Battle for the Bed

At the Folksy house, we are currently at war.  At stake in this war is the most valuable piece of real estate around: Deb and Sven's king-sized bed.

It began almost five years ago, when Princess was born.  From the very beginning, she would not be alone quietly.  When I think of the money we spent before she arrived on things like cribs and bassinets, I can't help but laugh bitterly.  The crib wasn't a total loss; it converted to the full-size bed she now refuses to sleep in, but the $200 convertible bassinet was a total waste of money unless you consider having an extra place for our late cat (Hambone) to pee is a wise investment.

Princess slept with us for the first year on purpose.  We called it co-sleeping.  Everyone else kept silent, but I knew what they were thinking: how will you ever stop?  Answer: I don't know.  I'll tell you when it happens.  When we decided to have her sleep with us, it was from necessity: I hadn't planned on having a C-section, Sven's brother died the day after we brought her home from the hospital, so we had to find a way I could feed her without getting out of bed every 2-3 hours.  We did what we had to do.

When we found out we were pregnant with Dexy, I said, "We need to get his room all ready."  Sven replied, "I just thought he'd sleep with us the way Princess did."  Bear in mind that, at this point, Princess was almost two years old and it was a nightly struggle to get her to sleep in her room.  I goggled at Sven, but, muddled by the hormones of pregnancy, I shrugged and just went along with it and ate another wedge of cheese the size of a mature hamster.  (That was a strange pregnancy.)

So now, here we are: Dexy, nearly three, who cannot go to sleep without a thumb in his mouth and a hank of my hair in his hand, and Princess, nearly five, who lays down in her bed for thirty seconds before proclaiming, "I had a bad dream, I can't sleep by myself tonight."  My nights are spent curled up in the fetal position on the edge of my once-luxurious bed, waking up every half hour to dislodge a child-sized foot from some part of my person.

We are trying.  This week I've been up every night until 2:00 or 3:00 with Princess, insisting that she sleep in her own bed.  I'm on to her tricks: she will wait until I'm asleep, then creep in and sneak into my room and fall asleep next to her daddy.  (Usually because Dexy is already asleep next to me.)  Some nights, Dexy actually stays in his bed when we carry him down, but Princess is like The Terminator.  She doesn't sleep.  She can go days on two hours of sleep a night with almost no signs of ill effects.

She's ruthless, I tell you.  But she hadn't reckoned on dealing with me.  I'll beat her yet.

The Wrath of Mom

On Monday, I got home and I was so tired, I just couldn't wait to sit down, put my feet up, open up the computer, and write for a while.  When I got home, I was confronted by a grave reality: the dishes had piled up in the sink, there were loads of clothes waiting to be washed, dried, and folded, and the garbage can was full to the point that Sven and I were actively competing to see who would be the sucker that had to actually change the bag, meaning we were precariously balancing mountains of garbage on top of the already full can.

I looked around my house and got mad.  No, not mad.  I was furious.  I put my things down and began to attack the garbage, then the dishes.  I rattled and banged and generally let everyone know that I. Was. Not. Happy.

"I love you, Mommy," Princess said, patting me.

"I love you, too," I snarled.

"I can take care of supper," Sven offered from the recliner.

"Great," I snapped.  "You do that."

"I want chicken nuggets, Daddy," said Dexy.

"Chick-Fil-A!  Chick-Fil-A!" chanted Princess.

"Okay, I'll be right back," said Sven.  When I turned around, they were all gone.  I ran out and caught them, hearing that Sven was taking the children with him.  I knew then that I would not be seeing them for a long time.  "I'm just going through the drive-thru," Sven said.  I cackled bitterly, wiping dish soap from my eyebrows.

Two hours later, when they returned home, I got the scoop.  Here's what happened:

Sven: Now, kids, we're just going through the drive-thru and going home.

Princess: Well, Daddy, since Mommy's not eating, we don't really need to bring the food home.

Sven: I suppose we can see how crowded it is, and if it isn't too crowded we might be able to eat there.

Princess: I think Mommy wants to be alone.  We should eat there to help Mommy.

Sven: We'll see.

Princess: And then we can play on the playground for just a minute.

Sven: All right, we'll see.

Princess: Thank you, Daddy.

They came home after the dishwasher had been run and I had all of the laundry folded, and I was much, much calmer.  Sven had that wry expression that told me he knew he had been suckered by a tiny little girl with dimples and pigtails.

Maybe I need to "Hulk out" on the housework more often...

Update

It has been 11 weeks and 3 days since my surgery, or 80 days.

I have lost 51 pounds since that date.  That is an average of 0.6375 pounds per day.  I know this is good, but I'm still struggling with patience.  I want to see it come off much faster.

To put that in more perspective, the last time I was at this weight was around the time I got married, in 1999.  I've lost 11 years worth of weight in 80 days.

I have lost a shoe size.

I have lost two and a half ring sizes.  Many of my favorite pieces do not fit me at all anymore.

I have lost four pants sizes (depending on how you count those things) and four or five shirt sizes.

Highlight to read for female information: I have lost a cup size and two band sizes in my bust.


In personal developments, I can no longer wrestle with Sven, because I no longer outweigh him.  I learned this painfully (emotionally painfully) the other day when I refused to get off of the couch for something and he pulled me up.  Easily.  Then sicced the kids on me.

My hands no longer sweat.  Not as much, anyway.

I still don't eat much.  I drink a mixture of whey protein and water during the day and generally try for something solid at night.  Right now I'm hooked on egg whites.  A couple of minutes in a pan with some trans-fat-free-butter-like-spread, sprinkle on some cheese (I use real cheese, in your face, fake cheese!) and I can eat as much as six or seven bites.  During the day, I munch on the occasional almond and chewable fiber tablets (the size of baby hockey pucks).

The holidays are coming up, and people are starting to ask (in tones of horror), "What are you going to DO?"  Not only Thanksgiving and Christmas, but Princess and Dexy's birthdays are all happening within the same 1-month period.  My answer: enjoy it.  It will be hard without the food, but it's not like I'm on a diet.  I couldn't splurge if I wanted to, and I'm not sure I want to.  I'm never hungry.  Most food has started to look unappealing to me.  When I see a restaurant meal now, I'm actually horrified at the size of the portions.  I can remember the days (really, only a couple of months ago!) when I would have looked at the same meal and thought, "I hope that will fill me up!"  In other words, my entire attitude toward food and eating are different.  It hasn't been easy, but going through all of this has made the weight loss possible for me in a way it would never have been before.


I don't want to make this into a weight-loss blog, but it's hard to write about what's happening in my life without this weight loss.  It's become a big deal every day.  Getting dressed is even harder now than it used to be, because my pants now literally fall off my body.  (Today's project: moving the buttons on a few pairs so the waist will be smaller.)

So it doesn't look like I'll be meeting my goal of 80 pounds lost by my 3-month checkup (in 4 weeks; 29 pounds in 4 weeks is at least a pound a day) but I should be close.  After I lose those 29 pounds, I have at least another 50 to lose.

I'll see you when I get there.

New Recipe: Homemade Chicken Nuggets

Since my little procedure about two months ago, I have had to drastically change the way I eat.  As in, I can't anymore.  Eat, I mean.  Really, I eat almost nothing.  Unfortunately, for several weeks the only things that seem to want to stay in my stomach without making me sick are really bad foods: pizza, lasagna, quesadillas, macaroni and cheese...you get the idea.  I would rather not eat anything than eat those foods, so there have been a lot of 200-calorie days lately.

So I splurged and bought a couple of cookbooks, and I tried a recipe tonight that went over very well with me and my family.  I am sharing the recipe here because I changed it enough to make it my own.

A serving (about 5 nuggets) equals around 150 calories, 25 grams of protein (about), low carbs, some fiber.

Ingredients:
Boneless skinless chicken breasts or tenderloins
Egg whites
Reduced fat Pringles potato chips
Fiber One cereal (original)
Seasoning to taste (I used Lawry's Seasoning Salt, but any seasoning you like would work.)

Preheat oven to 375.  Spray a baking sheet with non-stick spray.

Cut chicken into desired size pieces.  Coat with egg whites.

In a blender or food processor, combine Fiber One cereal (about 1/2 cup for 1 pound chicken), seasoning, and potato chips (16-24 chips).  Pulse until you achieve a bread crumb like texture.  Place this mixture in a gallon-size plastic bag.

Place chicken in the bag and shake to coat.  You can do this in batches or all at once.

Put coated chicken on baking sheet and bake for 10 minutes.  Turn over and bake another 10 minutes, or until crispy and cooked through.  Excellent with ketchup.

I used about 1 pound of chicken and it was enough to feed me, Sven, Princess, and Dexy with leftovers.

I ate two.  Yay!

My Grandparents

My mother's parents were really special.

I was thinking today about what I was going to do this year for Thanksgiving, and it has reminded me of a couple of stories I remember about my grandparents.

My grandpa had a bad heart.  It runs in the family, unfortunately.  Of course, his doctors put him on a salt-free diet and, since it was the 1980's, salt substitutes were horrible, bitter things.  Well, my grandmother found a great one that tasted just like salt.  It was amazing!

After Grandpa died, Grandma went on using the salt substitute.  Eventually she had to go and replace it.  Imagine her shock when the salt substitute tasted terrible!  It was bitter and awful and she was just so confused!

Until she found the big container of REAL salt hidden in the kitchen.  Grandpa had been quietly replacing the salt substitute with real salt for years.  Grandma had to laugh.

My second story is about Grandma.  Grandma lived until 2005, passing away just a few weeks before Princess was born.  She remained vital and healthy for years after Grandpa died, but of course, as time went on she could do less and less.

We always went to Grandma's house for Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve.  Grandma made the same dishes every year, and assigned each of us to bring the same things, so it was a menu you could really count on.  One dish Grandma made sure never to forget was the corn-and-oysters.

Made with canned oysters and creamed corn, this dish truly had to be seen (and smelled) to be believed.  Yet, year after year, the dish was completely clean at the end of the feast, thanks to the combined efforts of my father and my Uncle Pat.  Grandma never really knew that Dad and Pat were the only two eating it.  She thought we all loved it, that it was the dish without which our family Thanksgiving could not be complete.

I remember the year she told me that she just didn't feel up to making the corn and oysters.  "Deb, I know the family will be so disappointed," she said earnestly.  "I just don't think I can make the corn and oysters this year."  "Grandma," I said sincerely, "we'll manage."  Only my father complained.

It's been 5 years since Grandma died, and 23 years since Grandpa died.  Even though I miss them every day, thinking about them makes me happy.  Hopefully one day Princess will have children (she currently plans on having eight) who will tell stories about their kooky Grandma Deb, who wore knee-socks and danced the Futterwagon on the living-room sofa.

Obviously, I plan for an active, lightly medicated old age.

Compatibility: Fighting

Men and women fight differently.  Sven and I, of course, as the perfect married couple, never fight.  We do, however, disagree, argue, snipe, snark, discuss, mull, and wrestle.

After a morning spent in the following sort of dialogue:

Sven: Where are Princess' shoes?
Deb: Ask Princess.
Princess: They're in the toilet. (Giggles)
Sven: Would you just find her shoes?
Deb: Is your leg broken?
Sven: Is yours?
Deb: Is yours?
Sven: Is yours?
Dexy: I hungry.

I leave for work feeling guilty about my negativity toward my loving, hard-working man.  I go to work in a blue mood.  Around lunchtime, I send him a text message saying something like "I love you, I'm sorry I was so nasty to you this morning."  I get no response.

In typical female fashion, now I begin to worry.  Maybe he's really mad.  Maybe he is just tired of all of this.  Maybe he's thinking about how I never cook anymore, or how I've been dressing my children out of clean laundry baskets instead of putting their clothes away.  I begin to fret.

After two hours of fretting, I send the text message again.  He calls me back.  We have the following conversation:

Sven: So what are you sorry for?
Deb: For being so nasty and snipy this morning.
Sven: Oh.  Well, I was pretty snipy myself.
Deb: You were, but I felt bad about it.
Sven: I had forgotten all about it, actually.
Deb: Oh.
Sven: But I accept your apology.
Deb: Thank you.

This is the difference: when men get mad and blow of steam, they feel better.  When women do it, they feel worse.  I came to this conclusion by having an extremely scientific conversation with my partner teacher, Georgia, and my student teacher Eurydice.  Of course there are the exceptions: the enlightened men who never ignore their wives even when they say something eight times and then ask, "Did you say something about needing me to pick up the kids today?" even when you've been reminding them every day for eight days but hey, they didn't actually NEED the information until today so it doesn't count.  Needless to say, those enlightened men will not look at their wives at that point and say, "Why didn't you TELL me?"  But I really believe those men are the exception.

Feel free to disagree with me.  I will text you later to apologize.

Routine

If there's one thing I pride myself on, it is my morning routine.  I am a paragon of efficiency.  I treasure my mornings, for, as you will see, it is during my mornings that I am most myself.

The following takes place between 2:00 A.M. and 8:00 A.M.:

2:00 A.M.: One of the children staggers in, wakes me up, announces "I had a bad dream," and gets into bed with me.

2:45 A.M.: The other one repeats that process.

3:15 A.M.: I accept that I will not be getting back to sleep and get out the computer to write for a few minutes.

4:00 A.M.: I finish with my Facebook, discussion boards, e-mail checks, and general internet playing and get down to the business of writing.

4:20 A.M.: My alarm goes off and is turned off.

4:50 A.M.: I get up and go downstairs to walk on the treadmill.

5:30 A.M.: I stagger upstairs and take a shower.  The children may or may not be awake at this point.  If they are, my shower is cut to 3 minutes and I emerge from the bathroom screaming "Put that down!" and "Don't stick that in your father, he's sleeping!"

5:33-5:50 A.M: Get out of the shower (see note above).  Get out computer just to check on that last sentence.

6:15 A.M.: Get off of Facebook and just check that last sentence.

6:30 A.M.: Say defensively to Sven, "I AM getting ready!"

6:45 A.M.: Finish makeup, move to bathroom to dry hair.

6:50 A.M.: Discover that I have literally no clothes that fit me anymore, cry.

6:55 A.M.: Realize that the dress I saved for years because I couldn't bear to give it away even though it was too small fits, rejoice.

6:58 A.M.: Go downstairs, put shoes on various feet and ponytails on various heads.

7:01 A.M.: Announce I am leaving.

7:05 A.M.: Return to get glasses.  Announce I am leaving.

7:07 A.M.: Kiss a crying Dexy, who is on the driveway lamenting, "I just wanted to say I love you, Mommy!"

7:10 A.M.: Realize I forgot my vitamins, go back in.

7:15 A.M.: Help Sven put the kids in his car, kiss faces.

7:21 A.M.: Swear.

7:25 A.M.: Leave for work, secure in the knowledge that I have nearly five minutes to get there and be on time.

7:38 A.M.: Arrive at work.  Gaze at the pile of work I left for myself the night before.

7:42 A.M.: Swear.

8:00 A.M.: Greet my first class of the day with a smile and a song.  That other stuff can wait.

Popping and Locking

I had my first appointment with a chiropractor today.  This was a "free consultation," so the last thing I expected was to actually get what they call an "adjustment."  I was wrong.  I left the massage parlor (where his office was, don't judge me) fifteen minutes after meeting him with a spring in my step and a pip in my pep.

This was my first adjustment.  Needless to say, when the very attractive chiropractor was massaging my glutes (a.k.a. "fanny") to find out "where I carried the most tension," I felt a bit strange.  Not awkward, but so comfortable I just knew something was wrong.  After all, I'm a happily married woman!  I shouldn't be comfortable with a tall, well-built, blue-eyed blonde man (estimated height: 6'2") rubbing my derriere, but there I was, happy as the proverbial clam.  Alas, the butt analysis was negative ("Feels real good," he said. "Thank you," I replied) so the focus shifted to my spine and neck.

We moved on to the neck adjustment.  One excruciating crunch later, I felt lighter and more alert.  We moved on to the mid-back.  This adjustment was accomplished by me folding my arms over my chest while he basically threw his body down on top of mine.  Before any of you begin transposing the surf scene from "From Here to Eternity" onto a chiropractor's table, let me assure you that this adjustment was accompanied by me making the least sexy sound known to man.  This combination of grunt and groan had all of the aesthetic appeal of a diarrheic bagpipe player who forgot to remove his instrument before a strategic retreat to the loo.

The lower back, which I expected to be the motherlode of adjustment, so to speak, was surprisingly anticlimactic.  Bend this leg, straighten that one, turn your head, cough... you know how it goes.  Once I was done, Dr. Nick (really) told me, "I really hope I see you again."  I went straight home to my wonderful husband, Sven, whose idea this was in the first place.  I hope he's pleased with how well it went.

I know I am.  Next time, I'm taking a camera.