Author: Giana

“You are the light of the world.  A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.  Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” –Matthew 5:14-16

I started praying about my firstborn son’s education when he was about 18-months old.  It was at that age that I observed he was a self-motivated, eager learner.  While getting ready to go somewhere, he would point to the letters and numbers on our license plates and recite them, or signal us to tell him what they were.  He did the same thing while at the grocery store with the different food prices.  Over time, it became more and more obvious to me and those around me:  I had a very advanced child.

This day in May of 2015 was a dream come true for our son! We visited Dinosaur World in Glen Rose, Texas.

As a former classroom teacher, I continued working with him at home, letting him take the lead in whatever he was interested in.  When he was a young toddler, that was letters, shapes, colors and numbers.  When he turned three, just after his Thomas the Train fascination, we moved on to dinosaurs.  This was one of my favorite topics, as I was learning right alongside him!  As a child, I was only familiar with the main species portrayed in The Land Before Time:  Triceratops, Apatosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex, etc.  Working with him exposed me to so many more!  Currently, as a four-year old, we are learning about the presidents.  Once again, I am learning, too!

Our boy enjoys picking fresh green beans from our garden.

Now that we have a whole semester under our belts, I have had time to reflect on my boy’s experience as a whole.  He loves school.  He walks out the door every morning with a spring in his step and a big smile on his face.  When I pick him up each day, he is excited to see his sister and me and come home.  When I ask him what his favorite part of the morning was, his typical response is, “Playing on the playground.”

Most recently, his class studied a unit on farming, and he brought home a cup with dirt and beans planted inside.  Each morning, right after the sun comes up, he runs outside and yells, “Good morning, plant!”  He has had it for about five days and it has not sprouted yet.  He remains hopeful.

I had some reservations, initially, when sending him to school.  I was confident we had made the right choice, but shared the normal questions and fears most parents have:  Should we send him to school now? (He’s only 3.) What if something bad happens on his campus?  This school isn’t in the best nor the worst neighborhood, but should we choose a better one?  Our son has blonde hair, blue eyes, and light skin, so definitely he sticks out in a sea of children with darker features—will he be picked on?

These questions were all valid, but my husband and I chose not to make our decision based out of fear.  While his first school year thus far has not been without its transitions and minor hiccups, none of what I feared has come to fruition.  The administrators, staff and teachers that I know and have met are warm, welcoming and caring.  Most of them know him by name.  Because I served in public school education for seven years, I know some of the best and hardest working teachers work at these lower income schools.  In Brownsville, all the schools are classified as such, a few more than others.

Our son has had such wonderful experiences that he would not have been exposed to had I kept him at home another year.  He has grown tremendously in ways I would not have anticipated.  We have had the privilege of meeting the families of some of his classmates at parties and other events; they have blessed us with their kindness, humility and hospitality.  My firstborn speaks highly of his classmates and teachers.

Children wait to perform in the Christmas program at my son’s school this past December.  It was his first time in such a  performance, and he did great!

Last year, when I was speaking to another mother who is not a fan of public schooling, she expressed concern over not feeling like her children would be safe in such an environment.  I completely understood and respected where she was coming from, though I do not hold the same opinion.  During our conversation, I referenced Matthew 5:14-16 (the verse posted at the top of this entry), and explained that the verse encouraged me to be part of our community, along with the rest of my family.  She kindly responded with, “Yes, but in that verse, Jesus was not talking to children.  He was talking to adults.”  She was absolutely right about that.  However, I am raising children that will one day be adults, and I hope that they will choose to be lights to others.

“I am the vine; you are the branches.  If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” – John 15:5

It was December 29th, 2014, the day of my 33rd birthday.  I sat at our kitchen table, looking out the window at the orange tree that sits along the fence in our backyard.  We had harvested it just a couple of months before, and now it stood bare.  I pruned it earlier in the day, hoping the process would encourage it to produce even more fruit the following year.

The fall season had been an especially rough one for a variety of reasons.  My husband came and quietly sat down beside me.  I looked straight at him and asked, with a large lump in my throat, “Why does the Lord keep taking things away from me?”

He looked out the window and asked, “What did you do to the orange tree earlier today?”
“I pruned it,” I responded.
“Why did you do that?” he continued.
“Because if it has too many growths on it, they can choke one another out…”
He gently reminded me, “That is what the Lord is doing with you.”

December 29th has always been one of my favorite days of the year.  I was never one of those that felt like their birthday was overlooked because it was during the holidays.  If anything, that made it even more special and magical in my book.  “My birthday is four days after Christmas,” I would proudly announce when asked.

The older I get, the more I am simply thankful for another year of life.  I’m not one for throwing big parties for myself where I am the center of attention.  In fact, the idea makes me cringe.  I don’t think my birthday should be a national holiday.  Though, thanks to Christmas break, many people are, in fact, off from work.  My husband and children do a great job of making me feel special all year long, and I count a few of my family members as some of my closest friends.  Most years, this is more than enough, and I am content.

On December 29th of last year, though, I was sad.  And lonely.  And feeling left out and rejected.  It was such a weird place to be in.  I felt like a living paradox.  On the one hand, I was living my dream of raising my children at home and working part-time.  On the other, I struggled with wondering if that was really enough.  I felt like the bare orange tree in our yard.  What real fruit did I have to show for my labor?  My life reminded me of the movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray; each day I woke up and did the same things over and over and over again.

One of the things I appreciate most about my birthdate is that it is at the end of the year.  It makes for good times of reflection and anticipation for the new year.  Ready to be done with the tail end of 2014, I bowed my head in prayer.  I prayed over the dreams and hopes I had for 2015.  I prayed that I would keep my priorities in the correct order.  I prayed many things.

As I prayed with my eyes closed, I began to get a vision.  In the vision, I placed my hands on soil in our backyard.  As soon as my hands touched the dirt, green vines started rapidly growing out and up from underneath my fingers.  They were bright, thick and covered everything in sight.  When I was done, I tried attributing what had happened to my overly active imagination.  I also logically concluded that since our home is covered in ivy, it was not hard to think of green vines growing.  I had recently taken off with gardening, so it could have been wishful thinking on my part.

I finally concluded in my mind what I knew to be true in my heart:  the Lord had spoken to me.

Ivy grows steadily along the side of our house.

“The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame.  You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” – Isaiah 58:11

A dear friend sent me the above verse from Isaiah, and I decided that it would be my theme verse for 2015.  I thought it tied in perfectly to what I had seen during my prayer time.  All year, I clung to the vision.

Each time I entered a writing contest, I wondered, “Will this be it?  Will this be the harvest I am supposed to reap this year?!”  It turns out that many people the world over write well, and it is a fiercely competitive pursuit.

Still, I am officially a paid blogger now.  As a writer for the Rio Grande Valley’s Tots-Tweens blog, it is my job to find local family-friendly excursions and activities.  After voluntarily blogging for a month, they offered to pay me for contributing once a week.  It is a job that I have thoroughly enjoyed, and being able to include my children and see the experiences through their eyes is a definite plus.

I saw two big dreams come to fruition this year, one involving music, and the other, gardening.  For years, my mother and I have joked about opening up a fine arts school for children.  She would teach art, I would give piano lessons, and my sister, Erin, would give voice and/or dance lessons.  This summer, we put our heads together and hosted our first Summer Music Camp, and it went very well.  We had 11 participants, and spent four mornings playing hands-on musical activities, painting and learning about theory and composers.  We look forward to hosting others, and seeing where this endeavor might lead.

Music Genetics Piano Studio Summer Camp, 2015

Gardening is one of my favorite hobbies.  Falling in love with it took me completely by surprise.  (To learn about how it all started, read an entry I wrote in September, On How I Became a Gardener.)

Being part of the local Farmers’ Market community has been a complete joy and honor.  It may seem obvious to most, and it certainly is to me in hindsight, but I never thought to take the vision I had been given literally.  I assumed it meant I would be fruitful in different areas of my life, but I took for granted that one of those areas would be growing produce.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.” – Psalm 34:8

We have lived in our home since August of 2012. Each year, our orange tree has produced fruit.  This year, however, it produced so much that when it was ready to be harvested, the branches hung mere inches from the ground.  The fruit is so much more delicious and sweeter than it has ever been, and we have had more than enough to share with friends, family and neighbors.  We are still reaping the rewards, as we have yet to pick the last orange from the tree.

I couldn’t help but think back to where my life was at exactly one year ago, as I stared bleakly out our kitchen window, and where it is now, as I look out with joy.  You know what, though?  I don’t regret going through the rough patch last year.  It was necessary.  There is no harvest without pruning, in gardening and in our lives.  I continue clinging to the promise of the vision the Lord showed me one year ago, praying that it spills over into the new year.  I know that it will.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” – Galatians 6:9

“Blessed is she who believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!” – Luke 1:45

An image of our children playing near the orange tree in October. The fruit was not ripe enough to be picked yet.

Christine (the instructor) likes to make us do squats– a lot!

As promised, here are the details on the FREE workout classes I have been in enjoying in Los Fresnos the last couple of months!  On average, I attend them twice a week, but classes are offered everyday.  Morning classes are 8:30-9:30 a.m. at the Boys and Girls Club across from Los Fresnos High School (located behind Memorial Park at 900 N. Arroyo Blvd).  Mondays and Wednesdays focus on cardio kickboxing, Tuesdays and Thursdays do strength training, and Fridays are mixed cardio classes (ex: some Zumba and kickboxing). There are also evening options twice a week on Mondays and Wednesdays from 5:30-6:30 p.m. for cardio (at the same location).

A photo of Christine and me, after class. 😉

The instructor’s name is Christine, and she is one of the best I have had the privilege of working with.  She is encouraging, energetic, and greets every member of the class as we arrive.  The atmosphere is what made the biggest difference for me (outside of the obvious plus that the classes are all FREE and awesome).  I take my daughter with me once a week, and she plays quietly in a corner, or occasionally does the exercises along with me!  It is no problem having her there.  Christine calls her, “the baby,” and there was one session where all the ladies exploded in applause for my girl because they were so impressed by her participation.

My favorite workout partner, my mom!

The free exercise programs are offered throughout the valley and are part of the UT Health School of Public Health and are a branch of Tu Salud Si Cuenta (Your Health Matters!).  There is no charge for the courses because they are funded by grants.  This particular exercise program is good for another year.  Typically, as long as there is proof of participation and funds being used, the grant will continually be renewed.

I overheard a couple of ladies talking this morning after class about how what we do with Christine is the exact same thing they do at Gold’s Gym (only without the cost!).  I’ll take it!  I hope to see YOU there!

Seeing multiple pictures of the first midwest snowfall this past week has me feeling nostalgic.  I remember my very first Iowa winter.  It was the year 2000, and I was a freshman at Central College in Pella.  Unprepared for what lay ahead, my recruitment officer (who was also from South Texas) took me and a handful of other winter newbies shopping for official gear.

I quickly learned that down feather jackets are the best for keeping warm.  Wikipedia describes them as the following, “the down of birds is a layer of fine feathers found under the tougher exterior feathers.”  While they are not all aesthetically pleasing, my main concern was not freezing.  My grandmother had also knit a multicolored hat and matching scarf for me.  While experiencing my initial frosty season, I was especially thankful for her talent of making things.  The hats and scarves I found in stores simply did not compare in the warming factor.

After searching at multiple stores, I settled on a pair of blue, little boy mittens that matched my new blue, reversible coat.  Again, my objective was to maximize coziness.  I have very small hands, and I didn’t think having an extra inch hanging off the tip of my fingers in lady gloves was going to do the trick.

We went shopping early in the season so we would be prepared.  To say I was a little excited about wearing my winter items would be an understatement.  I hung everything up in my closet and waited for the day that is was cold enough to make an appearance.  One blustery morning I awoke and saw that it was 40 degrees outside.  40 degrees?!  I thought.  I pressed my hand against the window and the cold sent chills down my spine.  This has to be it.

I got dressed, wrapped the scarf around my neck, pulled my hat down over my head, put on my jacket and mittens.  With an extra bounce in my step, I headed down the flight of stairs and out of the dormitory.  As I stepped outside, I looked across the street and saw my current crush (insert a towheaded Iowan) walking straight towards me wearing jeans, a long sleeved shirt and Chacos.  I don’t know whether or not he saw me (perhaps I’ve blocked it out?), but I was mortified.  I promptly turned around, marched back upstairs, took off the heavy winter apparel and put on a lighter jacket.  I would rather suffer frostbite than make it more obvious that I was a stranger in a strange land.

Don’t read too much into the aforementioned infatuation.  Nothing came of it, and they changed monthly freshman year.  Having grown up on the border of Mexico, I had never seen so many blonde haired and blue-eyed guys in my life; my senses were on exotic overload!  Thankfully, this superficial stage didn’t stick around for long.

All wrapped up in my winter gear!  Friends sometimes joked that I looked like a marshmallow on a stick.

Nothing beats that first snowfall.  Everything goes quiet, as if a blanket of calm has fallen on the land.  You look out the window and see the ground and rooftops covered in white, sparkly powder.  While I would learn the ins and outs of thriving in the cold seasons, nothing was as magical (or severe) as that first one.  Memories of classmates walking me to class by hand, “so the little Texan won’t blow away,” bring a smile to my face.  The sound of the snow under my feet, and the surprising consistency of it falling off of me like sand I won’t soon forget.

And lest you think that winter was my favorite season, let me remind you that once March arrived, I was ready for it to be gone.  And oftentimes, in Iowa, it wasn’t.  It became a big pain in the butt.  Every year.  Thus, I think I’ll stick to my tropical South Texas paradise for now, thank you very much.

At a very early age, my mom told me, “Don’t discuss religion and politics with people.”  She lived by this motto and up until this very day, I have yet to find out which presidential candidates she has voted for in different elections.  There were times when this would greatly frustrate me, but I have come to admire the wisdom she has exerted in withholding such information from me.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with Facebook.  I appreciate being able to keep in contact with friends and family across the miles.  But, I can barely stand scrolling through my Newsfeed during election season because half of the posts make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  People are so bold when they can hide behind a screen.  In the wake of last night’s terrorist attacks in Paris, it didn’t take long for friends to start standing and preaching from their soapboxes.

A fellow mom had posted in our local MOPS group that a UT student studying abroad in Paris had not been accounted for.  I saw the request after midnight and begin praying for this young man I had never met and his family.  I prayed for the victims of this atrocious act, their families, and those that inflicted the violence.  I couldn’t sleep.

Perhaps it was because on a very small scale, I understood the fear the country of France was experiencing.  Like most others, I remember exactly where I was when 9/11 happened.  Leaving my morning education class at the college library, I noticed a group of students huddled around the television in the lounge.  Current events were constantly streaming and we seldom paid any attention to them.  It struck me as odd that so many had congregated.  When I saw the second plane hit the two towers, my heart sank.  For the very first time in my life, I questioned my safety and the safety of my country.  Though I was in Iowa, thousands of miles away from New York, the rest of my family was in Texas.  I worried for them.  Later in the day, my parents called me and simply said, “We just wanted to make sure you were okay.”  And I was.

A couple of years later, I was an exchange student in Granada, Spain.  I fell in love with Western Europe and all the cultures that it is comprised of.  That spring of 2003, the United States invaded Iraq and took down the statue of Saddam Hussein.  My Spanish host family, most of my host country, and most of Europe, was completely appalled by our actions.  Shortly after, the peace corp was withdrawn from Morocco, and we were no longer allowed to visit.  I did not get to cross visiting Africa off of my bucket list.  We lived in a predominately Muslim area, and though I never feared for my wellbeing, my perspective had shifted because of the state our world was in.

When my American friends and I visited the market and vendors asked us where we were from, just to be safe, I would say, “Mexico.”  And they believed me.  Obviously, this was only stretching the truth a little, since I grew up on the border and am, in fact, Mexican American.  Living among other cultures has a way of changing how you see things…which brings me to my point.

Webster’s defines solidarity as unity or agreement of feeling or action, especially among individuals with a common interest, mutual support within a group.  I chose to change my profile picture because I am standing with France.  I am praying for France.  On an extremely minute level, I have felt the uncertainly some of its citizens are feeling who were not directly harmed by the terrorist attacks, but now live in a world that has been turned upside down.  This wasn’t the first time this has happened in this part of the world, even this year alone.

Does this mean that I have turned a blind eye to the people of Syria, or that I think attacks in Beirut that happened just before don’t matter?  Absolutely not.  Am I deaf to the cries of Mizzou and other universities in my own country?  No, I am not.

But what do we do when we’re weighing in on people’s posts about such events?  We give “100 likes” to those we agree with, and we have endless arguments (ahem, discussions) with others that don’t see things the way we do.  We search the internet for the perfect politically correct meme or article that couldn’t possibly offend anyone, and we wait…for the applause of others.  The affirmation that we’re such spectacular intellectuals and exude wisdom on every occasion.  When in reality, sometimes it comes across as self-righteous whining.

On one hand, it can be argued that all I can do from my border city to combat terrorism is pray.  The way I see it, it is the best thing I can do.  So I will continue to do just that.  My prayers are by no means exclusive.  “I call on you, my God, for you will answer me; turn your ear to me and hear my prayer.” -Psalm 17:6  I know I am not alone in this.

Thus, my profile picture will serve as a constant reminder to me to pray not only for France, but for victims of terrorism everywhere, and those that commit the atrocious acts.  And I will make no apologies for it.

Mr. Chip Dameron.  He gave me great advice.

Mr. Glen Sorestad, the first Poet Laureate of Saskatchewan, Canada (2000-2004).

Last night, I attended a poetry reading at the Brownsville Museum of Fine Art.  The poets were Chip Dameron, a local professor emeritus of UTRGV, and Glen Sorestad, Saskatchewan, Canada’s first Poet Laureate.  I walked into the room and knew I was in the presence of greatness; literary heroes, if you will.

Chip signs my copy of his book, Waiting for an Etcher. He said I have a beautiful name.

I immediately zeroed in on Chip.  I wanted to soak up as much wisdom from him as I could.  From what I had heard and read about him, he was easily one of my new heroes.  With a number of published books on poetry and reputable as a professor, he represents a good portion of what I want to be when I grow up.  I picked his brain, asking about whether or not he recommended eventual grad school for writing, and how he suggested going about being published one day.  He was very personable and helpful, and provided me with good leads I would not have had otherwise.

But that was not my favorite part of the evening.  My favorite part of the evening took me by surprise, like words perfectly penned together often do.  Glen Sorestad read an entry from his collection, A Thief of Impeccable Taste, titled, Ten Years.

He read this poem with a simple and gracious ease.  And I wept.  Wept.  I didn’t anticipate that I would cry when I decided to attend this poetry reading.  I didn’t expect the emotion this particular poem would evoke in me.

What Mr. Sorestad didn’t know was that I have a four-year old boy at home who is one of my greatest joys.  But recently, I have found myself, on occasion, growing frustrated with him.  The words in his poem, “with its constant reminder, of how a mother is heart and core of what a son becomes,” cut me to the core.  And reminded me what is of utmost importance; the current stage of life my son is in is temporary, but his character will be lasting.  I am to continue the work I am doing in his life, knowing that it is not done in vain.

Glen Sorestad signs my copy of his book, A Thief of Impeccable Taste. I thanked him for reading Ten Years.

Hello, everyone!  It’s that time again—giveaway time!  I am teaming up with a dear friend, Leslie, who has an awesome blog, mykitchenisopen.com.

Go to her blog to triple your chances of winning!  She has great recipes and has recently starting taking charge of her health.  She is inspiring many around her, myself included!  Because of her generosity, I am raffling off the Pioneer Woman’s Flea Market 2-piece Ceramic Bakeware (see image)!  Aren’t they beautiful?

Leave a comment below, sharing your favorite storiesbytheseashore blog post, and why it is your favorite.  Then click on the Rafflecopter to enter!  Thank you!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

My enchiladas suizas —with a side of rice and beans.

My husband is a pastor.  I’m not sure if I mentioned that in previous posts.  There are parts of his job that I really enjoy, like connecting with other people and opening up our home.  There are harder parts, like accompanying him to wakes and funerals.  Occasionally, there are welcome surprises.  Our first meal at Rice & Beans was just that.  Members of our church, Carlos and Cindy Elizondo, recently opened up their own restaurant, and they wanted one of the pastors from our church to pray a blessing over it.  My husband was the chosen one, and the children and I got to accompany him.

Rice & Beans is not your typical Brownsville restaurant.  Everything, from the chicken to the tortillas, is made from scratch and prepared on site as it is ordered.  Open for only two weeks, the restaurant has already experienced incredible success.  Their motto?  “Be Happy:  Eat more rice and beans.”

When asked about the name, owner Carlos Elizondo shared, “The vision started with my family.  I grew up poor.  The only thing we always had at the table was rice and beans; that’s where the name came from.  We want everyone that comes in to feel like they are eating at home.”

The Rice and Beans menu

I was very impressed by the service we received.  We were treated like royalty and got to eat whatever we liked off the menu.  I had the enchiladas suizas and they were amazing!  The salsa verde they make is beyond compare!  When I go back, I am going to order the same dish because I liked it so much.

Elizondo has a big vision for Rice & Beans.  “I would like to see it in every city.  More than anything, I want to make sure it is 100% great, especially for our people that come here on a daily basis,” he added.  “We want to provide good food, good prices and a great atmosphere.  In the last two weeks that we’ve been open, everyone has come more than once.”

The prices are quite reasonable, and there are high chairs and diaper changing stations in the restroom.  In a city like ours, catering to families is of utmost importance if you want your business to succeed; we are a fruitful people.

Rice & Beans is open daily from 6 am–3pm, and also has a drive-thru.  Their weekends are busiest because of their barbacoa sales.  “We see a lot of people [in the drive-thru] in pajamas,” Elizondo said.

The Elizondo Family (from L-R):  Mario, Sophia, Briana, Carla, Mary Lou (Huerta), Cindy and Carlos.

“We would like everyone to give it a shot,” added Cindy Elizondo,”we provide excellent customer service and the food is always fresh.  It’s a friendly family environment.”

Popular hostess, Mary Lou Huerta, a retired BISD employee of 28 years, commented, “It’s inviting and makes people want to come here and bring their children.  We give God the glory.”  Because of their immediate progress, they have implemented a buffet specifically for BISD employees and other professionals that do not get long lunch breaks.

I hope you get the opportunity to check out Rice & Beans for yourself; you won’t regret it!  I know my family and I will be back.  For more information, please visit their Facebook page.

Rice and Beans is located at 5815 FM 802.

Salsa dancing, my absolute favorite!

“Voy a reír, voy a bailar, vivir mi vida…la, la, la, la, la…Voy a reír, voy a gozar, vivir mi vida, la, la, la, la, la…”  Translation:  “I’m gonna laugh, I’m gonna dance, live my life…la, la, la, la, la…I’m gonna laugh, I’m gonna enjoy, live my life…la, la, la, la, la.”

I remember the first time I heard this song on the radio while driving in my car.  It was just earlier this year, and I felt like my spirit was going to jump out of my body!  I loved it from the beginning!  The beat, the musicality and the lyrics made me want to get up and dance.  But I’m getting ahead of myself…

My love of dancing started at the tender age of 14.  Born and raised on the border of Mexico, it seemed like every other girl my age was preparing for or having a quinceañera (a big, 15th birthday party).  It’s the equivalent of an American Sweet 16 celebration.  Only, where I come from, it’s comparable to a mini-wedding.  While I had the option of having one, I was not interested.

Thus, I became everyone’s dama (English translation: lady—similar to a bridesmaid), which meant I got to dance in my fair share of quinceañeras.  I was in so many that I did not feel like I missed out by not having my own.  I was quite familiar with the whole process, and enjoyed it.

Being turned while dancing in my very first quinceañera.  I was hooked!

Typically, an instructor from Matamoros would come and teach us adolescents how to dance.  We learned traditional waltzes, cumbias, guapangos, and line dancing (to name a few).  Usually, there were fourteen couples made up of 7 damas and 7 chambelanes (chamberlains, or gentlemen).  The birthday girl’s partner made it a total of 15 accompanying dancers.  I absolutely loved performing at these traditional parties.  And, it taught me how to dance with a partner.

While I did not do any salsa dancing during this time, it gave me the foundation I needed for it.  Originating in Cuba, salsa is similar to the traditional Mexican cumbia.  I learned how to dance this when I lived in Des Moines, Iowa, and instantly fell in love with it!  It was lots of fun and great exercise, too!  With a “one, two three…five, six, seven,” beat, I quickly became familiar with artists like Celia Cruz and Marc Anthony—giants in the world of salsa, if you will.

This was a fun ladies’ weekend in Minneapolis, Minnesota. We went salsa dancing and spent a day at the spa…sigh.

Marc Anthony has always been my number one salsa artist!  I am inspired to dance a little harder and sing a little louder whenever any of his songs are played.  Now that I am married with two children, I don’t get to do dancing of any sort very often.  Sure, we have dance parties in our home, but it’s not quite the same.

Beau, me and Beau’s beard at the Marc Anthony concert —it was an amazing show!

You can imagine my surprise, when just two weeks ago, I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed and saw that my cousin, Susan, was selling a pair of Marc Anthony tickets she and her husband had purchased.  “Marc Anthony is going to be at the State Farm Arena (our local concert venue)?!”  I could scarce believe my eyes.  I immediately commented and asked if she, in fact, was selling these tickets.  We corresponded through text and she confirmed that she would sell the tickets to Beau and me at an even greater discounted price!  We couldn’t say no!

And we are so glad we got to experience this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  The show was phenomenal.  Marc Anthony is not a big man, but he is a big performer.  His voice is amazing, and his passion permeates every lyric that comes out of his mouth.  The horn section, pianist and violinist in his band are all world-class musicians as well.  We have been to other concerts in the past, but this one blew them all out of the water!  Go ahead and see for yourself:

 

Having access to social media sites like Pinterest and Facebook makes it incredibly easy to look up exercise and food plans.  It can also lead to us (especially as women) playing the comparison game.  After months of doing Zumba a couple of times a week, my body craved a change in routine.  I was seeing no results.  My daughter was 18 months old and I was still carrying around 8 pounds of her!  The whole, “I just had a baby!” excuse had expired long before.  When I stepped on the scale every couple of weeks, I usually saw no change in the number—or worse, an increase!  I couldn’t figure out what was going on and became incredibly frustrated!

When I would casually mention this to others, there was a few times that I was met with eye rolls.  “Yeah, Giana, you really struggle with weight issues,” they seemed to say.  At just under 5 feet tall, I am petite.   However, since the tender age of 11, I have also been curvy.  And since then, like the average woman, my weight has fluctuated.

I knew something needed to change because I wasn’t feeling good about myself and lacked energy.  My eating habits are never perfect, but my family and I do strive to eat and snack on healthy food (most of the time).  I decided towards the beginning of September that I would make up my own 30 Day Challenge.  My goal was to do something active for at least 30 minutes each day.  Using the notes app on my phone, I diligently recorded my exercise (see below).

30 Day Challenge

Day 1- 3.7 mile walk with small group

Day 2- 2.4 mile walk

Day 3- 6.3 mile bike ride

Day 4- 1 hour Zumba class with mother

Day 5- 2.4 mile walk with Laura

Day 6- 30 minutes of yard work

Day 7- no exercise

Day 8- walked 2 miles with small group

Day 9- no exercise

Day 10- no exercise- still sick

Day 11- walked 1.38 miles pushing Ceci in stroller

Day 12- 15 minutes of arm exercises

Day 13- no exercise

Day 14- 1 hour of Zumba

Day 15- walked 3.39 miles with small group

Day 16- 15 minutes of arm exercises

Day 17- 1 hour of Zumba

Day 18- no exercise

Day 19- no exercise/ still sore from Zumba

Day 20- nothin/super busy week

Day 21- walked one mile with small group

Day 22- no exercise/ day 3 of tummy trouble

Day 23- biked 5.91 miles

Day 24-no exercise/ are you kidding me?! Crazy week!

Day 25- 15 minutes of arm exercises

Day 26- nothing

Day 27-walked 1.4 miles

Day 28- nothing

Day 29- walked 4.08 miles with small group

Day 30- nothing

Exercised 18/30 days

The first 6 days, as you can see, I was highly motivated!  My mistake:  I had no real accountability.  Sure, I told my husband about what I was doing, but I didn’t share with anyone else.  At least, not in the beginning.  Later in the month, I found out that a dear friend was wanting to get in shape and needed accountability.  Texting one another helped me tremendously.

I read an article, years ago, on the success of dieting programs like Weight Watchers.  The number one factor researchers said contributed to participants losing weight was simply writing down what they ate.  I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment!  Instead, I wrote down what I did each day.  This helped to encourage me and see, at the end of the 30 days, that I spent more time being active than not.

Time.  This is often the deciding factor in whether or not something happens in my life.  While being healthy is a priority of mine, I’m not willing to sacrifice quality family time for exercise.  On average, my family and I do something active together once a week (usually a bike ride).  Thus, most of the activities I participate in happen before the children wake up, or are done with them (ex: going on walks).  The exception to this rule is Zumba; that’s my time.  My exercise routine may not always look like this, but it does during this particular season of life.

It wasn’t until I got rid of our scale and quit concerning myself so much with that number that I began to see true change.  After about 3 weeks, a few people began commenting on differences they saw in me.  “You look really good,” they would say, or, “Wow, you’ve lost weight!”  To which I would simply reply, “Thank you, I’m trying.”  While losing inches (and receiving compliments) has certainly been a plus, I was reminded that it is not where I find my worth.

Whether you are a size 00, 4, 18 or anything in between, the most attractive thing you can wear is confidence.  Knowing your beauty and your worth, regardless of what the current societal standard is.  So how do we get and maintain this positive self-image in a world that is constantly telling us we fall short?  That, my friends, is another post.