Ehem. Anyway.

When Josh and I were filling out the demographic data sheet thingamajig for CrMS it was all I could do to keep from running out the hospital door to immediately look up data for where this system is actually used or how long it had been since they had updated their questionnaire. I was taken aback because they had household income broken down into several increments, but the highest, yes–the very top income bracket–was one that would allow a couple with two children to qualify for at least some forms of State assistance where we currently live. And this was apparently the highest income bracket they could imagine would be useful on a form handed out where we live?

And then of course there is the underlying problem of the tremendous socioeconomic gap in our country. Everyone seems to think that she is a part of the middle class and that her perception of reality is the accurate one. And so we act as if it should be easy to pay off two JDs and raise a family and save for retirement on one early-career income, because one income works for our family. And then at the same time we completely fail to see that what we think of as the basic demands of family life- dad being gone for the vast majority of his children’s days- is, in fact, an indication that we ourselves are probably choosing luxury because we want it. After all, so many people survive on so much less. Or is it so little less? Anyway, we could live with our parents, and our husbands could work part-time gigs and actually be around to see their children’s first steps. Is it not possible that the one full income we think of as basic is, in fact, as much of a luxury as someone else’s second income which is so obviously frivolous?

Instead we act as if the only question is one high income or two, and are quite convinced that those who see a SAHM as a sign of luxury are absurd.

And then there is the other side. The family with the multiple grad degrees from prestigious universities who likes to talk about how there is no need to worry about saving for our children’s undergraduate educations because they were fine paying the equivalent of multiple mortgages. And if they could pay that much, then surely everyone else can? It doesn’t matter that they have the earning power of the MBA/JD/MD/WhaverD. They seem unable to comprehend that this is not the case for most of those with the pathetic BAs.

Honestly, I’m not smart enough for all of this. My head hurts from trying to figure out what $xxx.00 converts to in y situation. There are helpful cost of living calculators for the simple geography question, but they come up far short of helpful with figuring out social expectation and debt repayments.

So for now I’m going to go back to work and give up the question of what is or isn’t a luxury for someone else. Please let me know if you can figure out if I am living in luxury or not because I certainly can’t tell.

Except that you don’t reap when you sow.

And yet the sowing itself is reaping what was previously sown.  After all, you sow only because of what you have previously done which has gotten you to this new place, to this new need to create something different, to grow something more.

We like to separate doing and being. Then we say that the latter is more important while at the same time demonstrating that it is really the former that is key.

But if being is the result of doing (and I sincerely believe that it is) then what I am today, my being, is a result of yesterday’s doing.  Thus I am not who I am today, I am–in my lived experience at least–what I did yesterday.

Only tomorrow will I really be the one I am today.

And this is all terribly frightening because I am a half-decent person today because I was good years ago.  But I am not doing good today, and so someday soon I will be what I am today, and then I shall be dreadful indeed.

But this is all very confusing, and so instead of asking if you could follow any of that, I will ask this far more pressing question:

Can you explain how people can be disgusted at the dissection of fetal pigs while at the same time loving bacon?

In the past year I have seen four doctors. Three of them directly addressed the subject of pregnancy. Two of them urged me to do everything reasonable to achieve pregnancy ASAP. None of them mentioned the fact that I am overweight or provided suggestions for a plan for losing weight and becoming more fit prior to seeking pregnancy.

If my only knowledge came from my doctors, I would think that weight and fitness were inconsequential in achieving a healthy pregnancy, carrying a healthy baby to term, and delivering that same healthy baby without complications. If that is what I thought, I could not be more radically incorrect. Is this reasonable?

What do you think about medical professionals who counsel overweight women regarding pregnancy without ever mentioning the numerous risks to the woman which could be reduced if the woman would lose weight prior to becoming pregnant?

What do you think about doctors actively providing fertility treatments to overweight women without first addressing their weight?

Does it make a difference to you that getting to the root of the weight issue might actually resolve the fertility issue?

What about the fact that the more first-time mothers weigh, the more likely the baby is to die?¹

Or is it insane to imagine that a woman could be overweight in the U.S. without being fully aware of the issue? Do you think that it would just cause more pain for doctors to insist on confronting the health issue of fitness and weight prior to either suggesting or facilitating pregnancy?

What is reasonable?

1. “Among nulliparous women, the odds ratio for late fetal death were increased among women with higher body-mass indexes as compared with lean women, as follows: normal women, 2.2 (95 percent confidence interval, 1.2 to 4.1); overweight women, 3.2 (95 percent confidence interval, 1.6 to 6.2); and obese women, 4.3 (95 percent confidence interval, 2.0 to 9.3).” [Source]

In the week before the half-marathon two people asked me if I was excited or anxious about it. I wondered if they had misunderstood: I said that I was running the HALF-marathon. You know, 13.1 miles instead of 26.2. And, more importantly, it is the first half, not the second half of a marathon. I was pretty sure that while all of the marathoners were running their grueling second half, we half-marathoners would be sitting around eating specially formulated high-carbohydrate bonbons.

Sure, there is the scary word “marathon” in the name of the race, but I triple-checked and all of my sources confirmed that it really is only 13.1 miles. Back in the day, I once ran 15 miles through New Hampshire mountains on a hot summer day with only 16oz of water. This race, on the other hand, was scheduled for March–still winter!–with lots of nice people handing out bananas and beer along the comparably flat way.

It wasn’t that my long-lost victory made me over-confident. Oh no, I had a secret. I was not going to run a race. I was going to go for a 13.1 mile fun training run with the police keeping cars out of my way!

My resolution was further sealed when it became clear that DC has no idea how to do properly cool spring temperatures. I get a headache from running one mile in 70 degree weather, so there was no doubt that this would be a slow run, even if a bit less “fun” than previously planned.

So I filled up a huge hydration vest, took the nicest cheep skort I could find for a test-run, and packed my camera. This run was going to be a joke in terms of running, so I might as well get lots of pictures for a blog post! Josh got the picture-party started while we were waiting at the metro station…

And then informed me that the only bad thing about our nice little camera is that the battery indicator goes from full directly to empty. I had checked the night before to see if it needed charging, but apparently the full battery symbol meant nothing.

I decided that if I couldn’t use the camera I might as well leave everything behind. I wouldn’t take the hydration vest or any of the cellphone, candy etc. that I had planned on. Because what was the point of carrying all of my crazy stuff without the camera?!!

The race started off well. After not shedding any tears over not taking pictures of the awesome signs, costumes, and cute pregnant runner in front of me, I started off at the perfect pace. I identified two skinny-but-not-too-athletic-while-still-athletically-clad young women (clearly they’d read all the right running magazines) and pretended that they were my friends. I was quite motivated to keep up, because who wants to be left behind by their imaginary (but visible!) friends?

Unfortunately they failed me after a few miles and it would have been a little bit awkward to wait around for them to get back in the race, so I ran on alone. With only like 8,000 other slow runners to keep me company!

But when I say slow, I mean awesome. By the half-way way point (quarter marathon?) I knew that I could beat an elite runner… provided that she was about to give birth later that day.

So yeah, maybe not ready for a marathon, but this was working. As the stupid running skirt worked on rubbing my thighs raw, I comforted myself with the fact that it wasn’t actually my body hurting me… all I’d have to do would be to dress differently in the future!

And then as I ran down the hill past mile nine I saw a man on a stretcher. He was wearing the same color shirt and shorts as Josh. He was about the same height and had the same hair color. But there was no moment of recognition, so I kept running. Just as I went past I decided to double-check. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I could see his shoes. They were pale yellow. Josh, on the other hand, was wearing insanely bright yellow shoes. This wasn’t Josh.

As soon as I got around the corner and it was too late to turn back I wondered if they even make pale yellow shoes. What if they only looked pale because I wasn’t looking clearly, or they were covered with dust?

I’d never gotten a clear look at the guy’s face, and how many men could there be around Josh’s size with very similar clothing? And what was I expecting? That if my husband were hurt I’d have an intuitive knowledge that would draw me across a crowded racecourse without needing to really see his face?

What if it was Josh and I had just run away from him?

The problem was that I did have an instinctive knowledge that whoever this guy was, he was not okay. This wasn’t just a twisted ankle or hip strain. So maybe there was a low chance that it was Josh, but that low chance was paired with the possibility of Josh dying.

I was clearly the worst wife ever. I was listed as one of Josh’s emergency contacts, but my cell was checked in my bag with everything else. If that guy was Josh it wasn’t like he was conscious enough to need me, but I needed to know if it was him. I promised myself that if I got through this I would never, ever run a race with Josh again without keeping my phone on me.

The only thing to do now was to get to the end of the course and either find Josh or else find out where they had taken him.

And so I ran. Or, more correctly, I zigzagged. Apparently everyone else thought that the last third of the half was the perfect time to slow down! What?! And when I got to mile 12 I found that they had put the largest mountain there. Um, why on earth did people warn me about the joke hill at mile 6 but say nothing about the unending climb at 12?! Perhaps because it was such a huge mountain many people decided to randomly stop running. Right in my way!

By mile 13 I was worn out. Thankfully there was more space to run at any speed I liked, but I just looked for Josh and told myself to save my energy since I might need it to get to the hospital to be with Josh.

I couldn’t even figure out where the finish line was so I am not sure if I stopped running before or after it. But somewhere around the end I slowed to a walk and started making my way through the crowd.

And there was Josh.

He had hurt his hip when he and another runner both decided to pass a third runner at the same time, but he was fine. And it is not like I’m the sort of obsessive wife to care if her husband hurts his hip a little! Right? Right.

I grabbed a drink and calmly (tiredly) informed Josh that I had been concerned about him and was glad to find that he was well and not on a stretcher.

And then I came home and wrote a post about the most horrifically emotional run of my life.  Please don’t tell Josh.

That’s right, the wonderful (cheap) goodness known as lentil sprouts.

Dried lentils + lots of fresh water + about four days = I dare you to eat this and try to be unhealthy.

Okay, okay. So they’ve never actually made me healthy. But I’ve also only eaten lots of lentil sprouts at times when I couldn’t afford things like vitamins and green leafy vegetables. And Josh is convinced that they are a secret weight-loss food. Which kind of makes sense when you read the nutrition stats and feel how full you, well feel after half a glass of them.

So here’s to Lent lentil sprouts. I dare you to try them.

The lemons had a good life. First I used one to make Josh some lemon-honey hot water for his sore throat. Then I decided to make some gluten-free lemon poppy seed muffins.

The muffins were an incredible failure. I think the thing I hate most about giving up wheat is not so much not having wheat as it is messing around with substitutes for wheat.

I know how to bake with classic gluten-filled ingredients. I know nothing about gluten-free baking, and reading a few blog posts just hasn’t cut it. Want proof? Look no further!

I tried to save the muffins by using yet more lemon to make a glaze. It didn’t work.

Josh claimed that the muffins were good. He isn’t much of a liar, so we’ll chalk this up to incredibly poor taste in baked goods. Or, more likely, such extreme deprivation that even corn syrup on a throw-rug would be a welcome diversion from yet another salad.

In any case, if you’re looking for gluten-free lemon poppy seed muffins I suggest that you try something like this.  And maybe actually follow the recipe!

Anyway, most of the muffins ended up in the trash can along with the lemon rinds, and I don’t feel badly about that. But I just can’t get over wasting such perfectly good rinds. I know there must be a better way.

What would you have done with the lemon rinds?

Then Josh arrived home with a bag of what he proclaimed to be “an early Valentine’s present.” And soon I remembered what it is: today marks 3.5 years of marriage. Neither of us remembered. Both of us remembered in our own way.

I am keenly aware that people do not feel the same way on their seventh anniversary that they did on their wedding day. There is the whole “seven year itch” and dreadful divorce rates.

But it has been steadily uphill these 3.5 years, so I figure if it is all downhill for the next 3.5 that will put us exactly where we were on our wedding day. That is certainly miserable compared to today, but for goodness sake! I chose to marry the man!

Oh, no, wait. No one is shocked by that. Because as unreasonable as we may think the Church is, we know it isn’t really that crazy.

But somehow reproductive issues throw people into utter confusion about what the Church teaches. Let’s do a quick refresher:

• The body is good
• The natural reproductive system is a good part of the body
• Deliberately suppressing any aspect of the reproductive system for the sake of being able to engage in sexual acts without the natural reproductive consequence (babies!) is bad
• Pregnancy is not a disease

This does not mean that the Church teaches that disease is good or to be passively accepted as part of the good of the body. The body is good, disease is bad. We should do what we reasonably can to eliminate disease.

This holds true in the case of the reproductive system just as much as anywhere else in the body. And sometimes this means that the ultimate function of the reproductive system (reproduction, in case you were wondering) must be compromised in order to combat disease.

We are not supposed to run around cutting out Fallopian tubes or suppressing ovaries just for fun, but it is perfectly legitimate to do so if needed for therapeutic reasons. The Church stipulates that suppressing fertility to avoid pregnancy (which remember, is not a disease) can never count as therapeutic, but there is not a problem with fertility being hurt by treatment of a disease.

This rule holds true for all people–men and women, celibate and sexually active.

Because I went to the source of modern Catholic teaching on contraception from the very beginning, I have known that the pill is allowed for therapeutic reasons for as long as I have believed that contraception is significantly less than ideal.

I have many qualms about the pill, but none of them are religious.

Perhaps because I am a practicing Catholic people tend to assume that I feel guilty about the pill for Catholic reasons. I don’t.

In fact, almost a year ago I went to confession to deal with the issue that I was failing to live a good Christian life because I was avoiding the pill for selfish reasons. You read that right, I confessed my sin of not being on the pill. The priest hearing my confession was completely in line with the Church’s teaching on contraception etc. I won’t tell you all that he said, but I will tell you this–he is completely in line with the Church’s teaching. That means that his concern was for my underlying sin, and he left the specifics of medications to the doctors.

I made a deal with my conscience (I never make deals with God, that is too dangerous!) that I could stay off the pill for half a year as long as I spent that time pursuing alternatives. I did. They didn’t work.

So why am I concerned about being on the pill if there is no Catholic guilt involved? Because taking the pill is a sign of failing myself. I’m not failing God or the Church, I am failing me.

I don’t like the idea of suppressing my fertility, and I like the reality even less. I hate the thought of slowly poisoning myself. For so long I bought the story that somewhere out there was a natural cure. And it is distressing to read about women who were able to eradicate their pain with lifestyle changes such as taking vitamins and avoiding wheat and then get to the end of the list of the changes and see that this included taking the pill.

I cannot escape the nagging thought that somehow I am missing something I should be doing to heal myself. If only I found the magic supplement or quit my job and did yoga… if only… I would be able to function without the pill.

So there you have it. My aversion toward the pill has nothing to do with the Catholic Church, and everything to do with me.

Children are the orgasm of life.

Just like you did not know what an orgasm was before you had one, nature does not let you know how great children are until you have them.

-lululemon

Josh was rather shocked to learn that this is part of lululemon’s manifesto. Because who knew that yoga-loving earth-friendly liberals like children?

Oh wait, I knew that.

Support life. Babies are awesome.

You see, grocery budgets never exist alone. They always exist in columns (or envelopes, or whatever) right next to another column. And that means you can take money from the other column to spend on groceries. Yay! More groceries! Less gas and laundry detergent!

Ehem. Anyway, what I was trying to say is that traditional grocery budgets are a challenge for me.

So I use a more, um, physical budget. I only buy what I can carry.

Rather than having Josh carry groceries I make him take pictures of me holding my grocery box. Smart, right?

You know my second-favorite grocery store in the whole world, Aldi? That purveyor of fine savings where they cut costs by charging for grocery bags? Well, I learned as a child that one should never, never pay for grocery bags.

Of course this is sort of a joke since half the stores we visit are in DC where they “tax” rather than “charge” for grocery bags, but still. All eco-friendly feelings aside, one must not pay for grocery bags. It is simply a rule. Sure, it is a rule which everyone else seems to ignore, but it is a rule nonetheless.

So when I go to Aldi I grab a large box and then carry all chosen items around in it. Of course I could technically put the box into a grocery cart (if I wanted to give Aldi the use of a $0.25 interest free loan for the course of my shopping adventure!) but that would cause problems. You see, if I have a cart, then suddenly my box overflows and becomes to heavy for me to lug around after I return the cart.

Josh claims that I could take the fully laden cart to the car, move the items in the box to the car, drive home, walk empty-handed into the apartment and announce to him that he must bring in the groceries. But that is silly. I couldn’t do that.

Besides, if I did? I’d spend at least twice as much on groceries.

So I convince myself that limiting myself to what I can carry is my form of budgeting. Others might look at the larger issue of choosing cheaper grocery stores in order to save, but I know that is almost as silly as Josh’s idea of making him carry groceries. After all, when I go to the organic market I am limited to a shopping-basket even smaller than the boxes at Aldi, and then I have to fit everything into one tiny cloth bag.

It doesn’t matter where I shop for groceries, all that matters is that I can carry the weight of my purchases rather than the guilt of buying too much food.