I want to hold my daughter by the shoulders, kneel down to her eye level, and tell her that she needs to be a little girl for as long as she is able.

I want her to understand that waiting to grow up is like waiting for a car on an empty highway: before she even fully grasps that it is coming it is already gone. She can’t even get a good look at it until it has passed and she turns her head to follow it. If she would have blinked, she would have missed it.

She has her days laid out in front of her, with no homework, with nothing she must do beside being a daughter in my house. She has the whole of the afternoon to play, to make-believe. She can explore and hide and fall asleep if she wants to. She can read a book unencumbered by herself in a window seat she has made for herself. She can draw, she can color and use glue filled with glitter.

She has a freedom now that she will never have again. She has a freedom that adults search for their whole lives to reclaim.

I want to tell her that growing up is not all that it seems; that there are phone calls to make, resumes to write, mortgages to pay. That there isn’t enough time in the day to play. I want her to see that with knowledge comes burdens that are sometimes too big to bear. I want her to understand this freedom that belongs only to her, and only right now.

But she won’t understand. She won’t realize this perfect freedom until it has gone and until she blinks and she is an adult.

Today I need to slow down. I need to take the time to be with my children and not work next to them as they play. I need to take the time to watch a few cartwheels turned on the grass outside.

We don’t own a cabin in the mountains. We don’t have a timeshare on the Big Island. We don’t even drive an RV.

When my sister and I were growing up, the consistent setting for our family vacations was Yosemite National Park. We’d pack our tent, our sleeping bags and our bicycles in the back of my dad’s truck and drive 6 hours north to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Two hours to Bakersfield, two more to Fresno, then another two to the Park.

Most summers we would find ourselves wading in the icy Merced River whose water flowed direct from the glacier snow melt, or riding our bikes through the campgrounds, or hiking up to the top of Vernal Falls.

Yosemite was the backdrop against which so many family memories were set. It was a a fixed point in my childhood that spanned years and all the memories from annual trips blend together. It was a constant.

For the past five years our family has travelled with our church 90 minutes away to our local mountains for a family camp. Three days of swimming, volleyball, playing in the sand, hiking, ping-pong, campfires, talent shows and staying up way too late has taken us every August to what Hope has named church-in-the-mountains. She talks about it beginning in September and asks when we are going back. She has gone every year since she was born.

Until this year.

For reasons unknown to me, our church was unable to secure our normal retreat spot and has decided we cannot do it this summer. I don’t know if we will ever be able to go back and last August might have been our last time. I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is no church-in-the-mountains this year, or maybe ever.

I had begun to think that this was going to be the consistent background for my kids’ memories. I had thought that this was their “Yosemite.” They were going to fashion their blended memories around this setting – this place that as a child seems as big as the whole world itself, ready to be explored new each summer.

We don’t go to the same house or have the same RV like some families.

It struck me this morning as I was quietly grieving the loss of a future experience not yet had (for me, but mostly for my daughters), that it us up to me to create this setting that travels with us. The constant background does not need to be one particular physical place. The constant is us. WE as a family are the constant.

Wherever we go is where the memories will form and then be exaggerated or forgotten. We might travel to a beach one year, or go camping the next. We might even go to Hawaii or England. Or we will stay home.

But we are the setting, we are the backdrop to set our memories against.

Twelve zeros.

Hope asked me yesterday what a trillion was. Stumped me. I told her to wait until we stopped and I would write it out for her. Twelve zeros.

As an adult, when I hear trillion I think national debt. We stopped and I wrote the numbers beginning with

1,000
10,000
100,000…

Until we got to a trillion. We counted the zeros. Twelve in a row seperated by commas. She was amazed, but even down on paper it is still an abstract concept, something even difficult for an adult to picture.

We guessed together what might be a trillion. The sand in the ocean. The leaves on all the trees in the world. Cloud-stuff, pieces of clouds (God’s cotton balls, per Hope). All the bugs. Not all the people, not quite.

Then it came to me: God’s love for you, sweetheart. And my love for you. That is how much a mama loves her daughter. Did you know that? A TRILLION worth.

She smiled and said,

No, that’s infinity, Mom.

Yeah, that too.

I’ve never once regretted a run. Not once.

I’ve regretted many things in life. Minor things like yelling at my daughter, snapping at my husband, eating three cookies in 30 seconds. Big things too.

But not once have I ever regretted lacing up my running shoes and going out of doors. I don’t claim that every time I’ve ran it’s been easy to get there, or that I haven’t stayed in bed when I really should pushing my grogginess up a hill. But once I’ve begun it, I’ve never wanted to go home unfinished.

I’ve paid costs for running like rarely sleeping in until 6 on a Wednesday and few mornings spent lounging in a Saturday-bed with the sun high and cartoons on for the kids. I’ve given up naps and cups of coffee with a book; I’ve paid the cost in blisters, stress fractures and aching hips.

But, there is always fresh morning air to be gained…
And jogging through shoulder-high yellow wildflowers tall from the winter rain and spring warmth…
and the solitude,
and the thinking time,
and the sometimes deer or coyote,
and the quickly beating heart in time with my feet, the hill climbed once again and the rocky trail familiar to my running shoes.
And there are sunrises and suns hiding behind clouds and hills and moons setting,
and there are always, always new words that write themselves in my head.

But when the motivation ebbs and the lethargy begins to swell, and I am tempted to turn over on my pillow once again in the early morning, tap my husband and tell him I’m just too tired to go out, I have to somehow remember that the only thing I will regret is closing my eyes and going back to sleep.

I’ve never regretted a run. Not once.

A classic plot in literature and film is when the hero finally learns of the day and hour of his death. He knows when the end is and he either squanders and wastes his time trying to stop the inevitable, or he gives in to it and says his goodbyes and lives life to the fullest.

It is a real question. How long do I have? What do I do with my time if it is only one more hour, or if it is one more lifetime…

I look at my girls in the living room, carefree and breezy in spring dresses and they are laughing. They don’t worry about the end.

And being honest…I don’t worry much about the unresolved questions. Not right now. Not when I am folding laundry or sweeping my kitchen floor. Not until I watch my girls giggling and then I wonder about the choices they will have to make and the choices that will be made for them as they begin this life.

There is a certain hope and an excitement in not knowing how it will all turn out. Like a surprise party when the guest of honor has a small intuition that there is a surprise, but she doesn’t know when or where or who. The surprise is coming and there are forces beyond her control working for her good. They will jump out and cheer for her and she will still be embarrassed and her heart will still beat quickly. But it is all for her.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke said “Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart, and learn to love the questions themselves.”

I need to live the best way I know how even though I cannot solve the end. And I don’t want to solve the end. I must be patient. I want to hold dear the questions and the unknowable. I want to live knowing there is a surprise party for me.

We haven’t taught our kids to BELIEVE in Santa Claus. But between our commercialism-heavy culture and some make-believe of their own, our kids have chosen to believe in him (although it is some crazy mix of yes, he might be real, but no he doesn’t slide down the chimney).

Regardless of my six-year-old’s belief or disbelief in other imaginary holiday characters, she does believe in the tooth fairy and has counted on her now for seven teeth worth of money under the pillow. Her belief was nearly shattered earlier this week as Mama-Tooth-Fairy forgot about her daughter’s carefully placed treasure.

I do have an excuse. Actually a whole bunch of them. Her father worked late on Monday night, so there was no one else there to witness the event as she pulled her own tooth out right before bed. Which brings me to my next point of defense: I had no time to think about how and when to plot the money exchange because it happened so quickly. It really wasn’t that wiggly – Hope just yanked it out with a big grin. Also, I went to bed right after she did, so I promptly forgot about the tooth as I drifted off to sleep.

The first day of April dawned (not a holiday in my mind, but stragically placed on the day Mama-Tooth-Fairy forgets the money), and my daughter walks into our room in the early morning. Accompanied by a groggy whine,

Mama, the tooth fairy forgot to bring me money!

Adrenaline charged I jumped out of bed without needing to feign surprise. Really? Are you sure? Did you check everywhere?

Yes, No, I didn’t check everywhere. And…I can’t even find my tooth!

Good, maybe that will work to my advantage…my mind already racing when just minutes ago I was asleep. Go look again, honey…I’ll help you in a minute! I grabbed some quarters from my husband’s stash on his dresser and placed them in my left hand.

My daughter has a perpetually disheveled room (unless I get in there and clean it daily) as she is continually making “homes” and hovels for her various animals and horses. They MUST stay up overnight or her “pets” won’t have a place to sleep for the night. So when I walked in, different pillows and small quilts covered the ground in careful fences and stalls for her imaginary farm.

By now, she was distraught, beginning to tear apart her own houses to look for both the money and/or the tooth.

Do you think she forgot?

No, honey, I’m sure she didn’t forget. I made my way to her bed and asked her if she had looked under BOTH of her pillows. No?

Wait, Mama…what is that clinking???

She had heard but not seen my covert placement of the quarters under the OTHER pillow, the one that the tooth had not been placed under the night before. She leaped onto the bed and threw off the pillow. And with an understanding grin, she suddenly realized what day it was….

April Fools Day.

Crisis averted, and in a way I could have never planned. We now would like to believe that the tooth fairy likes to play kindhearted practical jokes, especially when children lose their teeth on March 31st.

When I found out I was pregnant with my second daughter, I was already 15 pounds heavier than I was comfortable with.

This was nothing like my first pregnancy. Four years earlier I had gently gained the proper amount of weight at the right weeks consuming the correct amount of milk and protein daily to meet the needs of my growing baby, blah blah blah. I had tried to be perfect. I had exercised up to 32 weeks and had fruit or yogurt for snacks during the day.

During my second pregnancy, it was if the diet floodgates were opened and I decided I would eat anything I chose. Fish tacos, french fries, chocolate cake, peanut butter and bananas — I felt like I could indulge myself with anything. Hamburgers, too! I don’t even eat hamburgers.

I gained an additional 65 pounds. I had put on each lost pound plus more. I looked at the scale the week before I went into the hospital and not only did I weigh more than my 6’3″ husband, but it was the highest I had ever seen it.

My depression this time was slight and short lived. I was determined to lose this weight the right way, in moderation, without giving into my control issues and allowing God to help me in this process. I also knew I didn’t have the luxury to waste any time. I had to begin the day I got home from the hospital or I would never begin. I needed to make a clean break.

Our daughter was born and we named her for the grace and beauty that God had shown us over the previous years. She was healthy, and big (9lbs 11oz) and slept like she had been born for it.

The tried methods are always the true ones, so after Naomi was born I went back to Weight Watchers. Again, I limited my portions and counted fat and fiber into my diet. Weight Watchers and daily exercise (this time only what I could squeeze in between nursing and napping and preschool drop offs) helped me to lose all of the weight I had put on by the time she was 9 months old.

I will never again be “scary-skinny” as my husband had dubbed my first adventure in weight loss. And hopefully, I will never again allow myself to become obese again. I feel the most like “me” where I am right now. I try to treat both food and exercise with an even hand, indulging in my favorite foods once in awhile and taking a break from working out when my body begs for it.

The funny thing is, Hollywood would call me fat. I am 5’8″, I am 147 pounds and I wear a size 8. I have worn everything from a 2 to a 16 in the past 8 years. I can run a 9 minute mile in a half-marathon and I can survive an hour long spin class. I feel fit.

To be honest, I do look in the mirror and feel “fat” sometimes. I know that I am not, that I am average. And each time I am tempted to believe it, I have to tear down the lies that the world has built up inside me: that thinness and beauty equal worth. Not only did I use to believe this lie, but I staked my whole life on it.

My biggest battle now is not the food aspect (although I have really bad days sometimes) or the exercise motivation (it is hard to get up and get myself moving at 5 am), but it is that I am faced with two little girls who might grow up believing the thinness/worth lie unless it is replaced with something else. Something true.

Maybe they will see my life, how it has changed, and that their mother struggles every day to find her worth in God and not in anything else.

After I had my daughter, I quickly lost any weight I had gained.

I filled the next two years with two-a-days at the gym, training for sprint triathlons and a marathon. I weighed myself each day and I got “dunked” regularly to measure my body fat percentage.

I increased my protein intake to build muscle and gave up vegetarianism to be able to ingest more lean protein without upping my daily calories. I drank shakes, ate bars, and spent two or more hours a day working out.

I was in the best shape of my life.

I felt fabulous about the way I looked. It felt good to be knowledgeable about fitness and weight loss and it also felt good that I could turn heads when I walked into the gym. I had never been the pretty girl, and now I felt like I was.

My body was strong but my heart was empty.

When my daughter was almost two, my husband and I found ourselves at the edge of divorce. My marriage and my life fell apart right after the new year in 2004. I began to see all of the awful habits and unhealthy attitudes that had contributed to our mess. We both had made so many mistakes and we needed to rebuild our family starting with the foundation.

Together we decided to renew our commitment to God and to each other. We began to move forward.

Everything in my life radically changed from this point on, even my attitude toward my body and toward fitness. I had been drastically humbled and was able to allow God to deal with my pride and arrogance, replacing it with a soft heart. My family was now the most important thing in my life and I was going to do nothing to jeopardize it. I continued to watch my eating and worked out to stay in shape, but with my new heart and revived soul I wasn’t interested in the obsession that had filled me before.

However, God has interesting ways of creating the need for dependence on Him.

Later that year, I began to gain a little of my weight back. About 15 pounds to be exact. I knew I wasn’t eating right, and even though my family life was steady and solid, I began to feel badly about my body again. It was as if I had gained the entire 60 pounds back, but this time I didn’t know how to get rid of it. The first time I had lost weight, it was entirely based on SELF-RELIANCE and commitment to control. I had depended completely on myself and my own failures or successes were a result of me. I hadn’t been in a place before to rely on God for help. Now that I had changed, I needed to let Him help me in this.

I never wanted to become arrogant and self-serving like I had been before. I was going to have to figure out how to lose this weight trusting in God and not in my own strength.

What I didn’t realize was that soon I was going to gain back every pound and more that I had lost.

I was 25 years old, married and overweight. I was only a week into the rigors of limiting my portions and watching my fat and fiber intake under the eye of Weight Watchers. Only one week of discipline produced nearly 5 lbs of weight loss!

I was elated.

So I dove with a whole heart into their plan. I was religious about food intake and never had a “cheat” day. Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas came and went and I never ate a cookie or a piece of candy.

By December of that year, only 2 months after I began, I had lost 20 pounds. My clothes were loose and other people began to notice. By now I was into a rhythm with the program and I counted my flex points in my head without having to keep a food diary. Only then did I start to exercise because only then did I feel comfortable in the gym.

Sometime in the new year, I felt that I might be able to try to run on the treadmill. The last time I had run had been in high school when I was forced to run the dreaded Mile in PE. I would always be lapped multiple times by the track and volleyball girls, but I would never be last. I would run the first quarter or half mile as fast as I could and then stopped to walk when my legs and lungs burned.

Now it was different. I was different. I was beginning to feel good about my body and my confidence in myself was growing. I bought running shoes, donned a couple of sports bras at once to keep everything in place and I got on the treadmill. I thought that if I could only make it one mile, I would be satisfied. I ran, slowly, but I ran a whole mile. Breathing heavily at the end, I felt throbbing in muscles that had really never been used before, and I was tired, but I was so happy. I felt like I had accomplished something that I had never been able to complete even when I was younger. I was now in some kind of club that I had always longed to be a part of.

During the next five months, I lost another 35 pounds bringing my weight loss to 55 pounds altogether. I got up every morning at 4 am, was at the gym at 4:30 and taught middle school at 7:30. I only took Sundays off. I counted every morsel I ingested and became obsessed with calories and metabolism. I ate less than I should have and weighed myself every day. On my weigh in days at Weight Watchers, I didn’t eat lunch and stopped all fluid intake after noon for my 4pm meeting with the scale. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize my “number” that afternoon.

158.4
157.2
155.8
152.0…
The new number would become my identity and I would cling to it for the whole next week. Each pound lost would give me another ounce of false confidence in myself and my appearance, and each desert NOT eaten would make me feel that much more prideful in my own ability to exhibit self-control. As my waist was shrinking, my pride was expanding and my sense of identity was becoming wrapped within my new thinness. I began to wear more revealing clothes and felt validated by the attention I was receiving from everyone.

Most people were astonished by my transformation, but some were offended. I was now thinner than many women that I had previously looked up to as symbols of beauty. I had become part of a “thin” secret society and in a twisted way, it made me feel good. I was becoming arrogant and caught up in myself.

When I reached my goal of 145 pounds, well within the healthy range for a woman of my height (5’8″), we decided to try to become pregnant. High off of my nearly 8 months of careful food intake and obsessive gym trips I was able to keep my weight down during my pregnancy with Hope only gaining 30 pounds.

Even though I could feel my daughter in my belly and could feel the mother-baby bond begin to grow within me as well, each gained pound seemed like a step backward. During my whole pregnancy I battled depression that left me crying most nights. It was more than the hormones, and it went deeper than the weight gain. My body transformation over the past year had also transformed my soul: I became self-absorbed and intensely worried about my own appearance. My complete identity was based in my new “look”, and the accompanying feelings of superiority.

I was depressed because I didn’t know who I was. If I wasn’t thin anymore, who was I?