Weight Loss Wednesday

Last Thursday night we were at a local park.  Ava was running around like crazy.  I looked on with contentment, knowing that she was running herself into exhaustion so I would have no arguments on my hands when bedtime came.  She ran up to me and yelled, "I feel so free, mom!"  I smiled.  I remember when running and biking and dancing made me feel that way. 

That night before bedtime Ava said, "Mom, no more Coke.  For the next two days you can't drink any, okay?  I want you to be healthy."  I agreed, though somewhat disingenuously.  I thought food and drink are the things that I live for each day.  There's no way I'm giving my Coke up.  

The next day we decided to go to a splash park.  So we went to the grocery store and picked up some ice for the cooler and like a good girl I put in three bottled waters for us.  As we got off the freeway in Cottonwood Heights I spotted the Golden Arches up ahead.  I pulled into the drive through.  Ava says from the backseat, "Mom, what are you doing?  No Coke, remember?" 

"It's okay, Ava.  I just want one to sip on while you guys play at the park.  It's no big deal," I said.  Ava goes silent in the backseat as I order a large Coke.  While we are waiting in line she pipes up...

"No, mom!  You can't.  You said you wouldn't.  Just pull out of line!"

"Ava, I already ordered it.  I have to pay for it now."

"No you don't.  Just leave, mom.  Please!"  She started to cry.  I tried to quell the rising guilt with thoughts about how it's just a drink and not that big of a deal.  She just doesn't understand what being a mom entails.  This is how I cope with the lack of freedom, the lack of personal space, the lack of close friends and family around me.

I paid for the Coke as Ava sobbed angrily in the backseat.  I pulled out into the road and finished driving to the park.  I said to Ava, "Sweetie, I don't know why you're so upset.  It's just a drink.  It's fine."

"No, it's not fine!  I don't want you to get bigger, mom!"

"Why, Ava?  Why do you care?"

"Because I want you to be a happy mommyyyyyyyyy!" she moaned in the backseat, "And you're not happy!  You're not!"

I had no rebuttal to that, because she was right.  I'm not happy at the weight I'm at.  I hate walking into a room full of people, thinking all they see is my imperfections, thinking about the judgements they are making about me.  I don't like not being able to run around with Ava at the park because I am self-conscious and get out of breath.  I don't like never feeling good in the clothes I am wearing.  My weight makes me want to stay inside and not face people.  Heaven forbid I saw someone from high school or my hometown. 

The next day I didn't buy a Coke.  Or the next day.  Or any of the other days since.  It's time.  I'm being selfish and fooling myself into thinking that eating and drinking poorly is going to make me happy in the long run.  I use food to push away the feelings I don't want to feel.   To numb myself.  To isolate myself.  To have a reason for why my life has not turned out the way I wanted it to.  Because if I get healthy and go after the things I want, I may have to face failure.  Instead of never trying and never knowing.  Which is not much better. 

I read recently that when you overeat past the point of satiety it means you are trying to avoid feeling something about yourself and about your life that you don't want to feel.  For me this is true and it hit home.  There is so much shame and guilt and fear wrapped up in what I eat, and how much I eat, in the way my body looks and feels.  I walk in shame.  Everywhere I go I will people's eyes not to look at me.  This is not living. 

I was brought up to believe that our bodies are gifts from God.  I believe that.  And yet at an early age I felt shame.  Shame in the height of my body.  Shame in the way it developed so much earlier than other girls.  Shame in my womanly figure.  I can't remember a time of not feeling ashamed of this gift.  And so naturally as I've gained weight, shame has been my old, familiar companion.  I'm tired of feeling invisible.  I'm tired of taking zero pride in myself.  I'm tired of feeling like a failure.  I'm thirty years old and I feel as if I am twenty years older. 

I want to be able to run and run and run with my girls and to say to them..."I feel so free!" 

Worst...haircut...ever

Even Brielle knows I did something terribly, terribly wrong.  This face says it all...Really, mom?  These are the bangs you gave me.  It even looks as though she's pointing to the offending cut. 

 I don't know.  I just don't know what I was thinking, okay?

On a side note, I put on one of these stretchy headbands before doing Zumba to keep the sweat out of my eyes.  Not two minutes later my girls joined me, sporting their own sweat bands.  Ava lasted a solid ten minutes before calling it quits on Beto.  She had better things to do...like sticking masking tape on her baby sister. 

Leave it to the Professionals

 

I just cut Brielle some bangs that resemble George Mcfly's sideswept hair.  It's bad.  I was going to take a picture but the battery is dead in my camera.  It's charging as we speak.  I will post pics later.  It was a decision I'd been mulling over ever since I discovered we had hair cutting scissors in Brig's trimmer set.  Her hair is always in her eyes.  When I put it in a ponytail or try to pin it back she pulls it out.  So I got her out of the bath this morning and I thought, how hard can it be?  I set Bree in her highchair, gave her some munchies, and did a hack job on my poor sweet baby.  I wanted the sideswept bangs but I cut them a little too short.  When I showed her hair to Ava she said, "Mom, you should just leave it to the professionals."  Truer words have never been spoken.  

Never take up a pair of scissors in anger.  I learned my lesson when I was living in my in-laws basement, frustrated with life and deeply depressed I decided the logical answer was to cut off all my hair.  I mean short, short.  I peered into the mirror and started cutting my locks with dull scissors.  After five or so snips I came to my senses.  WHAAAAA! What am I doing?  Having curly hair makes it much easier to hide one's crazy misadventures with a pair of scissors.  But when I went in for a hair cut the hair dresser said..."This is really weird.  There's a bunch of different length sections back here!"  I said, "Really?" Meanwhile I was sweating bullets.  I didn't want to fess up to trying to cut my own hair and failing miserably so I kept my mouth shut while she kept holding the different lengths of hair up and ooohing and awwwing over the absolute ineptitude of my previous hairdresser.  Finally she said, "...Uh, did you cut your hair?"  I wanted to lie.  I wanted to say no, but I've never been good at it.  So instead I swallowed the giant lump in my throat and said, "Yep."  She laughed and said, "I was going to say...."  I never went back to that woman again.  #Soembarrassed  

Anyway, I had to tell someone.  My poor baby.  HELP!

My Other Self

When I was a girl growing up in a small town I would watch the airplanes overhead with longing.  The streaking white contrails from the airplane cris-crossing the blue sky like a shooting star.  Where are they going?  I'd think to myself.  Then I'd imagine lavender fields in Provence, lonely moors in England, sunbathed beaches in Italy.  I'd imagine myself on the plane, setting out for adventure.  When I opened my eyes I'd still be in my backyard, alfalfa fields rippling in the wind behind my house.  The contrails blurring and dissipating from view.   I'm meant for more.  I will not choose this small town life.  I'd vow to myself. 

There are two lavender plants just outside our door.  I opened the door this morning, groggy and sleep-muddled and the scent of lavender rushed in on the breeze.  I thought of France.  I thought of my younger self.  Romantic and sure of the beauty of my life before me.  It pained me to realize that I view life with much more cynicism, with less faith in the beauty of what life can be. 

I do not live in the small town I grew up in.  I live in a city at the base of craggy mountains.  I look for dirt roads everywhere, but they are nowhere to be found.  It is all pavement and buildings.  People and cars.  Sidewalks and street lamps.  I still harbor a desire to see different parts of the world.  But most of all I think of the small town.  Think of how simple it was to live there.  How easy silence is.  How uncomplicated a walk on a dirt road is. 

When I go back I'm struck by how different it is, and yet how it remains the same.  I feel like a guest now, instead of a native.  Home is no longer defined by a zip code, but by three people surrounding me. 

Every day we choose.  That is our blessing and that is our curse.  We choose what shape our lives will take.  I daydream that I split myself long ago.  My other self finished college, didn't get married and had no children.  My other self traveled the world.  Had love affairs with exotic men.  My other self had great personal success in a career that suited her.  In my mind she is just now settling down, satisfied with her decade of freedom, marrying a man with an accent and a lot of vowels in his last name. 

I think of the girl that might have been, mostly when I've had a rough day.  When dishes sit in the sink like beacons of failure before me.  When I clean up a spill for the fifteenth time.  When the bonds of love feel more like obligation than unbridled joy.  Somewhere that girl is laughing.  Enjoying herself.  Slave to no one. 

But on the good days, the days when my Bree snuggles into my shoulder.  When the house is bustling with the energy of the people that I love.  When I watch Ava, ever ethereal and graceful spinning about on the grass.  When my husband and I share a laugh in the evening hours after the kids are sleeping.  When I watch him watching our girls, his eyes full of amusement and pride.  It all comes back to one day, one choice I made nearly ten years ago.  With one affirmation I cut ties with the girl I might have become.  One bridge crumbled and fell into the canyon below.  I held Brigham's hand and we stepped onto another bridge, one we have made together, patched together by the choices we make every day.  On those days my other self blurs and dissipates, like fading contrails in the sky, she slips from my mind unnoticed and unreal.  

Curious and Curiouser

I get my inquiring mind from my mother. 

For fun I thought I'd share what I've been wondering about via google search...

Where can I buy Giovanni Magnetic Hair Gel?
Where does Gerard Butler live in CA?
Where to buy squeaky shoes?
Where is Revenge filmed?
When a snake eats a rodent, what happens to the bones?
When the saints go marching in meaning of lyrics?
When were needles first used in medicine?
What happens to a tree's roots when it is burned?
What to do about a wart on the bottom of my daughter's foot?
What happens if a person inhales too much Ether?
What part of England is Jamie Oliver from?
What can I do with a can of salmon?
What are prices like at Dress Barn?
What is it called when a horse breathes out loudly through it's nose?
Who came first...Bugs Bunny or Mickey Mouse?
Why aren't census records free?
Why do deaf people talk the way they do?
How long is John Carter?
How many buds on an aspen tree?
How do I pronounce Yggdrasil?
How do I permanently delete my facebook account?
How many kids does TI have with Tiny?
Does anyone live in Greenland?
Do you pay a hotel concierge?
Do foxes pant?

Let's wonder together....

Happy Birthday U.S.A.!

Not the 4th.  Just a random picture we took of Ava watching morning cartoons with her empty clothes hamper on her head, eating cereal straight outta the box.  That's how we do it when I laze in bed.  

 Brielle loves her stroller.  Since our front room doubles as a garage she likes to climb into it a lot. 

I always have holidays built up in my head.  In my mind we should we up and to the 8:30 parade and from there we just keep going with the crowds to various festivities 'til our feet and our back ache.  Keep it movin 'til you just can't take...anymore!  (Shania, anybody?  No.  Okay.)  Anyhow, my body begs to differ, as well as my low key husband who shuns crowds with the best of em. 

Our day consisted of lounging around the house until noon and then going and getting snowcones and sparklers.  Then we came home and all of us took naps.  Then I felt sorry for Ava, creating memories and all that, so I set up our second hand pool and slip n' slide and I think that was the best part of our day.  Ava kept saying, "Ah.  This is the life!" 

 Bree pretending to do the slip n' slide. 

 It was like a bowling lane.  Don't slip, Bree!

 Brig even got in on the action.

 Afterwards we played Just Dance and then got cleaned up to go the the fireworks in Holladay. 

I was chasing Brielle all around the yard trying to get her to hold still and look at the camera.  Didn't happen. 

Even Ava, the baby wrangler couldn't get her to hold still. 

 Waiting for Daddy to finish watching the Tour de France.

 Mama and Ava.

 Mama and squirming Brielle.

 Brielle testing out the Scout.

The whole crew.  We thought we were being smart, as last year we walked six blocks to Sugar House Park, because that was the closest we could get to the park, and then it took us a considerable amount of time to make it through the melee of revelers back with two kids afterwards.  So this year we went and watched the Holladay fireworks with the family of a friend who has a home right across the street from the park where they are set off.  While the company was pleasant and the view awesome, the drive home was killer.  It took us an hour to get home, and it usually takes fifteen minutes.  I don't know what we'll do next year.  That was our fourth in a nutshell.