I am a woman, so it might not come as a groundbreaking revelation to discover that I have struggled with body image. Who am I kidding? Struggle is a mild understatement, declared all-out war on my body might be a more apt description. In high school and college, I would spend months eating nothing all day, or sometimes would allow my self a pretzel and glass of water. My 5'8" frame, at one time, carried a mere 108 lbs. Looking back, it was not attractive, but to me, thin meant beautiful.
What led to this trip down memory lane? My morning bible study. I'm completing a study written by Jennifer Rothschild, who, this morning, focused on what we say to ourselves about our body. Hmmm...what do I say to myself about my body? For years, I beat myself up for eating too much or for not working out enough. I derided my lack of self-control and discipline. I even prayed for help to make it to my idea of an ideal weight, influenced by airbrushed pictures of models who had live-in chefs and personal trainers. I spent a lot of time consumed with.....myself. And I discovered that obsession with body image is really an obsession with self. How selfish?!
I've since made peace with my body. It's been a long, hard road fueled by prayer, by bible study, and by learning about what this body is truly capable of regardless of its weight. (I also quit reading fashion magazines.) As a matter of fact, after running and training for marathons and having two children, I now view my body as a magnificent miracle capable of so much. There are still days I fret too long in the mirror about cellulite or wrinkles. But my goal is to no longer judge my body for its appearance; I'm learning the art of moderation in both food and exercise and have discovered that life is about so much more than weight and inches. It's about so much more than me.
And because of my study today, I'm learning to look at my body in yet another light. I've long been familiar with the following verses: "Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?" 1 Cor. 3:16 and "Or do you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?" 1 Cor. 6:19. And very often, when studying these scriptures, the lesson has centered on drug or alcohol abouse or on taking care of yourself but rarely have I been prompted to think about these verses in light of body image. Today, I was challenged to also view my body as God's dwelling place. The place God chooses to house his Holy Spirit.
Rothschild tells the story of discovering another verse to medidate on in light of the above two while sweating it out on her treadmill. She heard, while working out, this from her bible on tape: "How lovely are your dwelling places O Lord of hosts!" Psalm 84:1. So, let me get this straight. My body is a dwelling place for the Lord, AND it is lovely. Lovely. No matter what it weighs, how cut my abs and biceps are, or no matter what size jeans I wear. My body is lovely because it is the dwelling place of God. What freedom is there in that!
It pains me to see so many wonderful women of all shapes and sizes live and die by what the scale or some label in their clothing says. We are so much more than that; we are mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, women who nurture, love, give, and have so much to offer no matter what we look like. Most importantly, we are God's handiwork.
No more self-loathing. It's about Him, not me, and there are no brownie points in heaven for beating myself up. When we self-hate, we still center on self and put down the place Christ chooses to dwell. Of course, the flip side is loving ourselves too much, but I don't know too many women who over-love their bodies. Being in the place where I am completely obsessed with self, in a loving or hateful manner, in any capacity, is a lonely place to be.
I am finding the realization of my body being a temple of the Lord and applying that to how I view and treat my own body to be such a life-changing discovery. Of course, because of that realization, there is a responsibility to care for our bodies but with common sense. Something I lacked all those years ago. I've discovered like so many things in life; it is about finding balance and about focusing on the Creator of my body, not my body itself.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Meal Time Fun
Dinner seems like it would be a pretty benign experience. You make a meal, you serve a meal, you eat a meal. Ahhh...but add a few sweet little ones into the mix and mealtime becomes more of an adventure, full of unexpected surprises.
When A was C's age, she was still eating baby food, and even when she started solid food, it was mostly discovering what items she would actually put into her mouth and eat. I think by the time she was 18 months, we had actually convinced her to eat 8 different foods. C, on the other hand, has been eating solid food since he was 9 months old and would have started earlier, if we had allowed him to. He loves to eat. Of course, now eating has become a game where C drops his food in the floor, looks over his high chair, looks up to you, then back down to the floor, points and says, "Me?" "Yes, buddy, you dropped it." "Me?" Repeat process.
C eats a little earlier than the rest of the family, since he can't seem to wait until dinner is served. Normally, we'll place him in the dining room floor with some toys, while we eat dinner. Recently, though, C has learned a few new tricks from the family dog. Begging. He crawls up to me first, pulls himself to a standing position, points to my plate, and begs, "Me?" Being a good mom, I hand him vegetables. He promptly lowers himself to a crawling position and makes his way over to his father. "Me?" Not satisfied with dad's selection, he finally crawls to A's chair, pulls himself up and repeats his plea, "Me? ME!" Usually, his sister giggles, but I'm sure she's more than eager to unload a few pieces of broccoli or carrot.
A is a different story. Her favorite response to an offering of veggies or a "questionable" new food is, "Not right now, Mommy. I'll try it when I'm older." To which I usually respond, "One bite rule or no dessert." "No zert, but I don't like broccoli." You get the picture. I'm just waiting for A to let me know the appropriate age for eating creamed spinach and broccoli with cheese. I'm not holding my breath that it will be anytime before her 16th birthday.
The real meal challenge is that our dining room is adjacent to the kids' playroom. My husband and I spend most of our time corraling children back to their seats. But, I'm counting that as enough extra calories burned for "zert," preferably ice cream.
When A was C's age, she was still eating baby food, and even when she started solid food, it was mostly discovering what items she would actually put into her mouth and eat. I think by the time she was 18 months, we had actually convinced her to eat 8 different foods. C, on the other hand, has been eating solid food since he was 9 months old and would have started earlier, if we had allowed him to. He loves to eat. Of course, now eating has become a game where C drops his food in the floor, looks over his high chair, looks up to you, then back down to the floor, points and says, "Me?" "Yes, buddy, you dropped it." "Me?" Repeat process.
C eats a little earlier than the rest of the family, since he can't seem to wait until dinner is served. Normally, we'll place him in the dining room floor with some toys, while we eat dinner. Recently, though, C has learned a few new tricks from the family dog. Begging. He crawls up to me first, pulls himself to a standing position, points to my plate, and begs, "Me?" Being a good mom, I hand him vegetables. He promptly lowers himself to a crawling position and makes his way over to his father. "Me?" Not satisfied with dad's selection, he finally crawls to A's chair, pulls himself up and repeats his plea, "Me? ME!" Usually, his sister giggles, but I'm sure she's more than eager to unload a few pieces of broccoli or carrot.
A is a different story. Her favorite response to an offering of veggies or a "questionable" new food is, "Not right now, Mommy. I'll try it when I'm older." To which I usually respond, "One bite rule or no dessert." "No zert, but I don't like broccoli." You get the picture. I'm just waiting for A to let me know the appropriate age for eating creamed spinach and broccoli with cheese. I'm not holding my breath that it will be anytime before her 16th birthday.
The real meal challenge is that our dining room is adjacent to the kids' playroom. My husband and I spend most of our time corraling children back to their seats. But, I'm counting that as enough extra calories burned for "zert," preferably ice cream.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
New Workout
The Mercedes Marathon is next week, and I can't run. I had wanted to run the half with my sister, who is running her first half, but my IT band has said, "NO!" I was okay with it until I started hearing people talking about 10 and 11 milers and training runs, and I'll admit, I turned a little green with envy. I know, how could someone be envious of someone else running 10 miles, but as a runner, there's something about training and knowing the reward is crossing the finish line of a marathon. I thought after taking off a year from running, I'd be able to train with no problems, but it seems right now, four miles is the magic number then my IT band begins to shout, "STOP."
So, to ease my non-training blues, I decided to try a new class at the gym: Boot camp. That's right, boot camp. Scary name and yes, scary class. I haven't felt as awkward as I did in this class, since sixth grade, when I had Annie Orphan curls, braces, my limbs were long and gangly, and I was actually wondering why I couldn't get a date to my first dance. Then when a poor guy agreed to attend the band dance with me, I rewarded him by wearing a white sweater with sparkly silver threads, on which my mom decided to sew a sequin saxophone, because, hey, I played the alto saxophone in band. I completed the ensemble with a silver skirt and white and silver granny boots. I don't recall a second date. Anyway, haven't felt that awkward again until I walked into boot camp.
The first thing I see is a very fit instructor with a whistle, who appears to have actually conducted boot camp out in the real world, shouting commands. "Grab your weights, do 1 lap of walking lunges, then 1 lap on the track. We'll do four repeats." I hope by repeats he doesn't mean repeating the entire process four times. He did. I return from my last lap winded with my legs already shaking. A glance at the clock revealed we were only ten minutes into the class. "Yipee!"
I can't really remember what happened after that. I'm pretty sure there were tortuous sit-ups, not regular crunches, but some sort of angling and pulling your knees to the side while lifting your torso off the ground. And there were push-ups, yes, lots of push-ups. I stumble up from my last push-up to hear, "Now we're going to do burpies." "Did he say hurt-mes because that's exactly what he should have said." From burpies we move on to squat jumping jacks right into triceps dips with leg lifts. Repeat three times. And now I actually see him demonstrate the following for our next move. He squats low and proceeds to do bicep curls from the squatting position. We follow and don't stand until we've done three sets from the squat. At least we weren't "supposed" to stand. By now my body is screaming and there are still 15 minutes left in class. I'm quickly learning lifting your son out of the crib does not count as an upper body workout.
I finally finish my first boot camp experience and am walking out the door, when the instructor runs up and hands me a t-shirt. You get the prize for working out the hardest today. (Apparently, prizes are common in boot camp class, or else I can't imagine many people would attend.) What?! There's a prize! Is the prize for working out the hardest or because the instructor felt sorry for me because he thought I was going to pass out? I'm not sure; all I know is I survived, and if I can walk by next Friday, I'll try again.
So, to ease my non-training blues, I decided to try a new class at the gym: Boot camp. That's right, boot camp. Scary name and yes, scary class. I haven't felt as awkward as I did in this class, since sixth grade, when I had Annie Orphan curls, braces, my limbs were long and gangly, and I was actually wondering why I couldn't get a date to my first dance. Then when a poor guy agreed to attend the band dance with me, I rewarded him by wearing a white sweater with sparkly silver threads, on which my mom decided to sew a sequin saxophone, because, hey, I played the alto saxophone in band. I completed the ensemble with a silver skirt and white and silver granny boots. I don't recall a second date. Anyway, haven't felt that awkward again until I walked into boot camp.
The first thing I see is a very fit instructor with a whistle, who appears to have actually conducted boot camp out in the real world, shouting commands. "Grab your weights, do 1 lap of walking lunges, then 1 lap on the track. We'll do four repeats." I hope by repeats he doesn't mean repeating the entire process four times. He did. I return from my last lap winded with my legs already shaking. A glance at the clock revealed we were only ten minutes into the class. "Yipee!"
I can't really remember what happened after that. I'm pretty sure there were tortuous sit-ups, not regular crunches, but some sort of angling and pulling your knees to the side while lifting your torso off the ground. And there were push-ups, yes, lots of push-ups. I stumble up from my last push-up to hear, "Now we're going to do burpies." "Did he say hurt-mes because that's exactly what he should have said." From burpies we move on to squat jumping jacks right into triceps dips with leg lifts. Repeat three times. And now I actually see him demonstrate the following for our next move. He squats low and proceeds to do bicep curls from the squatting position. We follow and don't stand until we've done three sets from the squat. At least we weren't "supposed" to stand. By now my body is screaming and there are still 15 minutes left in class. I'm quickly learning lifting your son out of the crib does not count as an upper body workout.
I finally finish my first boot camp experience and am walking out the door, when the instructor runs up and hands me a t-shirt. You get the prize for working out the hardest today. (Apparently, prizes are common in boot camp class, or else I can't imagine many people would attend.) What?! There's a prize! Is the prize for working out the hardest or because the instructor felt sorry for me because he thought I was going to pass out? I'm not sure; all I know is I survived, and if I can walk by next Friday, I'll try again.
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