Fiddledeedee

I’ve made a pact with myself to have no New Years resolutions for 2008. Which that in itself is a resolution, of sorts. If you want to get technical.

I set myself up for failure each January when I vow to: a) get in shape, or “find my waistline” b) get my house in order, and c) get involved in a Bible Study and stick with it. There are usually more, but those are the top 3.

I’ve been reflecting quite a bit about this last year, and what I’d like to see myself accomplish in 2008. And it comes down to this.

I want to be happy in my skin. Where I am. That’s all.

And that, my friends, has been a hard lesson this year.

I was sitting in my gynecologists office earlier this year for the annual scraping of the cervix. I’ve been with her through 3 births, so she is acutely aware of many of my “issues.” She was asking me how I was doing. Pre-exam, of course. While I was still in possession of my clothes. And dignity. I talked to her about my ongoing relationship with depression.

I’ll pause here to say that I’ve really never talked about this before. In a serious manner. And while I’ve never been officially diagnosed with “depression”, it’s something I’ve dealt with most all of my life. My mother did as well. It seemed to really reach a fever pitch after Emme’s birth. This was also only a few months after my mother’s unexpected death. So, to say that I wasn’t dealing with life well, was an understatement.

This was a time when I should have sought help, but was too afraid, and proud, to speak up. I just prayed that it would pass. Eventually, it did. Depression, or the blues, or whatever you want to label it, has a way of ebbing and flowing.

So, sitting there in my doctor’s office, talking about my feelings of inadequacy, hopelessness, and general all around crappy feeling (a medical term) I also had pangs of guilt. At this time in my life, if you look at it on paper, I have absolutely no reason to be depressed.

Which made me feel worse.

My doctor talked to me about counseling, drug therapy, and exercise. Pffft. Exercise. Whatever. And in the back of my mind, I remembered reading how exercise releases endorphins which are mood elevators. Plus it helps with all the hormonal upheaval. Blah, blah, blah.

But, a funny thing about depression is that when you’re in the throws of it, the last thing you want to do is ask for help. Much less sweat. On purpose. It was a fluke that I was even discussing it with my doctor.

She highly advised that I begin exercising, and if that didn’t work, seek out a licensed therapist. As a last resort, she wrote me out a prescription for an antidepressant and even gave me a sample. Wrapped in an unobtrusive little brown paper bag. I assured her that I wasn’t going to rush into taking the drugs without exhausting all other measures.

SUCKER!

I wanted to pop a pill the minute I got in the car. I mean, don’t we all want a “quick fix.” Drive thru therapy? A magic pill that makes us feel better? Even better, a pill that will help us lose 14 pounds of unwanted fat. In two weeks!

Just exactly who is the sucker?

I stashed the pills and prescription on a way up high shelf and mulled over my options for a few days. Then Fiddledaddy looked up the medication online to see what the side affects were. Possible side affects include weight gain, nausea, vomiting, and in some cases, can lead to suicide.

Allrightythen.

That’s going in the wrong direction. I got rid of the samples and the prescription. And waited. Waited until the depression did the ebb and flow business and I had a moment or two of clarity.

That’s when I started getting up at dark thirty to be at the gym by 5:15 am. I’m fortunate in that I’m not doing it alone. I wouldn’t do it alone. I meet up with my 3 SILs’ and 2 adult nieces and we work out for an hour. Four days a week. Sometimes it’s just Trish and me. Sometimes it’s all 6 of us.

And it’s working. I’m feeling stronger every day. Not just physically, but mentally. A few of you have asked me about the DVD series we’re using. I want to go into more depth about that later in the week.

All this to say, I know that more than a few of you are dealing with depression, the blues, the blahs, whatever. You’re not alone. I know different therapies work for different situations. Medication has worked for many. Under a physicians STRICT supervision, of course. Therapy or physical exercise is another great source of help. Just talking to a friend can also be so very healing.

And then there’s blogging. Which has done wonders for me.

And a whole lot of prayer. That mostly began with, “Oh dear God, help me.”

As this year draws to a close, I will vow to begin the New Year just taking one step after the other. Going forward, instead of looking back. Seeking the humor, and getting comfy in the wrinkly skin I’m in.

I believe it was Scarlett who said, and I paraphrase, “Fiddledeedee. Tomorrow is another day.”

Life is a journey. I’m awfully glad to be on it with you all, my blogging friends.

Have a happy and blessed New Year!

The conversation today in the 2nd Grade Sunday School classroom:

Emme’s Teacher: “So, Emme, what was your favorite gift to give this Christmas?”

Emme: “It would be the Rum Balls that I gave to my Uncle Pete.”

Emme’s Teacher: (with raised eyebrows, I’m certain) “Um, did you try any of those Rum Balls?”

Emme: (with obvious disappointment in her voice) “NO. My Mommy didn’t let me.”

If she had been allowed to partake of the Rum Balls, there wouldn’t have been enough for Mommy. Or Uncle Pete.

And we would be looking for a new church.

Just a few days before Christmas I got a sassy new haircut. It’s a little bit shorter than I wanted. And has taken some getting use to. I’ve never had my hair this short. And I’ve never felt sassier. It’s the kind of haircut that requires one wear red lipstick. Even to Wal•Mart. And I’ve never been a red lipstick type of gal.

But all that’s changed.

For Christmas, Fiddledaddy bought me a new pair of sassy reading glasses. They are red. With rhinestones. It’s well documented that I abhor wearing my reading glasses. I find it easier to squint at my computer screen, and lean so far back in the chair to achieve focus that I topple backwards. Leaving me with a whole new set of problems. I blame my grammatical errors and spelling mishaps on my inability to place the glasses on my nose and over my largish ears.

Now you know.

But all that’s changed as well. I love my new red rhinestone glasses. Fiddledaddy also got me a pair of pink wire rimmed spectacles as well. I guess he has grown tired of collecting me from the floor.

I wish the photograph showed me wearing my new red rhinestone glasses. The picture was taken on Christmas Day at my SIL’s house. I wore the glasses in to the party so that all could get the full affect of my sassy new makeover. But alas, when one wears their reading glasses, that are only meant for reading, while walking, it tends to distort focus a smidge. I ended up in the shrubbery. So I 86ed the glasses before the photograph.

High fashion comes with a price tag.

And since I sort of have it goin’ on from the neck up, it should also be noted that I’m back at the gym. I’ve been reluctant to discuss it, for fear I would quit. And be left with egg on my face. And cellulite on my butt. When the going gets tough, I often curl up on the sofa with a pair of Hostess Cupcakes.

And that, my friends, has changed as well. For almost 2 months now, I’ve been hitting the gym at 5:15 AM, people, AM, 3 times a week. And now, it’s been bumped up to 4 times a week.

Because evidently, Rum Balls are fattening. And addictive. Who knew.

And hold onto your hats folks. I LIKE WORKING OUT NOW. I know. And it’s not the rum talking. I have always been a self-professed hater of anything exercise related. But something really odd is happening. I’m not losing weight. It’s not about the weight anymore. I’m getting stronger.

Freaky.

We do about 20 minutes of cardio (treadmill, bike, and stair climber) and 45 minutes or so of a DVD series called “P90X- Extreme Home Fitness”. After the first week, I prayed for death. But then, my stamina increased. And I started to ENJOY THE WORKOUT.

Color me shocked.

My makeover has done wonders for my self esteem. I was getting use to feeling all housewifey and frumpy. I’m sure none of y’all know anything about that! Finally. FINALLY, I’m taking steps to feel better. I know that if I feel good on the inside, everything else will fall into place.

The next thing I need to tackle is my closet. I have a moment of dread each time the doorbell rings, that it’s the folks from “What Not To Wear”.

And I’ll be wearing my pink Tigger overalls. On national TV.

But, I need to pace myself. My inability to part with old out of date clothes will be a post for another time.

Titled “I Have Underwear That Are Older Than My Children.”

Riveting, to be sure.

Well, I’m off to throw on some red lipstick so I can sashay out to the mailbox.  Y’all have a wonderful weekend!

This year we had a choice of services to attend for Christmas Eve. There was a 4, 5:30, and 7:00 service. I jumped at the 4:00 service. That way, I reasoned, we could be home in time for dinner, and could ship the children off to bed at a decent hour, so Santa’s merry elves could begin wrapping the presents.

I indeed said “begin.” As in, I hadn’t wrapped a single present prior to Christmas Eve. In fact, I hadn’t even gathered the presents together from various hiding spots throughout the house. Hiding spots that were so elusive, I still cannot find a few of the gifts. Which I’m sure will make wonderful Easter presents.

My sad excuse this year was that it would do no good to place any wrapped presents underneath the tree. It was difficult enough keeping the tree righted. And because, when Jensen wasn’t using me as his parking garage, the Barbie cars have been positioned under the Christmas tree since Thanksgiving. Giving the tree a festive appeal, that only gridlock can bring.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

A 4:00 service seemed like a wonderful idea to us. And evidently to the 1200 other service attendees. I believe our church seats 900 comfortably. And we were late. Thereby relegated to the back of the church in the folding chairs. We separated upon arrival, knowing Jensen would never make it through service without injuring someone. The Nursery is high on his list of places he absolutely refuses to be left in. Which narrowed the playing field down to the cry room. A 4×10 darkened room that holds about 5 folding chairs. And that’s all. We affectionately refer to it as hell. Or Purgatory.

Fiddledaddy graciously volunteered to wrangle Jensen in hell the cry room, while I took the girls into service. We were greeted at the door by an usher who handed my daughters’ each a candle. A real candle. With a wick and a cardboard cutout to apparently catch the wax. Should the candle find fire. Allrightythen. I was hoping this was just for affect. A prop. Not meant to be lit. On fire.

We found our place among all the other sardines, and their offspring. The service was wonderful. I was very much drawn into the message of the baby Jesus, the beautiful music singing praises to Our Lord, and the wonder of the miracle of Christmas. And how that small baby in a manger was the greatest gift I’ll ever receive. I forgot about my claustrophobia. I even forgot that my 6 and 8 year old daughters were holding an unlit candle.

Until the singers began a song titled “Light A Candle.” Oh dear Lord God in heaven. No, I silently prayed. Then I watched as the singers did indeed light their candles, and come down the crowded aisles to light the candles of the attendees in the audience. And they came all the way to the back of the nosebleed section. Emme immediately sensed clear and present danger, and handed her unlit candle to me. That’s my cautious girl. Cailey, who is deathly afraid of fire and has recurrent nightmares about her favorite doll, Zoe, burning to nothing but orange cinders, held onto her candle with both chubby hands. In a death grip. I couldn’t have wrestled it from her if I tried. I looked down at her, standing there in her highly flammable taffeta and tulle dress. And I prayed a little prayer.

“Dear God. Please help her to focus, and not burst into flames. Amen.”

If you’ll recall from a previous post, and from my upbringing in the Catholic church, a short burst of prayer is called an “ejaculation.”

I’m not making that up.

I hovered over her, ready to sacrifice myself by throwing my body on her to smother the flames. Not taking into account that I was sporting quite a lot of polyester myself. Also highly flammable. She couldn’t take her eyes off the flickering flame. She was mesmerized. Strangely drawn to that which she so greatly feared. And which is forbidden.  Let’s just call that SIN NATURE shall we? Something that I know nothing about. Ahem. (Sidestepping that bolt of lightening.) At the end of the song, I let out a rather large exhale. Extinguishing the flame.

“MOM, I WANTED TO BLOW IT OUT,” just as the church quieted for one last prayer.

Which was mine.

“Dear God.

Thank you for the gift of your precious Son. And thank you for the gift of my sweet husband and three children. And that my daughter didn’t burn down the church. And that I didn’t have to ruin my perfectly good polyester pant suit. With the elastic waist.

Amen.”

Just a quick little update on what’s going on around here. I know I’m preaching to the choir, but I gotta say, Christmas is hard on the mommys. I mean, we’re shopping, decorating, baking, wrapping, organizing, cleaning, and all the while trying to instill the true meaning of Christmas to our offspring. It’s absolutely exhausting. And add to that, the consumption of 24 or 56 Rum Balls, and a girl just needs to take a little nap. IS THAT SO WRONG?

Some days you’re the door mat. Others, the parking garage.

I hope y’all had a wonderfully blessed and RESTFUL Christmas!