Pump it up!

In March, I had an appointment with the nurse practitioner at my endochrinology office.  I have been meeting with Amy for 4 years now and I love her to the end of the earth.  She is calm, listens, and has helped me be such a better diabetic, as strange as that sounds.  I mean first, she changed my diagnosis from a type II to a type I which altered my treatment plan dramatically all those years ago.  She and the nurses on staff got me through my pregnancy with Quinn healthy and safe and I don't know what I would do with out her.  In fact, she's a little bit older and if she were ever to retire, I just don't know what I would do.

Anyway, the last few months, being a diabetic has been pretty challenging.  My blood sugars have been out of whack, one of the insulin's I was using, Lantus, seemed to stop working and, when you are supposed to wake up with your blood sugars between 90-120 and you are in the 200's, there is a problem.

After months of thinking about it, and just not feeling well, I was ready when my March appointment came, to talk to Amy about a pump.

First, I wore a sensor for a 5 day study to see what exactly my blood sugar was doing every day.  The sensor recorded a glucose level every 5 minutes for 5 days, turned that data into charts and the short version is, I needed to be on a pump.  My body was doing something called "insulin pooling" which means that when I was taking large doses, of Lantus in particular, it was basically just hanging out in my body, my body not being able to convert the insulin into the right molecules to work.  So, even though I was shooting up 30 units of this long lasting insulin twice a day, I was maybe getting the benefit of half of those units.

Not the best thing for someone whose body cannot create it's own insulin.

I got my insulin pump, whom I've named Dieter, on April 8th.  The learning curve to getting all my insulin doses set up correctly has been a roller coaster.  It's been hard.  The first 10 days, I just wasn't getting enough insulin and I was pretty miserable.  But now, as I enter the third full week, things are going well and I'm pretty "Pumped" about the whole thing.

Last week, things got even cooler when I added a sensor to the whole set-up.  The sensor takes continuous glucose data and sends it to my pump, giving me a ball park number of where my blood sugar levels are approximately.  If I get too low, like I did at 4 am this morning, then the pump vibrates and chimes until I wake up and take care of things.  That is a lifesaver.  It means that I wake up when my number is 67 because the pump woke me up, instead of waking up on my own with my blood sugar in the 30's.

Lifesaver.

I change the sensor every 6 days.  I change the infusion site for my pump every two and a half days.  This, in exchange for 4-6 needle pokes into my arms and gut every single day - for the last 10 years.  Now, the needles for both insertion devices are pretty big - and a little intimidating at first, but I've gotten used to it and it's all good.

This July (2016) I will have been a diagnosed Diabetic for 10 years.  Ten years is a long time and if I sit down and think about the fact that I have to deal with this the rest of my life, and that it has the potential to do super rotten things to my body (eye sight, nerve damage, etc.) then it's pretty depressing and frustrating.  But, this pump may make the next 10 years a little bit easier to manage.  It doesn't fix everything, but it is, right now, making a huge difference.

In a nutshell....

Last week was busy.  The busy was compounded by the fact that Ross and I have been sick.  Him for 11 days and me for 17, but whose counting.  Oh wait, I am!  We seem to have some sort of allergy driven cold/flu/bronchitis type thing.  Life is really hard with three kids when both parents are sick.  And exhausted.  But, we managed to pull another week out of our Mary Poppins carpet bag in spite of it all.




Wyatt had the week off of school for "kindergarten testing".  That's a rant of a post on it's own, but I'll just avoid it for now.  I had big plans to keep him busy, but being a sick parent with a lazy couch potato has it's advantages.  Staying home and watching tv is one of them.

Haley and the kids came over to jump on the trampoline, watch bugs and eat lunch.

We waited for the floor guy to come and fix a bad spot on the floor.  He never showed.  We waited for the oven repair man to come back for the 4th time to finally figure out why our oven doesn't work.  The igniter burned a hole through the base.  We could have blown ourselves up.  Good times.

I made two pioneer trek skirts and a trek apron for a neighbor's daughter.  I made three fanny packs and a purse for my sister.  I let my house become a total disaster.  I still haven't put my living and dining rooms back together because the baseboards need to be caulked and painted.

The boys had four baseball games: Elliott on Tuesday and Thursday and Wyatt on Wednesday and Friday.  Both boys played well.  Both boys went 2-0.  Both boys finished their regular season with error free games.  Both boys teams are in the playoffs starting this week.

We attended cousin Luke's baptism.  While at the church, Jack and Quinn were wearing the same outfits and Quinn saw a picture of Jesus holding a lamb on his lap.  He turned to us and said, "Look at Jesus holding that cute puppy."  It was pretty funny.



Ross finally got around to taking Wyatt shopping for his birthday present, a new bike, a month late.  He's got to learn to ride it without training wheels, and after a few attempts on Saturday afternoon, he may be 12 before he can figure it out.



We ended Saturday with our first trip to the splash pad.  My boys seem, at times, incapable of just "playing" and they spent all their splash pad time lying on the concrete instead of actually playing in the water.  Oh well.  And Quinn fell asleep.  7:00 pm naps are where it's at...only if the kid wakes up long enough to get his pajamas on and go back to bed.  Those are pretty sweet nights.



Here's to another LONG week of baseball and school and hopefully not being too sick anymore.  I'm getting tired of blowing bright pink brain matter out of my nose, while feeling like a small elephant is sitting on my chest.

why is it such a challenge?

I'm in a rut.  I'm sure most of you know the kind of rut I'm talking about.  The kind where, no matter what clothes you put on in the morning, even though it's your regular "uniform", you feel like you look like Captain Stupid.  The rut where even though you are wearing make-up, there is no covering up those dark circles under your eyes.  That rut where, even though you look at yourself every day and observe, where all your regular clothes fit just like they always have, the number on the scale keeps changing...in the wrong direction.  Sometimes jumping three pounds overnight.  How do I gain three pounds overnight?!

And then, even though he insists it's a compliment, your husband calls you curvy.

I'm sure it was, in his head, a compliment.

But.

It doesn't work that way.

Here's the part I cannot reconcile, and it's driving me completely mad.  I know that I am good at a lot of things.  I have talents, that are put to use regularly.  The entire dual immersion second grade things I'm the coolest PE mom in the world.  I can sew up a storm every day.  I never let the laundry pile up.  I am smart, educated, kind, thoughtful, considerate, funny, musically challenged and like most people, I just really wish that I was a good dancer.  I take really good care of my kids and am so proud that they are smart and kind and funny and special good kids.  I think that I am a good wife.  I know I'm a terrible housekeeper, but I'm okay with that and I am a really good cook to compensate for the messy bathrooms.

But.

Why can't I seem to make any of that matter?  Why instead, do I get in these ruts where, I feel like my self-worth and identity should be determined by my weight, how my clothes fit, whether my hair looks perfectly symmetrical and how much I exercise every day. Which, by the way, is almost never (but we don't need to talk about that).  Why do I become consumed with self-doubt, hesitation and reservation about all the things that I'm good at to the point that I don't think I'm good at them anymore...all because I weigh as much as an offensive linebacker.

Is it hard for you to get dressed for church on Sunday?  Sunday's are my most stressful and uptight days of the week.  I go through outfit after outfit trying to get ready for church.  My bedroom looks like a dressing room threw up.  Never, do I make it to church on the first outfit I try, it's usually the third or fourth outfit that I settle with and head out the door in a huff.

Why do I do that?

It really makes no sense, at all.  Does it?

The answer was in front of me the whole time...

A few weeks ago, I documented, just a little, the ongoing health saga that is my life.  Stomach problems, coughing problems, ultrasounds, HIDA scan and no possible solutions.

Well, I guess it's good when you finally start to figure your problems out.  I guess it's bad when your problems are caused by your health professionals and giving those professionals a little too much trust.

Flash back to three weeks ago - my blood pressure medication was up for a refill and, I refilled it.  I did however, go get it a day late, and missed a day of taking my pill.  I'm on a relatively low dose, had a low stress day, so I just went with it.  I regularly take all my pills in the mornings, and about 2 hours after I would have taken my bp pill, I realized I hadn't coughed all morning.  By the end of the day, when on a "normal" day I'd have coughed myself into gagging and dry heaving at least three times I hadn't coughed once.

Well, I smartened up (ha!) and when I went to pick up my refill the next day I talked to the pharmacist and asked if this pill could make me cough.  He said yes, that it could make me cough and cause a whole slew of other problems, and he wrote some instructions/recommendations on my receipt for me to talk to my doctor with.

Here is an important detail.  I had been on a medication called Linsopril in 2013.  It made me cough like a smoker with lung cancer.  I was on it for three months and in the fall of 2014 switched to a medication called Losartan.  It is significant to note that I assumed I was taking Losartan, and that it had started to make me cough, too.

Back to the story.  I quit taking my blood pressure medication.  I had an appointment with the doctor that prescribes said medication in two weeks and I figured that I could last two weeks without it.

Those two weeks started to take their toll and by Monday of this week, the day of my appointment, I wasn't doing so hot.  Persistent 5 day, moderate migraine headache, and major swelling in my hands and feet - about 5 lbs worth of water retention.  My head hurt, my hands couldn't turn my car key or do zippers on little kid jackets, and my feet were tingling.

I went to my appointment where, completely out of character, they kept me waiting 40 minutes; but that's a story for a different day.

By the time I was called back, I had 15 minutes for my appointment if I wanted to get Elliott from school on time.  We flew through my A1C, reading my meter, evaluating my insulin sliding scale.  My blood pressure came in at 157/98 so I figured that was as good a time as any to quickly bring up the problem with my medication and mentioned that I hadn't taken it for two weeks.  I was reprimanded, of course, but then my doctor told me that Losartan shouldn't be making me cough.  We talked back and forth about potential problems and I mentioned that I've only been taking 20 mg, and that's why I felt okay not taking the pill for two weeks.  She told me that Losartan only comes in 25 and 50 mg and that I was on 50.

Nothing was making sense so I pulled the note from the pharmacist out of my wallet.  I looked at his notes.  Then I looked at the flip side at the actual prescription information.  I had been taking Linsopril - not Losartan.

What the holly hannah hello nurse is going on?

We talked some more, I was furious and immediately put all my blame on the pharmacy for filling a very old prescription.  But, bigger than that, all the puzzle pieces came together.  I didn't know how long I'd been taking the wrong pill, but I was certain that THIS PILL was the culprit for everything that had been wrong with me in the last 6 months.

I left my appointment.  Furious.

I called Ross.  He was furious.

Waiting in line for Elliott at school I started looking up side effects of Linsopril.  The list was hefty and, in the last 6 months, minus erectile dysfunction, I'd had nearly every single side effect of that stupid pill from the most common to the very rare.  And, with more research, I discovered that people who had been taking this pill had the same sorts of stomach problems as me - resulting in gallbladder removals, intestinal surgeries, and misdiagnoses of Chrohn's disease.

I was so mad!

Here's where it gets more interesting.  Ross went to the pharmacy for me on Monday night to talk to them and get a medication history for me.  What he found floored me.  When my medications were all refilled in July 2014, my doctor's office - well, a substitute nurse at my doctor's office, somehow sent the wrong medication to the pharmacy and I'd been taking Linsopril (not Losartan) since July and I never looked closely enough at the label (the pills were the same shape and colors, depending on the generics used), to even question that it was the right (or the wrong) medication.

So, not only was I taking a pill that was making me horribly ill, I wasn't taking enough bp medication to even help me feel better.


Ggggrrrrrrrr!

So, the right medication was filled and I've been on it for a few days, with some pretty intense headaches as I adjust.  No one cares that I've had literal pain and suffering for months and months.  I have no recourse, not that I'd really be looking for any.

But...

BUt....

BUT...

I guess I've learned a valuable lesson.

Read the labels and question everything.

If I just stop thinking about it...

Starting clear back in October, I didn't feel well.  My stomach was upset, I had a hard time standing up straight.  I assumed it was just the run of the mill cold or maybe the flu or something, and it was bearable so I just went about my regular day.

After a couple of weeks, I got worse.  I felt like I was going to puke, about 70% of my day, still couldn't stand up straight, my body ached and I was miserable.  And I was coughing.  I had a mild cough.

It got bad enough that I did two things.  First, I actually took a pregnancy test, just to make sure (negative thank heavens!) and Second, I went to Instacare.  I explained my vague symptoms to the nurse and the doctor, they did a bunch of blood work, made me drink a medicine that numbed my throat and thought maybe I had a bacterial ulcer.
 
All my blood work came back negative for any problems (including the ulcer) and I was given a medication for an overly acidic stomach.  The medication, for whatever reason, after about 3 days made my cough worse.  A gut wrenching, gaging, send me running to the bathroom because I was dry heave coughing, cough.  I was absolutely miserable.

So miserable that I did something I NEVER do.  I made (well, Ross made for me) an appointment to go to a real doctor.  At this point, I'd been sick for the better part of a month with good days and bad days, and a ridiculous cough keeping me up at night all along the way.

I told my doctor everything that was wrong with me.  He did more blood work and thought that I had a problem with my gallbladder.  I had an ultrasound, that showed no stones or problems, got a new and different medication for stomach acid, and came home.  I was told to give the medication two weeks and if I didn't feel better, to come back.

Two weeks later, I was back in the office.  The doctor still thought it was my gallbladder.  I still was coughing and feeling super sick all the time.  I scheduled a test called a HIDA scan, and had it done the day after Christmas.  I had to fast for 6 hours and couldn't take any of my medications to prepare for the test, which was basically a CAT scan of my stomach, gallbladder and intestines.  On the morning of the test I got an IV, was injected with radioactive chemicals and sat in a chair for 45 minutes before I spent an hour holding the most still I've ever held in my life while another chemical was injected into me and I watched it crawl through my body for an hour.

The night before the exam, was probably the worst night I've had in a very long time.  I was so sick to my stomach, gagging and dry heaving all night long and thought my body was going to implode.  The test wasn't hard, but I was so miserable already that by the time I was finished, and after not eating for about 13 hours, I spent the day moaning and whining and pouting.  Typical for me, actually.

The technician told me what to look for, and there is nothing wrong with my gallbladder, even though I technically haven't heard from my doctor yet (test was three weeks ago) and I'm so disinterested in calling to hunt down my results, I'll just leave it as it is.  For now.

The only problem is: the cough that had almost disappeared right after Christmas is back this week with a vengeance.  My voice sounds funny I've coughed so much.  I cannot lay down to go to sleep, but have to be propped up on four pillows.  My stomach doesn't hurt as it has been, but I'm on medication.

My mom thinks I have a herniated esophagus problem.  My husband thinks I have an ulcer.  I think doctors are stupid and don't listen to me.

I've been trying this week not to think about the fact that I don't feel well.  That seems, for some karmically mean reason, to make the cough worse.

It would be nice, if someone could help figure out what is wrong with me.  Unfortunately, no one seems interested.

When they get sick

Elliott was diagnosed with asthma when he was around two years old.  He however, minus a few seasonal coughs, never really had any severe problems and it's safe to say has outgrown any symptoms of asthma that he may have ever had when he was much younger.

Wyatt contracted RSV, we believe from a shopping cart at Wal-Mart in St. George, Utah in the early spring of 2010, when he was about 9 months old.  This illness was pretty horrible and was the spring board for his asthma diagnosis.   Since that time, the last four years, have been a roller coaster of breathing issues with this #2 child of ours.  Every change of season, we are in the doctor's office for steroids and lunch checks.  We have an asthma action plan.  He always has a cough and last fall, we broke down and just bought a nebulizer because the inhaler just couldn't do it's job.  It's hard to get a little kid to suck the medicine out of an inhaler the right way.

Luckily for us though, or luckily for Wyatt, we are good enough with his symptoms that, when the cough changes, he is on the machine and we've been able to ward off any bouts with bronchitis or any other respiratory problems for the majority of the year (knock on wood).  We aren't as good with his daily Flovent and singular treatments as we should be, but he really does alright.  If only he could learn how to clear the phlegm balls that build up in his lungs without throwing up all over the kitchen floor.  That would be a miracle.



Now, Quinn?  This kid?  I really thought that we had escaped the asthma menace with this one.  The primary reason I decided to feed him myself, and not feed him formula, was the "evidence" that nursing a baby was one of the sure-fire ways to prevent childhood asthma.  I was sold.    However, I was wrong.

On Monday last week, Ross took Wyatt and Quinn to the doctor because both seemed under the weather and with Wyatt, especially, we just cannot every be too sure that his cough isn't something more than just a cough.  Both boys checked out fine, minor colds, no problems.

On Tuesday morning of last week, when I got Quinn out of bed in the morning, he was not good.  His breathing was fast and a little erratic.  Speedy like a hummingbird bats it's wings with long pauses, like he was trying to catch his breath from breathing.  And, knowing the signs of wheezing, regardless of being able to hear his wheeze from a different room, I could see the problem.  The skin on his neck above his collarbone, as well as the skin on his belly above his ribs was completely concave every time he breathed.  With every breath, he looked like a skeleton.  It was bad and it terrified me.

I called Ross.  I called the doctors office and got him an early appointment with the nurse practitioner he had seen the day before.  When she met us in the small room, she could hear him wheeze, and said, "He did not sound like this yesterday".  "I know I said, this started in the middle of the night".  In spite of his best efforts to maim both of us with his deadly shoes and sharp finger nails, she completely her exam and I pinned him down for an albuterol treatment.  Wheezing.  Mild respiratory infection.  Albuterol with a nebulizer for 3-4 days until the cough stops.  If he gets any worse, or if the fever got worse, bring him back in.

We headed home, both exhausted, me still with shoe prints on my arms and sweat dripping down my back from the wrestling match I wasn't prepared for and we camped out for the day.  Quinn was so tired he slept through several transports in and out of the car (into the house, back to the car to get Wyatt from school, back into the house once we got Wyatt).



I thought in the next day and a half that things were on the mend, and that we were doing better.  Then came Thursday afternoon.  It was the appointment for his two year old check-up that we'd scheduled weeks ago with our regular pediatrician.  He had a slightly elevated fever and I told her about our earlier appointments in the week.  She took one look at him, got quiet, did some checks of his ears and throat and then stepped out of the office for a second.  She came back with a laminated card depicting kids with various stages of sores all over their bodies and gave me the verdict:  Hand Foot and Mouth Disease (sores all over the inside of his mouth), ear infection, respiratory infection, asthma.

I.  was.  not.  prepared.  for.  that.

Bam!

We got a prescription for the ear infection.

He ate all the dum-dum suckers in my purse to keep him from screaming.

I texted and then called Ross.

I was exhausted.  I also knew I was getting it myself (and I've spent the last three days horribly awfully miserably sick, but that's not really worth a blog post) and that I had 7-10 more days of one sick baby on my hands.

Well, he's finally feeling better.  Everyone is finally feeling better. (Except me, of course)

And, I've got another asthma baby on my hands.

I told my husband, the culprit of all this asthma crap (Ross was also a childhood asthmatic), half joking, that if I would have known what his genes would do to my children, that may have been a deal breaker.

He laughed....nervously.

A milestone worth noting

2014 has sort of been a year where I've been working on a little bit of self-improvement.

I finished 18 months worth of classes in April and renewed my teaching license for another few years.

I've quit relying so much on pills for aches and pains and zits and turned to different things like essential oils, homeopathic remedies, and more natural stuff like oils and honey and cinnamon to cure what ails me.

I've tried to not yell at my kids as much and take a deep breath before I rush into a situation and freak out at them.

I've tried to start reading again, watch a lot of interesting documentaries, and pay more attention to real news instead of celebrity news.

Mostly though, it's been a food and weight loss journey for me this year.  I've written about it so much the last few months that I'm sure no on is interested in reading about it anymore, so I'll keep it brief.

This week I hit a landmark goal.  Last November, when I finally got serious and motivated to make some changes, I set a goal to lose 30 pounds.  Never in my wildest dreams did I think that it would take me 10 long months full of success, but also a lot of tears and frustration and angry to get to that goal, but this week I did it.  There was no fan fare.  No ticker tape parade.  I didn't do a single thing to celebrate except smile a little on the scale on Thursday morning when I saw the number I've been aiming for forever.  I finally made it.  Phew!

Lest you worry that I'm done, there are a few more weight loss and healthy living goals to come.  I'm going to continue on the path I'm on for the remainder of 2014.  I'd like to lose at least another 10 pounds if I've got it in me, and I'd like to re-establish my gym routine which, in the last few weeks has all but disappeared in lieu of the snooze button and the elliptical machine at home.

But, I did it.  I've wanted to quit at least once during every single week of the last 10 months but I didn't.  I'm not sure where the will power or the motivation has come from this time around, but I'm sure happy that it decided to stick around.

Weighing in...

Yesterday I had an appointment with my diabetes dr.  As always, I get nervous before these appointments.  I go every three months, and it seems the week or two before these appointments, my body goes haywire with crazy blood sugar lows and highs and I end up being totally out of whack and feeling pretty crappy.  Ross and I have taken to calling them my quarterly tune-ups.  It's time to tweak the numbers and change the sliding scales.

The thing that always wigs me out about the doctor though, is the scale.  That blasted scale.  As I've mentioned countless times before, it's my nemesis.  I'm trying to not worry about it so much, or be so tied to the number it reports, but I just cannot help it.

Also, as I've mentioned previously, my weight has been "weighing" heavily on my mind (ha, a pun!) for months and months as I've been struggling to shed some pounds and get healthier.  I'm on week three of my second 12 week health challenge and am really focusing on getting healthier and eating healthier.  Even though I want the hamburger, I'm choosing the salad.  Blah, blah, blah.

Anyway - two things.
One, I got my trainer folder from the gym on Tuesday and decided to update my measurements.  The last time they were checked was April 10, three months ago, so I decided they needed some updating.  Not a whole lot had changed, except in my hips and thighs, which have each seen a four inch decrease in the last three months.  I thought that was pretty great.  No wonder stuff is fitting better!

Two, on my scale at home, I've lost 15 pounds since April.  It's been hard work and I've had to fight for every single pound, but I've been doing it.  My brother-in-law can drop 20 pounds in a week, but I have to fight for 15 in months.  But, the 15 is important because this 15, added to the 10 I lost last year equals 25.  That brings me within 5 pounds of the goal of 30 I set for myself last November.  Initially, I didn't think losing 30 pounds would take me 7 months or more, I thought I could do it fast. Then, the fact that 7 months later I'm still fighting my way through to hit my goal, it's exhausting and makes me pretty proud of myself at the same time.  By November of this year, going a full 12 months, hopefully I can knock out those last 5 pounds, and maybe another 10?  I'm sure that's asking too much, but if I've made it this far, I might as well keep going, right?

Anyway with the inches and the pounds under my belt, I was prepared for the doctors scale yesterday....at least prepared enough to not let the high number (why is it always so much higher than at home?) upset and frustrate and deter me.  Like it always does.  But, I realized something yesterday.  The number at the doctor's office was a little bit higher than at home, but regardless, her scale showed a 15 pound weight loss too, her scale's scale is just a little bit different (another pun).

That was a pretty good feeling.

I don't often walk away from a doctor's appointment feeling good about myself.  I also don't generally have a health practitioner tell me that I'm doing a good job and that she is proud of me. 

It was a nice change of pace.

Healthy Living Challenge

On Sunday, I finished 12 weeks of a Healthy Living Challenge with a group of 15 people.  For three months, I did the following:
Exercised at least 30 minutes a day, five days a week
Ate no sweets or sugar six days per week (Sunday was my sugar day)
Ate two servings of fruit per day
Ate three servings of vegetables per day
Kept a food journal (used my fitness pal app)
Stopped eating every day before 9:00 pm
Drank 64 oz. of water per day
Got 7 hours of sleep per night
Worked on a personal goal each day
Had contact with a teammate daily

As part of the challenge, each of the 10 items was worth a certain amount of points each week and you got extra points for losing weight.  I don't know the final results of the challenge, but I think I ended up in about fifth or sixth place overall.  I lost about 10 pounds in 12 weeks and though I'm very competitive in nature, there was no way that I could beat the people at the top, who obviously lost a ton of weight because after the first week, when I was in third place, they blew me out of the water.  To be honest, I was super discouraged through the whole competition that weight loss was the key to winning when I turned in almost perfect score cards each week, largely because I'm on so much medication that makes weight loss almost completely impossible, but I persevered and fought through all my discouragement and am proud of myself for sticking it out until the end.

And a lot has happened in the three months I was doing this healthy living challenge.  I've learned that there are a lot of foods that in the past I've eaten that now, make me really sick like pizza and pasta and tortilla chips and anything else super carbohydrate heavy.  I'm not a huge fast food eater, but in the last three months, the only "fast food" I can even stand the smell of, let alone eat is In-n-Out.  Everything else just makes me gag and sick to my stomach.  I've cut 90% of the sugar out of my diet, as well as 95% of the diary and have no plans on adding them back to my diet in any regular rotation.  I can barely finish a 12 oz. diet coke and don't even come close to finishing a 32 oz. from the gas station or McDonalds.  It lasts me all day and then ends up just going down the drain.

I've realized that my biggest food weakness is bread.  My goal for the next few weeks is to figure out how to eliminate most of the bread from my diet and see what kind of changes that makes to my waistline and my health.

Throughout the last 12 weeks I've been sick quite a lot.  In the beginning, I had horrible stomach aches and felt queasy and nauseous a lot.  Then, as I added more and more fruit and vegetables to my diet, I got more stomach aches as my body adjusted to all the healthy stuff.  I've had monstrous headaches throughout the experience - every time I veer off the path and eat something I shouldn't, I get a mild migraine - food related - reminding me to stay on track.

Overall though, I feel so much better.  My skin is more clear.  The blackheads that have always hung out on my nose are almost completely gone.  My hair is thicker and growing faster and falling out less.  I fall asleep fast and hard and sleep deeply.  All my exercise has revived the muscles in my arms and all the crunches I do at the gym on a balance ball are really starting to give me some definition in my abs that I haven't seen since I was maybe in high school.  Flabby abby's, but still...there's something there.

Now, the challenge is over.  Yesterday, my first free day, I didn't go to the gym and I didn't track anything that I ate.  I did okay food wise except that I ate a little less than half of a dunford donut in the afternoon, just because I could.  And, I felt sick for the rest of the day, and couldn't even finish my dinner at night I was still feeling sick.

Lesson learned.

I've trained my body and my mind.

I've got about 15 pounds to go until I reach the goal weight I set for myself last October.  Hopefully I'll get to that goal weight by this October.  Weight loss is slow going for me.  Very slow going!  But, I've lost 20 pounds and they seem to be gone for good and I don't want them to ever come back.  I like the way things are turning out.  I like the way my clothes fit.  I like that I feel healthier.

Finally, I'm headed in the right direction.

Here's to the next "healthy living challenge."

Anyone want to join me?

Weighing in: 7 long months

I'll admit, as I've done many times before, that I am a slave to my scale.  It's my worst enemy, especially at the doctor's office and the gym, and I've learned not to trust those.  I also know that in a day, my weight can fluctuate easily by five pounds depending on what I've eaten, the weather, my mood, and a million other factors.

That being said, yesterday morning I hit an emotional high, with a new low on the scale.  Finally, after 7 longs months of insanely hard work - long mornings in the gym, working with a trainer, counting calories, cutting out almost all dairy, grains and gluten and 90 percent of sugar, I am finally at the weight I was at in December 2011 when I found out I was expecting Quinn.

But yesterday, after seeing that number on the scale, while I was walking around the lake with two of my little munchkins I had a couple of epiphanies.

1) I have worked really hard.  Minus being pregnant, which was largely out of my control but very hard work nonetheless, I have worked harder on my overall health and fitness since October 2013 than I have on anything else in a very long time, if ever, minus babies.  It's a daily process that doesn't get any easier, but it's still something that I need to keep doing.

2) Because of all that hard work, I need to give myself some credit.  Being a diabetic puts some major roadblocks in front of me, but I'm still doing it.  I keep pounding that dumb scale into my head because it's hardly budged in months.  But, in the big picture, since October, I've lost 18 pounds, lost over 6 inches on my waist alone, am leaner and meaner and am the most physically fit I've been in more than 10 years.  That's something to be proud of.  It often doesn't feel like a lot, but I need to give myself some credit.  I'm going to start trying to do that.

3) I've kicked a lot of bad habits.  Tortilla chips don't taste as good any more, but green beans taste better.  Sugar isn't as satisfying as it used to be and I think I'm finally ready to pass on pizza all together because even one slice immediately makes my stomach upset and bloated.  I am finally starting to realize that there are  foods that make me sick and even though they taste good, they just aren't worth eating, and that I am in charge.  No one is twisting my arm to eat that crap.  It's my decision.  It's my choice to say no to the cupcake or the doughnut.  When I have the chance to eat sugar, it's going to be heavenly and divine homemade sugar!  Even Diet Coke doesn't quite hit the spot like it used to, so I'm considering putting the kibosh on that habit as well, just to see what happens.

4) My healthier eating habits are changing my life.  My hair is softer and fuller and falling out less.  My skin is clearer.  I sleep better.  Even though I still get stressed out every single day, I feel like just in the last two weeks, I'm not yelling at my boys as much and am more rational with them.  I feel like I'm nicer to my husband, in turn he's nicer to me, and that I like him a lot more (and I already liked him a lot.)

5) I don't want to ever be pregnant again.  Just had to throw that one out there.  I've been batting the idea of another baby around for months, but just in the last little while, it's hit me like a ton of bricks that I cannot do that to my body and mind again.  Besides the fact that I could completely fall apart physically, my little family is just about perfect and I need to be healthy to be able to take care of them.

Now, I'm not about to be some health nut.  I'm not going to go and adopt a Paleo diet and even though I just finished reading, "It starts with food", I'm not going to jump on the Whole30 bandwagon or start drinking green smoothies like it's my job.  There are a few more small changes that I'm going to make.  I'm ready to change my exercise routine (and I need some suggestions!) and might just take it outside for long walks every morning instead of sweating it out in the gym.  I really need a break - mental and physical break and the summer time seems like the perfect time to do that.

But, it's really nice to know that on the rare occasion when I've given in to a fast food craving in the last few months, that In-n-Out has never tasted so good.

Anyway - I need to remember that life is good.  That my kids and husband are great.  And that you spend your time doing what is important to you - and what is important to me are my people and I want to be with them - and be healthy for them.

Night Terrors

It's after 11 pm on a Friday night.  My husband is at the grocery store, we're hosting a dinner party for twelve tomorrow night.  Two of my babies are soundly asleep in their beds, and have been for hours.  My biggest baby is restlessly lying in bed next to me.  He seems to finally be really asleep, but that doesn't make me feel any more relaxed.  Quite the date night, right?

Elliott has been off track for the last three weeks.  Off track from school is always tough, for a lot of reasons, one of the biggest being that he usually gets sick.  He's had a cough, but I've just chalked it up to allergies and gone about the business of life.  Yesterday morning, after a brutal fight between brothers (Quinn wasn't involved) Elliott came screaming to me that he couldn't breath.  He couldn't.  I got him to sit down and calm down and do a couple puffs with an inhaler, and then I did a lot of yelling at the both of them.  And maybe a little head whacking.  Elliott told me that he thought I needed to take him to the doctor.

I did.

He has a moderate case of bronchitis.  And an ear infection.  And a sore throat.

Sheesh!

If the kid would have let on a little (just a teeny tiny smidge) that he really wasn't feeling well, I would have taken him sooner, but he is in this awkward seven year old "can't talk to my parents must keep all things a secret phase" and Ross and I really had no idea he was so sick.

It does however, explain a lot of the rough patches we've had over the last couple weeks.

Regardless, last night after watching the Lego Movie,  he went to bed quickly and without fuss.  And about an hour after he was asleep, as my husband and I were starting to have the first real conversation we'd had all week, Elliott came downstairs.  His eyes were open, he seemed alert and coherent, and we tried to talk to him.  He sort of paced around and then went right back upstairs, not communicating with us at all.  Ross followed immediately, he must have known what was coming, and I was a bit behind them.

When I got to the top of the stairs Elliott was screaming.  I got into the boys room as Ross was trying to talk to him and he was thrashing and screaming and making a horrible gagging sound.  And waking up Wyatt.  After my insisting, Ross brought Elliott into our room, kicking  and screaming and mumbling incoherent nonsense.

He was having a night terror.  This has happened several times before (the last one being about a year ago), usually triggered by something that has scared him or really made him nervous.  I'm guessing that his idiot mom finally figuring out he was sick, compiled with the very dramatic and stressful taking of a very icky antibiotic did him in.

Anyway, we got him on our bed where he was writhing around and screaming and moaning and fighting his dad with all the strength he had.  Ross has told me about these episodes before, but I'd never seen one.  I've always slept through them.  Elliott at one point jumped off our bed and we corralled him in the bathroom.  His eyes were as wide as I'd every seen them and he was so terrifying, that I was waiting for his head to spin completely around.  It was breaking my heart (even though his dad thought it was a bit funny).

We were trying to wake him up, ask him his name, get him to understand where he was.  He was screaming and gagging and starting to form saliva foam around the edges of his mouth.  Finally, I started to drench his face in cold water.  After some research tonight (a milder episode happened a little while ago) I learned that we shouldn't have tried to wake him up, but I was totally freaking out.

He finally became alert, he woke up and started yelling at me, "Stop throwing water at me!"  After a while, ee got him to calm down.

We brought him downstairs.  He laid on the couch completely listless and sullen.  He of course had no memory of the last 15 or so minutes and just laid on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching Diners, Drive-in's and Dives with his dad.  Eventually we got him back to bed.  And about 40 minutes later, it started again, but with much less delusion and much easier calming down.  At 4:30 in the morning, he came into our room completely frantic and panicked and paranoid.  We made him a bed on the floor where he slept until it was actually time to get up.

Phew!  What a night.

It was scary and completely unnerving.

In the morning of course, he had no idea what had happened and as his parents, we're left wondering what was the trigger.  His antibiotic?  His reaction to taking the icky antibiotic?  Sleep deprivation and exhaustion?  Not feeling well?  Stress or fear?

Whatever the cause, it left for some weary parents.  Its a pretty traumatic thing to watch your child fight his way through, knowing there is absolutely nothing you can do but wait for it to end.

Weighing in...

October of 2014, I rejoined (for the 5th time) weight watchers.  In five weeks I lost 10 pounds.  Last November, I started a three month diabetes challenge with Golds Gym.  I worked out, got a trainer, tracked what I ate for three whole months and at the end of those three months, I weighed exactly the same.  My measurements were exactly the same as they had been when I started.  My body fast was exactly the same as when I had started.

But, I wrote a good essay full of sunshine and rainbows shooting out of the butts of unicorns and voila!  (Are you aware of how many people use the word Voila! but spell it horribly wrong every time because they don't know it's French?  It's a lot!) I was selected to be on a speaking panel at the Diabetes Expo at the beginning of March.  On that panel, I spewed some more positivity about exercise and healthy living.  While in my head, I didn't believe anything I was saying.

I've been exercising 4 days a week for nearly 5 months.  I've had a trainer, been counting calories (not completely religiously, but pretty seriously) and watching what I eat for 5 months and guess what.  I look the same.  I weigh the same.  Nothing is changing.

Well, don't get me wrong.  My sister says I look nice almost every time I see her and I really appreciate it.  Thanks, Haley.  My mom thinks that my "muscles" are getting to big.  I did buy myself a pair of jeans, in my regular size, that weren't from Lane Bryant and don't have elastic and spandex in the waist and front.  So I guess yes, there have been some small, minuscule changes.

But, the scale hasn't budged.

I'm so tired of the scale not budging.

I know that being "healthy" is so much more than what I weigh.  I think I have more energy during the day and that I sleep better at night.  I'm pretty sure that my diabetes is better under control right now than it has been in a while.

But that number.

That number is killing me!

I've always known what I weigh, and known that I weigh more than an average girl.  I am not an average girl.  I know that in 11 years of marriage, three babies and having diabetes for the last 8 years has added on some major pounds and that I weigh (gasp) about 50 pounds more than I did when I got married.  Thank heavens I'm tall, right?  That I'm six foot three and not five foot three!  But, no matter what I think about my life and my family and my kids and my husband, I cannot get over the hurdle of the scale.

Just one pound.

Is it that much to ask for the scale to drop a pound, or two, or 15?

I'm just not sure how much more of this routine I can take.  Unfortunately, exercise is now part of my daily life.  I even start to wake up on my own, before the alarm a couple mornings a week.  I like using an elliptical machine and I think it's cool that I can do a plank for a whole minute without dying.  Last week my trainer had me alternate between squats and sprints on the treadmill for half an hour.  At the end, I'd run an 8 minute mile.  And my right knee was swollen three times it's size, but I was pretty impressed with myself after that workout.

Don't I at least deserve a pound for that?

My husband thinks there is something medically wrong with me.  Maybe there is.  I mean, I know that one pound is 3500 calories, so if I cut out 3500 calories from my diet each week, I should lose a pound.  I get the math.  I'm obsessing over the math.  Or, maybe it's just in my head and I'm totally coo-coo for cocoa puffs.

Why can't I be happy with what I look like, knowing how hard I'm trying to take care of  myself and my family?

Why is it that the stupid number on the scale is so important to me?  So important to so many women.

I'm not asking to be skinny.  I don't want to be skinny.  I just would like a little less of me to pinch.  I'd like to lose 20 or 30 pound by the end of the year.  I'd like to see a change, and maybe buy a size smaller pair of jeans.  I'd like to be more comfortable in my own skin and not feel like I'm dressed to embarrass my husband rather than impress him when he makes me go out to dinner to a nice restaurant.

I'd like a physical manifestation that all the work I'm putting in is worth it.  That I'm making the right decisions and doing the right things.

In five months, I've got pretty much nothing.

Here's to hope that in the next five months, I've got a little more than nothing to show for all my work.

Weighing in, in the new year

 

 

 

2013 was a frustrating year.  That year after you have a baby is rough.  Everything on your body trying to find it's old spot, you've got an infant to a mobile baby seemingly needing you every waking moment, and none of your clothes fit the way they used to.  It was rough.

 

I started the year with good intentions to have it be the "year Annie figures it out".  I had, in my vast expanse of a hollow brain, a list of things I was going to do: doctor's visits (general, dermatological, arthritis, etc.), lose 30 pounds, eat healthier, be calmer and all that stuff.  The dreams failed new years resolutions are made of I tell you what.

 

Well, now we sit eight days in to the new year and today I had that dermatologist appointment.  At least I have one thing I can check off my list.

 

In February of last year I joined a gym and from that time until June, I sporadically showed up to walk on a treadmill.  In sketchers.  Sometimes without socks.  It was probably more just an opportunity to leave the kids for 30 minutes than to really break a sweat. 

 

In June of last year, I decided to start trying harder to be fit.  My gym attendance became more regular, I got sweaty lifting weights and tried to be a runner.  I failed miserably at running, but I did manage to get myself from incapable of running a mile to running a 12 minute mile on the treadmill.  But, when the 5k came at the end of August, I walked.

 

The month of September was full of frustration and Internet research.  The exercise and moderate efforts to watch what I was eating hadn't done a thing for me and I was frustrated.  Ross and I started looking into a couple of fad diets and nutrisystem.  That sort of thing.  I needed help, a jump start, a positive result for the work I had been putting in and had, at the time, nothing but a t-shirt from "The Color Run."

 

The first week of October I'd decided enough was enough and I rejoined Weight Watchers Online for the 3rd time in seven years.  And, like the other two times, in the first 5 weeks, I lost 10 pounds and was feeling pretty positive about myself.  This 10 pounds coincided with a night I went to the gym, the week of Halloween and saw a poster advertising an 90 day group life challenge called Liv-a-Betes.  I read the poster and thought that I was a perfect candidate and applied.  I was accepted into the program and met the coordinator to get nasty "before" photos taken and to do my preliminary weigh in and measurements.

 

There really isn't much that is more motivating than seeing "before" pictures of yourself.  By the end of November I realized that I couldn't make changes on my own so after talking to Ross, I bit the bullet and decided to pay for a trainer at the gym.  I signed up for three months, 12 sessions, to see where I could get myself by the end of January, 2014 - when the challenge is over.

 

The whole challenge has been nothing like I thought.  In fact, it's been nothing but a couple of canceled seminars and a few e-mails.  But, the trainer?  She's been everything.  Knowing that I am paying her real money, and that I have to meet with her weekly and show some visibly progress has been some mighty intense motivation to get my act together.  The trainer, combined with the fact that I sucked it up and switched from trying (and failing) to go to gym at night and going crazy early in the morning (yes, 6:30 isn't that early, but it is for me) has really started to make a difference.  In one month, I've lost 3 inches from my waist; one inch from my thighs and half an inch from my arms.  My weight is still 30 pounds more than I want it to be and my body fat percentage could always be better, and I still eat too much nutella but.....BUT, there is change happening.  And, I can do things I physically could not do months ago which is pretty amazing.

 

It's the first real progress I've seen in a long time.

 

Back in November, one of the goals I'd set for myself was to buy a size smaller pair of jeans for Christmas.  Well, Christmas came and I bought myself a new pair of jeans - the same size as normal and....they are too big.  I'll admit here, that I've been buying my jeans at Lane Bryant for years now, because they have built in tummy tightening elastic and I need that elastic.  I haven't worn a pair of "real" jeans (actual denim with no stretch) for about 4 years now because I've been too uncomfortable, but when the L.B. jeans were too big I decided to go to a "real" store and try on a pair of "real" jeans.  I found a pair I liked, in my normal size because I was too chicken to try on something smaller in the privacy of my own dressing room.  I bought the jeans, brought them home and guess what.

 

They are too big.

 

I have to wear a belt.

 

I might have to sign up with my trainer for another three months.

2002 caught up with me at the gym

 

Me, high school teacher, circa 2002

In 2002 I was a high school history teacher.  I was still pretty new and still figuring things out.  And, perhaps most importantly, I was still very young.  I was 23-24 and my students were 16-17...there wasn't much of an age gap there.  Every year that I taught high school, there were always one or two young men who, for whatever reason, be it the way I taught, the things I said, the music I played, or because I tended to wear tight sweaters,  took a fancy to me.  It was always easy to spot the kid with the crush.  He was always in my classroom before or after school.  He wasn't the best student, but did okay in my class.  He tried to hangout in my room while ditching other classes.  He figured out when my birthday was and gave me a small gift or note.  He tried to call me by my first name instead of my formal "Ms. Petersen".

Anyway, in 2002 there was one of these boys.  He fit the bill and was sort of a shadow.  He struggled a bit, was sort of a Gothic wanna be without much of a crowd of his own.  Nice kid though.  Never one to assume that I was high school boy crush worthy, it was obvious by the way he'd look at me, the occasional inability to finish a sentence when talking to me, and the hand written notes in a book about slavery that this kid liked me.  The truth came out though at spring parent teacher conferences when he came with his mom and she looked at me, looked at him and said, "Oh, this is the teacher you think is hot!"  He turned purple.  His mom smiled.  I pretended not to hear.

Anyway, fast forward ELEVEN YEARS!  Monday night I was at the gym, working my way through the circuit my trainer had given me for the week.  Yes, I have a "trainer" now, but that's another post.  Anyway, over by the free weights I saw this kid staring at me.  Really staring at me.  It took me about two minutes to realize that, though he was bulkier than in high school, it was this kid.  The kid with the mom.  Now, because I'm an awkward social weirdo, and because I don't like to talk to people, and because he was a former student, once I'd realized I knew him, I made a beeline for the other end of the gym.  Complete avoidance was my goal.  But, out of the corner of my eye, it was obvious that not only was he still staring, but he was sort of following me around the gym.

There was no way to escape.

As I finished on one my last machine and headed to a treadmill, headphones blaring looking at the floor, I walked past him.  He jumped up behind me and grabbed me by the arm.  I could tell that he knew who I was and that playing dumb wasn't an option.

We had a conversation.  It was awkward and a little uncomfortable.  He looked at me, even with me being sweaty and zitty and no make-up on, just like he had in high school.  He asked, "Are you married?"  "Yes, very happily for ten years with three boys!" I replied.  He asked if I still taught, if I lived near the gym, ("Do you come here often?  I've never seen you before.", he said) what my husband does for a living....you know, small talk trying to sound grown-up.  He told me about his life - he's a police officer at the jail, lives alone with his dog, but that he has a girlfriend....

Who is 34. (about my age.) Then he said the kicker....."If my girlfriend knew I was at the gym talking to my old high school history teacher, she might come find you and beat you up."  Um...huh?  That either means that his girlfriend is a man,  that she's very protective of her boyfriend or that he has talked about me and that she knows who I am.

After about 10 minutes of awkward I bowed my way out of the conversation and ran a mile on the treadmill to clear my head.

I'm not sure I want to go back to the gym.

a few things.

At the end of August, Quinn broke my DSLR camera.  It's been in the shop for weeks now.  I'd like to have it back soon.  Next week, early Friday morning after Thanksgiving, I am embarking on a sibling road trip to the ocean.  I am really looking forward to it and hope to be able to take my camera with me.

*****

Last week, I was driving home with the kids when my phone rang.  It wasn't someone I needed to talk to RIGHT THEN, so I picked up my phone to ignore the call.  As I was setting it down, some evil obnoxious people sped past me waving signs out the window and screaming at me and everyone else on the road to stop texting while driving.  They had a small child in the back of the car.  The male driving was also doing the same thing to cars driving past on his side.  I wasn't texting and had my phone in my hand for about 10 seconds.  When we approached the next stop light, and I had the opportunity to pass them, I flipped the woman off.  It just felt right.  I really dislike agenda people and I was on the way home from the dentist so I literally had a bad taste (and a little grainy dentist grade toothpaste) in my mouth.

Well, my response obviously angered the people in the car, and they hit the gas to catch up to me and scream obscenities and who knows what else at me with their windows rolled down and a small child in the back.  I just turned the music up a bit to ignore them.  Elliott caught them out of the corner of his eye and asked what those people were yelling about (he'd been playing on his kindle and they were so loud, he looked up.)  I told him not to look at them that they were crazy and rude people.  They were.

Because that's safe.  And their wild crazy driving to scream at me was really keeping the roads safe from all those texters.  When I got home I called Ross to tell him.  He said I should have gotten their license plate and turned them in as drunk drivers.

*****

About 6 weeks ago, in the pit of depression about life and weight and diabetes, I rejoined weight watchers for the fourth time in 6 years.  Depending on the scale I use, and the amount of clothing I'm wearing, I've lost anywhere from 10-12 pounds.  It's a good thing.  Slow and steady.

Two weeks ago, I was selected as part of a group in conjunction with Gold's Gym and Harmon's to be part of a three month Liv-a-betes challenge.  I'll write more about it later, but it's a 90 day lifestyle, health, weight challenge and I felt like, the night I walked into the gym and saw the poster, was an answer to some pretty serious praying.

This morning, before the sun was up I went to the gym.  Not to exercise, but to meet with my trainer.  As part of the challenge, I got a free consultation with a trainer and a workout designed specifically for me.  Well, that workout kicked my butt so much more than anything Jillian Michael's or I have ever done, that after some thinking, I decided to sign up for 12 weeks, the duration of my health challenge, with the trainer.  We met this morning to talk about my plan and set up a workout time.  Saturday morning at 6:30 am.  I must have finally found the motivation to get my health act together if I'm willing to get up that early on a Saturday morning to *gasp* exercise.

****

Last week, I made homemade lip balm.  I think I need to open my own etsy shop.  I've got some ideas.  Just not sure how to go about getting it all up and running.

****

I decided in August that I was going to hand make as many of the Christmas gifts I'm giving this year as possible.  I can finally see the light at the end of the sewing and crafting tunnel and only have a few projects left.  I hope my gifts are well received.  I've really put a lot of time and heart into everything I've been working on.

****

On Saturday, I helped my mom and sister clean the cobwebs out of my grandpas house.  I was assigned the office and the basement.  Minus making my sister come and kill a GIANT spider, I did pretty well exploring and cleaning and finding some neat stuff, like a college math book of my grandpa's with his notes in it, some cool church history stuff, and a book of my grandma's that I should have brought home to read called, "A Lusty Wind for Carolina".  I might need to go back and grab that one.

a night I don't remember

On Monday night, Ross and I had been up talking before drifting off to sleep.  I remember telling him that my blood sugar felt low and that I needed to go downstairs.  I vaguely remember telling him that I needed help getting down the stairs.  I do remember being soaked with sweat and freezing cold.   I also vaguely remember being on the floor in my bedroom.  I do remember sitting sleepily at the kitchen table with a piece of toast and dragging my exhausted legs up the stairs, and being quite surprised that Ross was still up, because I had a sense that it was sort of late.

What I don't remember is telling my husband that I couldn't make it down the stairs and sort of collapsing onto the bedroom floor.  Or that he brought me a can of coke that I wouldn't drink - that he had to force me to drink.  Or the shaking body and incoherent mumblings.  Or that he was so nervous about me there were two points where, he said, he was about to call an ambulance.

Yep.

Don't remember that.

I do know what it felt like when I got out of bed on Tuesday morning.  It felt like I had been hit by a car, or even though I've never had one, what a hangover after a night of binge drinking would feel like.  Aches and pains in places you wouldn't figure, migraine headache, the works.  I just wanted to spend the day curled up in a ball under a warm blanket.

Blood sugar is a funny thing.  Keeping that magic little number in the right place is so hard sometimes.  Ross and I figure that I must have done the wrong insulin before going to bed and didn't realize it.  And that it sent my number into the teens and that, even though I don't remember I was spiraling pretty fast to a very dangerous place.

Good thing he was there to help me.

I guess he was a little bit hungry..

So, lately Wyatt is a pretty hungry kid.  His hunger plus his limited, self-imposed picky diet, don't leave a whole lot of food options.  We've had to set rules that he can only eat chips once a day and he can only have dessert at night if he eats "real food" for dinner.  Real food being something other than yogurt.

Here is a list of everything Wyatt ate between 8:00 - 11:30 in the morning.

Entire slice of coffee cake.
A bag of cheetos.
2 small glasses of sunny delight.
Graham crackers.
Cup of mandarin oranges.
3 slices of pizza. 
Big glass of water.

An hour later, he is telling me that he is hungry again.

Knowing when to be a quitter

In February, I joined a gym.

In late February, I signed my brother and myself up for a 5k in August.  I thought that it would be a good idea.  I thought that it would be the right motivation to get me moving and physically active.  I really thought that with months, literally six months of "training" I would be able to will my body to run 3.1 miles.  My brother, who is Captain Fitness these days can run a 5k in 22 minutes.  I should have known that I was in trouble from the start.

First let's talk about my accomplishments:
When I started in March, I could not run more than one minute on the treadmill without gasping for air and thinking that I was going to die.  I started slow.  Now, I can run a mile in 13:00 and think that in a few weeks, I can do a 12 minute mile and not be dead.  For me, that's going to be pretty fast.

I can regularly, on a treadmill, jog for 30 minutes.  I don't enjoy it, and it hurts really bad, but I can do it.

Three weeks ago, I actually did a 5k at the gym and it took me 46 minutes exactly, where I jogged 30 total minutes and walked 16 total minutes.  It killed me and I could not walk for three days after, but I did it.  I thought that I was there.

I've been lifting weights and am seeing some muscles slowly appear in places they haven't been for quite some time.  A month ago, I did lift an 80 pound bag of dry cement out of my car, so I was pretty proud of that.

Now, lets talk about the rest:
In the six months that I have been exercising and trying (admittedly not as hard as I could or should) to watch what I eat, I haven't lost a single pound.  That, all you skinny, "I've taken up running and lost 30 pounds" people, really ticks me off.

I hate running.  My body hates running.  I've had ankle problems, my right knee has ballooned to twice the size of my left knee, I douse myself in icy hot before I go to bed at night, and my back hurts sometimes...but that might be because I sleep weird, and not because of exercise.

I knew that running on the treadmill was very different than running outside.  People have been telling me for weeks that it is SO MUCH EASIER to run outside.  So, last week I tried it.  Granted, I started out up hill, but I died.  I ended up walking most of my "run" and when I got home, I was defeated, and soaking wet with sweat.  I decided to give it a couple of days, go back to the gym and then try it again.

The "try it again" was Saturday morning.  I got ready and walked to the park by my house.  It has a track.  I know that about three times around the track is a mile and I know that I can easily run a mile on the treadmill so my goal was to make it 6 laps, jogging as much as I could.

After three laps I came home.  In tears.  I was defeated.

I am not a runner.
I am not a runner!

In three laps, my hands and fingers swelled to twice their size.  The neuropathy in my feet was so painful that I lost all feeling in the toes on my right foot.  My heel pain (caused by diabetes) was so intense that I was on my tippy toes...tippy toes of numb toes.  My knee was swollen and I was hurting.

I felt so stupid.

Once home, I pouted for a while.  I shed a few more tears.  "Running" is supposed to be easy.  Everyone is a "runner".  I'm not a quitter.  I thought that if I put my mind to something, I could do it.

After a good long shower and an even longer look at myself in the mirror I came to a few conclusions.

1 - There are a lot of things I am good at.  Running is not one of them.  I will no longer try to run more than a mile on a treadmill.
2 - I need to find a new exercise plan because my current plan hurts my broken body and isn't giving me any tangible, motivational results.
3 - I will walk the 5k.
4 - I tried at something that was really hard for me and I was not good at, and I made progress.  I still am not good at it but I should be proud of my progress because I'm healthier now than I was 6 months ago.
5 - I am not quitting exercise, but I am quitting "running".
6 - It's okay to fail at something.  It sucks and it is embarrassing, but it is okay.

As I was talking to my family around the dinner table on Sunday afternoon, I shared my thoughts on this whole experience and told them that I was thinking about my grandmas and, if my grandmothers were alive...

My Grandma P. would say to me, "Well, you tried and you gave it your best and you should be proud of all your hard work."

My Grandma Huber would look me in the eye, laugh a little and say, "Well, I don't know why the hell you signed up for something that dumb anyway!"

Yes Grandma dears....you are both right.

Definitely NOT your typical Sunday morning at home.

We attend our church meetings at 1:00 pm.  It's a rough time to go to church for all of us.  It means that the boys who rise so early in the morning have almost an entire day of doing not much of anything, just waiting to go to church where they are expected to be quiet and well behaved for three solid hours.

In our house, we general have pretty good mornings waiting around to go to church.  The boys play, the parents drink a lot of diet cokes, and we try to get that crazy little baby to get one good nap in for the day.  But, today was not one of those days.  For some reason, today was pretty stressful from the start.

Maybe it was because the guy who fixed our sprinklers months ago decided to come early this morning to finish the job?  Maybe it was because we did too many loads of laundry and windexed too many windows when we should have been contemplating our salvation or something?  Maybe it was just dumb luck, but for a short period of time today, our little world was sucked into a bit of a black hole.

It all started with a tooth.  Elliott's 6th loose tooth.  The big one in front dangling by a thread.  It was driving us parental units crazy and it was grossing me out.  I had hoped that the tooth would have made it's exit on Saturday night at grandma and grandpa's in an ear of corn but no such luck.  So, with about 30 minutes or so to go before leaving for church, I decided I'd had enough and that the tooth was coming out now!  The details are like the details of every single other tooth extraction - crying and tears; hysterics; kicking and screaming.  This one was a bit more dramatic though because it required mom and dad pinning down a remarkably strong 6.5 year old to get that nasty tooth out.  Two flicks and it was gone and Ross had to rescue it from being swallowed by said boy.  He immediately ran away and the next time I saw him, still red faced and gasping for air, we took his picture and he was fine.

See?  Fine.

 

After this however, the details get more fuzzy and the panic more intense.  It was time to go.  Ross walked the boys out to the car while I was finishing packing diaper and snack bags.  He gave the boys their seating assignments (because of course they fight EVERY SINGLE SUNDAY about who sits where for the 2 minute drive to church) and walked back in the house to get the baby.

Next thing we know, the screamer #2 child is screaming that horrible awful scream as I walk outside, not 30 seconds after the boys headed out themselves.  I walked around the car and saw Wyatt splayed out on the ground like a homicide chalk drawing.  Elliott was sitting in the middle seat, holding Wyatt's booster.  I, not so calmly, asked what had happened and Elliott told me that Wyatt was mad and threw his booster at him and then fell.

He was still "fallen" when I set down all my stuff, squeezed past his open door and picked him up by the shoulders.  I immediately knew something was pretty wrong with his left arm because of the way it was dangling.  When Ross came out with Quinn and shouted, "What is going on out here!" I replied simply, "I don't really know, but I think Wyatt's arm is broken."

After a quick assessment and discussion, Ross decided to stay home with Wyatt and ice his arm and the other boys and I went to church.  About 15 minutes later I got a text that they were going to the hospital because Wyatt couldn't make a fist or wiggle his fingers.

Later, I got this picture.

Long story short?  After almost three hours at the Primary Children's instacare, he came home with his arm in a splint, a sling, and a photocopy of his x-ray.  Small fracture in his ulna, near the elbow.  A splint for a couple of days until the swelling goes down, and then a cast for three to four weeks.

The other boys and I got home from church to a stone faced and silent middle brother surrounded by pillows on the couch watching "Rise of the Guardians" with his very weary looking dad.  He didn't want us to talk to him or to touch him.

He was apparently very brave at the doctor.  After a few minutes of us being home, he decided that he still wanted to go to grandma's house for Sunday dinner.  And, after his regular dinner of pizza and jello, he was looking and feeling pretty good.  Well, as good as a little boy can who, in a rage, broke his arm four hours before.

  

Weighing in...

 

While at my parents house after Sunday dinner a few weeks ago, we were getting ready for Willie's seminary graduation in the same way we got ready for stuff when we were kids.  Me, Haley and Willie (and a few of the little chilluns) were sitting on the bed or bench in my parent's room, watching my mom comb her hair and put on her makeup.  Some things never change.  While watching her get ready, I said to my mom and siblings something to the effect of, "Is it okay that lately, I don't feel as fat as I know that I am?"  Willie gave me a look of pure dorkdom and Haley shrugged her shoulders.  About the response I'd expected.

You see, lately I haven't felt like I normally do.  Yes, I still feel stressed and beaten down; over worked and underpaid; lucky to be home with my boys and aching for a little bit of freedom all at the same time.  But, I guess I've felt a little bit lighter on my feet.  Mentally anyway.

In February I joined a gym.  Since then it's been my goal to try and go at least twice a week for an our each time.  You'd think that twice a week would be a piece of cake but, shock, it isn't.  In fact, it's pretty hard and there are a lot of weeks I don't go at all and a lot of weeks where I've gone twice, hoping for a third or fourth and it just doesn't happen.  When you don't leave the house to go and exercise until 9:00 or 9:30 at night, it's hard to find the motivation.  But, I've been trying.

As part of my efforts to get my butt active, I signed up to do a 5k, The Color Run, with my brother in August.  I am not a runner and have no intentions of being a runner.  But, I am competitive (it's genetic) and don't want to look like a fool in front of my very fit brother.  So, running on the treadmill, twice a week, is my new routine.  I'm far from being able to run 3.1 miles, but I have a plan, besides not fainting or throwing up in front of said little brother, I'm giving myself a big window, 2.75 months to get ready.  And, I'm making progress.  Four weeks ago, I could not run a mile on a treadmill.  In fact, I could walk a mile faster than I could walk/trot a mile.  How pathetic is that?

But, on Tuesday this week, I set my best time.  I ran a mile in 13:13.  Yes, as my brother would say, it's as pathetic as a 7th grade gym class, but it's a start.  And, I can run (slowly) on a treadmill for thirty straight minutes, getting myself to a whopping 2.1 miles - one mile away from a 5k.

Progress.  It's slow, but it's progress.

My efforts are also two part - one, be able to actually run the 5k.  Two, tighten myself up.  Long gone are the days where I think about being skinny or cute...now are the days to be healthy and fit.  Very different goals.  Part of that though, is to lose weight, if I were to be so lucky.  It's not a must, but it's an added benefit of my exercise attempts.

The last four weeks I've really made an effort - eating less sugar and bread, minimal treats and as little eating out as possible.  That, with the sweatier efforts at the gym (30 minutes on the treadmill and 20 on weights), I've started to see a change.  Not as much sag and jiggle.  Not as much moping and pouting.  But, I hadn't really been friends with the scale.

I know what I weigh.  I know what I used to weigh.  I know that since Quinn was born, once I hit 6 weeks postpartum, I'd lost all but about 12 of the pounds that I gained in 38 weeks, but that even if I lost those 12, I'm still far from a weight I want to weigh.

Anyway -this is getting so long now, isn't it.

Point is, I got on the scale this week.  It said that in the last four weeks I lost 6 pounds.

What?

Stop the train!

Yeah!

The next day I went to my diabetes doctor.  I was down even one more pound on her scale.

Can you say seven pounds lost in four weeks?

I can.

I was so happy.

And, for the first time in a long time, my diabetes feels "under control."  Ahhhhh, so nice to say that.  It seems that it's so under control that I don't have to go back for 6 months, instead of the usual three.  Even better.

SO, to sum it all up?

I do not like to exercise but I like the way I feel after I exercise.

I do not like to run, but I like feeling like I accomplished something and am one step closer to not having my little brother run circles around me on August 24th.

I do not like to get on a scale, but feel so great that the little big of effort I've made so far has been rewarded.

I do like rewards.

The end and amen!