Meet Spike

My gremlin, she lives inside my big head

She opens her mouth, suddenly my heart fills with dread.

"You're Ugly!"  "You're Stupid!"  "You're Lazy!"  "You're Fat!"

She screams, she yells, she deflates me just...like....that.

Some days she can be rather scary, like god forbid, I lack time

For a razor and my legs end up hairy!

At least once a month, my pants seem much more snug,

That bitch Spike, she delivers a debilitating, demeaning and crushing hug.

The days I walk, swim, bike and run

The voice I hear removes all the fun.

 

"Move you lardass!  Go!  Go!  Go!"

As much as I counter with a "Shut it! You fugly ho'!"

I push, I wince and I continue to carry on,

Much like that of a controlled devil's pawn.

 

People say I am very smart, the same of which I often doubt.

Why, oh why, can't I hold myself to the same clout?

 

I need to learn to tame this controlling shrew.

She's evil.  She's conniving.  She's frankly a piece of poo.

 

I do not know how to lock Spike down.

I'm going to practice dousing her ego-crushing frown.

 

"I'm BEAUTIFUL!"  "I'm SMART!"  "I'm STRONG!"

I shall say!

 

Screw you, Spike!  Rebecca is here to stay!

I will have no choice but to believe it, very soon, some day.

Book Review :: Taming Your Gremlin

I made a resolution for 2013, which was not to make any resolutions -- particularly with regard to my weight. Do I want to lose 20 pounds? Yes, I do. I always do. It's something that is continually on my mind -- not so much for health reasons, but strictly for vanity and feelings of my own esteem. But I don't want it to be tied in with New Year's.

However, my subconscious had other plans. As I was working on a story for a local publication concerning weight loss and New Year's Resolutions (see how the mind does that? It got around me in a very clever way), I found myself on the phone with a weight loss therapist whose angle really spoke to me.

It was her life's work to help people uncover the messages they received as children (prior to having the ability to construct ideas based on logic, so before age 8) and how they have interpreted and formed behavioral patterns based on those messages.

But then she stopped me dead in my tracks -- she referred to the sub-conscious as a Gremlin, and referenced the work of Rick Carlson, who wrote Taming Your Gremlin.

I bought the book and thanks to a little blessing in my life known as Amazon Prime, it came to my door within days.

I can't relay it all to you. It's a good little book and I recommend it. It won't shatter the earth you walk on or send lightning bolts careening into your psyche, but it's a book that gets you acquainted with calling out that negative voice in your head -- the one that tells you things that seem to sabotage your best intentions and cause you  misery.

And of course it got me thinking about that voice in my head -- my Gremlin, who is a total bitch, by the way, and spends much of her time telling me I am a disgusting fat-ass who will never succeed in trying to be anything but a disgusting fat-ass.

On a good day, when I have managed to lock my Gremlin in a trunk in my head, I know the truth. The truth is that while my body is imperfect, it is mine and I am incredibly lucky to have it. I am healthy, I am vibrant, and most importantly, I am a thousand things that have nothing to do with my body at all but have everything to do with my character.

But the Gremlin, as you all know, has a different agenda.

And so while I would love to go on and on about all the things my Gremlin has to say, I think it's best not to pay that drunk chain-smoking loser another moment of mind, and instead to share with you the best piece of advice found within the book's pages.

When your Gremlin rears his/her ugly head, and this could be in the form of negative self-talk, an irresistible bad habit, or putting limits on your own abilities, simply take a moment to acknowledge it and then move on.

Take a deep breath in, and breathe out the words "I am taming."

Take one more deep breath in and breathe out the words "My Gremlin."

I am Taming. My Gremlin.

And then let it go.

Speak Up. You Matter.

In a book somewhere, written by some Dr. or other, there is a time line of when babies do things. Apparently my children smiled extremely early compared to this. One of my babies went ahead and set the record straight at a follow up appointment when she was super wee. I can't remember the week count, but it was low and the Dr. asked me was she meeting this and that milestone. I said, "Well, she smiles which is great. I really needed that." He said, "Well, no, she isn't giving you a reactionary smile. She is just moving her face." I blushed at the challenge and said, "I really think it is real, but..."

He gave me a kind smile and stood behind me as I was holding Evelyn tight to my body, her chin on my shoulder- a fave position as she felt herself wrapped up in me. He looked at her face and said his coochie coos and she beamed one at him. An Evie smile. He said, "Huh. That sure seemed reactionary." I said it had been going on for a week now. He made eyebrows at me again and then went behind me and gave another shot at the coochie cooing and I could feel the headlight of her smile hit him. He sat back down and said "Huh." And he smiled and he wrote it down. This was the same place that told me babies don't have colic. (All y'alls know that. some. do.)

I was going through some off and on stress periods that at times were unhinging. When I confided in a friend, she understood completely what that could do and said I should talk to my Dr. because I could maybe get a Rx for a when- I- need- it- pill. She had one and it was so helpful. I went to my Dr., something I don't do often, and I talked to the person who saw me about it. She said I could go to a therapist or I could take an every day pill. I said, no, I just want something for when I feel it coming. Like a migraine Rx when you feel one coming on. Just a nipper in the bud something. She said no. All or nothing. And I left. My husband was furious that in the few Dr. appointments I make about something driving me to the brink in pain or stress, that I come home with nothing. As a female, I am very used to this. I have often been told I was depressed, I was effected by weather, maybe it was hormones, I should do dishes by hand so the warm water would soothe my joint pain, that something seemed strange but they shrugged. And not just this one place, this is since graduating college and things for me or for what I am explaining about my kids....

This is not an attack on the medical profession.

For all the demands I put on my friends and my kids to advocate for themselves, there is just something about a woman that won't. We assume the people with the stethoscope are right and we are being silly, getting old, are being hormonal. I just recently had a wake up call. 

Someone I love very much was in pain. And she put off making an appointment for a while because she is a mom, works, a woman in general. When she finally went they did a,b,c, and found nothing. When she went back they said they would do a,b,c and she said, "You did that. What about d?" And they said, no, d wouldn't be what they needed to do, go into the room and get ready for a,b,c. She did when a nurse came in and they chatted about her symptoms. The nurse asked, "a,b,c?? That sounds like you need d!" and the Dr. was consulted. The right test was done and the wrong thing was found. Cancer.

I love that nurse- whoever she is. I love the nurse that pulled me into standing position in stirrups to get Colleen out of me. I love the nurse that told me my son was fine when the Dr. insisted he wasn't getting enough food. I love the nurse that rolled me on my side when the Dr. rolled me on my back and said I should stay there even though I kept passing out. I love these people, and yes, it has always been nurses in my experience, who listen to us women who do not complain much. I don't know if the Dr.s have too much on their plates? Or are so knowledgeable that they forget the person. And I am certainly not saying all Dr.s are like that. 

It is just that when we talk women's rights, we must start with ourselves because those nurses aren't always there. We have to put our foot down and push and say we need just one more look, one more minute (since we gave you 45 in your waiting room) just one more listen to what we are saying.

Speak up. Speak up. You matter.

Ode to Brazil Nut (There is no love for you) (Healthy fat be damned)

Who is it that loves you, Brazil nut?
Surely it is not I.
With your overwhelming nut size
and your taste of watery dirt.
You are the water chestnut in my cashew chicken.
Your place is unwanted in my foods
In my nut mixes
In my life.

I remember you well, Brazil nut
from my childhood Christmas seasons.
From my mom's inappropriate name for you.
From her pewter bowl of mixed nuts
that we, small children, must crack to eat.
You, in your dark armor.
You who never came out cleanly.

I began my dislike for you then as I reached for the pick.
My solid distaste for you when you alone remained
When all hazel nuts and almonds were gone.
I turned to the pecan's hard labor before
I turned to you.
I turned away from you.
I turned the nut cracker away......

40 is the new.......chin hair?

Age.  It sneaks up on you.  Oh, yes, dear lordy it does. 

 

One day, you are a kid frolicking through the days of youth without a care.  The very next, you are plucking a chin hair.

 

A chin hair.

 

 

 

Eeew.  What woman has a chin hair?  Oh noooo, you don't.  Don't you do it - you cannot hide behind denial because I know the truth.  I see the truth, of all of us,  jutting out of my chin occasionally.  What the peanut butter......and I am definitely NOT a witch.

 

Crows feet.  Yup.  Check.

 

Age spots.  I prefer just another freckle; this one just seems to be slightly larger than any other taking up residence on my skin.

 

Stretch marks - well, duh, three kids later and no photoshop nor plastic surgery expense line in my budget.

 

Yes, sometimes I fart when I sneeze.  The doctors say that happens; especially after the aforementioned kids.  Okay, sometimes I pee a teensy eensy bit with a giant gesundheit.  Whoever said kegels is the magic answer is just a liar....or did not have three kids.

 

Since we are on the topic of bathroom discussion, I have had to make that mad beeline to the nearest restroom, shoving anyone and everyone out...of....my....way.  You do NOT want THAT to happen.  I will blame that on the kids as well.

 

Snap, crackle and pop is not coming from the kids' cereal bowls in the early  morning hours.  That would be my joints, my cartilage (or perhaps lack thereof) and my bones shaking off the evening slumber.

 

Age.  It finds you a lot earlier than you would have ever thought possible.  Heck, I am not even 40 yet. 

 

So, I am determined to push this little age bitch away.  I am NOT ready to admit any of it -none of the tell-tale signs of years gone by.  I hear you laughing as I  just shared way too much info on a way too public blog.  Well, take this - I have tweezers.  I will continue to pluck that ugly little mofo chin hair that thinks it can mess with me.  I will blame that sneaky sneezy fart on the person closest to me.  I will rub massive amounts of Oil of Olay into my crows feet and onto my age spots so my skin has nothing but reversal.

 

Actually, I will count each wrinkle in my face as a memory - of years of laughter etched into my skin like a stroke of art, layer upon layer.  My stretch marks are one way to keep all three of my children close to me - again, memories of a time when they pushed and stretched their boundaries within my very being.  My cracking joints, a reminder to keep young -by eating healthy and pushing my physical limitations through various forms of exercise.

 

2013 is about me.  As of January 5th, I will have precisely ONE year left until I am 40.  I intend to roll into 40 looking better, acting better and damn well with more attitude than I had at 20.  I will walk the beach with utter confidence.  I will smirk at the 20 year olds with their skinny little bikinis and their insecurities.  Because damn, I can wear a chin hair better than any one of them.  Bring it sister.  Bring YOUR chin hair along for the ride.

Ringing In 2013

 I saw all the photos of young couples smooching as they rang in 2013. I saw them in the morning when I rolled out of bed, crumpled tissues and throat lozenge wrappers strewn about. That used to be me.

I haven't gotten my first New Year's kiss for 2013 because, well, first of all I have been married for a bajillion years and second of all, I rang in 2013 with a flu/cold and nobody -- including my husband -- wants to get within 20 feet of me.

 

But the fact remains that I have always felt New Year's Eve was one of the most overrated party nights of the year, and believe me, nobody loves a party more than me. But let me tell you what I don't love: Staying up past 10 p.m.

 

And I could blame this on age or lethargy, but it's a personality trait that goes back to my teens. I have never liked staying up late, and therefore New Year's Eve has historically been one of my least favorite celebrations.

 

Lucky for me, we have some awesome friends that throw a party for families, and nobody raises an eyebrow when you leave at 10 p.m. So this is a more appropriate photo-summation of my New Year's:

 My family, sacked out in bed. Me under the influence of Tylenol Cold Severe, the kids and husband passed out after a notable sugar high and a full buffet of delights. And somehow, just the mere acceptance of what is makes me feel incredibly blessed and lucky.

 

For a broad who likes to party a little and go to bed early, I may have found my most ideal posse.

My family rules.

 

Happy 2013 to you and yours -- may the year bring all your dreams right to your front door.

Hard Lessons to Learn and Share

It was a snowy morning when my husband was going to the store to pick up a few things. He asked who wanted to go. 2 of my kids said no, but my 9 1/2 year old, Colleen, said she would. She went to get dressed and came back to me and said, "I am afraid to drive in the snow."
"Then don't go, honey. You don't have to."
"Yes I do." 
"Why?" I asked.
"To make sure everything goes OK."
My heart hurt a bit. "How can you make sure everything will go OK?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
"It isn't your job to make sure everything is OK. You just need to worry about you. Not something like this."
She looked at me with a nervous smile, put on her coat and shoes.
"Do you understand that it is perfectly fine for you to stay here?"
"Mhm."
And off she went.

Not 10 minutes earlier had I read this article: 

10 Things I Want My Daughter To Know Before She Turns 10

I had read the article and asked myself, "How do I impart these wise thoughts on my ever pleasing eldest girl when I don't know how to live by them myself?" I have decided it has become another instance of: Do as I say, not as I do. Learn from my mistakes. Let me guide you around the road blocks still present in your mom, 4 times your age. 

I don't think I am some terrible type of person I don't want her to be. I just know that I was the only girl in a family of boys. I learned so many wonderful things through that experience, and I love the nurturer it made me. Even as the youngest, I knew where all my brothers' shoes were and reminded about back packs and baked them treats. I was proud of it all. What also came with it was the need to please others and make sure everyone was happy and OK. I can't honestly say what came first: The nature or the nurture. I was the baby and I was that way. Colleen is the oldest and she is that way. I don't know if it is just something built in to a girl or something built in to my genes. 

Something that hasn't showed up in her yet, or maybe ever, is the bite that my mom and I have. The bite that allows us to rebel in words and in our thoughts. We still do make ourselves crazed with pleasing, but at least we have the rage about it that allows us to speak out about it every now and then. It may be the only thing that makes us sane. Of course, no one is asking us to please them, really. It is a demand we have put upon ourselves. We have only ourselves to rage against.

I have talked to Colleen about asking for help. Told her about the deep wells I was plunged into when I never asked a question in Math class and could never catch up. I have held her hands and said, "Don't do that to yourself. As someone who suffered it, it was horrible. And as the teacher I became, I am heartbroken for the Kate who never reached out and for the teacher who never noticed." She nods fervently at me with big tears in her deep blue eyes. But I know she won't ask a thing. I hope she will, but...I just pray my husband and I can keep up with the "new math" until she graduates.

I think my next talk may be about how she and I, together, are going to work on making sure we are kind and helpful to others, but are better care taker of ourselves. I don't need to pass on panic attacks with my poor eyesight and acne. I don't need to pass on worries about friendships along with crazy hair and a weighty bum. 
It can be my gift to her future and my 40th Birthday present to myself.