My Nemesis Is In The House

Homemade, raw chocolate chip cookie dough. It’s my Kryptonite.

If I was a death row inmate, I’d have cookie dough made with Hershey’s semi-sweet chocolate chips and Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee as my last meal. Buzzing on caffeine and sugar, I’d skip into the death chamber, memories of my Jamaican honeymoon and sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, licking the beaters from her latest batch of cookies swirling in my head. I’d die happy.

Before I began my eight-weeks to wellness program, I typically had a Ziploc bag full of cookie dough in the freezer. I’d grab a little morsel now and again to reward myself for going to yoga class, or volunteering at my children’s school, or, for making the long, arduous trek from the second floor all the way to the freezer. However small the accomplishment, a cookie dough ball was a just reward.

Given my weakness for the sugary ball of goodness, I haven’t made any since I began this quest. I didn’t want the temptation.

Last night, my daughter Amanda had a few friends over and she made cookies. There’s cookie dough in my freezer right now, beckoning me like a Siren.

If I cheat am I wrecking all my progress? What’s a girl to do?

I Just Can't Do It

Meditate. The word calls to me every day on my iCal application. Sparkling in its purple highlighted cell, I look at it, acknowledge it, and ignore it.

Instead, I tackle hair appointments, doctor visits, the gym, the grocery store, even the library’s summer reading program gets a higher priority. I accomplish everything on the iCal schedule, except meditate.

I should do it, I know I should.

Several years ago I sought the help of a therapist for various issues, and he, after only a few sessions said, “I think you would really benefit from meditation.”

He was apparently so convinced I needed it that he made me a meditation tape. As I exited his office, he handed me a cassette tape. “Listen to it, I think you’ll really like it.”

Thanking him, I left and stared at the black plastic rectangle with the word “meditation” hand-written across it. I couldn’t help but think, Who makes a cassette tape anymore? I mean, is that technology even around? How old is this guy?

My Sunday Ritual. No, It’s Not Church

It was a chilly Tuesday evening in May. The skies had been threatening rain all day and it looked like the weatherman’s predictions were finally going to arrive. I stood in the parking lot of Short Pump Middle School, clutching the sides of my jacket a bit tighter against my body.

Janelle’s soccer coach approached me and said, “Looks like rain. I’ll let the girls run around for about 15 minutes and then we’ll call it a night.”

I quickly agreed and ran to the warmth of my car. Great, I thought, I raced over here for nothing. Evening soccer practice always annoyed me. Not only due to mother nature’s unpredictability, but also because it interfered with a tradition of mine—family dinner.

When it comes to dinnertime, I’m a bit like June Cleaver. I like to have dinner as a family every night. I enjoy the togetherness as we gather around the table. I relish the conversations about my children’s day. It’s more than sustenance to me. It’s connecting to the people I love most in this world. And soccer practice was totally screwing with that.

Are You Supposed to Cry in Cycling Class?

Once, about three years ago my sister talked me in to taking a cycling class at her gym. Twenty minutes in, sweat dripping off me, and gasping for air, I found myself performing the Lamaze breathing technique to calm myself. Without a thought to the impression I was giving my fellow cyclists, I got up and walked out. I couldn’t take it.

Now it’s my friend Suzanne that’s trying to coax me in to a class. “You’ll love it,” she insisted. “It’s a great workout and half of our neighbors are in there. It’s like happy hour.”

Still stinging from my initial experience, I evaded her overtures. “Um, yeah, I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” I hedged.

But she kept pushing and since I have trouble saying “no” to peer pressure, I caved.

Joining Suzanne in the back of the class, I asked the instructor for help in setting up my bike. Thankfully she was no “John the Jerk” and cheerfully welcomed me and showed me how to adjust the bike. (See John, that’s how it’s done. It’s called KINDNESS.)

Does Redecorating Count As Exercise?

Ah, summer. A time for flip flops, beach trips, hot weather, cool drinks, and home improvement projects. At least that’s what’s happening in my house.

Michael and I promised the kids we’d repaint their rooms and now seemed like a good  time. Amanda, tired of her headache-producing neon green and blue color scheme, would like a more peaceful blue. Yeah, no kidding. Grant has outgrown the adorable, but babyish spaceship themed wallpaper. And Janelle would, of course, like something pink.

So far we’ve moved furniture, vacuumed, washed walls and baseboards, stripped wallpaper, and scraped wallpaper adhesive off the ceiling. Yes, the ceiling. The previous owners put a blue, starry wallpaper on the ceiling. It looked really cute, until we decided to remove it. I have plenty of words to describe it now and “cute” is not one of them.

Fruit Rollups Are Not Fruit

A few years ago I remember having an argument with my daughter Amanda about the nutritional value of Fruit Roll Ups.

“It’s got fruit in it Mom. It’s a healthy snack. Can’t we please get them?” she begged me.

Reading the ingredient list, I felt otherwise.

“Amanda, it’s not really fruit. It has a tiny bit of fruit concentrate and the next three ingredients are different types of sugar.” I responded. “It’s sugar masquerading as fruit.”

“But there’s some fruit in there,” she reasoned, “It’s not all bad.”

I paused for a moment, got out my soapbox and adhered my Nutrition Nazi badge to my shirt. Clearly she had forgotten whom she was addressing. Secure atop my platform, I proceeded with my lecture.

Father's Day a/k/a Excuses Day

For some reason I convinced myself that I couldn’t exercise on Father’s Day. My excuses were varied, creative, and highly effective. The mind is a powerful thing and I put it toward evil purposes on Sunday. Take a gander at some of these beautiful reasons for not working out.

Excuse #1: I needed to be around in case Michael wanted to go somewhere.

Even though Michael told me his plan was to watch the U.S. Open all day, I felt it necessary to be at home to take over parenting responsibilities on the off chance he changed his mind and wanted to, I don’t know, go to Taco Bell or something. So I was at DEFCON 1—on high alert all day, prepared to handle the children while he went out to enjoy a Volcano Burrito. But no parenting/Mexican food emergency arose. (Big surprise.)