January 2007


Remind me to check my facts before I start my journalistic career.

Fact #1: I weighed 136 pounds on my bathroom scale the week after my baby girl was born.

Fact#2: I weighed 154 pounds on my bathroom scale yesterday.

Fact #3:(this is the one that I slipped up on) At some point between the birth of my daughter and yesterday, someone, and I’m not naming names (I’m almost positive it was my makulit little 2-year-old boy) changed the calibration of my bathroom scale to start at 10 instead of 0.

Please don’t call me an idiot to my face. Say what you want behind my back, though. I deserve it. I know I shouldn’t be so wrapped up in body image. I had thought I had it all under control, back before I got pregnant the 3rd time. I thought I had such a progressive view: “I don’t need to be a certain weight or size, as long as I’m healthy and feel good.” Then I gained some weight and girth, and suddenly I feel like nobody should like me, like my husband will want to leave me, like I can’t be seen in public. I realize now that the reason I felt fine about my image back then was because I was skinny, healthy, and I could run 10 or 12 miles whenever I wanted. The running part is more of a bragging rights sort of thing, but you can’t deny that a person who can run 10 miles nonstop has got to be in some sort of good shape.

So the point is that I still care too much about weight, and that my self-worth is tied up in this. I know this sort of behavior is passed on to children, so I hope I can cure myself before my kids start caring about their appearance. And I don’t mean whether to wear the Superman socks or paint the toenails pink.

After stepping on the scale this morning and realizing, to my horror, that I’ve been reading it wrong for the past, well, I don’t know how long, I am now fully motivated to start practicing moderation in all things. I guess after 9 months of deprivation and feeling crappy, and not gaining any weight during the pregnancy, I felt I deserved a little slack in the eating area. That, along with the fact that I’m no longer running 20 miles a week, has caused me to gain a little weight in the 3 months since my little Sunshine was born. I have gained more weight than she has. By a factor of 3. Oh, My.

Just don’t call me an idiot to my face. I read the scale wrong by TEN FREAKING POUNDS!!! So I’ve gained twice as much as I thought. No wonder I feel so weird! It’s almost a relief. Almost, I say. Now I might really go over the deep end, but at least I know why.

I have this little orphan living in my chest. It’s sort of a burning ball of tangled and unexplained anxiety that sits just above my heart. Sometimes it moves to my belly and cries. Sometimes it reaches out with its tentacles and grabs me behind the eyes, and causes half-awake delirium. There are a few things that pacify my little friend: huge, major distractions, like a week-long family reunion at a cabin in the mountains with no chance of escape, or eating constantly anything that falls into my view, or that I know is lurking somewhere on the horizon or behind the cupboard doors. Even Kryptonite cupboards would not have spared the innocent box of granola, or the frolicking tortilla chips. Let alone that giant 10-pound bag of chocolate chips that I thought was such a good idea, back when I couldn’t eat anything that wouldn’t resurface 10-15 minutes later in a transmogrified state.

So here I am. Too big for my britches. What do I do?

This is the default title for my first blog and I like it. I am in limbo between the world and the grime on my living room floor, and I have needed the world for a long time. I intend to fill my own void by verbalizing the ideas that bring me hope, that get me to the end of the day in one piece. Hope is the only way I can survive. I hope I can teach my kids to be nice. I hope I can learn to be nice. I hope I can have a clean house sometime in the future. Or at least a clean room. I hope I can run 6 miles at a time by June. I hope I can keep my brain from turning to mush before my kids start needing help with their math homework. I hope I can overcome my snobberies. Oh, I could go on.

Oh, wait. I will go on. Yay! Now I have a home for my hopes. Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait!

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