The Way The Cookie Crumbles

I'm not very good at it, but I love to bake. There is something about the simplicity of combining one ingredient after another, the rythm of stirring the spoon, that seems to clear the mind and calm the soul. My dad has this heavy, white cook book called The Joy of Cooking. Even though I am sure he has the recipe memorized, he always pulls it out when he makes peanut butter cookies. He opens the cover, and turns to the page where a bright, red ribbon has lived for years. The pages are a little yellowed, but they still hold the shiny silver along its edge. Carefully, he levels each cup before adding it to the bowl. When he rolls out the dough, each little dollop mimics the last. He crosses his fork across the top of each one, gently pushing down until the sides of the dough crack, ever so slightly. Then, they are placed in the oven to fill the house with their sweet, nutty scent. Every time I bake, no matter what it is I am making, I think of that cookbook and those sugary treats.

Yesterday, I baked. I didn't attempt to make my cookies "healthy." I didn't attempt to cut down on the sugar, replace the butter, or use some gluten-free blend of flour. I made full-fat, full-sugar cookies with smarties and rees' pieces. It was a bad night: not only was all the wine gone, but I found myself struggling. Struggling because I want too much. I don't say that in the "greedy kid at Christmas" way; I mean, that I want too much for my life. "Too much" isn't a bad thing; but, it can be an overwhelming experience, to say the least.

I set goals. I set goals, and I make plans to crush them. I get excited about them at their inception, and as I continue towards them, I find myself gaining momentum. I feel a rush when I accomplish them. However, setting them can feel limiting. I am limited by parameters that are, sometimes, out of my control: time; finances; resources; sleep. There is only so much a human can do in the day, before her eyes are too heavy to stay open, and stomach grumbles for food. It can be frustrating to watch others accomplish a similar goal, when you know it would be financially irresponsible to take on that same path at your current stage in life. This is the reality that creates the glass wall which your path crashes into.

I thought about this last night, as I stirred my batter of warm butter, sugar, and vanilla. I watched so many friends get up on stage, this past weekend, and my dreams were set alight. There they stood, in their beautiful suits and tans, lean and prepped for an amazing show. Each one of them a winner in their own way. I was happy for them. I was jealous of them. I wanted to be up there, as well; but, it isn't in the cards for me and my family at this point in time. No matter how much I wish for it, no matter how hard I work, I have responsibilities that are greater than some of my dreams.

I added in the left-over Halloween treats to my batter, and thought about my place in the "fitness world." Do I fit the part? I have muscle, but I'd be lying if I thought I looked the image of "fitness perfection." How can I get up on my box and preach a healthy, fit life if I don't even look the part? Who is going to want advice from some woman who isn't even in full-prep?! I have a mommy-tummy for crying out loud! I was frustrated with myself. Frustrated with my personal obligations. That momentum for my dreams was building; but, knowing that I am unable to follow through right now is stifling.

I began to roll each dollop of dough in the same manner as my dad. Placing them in rows of three, I thought about what I write here; what values I hope to pass on to my babies. "I am more than the competition." Yes, it feels good to me lean. Yes, it feels amazing to be on stage, under the lights, amongst all the hard-working women. But, it is lonely. It is, also, a physically and emotionally taxing process on everyone involved. I sit here and I write about working on you for those you love. That has nothing to do with competing. That has to do with making healthy choices. Health and balance in this crazy thing we call parenting is what I stand for. Focusing on life. Ignoring the scale. Working to be healthy.

As the cookies warmed up and rose, the house began to smell of warm brown sugar and vanilla. They puffed up and spread out on the pan. I believe, above all other things I preach, that it is the effort that counts. I put the effort in: day in, day out; I am there. Like any human, there are days I don't want to meet my responsibilities. There are days I don't go. There are days I break habit and eat everything I tell myself I shouldn't. It's normal. It's balanced. I work hard at everything I do. I try to be present when with my family. I put effort in to my friendships. I make a conscious effort to spread positivity. Shouldn't that be enough? Does my physical appearance or my (in)ability to win trophies impact my self worth? No. No, it does not.

The tray sat on the stove cooling as the cookies sat there tempting our eyes and our stomachs. I set goals because they excite me. I set them so I can make a plan. They are not set, simply, because of their immediate attainment. They involve steps. Steps that take time. I may have obstacles/responsibilities that prevent me from attaining my dreams in the near future, but it doesn't take them off the table. What is more important is that I set the goal, and do what I can in the present to prepare myself for the required steps in the future. After all, I need to live up to my motto, and that certainly doesn't involve strict diets and physical regimes. It involves working on being a better me, for them. Which, also, means working on my patience.

I love a good cookie: the crackled sides; the soft center. There is something about letting yourself have such a sweet, childish treat that stirs up feelings of nostalgia. You bite in to it, and time slows down just a little. You share them with those around you. They require the baker to take simple steps, in order, to create such a simple pleasure. They ask for your patience while they rise. And in the end, that patience pays off.