The Six Week Plan [umm, make that 3 weeks]

This was supposed to be a redemptive post. A post about new beginnings, about a treat free weekend, and about an earnest commitment to salvage what's left of my honor and dignity by seeing through the last three weeks of what was supposed to be our Six Week Plan.

But tonight there is only weakness.

Three or four weeks ago I committed to help Michelle in her efforts to get back to her pre-pregnancy weight. Since the Christmas season we'd been battling [unsuccessfully] the tendency to indulge. Then three months later, in an effort to reclaim ourselves, we swore an oath to live treat free lives for the six weeks or so leading up to my birthday. Apart from the carrot of slimmer figures, we also put some tax return money up as a reward to frivolously spend on ourselves if we met our goals. All we had to do -- or at least all I had to do -- was to go without treats and to exercise regularly.

Michelle has done relatively well these past three weeks [or at least that's what she says.] But my heart has mostly only been half in it -- committed in the mornings, but looking for wiggle room by the evening. Such double-mindedness has lead to minor eating indiscretions at the office [e.g., a single donut two weeks ago, brownie bites on consecutive days this week etc.] and non-treat -- but no less caloric -- bowls of cold cereal late at night. Frankly, it's been the worst of both worlds: too few sweet treats to satisfy me, and yet none of the weight loss benefits of resisting.

Michelle seems to have taken great delight in pointing out my comparative weakness.

Something needed to change, and yesterday morning, feeling familiar stirrings, I re-signed a pledge promising not to eat treats for the next three weeks -- the last three weeks of our six week plan. I told Michelle about it and even made it through the day and evening without indulgence. Since it was a Friday, it was a doubly-difficult feat. I felt back on track.

Tonight, though, we attended a church function. A game night, celebrating St. Patrick's Day. Yes, desserts were to be provided, but we wouldn't partake.

Not three minutes after we arrived, though, I found Michelle with a giant chocolate chip cookie in her mouth. In between chomping the cookie, she mentioned something of getting back at me for the donut I'd eaten two weeks ago [I hadn't told her about the brownies this week.] Two minutes later, she was munching another cookie -- just as large as the last one. What was I supposed to do?

At that moment there was probably someone, somewhere, doing something against all odds to keep a committment they'd made to themselves or someone else.

Alas, it was not me. I started in on the brownie bites, followed up with the oatmeal raisin cookies, and finished with a chocolate cupcake or two. [No, actually I think it was 3 cupcakes, and probably 4-5 cookies.]

So I cannot write tonight of strength and honor, discipline and self-control. I can only write of the oft traveled road of over-indulgence, regret, and the painful reminder of Thomas Jefferson's famous words: "We never repent of having eaten too little."

Hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to make the committment stick.*


* To those of you tempted to counsel me to moderation -- rather than the feast or famine mentality manifested by this post -- thank you for the kind thought. Since Christmas, however, I feel no more capable of moderation than of holding back the tide. So we'll be sticking with the feast/famine approach for the time being.

A Late Night With Natalie

It's now nearing 1:30 a.m. The events of the evening have followed a similar pattern:

Natalie woke up around 10:30 p.m. Michelle went in to comfort her, and then we determined to let her fall back to sleep by herself. We waited and waited and waited and waited. Michelle grew increasingly frustrated.

By midnight we thought Natalie might be asleep again. We turned off all the lights and crept into bed, only to have Natalie, moments later, erupt with a new round of cries. The cries seem so much more pronounced when you're in the same room.

Michelle gets near frenzied by this point, abandoning all hopes for the following day and giving way to everything we'd spent the last hour and a half trying to accomplish. She brings Natalie into bed to try to nurse her down, which fails. Natalie continues to squirm and Michelle seems less and less able to deal with it. We have neighbors above and below and on the other side of our bedroom. Can we really just let her cry it out at midnight? And then what about when she's up again at 2 a.m.? At 4 a.m.? And even forgetting the neighbors, we're in a 2 bedroom apartment. Where are we supposed to go while she's crying herself back to sleep? All of these thoughts only seem to add to the desperation.

At last Michelle doesn't know what to do. She says prayers don't help, they make her depressed. She can't handle it. She won't handle it. And all of my own prayers throughout the evening touching this exact situation have again lead me to the same desperate circumstance.

I take Natalie out of the room, and Emily immediately starts crying between coughs from an adjacent room. I'm then trying to deal with Natalie and Emily -- who feels sick and wants to sleep in our bed. I get Emily a drink and try to comfort her while holding Natalie. Emily then goes back to sleep, and I'm stuck [while still feeling sick myself] with Natalie, who shows no sign of wanting to sleep -- though gratefully she does sit peacefully in my arms.

She then spits up all over the couch, and I have no spit rag. And the truth is I start to feel spent.

At length I offered a vocal prayer to God while I'm holding Natalie [who is awake still.] I try pouring out my frustrations and fears, my difficulties, and the difficulties of everyone else in this house. I wonder why Natalie is still awake tonight and what I'm supposed to do about. I wonder what He can and will do about it. I wonder why He doesn't seem as near, and why it is my prayers lately in these desperate hours feel so forced and dry. And as the answers aren't readily apparent, the prayers are offered with less feeling and with less hope.

And then I turn on the computer to read the latest Ensign message from President Monson, ironically on prayer. As he describes it, the great answer is simply to pray, and to be more constant and earnest in our prayers.

This is not helping. Not tonight. Not the last 5 nights. Not when I'm already in earnest and wanting to know why the Heavens seem silent as Michelle and I try to cope with Natalie's sleeping habits in a two bedroom apartment.

Throughout, though, at every instance when I'm tempted to complain or feel forsaken, a thought tries to wedge its way in: do I expect to be delivered simply for the asking? Do I expect prayers, even desperate prayers, to spare me difficulty? Is He not sustaining me even now? Is it not a great blessing that she'll sit contented on my lap? Has He not already allowed for the fact that, when Michelle can no longer handle things, He has given me strength sufficient that I can? And has He not still provided everything I have needed and more?

And then I remember Neil L. Anderson's thought: faith is not just a feeling, it's a decision. I feel inclined to choose faith, and as I ponder that thought while continuing President Monson's message, I find my little girl asleep. At least for now.