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So, I've officially done it--I joined Weight Watchers online. I've really been doing okay--it's just those last 50-60 pounds of baby weight that I'm trying to shed. The thing is, I really HATE dieting! I consider myself a Boteccelli-esque beauty born hundreds of years too late. I believe that my baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirts were really covering the excess, but then came the day when--GASP!
MY FAT JEANS ARE TOO TIGHT!!!
How did this happen? Was it the last Taco John's breakfast egg burrito, or the one before that, or perhaps it was that Moolatte last week?
The thing is, I'm really not THAT unhappy with my body. Sure, my lower arms continue to wave goodbye long after I've stopped waving. Okay, so my stomach is poochy--a fact which I attribute to two pregnancies and don't you DARE to say otherwise! The point is, I'm satisfied. Not over the moon, look at my biceps gleeful, but at this point, I can live with it.
So why Weight Watchers? I have two small girls, and if I can't fit into my fat jeans, I'm afraid of the ridicule that they may recieve as the daughters of a fat mom. I don't want to be the fat mom, for their sake.
But, sheesh, how will I live without wine and Girl Scout Cookies?
My Sunday night ritual is pretty much set in stone--put the kids to bed, grab a glass of wine and whatever junk food may be available, and tune in to a couple of hours of mindless reality television. Say what you want, when the realities of life are screaming "mom" all day, there's nothing like the Girls Next Door to take your mind off of. . .what was I saying?
Anyway, I was halfway through a sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies when inspiration struck. Snoop Dogg is a really good parent. I've been watching Father Hood for a while now, and I have to say, he has a way of letting small things go. I've been working on this for some time, and it's not an easy task. Snoop's kids seem smart, well-balanced, and multi-talented, which makes me think, man, if a rapper with a somewhat seedy reputation can raise good kids, then there's hope for the rest of us.
It's funny what Girl Scout Cookies and wine do to the mind.
I've been a mother for almost three years now. I have two beautiful, well-adjusted, intelligient little girls. I love being a mother and I feel pretty good about my parenting skills.
So what is driving me CRAZY? I'll tell you--pms. No, not pre-menstrual syndrome--that's another story entirely. What I'm talking about here is Perfect Mother Syndrome, which is the need of certain mothers to make all other moms around them feel like pond scum. I'm talking about the perfectly-coifed, perfectly calm, perfectly BORING mothers who throw around their brand of wisdom like it was candy at a county fair parade. I'm sick of their judgement of what my children say, read, wear, and eat. My kids don't wear Gymboree, and no, I wouldn't like a coupon. My girls don't eat 100% "whole food," and no, I wouldn't like the name of "a really great book" about the subject. No, my two-year-old is NOT enrolled in any sort of formal gymnastics class, and no, I wouldn't like to "observe" a class.
I am a great mother, who, at times, feeds her kids Lucky Charms for lunch (with carrot sticks on the side, of course). I'm not perfectly made-up, perfectly slender, perfectly manicured, or perfectly ANYTHING, but my girls love me and that's enough for me.
To all you perfect moms out there, the next time you feel the need to dispell your wise words to the rest of us underlings, go find some organic cotton onesies and stuff them in your mouth!
On what would've been a very ordinary Wednesday night, my two-year-old daughter and I watched a complete lunar eclipse. I sat on my front porch, rocking her in my glider, the two of us covered by piles of blankets, bundled against the crisp mountain air.
I'm sure that people around the country had similar experiences, but for me, it seemed altering somehow. This quiet, lovely moment came at the end of a day of tantrums and spilled juice. At 3:00 on that Wednesday, I was sure that I may be the worst mother in the world. At 8:00, I was sure that I was meant to be a mother. What changed? I realized that the world was a large, strange, crazy place, and that it really didn't matter if my carpet was stained with red juice. Who will care in 1,000 years?
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Comment by Natalie Maxwell
on I am a parent therefore I don't work!
Crazy Sexy Mama