Control Freak.

I often wonder about how I was able to pack on so many pounds so quickly.  Some of the weight can be attributed to baby-weight, but in reality, most of it came before Alex and after Eli.  So there must be something else.  I really do love to blame the babies, though.  It's convenient.  Everybody gains weight when they have children.  It's expected.  It's one of the small areas in the world of a Woman's Weight that has yet to be touched by Hollywood, try as they might to make it seem normal to lose it all within a month or two of childbirth.  And then, sure, it's hard to lose it because now? You have a BABY.  A baby that does THINGS.  And takes TIME.  And doesn't SLEEP.  And gosh all I really want to do is just SLEEP.

But see, my problem was that when I popped Eli out, I weighed 175.  At my biggest since having him, I was 207.  That was not baby-weight, as much as I like to tell myself.  That was 'Bout To Lose My Damn Mind weight.  That was Things Done Hit The Fan weight.  That was I've Lost Control Of Just About Every Other Aspect Of My Life So Of Course I Would Lose Control Of My Waistline weight.

Control is a funny thing.  I think it's a part of human nature to crave it, even if you aren't a controlling person.  I like to think that I am a go-with-the-flow kind of person (though, change can throw me if it's overwhelming... see my size 18 pants for further details).  But I still need to feel like I control something.  Anything.  I need something that I can look at when everything else is spinning around in patternless craziness, and I can say that this... this is stable, this is under my control, I control this.  And for a long time, that stable line that I thought I had was food.  When the babies were crying and the husband was deployed and the moving boxes were being packed and the funerals were taking place, at the very least, I could control what I put in my mouth.  And I said that.  A lot.  That I get to eat this huge bowl of ice cream after the kids go to bed because it was my reward.  And I get to have this beer(s) because dang, it was a rough day.  And I get to have six slices of pizza because, dude, can't you tell I'm freaking out?  It was the One Thing I could control.  I saw the weight coming on, but I didn't care, because I am a grown human and I get to decide what I eat.  I was in survival mode.  I just needed to survive.  One day at a time.

And then we arrived in England.  And life settled down.  And the weight continued to creep on, albeit at a slower pace.  And it brought me to a day that had me laying on the couch, crying because the reality of my situation finally caught up with me.  My husband, who I love and appreciate more than I would ever be able to describe, sat in front of me on the floor and did not deny anything.  But he did say that he knew that I had it in me somewhere to make the decision and to change.  There was no sugar-coating, there was just an arm, a promise to do it together.  To get healthy for the kids and for each other, yes, but mostly for ourselves.  It was time.

Control is a funny thing.  I thought I had control over the intake of food.  But the complete opposite was true.  It was controlling me, and it made me like it.  Calling a person who sits down to huge portions and constant snacking and nasty food someone who is controlling their situation is like calling a person who is swerving down the road in their car someone who is controlling the steering wheel.  I ate those things because I had no control.  I ate that much because I had no control.

So that is what most of my journey has been so far.  A lesson in control.  I still fail sometimes.  I don't blink twice when it comes to sweets, but man... I can't have an open bag of chips or box of crackers in my house.  Because I lose my control.  I give it up, I toss it aside.  I close my eyes to the reality of my situation.  But then it's done.  And I open my eyes and decide to regain control.  I make the decision to have control about 50 times a day.  Every day.  And sometimes it sucks.  And sometimes I lose.  But it's a decision.  It's a choice.  Every damn day.

Perspective. (Winning While Losing! Badly! With much Panting!)

I'm a runner.

I'm a RUNNER.

I RUN.  For no other reason than to just RUN.

For quite a few years, I always said that I wished I could be a runner.  I wish I could just run and run and come back all smiley and fit and bouncy cause I just RAN! 10 MILES! ENDORPHINS!

But I couldn't.  Not me.  I don't have the legs.  I played softball, where all you have to do is run to first base.  I don't have the lungs.  I'd get all gaspy if I hit a double.

And then I decided that I still wanted to be a runner.  Regardless.  So I started.  Then my husband knocked me up.  I'm Pregnant! Can't Run!  Followed closely by, I'm Overweight!  Can't Run!  For... a while.  Then, back to Pregnant, then sauntered over to Obese (yahoo!).

But about a year ago, I decided that the freedom I saw in those people jogging on the paths, on the treadmill.  I wanted that.  So I looked at why I wasn't a runner.  Did I have legs? Yep.  Did they work? Yep.  Did I have a husband who refused me time to spend on myself?  Furthest thing from it.

No.More.Excuses.

So I ran.  For 30 seconds, and then I got all gaspy.  So I walked.  Then ran.  Then walked.

Slowly the time I ran increased.  Then it would decrease if I let running fall by the wayside, as I did a few times.  But then I'd pick it up again, dust my shoes off, and keep on going.  I remember being SO EXCITED when I ran for 5 minutes.  Five Minutes!  I'm still proud of those first five minutes.  The increase from 1 minute to 5 was by far the hardest one to date.  I want to high-five obese me for those five minutes.

Anyway, I kept running, wondering when I could technically call myself a runner.  I eventually did a 5k, in which I walked quite a bit and thought I might die once or twice, but I finished.  In the middle of the pack no less.  About 3 months later I did a 4k with my husband, and with him running by my side, urging me on, I walked less, and sprinted to the finish line, in the middle of the pack.  Could I call myself a runner yet?

This past weekend I did my most recent race, a 10k, which is just over 6 miles.  I estimated, at the pace I run, it would take me about an hour and half to finish.  I run slowly.  Very slowly.  But I run.  So I set a goal, One hour, Thirty minutes.  Then I set an unrealistic goal: One hour, Twenty minutes.  I told myself that I would be happy with either, and anything in between, and if for some reason it took me longer, that would be ok too, because I would finish.

Paul was running this one with me, but we agreed before hand that he would run at his pace and I would run at mine, and that we'd  meet each other at the finish line.  As we were stretching and waiting for the gun to go off, I glanced around and mentioned to Paul that everyone looked really serious.  They had their worn-in shoes, their tight pants, strappy sunglasses.  They looked like runners.  I got a little nervous.  Could I hang with this crowd?

We got in position, near the back, but not at the back... because... I mean, I'm not that slow.  The gun went off, and the herd started moving, slowly as people picked up pace.  But then, everyone kept getting faster.  Paul kept getting faster.  I was there, at my pace that would carry me through the entire 10 kilometers.  But they just kept getting faster.  Before I knew it, the only two people that were behind me were two women who were walking the 5k.  I was at the back.  The very back.  I was that runner that runs by after you think everybody has passed.  And this happened within two minutes of the race starting.

I kept running.

You know those running magazines?  The ones full of advice about how to be a runner?  There are always articles about your first race.  What to expect.  What to wear.  And there is always, always, a comment about not being nervous about coming last.  Because you know why?  There will always be someone slower than you.  You won't come in last.  We aren't even going to give advice about what to do if you come last, because it won't happen!

Well.  I ran.  I passed about 5 people who couldn't keep up the crazy pace that the half-marathoners had set.  But they all stopped at 5k.  There were moments in the race where I was entirely alone for 10 minute long stretches, which had me wondering if I missed a marker.  It got to the point where I was pretending that the woman pushing the stroller or the elderly couple walking along the path were in the race.  PASSED YOU!  CAN'T KEEP UP WITH THIS CAN YOU!?!?!  Yes, I'm looking at you little bunny rabbit! You scamper off the path! I'm too fast for you! SCAMPER!

I went 5k without walking, just to see what my time would be.  They had a water station there, so I was planning on stopping there anyway.  I grabbed the water, drained it, kept running.  About 5 minutes later, the water gave me a wicked cramp so I walked for another 2 minutes, then kept running.  To the finish line.  Along the way, I was getting passed by people who were doing the half-marathon, which meant that they had to do an additional loop of about 3 miles before circling back to the main course.  Additional 3 miles.  They were coming up so fast behind me that I was actually being startled by them. Then they would look back at me as I am wiping their dust from my face and yell, SCAMPER!  Or maybe that was in my head.

So then I told myself that I was actually running the half-marathon, and so that meant I was at the front of the pack!  Wahoo!  Mind tricks!

I chugged. And I chugged.  And I chugged.  And then I saw the finish line.  And then I saw my husband who had come back to cheer me on for the last bit.  I passed him with a wiggle of my hand which was meant to say, I appreciate you and I love you but I can't stop because than I won't be able to start my legs again so meet me at the finish line so I can give you a high-five.  He understood.

I crossed the finish line.  In Dead Last.  Last Place.  Last.  What now, Runner's World?!

I looked at my phone, which was substituting as my iPod/GPS/Timer.  One hour, Eleven minutes.  Nine minutes faster than my unrealistic goal.  I killed it.  Slaughtered it.  And if that's what last place means?  Blowing my goal out of the water and having so many personal bests in the matter of 71 minutes?  I'll take it every time.

Because I am a runner.

Filling out.

One of the things that I think is so unfair in this world (but so right, so logical, so understandable, and so unavoidable) is the fact that when you are young, you have no idea of the blessings that you are entrenched in, and when you grow up, you spend most of your time devoted to getting those blessings back.  There are so many things that I look back on and think, "If only..."  If only I could have taken advantage of my highschool years and really studied and learned while that was all I was supposed to do.  I was a good student, didn't get into trouble (the only detention I ever had was when I was caught with my fleece vest unzipped during lunch... not really hardcore).  But like most teenagers, what I really digested was the social aspect of school.   If only I had taken advantage of every free moment in Paul and my marriage to spend quality time with him when it was just us, no distractions.  If only I had taken every moment when I just had one child to appreciate how easy it actually was (compared, of course, to two... one is hard, just not as hard...).  If only I had woken up during the night before I had kids and thought to myself, Isn't this nice that I can just close my eyes and go back to sleep.  If only I appreciated what I had.  If only, if only, if only.

If only I had developed healthy eating habits before my metabolism started crawling instead of racing.  If only I had seen my body for what it truly was instead of looking down and seeing large instead of curves. 

So right now, I'm trying to change that.  I'm attempting what I think might be the hardest thing I've ever done.  I'm trying to stop, look down, look around, and appreciate.  I'm trying to look at my body, at the muscles that have developed over the past year, the belly that still hangs over (and might for a while... two kids in 15 months kind of changes things!), the stretch marks that trace a map from the belly where I hid those children from the world, down the legs that carried them, and still do.  I see the skin that never quite tans, with scars all over telling a story of my life, particularly the downs, but a few ups as well.  I see the teeth that aren't quite straight, but that form the smile that my children see and imitate (almost) every day.  I see a nose that took a hit with a softball, and has a flat bit to prove it.

I see this all, and I think, this is me.  This is the body that has carried me through 27 years of my life.  And I love it.  And now, I'm finally giving back.  I'm doing my best to nourish it, to feed it food that will make it stronger, not slow it down.  I'm stretching it and pulling it and testing it, making it stronger, more able to deal with the valleys, so it can climb more quickly to the top.  I'm pushing it, forcing it to run and run and run, so it can outrun the clouds when they inevitably come.    And it feels, so, good.


Now, when I look back at the last few years, I appreciate the times I had, but I look forward to a future that has more of a... well... future.  I feel like I am finally accepting this great gift of a machine of a body, one that has very predictable outcomes when it comes to making it strong.  I feel like I am finally filling out my skin, taking over every cell, saying this is me, this is me, this is mine.  Using it, loving it, working it.  I no longer reside just in my head, just in the reaction.  I've taken over the action, I've taken over my life.

Who knew it could feel so good to actually live your life?

Against the Grain.

As you can probably tell, the overarching theme of my life right now is "Healthier".  Or at least, the prequel to "Healthier."  Since coming to England, I've gained 30 pounds (well, that started a few months before getting here), joined weight watchers (again), lost 20, quit doing weight watchers because I hate counting, stalled in my weight loss, gotten really sick and lost 10 more pounds, then gained 20 back.  The other week I was considering going back to weight watchers (for the... 4th time), because, well, it works.  If you do it.  But I HATE doing it.  I hate counting.  The restrictions wear on me.  I know that.  Diets in general don't work with me.  I get really pumped up for it, or for the newest workout routine that I've decided will be the one to help me suck in the baby belly.  Then a week or two later, it grows old, my motivation putters out, and I'm left with a box of dvd's (helloooo P90X) and several cookbooks sitting on my counter collecting dust.  And though Weight Watchers and P90X both tote the Lifestyle Change motto, it just doesn't work.  For me.  My problem is not that I don't know what to do.  It's that, deep down, I just don't want to.  Do I want to lose the weight?  Sure.  Do I want my clothes to fit better (including the two bridesmaids dresses that are looming in my future)?  You bet.  But do I want to keep a food journal? Nope.  Do I want to bust my butt for an hour a day to lose weight that will bounce its way right back to my butt as soon as I stop?  Nope.

My problem is not lack of knowledge.  It goes deeper.  The book that I mentioned in the previous post goes into why you eat, not what you eat.  It's been eye-opening.  She goes on about reaching a healthy weight, one you can maintain without feeling destined for failure if you ever let up and relax.  One that you can feel happy about, feel happy in.  How losing 50 pounds is not going to make you happier, more relaxed, more patient.  It will just make you a thinner person who is still sad, still angry, still impatient and still searching.  I absolutely know that I did not gain weight because I ate fries.  I gained weight because I ate fries when I wasn't hungry.  Just the other day, the kids were going nuts, which meant that I was going nuts.  I turned on a show for them, stomped into the kitchen, grabbed a box of crackers and a chunk of cheese and went to town.  As I was cutting and topping and stuffing, I was thinking to myself "Laura, you aren't hungry.  Put the box down."  And that was the followed quickly by "SHUT THE HELL UP! DON'T YOU KNOW IT'S QUIET TIME!" and another cracker.

My problem isn't food.  It's why I eat it.

For the last week, I've been trying to be really conscious of why I eat.  If I am not hungry, I don't eat.  Even if it's that time when I usually have a snack.  Or even lunch.  If I'm not hungry, I'll skip lunch and eat a smaller meal later on.  And when I do sit down, I try to pay close attention to when my hand starts moving on auto-pilot.  That's usually a sign that I am full.  Of course, I don't have the luxury of eating slowly, but that doesn't mean that I need to gorge myself.  I just eat half, clean up the kids lunches, getting them settled, then revisit.  Do I need to finish this? And if the answer is yes... then I do.  I eat it all.  The whole thing.  Because if you trust your body, it will gently guide you to your weight.  No rules, no timelines.  Just trust.

Five pounds down.  Plenty more to go.  But hopefully I will shed more than just pounds on this journey. Hopefully I will also lose some baggage that I wasn't even aware I was holding on to.  Hopefully I will lose the need to quiet the storm in my house with a few (large) mouth-fulls of food.

Read.

Food is not the enemy.
Your body is not the enemy.

Learn to love both.  Learn to respect both.    This is my struggle.

But, I've stumbled across a great book, and if the idea intrigues you, I think you should check it out!

Women, Food, and God by Geneen Roth.

Full disclosure, I'm only a few chapters in.  But I love how she writes and already the book has made me question the reasons why I grab a box of crackers and a chunk of (oh so delicious) cheese and have at it.  Is it the chaos in the house?  Is it hunger?  Is it boredom?  I'm sick of having to think so much when it comes to food.  Food should be loved, it should be delicious, it should be made with real ingredients.  I want to make it become a part of my life, not what my life stops and stutters around, always glancing back to see if the choices I made were correct.  I'm done counting.  I'm done weighing.  I eat when I'm hungry.  I stop when I'm not.