RING DING? Ring dang.

Ring Ding.  Ever heard of it? Neither had I.  I’m finding that Louisiana has figured out a way to throw a party for any and every thing.  Ring Ding is a tradition here whereby the juniors in High School become Seniors.  It’s the day they are given and begin to officially wear their senior rings.  Apparently, it’s a thing.  It’s a celebration.  There will be toasts, cakes, punch, tears and we will begin Arianna’s last year of high school full of the “lasts” of everything.  There’s an entire ceremony

dedicated to this moment.  They cross the stage as Juniors and exit as Seniors with their new shiny rings.  There’s even a committee dedicated to the details of said ceremony.  I know because Arianna is on it.  She wrote a skit, she’s buying the t-shirt(not kidding, there’s really a t-shirt), she’s shopping for a dress and I’ve signed up to bring a case of water and cake balls to the after party. 

The Jr. Class parentage has rented out the Mardis Gras Museum to house the party that will commence once we get our kids ring dinged up.

  I don’t know who will be happier – the kids who are approaching adulthood, or the parents who are approaching freedom.  I said all that to say this.  We’ve been shopping for Arianna’s class ring.  Sounds like simple task but nothing is simple with a 16-year-old girl. (Even one as perfect as mine).  She didn’t want a traditional class ring. She wanted a dinner ring that we could inscribe with her High School and class year inside the band.  One that she could wear forever.  So…..what kind of stone do you get in a dinner/high school ring?  Your birthstone of course.  Arianna was born in June – Alexandrite.  A beautiful stone of multiple glorious colors.  Rare and expensive.  So rare and expensive, in fact, that we couldn’t find a store that had any.  “What about mystic topaz,” I offered and begged Arianna to try some on.  It looks kind of the same.  “No go.  Hard Pass,” she said.   Why oh why couldn’t her birthstone be Cubic Zirconia?  There is plenty of that.  Ahhh….the rubies.  My pale baby would look delightful in a ruby.  “No Mom,” she panned as she side stepped her way down the jewelry case to the sapphires.  “I want a sapphire.  It’s blue….it’s Airline High School Blue,” she concluded.  I waved her back to the rubies.  She wouldn’t budge.  Then there was a pink rose

colored stone that I knew she would look fabulous in.  She tried it on briefly and went back to the sapphire section.  Again I coaxed her to the rubies.  “Just try it on…,” I pleaded.  I’m her mom.  I know what looks good on my alabaster baby.  But there she hovered over the dark blue stones – fixated.  “Let’s come back later,” I said.  I planned on getting her dad behind me on this.  How can she go around the rest of her life in a sapphire when her skin tone clearly screams RUBY!!  Could I, as her mother, let her make this mistake and even bank roll it??  I had become completely convinced of the grandeur of this Ring Ding Moment.   Could I let her slip into adulthood with the wrong ring?  I argued my case into the night…into the next day when I found myself on the front row at Bible Study.  My husband was reading from Exodus when he caught my attention with this verse.

Exodus 24: 9-10: “Moses went up, also Aaron…and seventy of the elders of Israel,  and they saw the God of Israel. And there was under His feet as it were a paved work of sapphire stone, and it was like the very heavens in its clarity.”

“What,” I thought to myself.  “Did Rob just say sapphire?”  What are the odds of us being on a book in the Bible, on the very chapter, on the exact verse, where, of all things described – the word ‘sapphire’ appears??  The elders of Israel were going to get to see God Almighty.  Can you imagine the suspense?  Moses led the way and all they could record about this moment was the pavement where God rested his feet….sapphires.  I feverishly dug deeper.  Sapphires were also on the high priest’s breastplate and God’s throne is described as a throne of sapphire….and did you know some scholars believe the ten commandments were etched on cubes of sapphire?

Later, on the drive home, I told Rob of the grand connection I had made with the Bible Study as it related to our first born and the tedious task of ring buying.  “Really,” he replied. “That’s all you got from my Bible Study?”

Yesterday we picked up Arianna’s class ring.  A sapphire.  “Will I marry senior year?  Yes I will,” she joked as she slipped it on and off with pure, unfettered, joy.  I hope she loves it that much forever.  While she makes her own exodus from childhood, I pray she sees this ring as a constant reminder of His Throne, His Commandments. When the fanfare of senior year has come and gone and the realities of adulthood and college, responsibilities and bills settle in all around her…I hope she looks at her little ring and remembers to put herself there – on His sapphire pavement.  At His feet.  It’s the only posture in life that works. 

Rubies.  Silly me.  What was I thinking?

WW Weigh In....Shocker

Gosh it's been so long!  We moved and then I had a hysterectomy and I've been VERY lazy about catching up with my weigh ins....in fact, I've missed a few meetings.  Do you know what happens when you miss a WW weigh in?  You get a friendly text from your leader...."want me to come weigh you?"  The first time I missed, I was on call at the hospital - in the Operating Room saving lives doing paperwork when I suddenly realized it was Saturday and I was going to miss my meeting!  During a brief break I shot her a text - "Can't make it, in surgery."  But this WW program is an At Work program so she knew the lingo....the circumstances of being on call...she knew surgery didn't last forever so.....she texted back.  "I'll wait for you."  Oh crap.  She's going to wait for me.  

My uterus's Farewell Party

So, I didn't miss my weigh in.  She waited patiently for me in the waiting room (how appropriate) with her $900 scale plugged in and ready.  In under 30 seconds I had weighed in, got my WW weekly pamphlet, had her record my weight AND got my little sticker.  The next week my husband took my keys.  I was stuck at home.  I texted her..."so sorry..."  She answered.  "I'll be right over!"  What?  She was coming to my house to weigh me? Yes.  Indeed.  And there we were at my house, her pen marking my success, high fives on my front porch.  "We don't want you to lose momentum," she explained of her willingness to meet me anywhere, at anytime.  Then I had surgery - goodbye uterus!  I was hoping it weighed 25 pounds but alas, it only weighed 133 grams.  Did I make it to weigh in?  No.  Did she come to me again?  She did.  I started to feel pretty special.  I am convinced that if Osama Bin Laden had been a WW member,  - his leader would've found him within the week.  There is no hiding from the WW scale once you hold yourself accountable.  And I'm okay with that.
20 pounds.  That's how much I've lost so far.  I hit a plateau.  She told me I needed to shock my system.
"With pizza?" I asked.
"No, maybe exercise," she answered.

"What about a hysterectomy, would that shock my system?"  No, because I'm 3 weeks post-op and still, not shocked.  But it's okay...I haven't gained.  I'm good with holding steady because 20 pounds lighter feels good.  You know what my favorite thing is about weighing less?  It doesn't take nearly as long to shave my legs.  I'm saving a fortune in shaving cream and razors.
I digress.
According to the little WW chart, I'm a pound or two away from "maintenance" which means, they'll add points to my daily consumption - I'll be "done".  Can you believe it?  So I'm holding my breath and counting every point until my next weigh in...and if I fail....I'll know by exactly by how many ounces....because she will find me....and she will weigh me....and it shall be recorded....and I'm okay with that....because I know, she's rooting for me.

Weight Watchers Weigh In...The Relapse

I have good news and bad news.  We closed on our house and moved.  I am a stress eater.  It's been a stressful week.  So there I was...amongst a mountain of boxes and wrapping paper, panicked and indecisive over every single thing I unpacked...where do I put it all?  I'm hungry...there's nothing to cook on...no groceries....no fridge even! (Except the one in the garage that came with the house - empty.) We order Dominoes. And that's when it happened.  I don't remember how the first Parmesan Cheese Bread Bite got into my mouth, but I came back to my senses around #14.  It was so good and carbohydratey.  The grease covered my lips...the little flecks of Parmesan cheese laid gently on my chin.  I wiped them off with my finger so as not to spill any on the new carpet and then sucked my finger dry.  I had an out of body experience.  

(I shared them with no one.)

"Oh no.  What have I done??" Immediately I cut a zero point cantaloupe and devour it in its entirety.
"Maybe, it will soak up the cheese and starch and cancel out the bread bites," I reason.
Then the next day, we were so exhausted we went to Whattaburger.  I vow to eat only a little.  But their onion rings...they call to me....and I answer.
I ask my honest, young son if I'm getting skinnier.  "Well, your butt is getting smaller," he says and my heart leaps with joy. "But it's still not small," he adds quickly as I go in for a hug.
So, today at our meeting I stepped on the scale and did the head hanging walk of shame back to my seat.  Two ounces.  I lost 2 ounces this week.  I wondered if they wanted their WW charms back that I got two weeks ago.  They didn't.  Two lousy ounces. That's the bad news.
Here's the good news.  A few months ago I went shopping for some blue jeans.  I found a pair and went to try them on.  I couldn't get them over my calves...without great effort.  And once they cleared my calves, I couldn't get them passed my thighs.  I sat in the dressing room and beat myself up.  I peeled off the jeans and looked at them with their cute little white stitches.  "I'm going to buy you anyway," I said to them - vowing that I would fit in them eventually.  
No piece of denim is going to tell me what to do or how to feel...
Today I wore those jeans to my meeting.  Like a boss.

The Sacrificing of Henrietta

In my ongoing endeavor to learn one new thing about my mom every time I call her....I give you: Henrietta's Sacrifice.

My mom told me a lot about my grandfather during this particular conversation.  He worked for the railroad like her father.  He was from Virginia and fell in love with North Carolina when he laid eyes on her majestic foothills.  He brought his family to live there.  He used to give my mom a nickel for every bucket of acorns she could gather.  He used it to feed his hogs.  Sometimes he would carve the acorn into a ring for her finger.  
"He would peel it like an apple," she said.  "It had the most beautiful colors. Red, orange, gold, brown...but the next day it would turn dark brown and shrivel away."

That's not all he made for his grand daughter, my mother.  Out of the branches of a sugar gum tree he would use his knife to whittle her a tooth brush with bristles.  
"We'd dip it in baking soda," she informed me.  (Side note: she still has all her teeth :)
One day my mom was at her grandparents' house and it was nearing dinner time.   Henrietta, one of their hens, had stopped laying eggs.  So...she was to become dinner.  Her grandmother enlisted my mom's help in chasing Henrietta around the back side of the house.  Her grandmother used her apron to scare it out and get it on the run....when my mom came around the corner, she witnessed her grandmother going inside the back door...with a limp Henrietta in her hands.  
"She didn't want me to see her wring her neck. She plucked her and boiled her and made dumplings too," my mom recalls.  She was devastated that sweet Henrietta who had given all she could had now paid the final sacrifice for the good of her family. She was Sunday dinner.  In comes my mom's grandfather to eat.  They are all seated around the table when her grandfather bows his head to say the blessing and as he gives thanks to God for the food on the table and for all His provisions, he weeps.
"I knew, in my little girl mind, that he was crying over Henrietta.  So I joined him in protest and refused to eat her," she said.  
It was years later that my mom realized her grandfather wept a lot when it was time to pray.  "I only thought he was sad over Henrietta that day.  He was just overwhelmed with God's goodness.  Now, I understand."
And so do I.  I had to pack and move house this week.  We found a great deal and great, selfless friends helped us pack and move.  I know how my great grandfather must've felt.  So many blessings surround me.  

I am thankful for an army of allies who swooped in to take my kids to school while Rob was out of town and they missed the bus while I was at work (twice).
I am thankful for a great grandfather who was strong enough to farm the land and meek enough to weep in front of his grand daughter.
I am thankful that grand daughter was marked forever by his prayers and passed it along.
I am thankful for Carolina acorns and homemade dumplings.
I am thankful that I don't have to chase my dinner before I cook it.
I am thankful for tooth brushes that are NOT homemade and memories that are.

James 1:17 ^"Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."

WW Weigh In Week 4

Stop the presses.  I just found out that WW gives out jewelry.  I got a little charm for making it four weeks and another for losing 5% of my body weight....I'm down 11 pounds.  I even got another 5lb sticker.  It was a fun meeting.  I think these little charms are adorable but I don't really know what to do with them.  You can't put them on a key chain and it's not exactly a bracelet although it should be because if it was...we could spot other WW members in their native habitats.  And they should have a rule that if you spot another member with their bracelet on and they're eating a Snickers bar or something - you can slap it out of their hand. It could be called the accountability bracelet.  I'm on to something. (Note to self: write WW execs ...)
So, there I was at Goodwill.  I almost ran into a man heading for the same aisle.  "Excuse me," he said and held out his hand as if to motion me by.  So I said thank you and slipped ahead of him and starting looking around.  Fast forward, three aisles later, I'm bending over looking at some china and that's when it happened.  The aforementioned stranger slipped by grabbed my left butt cheek, said excuse me again and acted like he was looking at something on the shelf.  I was mortified.  I had just been  molested.  I couldn't catch my breath. I ran to the front of the store.  I panicked.  I thought about going back and slapping him.  I thought about calling the police.  I thought about telling the cashier.  But suddenly I found myself in my car hyperventilating.  I felt SO violated.  I called my husband, told my kids, group texted my soccer moms.
"Are you sure it wasn't an accident," my husband asked.
I'm positive - it was not an" accidental brush by".  It was a full-fledged "land and squeeze".
"Well, I'm sorry that happened but you should've done something right then.  Not a lot you can do now.  It's not like they  have cameras.  It's Goodwill.  Not Dillards."  He's no comfort.
In my need to process the situation, I reenact the ordeal for the kids.
"Mom," says my 11 year old, Elijah.  "Your butt is still big.  Maybe he was trying to move it out of his way."
No.  That wasn't it.  Goodwill has wide aisles.  It doesn't explain the "land and squeeze."
"Maybe God was trying to keep you from spending money," suggests my daughter.
I pretend not to hear her.
"Was he cute," asks a soccer mom.
No....short and fat...squatty.
"Would you have been less offended if he were tall and handsome," she asked.
Hmmmmmm.....if I say yes, I feel ashamed of myself....if I say no.....I'm a liar.
"That was definitely assault and you could've called the police but it would've been your word against his," says another soccer mom.  And so I'm satisfied that I've vented and got some sympathy.  But why am I putting this in my WW blog?  Because...I have to ask the question....11 pounds ago, would my rear have gone untouched in Goodwill?  I think maybe so.  It's the price of my growing svelte-ness.  I'm going to have to beat off short, fat guys at Goodwill from now on possibly. 
And I'm okay with that.
Annoying man was there and it was his birthday.  He was less annoying today.  He talked about "mom issues" that made him clean his plate.  I felt compassion....he's endeared himself to me with his childhood story....I determine in my heart to be more patient with him.  
(Until next week....)

Pig and a Blanket

That's my mom on the left :)

This recent cold snap had me thinking about my mom and my resolution to learn one new thing about her every time I called.  "I wonder how she kept warm in a winter like this?" I thought....and so, I found out.
Coal.  A coal burning stove heated the house room - one room - where they all gathered and lived all winter.  Her mom would put a quilt down by the stove and they stayed there all day, coloring or doing homework...in that one warm spot.
For fifteen dollars her dad would buy one ton of coal.  One TON.  It was usually enough to last all winter but some winters were tougher than others and that's when the whole family would make their way to Mud Cut Curve.  That's where the coal train would take a curve and, if they were lucky and the train took it fast enough, coal would fall off the top and land by the tracks.  Each kid was given a sack and they filled it with whatever coal they could find along the tracks.  "It was heavy!" she said of this chore.  It was cold out - and because they had no gloves or mittens, their mom would put their dad's work socks over their little hands.  At night, their mom took a brick, heated it in the stove, wrapped it up and put it in their beds to keep them warm.  "We'd have so many quilts on top of us, we couldn't move," she said.
"Once I got up in the night to get a drink from the water bucket but it was so cold the dipper had frozen into the water - it was all ice," she said.  I was about to suggest that she should've just gone to the sink but then I remembered...no indoor plumbing.  (We're so spoiled, rich, blessed.)

"I was in charge of keeping the coal bucket full," she informed me.  "I'd take my bucket out to the coal pile to fill it but I had to be careful because of the rooster.""What?  A rooster?  Please. Continue," I begged. "We had a banty rooster," she explained.  "We had no underpinning to the house so it would stay up under the porch. Every time I went to the coal pile, it chased me and attacked my legs.  I spilled half the bucket getting back into the house."

"Mom," I say...."this is heartbreaking.  How did you survive your childhood?"

"We were fine.  We were never sick.  We didn't know we were poor.  We had a hog in our closet."

Hold it right there.  

My mom had a pig in her closet.  I had to pause and let that sink in.

Not a pet pig and not a regular closet.  It's the tiny room where they hung up their salted meat for the winter.  Can you imagine having a pig hanging on a meat hook in your pantry?  And just slicing off whatever you needed, whenever you needed it?  Imagine the endless bacon.

"So you had hogs and chickens? Mom, your dad worked for the railroad but it sounds like he was a farmer," I say.

"Everyone had to have those things, and a garden too, just to live," she said.  "My earliest memory was there in that house on the front porch. My legs were dangling over the side and I was swinging them back and forth watching my daddy fix the plow."

"No," she said again.  "We didn't know we were poor."

And maybe, on second thought, they weren't.

WW Week 3....

It was our second weigh in.  Last week I lost 6.2 pounds.  This week...a measly 1.8.  Two weeks in, 8 pounds down.  I guess that's ok.  I didn't get a sticker though :(
It's been a rough week.  I posted my blog on the weight watcher site and people called me a racist for my remarks about the Indian call center.  Don't people know that India is known for their call centers?  Haven't they seen Slumdog Millionaire?  If I point out that a car was probably made in Detroit, is that racist? How much sense does that make?  Then, a girl said I shouldn't call myself fat.  That it was self deprecating and a sign that I'm "hurting."  Uh....noooo.  I called myself fat because I'm fat.  I'm a fat realist. (Although, this week I guess I'm a less fat realist.)  The only hurt I'm feeling right now are hunger pangs because I'm STARVING.  So...I decided that folks on the weight watchers message boards aren't ready for me.  I need politically incorrect folks who have the intelligence to recognize the art of sarcasm. I need you.
Yesterday we went to Buffalo Wild Wings.  (Note to self: Don't go to Buffalo Wild Wings when you only have 7 points left for the day). Everyone around me is ordering wings....the honey BBQ ones.  I listen....and weep silently in my heart.  I look at my little WW app to see how many points are in an order of wings....33. That means, I couldn't eat for the next day and a half.  So I search in a frenzy for something that fits in my 7 point range.  Finally I find it.  The kid's meal - cheeseburger....with fries mandarin oranges.

I do like my little WW app.  It has a scanner.  You can go to the grocery store and scan items to find out how many points are in it.  Of course I head for the WalMart pizza section to discover that their pizzas are only 8 points a slice.  How awesome is that?  I take it home and cook it....and then it dawns on me....maybe their slice/serving, is different than what I'm thinking.  Hmmmm.  I check the label.  Twelve servings in one pizza.  Okay....so I'll cut it into 12.  So my serving size went from envelope size....to postage stamp size.  Eight points per bite basically.
A few things from our meeting today.
I found out you can use your hand to figure out portion sizes.  Your palm is about the size of what your meat serving should be.  Make a fist and that's a cup.  Make a cup with one hand and that can hold 3 ounces of nuts.  Your thumb tip is about a tablespoon and your finger tip is about a teaspoon.  There. Now you don't need a scale.  I personally plan on using Rob's gigantic hand when I need to know how much steak I should be eating.
Annoying man made his appearance as well.  Our speaker was talking about how her husband over did his points and couldn't sleep because his belly hurt.  She had an "I told you so" moment with him...annoying man raises his hand.
"I have a point of contention with that," he says. "You shouldn't shame him into this program.  He shouldn't feel shame.  I don't want to feel ashamed for overdoing it." Blah Blah Blah.
I imagine my hands around his throat while he's talking.  Tightening...slowly...then all at once.  Then I think to myself, "Why am I so grumpy?  Why do I want to hurt him?"  Oh that's right....I'M STARVING.  And I was eating mandarin oranges last night while everyone else was sucking Honey BBQ sauce off their fingers.  The other guy in the meeting starts to speak up but his observation dies down into a whisper.  I see that his wife has placed a death grip on his knee.  I give her a mental high five.
The sweet speaker, who is always encouraging and joyful, finesses the annoying man until his grumblings subside and we're dismissed to face another week.
And as I walk out the door a friend sends me this....and I'm thankful for friends...who get me.