A Weighty Issue

I questioned whether to even publish this post. It seems whiny and self-indulgent. But, for the sake of the honesty and transparency I committed myself to when I started this blog, here it goes.

I’ve gained 40 pounds since my wedding. Twenty pounds with each child. With my first child I really thought that I needed to eat ice cream and Taco Bell each day. So I did. I once made my husband cross 3 lanes of traffic to get to Taco Bell so I could have a 7-Layer Burrito.

By the time my body fully recovered from that first pregnancy, I gained twenty pounds.

Ashamed of my gluttony during my first pregnancy, I resolved to eat better the second time around. For the first twenty weeks I did great. I threw up everything I ate and lost 10 pounds. And although I was put on limited activity for my entire third trimester, my weight gain was very healthy.

I still gained twenty pounds.

God Bless Husband, who truly believes I’ve only become more beautiful.

I’ve been in denial about my weight gain. I reasoned that since I can button up my pants (regardless of the blubber spilling over), that I’m doing ok. I reasoned that since I’ve got an hourglass figure, I look voluptuous, not fat. I simply stopped picturing what I looked like from the shoulders down, preferring to imagine what I used to look like.

I don’t look voluptuous. I’m not big boned and I’m not tall. I’ve got to much fat on a frame not sized to hold it all. I look out-of-shape. I look slovenly. I looked up my BMI and I’m well into the overweight range.

Is this what people think whenever they look at me?

I can’t keep denying this. It’s so easy to ignore the truth.

I was a skinny child. Not just little, skinny. I was a slender young adult. I never had to worry about my weight. I ate reasonably, indulged when I wanted, stayed moderately active, and everything was fine.

Not so much anymore. I still eat reasonably, and only indulge occasionally, but even so, I’m always hungry. Despite eating three healthy meals a day, I’m ravenous by 8 pm, and need a substantial snack (like a bowl of cereal) to feel full enough to sleep.

Just chasing and hauling my two kids around our 2-story home all day isn’t enough. I haven’t exercised regularly since 2007. Working bizarre hours at a full-time job and taking care of two babies drained me of time and energy.

And I’m tired of this. I’m tired of hating my appearance. I’m tired of feeling old and worn out.

So yesterday I joined a gym.

It is less than 10 minutes from my house. It has free childcare.

I’m excited to get going. Just because I haven’t been doing it doesn’t mean I don’t like exercise. It’s incredibly good for my mental health. Sweat and stress seem to drain from my body; I feel physically and mentally detoxified.

But I can’t seem to defend myself against the critic inside that says “You’re fat and there’s nothing you can do about it.” It’s the same critic that silenced me all my life - “If you aren’t naturally wonderful at this, you are a failure and there’s nothing that can be done to exonerate you for this.”

I know I will never look like I did pre-pregnancy. But I’m hoping to at least love myself the way I look now.

Why Lifting Weights Is The Source Of My Everlasting Shame

I sucked at gym class.

Maybe it was because it wasn’t until I was 18 that some one finally told me in order to catch a ball I actually had to be looking at it, rather than holding my hands hopefully out in the air, while cringing in the other direction with my eyes squeezed shut.

Maybe it was because even after a 6 week course and the personal assistance of 3 individual gym teachers, I still couldn’t bowl over a 37.

Maybe it was because I could never remember which direction to run in basketball, or baseball, or soccer, and because I could never figure out why someone would want to put their body between the floor and a volleyball hurtling towards them like a death-sphere.

But maybe, just maybe, it was because of this...

My high school had a football team. That means we had a special room full of weights and cardiovascular equipment. That also meant we didn’t have textbooks that knew of the Korean War or sometimes even classrooms with real walls.

And thanks to this weight room, we had to do circuit training.

Now before I can go further, I must explain that I have eczema. Horrible ugly itchy eczema that I’d itch until it bled. Seriously, bleeding was better than the itchiness.

One day the class was doing circuit training and I was doing “circuit training” (i.e. sitting on the equipment and trying to look like I knew what I was doing.) At some point I had absentmindedly scratched at my leg, and unknowingly left a small drop of blood on the seat of some bench-pressing-torture-device contraption.

Gym Teacher noticed and FLIPPED OUT, screaming about how dirty and filthy this was and how this is how people get HIV/AIDS and maybe even ebola or monkey pox or dysentery. WHO KNEW? Meanwhile I tried to harness my powers of invisibility.

Just as I could feel my molecules becoming noticeably more opaque, one boy, who I’ve known ever since kindergarten and was kind of a bad ass in a scrawny fifteen-year-old boy sort of way, looked straight at me and silently mouthed with a smirk, “I KNOW IT WAS YOU-OU!”

Except to me it sounded more like this:



Now, I know Gym Teacher was right - blood is gross. But to my defense, we weren’t given time to properly wipe down the equipment in-between circuits.

Yeah, gym class sucked.

Tricks of the Trade - Now With A Free Sample Of Humility

My new best friend is a carpet Shark.

No, not this:



Or this:


Or this:


This:



I learned of this brilliant invention when I was at my sister’s house one day for lunch. After the Babies finished their meal, she nonchalantly pulled out one of these beauties and effortlessly started sweeping up mac ‘n cheese, Cheerios, and other assorted crumbs. (I swear, I’m not being paid to write this. Really.)

“OH MY GOD!” I exclaimed. “What is that wonderful thing?”

“A carpet shark,” she said. “Don’t you have one?”

Ummm...NO.

She got me a Shark as a housewarming gift. It’s been my constant companion ever since.

Honestly, before we had kids Husband and I were child-rearing snobs. My child will never eat frozen chicken nuggets. My child will never watch DVD’s in the car. Fruit cocktail is not a fruit.

But with each passing month, we learned how judgmental we were, how ridiculous we were behaving. There is a place in the world for chicken nuggets and fruit cocktail. It’s ok to keep Dora on an endless loop during a 10-hour car ride if it means we reach our destination intact.

It is incredibly difficult to admit I was wrong.

We, all us parents, are just trying to get along one day at a time.

Sometimes there is no right or wrong, just what’s right for your family at this moment.

So is there anything out there, besides experience and self-reflection, that will make me realize when I’m being a judgmental idiot? Maybe something like a unicorn that pokes me in the backside when I do wrong, but snorts glitter and rainbows out of its nose when I do right?

Because that would be awesome.

The Stuff Of Ridiculous Nightmares

In honor of Halloween, I’d like to recap my history with Scary Things:

Scary Thing #1: Horror Movies

My first exposure to horror movies was at Best Friend’s house. It was the mid-1980’s, and Nightmare On Elm Street, Friday The 13th, and all their kith and kin were crazy popular.

Now, Best Friend had a brother who LOVED slasher flicks, and regularly watched them on VHS.

Welcome to the world of tomorrow!

During one of our many sleepovers Best Friend and I somehow ended up watching Friday The 13th.

This will be good for the 7-year-old

Now, being only 7, I’m not sure I really understood what was going on. Keep in mind, this was also the age that I kept having nightmares about evil giraffes (no, really). I wasn’t particularly frightened by the movie. I WAS frightened by Best Friend’s Brother who would spend all sleepovers for the next year whispering “ch-ch-ch-ch ha-ha-ha-ha” leading Best friend and I to believed we’d be hacked to bits any moment from now.

Scary Thing #2: Spiders

We’ve already covered spiders. Moving on...

Scary Thing #3: Dolls

I loved dolls as a kid. LOVED them. Had a million. And then I saw this movie:

It’s Like "Child’s Play," But For Girls

For whatever reason, this movie is the sole reason that, to this day, I’m a little freaked out by porcelain dolls. Or dolls with buttons for eyes. Or dolls that come to life and murder you in your sleep.

Can We Be Your Friend?

Scary Thing #4: Scary Stories

No, the ultimate Scary Thing for me was the series Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark.

This looks appropriate for a 9-year old (No, really.)

These books scared the crap out of me. Which raises a couple questions:

1) Why did I continue to read them time and time again, even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep all night?

2) It’s a series of like, 3 or 4. Why did I continue to purchase subsequent books when the first one made me wet my pants?

I guess when I was 9 I liked being a slightly damp insomniac who spent the evening formulating plans to avoid spiders and murder dolls. Or something.

Hmmm...Jason...spiders....murder dolls. Well, I’ll sleep good tonight.

Follow up: Wrote this post late Sunday night. Went to bed. Promptly had nightmare. Excellent.

Crazy = Wonderful

October 2006 through October 2007 will forever go down as the year I went crazy.

Now, I don’t use the word “crazy” lightly. But the time line of what happened in those months is as follows:

October 21, 2006: Husband and I got married

Two weeks later: Husband and I find out his graduate advisor is moving from the University of Minnesota to The Ohio State University, and we must move as well.

January 1, 2007: We move from St. Paul, MN to Columbus, OH.

One week later: I start my final semester of law school at an entirely new law school, and Husband resumes his graduate work at an entirely new university.

One week later: I find out SURPRISE! I’m pregnant.

February 2007 - March 2007: I throw up every time I smell coffee, which, at law school, means every day.

May 2007: I graduate law school, and start hunting for a job to support myself, Husband, and the expectant baby.

Two months later: I obtain a job (WHEW!)

Mid-July: I begin said job.

October 16, 2007: Toddler is born.

I think the only thing that could’ve made that year more stressful would be the death of a family member (and I truly thank God I didn’t have to go through that.)

Strangely enough, that year didn’t do a ton to add to my bipolar depression. The postpartum hormones did. And it made Husband and I grow so much closer, because we had no one to depend on except each other. And it brought us the most precious surprise ever, Toddler.

So, was it stressful? Yes.

Was it full of uncertainty? Yes.

Was it lonely? Yes.

Was it wonderful? Yes.

Spiders Are Evil

Spiders are evil.

I first addressed this theory when I was five or so. My older sister and I were playing on the floor at Grandma’s house. She looked at me and said, rather calmly, “There’s a spider on your leg.”

“Nuh-UH!” I replied. I figured she was just trying to scare me.

“No, there is! There’s a spider on your leg.”

“Nuh-UH!”

“Really, there’s a spider on your leg!”

“Nuh-UH!”

Then I turned and looked at my leg, and there was a spider on it. It looked like this:

I know where you live...

I think I must have blacked out or something, because the next thing I knew I was in my Grandma’s arms screaming bloody murder. She tried to reassure me, but what did she know? That spider was out for blood.

Based on this encounter I staunchly avoided all arachnids until second grade. That’s when I found out my friend Sarah LOVED spiders. One autumn day we came across a spider web with a large, but colorful, spider in it.

“LOOK AT THAT PRETTY SPIDER!” Sarah gushed. “Let’s name it ‘Beauty’ and catch grasshoppers for it to eat!”

I was onboard with this plan, as it meant I had an excuse to run far, far away from the spiderweb. All autumn we caught grasshoppers and moths and placed them in the vicinity of Beauty’s web. I slowly developed a cordial relationship with my spider friend. Perhaps some sort of reconciliation could be made

Can I be your friend?

Eventually we were forced inside by sub-zero temperatures. We waited anxiously all winter for the snow to melt, so we could reunite with Beauty. Alas, when that glorious day came, Beauty was nowhere to be found. The peace negotiations came to an abrupt end; I still hated spiders.

My third proof that spiders were not the harmless helpful creatures they claim to be came when I was 13. My parents left my sister and I at home alone one night while they went out with friends. Late in the evening, I wandered into the back of the house to use the bathroom when I saw a giant black spider right next to the bathroom door. It looked like this:

I'm baaaaack...

My sister and I ran around in a state of panic screaming, “WHAT DO WE DO???? WHAT DO WE DO??? Finally, we collected ourselves and formulated a plan.

My sister took a large plastic cup and placed it over the spider. I then used masking tape to quickly secure the cup to the carpet. The spider was now sealed in an impenetrable chamber, imprisoned until Mom and Dad got home.

It was the logical thing to do.

When Mom and Dad got home, we showed them our spider holding cell. But, like the doomed opening of Al Capone’s vault, when Dad removed the masking tape and lifted the cup, the spider was gone.

It’s still out there looking for me.

But now I have a problem (other than my irrational fear of spiders). I stay at home with the children. Sometimes there are spiders around, and since I’m the adult (or at least the oldest), it is up to me to do something about these trespassing arachnids.

Screaming isn’t appropriate - I don’t want to frighten my children.

Touching the spider isn’t appropriate - I might die, and then who will make dinner, WHO?

Lifting the spider into a container to take it outside isn’t appropriate - I’m a klutz, and the spider would probably end up falling in my mouth, where it would get all urban-legendy and lay eggs that would hatch in my sleep and I’d find thousands of tiny spiders crawling all over me. And we can’t have THAT, can we?

No, the only thing I can do is politely greet the spider, and then ... avoid it. Which maybe is what I should’ve been doing all along.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Toddler turned three last Saturday. We haven’t told her yet. Her party isn’t until Sunday, and if we told her last Saturday, the conversation would go like this:

“Happy Birthday, honey! You are 3 years old today!”

“I’m 3! It’s my birthday! Now I get presents, and balloons, and cake, and every one hides and yells ‘Surprise’!”

“Actually honey, your party isn’t until next week Sunday. Your party is next week.”

“WHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!”

(Sunday) “Is it my party yet?”

“No.”

(Monday) “Is it my party yet?”

“No.”

(Tuesday) “Is it my party yet?”

“No.”

(Wednesday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Thursday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Friday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Saturday) "Is it my party yet?"

"No."

(Sunday) "Is it my party yet?"

"Yes! Happy Birthday!"

"I’m 4!"

Long story short, she’s 3 now, and is no longer a Toddler.

Crap, now what do I call her on my blog?

When I started my blog, except for myself, I always changed the names of any one I referenced, unless I had their express permission to use their real name. Privacy issues, and all.

Because I couldn’t gain their express permission to use their real names, and because it helped readers understand how old my children were, I referred to them as “Baby” and “Toddler.”

Except I forgot that kids grow up. Now Toddler has to be referred to as “Preschooler” (even though she doesn’t attend preschool yet) or “3-year-old” (which is kind of a mouthful). Also, if one reads my earlier posts, will they realize the child now referred to as “Preschooler” was once referred to as “Toddler” and the child now referred to as “Toddler” was once referred to as “Baby”?

Arrrgg.

I could just use their real names, but then there’s no way to know how old they are unless I say “X, who is 3,” which annoys me for some reason. Some sort of executive decision needs to be made.

So, from here on out, I will refer to Toddler as Preschooler. Baby will remain Baby until she turns 18 months, and then she will be referred to as Toddler. All others will have aliases unless they grant me permission to use their real name.

I, of course, will always be referred to by my real name. As author of this blog, I believe readers deserve to know who I am.

Now, I must be off. Preschooler has removed the ham from her sandwich and is shouting “Hooray, hooray!!” while she waves the ham around like a flag.