I haven't been talking, at least not here, and that needs to be rectified.
I lost a grand total of 4 pounds while I wasn't weighing for Lent. Which is probably a lie, because I was doing pretty awesome pre-gallbladder surgery. And the post op recuperative time has me losing my mind, and gaining some weight. I'm not proud of this, or the fact that I've abandoned #TwitterDiet AND MyFitnessPal AND drinking water.
I'm not going all woe is me here, and discussing the other things that are stressing me out (needing a full time job/bills that need to be paid/etc).
I'm holding me responsible. And I'm being honest, and hating mostly every minute of it.
In about 2 and a half weeks (the end of the post op 6 weeks) I'm going to start doing Zumba at home a couple of times a week to start out. I will take some (more) "before" pictures. I'm really getting excited about this Christmas, because I REFUSE to look/feel the same as I did last Christmas (obtuse and unhealthy).
I'm thinking about May, planning for the future instead of focusing on the now. I'm thinking about drinking only water in May, as in not drinking cokes (sodas/pops) and drinking water. I'm not ready for any kind of fasting, especially only water fasting. Don't be crazy yall.
But I haven't decided 100%, or if that's going to be all I'll be doing.
Showing posts with label Effing Wonderful. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Effing Wonderful. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Sometimes I Consider Thinking
When I made the decision to be a single mom, as in not continue unhealthy or craptacular relationships with the sperm donors who helped to make my active, mostly fun, and gorgeous children, I didn't think of a lot of things that have come up, especially recently.
I thought about having to explain that their "Daddy" wasn't their father. What I didn't expect was not to be in a healthy relationship (married) when my daughter started asking. I also didn't expect her to start asking at the right bold age of three. THREE. I just assumed she'd be too busy learning to potty or some little preschool ditty about colors in the rainbow or tying shoes or something, not parents and families.
I thought about having to comfort, punish and be the security for my kids. I did not think about the fact that they would both be just as stubborn as their aunt. Or that no one would ever been a decent substitute for me. On one hand that's all awe and sweet on the other its a plain ol' pain in the butt. Heaven forbid I shower, or use the rest room, or want to do something crazy like go to the WalMart sans kids.
I considered and appreciated that having my kids closer together meant that I was getting most of the child rearing done at one time (for the most part). I didn't really consider their ages, and what that would mean. That my daughter would be going through this trial phase and learning her toddler body, while my son would be going through a starting interest in the bathroom or the stubborn 18+ months old. (They call it the terrible twos, my kids couldn't wait for 2 they started early!)
I thought about the chores that I'd be the only one responsible for once I moved out, laundry, dishes, mopping, dusting. I didn't think about how I'd have to try to have the energy reserved from working my 9 (sometimes 14) hour days to try and put the house to rights while the kids were up. I didn't think about having to reserve even more energy to fight the kids to go to sleep, and then to stay up and finish whatever it was that I didn't get done before they went to sleep.
I didn't consider the mommy guilt that would come from trying to date on regular date nights. I didn't think about how my heart would tear just a little bit every time my daughter accused me of leaving her, even if it was with my mom or brother, where she was definitely well cared for and loved. I didn't think about how my soul would be pulled in different directions, one side wanting to be this amazing provider for myself and my kids, the other side wanting to just stay home and cook, clean, and be like those old school women who raised their kids, cattle, made clothes, cooked from sunup to sundown and still had an awesome relationship with their husband.
Sometimes I think that I may have been better off to stay in a craptacular relationship, just so someone else would be here to hold one screaming (spoiled) child while I deal with another screaming (spoiled) child. I don't really think that, like.. 98% of the time I fully believe I've made the right, healthy, wonderful decision to raise these kids by myself, until God leads the man that I'm supposed to be with into my life and I trip right over him. The other 2% of the time I really wish I'd 'made' someone, anyone stay around and help me.
But when that 2% of the time comes around, I do what I do when I'm on the treadmill and want to stop, I keep going until I my (undiagnosed and probably inaccurately self diagnosed) obsessive compulsion won't let me stop because I'm not at a whole/round number of time/miles/laps. So I end up back in the 98% of the time, and kiss their heads and hug them tight and get over my single self.
I thought about having to explain that their "Daddy" wasn't their father. What I didn't expect was not to be in a healthy relationship (married) when my daughter started asking. I also didn't expect her to start asking at the right bold age of three. THREE. I just assumed she'd be too busy learning to potty or some little preschool ditty about colors in the rainbow or tying shoes or something, not parents and families.
I thought about having to comfort, punish and be the security for my kids. I did not think about the fact that they would both be just as stubborn as their aunt. Or that no one would ever been a decent substitute for me. On one hand that's all awe and sweet on the other its a plain ol' pain in the butt. Heaven forbid I shower, or use the rest room, or want to do something crazy like go to the WalMart sans kids.
I considered and appreciated that having my kids closer together meant that I was getting most of the child rearing done at one time (for the most part). I didn't really consider their ages, and what that would mean. That my daughter would be going through this trial phase and learning her toddler body, while my son would be going through a starting interest in the bathroom or the stubborn 18+ months old. (They call it the terrible twos, my kids couldn't wait for 2 they started early!)
I thought about the chores that I'd be the only one responsible for once I moved out, laundry, dishes, mopping, dusting. I didn't think about how I'd have to try to have the energy reserved from working my 9 (sometimes 14) hour days to try and put the house to rights while the kids were up. I didn't think about having to reserve even more energy to fight the kids to go to sleep, and then to stay up and finish whatever it was that I didn't get done before they went to sleep.
I didn't consider the mommy guilt that would come from trying to date on regular date nights. I didn't think about how my heart would tear just a little bit every time my daughter accused me of leaving her, even if it was with my mom or brother, where she was definitely well cared for and loved. I didn't think about how my soul would be pulled in different directions, one side wanting to be this amazing provider for myself and my kids, the other side wanting to just stay home and cook, clean, and be like those old school women who raised their kids, cattle, made clothes, cooked from sunup to sundown and still had an awesome relationship with their husband.
Sometimes I think that I may have been better off to stay in a craptacular relationship, just so someone else would be here to hold one screaming (spoiled) child while I deal with another screaming (spoiled) child. I don't really think that, like.. 98% of the time I fully believe I've made the right, healthy, wonderful decision to raise these kids by myself, until God leads the man that I'm supposed to be with into my life and I trip right over him. The other 2% of the time I really wish I'd 'made' someone, anyone stay around and help me.
But when that 2% of the time comes around, I do what I do when I'm on the treadmill and want to stop, I keep going until I my (undiagnosed and probably inaccurately self diagnosed) obsessive compulsion won't let me stop because I'm not at a whole/round number of time/miles/laps. So I end up back in the 98% of the time, and kiss their heads and hug them tight and get over my single self.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Potty Mouth On Sunday
I'm a potty mouth. Not all the time and I really try not to be in front of children, especially other people's children.
I go to church. I do things like make side dishes for Sunday night church fellowships. I even hang out with the nursery director and the pastor's wife (mostly because we have kids in the same age groups). So I try really really REALLY hard not to use foul language in front of them.
Except I think on Sunday night I cursed, in front of them. I may not have. But I think I did. I blame it all on the 3 year old, because I can if I want to, her and my mom.
After a nice fellowship dinner and a little Baptist singing and devotion she ran back to the playground. Because she had to play. So I meander around picking up my container(s),and getting Poppa's stuff together. Then the 'Wise' one (Mom) decides Poppa should walk to the car.
Alright mom. Fine, I be a perfectly good stroller he'd been content to ride in, but whatever. He likes to walk. He also likes to think he's as grown up as his sister. So not true.
In an effort to lure Teag from the playground I act like I'm just leaving her there. Do the whole wave and get halfway to the car thing.
Except Poppa is running towards her and while I'm watching him I see the crotch of her blue shorts go dark. And the dripping.
Oh good Lord the embarrassing dripping of pee as she had an accident. On the playground. At the church. Where we will be going tonight for dinner (again) and service.
I turn, give my mother a death glare and grab Poppa by the middle and Teag by the hand and we work our way to the car. But I think my mother's death glare was accompanied by an explative... Starting with an F.
I know I thought it. I'm just not sure if I said it. But I got looks. Some were pity, some we agast and some were obvious disapproval. So I think I might have said fuck. But maybe not.
I go to church. I do things like make side dishes for Sunday night church fellowships. I even hang out with the nursery director and the pastor's wife (mostly because we have kids in the same age groups). So I try really really REALLY hard not to use foul language in front of them.
Except I think on Sunday night I cursed, in front of them. I may not have. But I think I did. I blame it all on the 3 year old, because I can if I want to, her and my mom.
After a nice fellowship dinner and a little Baptist singing and devotion she ran back to the playground. Because she had to play. So I meander around picking up my container(s),and getting Poppa's stuff together. Then the 'Wise' one (Mom) decides Poppa should walk to the car.
Alright mom. Fine, I be a perfectly good stroller he'd been content to ride in, but whatever. He likes to walk. He also likes to think he's as grown up as his sister. So not true.
In an effort to lure Teag from the playground I act like I'm just leaving her there. Do the whole wave and get halfway to the car thing.
Except Poppa is running towards her and while I'm watching him I see the crotch of her blue shorts go dark. And the dripping.
Oh good Lord the embarrassing dripping of pee as she had an accident. On the playground. At the church. Where we will be going tonight for dinner (again) and service.
I turn, give my mother a death glare and grab Poppa by the middle and Teag by the hand and we work our way to the car. But I think my mother's death glare was accompanied by an explative... Starting with an F.
I know I thought it. I'm just not sure if I said it. But I got looks. Some were pity, some we agast and some were obvious disapproval. So I think I might have said fuck. But maybe not.
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