Parenting 101 - Allowance

Did you grow up getting an allowance?  Did you have to earn it, or was it just a right of passage in your household?  Did you learn money management skills through the process?  What exacly *is* the purpose of allowance, anyway?

We've been thinking and discussing this a lot over the years, but have never really settled on anything firm.  You see, we're a blended family, with kids spending some time here, some time there, and a lot in between.  My three are here throughout the school year and during the summer.  Brian's three are here every other weekend and six weeks in the summer.



With that constantly changing dynamic, it has been difficult to balance exactly what would be fair.  They don't have the same opportunities to do the same amount of chores, but that is through no fault of their own.  I never felt it was fair for the allowance opportunity to be so lop-sided, so we've just avoided it all together.  However, I think we have a new solution.

In our home, daily chores are an expected contribution of able-bodied human beings living in this household. I feel that paying the children to do daily chores makes it an option, and for us, things like taking out the trash, making beds, or emptying the dishwasher are just not options to be left undone.  There are not enough hours in the day for Brian and I to do everything involved in keeping this household managed AND have any fun in the process.  Therefore the kids have a few small regular responsibilities that have not been compensated for in the past, and will continue to be done that way.  You may call it slave labor; we call it family.

That doesn't mean, however, that we don't think that the children should not learn about all things financial as part of their upbringing as well.  Here is where that magical term, "allowance" comes in.  As I thought about it, read about it, asked other parents about it, and prayed about it, I realized that it should be just what the word implies:

 "Allowance: N. An amount or share allotted or granted."

That's right!  It's something given -- not earned, not stipulated to, not tied to any responsibilities, really.  I have hesitated in instituting free money for children earned from simply being so danged cute.  I mean, who wants to raise entitled little heathens anyway??  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I am doing the kids a disservice by NOT giving them allowance.  I'm not teaching them the value of THINGS or MONEY.  We provide everything they need, and sometimes fuss at them for being wasteful or non-appreciative.  But really, if they never have to use actual money to buy things for themselves, how could they really ever know and understand the value of the things we provide?  And if they don't learn to track their spending now, will they ever learn it as an adult?  I know I still struggle to this day with tracking and budgeting.

So here's the plan, Stan!

Brian and I are going to commit to each other and the kids to track our income and expenses alongside the kids.  We are going to use the super-fantabulous budgeting software, You Need A Budget, or YNAB for short.  I have been working on setting up our budget off and on today, and will have it ready for our Family Meeting when we get all the kids here for the summer.  We will show them a very brief overview of how it works, and how it implements the teachings of my favorite financial guru, Dave Ramsey.  We will talk about household contributions expected from all members, even asking the kids for feedback.  And we'll end the whole shindig with cold, hard cash and an individualized register for each child.  The only catch is this: present your balanced register at the next family meeting in order to get your next allowance allotment.  We will have to tweak whether this is truly done on a monthly or bi-weekly basis, so stay tuned.

For now, we have decided to start giving allowance out once per month, allotting one George Washington per year of age, per child.  I'm willing to bet that the 7-year-old might feel slightly short-changed, but I will eagerly remind him of the extras he can do to earn some more cash!

That's where these super-nifty chore jars will come in handy!  Each person will get their own personal daily responsibility jar, but there will also be a community chore jar with optional PAYING chores listed on those sticks.  After that chore is done, they exchange that stick for some more $$.  Brian or I will just verify that said chore is truly completed before paying out the cash from the CASH jar.





I'm really happy with how all of this is seeming to come together.  Receiving pay for expected duties of family members is gone, and even the likelihood of brotherly or sisterly theft is lessened  with the institution of the register.  (We have had a problem with dollars disappearing on pool days last summer).  I also think the temptation of theft is lessened when each kid knows when they're next payday will be.  I'm excited to see how this goes.









Links to my inspiration of the day:

http://www.ducksinarowblog.com/2011/09/allowance-macdougall-family-style.html

http://athomewiththehinsons.blogspot.com/2010/06/chore-jars.html

http://moneysavingmom.com/downloads/household-management-forms

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Taking Up Space

I've been on a soul-searching quest for quite some time now -- really, all of my adult life has been all about exploring who I am and what I believe to be true.  Since my last post, I've come to realize something.

Yes, I have pounds to lose.  Yes I have clothing sizes to drop.  Yes, I have muscles to grow.  But you know what else?  I'm still me.  I'm still Stacey Marie, no matter how much space I take up.  And as a general rule, I kind of like who I have become in these last 34 years.

I am a mother, a wife, a friend, an employee of a great company doing one of THE coolest jobs in the world, a volunteer, a good listener, a shower singer, a writer, a smiler, a laugher, a nurturer, and so much more.

NONE OF THOSE THINGS HAVE A THING TO DO WITH A NUMBER ON THE SCALE OR CLOTHING SIZE!!! 

It seems simple, but somehow I always enveloped my "goodness" with my size.  The bigger I was, the less worthy of good things I felt.  I dug into how some of that came into being with my last post, and have come out on the other side realizing that weight is just that.  A number.  I don't HAVE to shrink to be loved, accepted, or happy.

But now that I don't feel imprisoned by that great "I have to," a funny thing has happened.  Now I want to.  I REALLY do want to.  I even WANT to do the work.

In the past, I've run the gamut of trying different diets, fads, supplements, and anything in between.  I have enough knowledge to know what works and what doesn't.  And now that my headspace is a little more cleared out, I've also thought about what I actually HAVE been successful with in the past.

The only plan that has worked for me has been Weight Watchers.  I kept my food journals and weigh-in logs from when I lost 28lbs in a very short amount of time when Zela was near a year old.  I have often looked back to see what I did to achieve the loss, and here's what it boiled down to:  I ate all of my daily points allotted to me, and I also ate all of my weekly points allowed.  The estimated caloric range was 1600-2200 calories a day, depending on how active I was (because you bet your bottom dollar I ate my activity points I'd earn, too).  Sometimes I ate really crappy food like Mcdonald's.  Sometimes I ate dessert.  I almost always used some extra points of a few cocktails.  I added fruits and veggies to nearly every meal, but didn't feel guilty when I didn't.  I walked daily, worked out harder sometimes, and was okay with my life.  I lost quickly and easily.

I tried WW again after Aidan was born.  At that time, I was under a lot more stress.  I started a new career, and my marriage was ending.  For some reason it never really worked as well as the first time.  And the funny thing?  If you were to look at my food journals from this attempt, you would see a lot more healthy choices, a lot less fast food, and definitely less alcohol.  I was eating a lot of organic, plant-based foods, and feeling generally rather smug about how great I was treating my body and the planet, all the while hating myself for taking up too much space.  My self-worth was directly attached to what the scale told me, and as soon as I plateaued, I basically gave up.

I tried simply tracking calories and macro nutrients  I tried going vegetarian  gluten-free, paleo, primal, etc.  I tried WW a few more times, both with and without subscribing.  I found that with each of those methods, whenever I'd try REALLY hard, I'd end up at around 1200 calories a day... sometimes less.  Whoa, nelly.  I'm 5'9" and I truly believe I still have to have SOME of my muscles left under this padding.  1200 calories?  Something didn't quite compute there, and MAYBE that's why my attempts were not successful.  Maybe I was just grumpy and HUNGRY.  Maybe I didn't really have adrenal fatigue and low thyroid.  Maybe I just didn't give myself enough fuel to get through the day and through workouts.  Maybe I needed to really reconsider why and how I lost so well the first time.

Somehow I've always ended each attempt just a little heavier and a lot more miserable... until now.

I've been reading a great blog by a amazingly inspirational woman over at Go Kaleo, and it's been her musings that have lead me to really be okay with who I am, where I am, and where I'm going.  She opened up my mind to the idea that "taking up space" is just that....  taking up space.  She's a big proponent of "Eating the food" and bucking the idea that the average woman really needs to restrict herself to 1200 calories a day and work her butt off in order to be thin.  She's smart, strong, and beautiful.  She's inspired me to go back to what I know works: tracking my intake, keeping it at a suitable level to sustain daily life and activity, enjoying life and all the foods that come with it, removing guilt and other emotional labels from food -- even fast food -- and just finding balance.  It took an internet stranger to help me embrace my own "beauty," even if I have a hard time seeing it right now.  That step is what has me going in the right direction this time, instead of circular self-loathing, restrict, binge, restrict, crawl in a ball and cry, etc.

This is me, and I feel free to take up as much space as I need to.  And now that I've released the internal weight, I'm willing to bet the external will soon follow suit.

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heavier things

I'm 34, mother to a blended family of six, although we only have my husband's three from his prior marriage in the summer and every other weekend the rest of the time.  I live in a tiny little rural town located a little over 80 miles east of Denver.  I drive about 50 miles to get decent produce, and even further if I want some crappy convenience like Walmart.  :)

I would say that I struggled with my weight all of my life, but really, prior to having children, I struggled more with body image than with weight.   I grew up in the deep south with a very poor (poor person's) diet.  There were lots of greasy foods and very few fruits and veggies.  I was, however, active.  My parents were dealing with baggage of their own, so they wouldn't let me participate in group sports, but that didn't keep me from moving. 

My first memory of thinking about my body shape and size was in junior high.  I had a friend who wore a size 1, and I wore a 3.  I don't know how tall I was at 13, but now I'm 5'9".  I've also always been pretty muscular, even as a child.  Anyway, my friend was helping me find an outfit, and she had me try on her size 1 jeans (which I could squeeze on), and she commented about how she wished she could have curves and muscles like me, and still fit into a 1 like me.   

That's probably the last time I ever fit into that size.  LOL

In high school, I can remember spending the week or so in the summer at my Mawmaw's house, and hearing comments in the background to my parents that I'll have to watch my weight when I'm older, judging by the way that I'm built.  I overheard my dad questioning what that meant, and they talked about my butt and how I won't always have those muscles -- they "turn to fat."  I graduated high school at 17, so there's no telling just how young I was when I overheard that conversation, but I definitely stored that knowledge away.  I took it to mean that I was bigger than everyone else -- and doomed.  

As another detail, I had been abused physically and sexually, parents divorced and remarried and living 1,000 miles apart, and a metric crap ton of other things that maybe I had or had not dealt with at the time. 

I always felt huge in high school.  I wore a size 9 in jeans b/c of my fabulously nicknamed "ghetto booty."  I could wear a 7 in dresses.  I never considered 5'9" to be TALL, since my model friends were much closer to 6' (and also closer to 100 lbs).  I think my weight was always around 130ish, but I don't really know.  I don't even think we had a scale in the house.  I couldn't really control my food at this time, because my family not only dished up our plates, but were card-carrying members of the clean plate club.  I remember poking at my soft belly and wishing I had visible abs.  I remember doing aerobics in my bedroom until I couldn't stand up anymore.  I remember a classmate in Algebra commenting about how muscular my arms were.  It was such a compliment to me! 

I went away to college just before my 18th birthday, and while there I went through a second puberty, it seems.  My boobs grew, and so did my pimples.  I also fell in love with running and weight lifting.  And beer.  In retrospect, I wonder if the beer and pimples were related?  I wore a bikini.  I got my belly button pierced.  I occasionally wore a few shirts that showed a tiny bit of mid drift.  All the while, I was loathing my soft body.  I loved my legs, which were rock solid, and I would even watch them while I ran, admiring the way the muscles moved.  But I felt huge everywhere else.  I hated my stomach.  I started watching my food intake then.  I didn't follow anything specific, I just was aware that I was bigger than those around me (still a size 9 jeans), so I always made sure to eat less than anyone else at the cafeteria table.





That summer after my freshman year in college, I did not move home.  I stayed with a family member, and I really don't remember eating.  I honestly think I lived on rice (and beer)!  Again, I stayed active.  I played beach volleyball and ran.  Somehow I became a smoker as well.   I had become comfortable with my body again, though.  I still liked my legs, and I grew to appreciate that ghetto booty as well. 

Fast forward past a ton of other crap and get to my first date with my first husband.  It was a group date, and I had on a shirt that showed a little of my stomach, but a jacket thing that covered most of it.  It was actually one of my favorite outfits, and I left to go out feeling pretty confident.  We were all walking, and my date said something to his buddy about being embarrassed of how I was dressed.  I don't think I was supposed to hear that comment, and I assumed it was b/c of my lack of chiseled abs (not that I was wearing my Texas going-out clothes while in conservative cowboy country).  Later on in the that same date, he was also joking with his buddy about my laugh.  It was loud and fearless....  and evidently embarrassing to him.  Something else my ex-husband said to me before we married was, "If you ever get fat like your mom, I'll just tie you behind the pickup.  We'll go for a country drive.  Those extra pounds?  Well you can either run it off or drag it off, your choice. That's how we do it up here."  He said it in a joking way, but man did those words stick with me. 

I moved in with his parents, after mine kicked me out after a moral disagreement with a choice I had made. They were constantly juggling their diet.  They did daily vita-mix smoothies for a while.  Then they went "low-carb."  Then they just talked about and judged other fat people.  They asked me about my mom and other family history.  They would ask me almost weekly if I had lost any weight and how much, and I'd hear about their victories as well.  It was a constant fixation.  There were other stressful factors in that living situation, and I took all of my aggression out at the gym.  I jogged and walked outside during my lunch breaks from work.  I went to the gym before work.  I went to the gym after work.  I waited tables at night.  I was in the best shape of my life and I loved my body MOST of the time.  I don't think I ever felt I was at an ideal weight, though. 

Then I moved out on my own.  My schedule remained much the same with work and workouts.  Then I had a friend move in with me.  I loved her (still do), and was always jealous of how thin and cute she was.  I was always at least a size, probably two, bigger than her.  Although I'm probably two inches taller than she is, I didn't feel like I was taller, I just felt fat.  She borrowed a suit of mine that looked like a totally different outfit on her than it did on me.  The skirt looked longer, and I didn't attribute that to her being a couple inches shorter, but to how much I filled that skirt out! 

I eventually married that guy whose worst fear seemed to be marrying a girl who was really a fat chick in disguise.  I ordered my wedding dress after falling in love with it in a bridal magazine, and I ordered a 12 (a size bigger than my current size).  I didn't realize how off that sizing would be, and I  had no idea that I'd basically have to commission a friend to remake the bodice for me to squeeze myself into.  Post marriage I had gained some weight.  Married life meant ceasing the two or three time a day workouts, but I still felt okay about myself.  I was terrified of getting bigger, though.  My jean size had gone up by one -- from a 9/10 to an 11/12.  I was 21.

I went back to school shortly after getting married.  I became familiar with downtown Denver's nightlife, and once again was confronted with comparison issues.  I always felt like the fat friend.  Or the not quite as cute friend.  I still hated my stomach.  I still mostly liked my legs, only now I was starting to be a little self-conscious of my thighs.  My butt had lost some of its ghettofabulousness, mostly due to the increase in my waist's circumference.  I never had any hips to speak of, so when I gained weight, I felt even less feminine.  I crept up to a size 13/14 jeans while commuting back and forth to school, trying to work full time, and living in the middle of no where.  I attributed it to no time to work out, lots of fast food eaten in my car, and very little sleep. 

Next chapter -- motherhood.  My weight had crept up to around 190 before having my first daughter.  Seems the fears of that man I married were coming true.  I was terrified of blowing up like a balloon during pregnancy since I was so close to that looming 200 pound mark.  I wanted to love pregnancy, and as long as I wasn't shopping or looking at myself naked, I did.  I did cry when I crossed the 200lb threshold, though.  I vowed that I'd never be back there again.  I birthed a healthy baby girl, and before she was a year old, I lost back down to 168 and was feeling pretty good about myself and my ability to get my body back.

My marriage, on the other hand, was nothing to feel good about.  This was the same man who made the comments about weight while we were dating, and it really never got much better.  But I came from a background of poverty, abuse, neglect, and a few jerkhead boyfriends who used drugs and beat me when I told them that I always envisioned a better life for myself than what I saw in front of me.  This man I married?  He was stable, mostly nice, had a nice family, and drugs or beatings were ever a part of our relationship.  From my frame of reference, he was a solid keeper!  He actually is a better man than that probably paints him out to be, but we were not good together. 

I got pregnant with my second child in a not-exactly-consensual setting, and had no idea that I could even be pregnant until I was about 8 weeks along.  I was devastated because I desperately wanted OUT of that relationship but had no means of supporting myself and my child... let alone CHILDREN.  I felt trapped.  I was frustrated because I had worked so hard with my diet and exercise to get down to ALMOST goal weight.  Weight Watchers and weight lifting and running had done me well and I was just starting to hit my stride again. 

I had learned a lot more about my body before pregnancy number 2, and I chose a home birth attended by a midwife.  She advocates the Brewer Diet , and I was again terrified of blowing up like a whale during pregnancy, especially with all of those calories!!!  I did gain a ton, and ended up weighing almost exactly the same on the day I gave birth to my second as when I gave birth to my second, even though I started out the pregnancy weighing over 20lbs less. 

I finally began my career as a broadcast captioner for live television when my second child was six months old.  I had not lost all of my baby weight, but I was definitely well below 200lbs.  I think I was sitting right around 185 or so, and in a size 14 jeans.  I went out of state for a month of on-the-job training, and I took my two babies who were 21 months apart in age, a jogging stroller, a breast pump, and my sister for babysitting.  I knew after that month that I would be leaving my husband, I just didn't know how or when.  But when he had access to FREE airline tickets to come see us, but didn't, that told me something.  And when I got back, he didn't comment as much about what I learned in training and how awesome of an accomplishment it was for me to land this job with no prior experience in the field, but asked me how much I ran while I was there and how my diet was....  Yeah, pretty sure I was emotionally checked out at that point. 

I kept up my jogging and I tried weight watchers again.  For some reason, it wasn't as easy the second time around.  I never did lose like I did after my first pregnancy.  I couldn't seem to get below 180lbs.  So I kind of gave up.  I started smoking again.  I started drinking more heavily when I finally left my now ex-husband.  I stopped sleeping because I was working while my babies were sleeping, and taking care of them during daytime hours.  I rarely jogged anymore. 

Then I fell in love.

Brian made it clear from day one that he loved me for me and that he thought I was incredibly beautiful.  He loved my body the way it was and hated how much I hated it.  (he still does, by the way)  I stopped being quite as critical, and I got lax with life in general.  I didn't count WW points anymore.  I didn't weigh and measure all of my food.  I enjoyed dates with him, including dinner.  I cooked.  I started sleeping just a little more.  I went through job stress, moving stress, kid stress, divorce stress, and kept a solid relationship with that rock of a man I have now.  We got married.  I was the heaviest I had ever been when I said, "I do" to him.  I honestly don't think he saw any of those extra pounds in that moment.  All I saw in his eyes was unconditional love for me.  It was amazing. 

Inside, I still hated my body.  Then we had a baby!  I was 215 when I got pregnant!!!  Again, I was terrified.  I barely gained any weight, but I did eat healthfully, and the same midwife attended and delivered my third healthy child at home, into the arms of my loving husband.  I loved what my body had accomplished, but again... I hated the shape of my body.  I still do. 

I'm heavier now than when I got pregnant that third time.  My "baby" will be 2 in June.  I'm depressed and I hate getting dressed.  I often find myself wearing pajamas all day long to avoid trying to find something in my closet that fits, doesn't restrict, and doesn't make me feel like a cow.  I've counted points.  I've counted calories.  I've counted carbs.  I've journaled everything.  And you know what I've figured out?

It's probably not the food that's the enemy.  It really can't be.  I looked at my weight watchers journals from when I lost weight so easily after my first pregnancy.  I ate total crap.  I ate McDonald's.  And brownies.  And I drank beer.  I didn't buy organic.  I didn't include two veggies with every meal (things I try to do now).  I wasn't eating "mindfully."  I didn't think about the pro and con of every morsel that went into my mouth.  It was just food.  It was the same way when I was in the best shape of my life.  I ate when I was hungry.  I stopped when I was full.  I made decent choices when I could, and didn't sweat it when I couldn't.  But I moved.  A LOT.  I lifted heavy stuff.  I laughed a lot.  I did things I enjoyed.  I appreciated life.  I had fun. 

*sigh*

But somehow my warped perception has made it all about the food.   And now I have to make silent and secret excuses to eat.  I wrestle with guilt at just about every meal or snack.  I devour nutrition information.  I worry about every bite I offer my children, wondering if I'm sealing their fate as fat adults just like me.  Or I will go to the other end of the spectrum and eat so cleanly journal so meticulously and weigh and measure every crumb and make everything make such mathematical sense that the formula has to equal happiness in the end, right?  Because a lower number on the scale has to equate to happiness.  "One-derland" has to be the place to find that happiness again, right?  I'm this heavy because of the chemical crapstorm I've poured into my body right?  It's in the food, right?  I eat too much.  I eat too little.  I don't eat the right stuff.  The government is out to get me, right?

*another sigh* 

When really, all along, I've never felt as pretty as the girl next to me.  I've always had this seed of body hate growing inside of me.  I've watered it with fitness magazines and transformation challenges.  I fertilized it with infomercials and competitions and kitchen gadgets and diet pills.   And now I'm reaping the harvest.  It's 2:37 on a Sunday afternoon as I write this -- in my jammies. 

I'm full of self-realization in my blogs.  But no matter how much I write, I never seem to find the magic combination.  I want to just wake up knowing how to listen to my body, eat what it needs, smell the roses, and run in some road races.  I want to laugh with my kids and not ache when I get out of bed.  I don't want it to be this hard.  I am a mom, step mom, wife, a full time (with weekly overtime) employee, and more.  I want to be an athlete, too.  And I want to stop damaging my mental health and physical body with the rigors of ridiculous meticulous dieting.  But I don't want to be fat anymore.  Surely there's a middle ground somewhere?  Right?

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learning from the past

I like to think that I'm a constantly evolving creature, learning, growing, and applying more knowledge to my everyday life as a mom, wife, captioner, and friend.  I devour research like it's a pan of hot brownies topped with vanilla bean ice cream and hot fudge...

Oh wait...  :)

Actually, I'm focusing on real permanent change here.  I'm adapting my cooking to what I KNOW suits my body and brain the best.  I'm not cutting out all carbs for the rest of my life.  I'm not swearing off that decadent pan of freshly baked brownies with ghiardelli chocolate, topped with blue bell vanilla ice cream and some kind of thick and rich dark chocolate hot fudge.  I'm not swearing off amazingly delicious red wine or top shelf tequilas either. But i am learning to eat to live, not live to eat. That requires me to consider with every bite, Will this make me more or less healthy?

I have come a long way in my quest to not let mirrors and scales dictate my state of mind and well being, but rather focus on doing. Doing things that make me feel strong - things that actually make me strong. I am focusing on balance with work, family, and sleep. I feel healthy, and I do truly believe that as long as I keep moving more than sitting, eating right (hello, paleo!), sleeping when it's dark, and loving every minute I get to spend with those I love, that this human body of mine will eventually obey common laws of physiology and shrink into a more fit and compact package.

I have decided to commit to drive to Colorado springs once a week to learn and participate in crossfit. That style of full-body, intense workout is right up my alley. The people are awesome, and there is a real sense of community. For a brief moment during my first WOD, I actually forgot that I was a 60-70 pound overweight mom to six. In that moment, I was reaching deep within the core of my being to finish what I started - even if it killed me.  I was strong and it was amazing. I want that feeling every day for the rest of my life, and I know that xfit will do that.

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mental state of mind

I'm working really hard on finding that mental state of not hating my body, or striving for perfection.  I just really want to treat my body well so that it will allow me to do the things that make me happy inside. 

I've been a yo-yo dieter all of my adult life.  I lose some; I gain some.  Welcome to America, right?  To motherhoood?  Whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I'm over it.  I'm the heaviest I've ever been, I look like my mom more and more every day, and I'm really trying not to care so much about what I see through my distorted mind's eye. 

That doesn't mean that I want to gorge myself on fast food and mass-produced crap in a sack.  It just means that I need to focus on DOING, not seeing.  I need to focus on goals and rewards that have less to do with dress size and more to do with how I feel.

I love running.  I really do.  I love the alone time, the challenge of seeing how far my body can take me, the glance at nature around me, the good feeling I get from knowing my dog is well exercised, and the time to jam out to whatever music floats my boat at the time.  I love the thrill of a large road race, and setting goals and reaching new personal bests.  I LOVE new running shoes.  :)  I love sunshine and fresh air and...   and I just love running. 

I also love dancing.  And I love the mountains, and hiking, and singing, and swimming, and laughing, and feeling strong. 

I love time with my husband and with my kids... and sometimes even other people's kids.  I love being active and traveling and experiencing new things.  I like exploring. 

There are so many ACTIVE things I like, and if I work my body out in ways that I like in preperation for things that I like doing, then I shouldn't worry so much about what the shell looks like, right?  But after moving around that much and eating well, I should shrink into a size that more adequately reflects my active lifestyle. 

At least that's the approach I'm trying THIS TIME.... 

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