Letter to My Second Lover

Dear Diet Coke,

It has been a while--almost three weeks to be exact--since we've been together.  Even though there have been times when your absence wasn't too gut-wrenching, life just hasn't been the same.

I was warned when I was a little girl that someday something would come along and tell me pretty lies and I would fall in love, and I wasn't to give in, but I did anyway, and it has been a difficult relationship.  I know it was mostly my fault, that it was I who abused you and took all the good things you did for me for granted, but I must admit, you abused me, too.  Because of you run the risk of kidney damage, bone loss, weight gain, and tooth enamel damage.  And I tried to leave you.  But, like Rhianna, I just couldn't stay away.

How can I turn my back on you now, after all we've been through?  It was you who saved me during late night grading sessions all those times before grades were due.  It was you who talked me off the ledge when I arrived at school and looked at Londen and Billy and decided I just couldn't go on anymore.  It was you who prevented me when I wanted to kill Zach.  You were there for me when no one else was.  Even now, when all danger and threat to my life through my career is gone, you still stand by my side--my reward for cleaning the house, and my support when I stay up into the wee hours of the morning to finish my writing assignments.  It is you to whom I owe my sanity.  And I Love You.

Today I came back to you again--Burger King now sells you for a dollar, any size.  And I promised myself, just this one time, a goodbye, friends with benefits, farewell get-together.  But, like Monica and Richard, I am afraid there is no such thing as friends with benefits with you.  It is either all or nothing.

I know I should choose nothing, but I don't know if I can.  Getting over you was the worst thing I ever had to do, and I don't want to do it again.  I must admit, that my body has gotten better since you've been gone, and, just as Kelly Clarkson said, I can breathe for the first time when I work out.  And Shaun T might not look on your existence in my life with much affection.

I am afraid that I must make this final decision to cut you out completely.  It will be difficult, and I can't say that I won't long for you most days when Alice will say nothing but Chicken Butt, and Daisy will try with all her might to eat my food.  But it must be done--for both of us.

You will always hold a special place in my heart, and I don't think I will ever fully get over you.  I will never forget you.

Love Alway,
Sarah

p.s.  I might still make a booty call once in a while...please don't hate me for my imperfections.

Recent Thoughts About Being a Mormon.

I know.  When you've lived your whole life going to church in Utah County, it is very rare that an actual practicing Mormon considers her Mormon-ness.  But lately I have been bombarded by people who hate Mormons (that's my fault for reading comments on political websites), or who are, as they phrase it, "Recovering Mormons," as if they were recovering from some debilitating disease.

The most commented thing is the issue of polygamy, and how Joseph Smith coulda done it, how women are disrespected, and why in the world would the Mormons stop practicing polygamy just because the US Government OUTLAWED IT?  Like God has to follow earthly laws.

Let me just say right now that I don't know.  I don't know how the people in our early history dealt with it.  I have thought about it a lot, and for some reason it doesn't bother me at all.  Really, it doesn't.  Don't get me wrong, if I knew Joe was going somewhere else to have sex with another women different nights of the week, I would probably gouge my eyes out and die of that horrible pain that sinks in your stomach when something that you really love isn't available to you.  So I can't say that the reality wouldn't be heartbreaking now, but the reality of what it was then doesn't bother me.  For one thing, it wasn't just like a free-for-all, "Hey, all you hot men!  Take the all the women and  PAR-TAY!  Sex it UP!"  I don't think so.  It was a calling, and it was a calling that you could or could not accept, just like being the Sunday School teacher.  And if you did it without being called, well just imagine walking into Primary and start running Sharing Time when you're not the President.  It would just be weird.  Sometimes men were asked to marry older women just so the women could have someone to take care of them.  Sometimes the men married younger women, and I don't know why.  I don't know why it was okay, but something tells me it was about giving everyone the opportunity to be sealed in the highest degree of heaven, since there were a lot more women than men, and something about the Lord needing to send many new spirits to the earth to build up his kingdom--which is not, as some people say, an army or drones--and there were not enough men to help women have children in the acceptable way, meaning marriage.  So there.   As to the issue of having polygamy in heaven, well, it's not a pleasant thought, but  I'm hoping that by the time that happens that I will have a fuller vision of the Gospel, and will have been perfected enough to open up my family to others who want to experience those blessings.  Bottom line, I don't know.  I can't explain it away.  And guess what?  It's not my job to explain it away, and it doesn't matter to me right now.  Someday, when I'm actually faced with the issue, I'll suppose I'll do what I do with everything I'm told by the church: pray about it and decide for myself.  Yes, I am a Mormon, I am a woman, and I think for myself.  THE SHOCK!

And finally, "Why would the church just stop practicing polygamy if it was from God.  Does God have to answer to American Government?"  In a word, yes.  "We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates and in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law."(That's the Twelfth Article of Faith, by the way).  God wants us to be good citizens and follow the law, because otherwise, there would be a bunch of people running around going, "You can't tell me what to do!  You're not my real Heavenly Father, so neener, neener, neener."  God likes orderliness, cleanliness, and all that other -iness stuff.  Chaos and confusion is just so chaotic and confusing,  so God wants us to be orderly people so we follow laws.  Is that so hard to believe?

 I don't find it hard to believe that Heavenly Father would tell his people, "So, society doesn't really understand what we're doing here, and really, they never will.  And look, you've already been ridiculed, persecuted, and pushed out of everywhere you've ever tried to live.  And now, you're going to be outlaws.  So, for now, because the rest of the world isn't ready for this, we're gonna stop the polygamy thing.  Because we follow the law around here."  Why is that so hard to believe?  It's not that an unchanging God is changing.  It's God giving respect to the government and allowing his followers to not run from the law the rest of their lives.  It's Him being merciful.

And the whole beef people have with women "not being able to hold higher offices because of the lack of a p-----."  Believe it or not, that was an actual quote I read on a blog.  So let me tell you my view, and remember, this is the Gospel According to Sarah, so take it for what it's worth, but it makes sense in my brain:  When Alice or Daisy are sick, I instinctively know what to do, like hold their hair back when they puke, rub their bellies, sing them songs, talk quieter, call the doctor, give them fluids, or just plain make them feel better by being next to them and letting them wear their favorite jammies.

Joe, on the other hand, has to be told what to do.  And it's not because he's inept, because heaven knows he has his crap together a lot more than I do, but there's something about GROWING A HUMAN FROM SCRATCH and then FEEDING THAT PERSON WITH YOUR BOOBS (actually, I didn't breast feed.  But I did get up every night to feed a person with a bottles.  My boobs don't really work properly) that makes you a little bit more in tune to what that person needs.

So why can't women hold "upper offices?"  I don't know.  But I know why I couldn't be a Bishop or a Stake President.  Because, while I would be tending to other people, who would be watching my kids? Again, Joe is a really good person, and an excellent father, but he didn't grow a person inside his body.  He doesn't know how to troubleshoot things that talk back and spew lots of different kinds of bodily fluids at you.  And, let's be completely honest, I would be a horrible Bishop or Stake President, because I am too emotionally invested in people, because I am a girl.

I would say things like, "you did what?" or, "I know, why don't you get a job," or, "maybe it's because you are a mean person," or "Have you ever thought about not looking like a slut?" But someone like Joe, or my dad, could look at a problem from all angles and give good, logical, wisdom.  And I think it's because men are biologically wired to do that, just as I am biologically wired to invest emotionally.  Let me tell you, if you want logical, measured advice to a problem, you talk to my dad.  If you want someone to hate people who are mean to you and to threaten to scratch out her skinny eyes, you talk to my mom.  And I think it's supposed to be that way in order to meet people's needs.

So that's what I think.

One last thought: I have read blogs from "recovering Mormons," and they seem so sad, cynical, or just plain lost.  I'm not going to tell everyone that I know the Church is true, even though I do.  But I am going to say, so what if it's not true?  I have a good family, and I am a good person.  So what if I'm wrong in my religion?  How does that hurt other people?  My church gives me hope, and helps my children cultivate a relationship with a Higher Being, which we like to call God.  I feel good when I read about Christ, and I like the way that my church emphasizes nuclear families.  I like that I give more money to charity than most other Americans, and I like the the way my church helps people with that money and takes care of one another.  And if someone out there doesn't like Joseph Smith, and thinks I'm stupid for believing him, so what?  I'm not a skeezy crack-whore, I don't have any STDs, I have pretty good grammar, my children are taken care of, and when I have problems, I feel like I have someone Up There that knows what I'm going through and can help me through it.  And I have yet to not come out the happy end of a bad problem.

So, tell me again why my church is bad?

30 Things Before You're 30. Hmmmm. Not so much.

So I saw this article circulating on Pinterest.   I read it, and after spending all night reading My Year with Eleanor, I was feeling like I hadn't done what I was somehow "supposed" to do with my life in the last 30 years.

Then I started thinking.  This sucks.  People are telling me what I should do, and when.  So I made a comment on the post.  But it was too long.  And I couldn't edit it.  I just couldn't take some of these thoughts out, because, I realized as I was typing them, they are true and I believe them.  So I'm putting it here, on my blog.  That no one probably reads.  But it's out there in the cosmic at any rate.


"As far as I am concerned, this list is perfect for where it was published--Glamour. Glamour, along with a lot of other magazines aimed at women, is a magazine which is dedicated to making women forget what is really important about being a woman and focusing on things that aren't important, like lace bras, scores of boyfriends and sexual exploits, and 'finding yourself.'

A great deal of emphasis has been put on this finding yourself thing, but someone really super smart (and perfect) once said that in order to find yourself, you need to lose yourself in serving others.  It was only after I quit my job and started focusing on other people, namely my demanding children and what my husband was doing for us, that I started to realize that I didn't know who I was.  I had spent so much of my life focusing my education, my career, and how I was performing, that I didn't even know how to have fun, or what books I liked to read.  Don't get me wrong--education is so important, and I wouldn't change the years I spent in my career for anything.  I miss my career A LOT.  But it was only when I stopped focusing on myself that I was able to see myself for the first time.

I realized that I was pretty when I wanted to be, and I didn't need sexy underwear for my husband (although I have some).  I realized that I shared every single bit of myself with my husband--my email password, my bank account, and access to my voicemail.  And I realized that in sharing myself with my husband, I am fully complete and secure.  I don't care when my husband is in my email account, reads my texts, or sees my expenditures, because he knows everything anyway.

I don't think this list was meant to be taken literally, and it was printed in GLAMOUR--C'mon, people, not exactly a serious journalistic feat.  But, due to its popularity, and it giving birth to a BOOK, it is being taken seriously by a lot of women.  Unfortunately, whether this was the intent or not, women are judging themselves by these ridiculous standards.  It's sad that, after so much emphasis on being a feminist, people are still telling women who they should be, what they should be and when they should be it by.  The landscape has changed in the lat 70 years, but unfortunately, the narrative is the same."

So there.

So Much So Much So Much

And yet nothing to say. I feel like my family and I have been put through the spiritual ringer lately. Nothing very huge that it's worth a conversation, yet something big enough to keep me awake at night. The bottom line is this: We made a decision, and worrying about it won't make it different. I'm being quite cryptic, aren't I? I hate it when public blogs do that. If you don't want me to know, why write about it, right?

When I quit my job, Joe got this great new job that he loved. Unfortunately, he was only hired as a temp, but we were sure it would turn into a permanent position, especially after he was working so hard and people started to like him so much. Unfortunately, we were falling short some money every month. Not enough to get us in trouble, but enough that there would be trouble if we didn't do something soon. Joe got a night job welding. So now he works 7 - 3:30 Monday through Friday at his "real" job, and 5 - 9 Monday through Thursday at his "fake" job, which is how we refer to things. While the money is nice, and I can breathe a little easier, the not seeing Joe more than 2 hours over the course of four days is not. And to make matters worse, his temp job has turned into just that: "temp." His Last day is March 26. Yep. A little more than a week away. And we have no prospects. The company Joe temps through just sent us an email that says, "Too bad about not getting that job. We'll think of you when something comes up." Not very promising, if you ask me. So we're on the hunt again.

I have come to realize that Joe is not only my husband, but he is my best friend as well, which shocker right? Most husbands and wives are best friends. But lately, not only do I feel like I lost my husband, but I don't even have a friend to bitch about it with. Hmmm. See? Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing more than what many, many people have gone through. But enough to keep me up at nights. While Joe sleeps. Loudly.

This isn't really a pity-post, because, even though I do miss my career, I would miss my girls so much more, and if this is what is we need to do so my girls can be raised by their parents, then so be it. But I just wish it wasn't so inconvenient. I wish having faith in Heavenly Father were a little easier. But then again, if it were easy, everyone would do it, right?

So. Faith. Tally-ho!

And since no post is complete without my two little gorgeous girls, here they are.

Daisy Fay, at seven months. She's SO CUTE! She is the happiest baby I have ever seen, and she loves her Mama. The only time she cries is when I put her down for a nap, and her little cry is so gut wrenching, you would think her first boyfriend dumped her over Facebook. But she is my baby.

Alice Nichole, or as she says it, "Ayis MNicho-ol Bingham," Two years and ten months . Alice is full of piss and vinegar. She is bossy, independent, and has a very strong sense of what she wants. Which makes her a very difficult to raise as a toddler, but I am hoping will make her very strong as an adult. I am hoping what I call "stubborn" and "impossible" will turn into "secure" and "integrity" when she gets older. That's the only thing that keeps me from "breaking" her. I try to work with her sense of independence instead: "Alice, these are your choices: you can either eat the dinner Mommy has cooked, or you can go to bed hungry. Which do you choose?" And sometimes she chooses to be hungry. She doesn't get in trouble at all, she is just hungry. She doesn't like it much; in fact, the other day, she said, "Mommy, I don't want choices." Well, I don't either. But that's the way things are. And Alice is purely Daddy's Girl.

So, we are as good as it gets right now, and we are praying that when God closes a door, he opens a window. We're looking for a window to climb through right now.

"We're Concerned About You..."

That was the title of an email I received from my instructor at the Institute of Children's Literature. For the last year and a half, I have been taking an online course in Creative Writing for children. In reality, the course is only supposed to be 6 months to a year long--you can move as quickly as you like--but I took a 6 month leave of absence when the last three months and the last six months of work and pregnancy were just too much for me. It's only worth like, ten college credits, or something small like that, but it's taken me forever to work through the course. I am finally on Part A the last assignment. But I have been putting it off. It was due January 1, thus prompting the email: "We're Concerned About You."

Yes, I am sure you are, as most other people, who know more about me than you, are. There is much to be concerned about, but my late assignment is not one of those things. For example, I would be concerned that I enjoy disco music and 70's soft rock. I know. The two red-headed step-children of the seventies music scene, the aspects that so many would love to forget, I have a yen for.

I would also be concerned that I have three sets of the Harry Potter Collection: The American version, the children's British version, and the adult British Version (this is just more sophisticated artwork and different typset. This is not, as so many people think when I say the "adult" version, the version where Hermione and Ron get it on in the back seat of a car and Pansy Parkinson is the newest star of 16 and Pregnant). And I am on the campaign for a Valentine's Day paperback set, as well. I don't know why. It think it's a disease.

I would be concerned that when I watch a DVD season, or a Netflix streaming season of a show I like (Gilmore Girls, Friends, Frasier, Family Ties, Biggest Loser, etc), I must watch every episode --even if I have already seen the episode, or I do not care for the episode. I have to watch EVERY ONE. Why? Because it is a set, and I need to keep them all together.

I would be concerned that when I was little, I would alternate every day which shoe I put on first: on Monday, the right shoe got to go first, and and Tuesday, the left one, and so on. Why? Because I didn't want the left shoe to feel left out when the right shoe got to go first every day. It's cute when you're five, but it's concerning when you're 30.

I would be concerned that I have allowed Joe to teach our two year old to moon people. Bare-butt mooning. And I think it's funny.

I would be concerned that it takes me 45 minutes to peel and orange. Yes. Forty-five minutes. I do not like the yellow gunk on my orange, so I peel as much off as I possibly can. Alice doesn't ask me to peel oranges anymore. She has learned to go straight to Daddy.

I would be concerned that I do not like using the bathroom. It is the most inconvenient thing in the history of the world, although Salem Witch Trials are a close second. The point is, you always have to pee when there is no bathroom around. You always have to...ahem...when you're in a store and all you really want to do is peruse the As Seen on TV aisle (yes, that would be another thing to be concerned about). And your two year old always has to "pee" when you go to a new place. Peeing, in any form, is not convenient and I just don't like it.

I would be concerned that I don't loan out my jigsaw puzzles unless I have completed them first. I would feel like I was the loser because I didn't conquer the puzzle first. I told you. Concerning.

I would be concerned that I like to watch The Biggest Loser, not because it's inspirational, but because I think it is funny to see fat people cry.

See, there are many things to be concerned about when it comes to me, but I assure you, Children's Institute of Literature, being late on my assignment is not one of them. I have one baby, one toddler who decided that today she would be a tiger and so drew lines on her face with a pen, a husband whom I see for 30 minutes tops every day, an iPad with an AllRecipes app, and an invitation to Pinterest. Being late on my assignment is inevitable--but not concerning.

I Am...

When I was a senior in high school, my AP English teacher made us write an "I Am..." paper. It was simple, really. Each paragraph started with a simple statement, and you filled in the rest. I am sure that she meant it as a get-to-know-you paper, but I took the assignment to heart and wrote three pages. The process was an important one for me, because it was the first time I had ever sat down to think about what I believed in and who I was. The paper was due on my 18th birthday, and it was so significant to me, that for a couple of years after I rewrote the paper for my own records. Well, I haven't written one for about 10 years. Now that I am beyond the point that I ever imagined (when I was 18, the way I pictured my future was this: marriage, teacher. I never though past that...) I feel like I am punting. I need somewhere to stand, and since this paper helped establish the 18 year old me, I am hoping it will establish the 30 year old me.

I am 30 years old. I am a wife, a mother, a former teacher, a sister, a daughter. I am trying to blend all those things together to be a coherent and functioning human being. I am trying so hard every day to do things to be better. I am not who I was ten years ago, although that girl is still a huge part of me. She has handed to me her insecurities, but I have gained wisdom from her follies. I think. I am here and now. I am trying to see what I am meant to see and do what I am meant to do. I am strong. I am fearless. I am scared of my own power.

I believe a lot of things differently than I did when I was 18. Family, religion, politics--my beliefs have all changed or evolved. It's amazing to think about all that I have ingested and analyzed in the last eleven years, and how much that has shaped my views. I have become a much more conservative person that I originally thought I was. I believe that children need a mom and a dad. I believe that people should be honest, without sugar-coating everything, and without fear of repercussions. I believe that "politically correct" is another term for "pandering." I believe that there are ugly people. I believe that there are beautiful people. I believe that what determines your ugliness or beauty is the way you treat others. Good teeth and hair always help, though. I believe that the most important thing that anyone can do in this world is have a family and protect them.

I know how to punctuate a sentence, and I know which pronouns to use. I know (in detail) what happens in every chapter of The Great Gatsby. I know how many times The Great Gatsby or F. Scott Fitzgerald is referenced in Gilmore Girls. I know which season every episode of Friends is in, and I know the lyrics to hundreds, maybe thousands, of songs. I know every state in the United States, and can repeat them in alphabetical order. I know all the Articles of Faith by heart. I know that if I study the way I know how, I can have a strong testimony. I know that Heavenly Father watches over me and my family, and I know that we are being led. I know that I am doing what I am meant to do, no matter how hard the adjustment from teacher to mom has been for me. And because I know that, it makes life easier. I know that we will be taken care of, and I know that every experience I have is for my good. I have already seen how much better I am for the the trials I went through to get my family. I know Joe and I are a better couple because we have faced our biggest fears and we have faced things that broke our hearts. I know that Heavenly Father and our Savior don't leave anyone to figure it out on their own. They are there every step of the way.

I wish that I could be more confident in myself. I thought that by the time I was thirty, I wouldn't be insecure about my body, my likes and my dislikes, and my opinions and the way I wish to opine. I struggled with all these things in high school; there was a time when I refused to raise my hand and make a comment in classes because I thought people would like me more if I had less opinions. I have hardly any pictures of myself in high school because I always hated the way I looked. I felt stupid for liking the music I liked, and the liking the shows I liked. Now, I still feel horrible about my body--and those extra 40 pounds from pregnancies aren't helping. I still go home from church every Sunday analyzing everything I said that day from comments in Relief Society to my lesson and wonder if I offended anyone, if there was any way to construe what I said in the wrong way, or if I was inappropriate. It's exhausting, if you're wondering, to worry that much about what comes out of your mouth. I wish I was better at all those things Stay at Home Moms are supposed to do. I don't like housekeeping, so I don't do a lot of it. My house isn't disgusting, but if there's toys on the floor, I might not pick them up. If there are dishes in the sink, they may or may not get done. If Joe doesn't specifically tell me when he needs his work clothes washed, he might end up doing them himself. What do I do all day? I watch TV. I read with Alice. I crochet blankets. I rock Daisy to sleep. I might nap once in a while. And I am always feeding SOMEONE. I feel incredibly guilty for not cleaning the house in pearls. I don't really wish I would be better at cleaning, I wish I could get to a place where I don't feel the guilt.

I hope that I can start to find a balance in who I am and how I define myself. I used to label myself as nothing more than a teacher. Then, when I became a wife and a mother, I didn't know how to be combine all those things. Now, I label myself as just a mom. It's wonderful being a mother. I love every time Alice sits on my lap, or Daisy smiles at me, or when I get to kick some serious monster butt. But if all I am is a mom, then what am I to me? And what am I to Joe? See, Joe and I already have moms. See my problem? I don't know how to balance everything yet. And I don't know what it means to be me, Sarah Bingham. For so long I have been a student, a teacher, a wife, a mother, I never really figured out what it is to be me. I hope I can figure that out and find a way to be all those things I want to be. I hope that I can raise my daughters to believe that they are beautiful and wonderful people. I hope I can teach them to have integrity, but most of all, I hope I can show them what it means to have a testimony and how to strengthen theirs.

I dream of writing a book. I want people to read my words and appreciate what I have in my head. I dream of the days when I can buy a pair of shoes without wondering it it's going to hurt our mortgage, or when I can buy Alice and Daisy everything I want to buy them for Christmas. I dream of a house. A house with a fenced-in yard where I can watch my kids play in the sandbox from the kitchen window. A house where I have a room all to myself with lots of shelves for all my books and cubby holes for all my yarn and a desk where I can write my book that would eventually be made into a Disney movie. I dream of a garage for Joe where he can restore cars the way he wants and a place where he can teach my girls to change the oil and the tires. I dream of my girls, and what I want them to be and wonder how I can help them get there.

I love my Joe. I love my Alice. I love my Daisy. I love my Heavenly Father. I love where I am in my life, even though I haven't figured everything out or how I fit into the picture. I love going on dates with my husband and holding his hand, and cuddling like we used to when it was just us. I love the way he smells when he comes home from work, and I love that he puts on special cologne when he wants me to cuddle him. I love dancing with Alice and coming up with routines that involve Jazz Hands. I love smelling Daisy's head, and I love falling asleep with her in the rocker. I love playing in Alice's make believe world, and I love to watch Daisy watch Alice. I love cooking and having people like my food. I love making usable things with my hands: blankets, booties, slippers, hats. I love creating. I think that's the part I miss most about teaching: creating everything from scratch--lesson plans, handouts, units, tests, activities--and then see that my creations actually worked, and actually helped someone see something differently. I love being who I am, even if I'm not comfortable with all the components that make up me, or even understand all the components. I love the choices I have made that have brought me to this point.

In writing this, I have come to realize one thing that I didn't realize before I started writing this: Despite everything that is so not perfect in my life, I am happy.

Practice Makes Perfect

So. It's been three months, and I still have ten pounds to lose from having Miss Daisy, and then fifty--yes, 5-0--pounds to lose from having Alice. I've done Weight Watchers, I've tried to go it alone, I've tried calorie counting with workouts. I just can't seem to lose more than a couple of pounds, and then if I have a day or so when I fall off the wagon, I gain it back. In like one day. I kid you not.

So I started doing some research into different diets, and the more research I read on losing weight and the science of the body, the more I realized when I cut calories, all I was doing is lowering my fat intake and to replace the feeling of fullness, I was compensating with lots of carbohydrates--yogurt, granola bars, popcorn, etc. Well, carbohydrates turn things into sugar, and sugar turns to fat, especially if your body is not efficient in processing sugar, which, I have discovered, mine does not. I'm an Indian (a genetic group that only ate meat and vegetables), my family has a history of diabetes, I have ovulation problems (which has been shown to be caused by insulin levels and hormones regulation), and I take thyroid medication to regulate my sugars--thyroid also controls your hormones. So. Sugar is not good for me. And if carbohydrates turn to sugar, then. Well, this spare tire around the middle finally has a culprit.

Anyway, after all that boring stuff, I have started looking into different low-carb approaches, and I have settled on the New Atkins. Yeah, yeah. I know. Atkins died of heart disease. Your body needs carbohydrates. Sure. But your body doesn't need refined flour and sugar. Your body needs carbs that can be found in vegetables and fruits. Which is what, once you really start to read up and not go by rumor, is what Atkins is all about. The theory, and there's quite a bit of science to back it up, is this: your body's first source for energy is carbohydrates, with fat as a secondary resource. So, if you don't give your body more than 20 - 30 grams of carbs a day, you body will start pulling from your fat stores for energy. The kicker is that fat is a more efficient and concentrated form of energy, so there's no sugar high and crash. Proteins and (healthy) fats leave you satisfied longer than refined carbs, so you tend to eat less and crave less. It makes sense, really.

So it's Thanksgiving and Christmas. A bad time to decide to avoid carbs and sugar. So, I have decided to "practice" eating low carbs. Meaning, on days when there is not a party or a holiday, I will follow the Atkins diet best I can. On party days and and holidays, I'm not gonna try too hard. I'm going to eat my pies and stuffing and whatever else.

See, I'm just practicing now--remember when you were taking piano lessons, and you were told to practice so you could get better at it? Then you sat down, opened the music, and played it perfect the first time. Done. Right? Well, no, not really. You practiced and practiced, made a lot of mistakes, and hopefully by recital time, you have worked out all the kinks and you can play perfectly. Or near perfect. And if you make a mistake, no one really notices because the rest is so fabulous. That's what I'm doing. I'm living low carb and making all my mistakes now, and then come January, it's recital time. Diving in, following the diet to the letter, and going to the gym as much as my kiddos and hubby allow. Adjusting and making mistakes now, so when it's time to really commit, I am almost perfect, but if I make a few mistakes, no one will know because I'm looking so crazy fabulous.

So for now, low carb-ish. So far, I have survived by substituting anything I would use bread for with lettuce. For example, tonight, instead of creamy chicken taquitos, we had creamy chicken lettuce boats. It was yummy. And guess what? On a low carb diet, you can eat cream cheese, cheese, meats, cream, butter, and vegetables. All the stuff I love. I kid you not, spread some cream cheese in celery, and I'm a happy camper.

This week I have only been able to really follow the low carb diet perfectly for three days out of five, and guess what? I've lost three pounds. In three days. Yeah. I think this might work. Boring blog post. But I felt like I needed to put it out there.