Once upon a time, when I used to cook dinner every single night, I had a fridge full of leftovers. Steaks. Sheppards pie. Potato bake. I didn’t want to food to go to waste, so one night I proclaimed “Tonight, we’re having scraps for dinner!”
“SCRAPS?!” Pighunter said, in a tone that could only be described as “horrified.”
“Yes, Scraps. We have a ton of food left over from this week and I thought I’d just heat it all up and eat it before it goes bad.”
“Oh, leftovers!” He said, somewhat relieved. “Not SCRAPS! We’re not dogs! We’re humans! IT’S LEFTOVERS!”
In my mind, scraps is totally different than leftovers in this way. Let’s say I make meatloaf and mashed potatoes on Wednesday night. Thursday night, I decide to reheat that. THAT would be leftovers. Now let’s say that on Monday night I made enchiladas with rice. Then, on Tuesday night, I made a steak with a broccoli salad. Then, on Wednesday night, I decided to put the enchiladas, rice, steak and broccoli salad that was left out and let every one choose whatever they want to eat. THAT would be scraps. Because, get it, it’s scraps from various different meals as opposed to a specific, reheated meal from the night before.
Did I really just try to explain the difference between “scraps” and “leftovers?” Yes. I did.
Anyway…
Think of this post as the blog equivalent of “scraps.” A little bit of this and a little bit of that, but totally not leftovers.
Thank you for making me feel safe enough to actually hit “publish” on this one.
History of The Fat:
High School: Thought I was fat. Starved myself, took laxatives, worked out excessively. Still thought I was fat.
Twenties: Gained 20 pounds first few years of marriage, was a whopping 145 pounds. Went on crazy diets and worked out excessively. Got down to 130 pounds. Still thought I was fat. Got pregnant, gained 50 pounds. Started working out 6 weeks post partum. Lost the weight. Still thought I was fat. Got pregnant, gained a buttload of weight again. Lost the weight. Still thought I was fat as shown in the picture below that I recently found on my computer titled “stillfat1”
Thirties: Gained weight. Lost weight. Missed out on events with friends and families because I thought I was too fat to enjoy my life. Gained weight. Lost a lot of weight. Still thought I was fat. Went through a severe depression. Turned to food for comfort. Gained weight. A lot of weight. I didn’t just THINK I was fat now. I WAS fat. Went on anti depressants. Gained more weight. Saw the numbers 200 on the scale. Wanted to die. Found out I was pregnant with a child we didn’t plan. Tipped the scale at 250 pounds. Had the baby. Felt disgusting. Decided to lose the weight by eating right and working out hard. Documented it on the internet. Lost weight. Over 70 pounds of weight. Stopped losing weight. Couldn’t lose anymore weight no matter how hard I worked out. Became discouraged. Gained weight. Gained more weight. Started to feel depressed, ashamed. Tired. Wondered if there was something else wrong. Doctor said nothing was wrong. Stopped working out. Started eating a little more than I should. Tipped the scale at 225 pounds. (You read that right. two.twenty.five)
(My Ass is all “Hello! Would you like to rest a cup on me?”)
Found out that there WAS something wrong. Something called Hashimoto’s disease. It all made sense. The inability to lose weight. The gain. The depression.
(That right there should be the poster for what my “condition” looks like. Dry skin, frizzy, thinning hair, puffy face. Exhaustion. Depression. DROOPY EYE.)
***
I’ve tried to write about my weight gain at least 20 times. And every time, I sit here and start typing, then I delete. I type again… delete. Walk away. Try again.
Delete.
Today—I decided I wasn’t going to delete. No matter how bad it came out, not matter how horrible it sounded or how many mistakes. I was just going to write and write and write and get it out once and for good. I want to delete what’s up there. It’s horribly written, it’s not what I wanted to say, but I’m not going delete it.
I don’t know why it’s so hard or why I’m hitting a wall, but it is and I am.
Maybe it’s because I don’t want it to turn into a book, or because I’m just tired of talking about my weight, or because I meant what I said in this post and I am trying to be a good example to my daughter and not focus on my Feelings (nothing more than feelings) when it comes to my weight. God knows I’ve wasted a great deal of my life being consumed with how I feel about my weight (see: Self Centered Asshole.) and I’ve been working really hard to change that.
That said: I’m fat again and it sucks.
I hate getting dressed. Nothing fits me and I refuse to buy the ugly ass clothes they sell in my size, so I wear the same velour sweat suit from Kohls pretty much every day.
I’m ashamed. Having lost a great deal of weight and documenting it for the internet was a wonderful, mostly positive experience for me. But having gained the weight back, I feel like both a fraud and a failure.
I realize that there is an explanation for the weight gain. There’s a “condition” that I can blame it on, but the truth is that had I continued to eat right and work out, the gain wouldn’t be so severe. But the truth of the matter is that I couldn’t work out. I have been so tired, so overwhelmingly tired, that it’s a struggle to get out of bed most days and even THINKING about getting on the treadmill or lifting weights makes me weep. Literally weep.
I certainly could have made better choices with food, but the truth is that I was trying to make myself feel better with food.
I’m not blaming the entire weight gain on My Thyroid. I mean, my thyroid didn’t force me to eat BBQ chips at midnight. My thyroid didn’t make me eat sugar cookies with chocolate frosting. I take full responsibility for making bad choices. That said, I now know that my thyroid was the reason I hit a wall with the weight loss and the reason, no matter how hard I worked out, I couldn’t lose a single pound. I know that it’s the reason I gained 3 pounds after doing the Atkins diet for 2 weeks without cheating one bit. And so, I’m trying to be kind to myself in that regard. I’m trying really fucking hard to not completely fall apart and hide from the world because I know that to a certain degree, it was out of my control. (Again, I KNOW THAT I HAD SOME CONTROL AND THAT NOT ALL PEOPLE WITH MY CONDITION ALLOW THEMSELVES TO GET THIS FAT SO SAVE YOUR ENERGY, OH HATERS AND DON’T WASTE YOUR TIME CREATING FAKE EMAIL ACCOUNTS TO TELL ME THIS, OK?! OK!)
It’s not easy. I AM ashamed. I DO feel disgusted with myself, with the way that I look and feel, but I’m trying with everything in me to not let it consume me.
I’ll never be the girl who hugs her fat rolls and tells them that I love them because they’re beautiful and precious, but I most certainly am trying to be the girl who loves her life and the people she’s been blessed to have in it more than she hates the way her body looks.
(Look! Proof that it is possible to be totally ashamed of the way that you look and yet pose, with fish lips (because fish lips TOTALLY make your face look thinner!) and pretend to be happy and comfortable showing the world how fat you are again!)
I want to promise you that this isn’t going to turn into a photo blog, but I’m afraid I can’t make that promise
A Good Eye.
I decided to live a little dangerously and let my son take a few pictures with the new camera. (I was weak in the knees and various other places *VAGINA* while he was holding it. Ah!) He’s always telling me things like “this would make such a great pictures, Mom!” But, until tonight, I’ve been too chicken to hand over the camera.
While we were out for a walk tonight, he saw these sunflowers and told me I should take some shots of them up against the mountains. I took a deep breath, removed the camera strap from around my neck, handed it to him and said “you take one.”
I wish I had captured the smile on his face because it was beautiful.
“Are you serious, Mom? You’ll let me take a picture with your new camera?”
“Yes. I’m serious.”
(It was a Moment.)
I explained a little to him what the numbers meant and stepped back while he shot away.
I think that shot proves he definitely has an eye for photography.
I figure as his mother, I should definitely teach him what little I know and allow him to explore the desire he has to take pictures.
Even if it does mean handing over the Rebel. (Ahhh, weak again.)
Not bad for his first try, eh?
On Notice:
My Doctor
People Who Do Not Give “The Courtesy Wave.”
My Thyroid
The checker at Vons who interrogates me about every coupon.
Commenters who do not use real email addresses.
Flickr.
My brain.
Scott Baio
The All Wimmins Gym.
This Week.
Coach Farter.
When my son tried out for the freshman basketball team and made it, I was thrilled beyond words.
And proud. So very proud.
It’s one of Those Things that I had always wondered about when he was a little guy playing pee wee basketball at the darling age of three years old. Would that adorable boy who didn’t have a clue how to dribble a basketball grow up and play on his high school team?
I had always hoped the answer would be yes, but decided that it would always be his choice. I didn’t want to be one of Those Moms who force their hopes and dreams on their children.
When I first found out that he made the team, I called everyone that I knew to tell them. “The Teenager made the freshman basketball team!”
Dreams of sitting in the stands, cheering on my son danced in my head. I made promises to not embarrass him by talking smack to the refs or fighting with Asshole Parents in the stands.
I had no idea when I gave him permission to be on the team how many hours my son would spend after school for practice. My son became a stranger in this house. I’d drop him off at 7 in the morning and not see him again until 8pm every night.
My son’s dedication and enthusiasm surprised me a great deal. He didn’t miss a single practice nor did he complain. He lost 6 pounds in the first few weeks. He started saying things like “yes, ma’am” the first time that I asked him to do something around the house. He began making healthier food choices.
I was impressed.
Then the games started.
I had no idea how greatly I’d be tested as a mother.
I watched my son, the kid who was working his ass off in practice. The kid who did everything the coach asked of him. The kid who was dedicated 100% to his teammates sit on the bench for all but 1 minute of the entire game.
I could have understood if the players he had used were good, but the team got beat by over 50 points.
The second game it was the same story.
The team got crushed while my son sat on the bench until the last minute of the game.
“That’s it!” I shouted to my husband. “I will not allow this. My son is a good player. He’s been working really hard and he deserves more playing time! If the coach doesn’t start playing him, I’m pulling him off of the team!”
I meant it. It broke my heart to watch my son be treated like that.
I talked to my son after the second game. I told him I was going to talk to his coach.
“You can’t do that, Mom.” He said. “If you bring up play time to Coach, he’ll make us sit out for an entire game.”
“It won’t be much different than what’s happening now.”
“Mom, don’t say anything.”
It was in that moment that I realized I had a choice. I could speak up for my son, I could tell the coach to stop being a jerk to my son and have a little faith in him. OR… I could use this as a lesson to my son.
I had a long talk with my son about “proving himself.” I told him that if he wanted more playing time, he’d have to work really hard during whatever time he got on the court. He’d have to talk to his coach to ask what he could do to improve his game. I told him that if he really wanted more time on the court, he’d have to work for it and earn it.
I kept my mouth shut and watched as game after game my son sat on the bench while the other teammates took a beating on the court game after game.
My son would get no more than 2 minutes playing time each game and sometimes? Not even that. Sometimes, he’d sit the entire game.
And yet, he got up at 6:30 every morning to go to practice without complaining. Even the night that our garage flooded and he wasn’t able to go to sleep until 2 in the morning– he got up and went.
It’s been a huge learning experience for me as a parent of a teen boy. I’ve wanted so bad to go tell that coach to fuck himself. My son is not the best player, but my son is a SOLID player who knows the fundamentals. He has a GREAT shot and will make key defensive plays. His ONLY downfall is that he lacks confidence. If only that coach would show a little faith in my son, he’d be a huge asset to the team.
But I’ve kept my mouth shut thus far because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought it a golden opportunity for my son to learn that things won’t always come easy to him. That he’ll have to work hard in life and fight for what he wants.
I don’t know if I can keep my mouth shut any longer.
You see, my son missed practice all of last week. First time he’s missed a practice. I called and left 2 messages for his coach.
The first one I told him that my son might have chicken pox and so he may be out all week.
He didn’t call back.
I called again to tell him that he had a staph infection and I had no idea when he’d be back.
That was Monday.
I have yet to hear from the coach.
Not once did he call to check on my son. Not once did he call to see if my son was okay. And as a mom, that pisses me off.
I had learned to accept seeing my son sit on the bench game after game. Even though I wanted to cry most times, I would tell myself “This is a great learning experience! He’ll grow from this and be a stronger person!”
However, now I think it’s been made crystal clear that his coach doesn’t value my son at all. Not one phone call to ask how he’s doing, or when he’ll be back playing with his team.
My son asked if coach had called and when I told him that he hadn’t, he just shrugged his shoulders. “Does it hurt your feelings that he didn’t call?” I asked. “I don’t care.” He mumbled. But here’s the thing, he does care or he wouldn’t have asked. He just doesn’t express his emotions. (He is his father’s son.) I’ll tell you what. I’m hurt for him.
I plan on calling his coach tomorrow morning and leaving the following message.
“I was going to call you to tell you that I don’t know when Andrew will be back, but obviously, you couldn’t care less. It would have been nice if you had called to check on my son, to let him know that all of the time and hard work that he put into your practices meant something to you and to the team. But you didn’t and your silence spoke volumes. You have made it crystal clear with your silence that my son is of no value to your team. You don’t deserve to have my son on your team. I’ll be dropping the uniforms off in the office this afternoon**. GOOD DAY, SIR.”
I keep asking myself… Am I being too emotional about this? Should have called me back to check up on my son, even if it was only to find out when he’d be back at practice?
I mean, if that’s not something they do in high school because, you know, they’re not babies anymore and all that jazz, I’ll leave it alone. But I feel like he was wrong to not call me back. I feel like in not calling me back he was saying “WE DON’T NEED YOUR SON ON OUR TEAM, LADY.”
Everything in my gut is telling me to yank my son off the team and tell this loser to kiss my ass, but I don’t know anymore. I could be confusing my “gut” with my “thyroid” (because my thyroid is A TOTAL INSANE BITCH) and there’s a very good chance I should take a deep breath and let it go. And for the love of Bobs, I really should stop crying every time I think about it.
**updated to add: I really had no intention of pulling my son of the team. I was just being dramatic (shocking! I know!) when I wrote that. I don’t want to teach my son to be a quitter, nor do I want to scar him for life. However, I’m not above talking to his superior about how he’s treated my son. I do think there’s a healthy balance between letting my son learn from this experience without my interference, but also being an advocate on his behalf when I feel its warranted.
Dear God, parenting a teen is complicated as hell.
*UPDATE*
After reading through all of your comments and realizing that, while it would have been nice to have a phone call from the coach to let my son know he’s missed, I WAS being over emotional about it and quite possibly projecting MY issues onto my son and SO… this is what I did.
I called the coach. BUT! Not to bitch him out. I held my tongue and only told him what he absolutely needed to know.
“Hi Coach Farter. Just wanted to let you know Andrew is still not doing well so he won’t be at practice today. I’ll call you after we talk to the doctor today if there’s anything else you need to know. Hope you have a great day and if you have any questions, you can call me on my cell phone.”
And guess what? He called back within 5 minutes to let me know he got my message. He didn’t ask how Andrew was doing, but he did say it wasn’t a problem and he understood he needs to get better.
(Oh noes! Does Coach read my blog? Ha.)
I do want to say that I love that you are honest with me and not afraid to tell me when you think I’m over reacting. Sure, it’s not always pleasant to read, BUT, I am grateful to not be surrounded by a bunch of Yes Men. While we all love the “You Go Girl!” type comments, I think sometimes what we really need is someone to say “YOU’RE OVER REACTING! FOR GODS SAKE! DO NOT CALL THE COACH!”
Friday Night.
It’s been “One of Those Weeks.”
Staph infections, ear infections, water in the keyboard, mud in the carpet, flood in the garage and so on and so forth.
I’ve been looking forward to Friday night, so that I could pour me a glass of that minty stuff and try to put this week behind me.
The new bumps forming on my son arms lead me to believe our troubles aren’t over yet, but I plan on enjoying my adult beverage and forgetting my cares if only for a couple of hours.
mmmm, devil water.
If You Read My Blog, CHECK THIS.
I read on a few blogs that today is “Delurking Day.”
I did it last year and had every intention on writing every single person who came out of hiding to comment back.
That didn’t happen. Partly because I’m a quitter, but mostly because I didn’t expect so many people to participate.
I still have all of the emails saved because I still have this dream that I’m going to respond– but I think it’s time I admit that I failed you, Oh (former) Lurkers and I am sorry.
And even though I suck and didn’t respond to every single comment last time, I’m going to go ahead and do it again this year. If only because I sincerely LOVE to hear from the people who read here every day. Does that make me an asshole?
Don’t answer that.
Anyway… If you read this blog and have never commented, I would love to hear from you today.
Random Horse is all “COME ON… SAY-AAAY-AAA-AAY SOMETHING.”
***
(Coming up next: My Weight Gain, in Pictures. mmmmmm Belly Fat.)
Urgent Care Doctor: 0 Mommyblogger: 1
Me: Hi. I think my son might have the chicken pox. Help?
Urgent Care Doctor: Doesn’t look like chicken pox, but it could be! but probably not! but there’s nothing we can do anyway! so just give him benadryl and calamine lotion.
Shorty Mom (in my comments): I took my son in for a visit when he got up one morning complaining about a headache and dizziness. He had a spot on his hip the night before that I thought was another bout of ringworm we suffered with through the summer. That afternoon he had more red spots and I cringed at the thought of chicken pox. His doctor said to keep him away from pregnant women but she thought it was a staff infection and not the chicken pox. Staff infection was right when the antibiotic she prescribed started clearing them up within a couple of days. The longer they go untreated, the more they look like a big pimple. Hope you get it figured out!
Me: (googles staph infection) OH SHIT. I think it’s a staph infection. (calls my doctor. My doctor says bring him on my lunch hour.)
Diagnoisis? Staph infection (waiting for the culture to come back to find out more… but starting on antibiotics now.)
The thing that pisses me off the most is that they could have started treating it that night had either one of the doctors listened to me when I pointed out the large bumps on his arms. “It started with THESE TWO BUMPS RIGHT HERE.”
Didn’t even phase them. I pointed them out at least 5 times and they just went “hmm” every time. Had I not written about it on my blog, I probably would have just kept waiting to see if they got better on their own because they specifically told me THERE’S NOTHING WE CAN DO. IT WILL CLEAR UP ON IT’S OWN.
I love you, oh readers of my blog. I really, really do. And because I love you, I am going to try really hard to stop writing about my family’s medical problems because, enough already, yes?
Chicken.
My boys spent the night with their Grandparents on Saturday night. When they came home Sunday evening, The Teenager was covered with some little, some very large bumps on his face and arms.
Because I am a “Nut of a Mother!” I immediately freaked out.
“THE CHICKEN POX!!” I screamed.
“But he’s been vaccinated against the chicken pox! It can’t be!”
So for an entire day, I looked at pictures of The Pox online and I compulsively checked my son. They didn’t look like chicken pox, he hadn’t had a fever… as far as I know, he hadn’t been around anyone who had the chicken pox, so what in the hell?
Last night I took him to urgent care looking for answers.
“We can’t DO anything for chicken pox” snapped one of the nurses.
“I KNOW that.” I snapped back. “that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I need to know if it IS the chicken pox so I know if I can send him to school or not.”
Shut her rude ass up.
They receptionist had called ahead of time to let them know that it was “possible chicken pox” so I was SHOCKED to see that the doctor they sent to see us was pregnant.
Pregnant lady + chicken pox = me scared. What were they thinking? Wasn’t there a doctor there who wasn’t pregnant that they could have sent in? Anyway…
She put a pair of gloves on and began to examine my son.
“Hmmm” she said. “It doesn’t look like chicken pox. But… It could be!”
Naturally, I was like “WTF does that mean? Does he have it or doesn’t he?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, it doesn’t look like typical chicken pox, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not chicken pox.”
She went to get another doctor to get a second opinion.
I was hopeful that the new doctor would give me an answer.
She came in, examined him carefully and said “I don’t know. It could be, but then again, it might not be.”
So, basically “your guess is our good as ours, but thanks for wasting an hour of your life and $10 on a co-pay!”
I have no idea if it is or isn’t chicken pox, but either way, I’m trying to keep both of the other kids away from him and when you have a little girl who thinks her big brubber is The Son of God, it’s NOT easy.
“But, I LOOOOOOOOVE HIM SO MUUUUUCH I WANT TO HUUUUUUG HIM MOMMEEEEEE PLEEEEASE?”
Maybe I’ll let her eat some cookie dough to distract her!
Good Lord– The Cookie Dough. I had no idea that Cookie Dough was SO SERIOUS.
The Pro-Doughs are all:
“Let your little girl enjoy her childhood! How dare you take away the joy of raw cookie dough from her! She has a greater chance of dying from a car accident then from raw egg you freak!”
Meanwhile, The Anti-Doughs are all:
“I will NEVER let my kids eat anything with raw egg in it. WHY WOULD I PUT SOMETHING IN THEIR MOUTH THAT COULD POSSIBLY KILL THEM?!”
Honestly, the reaction to that post (which, by the way, I almost deleted because I thought “who’s going to care about stupid cookie dough?”) is going on the list of “Reasons That I Love The Internet”, right next to Her blog.
I really enjoyed reading through all of your opinions on The Dough and am thinking that maybe I’ll start a weekly installment of “am I crazy for not letting my kids…”
Because if I loved hearing the different opinions on COOKIE DOUGH! I can only imagine what would be in store for me if I wrote about about the time I refused to let my boys eat the food from a Mexican caterer that I saw pick up pieces of raw chicken with her bare hands and then walk over and pick up tortillas with those same hands without washing them first. (Although, I think that raw chicken is worse than raw egg and no one could call me crazy for that, would they? Or, would they?)
Or maybe I’m just looking for a little validation from The Internet that I’m not crazy.
Ha.