Success In All Measures.

I thought I'd start running and hate it. I thought I'd keep running and learn to deal with it, even if I still didn't like it. I thought I'd keep going a few more weeks and run a 5k and smile and feel proud. And I thought, somewhere in the middle of it, that I'd be melting away pounds like nobody's business.
Well, technically it IS nobody's business, but that has not happened. I did start running and hate it, then keep running and learn to deal with it. I kept going, and in just over 2 weeks I'll be running a 5k ON my birthday, which is all kinds of amazing and pride-inspiring. And yet, 8 weeks into this new goal of mine, I'm down half a pound. HALF a pound is not exactly melting away, you know?

Shit, at this rate it will only take me 508 more weeks to hit my goal weight.

So there you have it. And this morning when I stepped on the scale and saw that I'm barely floating half a pound below my start weight and I'm running 3 days a week, I went into self-sabotage mode in my mind. For breakfast I was good, but by lunchtime I was tempted to scrap my healthy low-point lunch and run out for something delicious and indulgent. I wanted cookies and chocolate bars. I contemplated wine with dinner and an ice cream cone after.

But I didn't do it. I stuck to my planned breakfast and lunch and opted for a salad with dressing on the side for dinner. I even skipped dessert and went for a run.

And I guess it paid off, because while I was logging my run tonight I discovered I HAVE made progress. I log my miles and minutes, so an easy math calculation can tell me how fast I'm running, and it has been pretty underwhelming so far. I mean, I knew I was slow, but I didn't know I was running around a 14 minute mile until I found the map my run site. But tonight I did something different: I ran on main roads. Usually I run in my neighborhood, up and down residential streets. I prefer it that way because I almost never see anyone while on my run, so I don't feel self-concious about my speed or how I look while running. Tonight, though, I did about 80% of my run on main streets around my neighborhood. It not only made me keep going a bit faster than usual, it also felt a little safer to me.

And the results are real: my running time was just over a 12 minute mile today. That means that while I've barely shed half a pound in 8 weeks, I have managed to increase my run time by about 2 minutes per mile in just over 2 weeks. At this rate, I might just finish that 5k in under 40 minutes!

And, yes, I promise I will be happy with that!

Weak, Too.

Tonight I started Week 2 of training for January's 5K. Technically, I was supposed to start last night, but my husband wanted to take me to see Breaking Dawn. And when one's husband offers to take one to see a decidedly teenie-bopper chick flick when one and her husband are decidedly NOT teenagers, one must agree. So i skipped night 1 of training last night and did it tonight instead.

Week 1 was a 5 minute walk, then 8 intervals of 60 seconds of jogging followed by 90 seconds of running, then 5 more minutes of walking. By the end of the week, I was definitely comfortable witht hat routine and in no rush to change it up at all. So I was not looking forward to this week, which shifted my routine to 5 minutes of walking, 6 intervals of 90 seconds running and 2 minutes walking, and another 5 minutes of walking.

It wasn't fast. It wasn't easy. It sure as hell was NOT graceful. But I did it.

I think, however, I may be the only poor soul in the world who could GAIN 3 pounds after a week of cooking healthy meals at home and starting a running routine.

Either way. I'm moving forward.

Colorfied.

The reason I am training using Couch to 5k? The Color Run! Not much could get me off my ass faster than the idea of being pelted by soft powder in rainbow hues. That's pretty much my dream come true. And to do it on my birthday, joined by friends? Perfection.

With week 1 of training over, however, I've realized I have really far to go. The good news is I'm able to complete the training using this podcast. it's a 5 minute brisk walk for warm-up, then alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of brisk walking 8 times, then 5 more minutes of walking to cool down. I love that I just hit play and the music starts while someone orders me around and tells me when to do what. It's so mindless, which is exactly what I need. If I had to use a stopwatch or a pedometer or any other tool, I'd be a lost cause.

My body, however, hurts. It's mainly my feet, which could probably use some new shoes fitted to my particular needs. But other than the pain, I am really finding myself looking forward to moving on to the next week. The first week definitely challenged me and pushed me out of my comfort zone, so I expect the second week is going to majorly suck ass. But I'm ready!

That's Life.

This week was not a banner week for me in terms of WW. I did well with the eating and exercise, but sort of blew it all by going out to mexican food with friends who were in town for the week.

Here's how I dealt with that: I ordered a skinny (125 calorie) margarita and chicken street tacos (under 500 calories). And I ate chips. And, I went to the meeting today knowing I was probably going to see a gain. And I did. And you know what? I am ok with it. As my meeting leader said to me today, "That # isn't the truth. Your week was the truth." And my week was something I was pretty proud of. For this to be a lifestyle for me, I have to be able to splurge on mexican food and a margarita and not stress over it showing on the scale.

Look, everyone wants to get on the scale and see a smaller number every week. I'm no different. But I also am willing to accept that life happens and I'm not going to give up a night out with friends for a smaller number in the morning. Also, I'm proud of the dinner choice I made. In the past, I would have ordered up a bean burrito with a side of sour cream and a normal margarita and eaten endless chips. Was I a dietician's dream? No way. Was I a healthier version of me? Yep.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

For workouts, I've been mixing up netflix DVDs that you can get with just a streaming membership. It costs me something like $7/month and I watch 4-5 a week, which is close enough to free for me. I mix up boot camp, pilates, yoga, dance/salsa/zumba style, and general cardio workouts. There are some days when I've worked out the night before and wake up feeling it in my legs and glutes and abs and shoulders. And there are other mornings when, the night before I got super sweaty and I wake up in the morning not even feeling it and wondering whether or not it was worth it. It's always worth it. I might wake up tomorrow and wish I'd said no to pretzel M&Ms, but I know for a fact I won't wake up tomorrow and regret the workout I did tonight.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

On a different note, I've had several moments this year when I've done something kind for someone and been the recipient of random acts of kindness in return. Like the time I bought the coffee and donut for the guy behind me in the Dunkin drive through, and a week later the man in front of me bought my coffee at Circle K. I don't do it for the reward. Or the praise. Or the hope that someone will 'get me back' for it. I do it because it's the kind of thing the person I strive to be would do. The person I strive to be would see the girl dressed in heels and a pencil skirt looking paranoid over her shoulder as she went into Circle K and a disheveled man followed her, and would go inside and offer that other girl a ride. The girl I want to be would hold open the door for the mom with a double stroller who's obviously stressed and struggling to get through as not 1 but THREE men stand behind her and wait impatiently for her to get out of their way. The person I hope I am would see a girl in line in front of her at the gas station have her card declined, then see that same girl and her young son sitting in the parking lot looking lost and would insist that she take $5 to get enough gas to get home.

But more than doing things because they are examples of the person I want to imagine myself into being, I do them because I want my kids to see. I want to be an example of how we treat others: with kindness and respect and humor and heart. I want them to know that it's ok to help someone you don't know who looks scared and in need. That it's kind to lend an able hand to someone struggling. That sometimes $5 to a mom whose car window is duct-taped up might make the difference in her week. And when I see the way my kids think and feel and process, I have a true glimmer of hope that it's working and paying off. I took them both to Goodwill yesterday in search of a bookshelf for their books. It was almost lunchtime and they were restless. And Goodwill is a haven for curious hands and wild toddlers. Maybe it was the novelty of having a weekday off with both kids, alone, but my patience was at a maximum and they were doing such an amazing job of listening to my 'rules'. As we headed down an aisle, a woman stopped me. "Mom," she said, "I like how you talk to those kids. And I can tell they have good parents because they are just so well-behaved. It makes this old lady so happy to see you young parents doing things right and raising up your kids with kindness." I almost cried. We talked for a few minutes and I thanked her from my heart for taking the 20 seconds it took to brighten my entire week.

Words have power. Kindness has power, and it grows exponentially.

Facing Reality.

I really, really thought I could lose weight if I was diligent about following Weight Watchers. I've never been a particularly unhealthy eater, but I tend to fall back on fast food and sweets when it's hot/I'm too tired to cook/I had a long day/I'm hungry NOW/I could really use something delicious to cap off a meal. So, naturally, I assumed that I could cut down on those fast food runs/late night freezer dives and the pounds would simply drop off.

That only worked for the first 4 pounds. Literally, changing my eating habits dropped 4 pounds immediately. Everything after that has come off slowly, through dedication and some self-discipline. We've all but 100% cut out fast food, opting only for the ocassional weekend run to McDonald's for breakfast or Kids' Night at Chick Fil A. And even when we do that, I'm eating the breakfast sandwich with no meat and with half the bread or a salad with grilled chicken and just a few stolen waffle fries. I've replaced my ice cream and cookies with Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches and smoothies made of fat free yogurt, ice, and fruit.

And still...the scale ever so painfully inches down by ounces.

Finally, I admitted to myself that I was either going to have to make another big change OR I was bound to give up, go back to eating whatever I want, and gain back what I'd lost plus a few bonus pounds. So, the big change came a few weeks ago when I bit the bullet and started working out again. It started as a little challenge with a good friend to help keep us accountable. I expected one or both of us would lose steam and next thing you know we'd probably find ourselves helping each other make excuses. In other words, I underestimated us.

I've done challenges before. I've tried to lose weight or exercise with friends before. And it never worked. Because there was never accountability and there was never honesty. AND I always felt like I didn't have to keep up my end of the bargain because whomever I was challenging was in it to win it, not in it to be successful together. That's the key for me this time: we're challenging each other to succeed together, not so someone can win.

In the past 3 weeks, I've worked out 3-5 times a week. It's not easy. It's not always fun. The other night I tried my best to keep up with some insane Netflix streaming version of zumba that was so fast-paced and complex I ended up frustrated and almost crying. I sweat a lot. Sometimes, I catch site of my reflection in the back door window and I am embarassed with myself. I have to work out late at night, and I end up compromising my sleep for the workout, which probably has its own set of potential problems. Some nights, I would rather go to bed early and read than get up off the couch after everyone else is tucked in and snoozing.

But I do it. I get up and make a fool of myself in front of no one but me and the ladies on TV. I sweat. I curse when I can't keep up. I feel it the next day in my glutes or my thighs or my abs or my arms. I report back to my friend, telling her what I loved and hated about the workout for the night and deciding whether to keep the DVD in my queue or give it zero stars.

And the next night, I do it again.

Last weekend, over the 4th of July, our TV sat in our garage and our stove sat in our backyard waiting to be replaced by a new stove. We went out for almost every meal. I didn't do a single workout. I did, however, spend hours a day sweating and installing flooring. And still, by the time Wednesday's WI came around, I expected a maintain or a gain. I was ok with either, knowing I hadn't stayed on track and I hadn't followed plan. But I HAD worked out 4 times throughout the week, and loss or no loss I was counting that as a success.

I lost almost a pound last week. And you know what? I was happy. I feel motivated to keep going, and optimistic to weigh in this week. And despite my natural inclination toward laziness, I'm willing to admit that my husband (and you, anonymous) was right and exercise might really have been the missing piece to my weight loss puzzle.

"Slower Is Faster Than Never"

Today in our WW meeting, someone said the phrase, "Slower is faster than never" and it really rang true for me.

I don't know if I'll ever be ok with how slowly I lose weight. I mean, who wants delayed gratification when the instant variety seems so much more fun? I know this is something I just have to accept as truth about my body: I'm not going to lose weight quickly. I never have, no matter what changes I've made in my life. I lost 24 pounds on WW once, but it took me just over a year to do so. I will lose weight on WW this time, but it's going to take me a long time to get to my goal. And while I don't know if I'll ever truly be 'ok' with that, I have at least come to terms with it being my reality.

Slower IS faster than never. I just would prefer Faster,because Faster is Faster than Slower. Is that so wrong?

----------------------------------------------------------------

One of my friends is also doing WW, and though we live too far apart to do meetings together, we do keep in constant contact to support each other and check in. For both of us, staying 'On Plan' in terms of eating within our points and meeting the WW Healthy Guidelines is totally manageable, but we struggle with getting in exercise.

I'll admit, I'm the first to make excuses that keep me from getting in exercise. It's hot. I'm tired. I don't have time. I already wake super early, and any earlier would kill me. I don't like being sweaty. We can't afford the gym membership. I don't like to run. I don't like to work out at night.

But you know what? I know those are just excuses. I know I need to prioritize better and make time. Find the energy. Get over my aversion to sweat. Put myself and my health first more often.

So (thanks for the prodding, Anonymous) this week we started a new 'challenge' of sorts, though it's less a challenge and more a fun tool for keeping both my friend and me active. We discovered we both have Netflix streaming through game systems in our houses, so we made a pact. Each week, we aim to work out at least 3 nights a week. To keep each other going, we have a system. At the start of the week, we each choose 2 workout DVDs that can be streamed, for a total of 4 workouts. During the week, we each have to do at least 3 of the 4 workouts, and preferably all 4. Granted, we just started this week, but so far I'm loving having someone to exercise 'with' and being motivated by not wanting to 'let her down'. I know she wouldn't judge me if I didn't complete every week, but I also know how much she's going to encourage me when I do. And it's nice to get a little shove outside of my comfort zone and be forced to do DVDs I might not have chosen that add some variety to my week.

I only lost about a half a pound this week, which was sort of a let-down after working out 4 times. Last night, I laid in bed with my head on my pillow and my mind starting to fuzz at the corners, and a thought came to me: This week has been a success. I may not have a huge weight loss to brag about. No one but me will notice a difference for several more pounds, I'm sure. I'm still far from all my goals. But you know what? I notice a difference. I like the glow in my cheeks when I am done working out. I like laughing with my co-workers the next day and feeling a burn in my ab muscles. Hell, I like being able to tell I still have ab muscles. Working out makes me feel good. Strong. Capable. Healthy. It's not a magic pill. It won't change my body overnight. It won't make weight loss infinitely easier. But it WILL be good for me.

I rolled over onto my (sore) tummy to sleep, and thought to myself, "That's going to hurt tomorrow." And smiled.

This Body: Will I Ever Be Happy?

"When in your life have you most liked your body?" my co-worker asked me.

I had no answer, at first. I thought back of the many versions of my body over the years. Me in high school, insecure and sure I didn't have a boyfriend because I didn't have a teeny waist. Me in college, packing on the weight and then picking away at it with Weight Watchers and hour-long sessions on the workout bike while watching Paradise Island. Me now, so uncomfortable and ungainly in my body that I sometimes find myself standing talking to someone and realize my hands have subconsciously gone in the pocket of my jeans and are pressing into the fat on my hips. Me, in junior high, lying on the floor on my back and feeling how my tummy still jutted above my hipbones while noticing that didn't happen for some of my friends and feeling jealous of their concave bellies. Me, freshman year of high school, awkward and chubby in my ill-fitting one-piece, swimming with my tall thin friend in her bikini and my curvy friend in her Speedo with the very high cut legs.

"Never," I answered her. And instantly I felt like a failure. For never loving my body. And for never doing something to really change it. "I came close, once," I said, "around the time I got married. I was ok with my weight, but I needed to tone up. It never happened."

Me, 3 years after our wedding and about 15 pounds over wedding weight. Honestly? I'd settle for being that size right now, and at the time I thought I needed to lose about 20 pounds.

How sad is that??? How awful is it that there's not a single point in my life when I can remember really, truly loving my body. Aside from the few months around my wedding day when I was almost to my goal weight and working out 3-5 days a week, the only other time I liked my body at all was when I was pregnant with Luca. I was a bit self-conscious as my boobs grew a cup size in the first 6 weeks and my belly looked more 'too much burrito' than 'cute little baby' for the first half of my pregnancy. But I also really, really loved being pregnant. I loved that belly, and I felt pretty good about what my body was capable of doing.

Just about done with my pregnancy with Luca. This was probably about 37-39 weeks, and other than looking super exhausted I feel good about that body.

The thing is, this co-worker? She's 5'6" and a size 4-6. She is adorable and has almost no fat on her body. And when I posed the same question back to her, her answer was almost the same as mine. "Never," she said to me. "When I was skinnier I wanted more curves. When I was in high school I hated being pale and flat chested. Now, I wish I could get rid of my thighs and tone up."

I guess I forget, that somewhere deep inside most women have body insecurities. Sometimes I struggle about talking openly about my journey to get healthier and lose weight. I worry what people will think of me. I worry I am opening myself up for other people to criticize and analyze. And then I remember: I'm no different than the average woman, whether that woman is a size 4 who longs for more womanly curves, a size 14 who wishes she was her high school size 10, or a size 24 who just wants to be able to ride coach in an airplane without feeling the armrests pinch into her hips and the scorn on the faces of the people in her row. We all struggle, in our own unique ways.

This week, I decided to do something just for me. Something that will make me feel better about my body. After everyone is in bed at night, I spend 30-60 minutes working out (THANK YOU streaming Netflix on my hubby's X Box!), and then I spend 10 minutes or so just reading quietly, in a quiet house. It's only been a few days, but already I'm remembering how much I really DO enjoy spending time caring for my body and waking up the next day feeling it in every muscle group I forgot I had.



Anger Managed.

Remember last week, when I was mad as hell (at myself? at the fates? at scales? at cake?) that I'd maintained? And I vowed to use that anger and frustration to propel me forward this week?

It worked. I'm not condoning anger or anything here, but the truth is that I lost 2 pounds this week. And I did it the old-fashioned way: I watched the hell out of every bite that I ate and stopped eating when I was satisfied rather than stuffed. I had salads for dinner or lunch (sometimes both) most days. I ate a light but healthy breakfast. I didn't overdo it on desserts, but I did eat 2 pieces of chocolate cake and a bowl of Hagen Daas over the weekend. YES! I ate them and I STILL lost. And I'm so happy the scale moved for me this week, but I'm not quite willing to let go of the scale grudge that helped bust my mini-setback just yet.

A good friend of mine is also on WW, and when I told her I maintained last week and I wasn't happy, she tried to soothe me off the edge and remind me that, in the world of WW, maintaining is a success. After all, it's better than gaining, and sometimes maintaining is harder that any other part of the journey.

But here's the thing: I won't be happy about maintaining. I won't be happy about the status quo. Being satisfied that 'at least I didn't gain anything' is not part of my weight loss journey because that attitude is what has me here, on WW having started out at the same weight as I've been since a few months after Rohan's birth.

Rohan turned 2 in March. MARCH! Being happy not to have gained any weight in the past 2 years is not ok with me. Accepting a maintenance week very rarely would be ok, but accepting maintenance is like saying I'm ok with my weight. And I'm not. Believe me, I sometimes wish I could be fat and happy and eat cake with abandon, but in the end being fat makes me miserable.

It really struck home with me this weekend because we're finally starting to get 'summer' weather in Arizona, and all our family and friends with pools have been inviting us over. I LOVE water. I LOVE to swim. I would rather staple my face to the floor than put on a swimsuit in front of anyone aside from my husband and kids. And yet...the water calls, and so do those sweet little monsters who love swimming (by swimming I mean being chauffered around the pool in floaties or arms since neither of them actually knows how to swim yet). So far, I've been able to sit on the sidelines and put in my feet while everyone else swims, but this summer Luca's onto my game. And she's not having it. Every time we go swimming somewhere, she asks me to get in the wate with her, and when she does that in front of people, how do I say no? I don't mean that as in 'I can't say no to my Princess'. I mean it as in, I can't so no in front of other people because then she will ask why and am I really supposed to say, "Well, mommy's ass is so big she'd prefer not to embarass herself by wearing a swimsuit in front of people."?? I can't say that, partly because it would be embarassing as hell and partly because I don't want my daughter to be the victim of my personal insecurities.

So, twice this weekend I went swimming. In front of family. Most of it, skinny family who I was sure love me and yet whom I have no desire to bear my fat thighs and gross belly to. Faced with the choice, I had fun with my kids, but I covered up while doing so. Not in some cute swimsuit designed to hide all 'problem areas' (which, I have a problem with those suits too because not much screams "Look at my thighs!" than a swimsuit attempting to look chic while covering said thighs). Nope. In one of my husband's huge shirts.

It was shameful, really. There's a certain shame attached to being the person wearing the big t-shirt in the pool. Everyone knows it's not really to block the sun. Everyone knows it's really to block them from seeing you. And much like the swimsuits with skirts, it probably serves to call MORE attention to my discomfort with my body than if I'd just walked out in a swimsuit, dropped the towel, and pretended not to care that I'm fat.

In a way, it's a good thing I had those 2 experiences this weekend. They reminded me, sharply and painfully, why I'm trying to work on transforming my body and my health. They refocused me. They gave me something to work toward. Someday, a swimsuit in public with no big t-shirt. Someday.

Which brings me back to today. I'm beyond proud to have lost 2 pounds this week, but I'm not letting go of the frustration that helped me get there. I'm going to hold onto that feeling because it helps me stay on track, focus on where I want to go, and avoid falling into a state of not giving a shit anymore. That state only got me where I am today, and I'm not interested in staying here.

Sabbatical for Mary Sunshine.

I'm taking a temporary hiatus from optimism. Not in general, in life holistically, but when it comes to weight loss. God, I am so flipping SICK of talking about weight loss. I have been struggling and struggling to lose weight for so much of my life now that it makes me physically repulsed to think about it. How much more time am I going to spend obsessing over my body and the scale and the size on the tag and what I am eating vs what I am not eating? And, probably more to the point, how much time am I going to spend doing all that obsessing and still not seeing the results I think I should see?

I went to WI today, and I maintained. Now, the world of WW would tell you that maintaining is a success, because to maintain > to gain. Sure, sure, I get that. And of course I'd rather stay the same than gain. But does that mean I have to be happy to have maintained? Because, you know what? I don't want to be happy about maintaining. I am feeling pissed and frustrated, and rather than burying those feelings under false positivity and optimism, I want to embrace pissed and frustrated.

If I hadn't been trying, really truly trying, I would be more accepting of no loss. But this week? This week I counted my points, stayed in range ocassionally using a flex point or two (you get 49 for the week, which can be used in 1 day or over the week...or not at all). For fuck's sake, I even ignored National Donut Day even though a boston creme and an apple fritter (yes, I said AND) from the best donut place in town sounded like heaven (warm, soft, chewy, golden, delicious, frosted heaven) on a plate. I went out for Mexican food and ordered a SALAD. Where is my reward for that?!?!

Don't get me wrong: I am not quitting WW or throwing in the towel and diving into a gallon of ice cream, tempting as those options may be. I'm just taking a break from trying to put on a happy face, and using my piss-poor outlook on this whole endeavor to my advantage. How? Well, if you didn't already know this about me, you should know that nothing propels me quite like blind fury. And blind fury is what I am feeling (toward myself? toward food? toward the scale? toward the fates that handed me this body instead of this one or this one or even this one who is ROCKING the body confidence despite being a 'bigger' girl). (PS: Did you know if you Google image search 'full figured women in Hollywood' Jennifer Lopez and Scarlett Johansson come up? Is this for real? Now I am even MORE pissed.) So I'm using it to make myself do better, be better, and get these stupid pounds to go away for good. I WILL hit my goal, dammit.

But in the meantime, I'm done with mantras about how any loss is a good loss and it takes time and this is the healthy way to do it and nothing tastes better than skinny feels. It's not that those things are untrue, it's just that they are not helping me. Want me to win at bowling or pool? Piss me off. Want a clean kitchen in 15 minutes or less? Pick a fight with me and leave me steaming mad. Here's hoping this same thing works for weight loss, because I am pissed off and not giving up on myself without a fight.

Fat Thighs.

It's a lot of pressure, raising a daughter.

When I was pregnant with her, I didn't want to raise a little girl who was cloaked in pink and frills. I asked people not to buy her pink clothes and pink toys. I didn't want the image of 'little princess' imprinted in all her earliest memories.

When I was pregnant with her, I hoped she'd be smart and funny first, beautiful later. You can make yourself look prettier on the outside, but I've rarely met a person who was funny without being smart. Pretty opens doors; smart and funny open possibilities far into the future. Beauty fades, but the ability to think critically and laugh with your whole body make you infinitely more beautiful to the core.

When I was pregnant with her, I was going to teach her everything it takes to be a woman, inside and out. I was going to be the kind of woman I want her to be some day.

Luca got lucky. I'm biased, I realize, but she has a face that draws praise from strangers for its delicate sloping nose and wide green eyes and rosebud lips. She has legs that are long and thin, a tall and lean body I now hope, as her mother, she will carry into adulthood.

Not because it matters to me whether the world sees her as beautiful. But because, as her mom, I want to protect her. And I know that growing up beautiful, and tall, and thin, and blonde might make her life immeasurably easier.

It's not in my nature to wish for a pretty little girl in a princess dress, flitting about and charming everyone around. I hope that, as she grows, she hears more compliments on her sweetness and kindness and sense of humor than she does on mile-long lashes and soft blonde hair that falls just so. I hope that for every, "She's so pretty!" she overhears, she is told 100 direct, "You're smart/capable/kind/loving/funny/a wonderful friend/daughter/sister."

But how do I marry these wishes for my daughter's sense of self-worth and value with my own obsession over my physical self? How do I follow Weight Watchers and weigh and measure everything on my plate while hoping she grows up with a healthy love of all kinds of foods and without an obsession over calories and fat? How do I stop myself from self-criticism and obsession over my mama belly and my fat thighs so that she doesn't internalize her mom's body issues? How do I explain to her that the dress she chose for me to wear is cute, but I won't feel comfortable wearing it again until _____ (I'm 20 pounds lighter, my legs aren't so pale, the world recognizes beauty in a mother's body)?

How do I tell her to love herself as she is when it's so hard to do that myself?

We talk about food to our kids, in terms of health and nutrition. In terms of, "That will make you strong so you can dance and play." or, "You're so smart and your brain needs good foods to keep growing smarter." We encourage them to run and jump and play. We take them outside, coat them in sunblock, and talk about how strong and healthy and capable they are.

And then, I count Points and horde a stack of jeans that used to fit me in the back corner of my closet, hopefully optimistic that if I just Do It All Right I will fit in them once again someday. I live with an image in my mind of who I could be and how I could look, if only I hold myself to impeccable standards and never lose sight of my goals.

A few months ago, Luca was changing her clothes and she stopped to grab her thigh. "Mama, I have fat thighs! I'll always have these big legs." she announced. It was an offhand comment, and one that wasn't rooted in any real belief that she did have fat thighs. It wasn't based in reality, as anyone who's ever met her could attest to, with her pin-thin legs. It was repeated, almost verbatim, from a comment my husband's mother had made about her own body the day before. We talked about her comment, and how it wasn't true at all. I asked her why she said it. She told me what I already knew: "Well, Gramma said she has fat thighs, mama. So maybe I do too."

"Luca," I asked, "what do you think about Gramma?"
"I love her," she replied. "I think she is beautiful."
"So do I," I answered. "So, let's make a deal. Next time you hear her say something about her thighs, you tell her what you think about her. So when she says 'I have fat thighs' what could you say back?"
"Well," she thinks through it aloud, "I would tell her 'I think you are beautiful'."

And she does. In Luca's eyes, her Grandma is nothing short of beautiful. I watch them together, Luca sitting on Grandma's lap and noticing the same curve of her smile, the same dimple just below the right corner of their mouths. I know that when she looks at her Grandma, she sees herself in many ways. And then I realize, she must feel the same way when she looks at me. And I think about what it says to her when the world compliments her natural beauty and the people she identifies with most in the world are distracted by calling out each of their own perceived flaws.

When someone she loves and admires and sees as a fiber in the fabric that defines her calls themself ugly or imperfect, how could she not grow up expecting to be flawed in the same ways?

I am guilty of saying things about myself in front of her that I have no doubt I'd be heartbroken to hear her say about herself. I am learning as I go, both to be careful how I speak of my own body and being for her sake and to change how I perceive the importance of the size of my thighs or the softness of my belly for both our sakes. I am not perfect. I may never be. I can only work to be better, and hope that I can impart on her a positive self-image that isn't rooted in her physical appearance.

And it's not just for me and for her. It's for my son, too. For the boy who will grow up with his mother and his sister as models of how women look and how they are 'supposed' to look. He's drinking it all in just like she is, and his earliest memories of the female body and how we feel about it, as well as how he's supposed to judge it, are created now. So if I can't stop the self-criticism for my own sake, I want to try to stop it for both of theirs. I want her to grow up with a positive message about how the women in her life feel about their bodies and just how unimportant that single piece is in determining their total worth. I want her to see that my belly may not be flat, but neither is my personality, and that being a kind and smart and capable and funny woman carries more weight than a pound of flesh. And I want my son to know that a woman is more than the curve of her hip or the size of her jeans.

I think we're off to the right start, but I know it will be a lifelong uphill battle. My son regularly watches me get ready in the morning, and lovingly touches the belly that's marred with proof that he once inhabited it. He loves to melt into my curves when he's sleepy and gently knead my upper arms with his hand. Those arms I don't want to show in public because I think they are too fat bring him comfort. My daughter often tells me I am pretty and points out all the ways she will 'be like me someday', a sense of pride and security in her voice. She is not worried she will inherit my fat thighs or my skinny ankles. She is, instead, optimistic about growing up to be just like me.

The day I wouldn't put on the dress she wanted me to wear, my husband kept pressing the issue. Asking me why I wouldn't just wear it. It was pretty, he assured me. But I didn't like how I looked in it, I told him. "I don't understand," he said in response. "For centuries women would have done anything to have a body like yours. There are millions of women who would kill for curves like women are supposed to have. So why isn't it good enough for you?"

Good question.

By the Numbers.

This morning I stepped onto the scale, and discovered I am down again, getting me to my first weight loss milestone, 5%. While 5% sounds so miniscule I could feel a bit depressed about how many more percents I want to add to it, I am trying to focus on the positives. And, it turns out, they are many:

From http://www.weightwatchers.com/:

"For most people 5 percent is enough to reduce the risk of developing type 2 diabetes. Your weight-loss success may also mean that you help to lower your blood pressure. There are many other health benefits, too – research has shown that a loss of 5 percent–10 percent of your starting body weight can make a real difference.


Health benefits:
~Lowers your body’s cholesterol levels
~Can improve blood sugar control
~Reduces aches and pains
~Improves mobility
~Can improve your breathing
~Helps you to sleep better
~Reduces the risk of sleep apnea
~Helps prevent angina – chest pain caused by decreased oxygen to the heart.
~Decreased your risk of sudden death from heart disease or stroke
~May stop the need from regular medication
~Reduces the risk of certain cancers

Here's the even cooler thing: on this plan, I don't feel like I'm giving things up. I mean, sure I have to decide to have a salad with grilled chicken and a few bites of cheese pizza rather than 3 slices of pizza smothered in parmesan. But if I get hungry, I always have a go-to snack in fruit (bless the zero point fruits on WW!). And I find myself not even hitting my target points most days, much less using the flex points. Not only that, but while the evenings are so amazing here we're taking advantage by walking with the kids in the wagon every night we can. This is great not only for the health benefits, but the kids love it and seem to sleep better after their evening dose of crisp, fresh air. And Darrick and I? Well, that time together without the distractions of the little ones (who contentedly play together and make each other laugh and do battle over the sippy cup of water we bring with them) or a TV or a dog breathing her snarf breath in our faces or the dishes to be done or or or or....it's doing great things for us. We get home, eat dinner, hang out for a bit, then all head out together for a walk. Sometimes we talk the whole way. Sometimes we walk in silence. Most of the time the evening's quiet darkness is punctuated with various conversations and laughter.
---------------------------------------------------------------

I'm almost humiliated to admit what a difference not shopping mindlessly has made for me...and by proxy for us as a family. I went through our bank statement for last January, added up the 'fun spending' and the amount I put toward that totally useless part of our budget was shocking. Avoiding falling into that mindless money management has been a bit more challenging that I'd like to admit, but I've managed and honestly for every time I've desperately wanted to just browse the clearance racks at my local Target, I've had more times when I've felt sweet relief while peeking at our checking account balance.

Here's where I admit a dirty secret: January 2011 will be the first month since Rohan started daycare in August 2009 when I haven't held my breath in suspense, anxiety gnawing at my belly, while checking our account balance. So far this month I've saved $300 over last year just by keeping my debit card in my wallet. And it would have been even more ($100 more) had I not needed a new laptop power cord (a necessity in our house since the laptop is our only computer and we do so much of our daily tasks online) and a new memory card for my camera (also a necessity given the thousands of pictures I take a month). That savings is not too shabby and even more impressive is that one of my Target trips this month totaled $28.11. That's pretty much unheard of, right? I think Target automatically debits $60 from my checking account each time I walk through their front doors!

So when I open my account summary online now, I feel about $300 less anxiety. It's a great feeling to know that I don't have to scrimp and save all this week while we wait for our paychecks to come through on Friday. It's nice to know we can still go out to eat (salad for me, dressing on the side please) once or twice a week and rent a few movies without once having the "Do we have enough money in the account right now to cover this?" conversation in earnest.

Full.

Oranges. Pears. Bananas. More oranges.

This has been my diet, and while it feels a bit like torture not to be able to slather bread in peanut butter or eat a hunk of extra sharp cheddar cheese while cooking dinner, it also feels really, really good.

I almost forgot how much I enjoy healthy, fresh foods. And as an extension of enjoying the healthy foods I've been eating, I find myself drinking less diet soda and hot chocolate and going for long walks after dinner. We tuck the kids into their red wagon and give them a soft white blanket to snuggle, and away we go down dark neighborhood streets breathing in the crisp air of Arizona's January nights. I'm pulling something around 80 pounds when I pull them around, and yet it feels good to have a little burn in my steps. I'm thinking of the grilled boneless skinless chicken breasts and grilled eggplant I had for dinner and feeling satisfied. Satisfied, even though I didn't finish the pile of fluffy mashed potatoes I'd allowed myself as an indulgence. Satisfied, perhaps because I didn't wish for more when my plate was empty, save for that lonely lump of potato goodness.

I replenish with water and an orange, sweet and juicy and cold from the night air, having been picked as we made our way across our front yard and into the warm house. I am on, and when I'm on like this I am also on top of the world. I feel strong and healthy and solidly grounded in health.

And lighter, by 4 pounds. Which is but a tiny sliver of all I want to be rid of, but a victory no less. My husband asked me tonight what made me get back on track and where I got my focus. I've been here before, and slid down the hill of store bought frosting and into a puddle of whole milk turned mocha with pure Hershey's syrup. I've been here and caved or made excuses or decided that as long as my kids and my husband love me, then who cares.

Who cares? Namely: Me. It might have been slipping back into real work clothes after a little more than 2 weeks of days off and Christmas treats and jammies that stay on all day and into the night. It could have been the desire to possibly have another kid someday without propelling myself to a weight I can't even bear to imagine. Possibly it had something to do with the stack of pictures I printed for Luca's school, chief among which were many of my smiling mug and my many-pounds-smaller body. I have felt heavy in body and soul over the past year or two, and yet the fact that I lead a pretty amazing and full life has kept me where I am. But where I am, within my own self, is a place I don't like.

And so a week into it, I celebrate success with a healthy grilled meal, a small splurge in the form of mashed potatoes and 1/2 a cup of ice cream I shared with an eager little boy. I sat on the floor with my treat, served in an Ikea kids' bowl to make the small scoop look more filling, and he came over with his bear and his blankie clutched tightly to him. If you see him now, you no doubt will see him with these two friends who he greedily holds all day and night. Moving my hand aside, he plopped his heavy warm body into mine and said, "Lap!" and then, pointing to the spoon, smiled that golden smile of his and said, "Tare pease." His 's' is a 't' right now ("Mama ting!" to get a bedtime song from me or "Torry!" when he owes an apology), and it makes my heart skip and I spoon moutfuls of sweet mocha almond fudge to him until, several spoonfuls into it, he stands and says, "All done."

They provide me this lesson every day, and perhaps the greatest gift I have given my body is observing how they eat and taking note. They eat when hungry. They relish the things they love. They have fun. They laugh and giggle through dinner, and then they cross the invisible threshold to satisfied and they push away from the table (or stand up from where they sat in a lap) and say, "All done." They always make suer they stop while they are still enjoying themselves. And so can I.

And I did. And I will continue to, until I am as happy with what I see in pictures as I am with what I feel on the inside. I have made a choice to love and value myself and to do that which makes me feel good. It might mean I am not perfect, and I sneak a small scoop of M&Ms when the mid-afternoon work slump hits. But I am ok with that. I am committed, for both myself and those I love, to making this life a healthy one, and for once I have opened my mind up to this truth: It feels good.

My 3 Year Old Is Bad For My Self Esteem.

I was in the kitchen the other day, making breakfast for my family and just generally enjoying being in the midst of 4 days home together, when Luca wandered in with a Christmas ad.

Excited, she called to me, "Look, Mommy! Look!"

Thinking she was goign to show me something she wants for Christmas, I said, "What is it honey?"

"I found something for you! I will tell Santa you need THIS!"

I looked, and realized she was pointing to one of these:

Photo credit OneShotFitness.com

Sometimes, having a toddler in the house is killer on the ol' ego.

I Am Not This.

"I have a black suit that would fit you," she tells me. A plea of sorts.
("Get in the pool. Have fun!" is what she means.)
"Oh no, I'm ok. It's too...sunny...out? And um...I'll just sit in the shade"
(Lame. "I am far too fat and self conscious to put on spandex, even in front of you." is more the truth.)
(I mean. Really? 'Too sunny'? Is that the best I had?)

Disclosure: As I write this, I finish the mini- tub of ice cream I started 3 nights ago. It had Butterfinger bits in it.

And so I sat. On the patio. As my husband and my mother in law played with my kids in the pool. My husband, who really doesn't care how I look in black spandex. My mother in law, who offered me a suit with no apologies about what size it might be or whether or not she looked perfect in hers (she did). My kids, who love to feel my skin and play with my hair, and kiss my cheeks. Who think I am beautiful.

Lame. No. Not lame. Fucking foolish. I am fat and it's standing in my way. It stops me from shopping for cute clothes. It keeps me from ordering dessert, lest I be the fat chick pigging out on cake. It makes me embarrassed to feel on display. I do a presentation at work, and spend more time worrying about how fat I am from a particular angle than patting myself on the back for nailing it. I would rather do most anything than tell someone how much I weigh.

I refuse to swim with my kids or even wear shorts because I am too busy obsessing over how bad I look. This makes me an egotist. No one cares how bad I think I look nearly as much as they care how great I think they look.

I've started and stopped and started and stopped on Weight Watchers eleventy billion times since Rohan was born. Because, all of the above statements holding true, there's also this truth: I feel more beautiful as a mom than I ever did before. Twisted, right??? I am fatter than ever and hate my body. And, I love who I am and I feel beautiful. Worth it.

Tonight, I put on a swimsuit and jumped into a public pool. Figuratively only, of course, but it was painful enough, and yet freeing enough. I stepped on a scale in front of someone I know personally...someone I see in the office 5 days a week. I made the commitment to myself to put 8 weeks into losing weight and see what happens. I have the support of 2 co-workers and 8 other competitors. I have $40 in the game, and the chance to win up to $220 if I win.

I have me back. I have decided I am worth it. I accepted that this (this number on the scale) is me, but I am not it. I am better than that. And I WILL stick to it.

8 week goals:
- Weigh in every week
- Lose every week

That's it. I'm done with numbers for tonight, as I'm still working on accepting and then moving down from the number I saw on the scale this evening. So rather than thinking in numbers, I am thinking in positive affirmations.

I am worth this because I am more than this.

Epic.

As in failure. Epic failure = me and my weight loss roadtrip the past few weeks.

I'm floating around the same 2 pounds I lose, then regain, then lose then regain over and over and I am sick of it. Sick of myself for making excuses about it, too. There are no more excuses left: I simply have not been on track with eating right, working out, and giving a shit. Work has been stressful and very very busy, I've been fatigued more than usual lately, and my spare time is still immersed in kids and husband and reading and loafing and just generally not giving a damn even though I know I should.

But today? Today is a new day and I was interviewed for the news after my organization put out a press release. And as I tried desperately to look cute for the camera, all I kept thinking was "I hope they are not showing anything below my shoulders. Oh my god...is my muffin top totally visible in this shirt? Maybe I should have unbuttoned one more button to create a deeper 'v' and make myself look thinner? Would a deeper v really make me look thinner? Can I die now? Why must people who work for the news all be so damn skinny?"

I've run out of new things to say about this, and the old things seem like life on repeat. I'm sick of repeating myself in words and then failing myself in actions. So, it's back to basics and the ol' drawing board, if you will. I'm focusing on something simple right now: track what I eat. That's it. That alone should help me manage my intake and hopefully inspire my love handles to go the fuck away.

42 Months On, 42 Months Off.

Raise your hand if you've ever been pregnant and heard the old adage "Nine months on, nine months off" regarding pregnancy weight? You know the advice. We have all heard it at least once. If it takes you 9 months to gain 25 or 35 or 55 pounds, it's going to take you 9 months to lose it.

Yeah, and breastfeeding makes the weight melt right off.

And it's also normal for babies to STTN from 4 weeks old!!!

Oh...wait....

So, back to that old adage. Can we talk about it for a minute? Because I am not sure where the 9 on/9 off thing originated from, but I'm here to say it's just not always true. There will be those women (many of my friends, sadly, because as much as I love them it also makes me feel a bit stabby toward them) who will gain 30 or 40 pounds and then lose it by their 6 week check up. But more common than that (at least I hope...for my sake) are the women who will gain 30 or 40 pounds and...still be carrying most of it more than 9 months later.

So I'm proposing a new rule of scale: screw the 9 month bullshit. If you're genetically gifted and/or bulimic out your boobs like some women I know (i.e. make so much milk you're shooting calories out your teets faster than you can shove them down your throat), kindly skim on down my blog and take a gander at them pretty pictures of those beautiful children below. But for the rest of us? The new math goes like this:

Take the total # of months you've been pregnant (for me 2 kids = 10 months each = 20 months)
+ The number of months total you spent breastfeeding and/or pumping (19 months for me)
+ The number at the beginning of your age when your youngest was born (I was 30, so 3 for me)
= The number of months it will actually take you to hopefully get within 5-7 pounds of pre-baby weight (42 months for me)

Rohan weaned himself and I quit pumping 6 months ago. So the way I see it is this: I still have 36 months (THREE YEARS!) to get back to pre-baby weight.

:::takes a moment to feel proud of the 13 pounds I've lost toward that goal thus far:::

Hearing no arguments to this proposed new rule, I so order it. So, ladies with spawn take comfort in knowing it's OK to dine on chocolate cake while breastfeeding instead of worrying about your baby weight. We deserve credit for time served in the line of duty, whether it be with a baby in the belly or on the boob!

Post-Script: I was out of town for 5 days on a vacation where I ate anything and everything that sounded good. Ice cream twice in one day? Why not. Puffy Cheetos while driving from the Central Coast to LA? Perfect snack! Pancakes with real syrup? Divine. But thanks to my personal trainer (also known as an extremely heavy little 14 month old who wanted "MAMA!" and only "MAMA!" the entire trip and insisted on being carried through the entirety of Monterey Bay Aquarium, up and down the pier, across Brighton Beach and over the Santa Cruz Boardwalk) I managed to lose 1.2 pounds for the week. Go me!

What Happened Was This.

It's time for something a little less heavy on here. Or so I want to say, but the truth is this: I want to post about my weight loss efforts of the past few weeks but there's not really much to say. I've been following WW. I've dropped about 2 pounds in the past 3 weeks. And this week I was on track to have a really good loss. I was in the zone counting points, packing breakfast and lunch, and keeping my portions well under control. I was (admittedly, though I know I'm not supposed to) peeking in on my numbers every morning and on track for a 2+ pound weight loss this week. I felt like I'd hit my stride.

And then, I had to put my dog to sleep. And I wasn't hungry anymore, but I really really wanted to drown my sorrows in ice cream. So I gave myself permission to because, dammit, it's not every day you say goodbye to one of your best friends. Thank the universe it's not too....for more reasons than the ice cream's calories.

And then, the very next morning while my eyes were still puffy and red from crying myself to sleep the night before, I went to the dentist, where I was put under, had a crown removed and a post drilled into my jaw because a root canal was failing and hurting, and then had another tooth removed. Surgically. I was ordered not to eat for 12 hours before that, meaning my last meal had been that bowl of sorrowful ice cream. And then I was sent home with care instructions that went like this: "Eat soft foods for the next week until your follow up appointment. Do not eat salty, spicy, or heavily seasoned foods. Some good foods to eat include: pasta with butter, ice cream, pudding, smoothies (no straw), and mashed potatoes."  Right. Pudding. Ice cream. Fruit smoothies (but no fruit with seeds like a strawberry...). Sounds....healthy?

So for this week's WI I was only down 0.6. Not even a pound when I'd been on track to lose 2+. I was disappointed, sure, but a loss is a loss and given the fact I've lived through some emotional and physical pain this week unrivaled by any other week in recent memory, I am going to accept it and move on.

My plan this week still involves soft foods, but I'm going to try for more salads, maybe some tortilla roll-ups, and lots of soft fruits like watermelon and grapes.

Yogis

Back in the day, before I had babies and when I had the luxury of imagining myself as 'sooooo fat' as opposed to the uncomfortably recognition that, um, dude?...I'm fat....I did yoga.

Lots and lots of yoga.

I belonged to an all-women's gym in those days, and the girl who taught my favorite class, Body Flow, had a really nice ass. I say that in the most hetero way possible. In all candor, I kept going back to that class with the hope in my little heart that someday my ass would resemble hers.

It never did. But it WAS a much smaller ass than the one I am currently sporting, and it was attached to a body that was flexible and had a good sense of balance to it. I probably should have been at least mildly offended when the old biddies in class would commend my 'surprising' nimbleness because what they were really saying was that a chubby chick shouldn't be able to bend like that. But instead I just smugly thanked them and reminded myself that they wished to be ME just as I wished to be Hot Yoga Ass Girl.

And then I got pregnant with Luca. I kept going to the gym through most of my pregnancy, up until bacterial gastroenter-something-something struck me down while on a trip to Mexico. And then I just never really went back. I wanted to. Heaven knows I needed to. But motherhood was a rising tide of leaky body and lovesick swooning and sleepless nights. And if we're being honest it's the sleepless night that did me in more than anything. Luca was a puff of magic in our lives, but at night she was more like Puff the Magic Dragon. I quite literally would fall asleep half sitting with her nursing, and wake at 4:30 when she was ready to be up for the day, her still semi-attached to me and my legs numb and arms and neck cricked and crunched. If ever I needed yoga, it was then. But that fatigue was all-consuming and sleep was at a premium. Add to it the late bedtime and early morning hours kept by our resident Diva, and a soul-gripping need to be with her as much as humanly (and, sometimes, inhumanly) possible and there was just No Time For The Gym.

So, yoga and Body Flow disappeared from my life. And I managed, but after Rohan came along I noticed a few things about my new body that upset me. I mean, in addition to the extra weight I am still struggling with, there were other changes. Stiffer shoulders. More lower back pain. A tightness in my hips. Sore feet and tired bones. When I was on maternity leave I proudly started the 30 day shred, and though I did blog about it it's too embarassing a failure to even link to now. It went by the wayside as soon as I was back at work and had both a baby who was not fond of sleeping through the night, and a toddler AND baby who thought anything later than 5:15 a.m. was highly unsuitable an hour to sleep in until.

But now here I am, still picking away slowly at the numbers on the scale and trying to get back to some sense of 'me'. I am not ready nor in a position in terms of schedule to rejoin a gym. It's just not going to happen, since it would necessitate leaving my house after 9 pm or before 5 am to work out AND not miss out on the time with my kids. And if you don't know this about me already: I am a fool for those children and would move mountains for more time in the day with them.

So I've dusted off my old friend Denise Austin and decided to give yoga a whirl again. And I remembered right away why I love it. It won't burn 1,000 calories...sure...but it does make me feel stronger, taller, leaner, more graceful, and more centered. And those are the things I need in life. I can attest tot he fact that not doing yoga in 3+ years has left me unstable, unsteady, and uncoordinated. But my body will re-learn the joy of a good stretch and the power of being 'surprisingly nimble' once again. And more than that, it's giving me a time to focus on me, to re-center and re-balance and re-connect to myself physically and mentally.

Here's to being a yogi once more!

12 Over, 10 Off.

My BL challenge with friends is over, and I finished it off by hitting my 10 lb. mark.

WOO HOO?

Yes and no.

I am happy those pounds are gone, and happy to see smaller numbers when I step on the scale. I'm thrilled that I not only dropped the weight I had put back on last week, but also lost another pound + this week.

But on the other hand, I'm disappointed that's all the loss I've seen. I'm frustrated that the weeks I've followed WW to a fault I've not lost more than I have during my less-stellar weeks. I'm annoyed that my body looks to same as it did 10 pounds ago. I let myself down by not pushing harder.

And then at the same time, I know it's far from over. I know I will reach my goals...every last one of them little loss by little loss. Because I'm doing it for myself. For my hubby. For my kids.

I will hit my first goal very soon (this week?) and when I do I'll check it proudly off my list and move on to the next. I know it's going to take a long time, and I've accepted that. I've worked hard to make the changes from the past 12 weeks into a lifestyle, not a routine aimed at quick weight loss. While I'll admit to being tempted several times to cut out carbs, go on a cleanse, drink only Slim Fast Shakes, or use some other absurdly unsustainable method of weight loss, I have not caved. And I won't. Instead I will suffer the slow loss, bitch and moan until my readers stop checking my blog on Mondays (::wink::), try to replace self-loathe with self-confidence, and carry on.
I'm so close to my first goal I can almost taste it! My plan to get there is simple: I've dropped 2 points off my WW target since starting, so that alone should help. I'm going to track my points daily, keep on getting in that active time (in the past week we did the zoo, walks with the kids, and yoga....and I think those 2+ pounds I chased away are proof that activity will kick things up for me some), and take time for myself. When I'm well rested, happy, and keeping my mind in a positive place, I do much better!
 
I'm going to try posting a weekly goal list for myself, just so I can check back on it next week and see how I've done. So for this week, I aim to:

~ Get outside and get active at least 3 evenings
~ Do yoga at least twice
~ Drink all my water every day (an area I've been slacking in, which I KNOW makes a huge difference)
~ Track my food every day and aim for my target points without dipping into the flex points
~ Work off any flex points I DO end up eating by walking the stairs in my house and doing stretching and strength exercise
 
My weight loss goal for this week is 2 pounds. I really truly believe I can do it!

Things That Have Not Happened In A Long Time.

I stepped on the scale on Sunday and realized that I weigh less now than I have in over 15 months. I'm still just shy of my 10 pound marker, but it's so close I can almost taste it (and it tastes like Bagel Thins, low-fat cream cheese, fresh fruits and veggies, and lots and lots of water).

Easter threatened to derail me this week, with its marshmallows glittering with pink sugar crystals and its jelly beans (but they're fat free!) and M&Ms in rose petal pink and sunny yellow. And despite the fact a 2 year old and a 1 year old don't need ANY candy, they received LOTS OF candy from the Easter Bunny who visited both sets of Grandparents. And in my past life (you know, the one I lived in until a few months ago) I would have packaged all that candy into a Ziploc bag and squirrled it away into the top drawer of my desk and mindlessly plowed my way through it in a matter of a few days.

Instead, I jarred it. I am not kidding....I put the candy into Mason jars (3 large ones, btw, which HELLO! We do NOT need that much candy!). One jar is in my office for visitors. One jar is going to work with my husband. And one jar is in our home, but I can handle it. It's weird: pretty candy in a jar I leave alone, and it takes me weeks if not months to finish it. Proof can be found in the fact that I had to empty one of the jars of last year's leftover Easter candies before I could fill it with this year's. Pretty candy in a Ziploc baggies? Eaten, and fast.

Here's the other thing about keeping candy in a jar: it's VERY hard to pretend you're eating less than you are, because you can clearly see how much the level sinks each day. And with it sitting smack on the corner of my desk in plain view of co-workers and anyone else who stops into my office, I would be embarassed if that level dropped too rapidly. It's like self-control via humiliation. And since I otherwise lack self control, the humiliation factor is vital for me.

But on the flip side of that, I am also motivated by positives. And while I patiently(ish) wait for my jeans to feel looser, I had something else happen this weekend which has not happened in so long, I sadly cannot remember the last time it did.

I got hit on. By a stranger. At a bar.

::pumps fist::

Now, we are going to brush over the details (including the fact he wasn't exactly the hottest dude in the place), and focus on this: I got hit on. By a stranger. At a bar packed with skinnies and cleavage-bearers and high heels. And not only did he come by once and attempt to talk me out of waiting in line to get in (apparently said bar was hosting a casting call for Big Brother, so they were at maximum capacity and only letting people in when other people left) once, but he came back for a second run. I had to point to my ring and tell him, "I'm flattered, but I'm also married." which...let's be honest married girls...was just about the biggest boost a married mom of two still carrying the baby weight could get.

And it reminded me: I am not the sum of the numbers on that scale. I'm a whole lot of other things, most of them pretty fucking fantastic, and though my road may be long, there's still a lot to enjoy along the way.