Fat: The supreme grumpy-maker.

Tomorrow is going to be great.  Husband and I are taking a ditch-the-kids day to Disneyland to celebrate our 6th anniversary, a few days belatedly.  We get to go on the fun rides, the ones they don't let kids or pregnant ladies on (so it's been a while, you see).  There will be lines, and some heat, but that's fine enough.  Because it's about the day, about the "hey let's pretend we're 19 again and parenthood is a little discussed part of our future instead of our day to day reality" freedom of the experience.  And it'll be great.

Except for one stupidly, annoyingly, pesky little unavoidable thing.

I'm fat.

Argh, I am NOT feeling great about myself today.  I feel like a great big sack of excessive flesh.  I CAN wear a couple pairs of non-maternity jeans, but it definitely does not feel comfortable.  And the maternity pants, well, they really help emphasize the fact that I still look about 4 months pregnant.  I really don't want people to think I'm 4 months pregnant, not that I'd blame them or feel terribly offended if they assumed.

Tomorrow is going to be a nice long day outside in the sun.  A day meant for tank tops and shorts.  Cringe.  Man I wish I had clothes that were better at hiding what I don't want seen.  Or, I wish I didn't have those parts at all.

So here's hoping that tomorrow is SO good that I don't find myself thinking about my upper arms and lower abdomen.  Now that, my friends, would be a pretty incredible day.

Why today rocks, if only for pretend

I am very sleepy.  Mostly, since being a non-neglectful Mommy means that today I've mostly been awake since 4:45am.  But sleepiness aside, this morning, I decided to be awesome.  This morning, I was insanely proud of myself.  Stupidly proud, as it turns out.  Backstory time.  Diddeloo diddeloo diddeloo...

A couple weeks ago my daughter discovered a hand fan of mine, one that I purchased in Japan for about a buck.  Despite its low low purchase price, it's the fan I used while I was there, and one of the few souvenirs I brought home.  And let's be honest, it's not the easiest thing to replace.  Daughter decided that the fan made an excellent treasure map for her trip to outer space, and it quickly became her new favorite toy.   The fact that she is the coolest kid alive aside, she didn't exactly display the care for my souvenir that I might have hoped.  So this morning when she noticed it again, I came up with a brilliant plan.

I set aside my cup of coffee and super duper long to do list (Tuesdays are housecleaning days, so far today, I'm doing a TERRIBLE job) to be an awesome Mommy and and draw my daughter a real treasure map.  THis is my treasure map:

See?  I set a path, with obstacles, and an X, where the treasure surely lies.  Yarrrr.  I also folded it up, to mimic her favorite aspect of the fan.  I know it's not exactly a brilliant piece of artwork, but well, bite me.  I was proud of myself for being such a cool mom.

At this point, you may be curious why I'm holding it, instead of my daughter, since it's obviously her new coolest toy ever.  Well, that would be because of this conversation, which occurred when I handed off my brilliant creativity to my duaghter:
"Here ya go Madelyn"
"Ooooh Mommy, did you color on a treasure map?"
"Yep, it's for you!"
"Awww, good coloring Mommy, it's soooo purty!"
"... Thank you."
"Here you go Mommy, you can have it!"

::Sigh::

She's terribly polite, and terribly, TERRIBLY patronizing.  So she gave it back, and I gave her some chalk and her chalkboard so she could express her own self creatively.

UPDATE:  Later, she re-found the map and is now riding on a pillow-boat to cross the river so she and Bunny can board the space ship and head to outer space.  She was intimidated by that river for a while, didn't think she could cross it.  Good thing we found that boat.

Did I mention how much I love having kids?

And stretch... And down.... And feet together feet together ONE MORE TIME!

New life plan for awesomeness:

1-Ignore weight loss.
2-Don't stress about things.
3-Pray more.
4-Play more.
     **Side note: Toddler daughter is a whole freaking gym wrapped up in a bouncy little 30 pound package.  The gym membership is relatively cheap.  Plus, she sings.  Bet your gym doesn't sing.  This morning we're singing happy birthday to her playing cards.  The cards can't believe it's been a whole year already, but I guess time flies when you're a playing card.

Some other stuff that will be worked out later...

10-Profit.

And by profit, I obviously mean lose lots and lots of weight and look amazingly sexy.  But I assume that's obvious.

Today, I am celebrating being 15 pounds overweight.  HooRAY!!  By that, I mean I've hit 170, 20 pounds down since giving-birth day.  (Or instead, giving the gift of LIFE day.  You're very welcome, tiny humans who live in my house.)  Official records report that this took 27 days.  Great googly, I've only got 2 more weeks till the post baby doctor's appointment.  Think I can lose 10 more pounds in.... no, no.  Remember the steps. Remember the steps.

Okay, off to the aerobic circus that is a trip to the grocery store!  Whew, better stretch it out first.

Yo Vanilla, kick it to me one time, Booooyyeeeee

Last night, under safety and shroud of darkness, I did the unthinkable.  I committed the least socially acceptable act I have ever personally done, which is saying a lot from someone who is considered so generally socially unacceptable.  I know this changes a lot of things for a lot of people, but I just. Can't. Help. Myself.

Last night, I had a bowl of vanilla ice cream.  Nothing else, just plain old vanillay vanilla.

And I liked it.

Not just liked it, but REALLY liked it.  Liked it so much that I question what I've been doing pouring that syrupy chocolate crap over my awesome vanilla all of these years.  Who invented that stuff anyway (Mr. Hershey, I'm calling you out).  Not chocolate, of course.  Real chocolate is incredible and I will fight anyone who says differently in their face.  Right in their face.  I mean that bottle of liquidy baby diarrhea that every American family has stored in their fridge since the turn of the last century.  Who had the audacity to profane the name of my glorious Vanilla Ice Cream and insist that we use the sticky poo bottle to "liven it up"?!?

Well no more for me folks.  I'm liberated from the "syrup", and I fully intend to continue eating Plain Ol' (More like Plain INCREDIB-Ol') Vanilla.

Okay, my kid insists he needs attention now, but here's your PSA for the day:  Vanilla.  It'll freaking rock your face off.

And you're welcome.

Big talk. Bigger butt.

Nursing Mom has made a command decision over the last couple of days.  As of now, I am making no more Herculean efforts toward weight loss.  At least for another month or so.  I'm having a hard time focusing on weight loss and eating a sufficient amount of calories to continue feeding m' baby, and since my little boy (seen below) is one of the two cutest kids in the world (seen below), I'll choose to keep him alive, even if it keeps my pants size at a "bigger than 8" for an extra month or two.

Speaking of which, my current goal jeans, not my smallest (size 4.  Take that, Communists), but my most "pretty sure I look mega hot in these jeans" jeans, are a size 8.  And while I can put them on, and can technically attach the attachy parts, this is not a bakery, and really, no one likes muffin tops quite as much as Elaine Benes.

I really want to look hot in those jeans again, shortly before I look like I'm drowning in those jeans.  But my priorities have realigned.  My perspective has cleared up.  I weigh onehundredandseventytwo pounds.  I am 17 pounds over my healthy weight, and like, a buncha pounds (technical term) over my goal weight, and here's the truth:  I'm not upset.  No, I don't think I look terribly attractive these days.  But it's okay, because I'm not fat.  I'm just temporarily stuck in this fat suit.  Again.  I've wiggled my way out of it before, I'm sure I can do it again.  And when you look at it that way, you can actually get to a point where the jiggly image in the mirror causes more amusement than deep and abiding depression.

 So yeah.  I'll keep working out, I wanna start "running" (more hypothetical than technical I'm sure) again soon, but I'm not going to be a diet Nazi.  I'll lose the weight soon, but in the meantime, my my my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard!

Yep, these are the two cutest, most amazing kids ever.  With a hat.  This house is getting very theatrical.  Hollywood, well, just watch out.

COFFEECOFFEECOFFEECOFFEECOFFEECOFFEE

Sleepy, by the way, has other side effects too.  Aside from the uncontrollable weeping, that is.  Sleepy is a terrifyingly sadistic Serial Diet Murderer.  When I wake up sleepy, I wake up ravenous.  Specifically, ravenous for comfort-y food.  Ravenous for ice cream instead of breakfast.  I wake up sleepy and want to shoot my diet out of the sky and watch it go down in a blaze of chocolate covered glory.  With whipped cream.  And chocolate chip cookies.  If the cops ask, Sleepy made me do it.

Also, I may have dreamt (dreamed?  I can't decide which is right here and I'd rather type this sentence than search Google for the answer like a real grown up human) about chocolate chip cookies last night.  It's hard to tell what's real and what's a dream, because I'm so sleepy.

I really am super stinking proud to say that I have not had ice cream for breakfast... yet.  Okay, not "not" as in "not ever in my life", more like, "not lately".  Like, not in the past weeks or months and maybe years, though that might be a lie.  And maybe sometimes I don't call it breakfast, I call it breakfast dessert, and maybe that should be a legitimate meal, if you think about it.  I apologize, I digress; the point is I have not indulged ridiculously in the mornings, and for one very specific reason:  COFFEE (was that not clear?).  That black cup of morning goodness that gives me just enough pep to keep me on my feet and my eyelids in an upright and locked position without leaving me spastic and paranoid.  Also, keeps ya regular.  It's like a miracle food.

God bless safe, legal drugs.  Because he most definitely had this mommy in mind when he created that incredible little bean.

Postnatal Depression FTW!!

Just so we're clear, I'm not depressed.  Don't let the Cherokee worthy Trail of Tears I'm leaving behind fool you.  I. am not. depressed.

I'm ridiculously sleepy, and that's totally different.

And in point of fact, I haven't cried at all in like, 3 days.  So booyah.

Also, I've been depressed before, so I very much know what I'm talking about.  The last significant time being early on in my first pregnancy, when the crazy part of me was convinced that I was a scourge on society, the world in general and more specifically my family, and that, say, dying during childbirth and leaving my family a handsome life insurance policy would be the best thing for everyone involved.   And then the less crazy part of me said, "Lady, you're depressed.  Have a cry, take a nap, and getoveryourself."  *Lucky* for me, it was the year 2009 and you really have to go out of your way to die during childbirth in 2009.

Side note: The best part about having a post graduate psychology degree in psychology and experience as both therapist and thera...pee?  is being able to call out your own crazy.  I am, if nothing else, a bona fide expert at calling myself a lunatic.

But the point is, these days I'm not, NOT depressed.  That being said, absolutely everything makes me cry.  I definitely blame my children, as they have very obviously broken me.

Example 1:  Stupid folksy music.
My husband and his family love Peter Paul and Mary.  Personally, I think this is a poor life choice, as they are a bunch of corn-dog hippies with semi-ridiculous music.  Years ago, my father-in-law tried to convince me how incredible they were by presenting the song "Danny's Downs".  It's the story of how a set of parents find out their newborn has Downs Syndrome and choose to NOT kill him (wow, you didn't kill your baby... do you want a medal?!?)  It includes the incredible line, "Danny's Downs, but love is up".  Brilliant, right?  I spent a good amount of time explaining to my well intentioned in-laws how incredibly stupid this song was.  And rightly so.  Because it's stupid.

Only now, this song makes me cry.  No, this song makes me weep uncontrollably.  Because it also has a sagely old Jamaican woman telling the parents to take their baby home with them because "God's gifts are only good, you know".  It also talks about Danny riding his own bus home and carrying his little lunch box, and good heaven's, I can't handle it.  The crying comes and won't stop ever.

Example 2: Poop.
On Mother's Day, my husband was working at church, and I stayed home with the kids, as all 4 of us were actually quite sick.  With a cold.  No excuse for all the poop.  Just the same, my potty training toddler and my vicious little newborn chose to spend the whole morning cranky and yelling and pooping on everything, myself included.  I don't even know where all the poop came from, they seem far too small to hold so much smelly demon inside, but there you have it.  It truly was a Mother's Day, or more appropriately, a Mother's Trial By Fire Day.  I'll bet other people got flowers, or taken out to lunch, right?  Psh. Amateurs.  What does THAT have to do with being a mother?

Anyway, I was exhausted and sick with very few coping skills.  So I just cried.  All morning.  I leaked a steady stream from the face while I changed diapers and scrubbed every surface in the bathroom as well as some of the carpet.  Because my tear ducts are my only pressure release valve, and some days I need a pressure release valve.  You know.  Cuz of the poop.

So there you have it.  NOT depressed.  Now I'm going to go hang out with my kids because at the moment, this very very strange moment, everyone is awake, and no one is crying and no one is pooping.  Not letting this one get away from me.

Happy day y'all!!