Making peace with you, learning to love you is harder than I imagined it would be.
You gave me my beautiful children, my three beautiful children. It should be easy to love you for that reason alone. I do love you for that. I do.
But, my God, I hate you too.
I hate you because I am a slave to you. I hate you because there are so many things in life I’ve not been able to do because of the fears and insecurities I have about you.
Your sagging breasts embarrass me.
Your gaping hole of a belly button repulses me.
Your stretch marks humiliate me.
Your loose, hanging skin infuriates me.
The excess fat that you continue to hold onto so tightly angers me.
My husband loves you. He desires you. He thinks you’re beautiful. Sexy, even. I don’t understand how he can feel that way. I truly do not.
I want to feel the way he does about you. I want to love you. I want to love looking at you, or at the very least, not want to puke when I look at you.

It’s hard to look at you without crying. Especially when I compare you to other, beautiful bodies. Or to the way you used to look.
You used to be so beautiful.
I know it’s not fair to compare you to other women, or to your young self. But it’s hard not to. Everywhere I look, I’m bombarded with images of bodies that look nothing like you. It’s hard not to feel like a freak of nature when all of the images I see look so completely different than you. I once saw images that looked similar to you. It was a campaign for “real beauty” and I cried with joy and suddenly didn’t feel like such a freak. But then? I heard people talking about how ugly those bodies looked and how they were repulsed by what they had seen, and how those women had NO business taking pictures in their underwear because no one wanted to see all of that and suddenly, my tears of joy turned once again to tears of shame and hatred towards you.
I’ve become more comfortable with “The Clothed You.” I would have NEVER taken Aerobic Dance Class in the past because I would have been too ashamed and self conscience of my Lumpy Ass, or the Jiggly Arms. But after having shed a few pounds, I have learned to accept my Clothed Self.
But when the clothes come off, HATE HATE HATE what I see.
I’m tired of hating you, of fighting with you, of wishing you were different. So very tired of wasting all of my energy in that way.
I just wanted you to know that I don’t want to hate you or be ashamed of you anymore, I’m just completely lost as to how to NOT feel this way anymore.
But I’m working on it. Be patient with me.
(I wrote this at 1am this morning. I’ve debated if I should post it or not because people get so damn angry at me when I write about my body, but if I let Angry People stop me from writing what I want to write, than I might as well shut this blog down because that’s DUMB to censor myself based on what people will think.)

Look at me. Trying to be sexy with my saggy boobs. God. I remember when my boobs used to be “Up Where They Belong.” Now, they don’t even START until about “mid waist”. Awesome.
My relationship with my body is a complicated one. It’s one that few people understand.
Learning to love and accept my “after 3 kids and a huge weight loss” body isn’t easy. There’s not very much to love about it. Infact? I can’t think of ONE reason to love it. Sad.
But I can think of so many reasons that I hate it. I could go on for hours.
Sagging boobs.
Loose skin.
Stretch marks. (Everywhere)
Jacked up belly button.
Veiny legs.
Hanging belly.
I have spent a great deal of time crying about the state of my body. I’ve spent a great deal of time wishing I had taken better care of it.
It’s affected me in many areas of my life and the hatred and shame I associate with it has prevented me from doing many things in my life.
Things like taking a shower with my husband (who begs me on a regular basis to do so), get massages (I have to get naked? Pass.), going to the beach with friends (Shorts? Tank tops? SWIMSUITS? Pass.). The list goes on and on.
I’ve gotten much better about not letting my body hatred keep me from enjoying life, but there are still times where I feel completely uncomfortable and unable to enjoy life because of how I feel about my body.
Even in Aerobic dance class! (ha! ha! HA! You thought, “Finally, a post where she doesn’t bring up Aerobic Dancing!”) There are certain moves that I hold back on because I know if I shake TOO hard, thighs will start slapping together and ass cheeks will shake furiously, building into a tidal wave effect that could quite possibly knock the Old Hag behind me out cold. So, I hold back (and wear a sweat shirt around my waist, to minimize the Tidal Wave Effect.)
I’ve been having long, deep conversations with my body recently. I don’t want to hate it anymore. I want to appreciate it, I want to accept it. It is what it is, you know? I can’t go back in time and change it. (Well, technically, I can, you know, through a little thing called “plastic surgery” but a) I can’t afford it b) I’m too chicken shit of needles and of things like BLEEDING TO DEATH FROM A BOTCHED TUMMY TUCK, Bonus: Have you SEEN Carol Burnett’s face? :shudders:)
I feel as though I’m on the road to making peace with my body. I know I’ll never like the way that it looks. I know I’ll always feel insecure and ugly when I see a woman with a beautiful body, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life hating myself because of the body I live in.
While I don’t think I could ever say things like “Goodmorning, oh very large, sagging breasts! How do I love you? Let me count the ways!” or “Hello, oh gapping hole of a belly button, it’s SO GOOD to see you!”
However, I do feel like I can make peace with my body. Like I can come to terms with the way it looks, the way it feels and be “ok” with it. I may never love it, but maybe, just maybe, I can learn to appreciate it.
Remember how I told you that I couldn’t think of ONE reason to love my body? As I wrote this post, I was able to come up with three reasons.
Andrew, Ethan and Gabriella.
How can I hate the very thing that gave me those beautiful children?

Life is short. And I’ve wasted enough time in my life hating my body.
For the first time in many, many years, maybe even in my entire life, I am starting to feel comfortable in my skin.
It’s a choice I’ve made. It doesn’t come naturally to me to love this body, especially since it’s so torn up.
Saggy breasts, hanging skin, stretched out belly button, stretchmarks, cellulite, fat everywhere.
There’s not much to love about it and I’ve spent a great deal of time being horribly ashamed of it.
I have avoided people and places because of it, I’ve made excuses why I can’t go here or there because of this shame.
I’ve worked very hard to try to improve this body. I want it to be healthy, to be in shape and to last me a very long time. And that wasn’t going to happen by hating it and not taking care of it.
Enough is enough, I said to myself and I kicked things up a notch. I started going to the gym 5 nights a week. I would have much rather stayed home, sat on the couch and watched TV with my family. Infact? Sometimes? I cry when I have to leave. I cry and I cuss about how much I hate having to work out when there are skinny bitches out there who can eat whatever they want and not get fat like me! I hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
I told myself I didn’t have to like it, that it was ok to hate it, but it had to get done. I had to go to the gym, even when I didn’t feel like it and that one day, it would pay off and that it would all be worth it.
Pounds started to fall off, clothes started to get bigger, inches were disappearing.
Then, the compliments started coming.
“You look great! What are you doing?”
“Are you losing weight?”
My Mother in law called me sexy. SEXY!
I can honestly say, the payoff has finally arrived and the payoff is this.
I no longer feel “Shame.”
Infact? I actually feel proud of myself.
Is my body where I want it to be? No. I’m still overweight. There are still things I hate about it, there are things I will always hate about it, but, I am not ashamed of it.
I’ve worked so damn hard to get where I am at and I am allowing myself to take pride in my accomplishments. I don’t usually allow myself to do that, because, I don’t feel I have much to be proud of. But, you know what? I could have very easily not done anything about my weight because DAMN IT, it is overwhelming and it’s hard to imagine ever getting to where you want to be when you’re over 200 pounds. I felt hopeless and unable to do it. I would find myself so envious of people who were losing weight. I didn’t think I had it in me to do what they had done.
If there is anyone out there who feels that way, let me tell you, I know how that feels. Oh my God, I know. I remember feeling like throwing up at the thought of going to the gym because I was so out of shape and Oh! How The Fit people would laugh at me. Then, I realized that it wasn’t ABOUT ANYONE ELSE BUT MYSELF.
I had to stop caring about what I loooked like at the gym. It didn’t matter, I was there for my health, and that wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.
I finally, FINALLY realized that I was worth the effort.
Now, I find myself taking dance class 3 times a week. Me! In dance class. I’ll never forget the first time I took it. It happened by accident that I ended up in that class, and when the instructor said “Tonight, I teach hip hop” I headed for the door. Hell to the no on THAT. But there was a lady there who convinced me to stay. “It’s fun! And who cares if you mess up? Just relax and enjoy it.”
“But! I have no rhythm! And my ass! It will shake! And my boobs, dear GOD, my boobs!”
Then, I took a deep breath and said to myself “You’re here to burn calories and lose weight, not to be a dancer. JUST DO IT.”
Now, I go every week, three times and just last week, the instructor pulled me and my cousin aside and said “You two are the best students I have. I can’t explain it, but having you in my class is a joy, you make me very happy.”
Yeah. I cried and let me tell you why. In the past, I wouldn’t have even tried it for fear of looking stupid, or messing up, or thinking I couldn’t do it because I was fat and I suck. But, I didn’t give into that negativity and I just freaking did it. Now, I love it and it shows, because my dance makes people happy.
Ha! Ha! Haaaaaaaa!
I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore, but I know I’m getting more excited as I type and I want to tell every person out there who wants to lose weight but is feeling hopeless to please, PLEASE, stop listening to the lies that you can’t do it, or that you’re not worth it, or that you can never reach your goal.
You can and you will, you just have to decide that you’re worth it.
Who do I think I am? A motivational speaker or something? God.
The Cheese. It lives.

Because I do not have time to write ,because I have a daughter whose idea of a “Good Time” is running on the sofa, falling off and almost breaking her neck… twice, ruining the 4 videos I’ve taken of her by ripping the tape to shreds, pooping, dumping my SORTED COUPONS all over the house, taking laundry out of drawers and so and and so forth, I “give you” my most recent weight loss progress picture…

I know, I know. Annoying, but the truth is, I’m proud of my progress (I’d like it noted in “the record” that I said something positive about myself.). And, again, I can’t actually write anything because my daughter is TEARING MY HOUSE APART.
However, if you want to read something that will make you laugh so hard you’ll cry a little, and that is not about my ass, please, go! read THIS.
“She’s practically bionic. She just doesn’t know it“.
Genuis, I tell you. I think I love him more than I love meatloaf.
And that’s like, a lot.

Yesterday I had a mini melt down at my weight watchers meeting.
I went fully expecting to lose at LEAST 5 pounds. (because, it’s been 2 weeks since my last weigh in and I had weighed myself at home the previous Monday and MY scale said I had lost 3 since the last weigh in, so, I was expecting at LEAST 2 more pounds, to make the 2 week total FIVE pounds which I realize is confusing but pretend like you’re following along because I’m too tired and FREAKED OUT to try to figure out a way to say it so that it makes more sense) I step on the scale and WW lady goes “You lost! 2.2 pounds!” And, I said “What the HELL?” And she said “Excuse me?” And I said “I’m pissed. I’ve been working MY ASS of 5 nights a week at the gym, sticking to my points (no cheating whatsoever) and ONLY 2.2 FREAKING POUNDS IN 2 WEEKS?” And she said “Well, that’s right on target, you’re supposed to lose 1-2 a week blahblahblah” And I said “I’m still pissed off.” And so, she said “Well, you can talk to the leader if you’re that upset, maybe she can help you.”
So, I walked up to the leader. “How are things going?” She asked. “Not good” I replied. “I’ve been working out for 2 hours a night 5 days a week, sticking to my points, drinking all of my water (which is TORTURE FOR ME, PEOPLE I HATE WATER.) And I only lost 2.2. I wanted more, I expected more and I’m disappointed.”
“You are right where you need to be, you’re doing great. blahblahblah.”
And then she gave me some speech about how I am expecting too much too soon and then she said “You tend to be hard on yourself, don’t you? You like to beat yourself up, don’t you?”
“Um… that’s what people tell me.”
“Yeah, I can tell. And I don’t even know you.”
She’s right. I am too hard on myself and I promised her I’d change my way of thinking and that I wouldn’t give up because I realize that the weight IS coming off, even if it’s not as fast as I’d like it to come off.
The entire way home, I cried, which, I realize is stupid because AS LEAST I’M LOSING, but I felt overwhemled. I have come so far, but I still have a long way to go and the thought of how much work I still have ahead of me makes me want to puke. I hate that my evenings have to be spent in the stupid gym, sweating and looking like a jackass trying to do such things as THE RIVERDANCE and weight machines without ripping farts because apparently? Weights give me gas.
I hate that EVERY MORSEL OF FOOD that goes into my mouth has to be accounted for and written down.
I was still pissed off when I got home and ready to say “Screw it! I give up! I’m done, over it, The Fat Wins!”
But I had this really great idea to pull out some old clothes, put them on and get a little perspective of how far I’ve come, regardless of what the damn scale says.
Man, that was the greatest idea I’ve had in a long time.
Remember this picture from Gabby’s birthday party in August?

Ah, the Spare Tire. Lovely.
Well, here I am in that same outfit this morning.

The Spire Tire is still there, but LOOK! It has shrunk!
And the clothes? Theyare baggy.
It felt so good to realize that, hey, yeah, the pounds may be slow in falling off, but the all of the hard work I am putting in is paying off, it IS showing and so, I will keep going, even if it is FRUSTRATING AS HELL.
Because, I will not let The Fat win. VICTORY WILL BE MINE, OH LUMPY THIGHS!

(I am dork! Hear me roar! D-O-R-K)
(p.s. I’m thoroughly enjoying your voice mails. Keep them coming! 206-202-1345)

Two weeks ago, I threw one of the Greatest Tantrums Ever.
I had been running every day. RUNNING, people. I hate to run. I despise to run. Always have. And I hate it more now then I have ever have in my life because I am 190 pounds and I’m pretty sure more than half of that 190 is boob and ass weight and boobs and ass HURT when you run. But I was like “Screw it, I’m going to run! Because I want to be thin and healthy again! And I want to push myself to do something I normally wouldn’t do! Yeehaw!”
When I first started, I could only run a short distance. But everyday, I’d push myself a little farther. I’d find “marks” and try to push myself past a new mark everyday. “Just go to that light post and then stop!” I’d tell myself, but when I’d get to that light post, I’d see a tree “You can make it to the tree, then you can stop!” Then I’d pass the tree and see a crack in the sidewalk “You can make it to that crack, then stop!” And everyday, I’d go a little farther. Eventually, I was able to run the entire trail and yes, I was so proud of myself.
But, guess what? The scale WOULD NOT MOVE. I’ve been battling the 190’s for MONTHS NOW. What in the hell is wrong with my body that it refuses to STOP WEIGHING 190 POUNDS?
So, it broke me and I quit! QUIT! But not without throwing The Tantrum.
And guess who got to witness The Tantrum? And try to talk me down from The Tantrum?
That’s right, the man I fart on during sex!
First, the tears, then, the screaming and carrying on “I’m so SICK OF THIS! I CAN’T GET OUT OF THE 190’S AND I DON’T UNDERSTAND! I run every fucking night, and I’m eating healthy and yet, my body doesn’t want to give it up, man. I can’t do it anymore. I hate running, DESPISE IT, but I’m doing it to try to lose weight and it’s not working, so WHY IN THE HELL AM I DOING IT? I mean, if I’m going to stay fat, even though I’m running every damn night, what’s the point? I’ll just sit at home and lay on the couch and weigh 190! THAT’S WHAT I’M GOING TO DO! Screw running! Screw my body! I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!”
And, so, I stopped running. And guess what? I gained 4 pounds! And that pissed me off. REALLY BADLY. So, I took it out on those 4 pounds and went to the gym. And this morning, I decided to weight myself again to see “What’s up”. I braced myself for the worst. But guess what? The worst did not happen! THE BEST HAPPENED! Because…lOOK!

(and you will shut it about how FILTHY my scale is because, its’ just a scale and I have enough shit to clean around here so that’s the last thing I’m worried about, but damn, it really IS filthy, huh?)
ONE. EIGHTY. NINE (point 5, but still, NOT ONE NINETY!)
You have no idea how exciting this is for me. It’s been YEARS since I’ve seen the 80’s and I finally feel like the curse of the 90’s is broken and there is no looking back because I will never, EVER be that weight again (ha! ha! watch, next week I’ll be crying about how I’m 190 again because I ate so much Boo-fay at Vegas!).
But for now, I will celebrate! Good bye 190’s! You were an asshole and I have always hated you and I will not miss you at all, you stubborn bitch!

The past couple of days have not been good days for me. I feel sad and lonely.
There are two things I do when I feel this way. I eat. A lot. And? I go through old pictures.
The eating thing is totally unhealthy and part of the reason I’m still fat, but, when I get this way, it feels as though food is the only friend I have who’s not pissed off at me, so, a stuffin’ my face I go.
Digging through old photographs does not make me fat. It has zero calories! It’s very therapeutic for me. It makes me happy, to see my boys when they were little, or makes me giggle to see pictures of my really bad hair cuts. Sometimes, (but not usually) it makes me feel worse because, did you know I used to be skinny? Because I used to be skinny. (AND have FABULOUS skin. And hair.)

Also, did you know I used to WEAR A COWBOY HAT AND TSHIRTS WITH COWBOYS ON THEM?
In public?

In all fairness to me (and my sister, whom I cut out) we WERE at a “Country Starfest” (which was a big event in which you could meet your favorite country star, line dance, drink beer and attend concerts) so it’s not like I dressed like that to go to a restaurant.
But still.
A cowboy hat. In public. In California.
Classic.
Also, did you know that when I was 25 years old, I did my hair and dressed in a way to appear to be a woman nearing her 40’s? (Which is hilarious now that I actually AM a woman nearing her 40’s and wouldn’t be caught dead in that dress/hair combo)

And, apparently, I was “against” showing cleavage, or any skin that wasn’t my face or hands for that matter. Thank God Tony was still into glasses the size of God because it feels good to not be alone in the Unstylishness.
As I browse through the hundreds upon hundreds of photos stuffed in boxes, I’m reminded that no matter how bad I feel at any given moment, there were, (and always will be) wonderful times in my life. I can look back and remember the times in my life in which I was truly happy, the times that are easily forgotten when I slip into these moments of sadness. The times where I everything in my life was exactly the way it was supposed to be…

That was minutes before I walked out of the hospital, less than 24 hours after giving birth to my second baby, a son. How happy I felt, how complete my life was, how lucky I felt to have another baby boy to love and care for. A brother for the most perfect son a mother could have asked for.

God. I remember that moment, (and, Lord have mercy, I remember those pajamas) with my boys. As I watched the only son I’d known for 4 years holding his baby brother, as I watched them together, the fear that I had throughout my entire pregnancy with Ethan, that I’d not be able to find enough love in my heart to for TWO children, was erased in that instant because, right there, on that ugly couch, in those hideous pajamas, I found myself overwhelmed with Love Love Love for both of those boys.

I had no idea that, seven years later, I’d watch those two precious, incredible little boys of mine holding my daughter, their baby sister in their arms, looking happier than I’ve ever seen them.
Funny how life doesn’t always happen the way you plan it. And especially funny how the unexpected turns, or, in my case, pregnancies can end up being the greatest thing you never thought would happen to you.
In the same way it’s funny how images from the past can snap me out of my pity party and make me realize that no matter how any one else in this world feels about me, those three beautiful children love me. Unconditionally, even if I’m no longer that thin woman with flawless skin or if I did used to sport a Stetson cowboy hat in public.