forward. I'm on the 7th back step...sorry, I'm on one of eight in this moment!

Thank goodness. Onward! 

Awesome likes her home here. I'm putting her back on and wearing her out, proudly again. I will preserve. Again. And again. And again until again no longer means failure, but when again means success. 

Wherever your struggles fall, pick yourself back up. Again. Brush yourself off. Again. Be awesome. Again. 

B Average Approach = A+ Life

In grade 5, I remember bringing home a B on my report card. While mom kept quiet about the B, Dad was very vocal. "Well why isn't it an A? What did you do wrong?" 

These were not teaching questions to reflect on my work, but were accusations that I hadn't done my very best. My very best was what was expected. And to get a B, clearly I wasn't performing at my A standard. 

Whether it was my personality or something I learned, truthfully I think it was a give and take of both, I felt the need to perform at the top. To be best. In everything. And when I wasn't, I fell down hard on myself. I was worthless. How could I be loved? Perfectionism became a badge of honor. I was the best. At everything. At the top I was praised. Or else I was a failure, and worse, a disappointment. 

Wearing perfectionism only served me as far as the outside world would validate it. When it became internal, when I was putting the pressure on me to keep up appearances for no other than me, it was exhausting. At times I would freeze. I would sit on the chair, stare at the wall, and sob. Immovable. Paralyzed with fear that I would fail, so failing was the self fulfilling prophesy. And as I failed more and more, the worthlessness grew and grew. 

It wasn't until I was in the infancy of motherhood and was physically and emotionally overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for a newborn when I finally broke through the barrier of perfection. I was newly diagnosed with Bipolar 2, and was working through psychodynamic therapy with a therapist who I didn't really enjoy seeing so much as it was another thing on my mountainous list of things to do, and I was now forced to find a sitter for my new baby for 3 hours, once a week. That in and of itself proved to be almost too much to handle. But I made it happen, as stressful as it was. 

And on the day, through my sobs of feeling like a worthless mother because I wasn't the perfect mother, hating myself for needing naps and not giving baby enough attention, fearing I was creating a substandard, stupid human because I wasn't singing ABC's all day long, because I hadn't washed dishes for 3 days in a row, because I had missed a shower 3 days in a row, because I turned on the TV 5 hours a day, 3 days in a row, because we ate McDonald's 3 days in a row, because I cried and cried and cried because sometimes I hated this child because she was crying 3 days in a row...not until this therapist told me that my baby was alive, and fed, that in today, all I had to do was be a good-enough mother. 

I didn't have to read her daily novels, and take perfect monthly pictures with matchy-matchy outfits, or go out and be everything to everyone all the time. 

I didn't have to have a pristine and sparkly home today. I didn't have to create fusion cuisine at every meal. I didn't have to fold laundry when my eyes were burning from utter exhaustion. I was allowed naps. I was allowed to go easy on myself. My life had changed, after all. I was allowed to get by and enjoy the simplicity in hyper-focusing on one job at hand, one moment at any given time.

It wasn't until she asked me if I could AT LEAST feed my child and keep her safe today, and that's all I needed to do today. Could I accomplish that? Of course I could. I was given permission to get by in the moment, and I was allowed to be a good-enough mother today. 

That opened my eyes to an entire new world. 

Don't get me wrong. I still enjoy/need in some instances/require an immaculate house when it's been a shanty for over a week--my brain just works better without the clutter. I still need to make some things perfect when they truly matter. I still need to create perfect lines and enjoy the beauty of organization when it's something that speaks directly to my heart. That's A+ work. 

But I don't HAVE TO, ALL of the time. 

Getting the A is sometimes cultivating a C and allowing the pieces to fall where they may. 

Sometimes, good-enough is perfectly acceptable. 

For example, today I have children. I feel myself going mad when I have been sweeping the floor 5 times a day for 5 days straight. Sometimes I throw in the broom, and I walk on crunched up graham crackers and trip over books and 1 legged Barbies. Leaving it there for a moment is C work. I pick up the spilled milk and the smeared peanut butter, but the books can stay. Good-enough for now when now is over-spent. 

I put away the dishes from the very full dishwasher, but there are dirty dishes on the counter from last night's dinner. They stay until tomorrow night. That's C work, though good-enough when the better part of me gets compromised in order to do a task that won't change the world. 

And all these things average out to a B grade on this report card of me. I could try my darnedest to do everything all of the time. I could do it all. I could work at an A+ all day long, but at what expense?

Letting go and giving up, allowing a lot of Cs and Bs to compliment my As has balanced me out so much that my B average approach has given me an A+ life. 

What is in my A+ life? 

Happiness. Simplicity. Contentment. 

There's no other feeling in life that is more valuable to me than to see my children smile joyously, or to feel a grateful smile in my own heart. I don't notice those when I'm worried about being perfect all day long. 

Long away are the days of needing to be ON, and feeling miserable in the process. Being good-enough has opened doors to genuine, authentic relationships with people. I no longer hide behind judging myself which frees up my judgments of others. No longer do I pressure myself to be ON when if what I want is off, I'll take off and enjoy it. 

There's no shame in not being perfect. There's no shame in being exactly who you are, presently where you are today. 

Once you embrace the concept of being your own authentic self, LOVE yourself for exactly who you are right now, and throw away all the expectations the world puts on you to be A+, that C will start representing "content." That A will start mirroring "all," and all is way too much for any one person. 

Now I'm not suggesting a mediocre life. I'm not suggesting doing everything with minimal integrity, and to stop caring about what's important. 

I'm suggesting a release from this perfectionist idea of all or nothing, being ON as a way of life. I'm suggesting to do your best when it matters, and when it doesn't, allow yourself to let it go when it will serve you better to do so, and to be okay with being okay with either result. 

What does your report card look like? Are you providing balance to your A+ life? Are you embracing what truly matters and allowing yourself to find the success in letting go of what doesn't matter? 

When you do you may find there's more time and energy to focus on those A goals making them even richer, cutting back a stringy existence and fulfilling an abundant life of happiness through being good-enough today. And if I'm good-enough today, I've mastered the art of me which is an A+ any day. 

An Especially Pinteresting Prose

Now, this is the story all about how

My life got flipped-turned upside down

And I'd like to take a minute

Just sit right there

I'll tell you how I became 

the princess of a town called It's Time to Care.

I found my why! 

 Keep up with them, maintain life with them.  Tomato, tomahto.

So I started doing something about it. 

There are countless failed attempts spanning the largest frustrations of life in the last 10 of my years. Today, however, is different.  Today I believe I'm great.  Today, I will make it happen. 

Find your why, then find today and be present.  

No matter what it looks like.

It is not always easy, in fact most days are difficult.  Difficult to get out of the old mindset and go for it.  Difficult to say yes and believe it. Difficult to say no, and be it. Difficult to feel it.  

Difficult to feel the eyes looking at it.

But then again, who am I to know what difficult really means?

 And if she can do it, I can do it.

And if I can do it, you can do it. 

It's exceedingly simple: Do it.

And never stop.

If you have a moment, have your moment.  Then keep going.

You get stuck?  You "wish you knew how" to do it? You're not seeing results?

"Five minutes in a bad environment can ruin a week of hard work." 

-Somebody I heard say this once and I totally believe them.

 Because really, the scale is only a tool to help measure progress.  It's not the evaluation of the century.  Respect the scale for what it is.

 A little gain isn't always a bad thing.

On the flip side, 

Never be mad with progress.

Waiting for the right time? It's time. Care about yourself.  Do it anyway because I know you can.

I mean, I pulled up to the gym about 7 or 8

And I yelled to the old me, "Yo homes, smell ya later!"

I looked at my Kingdom and I was finally there

To sit on my throne as the princess of It's Time to Care.

My Pinteresting story?  A light bulb clicked the day that I saw this silly little meme, in a most profound way.

The realization that I have a choice to be awesome regardless of anything else happening around me shattered so many toxic beliefs I had about myself. I am awesome!  

  Your life is riding on what you choose to believe.  Believe in happiness, and happy you will be. 

Week Three

Here is my infamous third week...

Monday:
I'm doing so well, I have so much energy, I feel fantastic and it's Mother's Day (or any day that says treats are in the forecast); I can treat myself to this!

Tuesday:
I still LOST weight yesterday despite eating this, so I can eat this again!  And I'll add a pop and chocolate bar for good measure because they taste soooooo good!

Wednesday:
Oh...it appears I gained twice what I lost.

Thursday:
Umm, I STARVED myself today and haven't lost an ounce.

Friday:
I SUCK.  I'm tired and sad, let's order pizza (and-eat-it-all).

Saturday:
I feel so sick for eating that. I need a nap. What the heck am I doing?!

Sunday:
I gained a whole pound. Efffffffffff...what's the point?

See the truth is, Week Three is not a plateau.  Week Three is being over-cocky and thinking I own the world.
Week Three is old habit thinking.  Week Three is one mistake, after mistake, after mistake.  Week Three represents just how far I really have to go.
Week Three is the reason why I never make it passed a Week Three, however many hundreds of Week Three's I've lived through.  Week Three is why I've been working out for seven years with a personal trainer, and still weigh well over 300 pounds.
Week Three is my own personal battle.  Week Three is the plateau that isn't.  Week Three is...Weak Any-week-of-m'life. Mindblow.

What's your Week Three look like?

Monday, WEEK 4:
Seriously.  WHAT am I doing?! (cry, breathe, pray...REFOCUS!)

This time...THIS TIME...there's a little thing called Week Four, or how about Strong All-in, screaming to break through that not-really-a-plateau-at-all.
This time, THIS TIME, make no mistake in mistaking a minor bump for a full fledged failure.  This time, I see, oh Week Three, you devil, you...that Week Three is just life, plain and simple; not really the devil, and that's okay. Life is here and there.  Life is waxing and waning.  Life is up and down.  AND THAT'S OKAY.  Week Four you will find me, strong and all in, because I've finally found you.  Why?  Because of my why.
Because, as my trainer put it, it is crystal clear.  I no longer have to question, "What's the point?"  I know the point, and they're counting on me, and I'm counting on myself.  Have you found your why?

Weak or Strong

You weigh 165 pounds. Grab your bestie, your spouse, the closest thing to human standing next to you, weighing approximately the same. Now let them ride piggy back all day long. No, let them ride for 10 years without ever letting them go, except for maybe when you're swimming!

Now take yourself with that person on your back and do anything. 

Walk to bathroom. Sit on the toilet. Get up from sitting on the toilet. 

Stand for 3 hours making dinner, sweeping the floor, picking up your 30 pound 3 1/2 year old and fixing her booboos. 

Sit down on the couch. Rest for 5 minutes. Now get up, with back buddy, and walk up the stairs to do laundry. Don't let your buddy go! Go back downstairs to load the dishwasher. Bend over, don't drop plates. Oh no! You forgot the hand towel. Run back upstairs to get it in the washer before it's too late. Come downstairs, rinse, repeat. 

Do anything with your buddy on your back. After a few minutes, you get exhausted with this now monster on your back, as it's not much less difficult trying to live the exact life that you did without your buddy.

Now get on the treadmill and start running.  Bam!  Bam!  Bam!  You bet your foot stomps are LOUD.  It's clunky. It hurts.

Throw 'em off! 

Just kidding...pick 'em up. Now go run the Spartan Race and finish it (and so what if it takes 2 hours and 44 minutes).

I am not lazy when I cannot get up, or when I'm miserably exhausted at the end of the day. 

I am tired. 

But I'm not sitting here complaining about "needing" to lose the last 10 pounds. 

I'm sitting here breaking down. My knees are shot. My ankles keep failing me. 

But I don't quit. Remember I said, "Do it anyway"?

Maybe you don't have a whole buddy on your shoulders. Maybe you're just carrying around someone's backpack full of schoolbooks. Whatever the case, this is difficult. This sucks. 

Do it anyway. 

There is a back story. There is a "how" we got to this point. How we started carrying people everywhere we go. How we let ourselves pick up those schoolbooks and how we chose to carry the people wearing those books. 

Irrelevant. Do it anyway. 

What matters is now. Right now. Right now, busted knees, wobbly ankles. Right now is my 18 month old running faster than I can keep up, running into danger sometimes. Right now is a fight. Right now I can choose life or death.

Sometimes, right now means sitting on the couch giving those busted knees and wobbly ankles a 32 ounce soda and chocolate bar for no good reason (per contra: birthday cake on your birthday is always a good reason!). And the all-consuming guilt weighs more than the buddy on the back ever could. So right now is to say, "Sorry I hurt you with that junk. Let's try again." And dropping the trash where it belongs, right now. 

The tears are okay. They are temporary. Don't allow them to turn into more chocolate bars. Turn them into walks in the park, up steep hills, with dear friends who inspire you and who are in your corner. 

Or get up that hill on your own, take in the sunshine and cool breeze standing on the top of the entire world looking down, and right now say, "I did it anyway."

Did you hear that? I heard a backpack drop. 

We will all have moments of weakness. "I can't do it anymore!" Yes. You. Can. 

Do it anyway. Allow your weak to validate your humanity. Then allow your strength to validate your awesome. 

Whether weak or strong, you're always an awesome human. 

A Great Place to Start

Identify your why:

The two most beautiful children who ever lived.

They need a mom who grows old with them.  

Yes, it's for me.  Yes, I want to do it for myself.  Yes, I have to take care of myself before I take care of anyone else, blah, blah, blah.  But why now? And how tiring is this to hear myself say this year, after year, after year?

Why not? Why not now? Why not live the life that I want right now?  

Because I'm lazy?

-Do it anyway.

Because my birthday is next month and there will be cake.

-Do it anyway.

Because I'm so tired from a long day and drive-thru is so quick and easy!

-Do it anyway.

Because I've been up for 16 hours and I couldn't possibly squeeze in 10 more minutes to walk around the block.

-Do it anyway. But it's -40! Do it anyway.

Because everything I just said is just too difficult.

-Do it anyway.

Because I think that I will fail.

-Do it anyway.

It's actually very simple. It's so simple, that we sometimes ignore simplicity.

-Do it anyway.

Why?

Because when you throw it all away to reach your why over allowing yourself to doubt with hows and whens and buts, I guarantee you that

YOU WILL change. your. life.

This week, maybe it'll be a loss of 7 pounds.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Here it is:

The Good...we'll say, "Me."  As in Me, Erica, and I'm awesome! 

The Bad...let's call it what it is, "Obese." As in I'm so obese that I have health issues and both my parents died prematurely of lifestyle related diseases, and I have 2 little girls who need 2 old parents, and I'm not going to see them grow if I die like my parents, living the lifestyle they did. (Phew)

The Ugly...honestly, "Baby got back." Waaaaaaaay too much back.  

Now that that's out of the way, let's call the Truth out.  347 pounds.

It's pretty easy to say that.  I mean, you see it, why can't I say it?  People are so scared to say their number. If you're not blind, you see it.  I'm not ashamed.

Not being ashamed, however, does not mean I'm okay with this.

I am not ashamed of my weight.  I do not condone it either.  Today, it just IS WHAT IT IS.  I do not LOVE my body or have wonderful self image.  I do LOVE myself and have wonderful self love because like I mentioned earlier, I'm awesome.

I think I'm a pretty good wife, an always getting better mother, a lovely friend because it is reflected back in the friends who keep my company and they are AMAZING.  I have the BEST friends ever.

I'm a corny, over-the-top, shouting from the rooftops happy person, in a very non-threatening, sensible way. It's an inner giggle, like I have my own inner bestie shooting me funnies all day. I've done life as a victim and it was exhausting.  I do life as a survivor.  I do life as Heavenly Father would have me do it, as best I can.  I love my life.

I eat when I'm happy.  I eat to celebrate.  I eat when others are eating.  I eat when I see something good. I eat to decompress after a full day.  I have eaten when I've been depressed.  I have eaten when life wasn't fair.  I have eaten to block misery.  As a victim, I ate for years, and years, and years.  I'm not ashamed of that victim.  I feel sorry for her.  I've cried with her. And now it's time to hug her and just get up and dance.

Something has changed to bring me to today.  I don't think I need to eat to fill a happy-less void.  I mean, there are dark days just as summer has a winter, but overall I see that sun shining through the blizzard...unless it's -40.  Come on, if we're being honest some days just plain suck.

But I've learned that most of the time, it doesn't suck.  Tomorrow happens to be a new calendar page, it so happens to be a first day in a month.  I wasn't waiting for a time to start, my package just got delivered this afternoon (yay!).  If we want to be OCD about it, it's actually a Thursday and if I waited for a Monday, on the first to start, I just don't care to find out when that is and so I won't because it would be forever and I'm ready now.  I'm doing it tomorrow.  I'm jumping into a program to set me up for success.  I choose not to divulge what the program is at this time, but know it ends in 90 days and I'm excited to share the next 90 days and my findings with you.

Here it is: this is a naked as I feel and you can thank me for not getting any more naked.
It's time to put into action what I've been learning the last few months about myself.
Only awesome ahead!

100 days of no yelling

It's been months and months since Abby gave up kissing me goodnight.  My big girl has finally grown up! She likes to give me hugs, we share a little "cheeky" where we smoosh our cheeks together, and that's it. Then Daddy takes her upstairs for her bedtime routine.

I figured that it seemed a little early, a little young that she'd given up mouth kisses already.  I remember giving up my mouth kisses with my own mother but not until I started school.  I was too embarrassed for anyone to see me kissing Mommy!

At first I felt a little rejected.  I mean, I'm not the favourite.  First of all, Daddy has always had Daddy's little girl.  I've come to terms with that.  I've grown to love what that relationships means to Abby and her daddy. I loved that they shared such a special bond. But when she gave up mouth kisses, again I felt a rejected.  Abby's always been very affectionate and loving. So I came to realize that maybe this was just her growing into herself, asserting her independence. 

Until I started noticing her pulling away from long cuddles.  

No more mouth kisses.

Starting her three year old attitude (I thought it was terrible twos, not threes!).

And I craved the closeness we used to have.  

Then it dawned on me one afternoon. I cannot recall what happened for me to lose it, but she bore the brunt of my yelling. Again. I'm such a yeller.  I was loud.  I was scary. It was enough to send me into tears after I was done.  I made up for it.  After I let out, I would always scoop her up into my arms, tell her I love her, tell her that Mommy was having a hard time.  It wasn't her fault. That she was awesome.  Important.  Smart.  A good person.  A good friend.  

But then that afternoon I noticed that her forgiveness was apathetic. I had immediate tunnel vision. All I could see was that I was trying to mend a broken arm with a band aid.  It just wasn't working anymore. I needed to stop breaking that arm.  I needed to stop breaking that precious, delicate heart.

I grew up being yelled at constantly.  It's how I know to fight for me.  It's how I have a voice.  If I don't yell, I'm not being heard. The past is so manipulative to the present.

I've been reading all of these 100 days of happy posts, 100 days of clean eating, 100 days of anything.  I thought, here's my answer: 100 days of no yelling.  I will not hear my father come out of my mouth again, not one more day.

And you know what happened? Day 1 was difficult, but not impossible. Day 2 I had to fight with everything inside of me to not let loose.  I had my own time out two times that day.  On day 3 I told Abby, "You know how Mommy would normally yell right now?  I didn't!  Are you proud of me?"  The smile on her face told me her emphatic, "YES!" wasn't a lie.

Then Day 4 happened.  The guilt consumed me.  I felt like the worst person on earth.  I felt like I was ruining this precious child.  I was damaging her.  Not because I broke and yelled, but because the night of Day 4, I got a goodnight mouth kiss.

And on Day 5, I got kisses all over my legs when I was just doing dishes.  I got cuddles when I sat down to take a break.  

Day 6 and on since, I've had sweet cuddles and mouth kisses at bedtime, and randomly during the day.  I've gotten smiles during times that I felt it all throughout my chest to break, and when I didn't, I saw light beaming from those two little chocolate brown eyes.

Each and every moment is an opportunity to heal and recreate awesome.  I used to think my apologies were enough. The band aid is a honest effort, but it's not enough.  It's learning that a band aid is not the solution, but embracing that arm so it won't break in the first place, is the ultimate step to awesome.

I don't need 100 days to accomplish anything.  I just need this moment, right now.

Feeling awesome today?  Yes.  Waking up to day 15 tomorrow, and that will just be my measuring stick... ready to just be present in the moment with that little girl, and ready for those kisses!

Far above rubies

For Grandma,

 

Proverbs 31

10 ¶ Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.

11 The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.

12 She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.

13 She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.

14 She is like the merchants’ ships; she bringeth her food from afar.

15 She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.

16 She considereth a field, and buyeth it: with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.

17 She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms.

18 She perceiveth that her merchandise is good: her candle goeth not out by night.

19 She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff.

20 She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.

21 She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed with scarlet.

22 She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple.

23 Her husband is known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders of the land.

24 She maketh fine linen, and selleth it; and delivereth girdles unto the merchant.

25 Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.

26 She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.

27 She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.

28 Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.

29 Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.

30 Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.

31 Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.

<3

Erica

Ice Cream for Lunch

I was 13 and my baby brother was 9.  Although Dad would pridefully take us on his rental property to turn donuts ourselves in the El Ranchero, we weren't legally allowed to drive.  So on anniversaries or holidays, or days he was just thinking about her, we would slide into the bench seat half car/half truck, moldy carpet smelling, ripped seat and if you're not careful ripped thigh, beat up but beefed up motored monster and head to see Mom's mausoleum stone.

We would stay a few minutes, awkwardly in silence.  Us kids staring for a minute before looking around at other things, as if we were bored, but really we just didn't know how else to break the silence in our own thoughts.  Sometimes, Dad's halitosis breath would bark, "Okay, let's go," and on to Grandma and Grandpa Kilponen's headstone, but not before a brief walk passed our middle brother Christopher's headstone.  It was a family reunion of sorts, I suppose. But sometimes it was his alcoholic weeping that would make it even that much more awkward.  His cries of, "Hee, heeee. HEEEEE," made me both want to cry and hit him all at the same time.  His alcoholic breath--yes, he drove that day too.

Inevitability, invariably, barks or weeps, after the cemetery we hit the Thrifty's across the street before driving home, or off to our Grandparents' to work in the yard at the old house that he never sold.  If you're not familiar with Thrifty's, it was just your early 1990's drug store with the most fabulous ice cream counter. Fabulous on all my 13 year old accounts.  It was the only place in the whole entire world that you cold get chocolate malted crunch ice cream.  Even today, that is still my favourite flavour!

It's kind of a miracle actually, that we would be treated to this.  After all, one of my most significant memories of my dad was that he bought me a bottle of water after the Cherry Festival he took us to on my 18th birthday (in early June in California when it was already HOT outside).  That was like gifts from my birthday, Christmas, and Easter from the last 5 years all rolled into one.  Okay, that was literally what it was. Dad gave us money on our birthday and on Christmas.  No gifts, no wrapping, no fuss. Sometimes his horses had done well and we'd wake up to a pile of money under our congealed oatmeal for no special reason. But then sometimes we weren't allowed to go to the movies, and we certainly didn't have cable most of the time, just because.  He had his reasons.  After mom passed away, we grew up very restricted compared to what she had made us accustomed to.  I suppose it ungrateful to scoff at no presents and a gift of $100 twice a year when others don't even get that. But that's where my 13-18 year old mind sat when he lived and she didn't.

I digress...

So this ice cream after the cemetery was a huge boost to the spirit!  I got a double scoop, chocolate malted crunch on the bottom, pistachio nut on the top.  Sometimes a strawberry cheesecake would switch out with the pistachio, but those were the goods.

I talk about this because ice cream has become a form of comfort for me, especially in times of death. Each time in my adult life upon revisiting my mom, Dad, Christopher, my grandparents, I drag Andrew across the street to what-is-it-called now? Savon? Walgreens? I don't live there.  Next visit it could change.  And I plan to drag the girls there too, actually Abby has already traveled her maiden voyage.

But this is what brings me here today.  Our family has been sick all week with the worst norovirus/stomach flu you can imagine.  The bathroom didn't see us as much as the trashcan on the couch did.  We didn't eat for days.  Nothing would settle.  Nothing felt good.
And then my sweet, amazing Grandma finally took her last breath yesterday.

So when my innocent, learning the art of manipulation, sweet little 3 year old asks me if we can have ice cream for lunch--after a week of not eating, and the days leading up to my emotional state today having wrecked my need to be perfect collide in reality--I say yes.

Because no matter what life has given in the past, life is too short not to forgive others, forgive yourself, and not let yourself say yes to ridiculousness once in awhile.

Ice cream for lunch?--yes.

And as much as Dad didn't give me, or even took away from me, he still gave me lessons.  He still helped shape my heart in the way that I've learned needs to be reshaped.  You see these girls today, how could having gone through that not have been a good thing? We are all here to live and learn, and how do we do that?  With a spirit of love in our hearts.

Flowers on Her Table

My grandmother didn't adopt my mother until she was 40 years old. She was able to conceive my aunt 9 years before that, but a biological second child was not in the cards for my grandparents.

In the 1940's, my grandmother had only 2 children, and my mother blessed them with a completed family after my grandmother was 40 years old. Sounds an awful lot like 2014. My grandmother has always been ahead of her time.

She was a nurse. My grandfather, a pediatrician. They worked together around the world while my grandfather was stationed in Germany during the war, eventually settling for a time in LaJolla, California and remaining in Southern California.

My grandfather suddenly passed from a heart attack at age 55. My grandmother never remarried. She threw her life into volunteer nursing, heading every important auxiliary board and social committee that existed around her. Around 90 years old, she gave a speech for the new auxiliary president comparing nursing of the past and the present. She interviewed me for material on current student nursing, as I followed in her footsteps and studied nursing myself. Our blood may not have matching DNA, but our hearts beat to the same rhythm.

As a nurse she witnessed health and illness, life and death. An independent woman of her time, not wanting to be a burden on anyone, she made the decision to stop driving at 80 years old, and admitted herself into an assisted care facility soon after. She would take care of herself.

Once she was settled, I remember our countless conversations over a cold drink, cheese, crackers, sour cream herring, and See's candy, how she was ready to go, and she wished for a quick stroke in the middle of the night while sleeping.

And every year after that, she knew it would be her last. "I don't have much time," she'd say.

I eventually moved from California to Alberta. My visits with Grammy now included extra visitors, my husband and eventually our first little girl, and were shortened from bi-weekly half days to a couple of hours, once a year. No longer would I take her to the bank, go grocery shopping, or accompany her on her everyday walks around the blocks with her beloved Cindy-dog, who had the worst garbage breath. Grandma would take with us a paper bag and a metal shovel, with a proud little grin as I made disgusting face at her, trying not to laugh. We'd go to the cutting garden and pick flowers for her card table. I loved to pick the fluorescent pink roses that glowed orange near the stem. They were the prettiest and needed to be on Grandma's table.

No longer did I cut flowers, but quickly drove by the garden to show Andrew where I did that once, before we left to fit in whatever else we could in our visit before returning home.

On the visit she met Abby, I cried. I ugly cried so hard when we said goodbye. Grandma cried. I hardly ever saw her cry. I saw her cry when they buried my mother. I saw her cry when I begged her to go see Mom's mausoleum stone because I thought she wanted to go and was just being independent and strong like she always was. The fact is, she told me after that she didn't want her to remember my mom like that. So I hope she understands why I'm not visiting this weekend, or why I haven't phoned her in over 10 months.

I cried because I was sure that was goodbye for good.

See, Grandma hasn't died quickly and peacefully from a quiet stoke in the night. Her strong, brave, well loved (she was the one who knew everyone, everywhere, and they always had a nice story to tell me about her) heart keeps going. On and on. Next week, she will turn the calendar for the 106th time.

And then when I was pregnant with Penny, I met my new grandma. This grandma loved me just the same. She had the same stories she grew up with. But this time, she asked the same questions of me, over and over again. She was repeatedly both surprised and pleased that I was carrying another great grand-baby. She said goodbye 20 times in 20 minutes, and begged for me to stay just 5 minutes more, begged me the entire 20 minutes because she had forgotten she said she wanted another 5 minutes. This grandma told me how she loved going on walks, and taking me to the movies, 8 times during our 20 minute goodbye. This grandma wasn't forgetting us. This grandma was remembering us, but she was giving information of the past, not remembering our present. Life was no longer living. Life was done being lived and was now stuck on repeat before skipping to the end. This was surely the goodbye.

But then she kept breathing.

So I called her on her birthday last year when Penny was 4 months old. I couldn't wait to tell her how the day-to-day as a mother with two beautiful children was the happiest I'd ever been in my life. I couldn't tell her. I couldn't say anything because she couldn't hear me.

I hung up on her mid-sentence.

She was handed the phone, left on her own, and then she couldn't hear me. Everything I said, she asked what I was saying. I couldn't communicate to her that we should hang up. So I hung up. That was the last time I spoke with her.

Heartbroken. That grandma is gone.

Periodically my aunt updates me with her declining health status.

I haven't spoken with her in 10 months. My aunt hasn't emailed in about 4 months.

Last week I got a strong impression that I needed to go to the temple. I thought of my Grandma. When I was finally there last night, I wrote my sweet grandmother's name on the prayer roll. I prayed to Heavenly Father to please give my grandmother peace. Please bless her with comfort. Please, please, please give this woman what she wants. She's given her life in service and volunteer work, a faithful member of her Congregational Church, a loving, mothering, beautiful woman who deserves rest.

And the flowers that I had sent for her birthday--pink azaleas, her favourite--from her local florist, arrived this morning...curiously one week earlier than I scheduled them to.

And this morning, as per my aunt's email, she refused her medication, food, and water.

I can't help but think that through my faithfulness to attend the temple, and to do God's work, I was able to serve her, like she's always served everyone else, with a strong side of educating them to help themselves!

I was able to ask for her peace when she cannot.

I was able to put flowers on her table for the last time.

What it means for me when I'm up starting a brand new blog at 1:18 in the morning

I decided that I needed to update my wardrobe tonight.

That decision came to me at 8 pm and by 9 pm I had ordered over two hundred dollars worth of clothes online. Once I did that, I started thinking about how not stable that decision was, for me. Did these wonderful flooding of ideas start after almost fully recovered from my tonsillectomy nearly 2 weeks ago when I started working again? Am I just excited for this promotion that I'm working on? Perhaps I just thought since I'm ordering so much bling for my home business, that I needed proper clothes to match and this was a fair and logical step.

I am in the fashion industry, after all, and this 300+ pound model (Disclaimer: let me be clear that the term "model" is used with heavy sarcasm) isn't winning awards by wearing holy yoga pants and a dingy, almost stained long sleeve shirt.  I mean, the jewelry that I sell from my amazing parent company, Park Lane, is arguably gorgeous.  It can quite miraculously transform this average looking, mature (in age) mama of 2 littles under 3 years into a put together, decent looking mother of 2 beautiful young daughters. So it makes sense that I need some clothes to match my product if I think that I want to present it as well as it deserves.

So two hundred dollars down, I am immediately aware of my decision.  I allow my thoughts to permeate.  I reflect on the fact that this is a good step in my business, but a wary step in my life.  It's not that hubs and I cannot afford the two hundred dollars, it's what the two hundred dollars represents.

Impulse spending.

Then on my way to sleep for the first time tonight, I type up a title for a convo Facebook message to friends: "Hot Thursday Mornings," referring to our sweaty dates at the gym.  Ahhh, what a deliciously fetching blog name! I should start up a blog!  And at 1:18 in the morning, Hot Thursday Mornings was born.

Impulsive decision making.

Racing thoughts.

Earlier in the evening on my way through Facebook before punching off the phone for the night, for good, a friend had commented on her own status how she feels inadequate to receive compliments. I do not blame her.  We have all felt less than deserving, however, we ARE all deserving of love and acknowledgment of our own awesomeness, and I'm quick to offer my own status in response: 

"Let me tell you that if you receive a compliment, receive it like any other gift. 

'(Gasp!) Thank you so much!'

Of course you deserve it. You gift people that you love, right? Some part of them loves some part of you. 

How lovely is that? <3"

This friend proceeded to share my status, commenting, "Wise words."  (Stay with me here. This boast serves a purpose.) Okay, only a few times have my thoughts ever been raised up to celebrity status.  I'm feeling great at this point--an exaggerated sense of my own importance.

I'm a flipping genius and I will write a best seller.

And each time I think I'm going to write a best seller, my dreams come crashing down.  My therapist once shook her head at me, with a little smirk, "So you know what happens now when you're at risk for becoming hypomanic."

Little known fact about me, I have bipolar 2 disorder.  If anyone knows about bipolar, or thinks they know about it, I'm not the kind that people think of when they think of the Hollywood definition of mania.  I hardly ever give myself a Britney Spears shave and start hitting cars with umbrellas. Mine is more mellow--hypomania to use the correct term.  I have had bouts of debilitating major depression, and continue to have swings of intense, on-top-of-the-world creativity scattered around, typically, seasonal lows. I have been in over a year long weekly treatment of psychodynamic therapy before and during my entire second pregnancy. Proponents of medication may scoff at me for declining medicinal therapy.  As I stated earlier, my highs are quite tame and do not, for the most part, interfere with my daily life.  I have learned how to manage them through sleep hygiene (as I'm ironically dirty awake right now), and reflecting on spending (ahem) and decision making; self affirmation, prayer, quiet time, self enforced happy activity making during my lows. I'm okay.  My family is okay.  I am, however, not beyond getting help if needed.  I have practiced over and over, and make it a mission to be self-aware.  I just have a little disruption a few times a year, and it's all just about me, aside from an unpleasant swing of mood as a moldy cherry on the melted ice cream.  Honest.  If there ever comes a time that my family tells me otherwise, I'm going to revisit prescriptions. I am truthfully reflective and self-aware (thank you nursing education!).

Close friends don't even know this about me.  I'm assuming now they do if their reading comprehension is up to date. That's okay.  Hopefully it sheds light on my mood swings--how one day maybe I'm too closed off, and the next we're having a party in 2 days.  Funny that: an introvert wanting to go outside and play with friends! It does happen.  The point is, this is what it means for me when I'm up starting a brand new blog at 1:18 in the morning: 

High energy, goal-directed activity.

I am forcing myself to go to sleep after I post into the internets.  This thought process has brought me to 2:30 am.

Restlessness and difficulty relaxing.

We have play dates, and dishes, and laundry, and office making tomorrow, along with all the other beautiful living that comes along breathing in day to day life.  I hope to not speak too much of my disorder, maybe even never again, as it's just a tiny part of me. But it's the tiny part of me that started up this blog and was worth an explanation. The goal of this whole slapping the keyboard really is to spread joy. I'm on a personal mission to live a good life and make up for all the not so good life that has been lived. Small regrets encapsulated in huge opportunities for growth. Keeping an optimistic heart open to the world. Serving.  Loving. Throwing in some creative outlet for good measure.

I hope you enjoy!

-Erica 

P.S. Too many thoughts and too much energy aside, time is still a constant and a few hours of sleep is required. 2:55 am.  Eventually I'll be making this blog a little prettier on the eyes. Please forgive the lackluster viewing.