Days 4-7: Catching up

The past few days have been so busy that I've completely forgotten about my little blog.  At first, I tried really hard to think of something that I have four of so I could just count that as four things - one for each day that I've missed - and call myself caught up.  But alas, it seems that I mostly have either one, two, or ten of everything.

Day 4:  Day 4 was Thursday, and since that was the day I took part in one of my most beloved rituals - getting my hair cut and colored - Day 4 seems like a good day to be thankful for my hair.  It's frizzy, has waves in all the wrong places, and has thinned considerably with every baby I've brought into the world.  BUT ... with a little gel, a blow dryer, and some time with a round brush and flat iron, I can usually turn it into a head of hair that would make my hairdresser proud to claim me as a client.  I'm thankful for her, too, by the way.

Day 5:  Monkey toes.  Yep, I have monkey toes.  Don't know what monkey toes are?  Well, according to my parents, who lovingly gave mine that label early in my childhood, if you have a giant gap between your big toe and second toe, you have monkey toes.   Yes, you could drive a mack truck between my monkey toes and yes I have a hard time getting my flip flops to stay on, but I've seen some seriously funky looking prehensile toes out there that make my monkey feet look like super model feet.  I'll keep my primate digits, thank you very much.

               

Day 6:  Teeth.  Six or seven years ago, you would NEVER have heard me say anything positive about my teeth.  My top front teeth were crowded and crooked and, for lack of a kinder term, SERIOUSLY jacked up.  No, I have no pictures.  I didn't allow it.  I was SO very self conscious about showing them to the world.  Every time I talked to someone, or got up and spoke in front of a group, I just knew they were focusing on my dental problems.  If they weren't, *I* was.  

Enter Dr. Angel.  No, that wasn't just a nickname I gave him because he saved me.  Dr. Angel is the actual name of the actual orthodontist who fixed my teeth, sans surgery, when every other dentist had told me it couldn't be done.  It was an uncomfortable, annoying, sometimes painful, and always expensive 22 months, but the day those braces came off and I walked over to the ortho office mirror to see my teeth for the first time, I cried.  I still find myself admiring them in my mirror from time to time because I can't believe they're so pretty and they're MINE!  I love my snappers.

Day 7:  This weekend is what we Mormons call conference weekend.  It happens twice per year.  All 14 million+ of us get to skip church and listen to our leaders speak to us via TV or the internet.  As I'm reminded of where I came from, why I'm here, and where I'm eventually going (hopefully), I am very grateful for the knowledge that my body is a vessel - a temple - that houses my eternal spirit.  I'm grateful that a loving Father in heaven created my body for a purpose, to give my spirit a place to dwell while on this earth and to have all of the amazing human experiences that only a physical body, imperfect as mine is, could give me.  Now, it's time to get ready for more conference weekend ...

Day 3: Scars are only scary in Disney movies

Sometimes we need subtle reminders of the times we've fallen, scraped our knees, put a gash in our foreheads, or even been cut open by a surgeon for the sake of saving our lives.

Scars are good like that.

I have a few.

See what I did there?

Of course there are the stretch marks and the big fat c-section scar that remind me that my body was strong and healthy enough to bring children into the world.

There's the big quarter-sized scar on the inside of my thigh from that time I had a showdown with an angry dog ... and lost.  That nasty little beast took a big juicy chunk right out of my leg.  Not my favorite way to lose fat.

There is the lovely scar that starts behind my hair line and runs down the middle of my forehead, along with the various large and small scars along my left arm and shoulder from the time in my 20's when my little Hyundai was struck by a guy running a stop sign.   Rumor has it I got to ride on a helicopter, but I don't remember any of that.

I have a few freckles and moles from too many sunburns.

I have a toenail that will never NOT be ugly because of some weird tumor that tried to grow underneath it back in the 8th grade.

I could go on forever, baby, but let's just say that I'm oddly appreciative of and intrigued by my scars.

Some of mine remind me that I did something stupid and never want to repeat it if I don't have to (read:  taking on a ferocious watch dog).  Some remind me that I got pretty banged up through no fault of my own, but came out alive on the other side.  Some remind me that sometimes the body just gets sick and needs the healing abilities of someone smarter and better equipped to fix the problem than myself.

Physical scars are proof that the body has an incredible capacity to heal its wounds and get on with life.

Emotional scars are like that, too.  We get beat up, do dumb things, or just get sick sometimes, but whatever doesn't kill us makes us tougher and hopefully wiser.



photo credit:  http://fanpop.com

Day Two: Functional Fingernails

I've always really liked my fingernails.

I can remember receiving lots of compliments on them as far back as elementary school, probably because they were always long and painted.  I liked to keep them filed and polished, even in my pre-teen days.   I managed to keep that up all the way into my late twenties when, as many women can probably attest, my days of manicures and sparkles and high gloss came to a screeching halt with the birth of my first child.  It turns out that stuff like poo and pee and dish water and bath water and other various fluids that come with out of kids aren't so conducive to having pretty nails.

Nowadays I like my fingernails for different reasons.  Now that I don't worry so much about how perfectly polished they look, I'm finding they're quite functional and practical.  They're great for removing steak from between my teeth or chiseling some unknown, hardened substance off of my kitchen counter, tightening those dang pot handle screws that always come loose, or for getting keys onto key rings.   Ugly and snagged for sure.  But totally functional.  

Stop judging me on that steak thing.  It works when nothing else does.

photo credit:  photo credit: http://www.lovethispic.com/image/37343/mickey-mouse-manicure-art

Day One: I love my uterus

On day one of accentuating the body positive, it seems only right to start with the largest muscle in the female body - the mother of all body parts - the uterus.  MY uterus, specifically.  I mean, why on earth would I be thankful for YOUR uterus?  I'm sure it's very nice and you like it a lot, but I have no feelings about yours one way or the other.

MY uterus, on the other hand, is responsible for having sheltered and grown and ultimately ejected into the world four of the cutest, squishiest little humans I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.  I was blessed with healthy, full-term, relatively uneventful pregnancies.  I was able to see their little hearts pulse on the ultrasound screens and feel their kicks and hiccups in the middle of many a sleepless night.  I know so many women whose hearts ache to have that experience but may never.  It's not something I take for granted.  Not only is my body a blessing and a miracle, but thanks in large part to a properly functioning uterus, I was able to help create and carry around a few little miracles of my own.

Yep, my uterus is pretty nifty and, cramps, bloating, and other unpleasant stuff aside,  I'm pretty thankful for it.

Coincidence that the uterus looks like a super strong buff dude?  I think not.

My little miracles.  A few years post-uterus. 

Dear Body: Sorry I Was Mean to You

Sundays always somehow end up being a day of reflection for me.  Maybe it’s because I get to attend church bright and early and be reminded of all the ways I want and need to improve my spirituality.  Maybe it’s because I have a little more quiet time on my hands than I do Monday-Saturday.  “Quiet,” incidentally, is a relative term when you have four kids bouncing off the walls and banned from their beloved electronic devices for the duration of the day.  But still, the hectic running-from-one-thing-to-the-next pace slows way down on Sundays.  I like it.

Today, like many, many, MANY Sundays before, I’m thinking about all the ways I’m going to be nicer to my body in the coming week.  “Nicer” is also a relative term here, since there’s usually a lot of tough love built in to my weekly planning.  A little harder with the cardio, a little heavier with the weights, a little lighter on the calories. 

I’ve spent a lot of years – close to thirty of them – hating my body and thinking less-than-charitable thoughts about it.  Thanks to my brain, my body gets bullied by me in ways I would never dream of bullying another human being.

“Why do you have to be so ugly?”

“Do you realize that most people probably can’t stand the sight of you?” 

“Nobody will ever date you or marry you.” 

“I’m embarrassed to be seen with you.” 

“EVERYONE is embarrassed to be seen with you.”

I’ve somehow managed to convince myself that if I ever stop noting all of the things I hate about my body, it will mean that I’ve given myself permission to just give up and be overweight and be OK with that – something I am simply NOT willing to do.  Complacency got me here.  I refuse to let it carry me further into the abyss of depression and severe health risks that come with the continual packing on of pounds year after year.

BUT … what if I could work diligently and consistently on trying to be healthier while still appreciating those things about my body that DO serve me well?  What if I could be grateful for what good it DOES help me accomplish day after day rather than focusing obsessively on how it hinders me? 

Can I still love all of the wonderful things about this divinely-created vessel, this miracle that I’ve been given, even though it’s a work in progress?  Yes.

Do I have to wait until I’ve reached my idea of perfection before I can appreciate it for all that it does for me RIGHT NOW, TODAY?  No.

On this day of reflection, I have given myself permission to love what I HAVE while working toward what I WANT.   But just like the nerdy kid who’s been mercilessly tormented by the bully day after day, year after year, my body needs to know I mean it.  A mere “sorry I was mean to you” isn’t gonna cut it. 

So … to show this vessel that I truly am sorry and want to be kinder and gentler, I’m committing to thirty days of charity toward my body.  We will still work out together, sweat together, drink obscene amounts of water together, make multiple middle-of-the-night trips to the bathroom together, and say bad words together when passing up that piece of chocolate cake or eating our 37^th carrot stick for the week.  That won’t change.  What WILL change for the next thirty days, however, is that I will take the time to thank this body of mine for all that it helps me do and be day in and day out.  I’ll rejoice publicly in this miracle that I’ve been given and in the fact that, miraculously, it still manages to be kind to me in spite of the many years of bullying it’s endured from me.

Tomorrow begins 30 days of positive, grateful thoughts about my body.   My hope is that it will help my overall attitude and success in my journey to be a healthier, happier woman, because I am so much more than a bunch of numbers that try to tell me how to feel about myself.  

photo:  turbocharged.us.com