At the beginning of the week I made the decision to give up my lattes.
Let me be more specific. I made the decision to give up my every! single! morning! Starbucks, grande, non fat, upside down, caramel macchiatos.
I made this decision for several reasons.
I seem to have hit a plateau with my weight loss. I’ve been stuck at 49 pounds lost (188) for a while. I felt like I needed to switch things up diet wise as well as kick things up workout wise. The lattes are full of carbs and sugar and I’m not supposed to be putting either of those things into my body. (Well, some carbs, yes. Those kind of carbs? Absolutely not.)
I love caramel macchiatos. I’m addicted to caramel macchiatos.
When Monday morning came around, I knew that it was going to be hard to NOT DRIVE TO STARBUCKS after I dropped G off at school. I knew it would be a struggle to turn the opposite way and drive home.
So, I decided to go for a run in place of a drive to Starbucks.
The distraction worked. After my run (I ran a mile! At the park! The park I could barely walk at without wheezing. RAN! IT! ALL! THE! WAY! WITHOUT! STOPPING!) I had no desire to drive to Starbucks. So, I did it again the next morning. And the next. But the morning after that, I decided I should get dressed so I didn’t take my daughter to school while wearing sweats again and so I COULDN’T go for a run because I was wearing strappy sandals and if I couldn’t go for a run, I had to go to Starbucks because that is how LIFE WORKS AND THIS IS WHY I DON’T GET DRESSED UP IN THE MORNINGS. Also? I’m weak.
But, that was just one day and I’m over it. Slip ups happen. You learn from them and move on.
In addition to running in the morning, I’ve also been going to the gym in the evenings to do weight training. Two workouts in one day! I don’t even know who I am anymore!
I tell you all of this to day, I finally broke the plateau because last night when I stepped on the scale it said 187, which means I’ve officially lost 50 pounds.
I can now say that MORE THAN halfway to my goal. And that is amazing to me.
What my ass looks like 50 pounds lighter.
RIP, Mikey
(edit- I’ve decided to stop taking donations for Funeral expenses. Firstly, I was blown away by the generosity. I honestly had no idea that much money would be raised. $1,205.00! You wonderful people never cease to amaze me with your goodness. Second– I believe we may be able to get a good portion of funeral expenses covered through a program designed for victims of crimes. It won’t cover it all, but I believe with what we’ve raised here and through the car washes, the family will not incur any debt over this horrific tragedy. I can’t thank you all enough. I plan on signing every single name of every person who donated to the card I will give the family this weekend. I simply can not thank you all enough. xoxo)
(updated- Julia made a great point- “Y — if they have enough money for the funeral, they may like to use our
donations for some kind of memorial to honor their son. That would be
nice too.” If you still *want* to give, you can still do so through my PayPal account at mamarosaATgmailDOTcom. Any and ALL money deposited into that account will go to the family.)
Last Friday night, I told my children that we were going to visit Mikey’s parents. (Read about Mikey here.)
I told them that they didn’t have to come if they weren’t feeling up to it. I wanted it to be their decision. If they went, I wanted it to be because thy wanted to be there, not because they were forced to be there.
They surprised me. In a good way.
“We want to go, Mom.” They said.
We drove over to their house, with a heavy heart. What do you say to a mother who lost her son to senseless violence? What do you say to a father who just lost his only son? There simply no words, nothing you can say.
All you can do is be there. Let them know you love them, you’re thinking of them, you’re crying with them and you’re so very very sorry.
I was glad my boys were mature enough to make the decision to be there for Mikey’s parents, even though it wasn’t easy, even though it was going to be painful.
“Sometimes, the right thing is the hardest thing.” I’ve always told my children that.
They get it.
We all stood in the walkway, waiting for his parents to come out. “They’re not up for it.” A family member told us. “We completely understand.” I responded. “Just give them this card and tell them we are thinking of them.”
He said he was going to tell them and he’d be right back.
“Sue is going to come out.” he said.
Sue is Mikey’s mother.
She opened the screen door and collapsed into my arms. I’m not exaggerating. She literally fell into my arms. I did my best to hold her up. She was sobbing. I was crying.
“I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry.” I said through my tears.
“I don’t understand. They shot my son in the chest. They left him to die on the concrete.” She wailed. “They won’t let me see my son.”
My husband and my children were standing behind us, as well as some other neighbors and their children. I could hear them all crying.
“And here, I was worried about the war.” She said. “He told me he wanted enlist, he wanted to be a man. I told him no! You’ll get killed!”
I held her up while she cried and wailed and spoke of her hurt, confusion, anger, sadness, unbelief.
It was one of the most *real* moments of my entire life.
When she was finally able to stand on her own, she let go of me and looked around. She saw my son, The Teenager. She walked over to him. “Oh, Andrew” She said as she embraced him tightly. “Mikey loved you so much.” She started to sob again. As did my son. “I loved him too, Susan. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”
I was heartbroken and yet, so very proud of my son. Proud that he chose to be there for his friend’s mother, even though it was painful and uncomfortable. Proud that he expressed how he was feeling so openly.
I think about that moment with Sue often throughout each day. I think of how broken she was, I think of how her life, her heart has been completely shattered. I can’t even begin to imagine how painful every waking minute of her days must be.
Although our pain doesn’t even compare to that of Sue and Pete, this situation has impacted our family in a profound way. We all feel as though we’ve lost a member of our family. Mikey was part of our lives, he was like family.
Every weekend, my boys were staying the night at his house, or he at ours. Almost every Saturday night, the boys would pile in The Astro Van for a short ride to Mikey’s to spend the night. It was a familiar scene to see our boys walking up the street early Sunday morning with bed head, a plastic bag filled with clothes and their pillows and blankets in hand.
He was at every single one of Andrew’s birthday parties.
I’m devastated he’ll never be at another.
Last weekend, a bunch of Mikey’s friends had a car wash to help raise funds for funeral expenses. They plan on doing another one this weekend. I’ve decided I’m going to try a little fundraising of my own here on this blog. I hate to ask for money from readers, but I hate to think of grieving parents struggling financial due to the expense of burying their child. I know that those of you who read here have generous and kind hearts. I know you’ll understand why I’m doing this.
I have not been asked by any family member to do this. I simply want to do whatever I can to help make their burden a bit easier. If you could find it in your hearts to give, I would be so grateful and I know that his parents will be as well.
I will take donations through Sunday, which is the day of the viewing.
Thank you in advance.
The Egg Cracks- My Daughter on How Babies Are Made and Also, Born.
My daughter is obviously an expert on how babies are born.
Last night, she found her ultrasound photos. This triggered an hour long discussion about babies and “you-know-is’s” and also, pachinas.
I had to share.
You’re welcome.
In Shock
This morning I received an email notification that I had a new message on Facebook. It was from a neighbor from my old neighborhood.
“She must be inviting me to a candle party.” I thought to myself.
I opened up the message.
It was in all caps.
“HEY. MIKEY WAS KILLED LAST NIGHT.”
I froze.
I gasped for air.
I screamed “NO!”
I flashed back to a moment in time.
1998.
6 in the morning.
I hear a knock at the door. I open the door. It was Mikey.
He was about 7 years old. His hair was a mess and he was wearing pajamas.
“Can Andrew play?” He asked, while yawning.
I remember thinking– am I dreaming? Or is Mikey really standing at my front door at 6am, asking to play, on a Saturday morning. I was part pissed off. Part LAUGHING ON THE INSIDE.
“Mikey! Do your parents know you left the house?” I asked.
“No. They’re still sleeping.” He replied.
“Why don’t you go home until they wake up. You can come over and play later, okay?”
“Okay.” He said.
I watched him as he walked slowly, barely awake, back home. And I laughed. Oh my God, how I laughed.
That little boy, the one who spent many nights at my house, eating dinner with us, going fishing with us, being a good friend to both of my boys, was shot and killed last night.
He wasn’t so little anymore. He was 18 years old.
But in my mind, he is still that little boy, standing at my front door, half asleep, asking to play with his best buddy– My son, Andrew.
I’ve cried a lot this afternoon.
I’ve cried for the parents. No parent should ever have to bury their child. No parents should ever have to lose their child to senseless violence.
I’ve cried for my sons. I do everything in my power to protect my children. This reminds me you can’t protect them from everything. You can’t shield them from the evil in this world. And that sucks so hard.
I’ve cried for myself. I’ve always taught my children to do “the right thing.” But you know, maybe I’ve been wrong. Right now, I’m thinking “To HELL with the right thing! DON’T GET INVOLVED! WALK AWAY! PRETEND YOU DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!”
I don’t want to feel that way, I truly don’t, but it’s kind of hard not to feel that way when someone who we all loved tried to do the right thing and lost his life in the process.
Rest in Peace, Mikey. Our family will never forget you.
The One in Which Jay Mohr Answers My Very Important Questions Because He is THE BEST.
One summer night in the back alley of an Improv, I met my Celebrity Crush, my “Free Pass” if you will.
Jay Mohr.
I have loved Jay since he was a guest host on Live with Regis and Kelly. Until his appearance there, I only knew him as “that actor from Jerry Maguire.” I had no idea that he was a (brilliant) stand up comedian. I went to a few of his live shows after learning that he was a comic and you guys, he is HILARIOUS. I’ve never been disappointed at one of his shows.
Since that first night I met him, we’ve become friends.
When I found out he had written a new book about parenthood, I was thrilled. The stories he tells on stage about being a father are some of the funniest I’ve ever heard told. I imagine the book will be just as hilarious. I asked Jay if I could ask him a few questions to post on my blog, so that The Wonderful People Who Read My Blog could get a chance to know him a little better. Because he is incredibly kind and because he “likes me a lot” he said yes.
Confession: I needed help with the questions. Because even though I know him and we are friendly, he will always be My Celebrity Crush and well, I got all doubty-pants about my questions. “He’ll think this is a stupid question!” and “this isn’t funny enough!”
Thankfully, Metalia stepped in to help.
Me: Which job has required more of your improv talents: stand-up or parenting?
Jay: I think stand up requires more improv skills. Parenting to me is establishing STRUCTURE. If our kids wander from that structure we can tell them they are wrong. Audiences boo and tell you to fuck off. Kids don’t boo until they’re teenagers.
What has been the best surprise of becoming a father, and what’s been the worst?
Jay: The best surprise of becoming a father is being able to use the womens’ restroom with a baby. There is a couch in there! Holy smokes. No wonder women go to the bathroom in pairs, there’s a place for the extra person to lay down! If there were couches in the men’s bathroom at sports bars, there would be as many guys in the bathroom as guys at the bar. Also, it seems that women clean up after themselves even when no one is looking. Fascinating. The worst surprise of becoming a father is learning that kids are ALL morning people.
Poop: Totally desensitized to it at this point? Or still totally gross? Discuss.
Jay: Poop has never bothered me for whatever reason. It might stem from the fact that it has been shooting out of me three times a day for forty years.
Do you remember how we first met? If so, can you tell my readers a little bit about that not. If not, I can, IN GREAT DETAIL.
Jay: I do not remember the first time we met. I do remember the times you somehow became my wingman for the mentally insane. Your readers need to know the great lengths you went to to keep me from being murdered in San Jose by a woman who took the bus from Texas to come see me. HELTER SKELTER. (me: Maybe I need to tell that story sometime. Fun times!)
I am convinced that kids have a My Parents Are Doing It sense. It only took getting busted once to teach us to ALWAYS LOCK THE DOOR. Have you ever been “caught in the act”?
Jay: I have never been caught in the act. YET. I am prepared to tell my son though, that daddy was on fire and Momma was just putting it out with her bottom.
Team Jill or Team Bethenny?
Jay: TEAM JILL. Bethanny is an ugly person inside. When drama always surrounds one person, eventually you have to realize that the one common denominator is THAT PERSON.
What is the ONE thing you want people to know about your new book?
Jay: ***READ THIS BOOK-FLATTEN YOUR STOMACH!****
*******
I can’t thank Jay enough for taking the time to answer my questions. I swear, I LOVE THAT MAN. I’ve asked Jay to come back to read the comments, so be nice. (I won’t publish asshole comments, you’ve been warned.)
Jay’s new book, No Wonder My Parents Drank, will be out on May 11th, but you can pre-order it now at Amazon.
Her First (Last?) Sleepover
I am so angry today.
Angry at myself.
Angry at another mother.
Yesterday, I got a call from a mom of one of G’s friends from kindergarten. I know this woman, we’ve had play dates together. Our girls have been friends since the first day of school. She asked if G could come over to her house after school to color eggs. After that, they’d go to the movies and to the park. I told her that I’d meet her after school. If G wanted to go, then of course she could go.
When I asked G if she wanted to go, her face lit up and she said a very high pitch “YYYYEESSS!”
I gave the mom $10 for her ticket and a snack and told her to call me when they were home so I could come get my daughter. 5pm I got a phone call.
“Can G spend the night?”
My heart sank. The only people my daughter has spent the night with are my mother and my sister.
“Does she want to?” I asked.
“Well, here, I’ll let you talk to her.”
I asked her if she wanted to. I could hear the excitement in her voice. “Yes, Mommy! Please?”
I didn’t want to say yes. “She’s only 5.” I thought to myself. “And, yes, I know the mom, but I don’t really know the mom.”
My gut was saying “No no no no.” But my daughter was saying “please please please.”
I thought back to when I was little. I was never allowed to spend the night anywhere, unless they were people from the church or my dad could “verify” that they were Christians. I thought about all of the times I was shunned the day after a sleep over. “You can’t sit with us. You weren’t allowed to come to my sleepover.” (True story) I never want my daughter to feel like an outcast the way that I did. I never want hre to miss out on fun times with her friends because of her over-protective mother.
But she’s only five.
Adding to my concern was the fact that the mom is a single mom who lives with her father. I don’t know the father. I only know what she tells me about him. And he sounds really wonderful. But I don’t know him.
All of these things went through my head. And yet, I told her yes, my daughter could spend the night. I told her I would bring her stuff right over.
My husband drove with me over to her house to take G her things.
“Are you okay with this?” I asked him.
“No. I’m not.”
“I’m not either. But she really wants to. She’s so excited and this is the first time she’s been invited to spend the night with a friend. I don’t want to ruin her fun.”
We talked about it. We decided if we continued to feel uneasy, we’d call the mom and make up a lie. I even went so far as to come up with the lie right there in the car. “Something came up. We need to leave early in the morning. We have to come get her.”
I should have just said no.
When we pulled up to the house, G and her friend came running out. They were covered in pink eye shadow, lip gloss and glitter. “Mommy! Did you bring my blankie?” She squeeled.
I pulled her to the side. “You sure you want to stay?”
“Yes!” she repeated as she jumped up and down. Her friend came up, took her by the hand and said “Let’s go finish playing house!” She said.
“Bye Mom!” G shouted as she skipped away with her overnight bag.
We told the mom she could call us AT ANY TIME if my daughter changed her mind. “You can call me at 3am. I don’t care. I’ll come get her.” I said. She assured me everything was going to be fine. I believed her.
But not really.
Me and my husband went to grab a quick dinner, then headed to Target to get some last minute Easter things. I felt a bit more at ease after I had seen how happy she was, but there was still this little ache in my heart. This little… I don’t know what, telling me that I shouldn’t have let her stay. I kept my phone with me, just in case she called. I even turned the volume all of the way up.
The phone never rang.
Around 9:30 we went to pick up the boys from church. I was happy she hadn’t called, even telling myself it was silly to get so worked up about a sleep over. Around 11pm, I checked my phone, JUST IN CASE.
There was a voice mail.
My heart sank.
Around 10:00, I had received a phone call. From The Grandpa.
“G doesn’t want to stay, I’d be happy to bring her home if you can give me your address.”
How did I miss the call? I have no idea.
I called the mom’s cell. No answer.I called the home number. No answer.
“Why the EFF did the grandpa call?” Tony said.
“That’s a good question.” I responded.
“If the mom left my daughter there with the grandpa, I’m going to be SO PISSED.” Tony said.
My heart sank. Would she have done such a thing? Would she have betrayed my trust like that? She never told me she was going to leave. She never asked me if it was okay if her dad watched my daughter.
We couldn’t get a hold of anyone by phone.
“I’m going to get my daughter.” My husband said.
He jumped in the van and headed over there. I stayed home, just in case the grandpa called back. He never called. But Tony did.
“No one is answering the door. Give me their number again.”
10 minutes later, Tony called. “I have my daughter.” He said. “I practically banged the door down, but I got her.”
I could hear her in the background. She was SOBBING.
“She won’t stop crying.” He said. “And she won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
My heart– it was pounding. I allowed my mind to go there. I hated myself in that moment. Why hadn’t I listened to my gut? Why did I give in? Why was I such a bad mother? WHY WAS THAT WOMAN SUCH A HORRIBLE PERSON TO LEAVE MY DAUGHTER LIKE THAT?
He was home within 3 minutes. My daughter was hysterical.
“Please. Take a deep breath. We need to talk.”
She couldn’t calm down. I did everything in my power to help her, but she was so upset. After about 10 minutes, I was able to get her to talk.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did something happen?”
She tried to talk through the tears.
“I was just so scared. I didn’t want to stay there with E’s grandpa. I don’t know him. I was so scared and you didn’t answer the phone and I wanted to come home and…”
She was hysterical again.
“Did he yell at you?” I asked.
“No, Mommy.”
“Did he touch you?” I asked.
“No.” she said.
“No one touched you or did anything mean to you?”
“No. Mommy. I just didn’t want to be there. I was scared when E’s mom left.”
E’s mom left.
I’m angry about that. And my husband is angry about that. We entrusted our daughter into her care, not her father’s.
I’m angry with myself too. I’m angry that my poor judgement could have resulted in disaster for my daughter. We were lucky. Nothing bad happened. I mean, it was awful that she was scared, that she didn’t feel safe, that she felt like we had abandoned her (by not answering the phone the first time they called.) But that was something we were able to talk about, something she was able to understand and to heal quickly from.
I feel so lucky.
But I also feel anger. I’m so angry with that mother. But mostly, I’m angry with myself. For not listening to my gut instinct. For saying “yes” when what I really wanted to say was “no.”
(edited to add: I wanted to make it very clear that the grandfather did nothing wrong. As Marinka pointed out, he called us when G told him she didn’t want to stay. My issue is solely with the mother, for leaving my daughter without asking if we, as her parents, were okay with that.)
Suddenly, My Obsession With Photography Isn’t “Annoying.”
I was 11 years old when my youngest brother was born.
I thought he was my baby.
I fed him. I changed him. I babysat him.
For the most part, I was The Best Sister Who Thought She Was a Mother that a little kid could ask for.
Except for the one time he almost died on my watch because I was too busy talking on the phone with a boy I had a crush on to notice that he was eating OVEN CLEANER.
I loved that little baby so much.
Last month, that little baby got engaged.
My baby brother is getting married!
They’ve asked me to be their wedding photographer.
Here’s the thing.
I love photography. It’s a passion of mine.
But! I’m not a professional. So I am very nervous about this. At the same time, I’m flattered that they think I’m good enough at it to SHOOT THEIR WEDDING.
Last weekend, they asked if I would shoot some photos for their “save the date” cards. Of course, I said yes.
I can only hope he doesn’t regret asking me to photograph one of the most important days of his life.
Slowly But Surely But Saggily
The last time that I posted about my weight loss progress was on February 3rd.
I had lost 42 pounds and weighed 195 pounds.
Today, almost 2 months later, I weigh 188 pounds.
49 pounds, gone.
1 pound away from 50.
If you’ve followed my story, you know why it’s a B.F.D (thank you for that, Joe Biden!) that I’ve been able to lose almost 50 pounds.
The best part of losing 49 pounds has been how much better I feel every minute of every day. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. In The Sack-ually.
The worst part about losing 49 pounds has been The Sag.
It’s bad.
Everything is sagging. My skin. My face. MY BOOBS.
The other day, my daughter caught a glimpse of Naked Me as I was getting ready to get in the shower.
“Eww.” She said. “Your boobs. Why are the pointing *down*?”
I try not to dwell on The Sag. I try to dwell on the fact I’m decreasing my chances of getting diabetes, that my blood pressure is now normal, that my knees no longer hurt when I walk, that I don’t get winded doing the simplest things.
I am 1 pound away from a HUGE weight loss milestone. That means so much more to me than perky tits.
What 188 pounds looks like.
(before and progress photos here)
This is What “I’m Taking Back Blogging Because I LOVE TO WRITE” Looks Like. Unfortunately.
My mom is a good cook. She can cook a MEAN Mexican meal. Which is weird because she can’t cook German food. And she’s German!
White people are weird.
As delicious as our meals were growing up, they were not particularly healthy.
In fact, they were not healthy at all.
Almost everything was breaded and fried and smothered in lard. Portion control? WHAT? Are you kidding me? You must have seconds! And thirds! No thirds? ARE YOU STARVING YOURSELF AGAIN?
Vegetables were never served.
Except! Every once in a while, my parents would go on a “You’re going to eat vegetables!” kick and they would force us to eat vegetables.
And by “vegetables” I mean “peas or corn.”
One night, we’d sit down for meatloaf and my Mom would be all “We’re having peas (corn?) tonight. And you have to eat them until their gone!”
I would start crying. My brothers and sister would start crying.
“We hate peas! Peas are gross!” We’d cry.
“Well, you’re gonna learn to like them! They’re good for you!”
Because I am very smart, I figured out that I didn’t have to actually eat the peas. I could put a bunch of peas in my mouth and swallow them down with water. Like pills!
It worked for a while. Until my mom decided that eating peas that way was cheating. I had to actually chew and taste the peas!
(Which to this day, I do not understand.)
One time, my mom pulled the “you have to chew them” crap with corn. CORN! Here’s the thing, corn makes me gag. (I’m a texture girl, remember?) I warned her. “They make me gag! I can’t chew them!” She had no mercy. “CHEW YOUR CORN!”
I chewed my corn.
And then I threw it all up.
Because of this traumatic childhood experience, I rebelled against ALL vegetables in my teenage and young adult years. It was very troublesome to my husband who could live off of vegetables. He’d beg me to try them and I’d be like “vegetables are gross” and he’d be all “but zucchini is delicious! You have to taste it at least once!” and I’d have flash backs to when I was forced! to! chew! peas! AND corn! and I’d be all “NEVER!”
I’m happy to report that I was able to get over the Traumatic Vegetable Experience of my childhood and have learned to eat and enjoy vegetables. I’m even happier to say I’ve been able to teach my children to (mostly) enjoy (some) vegetables.
Except for peas. I have not been able to put one in my mouth since the last time I was forced to eat them. And no child of mine has ever nor will ever be forced to put one of those little satan veggies in their mouth.
Pea H8R 4LIFE.
Red, Represented
One of my favorite photography sites, Beyond Snapshots, is giving away a red Lola epiphanie bag. All you need to do to enter is post a photo on your blog (or facebook, flickr) that represents “red.”
Because I have the ugliest camera bag in the history of camera bags, (ask Isabel, who likes to ask me if she can have a juice, because it looks like a drink cooler. UGH.LEE.) I am more than happy to enter this contest. If I don’t win, I may just have to break down and order myself an Epiphanie bag because ENOUGH WITH THE CAPRI SUN JOKES, YOU GUYS.
If you’d like to enter, visit Beyond Snapshots for complete instructions.
