My friend Kathryn has taken her two little children to Africa. To. Africa. Though I've only dreamed about such a journey, and in doing so, facing the biggest fear I have left remaining (now that I have already survived the one about cancer), she is actually walking, awake, into it. I tremble as I think about it, for the same reasons that I have always backed out when I've considered it myself. But when I think about big North American saviour-types heading into Africa for a little experience, a little philanthropy, a little placation against the great sad ordeal of Africa, I feel sick to my stomach. It feels like an example of self-satisfied rich men giving big donations to the synagogue. But Kathryn is like the wido with two mites. This is everything. This is the most generous gift she has.

I have prayed much. I have prayed while walking, while painting my kitchen, while lying in my bed... I've prayed the way I think Paul was describing when he said to pray without ceasing. I have taught my son to pray for them also. Yesterday he said, "Thank you God that Anna and Joseph can go to Africa. Please help them to help all the people there." Then he said to me, "Mom, sometimes children die, right?" and I realized how truly far away we are from it. It's not enough to feel badly about the plight of the poor, dirty, orphaned children in Africa... then go back to our magazines or internet. I remember falling on my knees once, sobbing, watching an African woman on tv trying to nurse her baby. I suddenly considered what it would be like to struggle to feed Josh and the pain of listening to him cry in hunger. I could not bear it.

It's not them and us. We are all us. We are all mothers and children.

We are all desperate; In North America, we just don't know how to name our desperation.

God, make light their path. Make their journey safe. Protect their bodies and their hearts even moreso.

There's a picture of me on the front page of this blog. In it, I am young and beautiful and thin and maybe even a bit smug about the whole thing. Today, my friend sent a photo from the weekend, with Josh on my lap and me leaning in to snuggle him. I am smiling, to be sure, but the smugness is gone. In that smile, I can see also the awareness that I have allowed things to get out of hand. I look like a swollen version of myself. I am padded and round; I am returning to the girl I was in highschool.

Why, after so many years of having this under control, am I now facing this breakdown of discipline and careful attention to my eating and exercising habits? What started out as a "treat" on occassion has become the status quo, and I don't even consider points any longer when I'm stuffing my face with whatever is in front of me. I had become so accustomed to eating the correct amounts of food that I never even counted anymore - I just knew how much to take, and I almost never over-indulged. I want to go back to that time. That 27 year old me, that 29 year old me, that 31 year old me... all better versions than this one. I keep saying I want to go back, but somehow, when the time comes to exercise some control and reserve, I excuse myself and become permissible. I don't even consider the consequences of wild abandon and now I'm paying for it. I'm paying for it with a photo that I want to keep nearby, to remind me of how bad it's become and to encourage me to stop before I go back to the same place I was before - the place where I cried so much and hated myself.

Having a child on my own is not easy. Whereas I would go to the gym at the end of the work day, now I have to go to the daycare and then return home. The only time for working out is after he's gone to bed (and we've done the back and forth - "Mama, can I have another story?" "No. Go to sleep." "Mama, can I sleep in your bed?" "No. Go to sleep." "Mama, I have to go pee pee!" "Okay, hurry up, and then get back into bed and go to sleep!!!" What happened to those perfect evenings when I'd put him down in his room and not hear another peep out of him until morning?) Anyway, by the time I'm able to exercise, it's usually after 9 p.m. and that feels late to be getting all worked up. Still, some exercise is better than no exercise and I really, really don't want to go back. I started a yoga class at work, and it was kyboshed for liability reasons, so there goes that option. I want to walk on my lunch breaks, all through snooty Rosedale, but the weather is so cold that the motivation to get outside is pretty low. Really, it comes down to self-control. Weight Watchers isn't working this time, and I have no anti-depressant pills to induce anorexia, and I'm not nursing to burn off those calories making milk... I have nothing in my arsenal except my weak and dying discipline. (So many things could benefit from more discipline in my life, e.g., effective use of my work day!) So now, how to breathe life and energy into this discipline and make the changes necessary? The trick with me is, they have to be incorporated without much pomp & circumstance, or that fire burns too hot and fast and it's out before it's done any good. Slow and steady, careful steps, small changes, lots more "no's". I can get there. I can get there. I can get there. I can get there.