Taking Charge of the Numbers

My mom and sister decided to start one of those so-called "miracle diets" the first of this month, and while I wasn't invited to play along, it was the catalyst I needed to attempt to lose my post-baby and post-thyroid-disaster weight.  But I'm doing it the old fashioned way, no drugs or crash diets.

The first fifteen pounds or so is new weight, gained in the last few years through having Punky and moving in with a man that can cook circles around most women I know.  They say couples mimic each other's eating habits over time, and now that I take a step back and look at it objectively, there's definitely been some mimicking around here.  I expected this new weight would be fairly easy to lose with some minor changes to my food choices and eating habits, but I anticipated a struggle when I reach the old weight gained when my thyroid initially crapped out fifteen years ago.  It's been a around long enough to be comfortable and stubborn.

When my thyroid issues started, I gained almost thirty pounds in a two-month period.  I had stretch marks to rival any pregnant woman and I literally burst out of my clothes.  Once the doctor stabilized my levels, I never made a serious attempt to lose it.  Looking back, I'm really not sure why.  I was never a skinny minnie, and years of gymnastics, cheerleading, and swimming my summers away left me with a somewhat athletic build, but I never had any struggles with weight control.  I really never paid much attention.  I was young, busy, active.  I guess maybe I thought it would fix itself with time and thyroid meds. 

Anyway, I started counting calories on February 1st.  An app on my smart phone makes it easy and convenient.  I set up a custom plan based on where I was and where I want to be come summer, and aimed for the accepted healthy rate of about a pound a week.  From everything I read about weight loss before starting, slow and steady wins the race.  It's logical, I suppose.  It's not about losing a bunch of weight quickly, it's about a lifestyle change.  And change is a process.  The more gradually it occurs, the more like you are to accept it, internalize it, and not return to bad habits once you reach the finish line.

The first week of this journey was an incredible adjustment, not only in regard to what I was eating but when.  I opted for six small meals or snacks a day, and counted every ounce that crossed my lips.  I can't really say I was hungry by week two, but I was a bit cranky.  Cravings set in and made it difficult to be excited about carrots, but I got through it.  Week three was much better, and by week four it had almost become routine. 

Weekdays are easy.  The structure of my day at work makes it simple to stay on track.  I try to end the work day in the 500-600 calorie range, which leaves just over half of my goal intake for dinner and a snack before bed.  It works well.  Weekends, on the other hand, are a train wreck.  It is so much more difficult to keep that routine when I wander aimlessly through the kitchen a thousand times a day.  I've never been into sweets, but I'm a carb junkie.  The loaf of bread on the counter is almost maddening at times.  If I want something bad enough I eat it, but I plan ahead for it and leave enough room in my calorie count to accommodate it.  That way, I don't feel like I'm depriving myself of anything which makes me a much happier person.  And, in turn, makes Punky and her dad happier people. 

So, today was the end of week four.  The result?  I've lost fourteen pounds.  This weekend I wore jeans I hadn't worn since before Punky was born.  I've worn shirts to work that haven't escaped the dark closet for years.  I can't really see the difference in the mirror, but I can feel it in the way clothes feel on my body.

While it all seems easy and worth it and rewarding right now, things are about to go down hill.  I know my thyroid has been a bit overactive and I'm sure it played a role in the accelerated weight loss this month, but I need to adjust it now.  I've had a few heart palpitations lately so I need to back off the medicine for a while, which in turn will crash my metabolism and cause the scale to freeze.  Well, hopefully it just freezes.  I'll be pissed if it starts going the opposite direction.  Also, just as I expected, the new weight I described above has disappeared.  Now I'll be dipping into the old stuff and I don't think it will leave without a fight.

The finish line is set for mid-July.  I'm sure there will be many ups and downs along the way.  Hopefully more ups than downs.  No, wait.  I guess technically more downs than ups would be better.  It's a vicious game of numbers, and math was never my strong suit.

Moving On Up

We had our annual parent/teacher conference at daycare this week.

While we weren't a bit surprised to hear how intelligent Punky is, we were a tad bit shocked to hear that her behavior at school is almost stellar.  Don't get me wrong, that's a good thing, but it means she's saving all the whining, crying, hitting, and full-blown tantrums for us.  Better than decking some kid at school, I suppose.

Her teacher conducted the standard evaluation, but then the daycare director spent a few hours with Punky one on one to evaluate her further.  She took her through a series of skill sets and was amazed to see her easily completing tasks that most kids fail at age five.  Based on her discoveries, she made some phone calls to fellow teachers for advice on what to do with Punky to keep her learning and engaged.

The problem, first and foremost, is that it's a daycare.  They strictly follow the guidelines as far as what to teach children based mainly on a number: their age.  They confirmed our suspicions in that the decision last fall, to keep Punky with her current teacher instead of moving her up with her peers, was made because she was only two.  She was eight months younger than the closest child in her original group, so they held her back and stuck her with kids months younger than her.  It did wonders for her maturity, let me tell you.  We had previously kicked many behavior issues only to have them return in October when she was surrounded by kids still in the biting, hitting, whining stage.

Another problem is that they are simply not staffed to provided a custom education program to one individual child.  There isn't really a need; most kids that age fall within the norm of development.  Her current teacher told us that she really struggles with Punky in class now because, with a group of rambunctious toddlers, she doesn't have the time to devote to take lessons a step further for Punky's benefit.  As a result, Punky is definitely bored and gets frustrated when her teacher makes her wait to answer while the other kids take turns guessing.  But, on the flip side, she said Punky is really helping her teach the younger kids.  While they have a tendency to tune the teacher out quickly, they pay close attention when Punky steps in and explains things.  

Based on all of these observations, they have devised a plan.  For the next three months, they are going to move Punky up into the next class where she would have been if she moved with her group last fall.  After the summer break, they are planning to move her into the pre-K group even though she will only be three and a half.  Based on the director's evaluation, Punky already has most of those skills nailed the way it is.  

The only other factors to consider are her social skills and level of maturity.  On the social end, she is way ahead of the game.  No worries there.  On the maturity end, I have some concerns.  I think she would have been fine if she moved with her group last fall, but I think the past six months spent with the younger group has hindered her some.  The next three months will determine her fate.  If her attention span, in conjunction with her ability to sit still, keep her hands to herself, and follow instructions, is where it should be then she will go to the pre-K group in September.

If the plan comes together, she will have completed the pre-K course before reaching age four and a half, and then she'll have almost sixteen months to wait until she can start kindergarten because of Pennsylvania's strict guidelines for public schools.  A child must be age five by September 1st, or else they have to wait another year.  No exceptions.  No testing.  No consideration for advanced kids whatsoever.  The only way around it is a private school.  They will admit a younger child if she passes the required testing.  Once kindergarten is completed in a private school, a public school has to admit the child into first grade.

While this decision is still over a year away, we've briefly discussed it.  It will be a tough call, that's for sure.  We want to do the best we can for Punky and we don't want to push her if she's not ready.  And at the same time, I have no idea where the closest private school is to us or if we could even afford it.  But, on the other hand, she is starting to read now after just recently turning three.  She's doing basic addition and subtraction.  She is teaching herself Spanish, for God's sake.  Chances are that by the time she is able to start kindergarten in a public school, she'll be reading on a third grade level or higher.  And we'll have set the stage for more years of boredom and frustration.  

We are so proud of her, how could we not be?  Before Punky was even born, I worried about her development.  What if there was something wrong?  What if she was behind?  What if she had a hard time learning?  Now, on the other side of the fence, I have just as many worries and concerns about her future.  One thing for certain, there's no shortage of shit to stress over in the world of parenthood.

Reflections on Thirty-Eight

I turned thirty-nine on the eleventh.

I needed to let it soak in for a good week before even attempting to write this post.

It's conflicting, really.

The logical, rational side of me says "no big deal, I'm still young, it's just a number, it doesn't matter one bit.  I'm generally healthy, generally happy, and have many great years ahead of me."

The crazy, emotional, tendency to over-react to everything side of me says "what the hell just happened? I was thirteen, like, yesterday. This is my last trip around the sun as a thirty-something.  How will I even cope this year with forty taunting me on the horizon?"  This side also caused me to write a to-do list that includes things like making a video will, creating a list of items I want to take with me, so to speak, when I go, and ridding my closet/dresser of all items that a woman in her forties shouldn't wear.  And it made me google things like the average costs of funerals these days, the most creative places people have had their ashes scattered, and the safest, most popular plastic surgeries available.

Then Punky's dad slapped me.

Not really.  But I'm sure he wanted to.  My pity party lasted all day Sunday.  I moaned, I sighed, I whined, I moped.  I took an inventory of my grays, I checked my legs for spider veins, I stared at the wrinkles that have definitely started forming around my eyes and smile.  Lucky for him, he was on third shift that weekend so he slept a good part of the day.  But while awake, he followed me from room to room as I bounced from topic to topic, spewing tangent after tangent.  He was a good sport when I asked him repeatedly if I look my age, if he thinks I'm fat, if my boobs are getting droopy, if I should dye my hair.  

Lucky for us, I was back to my normal self on Monday.  

Thirty-eight was a good year.  We had our first ever real family vacation.  My peanut transitioned from baby to big girl.  The health scare we had with her turned out to be nothing, so far anyway.  My years on diaper-duty came to an end.  We had great holidays.  We both remained gainfully employed.  Of course, there was some drama, some bad luck, and some shitty days.  

I thought thirty-eight would be a year of change for me on a personal level, but it didn't really start to kick in till the end.  Even though I thought I was ready, I suppose I wasn't.  Now, slowly, the pieces are coming together and I've started down the path.  The big 4-0 looming overhead is a great motivator.  I know who and where I want to be at forty.  And I have less than a year to make it happen.  Some changes will be big, some small, some easy, some hard, some may even be silly but necessary to get to where I'm going.  

Stay tuned.  I think thirty-nine will be a great year.

The Town Crier

I got pulled over last night.  Its been about seventeen years since my last traffic violation.  I suppose I was due.

As much as I hate doing anything on a work night, there were a few things we absolutely needed from the store.  When I picked Punky up at school, we grabbed some dinner at a restaurant before tackling the grocery shopping.  I knew if we came home to eat, there was no chance in hell I would venture back out that night.  Given the fact that we live miles from anything, and doing things with a three-year-old in tow takes way longer than they should, it was almost eight o'clock till we left the store and headed home.

As I started to drive, Punky entered whine mode.  After being gone the whole day, she was anxious to jump on her trampoline, scatter toys around the living room, and rule the TV for an hour before bed. 

"Mommy, I want to get home now!" she yelled from the back seat as I got on the highway.

"I'm going as fast as I can.  If I drive any faster, the police will pull me over."  Believe me, by that point I was just as ready to be home as she was.

"What does that mean, Mommy?" she asked.

Even though we discussed it several times in the past, I launched into a brief explanation of speed limits and pointed out the signs with the numbers on them.  "If I go over that number, the police will make me stop the car.  Then he will come up to the window and tell me I broke the rules.  He might even make me pay piggy money!  And we have much better things to spend our money on at the moment."

"That wouldn't be good, Mommy."  It seemed she understood my explanation and agreed with my reasoning.

Twenty seconds later I passed a cop who was sitting just around a bend on a dark section of highway.  I didn't see him until I was ten feet from him.

"Did you see that, Punky?  We just passed a policeman!  If Mommy was driving too fast, I'd be in big trouble!"

She didn't see him.  And I wasn't worried.  I had the cruise control set at a comfortable sixty-eight and all my lights are in working order.  I exited the highway six miles later and turned onto the rural road that leads to our house. 

As I pondered how long it would take me to carry all the bags in the house and put the groceries away, a car came up behind me and was clinging to my bumper.  I have a talent for accurately identifying cars by their headlights at night - a little trick an ex-boyfriend taught me years ago - and I was 99.9% sure it was a cop.

But why the hell was he tailgating me?  He was making me nervous.  I kept staring in my rear-view mirror as he followed me like that for nearly a mile.  I was about to pull over and let him pass when the red and blue lights started flashing.  And Punky immediately freaked the hell out when I stopped the car and told her what was happening.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"  I stared at the obviously-rookie cop like he was from another planet.  I swear he didn't look a day over fifteen with his Justin Bieber bangs jutting out from under his ski cap and completely obstructing his vision.  Yes, I said ski cap.  Apparently he didn't pay attention in the class that informed him he needed to be in full uniform when conducting a traffic stop, which includes the traditional state trooper wide-brimmed hat, or any ticket he issues will be null and void.

"I haven't a fucking clue," I said.  In my head.

"No, I know I wasn't speeding."  I said.  Aloud.

"When you exited the highway and reached the stop sign at the bottom of the ramp..." he began.  

"I stopped at that stop sign.  I know I did."

"...you failed to use your turn signal.  I wasn't going to stop you, but once I got behind you I saw you cross the fog line several times."

I then realized he was questioning my sobriety.  

"I truly mean no disrespect here, but if I crossed the fog line it was because I was staring in my rear-view mirror trying to figure out why a cop would be riding a mere two feet off my bumper.  If I so much as tapped the brakes, you would've been in my trunk."

As I handed over my license and registration, I realized that probably wasn't the smartest observation to make at that moment.

While he took his sweet time doing whatever it is cops do while you sit there and ponder your fate, I tried my best to console Punky.  She was scared, and crying, and making an already difficult situation even worse.  I don't want her to be scared of the police.  I want her to see them as safe heroes she can run to if she's ever in trouble and can't find us.  The picture I've worked so hard to paint was erased with a single traffic stop. 

When he finally came back to the window, he handed me my warning.  Maybe he realized he forgot his hat.

"Can you do me a favor and talk to her for a minute so she sees that you are not scary?" I asked as I rolled down the back window.  Punky immediately stopped crying and chatted him up like a long lost friend.

"Mommy? Did he make you pay piggy money?" she asked as we got back on the road.

"No, not this time, sweetie," I answered.

"Good!" she chirped.  After a ten second pause, she added, "I can't wait to tell Daddy!"

She didn't forget come morning.  It was the first thing out of her mouth when he woke her up for school today.  And, as I discovered when I picked her up this evening, it was her favorite topic all day.

The daycare director greeted me with a grin and then looked down at the floor as she said, "We heard about what happened last night."  Then she burst out laughing, along with the two other teachers still present.  They told me all about how Punky went from teacher to teacher and filled them all in on the news: "Mommy got pulled over last night!" 

I, of course, felt obligated to then explain what happened because I'm sure Punky's rendition of the story left gaping holes and made me look like an unfit mother in one way or another.  

It makes me wonder what other news she may have over-shared with the entire school.  Apparently we're living with the town crier.

Gettin' Smart?

I've had the same cell phone number for eighteen years now.  Not many people can say that.  

The first analog phone I owned was the size of a chihuahua and had the reception of a hand-held AM radio with a broken antenna and weak batteries.  I had that phone for six years and used it maybe four times at most.  If I remember correctly, it only ever rang once.  It lived in my glove box in case of an emergency while I paid the bill month after month.

During those years my phone provider changed hands four times.  Technology pushed forward and cell phones shrunk to a more manageable size.  I started getting tempting offers from the new (and still current) provider, and while I still had no intentions on using it for anything other than emergencies, I took the bait and graduated to a new phone.  A few years later I upgraded again, and then again almost three years ago.

My life changed greatly over the course of those upgrades and I gradually started using my phone more and more.  Once I had one that actually fit in my purse, the sheer convenience of it drove the use.  Do we need milk?  I'm not sure.  Call home and find out while standing in front of the cooler at the store instead of guessing.  Then, more and more friends and family started embracing the cell phone age.  That took convenience to a whole new level.  There was no longer a need to wait until the evening to make a call and hope to catch them at home.  Everyone was suddenly accessible any time, any place.  Then Punky was born and the rest is history.  I couldn't go a day without my phone now.  I need to know I can be easily reached if something happens when we're apart.  Period.

My contract was up on my last phone in April.  Even though I hated that phone more than any other I ever owned, I hung onto it while I teetered back and forth on the whole concept of smart phones.  Cool?  Yep.  Expensive?  Definitely.  Worth it?  I wasn't convinced.  My phone was dying a slow death for months.  It would hold a charge for maybe a day, but die suddenly and unexpectedly in the midst of a single phone call.  The front screen rarely worked, and the other would randomly go black for no reason.  It was time to make a move.

I read all I could about smart phones, and annoyed the hell out of everyone around me that has one.  Do you have one?  What kind?  Do you like it?  Can I touch it?  See, the last phone I bought was the most popular model at the time, and like I said, I hated it.  I wasn't about to make the same mistake again. 

A few weeks ago I bit the bullet and made the upgrade to a smart phone.  I decided to go with the new iPhone 4S for a few reasons, the biggest being the fact that I have an iPod Touch which is exactly like the phone without the phone component.  I have my entire music collection on it, plus videos and games to amuse Punky when we're on the road.  I knew I could copy it all in a few simple clicks rather than starting all over with a different brand of phone.

The verdict?  I love it.  I feel like a kid with a new toy.  It didn't take long to figure out why they call 'em smart phones.  Talk about holding your entire life in the palm of your hand.  It's amazing.

There truly is an app for just about anything you can imagine, and all of that information is with you and at your fingertips every moment.  You can track your periods, easily count calories, and see the current temperature outside.  You can schedule every meeting, birthday, and doctor appointment with multiple reminders how ever far in advance you want them.  You can manage your bank account and pay bills, instantly get new real estate listings in your area, and turn your house lights on while you are out for the evening.  You can keep track of your household budget, keep up with social networking, and receive breaking news alerts.  You can scan barcodes to compare prices between stores, organize your grocery list by aisle to view while shopping, and take quality pictures and videos. You can keep up with the stock market, manage your medication, and learn a new language.  You can get instant turn-by-turn directions, do-it-yourself manuals, and first aid instructions.  And, of course, you can read books, play games, and listen to music. 

As an added bonus, the iPhone has Siri - your personal, virtual assistant.  The voice recognition software blows my mind.  The phone can do almost anything I need by simply asking the question.  This comes in handy with an extremely inquisitive three-year-old.  When she asks a tough question, I ask my phone and have an answer in seconds.  Just in the last few days I've needed to know how to say 'peach' in Spanish, how far the Earth is from the sun, and how big (wide) the railroad tracks are.  Yes, I'm serious, and yes, she really did just turn three.

I've used my cell phone as my alarm clock for years and now it's never been easier.  I tell the phone to set the alarm for the time I want and it's done without pushing a button.  If I need to call for a doctor appointment during my lunch hour, I tell the phone to remind me at noon so I don't forget.  It tells me the current temperature at seven every morning so I know whether or not to start the car early. 

Only time will tell the true effect such technology will have on society.  Will we be smarter?  More organized?  Less stressed?  Or a lazy bunch losing brain cells by the minute when we can't remember to even eat without a reminder?  For me right now, as an overworked, overstressed, overtired mom, I welcome any device that can shave minutes off the hassles of daily life, make organizing the million things I need to do or remember a breeze, and amuse an impatient child while sitting at the garage waiting for an oil change.