It's Come to This

Pat helps me "get out the door" most mornings. I do a quick inventory: purse, computer bag, cell-phone. He has my coffee. Today there were two extra bags - rolls for the potluck, pine-cones for the kids' crafts. I'd left my good coffee mug at school and the Christmas one was bound to spill, so Pat willingly gulped a few swallows at my request. His bare feet were no doubt getting cold and as I was all set to go, he said goodbye and shut the car door.

I rolled the windows down quickly and said, "Aren't I going to get a kiss?" He's usually offended when I forget.

"I'm sorry. I thought I did kiss you," he said apologetically and leaned towards me.

I tried to recall, then replied, "I really don't remember if you did or not."

We laughed at ourselves and kissed (again?) to be sure.

What Are We Doing?

I sat with the first-graders at my school. The three in front of me were eating:

Yogurt (with sugar)
Granola (with sugar)
Chocolate milk
Teddy grahams
A fruit cup (processed, but no label, so I'm not sure if it had added sugar.)

From the labels I ascertained that their "meal" included 12 teaspoons of added sugar.

There were other options, but if I had the choice, I wouldn't select they grayish looking hamburger patty or the strangely bloated ham slice either.

So Far, So Good....re: Sugar Addiction

I can be quite superstitious sometimes. I never thought I'd really break my mother's back if I stepped on a crack, but years of walking to school on sidewalks chanting that must have affected my psyche. Case in point: I think that if I say I'm doing well at not eating sugar then the next thing I know, I'll be plowing through mounds of it. That somehow pointing out a victory is sure to bring on opposing troops. (Years ago I read a book that theorized that Satan can't read our thoughts but he can hear our words, so be careful what you say because you'll just be giving him ammunition. I now see that's absurd, but the thought does occur to me.)

All that aside, I'd like to report that all is going well. My track record with resolves is abysmal, so I'm marveling at the fact that I've had so little sugar for more than two weeks. But this time it wasn't really a resolution. I just was graced with a tall, strong wave of resolve and I'm riding it as far as I can. Pat asked if I'd been praying to God for help, and I acknowledged that I hadn't, but that I've been thanking Him every day for the help that I know has come from Him.

My addiction to sugar mirrors my life. I want only the sweet, without the bitter. I want a constant flow of pleasure, of distraction. I want substitutes that are cheap and easy. I don't want what is really better for me because what's better tends to be so FIBROUS! I'm truly a product of the age in which I live, where the goal seems to be uninterrupted pleasure. I was seeking that in my former habits with sugar.

But my tastes are changing. As I've been choosing other foods, I'm finding them so much tastier than I did when my taste buds were jaded. Where I used to use 3 teaspoons of sugar in my coffee, now 1 is perfect, something I consider a treat, for which I'm thankful. The maple syrup on waffles yesterday was pure bliss, but will not be something I indulge in every day because I know where that will lead.

I made a cake yesterday and realized that before, when I made sweets, I probably consumed about 5 teaspoons of sugar just in the making. It's instinctive to lick your fingers, the spoon, the knife, and I did so yesterday without thinking, but quickly stopped myself because I could see how easy it would be to mindlessly start feeding the sugar monkey again.

Kicking the Sugar Habit

We didn't have a lot of sweets in my house when I was growing up. My mother explained that she had a mouthfull of gold because she was an only-child being raised by her grandmother who owned a boarding house that was within walking distance of drugstores with soda fountains . "If I wanted a chocolate soda at 10:00 at night, I'd have a fit and somebody would go buy one for me."

Despite my mother's efforts, I became a sugar addict anyway. My fondest childhood memories somehow almost always include sweets. The time we came home from the Christmas parade and our mother had tried to make fudge but it hadn't hardened, so we plunged in with spoons in hand, the fudge still warm, grainy, graced with the butter she'd used to grease the oval china platter she'd gotten from the Lion Oil Company.

The thin mints Virginia Bryant would buy from Dinstuhl's, so prim and proper, pastel-colored, the size of a half-dollar. They melted in my mouth at the perfect rate -not so fast as cotton-candy, another marvel, but faster than hard candy or Slo-Pokes. Lying propped up in my parents' bed watching TV, sucking on a foot-long, quarter-thick peppermint stick, rejoicing that it would last for hours.

Petit-fours at showers. Penny candy from the Handy-Pantry, lovingly and carefully selected. Sorting, counting, rating, and trading Halloween candy. Eating candy-corn one color at a time. Unrolling Swiss rolls. Eating a Hostess cupcake that had sat in the sun, warming the cream inside. Warming an ice-cream sandwich between my palms so that the ice-cream squished out just enough to lick a mouthful.

And I'm just getting started. It's ridiculous how much I can vividly recall about eating sweet things.

I've never managed to break this addiction. About a week ago for three nights in a row, I indulged in bowls of Captain Crunch and Cocoa Krispies. Numerous bowls. Just before bed. After feeling lousy all day after the third night of that, I finally came to my senses and decided something had to change.

So what do you do when you need to bolster your resolve? You research. Where best to do that? YouTube, of course. I listened to an hour-long lecture on the evils of sugar by Dr. Robert Lustig, and I made a decision: Cold turkey. No more sugar on a daily basis. (A couple of years ago I had tried to limit my sugar intake to no more than 9 teaspoons a day, but that didn't last long.) I decided to allow myself one dessert a week, Thanksgiving being the day of choice for that first week.

I already feel better. I've even lost a pound amid Thanksgiving feasting. There are plenty of other things to eat, things I would bypass with disdain as I reached for another cookie, like a banana slice with peanut butter, a piece of home-made whole-grain bread toasted and buttered. Popcorn with butter. (Goodbye, Kettle-Corn.)

The only problem was coffee. I only have one cup a day, but I want it sweet. I tried Equal, then Stevia. Both tasted awful to me. I decided to allow myself one teaspoon which I had today. It didn't reignite cravings, so I think I can keep that up.

I have a feeling I might need a support group. Anyone interested in joining me?

Wordpress on the Blink

I have a blog with Wordpress dedicated to chronicling my experiences as a teacher of English to children of immigrants, but I can't seem to get it to load today and I've just got to share this story, so here goes.

I often take my second-graders out to the playground with Ms. K's class. Our principal is against recess and still hasn't approved a schedule, but we've been going based on last year's schedule anyway. Two rebels with a cause.

I love watching my students have a blast chasing and being chased, using English in a natural, non-contrived setting. Ms. K and I sit together on a bench and manage about 3 exchanges of conversation in between all the kids running up to tell us things. My ESL kids mostly just want to talk to me, but Ms. K's kids mostly run up to tattle.

"Ms. K! Jaquez had hit me!" 'Ms. K! Jamario be saying bad words!" "Ms. K! Koneshia had pulled my hair!" You've never seen such righteous indignation. I just watch in amazement as these seven year olds make their accusations and express their own innocence with such vehemence. It's really quite funny.

"They're just like Bon-Qui-Qui," I said to Ms. K after one little girl stood before us, hands on her hips, her eyes flashing, voice at full volume, her head punctuating every indignity she'd experienced. Ms. K listens, then dismisses her with a wave of her hand, "Go play."

I comment that it seems like kindergarten teachers spend most of their day getting the kids to line up and the second-grade teachers spend their time listening to tattling.

She agreed that this year her class is terrible about tattling. I asked her if she'd ever heard of the Tattle Box, where instead of letting them tell you their complaints, they have to write them on slips of paper. Presumably, having to write it down cuts down on the tattling. She had, but had never tried one; then said, "I'm bringing one tomorrow."

The next day, she popped in to show me her box, a large shoebox covered in blue, labeled The Tattlebox. "We're starting today."

Three hours later, lunchtime, she popped back in with box in hand, "Look at this."

She took off the lid and the box was literally overflowing with white slips.

We laughed together and agreed that at least they're getting a lot of writing done.

I Love Language

Just a couple of snippets from the colorful language in my life:

The other day my mother offered me some Wendy's coupons. I said, "No thanks, I don't ever go to Wendy's. It's not any good."

She tried again: "June said the food's a lot better now because Arby's is out of there and they've got all new meat now."

"What has Arby's got to do with it?" I ask patiently. My mom, now 80, tends to cut and splice sentences like India does electrical wires.

"Well, Wendy's used to be in kahoots with Arby's and they were really dragging them down but now they got rid of Arby's and everything's better now."

_______________________________

Ever since Steve Jobs died, my Mac's home page has displayed his picture resulting in my students seeing him projected on my Smartboard in between activities. I briefly explained who he was to my first graders when they asked, not thinking much at all would register.

Yesterday my computer shut down in the middle of an activity with the first graders, so I shut off the projector, explaining that my computer was broken.

Julio, my rockstar student who doesn't miss anything, said, "You no can get it fixed because the man he died?"

Still Singing

Today in church my seat gave me a limited view of the choir. From where I was sitting I could see only four women, two behind two in the loft, on the end. As I watched them sing, they became to me a portrait of beauty. Each has suffered and yet all four have risen above sometimes desperate circumstances to sing praises of joy to the God they love, and they appeared to me as women dearly loved by Someone, noticeably, evidently loved.

Widowed, divorced, abused, spurned, bereft, betrayed. These women have lived through various hells not of their own making and have experienced enough suffering to derail their faith, and yet there they were, singing to an invisible Person Who gives them visible joy.

They made me glad today.

They made me believe.

Thanks, ladies.