My boys spend every Friday night at church hanging out with youth group. So, every Friday night it’s just me, my husband and our daughter, hanging out here at the house. Last night my husband had to go from his regular job to do a side job. I thought it was the perfect opportunity for a Girls Night Out with my daughter.
“Hey, would you like to go to dinner after we drop your brothers off at church?” I asked her, excitedly.
She responded with an enthusiastic “YES!”
Until I told her she would have to change out of her pajama’s back into the school clothes she had just taken off.
“But I want to stay in my pajamas!” She whined.
I explained to her that wearing pajamas to a restaurant was absolutely not acceptable and that if she wanted to go, she would have to change.
Long story short– she had a total meltdown that ended with her slamming her door while shouting “I THINK MY ANSWER IS NO! I DON’T WANT TO GO!”
I could feel the anger rise up within me. I wanted to fight back. To shout back at her something like “I DIDN’T REALLY WANT TO GO ANYWAY!”
I took a deep breath to compose my thoughts. I didn’t want to have another meltdown of my own.
l opened her door and found her on her bed, her arms crossed and the Meanest Mad Face I’ve ever seen.
“GO OUT, MOMMY!” She snarled.
“I just have one thing to say to you and I’ll leave.” I said, calmly. “I’ve missed you so much since you’ve started first grade and I was really looking forward to spending time with you. I’m sad that you’ve chosen to act this way instead of being excited to spend time with me. You just made my heart sad, GabbyGoo. I love you.”
I closed the door and walked out.
She didn’t say a word.
For 20 minutes there was complete silence.
I walked in her room again to check on her. She was sitting at her desk, writing.
“Mommy! Please don’t look! Close the door!”
I left her alone.
A few minutes later, she walked into my room with her head down and handed me a folded piece of paper. There was a little heart with a flower in the middle on the front. I opened it up.
The anger and disappointment that I had felt towards my daughter just seconds before instantly melted away. I pulled her close to me, hugged her tightly and kissed her over and over again on her soft little cheeks. I was so proud of that little girl in my arms.
“I love you and I forgive you.” I whispered in her ear.
She smiled, walked back into her room and walked out, dressed and ready to go out to dinner with her mama.
Getting Closer
I have set 3 weight loss goals for myself.
To eat well. To exercise daily. And to ultimately, get down to 150 pounds.
150 pounds is the magic weight because my endocrinologist says she will not take me off of metf*rmin until I reach that weight. (And I really REALLY need to get off of that evil drug. Having to know that you can get to a restroom in less than 30 seconds at any given time of the day IS NO WAY TO LIVE.) It’s totally doable, except for the fact that with My Condition, losing a single pound can take WEEKS. It’s frustrating, sometimes EXTREMELY SO. That is why I try to focus more on how much stronger and faster my body is than I focusing on the numbers.
However, it’s been hard not to focus on the numbers lately because I can’t seem to get out of the 180’s. I’ve been stuck at 182.4 pounds for what feels like 100 years. Sometimes I’ll go up to 184 pounds, then back down to 182.4 pounds. BUT NEVER LESS THAN THAT. I decided it was time to switch things up at the gym a bit. For the past month, I’ve been running faster and farther, I’ve been lifting more weight, I’ve been mother effing jumping rope and squatting and lunging and over all working out harder. And yet, every single time I step on the scale I see 182.4 flash before my eyes.
It’s been emotionally and physically exhausting. Frustrating beyond all words.
But then, today, I saw this:
I can now say I’ve lost 57 pounds and am only 30 away from my Ultimate Goal. It feels damn good to be able to say that.
(Unrelated: Please click over to my review blog to read how you can help raise money for a great cause!)
I Think We May Need to Start a Prayer Chain Now
I was in the bedroom, getting ready to take the kids to school when she called for me.
“Mommy!” She shouted from the other room. “Can I wear this outfit when I’m a teenager?”
“Which outfit?” I shouted back as I slipped on my shoes.
“Come here! I’ll show you!” She replied.
I hurried to tie my shoe so I could see what outfit she was talking about. Based on the last few “Can I do *fill in the blank* when I’m a teenager?” conversations we’ve had, I was a liiiiiittle nervous. (Last “fill in the blank” was “work at Hooters.”)
I walked into the family room. She pointed at the television, which she had paused.
“Can I wear that when I’m a teenager?”
I’m more scared than ever about the teenage years with my daughter, you guys.
My Boudoir Photo Shoot in NYC- Not Quite What I Had Planned, But Exactly What I Needed
My body.
I’ve never liked it. In fact, for the majority of my life, I’ve hated it.
I’ve been ashamed of it when it was thin, when it was obese and when it was everything in between. I’ve spoke to therapists and psychiatrists about my body hate. I’ve cried about it more times than I could ever count. I’ve hid from people that I love because of the shame I feel about my body.
I’ve starved myself.
I’ve stuffed myself.
I’ve done things I could never tell a soul to this body because I’ve hated it.
If you’ve read this blog long enough, you know what a struggle my body image has been for me. You know that I’ve missed out on so much of my life because of how disgusted I’ve felt with this body.
But then I read a post that changed everything.
I decided I had to find a way to make peace with my body. So that I could be an example to my children. I never wanted to hear my daughter say she’d “rather be dead than be fat.”
It wasn’t easy to do. I was riddled with health problems and stuck with a doctor who wouldn’t listen. I weighed 237 pounds. Not easy to love a body that unhealthy.
But I did. I loved it enough to fight for it.
I am now 55 pounds lighter, but make no mistake about it– I’m still fat.
182 pounds on a 5′ 4″ frame.
My breasts are saggier than ever. My stomach is too.
I have more stretch marks and we won’t even talk about my belly button.
But I’ve decided to to try love it anyway.
I love it by taking care of it. By taking the proper medications to make sure it functions as it should. By working out every day. By pushing it to do things I never thought it was capable of. By letting my husband enjoy it again,without reservations or hangups. By wearing cute clothes again. By treating myself to pedicures and facials.
By just enjoying every minute of my life.
This is my body. This is the only one I will ever have and the only life I will ever live.
While I was in NYC for BlogHer, I was given an amazing gift– a free Boudoir photo session. The photographer is a long time blog reader, internet friend, who wanted to do something nice for me after how hard I’ve worked to lose 55 pounds. (awesome!) What a perfect way to prove my new found Body Love! I said “absolutely, YES!” despite my fears and insecurities.
Oh, the fears and insecurities!
I haven’t worn anything sexy for at least 10 years– how would I put on something sexy and POSE FOR PICTURES? I didn’t know if I could go through with it, but godblessit, I was going to try!
This was a Really Big Deal.
This meant more to me than taking sexy pictures. This was so much more to me than that.
The shoot was fun and not as difficult or scary as I imagined it to be. Laura made me feel totally comfortable. I definitely had a ton of hangups. I worried about all of the body parts I was ashamed of (basically, every! single! one!) I was afraid my stretched out belly button would show, or my lumpy thighs. I laughed a lot, though and when it was over, I was so proud of myself for doing it.
But then, it was time to view the photos.
A very good friend had done a shoot before mine, so she came and my other friend came along with me so we could view our photos together.
As we watched, I felt a little embarrassed, but over all, I was comfortable with what I saw. Yes, my thighs were huge, but duh, I’m a big girl.
Then, it was time to view my friend’s photos.
And they were beautiful. And sexy.
I instantly felt regret about the photos I had taken. I suddenly became aware of how much time I’d spent covering my body up in my shots. Every insecurity that I’ve ever had about my body overcame my entire being.
Later, when I was alone. I cried in the cab on the way to a dinner party. I cried when a friend asked me how the shoot went. I sobbed in the bathroom.
Every awful thought that I’ve had about my body came rushing back. Not because of my friend’s pictures, not because she made me feel bad. I was proud of her for overcoming her fears — I know it was just as hard for her to do as it was for me. Simply because I was feeling so vulnerable in that moment.
For days, I secretly regretted doing that photo shoot. I hated the thoughts and emotions it brought up. I hated that I was once again reminded of how thoroughly flawed my body is.
I’m happy to say that I no longer feel that way.
When I got the first photo in my inbox, I was nervous. Nervous that I’d start crying all over again. But that didn’t happen. Instead, I felt… proud. Proud of myself for once again stepping outside of my comfort zone. Proud of myself for taking the huge step of buying myself something pretty and, dare I say it, sexy to wear. Proud of myself for working so hard every single day for the past year and a half to lose 55 pounds. Proud of myself for all of it.
Yes, my body is flawed. It’s no longer beautiful (in the way that I define beautiful.) I’m still overweight.
I had a choice to make. Pick myself apart, dwell on the negative, compare myself to others.
Or, just embrace it. My body, this experience, who I am.
And love it anyway.
Today, for the first time, maybe ever, I chose to love.
If you’ve ever felt the way that I have, I hope that you can learn to do the same. I hope you chose to embrace and love who you are, whatever your shape/size.
This is the part where I take a deep breath and show you what was so graciously given to me. Big thighs, saggy breasts and all.
Thank you, Laura, for this amazing gift. I am so grateful. [little voice] and so is my husband.[/little voice} And thank you Lena for being brave enough to do this with me. I love you.
Full set is here.
The Thong Story
Last week while in NYC, I was scheduled to do a boudoir photo shoot.
I had to go buy a couple of new, sexy lingerie because I haven’t bought lingerie since 2000.
I searched everywhere for something that would a) hold my boobs up b) hide my belly (button) c) hold my boobs up d) hold my boobs up.
After days of searching, I finally found a couple of nighties that both held my boobs up and also hid my stomach. Attached to each nightie was a tiny little thong. Confession: I do not wear thongs. This is important to know.
Flash forward to the day of the shoot. I am in Laura’s bathroom, changing into my nightie. Keep in mind, I’ve not put on lingerie for my husband in YEARS. I was nervous as hell about letting someone see me wearing something so…revealing? I took the tags off and put the nightie on first. Then, I took a deep breath and prepared to slip The Thong on.
That is when I noticed the tags.
And that is when my heart dropped into my vaginal area because OH HELL NO I WILL NOT.
You see, the tags were in the part that I believed to be “the front.” You know, the part that covers your pachina.
“WHAT!THE!HELL?!” I thought to myself. “When did they start making them like this?”
I proceeded to put the thong on with the tags in the back. Meaning, THE STRING PART WAS UP ALL UP IN MY FRONT.
I stood there and stared at in the the mirror in horror.
“This is pornographic! I can not go out there like this.” I said to myself, full on outraged with what my eyes were looking at.
I tried placing the thong so that it covered, uh, “things” just right. I turned around so I could see what it looked like in the back. “Well, that looks kind of cute!” I thought to myself. BUT THE FRONT! I CAN’T GO OUT THERE WITH THE FRONT ALL EXPOSED LIKE THAT. I tried to figure out a way to keep the string in just the right place. It wasn’t working so well because any little movement and WHOOPS, THERE GOES THE STRING THING.
I called to Laura and asked her for scissors. She said she had some, but I think she got distracted and forgot so I took the thong off and started trying to tear the tags off. I was pulling so hard, but those mofos would not come off. I was kind of panicking, and wanted to cry! I managed to finally get the tags off and then proceeded to put my thong on in what I perceived to be “backwards.”
The entire experience left me some what traumatized and so I just had to bring it up to Laura.
“Apparently. these are the thongs that you wear with the string part in the front.” I said, all seriously, because in my mind “tags go in the back. always. I continued. “I don’t even care, though. I ripped the tags off and put them on backwards.”
Laura just looked at me, smiled but didn’t say a word.
After the photo shoot, I met with Lindsay and Lena for lunch. I was telling them all about my shoot. Of course, I had to bring up The Thong.
“Apparently, I bought one of those thongs that you were the strip part in the front, but I ripped the tags out and wore them backwards because I DON’T EVEN CARE.”
Lena looked at me with that “aww, poor sweetie” face that people have to make at me a lot because sometimes I don’t know how things work.
“Yvonne.” She said, gently. “The tags go in the front because they don’t fit in the back. You weren’t SUPPOSED to wear them with string in the front.”
I was mortified. Suddenly the look that Laura had given me made sense. She KNEW about the tags! She knew that I wasn’t wearing them backwards but the way they were intended to be worn, but she didn’t say anything probably because she felt so bad for me. Like, how could this woman not know?
HAHHAHHAHAHA I ALMOST WORE THEM WITH THE STRING IN THE FRONT BECAUSE THE TAGS WERE IN THE FRONT WHICH NATURALLY MEANT THAT I WAS SUPPOSED TO WEAR THEM WITH THE STRING IN THE FRONT AND OH HOLY HELL THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN AWKWARD.
Thongs, man.
Like The Sun
A couple of weeks before BlogHer, I received a message from Karen.
“Been looking through your photos. You give AMAZING face — all sparkling eyes and happy smile. May I photograph you at BlogHer?”
The thing you need to know about Karen is a photographer. But she’s more than that. She has an amazing gift– her photos capture and bring out the unique beauty that each of her subjects possess.
I didn’t hesitate to say “yes.”
She came to my hotel room, pulled a chair in front of the window, asked me to sit down and began to shoot. And shoot and shoot and shoot. She showed me a few shots. I don’t like my face, but I sure did like what I saw through the viewfinder. She’s amazing, I tell you.
Yesterday, I received an email that contained the photo she chose to post on 1,000 faces.
As soon as I saw it, I began to pick apart my face. I immediately noticed all of the things that I hated. My wrinkles. My bad skin. My crooked teeth, and so on…But then I read what Karen wrote underneath my pictures.
“Isn’t she just radiant? She looks like the sun to me.”
My first reaction was to reject her description. Instead, I let her words sink in. And for a minute, I allowed myself to believe them.
I hope that one day, I can see myself the way that Karen does. Every day.
This is My Family
Summer Killed the Blog
I wish I had a crazy good story to explain my lack of posting. The truth is pretty boring.
I’ve been busy.
this month has been BRUTAL and it’s not done screwing with me yet.
I am counting down the days until it is over. (8)
It’s not been all bad. There have been some great times– Like, when my daughter decided she wants to “pee like a boy for the rest of her life!” SEE? FUN TIMES IN JULY!
The fun isn’t over. Tomorrow, my little brother is getting married and I’m a) going to be the photographer b) learning a song to sing for their first dance. So much potential for disaster! The following week, my other brother is moving to Texas and taking my son with him for a week and then flying him home. Alone. I have never one of my kids fly alone and I am not happy with my decision to let him do so. However, He wanted to do this more than anything and my brother assured me that he’ll be safe (because the airlines will take good care of him?) He’ll be flying home the day before I leave for NYC, so that will be great for my Pre-Flying Stress!
And because things weren’t stressful enough, I waited until 2 days before my brother’s wedding to get my hair done. I love my stylist. She is amazing and her work is flawless. Except, something happened yesterday and she wasn’t.
I hate the cut. I tried to like it. My sister was all “it looks great!” and I was all “you really like it?” And she was all “I do. Your bangs are short, but I like it.” I tried to believe her. I wanted to believe her. But, the day after? I hate it.
Too many layers. Bangs are too short.
(Seriously. I don’t understand it. But I think I just have to get used to it. It’s not a bad cut, it’s just not what I was going for, I think?)
But the color is awesome, so, focusing on that! (So as not to cry or take scissors to my head. Which, we all know would BE VERY BAD. Like, SSUPER DUPER THE WORST, BAD.)
To sum things up.
Busy. Kids. Peeing. Wedding. Singing. Crying. Stressing. Bad haircut. No time to blog.
I plan on blogging regularly again once the kids are back in school (COME SOON, AUGUST 9TH.)
I hope you’re well. We’ll be in touch soon, Wonderful People Who (Still) Read My Blog.
I Blinked and This Happened
Today The Boy Who Made Me a Mother took his senior portraits.
I was feeling emotional about it, but managed to make it through my morning without shedding a single tear.
He decided he wanted a haircut 2 hours before his appointment. I dropped everything I was doing and ran him down to the barber shop. I sat in the chair as he told the woman what kind of cut he wanted. As he sat there, I admired him from the torn up bench in the waiting area. “What a handsome young man he’s turned out to be!” ! I thought.
I allowed my eyes to wonder around the room a bit and that is when I noticed the little boy. He couldn’t have been more than a year old. His mother sat in the chair with him and held him tightly as the barber carefully cut his hair. He was fussing and his mom was doing everything in her power to help him cooperate.
And that, my friends, is when I lost it.
I started to cry, right there in that old, dirty little barber shop.
Because I remember holding my first baby while he got his hair cut. I remember telling him it was going to be okay while his daddy jumped up and down to try to distract him from the clippers.
I remember those moments like they were yesterday. But they weren’t yesterday. They were years and years ago. And now, that boy I once held in my arms is facing adulthood in just a few short months.
Today, while that mother held her son tightly, I sat across the room, ever aware of how much it will pain her heart to release the tight grip and let that baby go.
Happy (Almost) Independence (From Your Body Image Issues) Day!
This year, we’ll be spending our 4th at my sister’s house like we have for the past few years. There will be good food, laughter, fireworks. And of course, swimming.
While most things will be the same as they are every 4th, this year will be different on a personal note.
This year, for the first time in many years, I will not be sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else enjoy the cool, refreshing water. This year, I will not be wishing I was with them, instead of baking in the hot sun. This year, for the first time since 2005, I will be splashing around in the water with my family.
Because this year, I bought a bathing suit.
(And HELL YES, I bought one with a skirt.)
To a normal person who isn’t riddled with Body Image Issues, this might not be a big deal. But to me, this is A BIG EFFING DEAL.
I’m nervous and not at all comfortable about wearing it. But I’m going to do it anyway. Even though I’m still fat and I hate the way that I look in it. ( I may have cried when I saw my thighs in the mirror.)
I’m going to suck it up (and in) and wear the damn swimsuit
Deep breath.
I know that I’ll never regret putting my insecurities aside and making memories with my children. But I know all too well that I most certainly will regret it if I don’t.
