Enough is Enough

The last ten years has brought me many things. A marriage, children, a change in career focus, educational fails and redirects, new friends, and many, many hard lessons. It's also brought me over 100 lbs. 

While I haven't always struggled with my weight (only my self-esteem, ha), the last decade has been a constant battle of emotional eating (sad, happy, excited, bored, depressed... no emotions are left out here), and a myriad of failed diet attempts. I weighed around 175, which my then-doctor informed me was "excessive for my height and age" even though it's probably the best I've ever felt in my life. I had society telling me I needed to lose weight. Every time I went up a pant or shirt size I would get more and more depressed. I tried everything.... veganism, low-carb, dairy-free, Paleo, LA Weightloss, The Zone, SlimFast, Weight Watchers (x4), meal planning, sugar-free, and (medically supervised) appetite suppressants and calorie counting. I managed to lose 40 lbs with those last two, but I stopped taking the pills because they made my anxiety go through the roof, and then I gained back those 40 pounds I had lost, plus 20 more. After a lot of research and soul searching, I had topped out at 292 pounds and decided to pursue bariatric surgery. 

I had initially gone to an information seminar for lap-bad surgery in 2009, but I decided it wasn't right for me. I went back to the same surgeon after doing some more research, and after another seminar and a consult, I settled on Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy. My pre-surgery process started in January of 2017. The projected time to complete all my requirements (chest X-ray, lab work, psych eval, EKG and a nutritional counseling session) was three months. Well, due to some very annoying circumstances including my insurance company adding a requirement for 3 months of extra appointments with a nutritionist, I FINALLY was approved for surgery a mere 8.5 months after starting the process. I am scheduled for September 18th, just over a week before my 33rd birthday. 

Look, I know there are a lot of opinions swirling around about bariatric surgery. 

It's dangerous (all surgery is)

It's a life-long commitment (as it should be)

It's not a cure (no, it's a highly effective tool)

It's irreversible (in a manner of speaking, yes)

It's drastic (so is morbid obesity and diabetes)

It gives you saggy skin (better than heart disease)

It doesn't mean you can stop exercising (no shit)

It's cheating (uh, are you keeping score or something?)

I KNOW ALL OF THESE OPINIONS AND I DON'T CARE.

I LOVE that my friends and family may feel concerned about me. I really do. I know they come from a place of love. I know surgery scares a lot of people, and it seems like I should be able to just lose the weight by following a diet. But here's the thing.... I've tried. I've legitimately tried, and tried, and tried. I know more about calorie content and nutrition than the average person. That's not the problem. The problem is two-fold.

1. I NEVER feel full unless I've eaten so much that I nearly puke. I can eat and eat and eat and never get that "comfortably satisfied" feeling my former nutritionist told me to look for. Do you know how easy it is to gain weight when your body has been programmed to over-eat every single time you have a meal or a snack? 

2. There is nothing to REALLY hold me accountable for my choices. I have a handsome husband who loves me no matter what I look like. I have two little girls that love me no matter how squishy I am. I can still (barely) fit in airplane seats. I can still exercise and walk and live a normal daily life. I can still find stylish clothes to fit me that make me feel beautiful. My friends still talk to me no matter how much of our shared appetizer I may shovel in my face. My health is still pretty good--normal blood pressure, fairly normal cholesterol and blood sugars, no knee or hip problems. I don't have diabetes. I don't have heart disease. I don't have anything that is keeping me from living anything more than an occasionally embarrassing or inconvenient lifestyle as an obese person.... yet. 

Is there anything wrong with being fat? Of course not. Just like I tell my kids, being fat doesn't make me a bad person, it doesn't make me ugly or stupid or cruel. My reasons for pursuing this route are purely personal... I see this weight as a result of years of bad choices, of eating because I was lonely or sad, of not exercising because I was too depressed to get out of bed or off the couch. I have hormone level issues because of my weight and that has not been a walk in the park. I want to feel good about myself because I like what I see in the mirror as well as who I am inside. 

I might not have major health issues yet but I still believe losing weight will help my general quality of life. And I just don't happen to believe that doing Crossfit or drinking shakes or wrapping plastic around my stomach three times a week is sufficient for what I have been through and where I am in my life. So while I know these suggestions from people are kindly meant, please don't bother. I have researched this. I have talked to many other people who have done this. I chose a surgeon who learned the surgical technique from the man who created it. My family and friends who I have chosen to share this with are all on board, and my husband is my biggest cheerleader right now (and my cutest). So, I'm seriously looking forward to what the future holds me for me, including but definitely not limited to these things:

Being able to tie my shoes without getting out of breath

NOT looking like the perfect Mrs. Claus (though I love portraying her dearly)

Shopping for jeans and shirts that don't cost $50 - $80 due to extra fabric

Feeling full

Using weight equipment at the gym without giving a shit about the high school bros who are judging me

Completing a Tough Mudder with my husband

Having enough room on my lap for my girls to sit there

Have questions? Feel free to ask them. But please don't preach, because I'm already converted to the church of VSG. 

Past Dairy Offenses

Facebook has this recent feature where they select old posts, comments, or photos from a year ago or longer and you can choose to share them again if you wish. It's a feature I usually enjoy, as there's nothing I love more than re-reading the witty things I said three years ago and wondering why it didn't receive more likes or comments, leaving me feeling like the under-appreciated comedic genius of my generation.

Today in my memories there was a blog post that I wrote and shared three years ago, called "My 260 pound life. Ok, 262." You can read it if you'd like, but it's basically just a post about a little boy who asked me if I was pregnant while I was buying ice cream, and how that completely destroyed me for the rest of the day. This was not an isolated incident, being asked if I was pregnant when I wasn't or being completely decimated by the hurtful things people say or ask overweight people. I have spent a lot of my life being overweight and the entirety being completely unhappy with the way I look, and I have pretty much experienced every high or low you could think of. Those who follow me on Facebook will know that I've been on a weight loss and health journey the last two months and I have been in a really good place in my life. So naturally there is no better time to discuss when I wasn't.

I was never plagued by childhood obesity. My parents didn't put Coca Cola in my bottle as a toddler or placate me with candy or anything like that. I was a healthy and extremely active kid. That didn't stop people from being cruel, as evidence by some asshole in my 2nd grade class who said I should read the book "Flubber" because it was obviously about me. I told him that I think he meant to say "blubber" and acted like it didn't bother me. I did start gaining weight when I was about 9, and by 5th grade I was in a fully prepubescent chubby phase. It didn't last long, only about two years, and then I started thinning out and was left with bigger boobs than any of my friends and became the unsubstantiated crush of many a young man (including my husband, but that's a story for another time). When people suddenly start getting attention they aren't used to and don't understand, they can either become egotistical or completely self-conscious. I took the latter route.

Pretty much my entire junior high and high school experience involved me hating my body. Even though I was consistently a healthy weight, I was friends with a lot of dancers, many of whom were naturally petite and slender in addition to being very active and in shape. I always felt huge in comparison so I just started to default to that mindset, even though most of high school I was less than 130 pounds and wore a size 7. That followed me into adulthood and basically I just perpetuated an unhealthy cycle of eating my feelings and never addressing a problem as long as there was at least one guy who was attracted to me (seriously, I should start a support group for women whose self-worth has hung in the balance of validation by men gawking at them). And then my early 20s involved more alcohol than food, and that was followed by really, really bad depression. I was dating a guy who was a collegiate gymnast. He was great, he thought I was great, but he got embarrassed when I went to one of his meets and he didn't really talk to me afterward. He later told me that he was uncomfortable because he had never dated a girl who wasn't a gymnast or cheerleader, and therefore had never dated a girl who didn't LOOK like a gymnast or a cheerleader. I was 23 and weighed 185 pounds. Sure, that's technically overweight for my height, but I was all Marilyn Monroe and curvy as shit. I got cat calls from strangers on the street. I had cute clothes. I felt pretty good about myself. And yet...his criticism destroyed me.

Since then I have steadily gained weight, at least 10 pounds a year and usually closer to 20. I have tried every diet plan.... Weight Watchers, LA Weightloss, The Zone, Dr. OZ, smoothies, juices, low-carb, high-carb, paleo, vegan, and I was never able to maintain any of it. I would get about two weeks in, lose 5 or 10 pounds and then celebrate with a cheeseburger or a milkshake and never go back. It was incredibly unhealthy and it made me hate myself a little more every time but I felt like I couldn't help it. After many therapy sessions I've come to the conclusion that I have serious issues with instant gratification and control, and I think it's as simple as: if I don't see results right away, I don't want to do it, and I'd rather be happy and eat whatever I want.

I've told myself many things about being obese. That is easier to be fat because I hate dieting. That it's no big deal to be invisible. That I don't mind paying $65 for a shirt from Lane Bryant because it's actually really cute. That I don't want to be around people who are shallow enough to judge me for being fat. That I'm actually healthy (which according to a lot of very expensive medical testing, I am, in many ways). That I'm not a rabbit and don't like salad.

I've said it all. And there are some truths in there. My weight does not dictate my happiness. I know this because I spent my thinnest years hating my body. It's a mental illness, and I know that it's not my fault. I'm under no illusion that being thin will automatically make me happy.

I do think that food is a form of love. I really like cooking and sharing delicious things with people I love, at parties or at home. There is something very social and familiar about food, about people coming together over a dinner table or a tray of appetizers, that has always been a big part of who I am, and I don't think that has to change.

Being fat doesn't mean you hate yourself. I am kind of an awesome person in a lot of ways, and I know none of this is enhanced or effected by my weight.

People will be mean no matter what. I mentioned it in my previous post, but I have been the target of many cruel words. I'm not lying or exaggerating when I say that, on numerous occasions, complete strangers have walked past me on the street and spat the words "Ugly bitch" or "dumb cunt" at me while making direct eye contact. Other women have laughed in my face, mocked my appearance, called me disgusting. Men have called me a DUFF so many times it's laughable. I'm no stranger to cruelty and I've experienced it at every.single.size.

The reason I went to my doctor and asked for help losing weight has very little to do with me and my wish to be thin. Do I want to have the body to be one of those women who walks around the gym in nothing but booty shorts and a sports bra? Hell yes, but mostly because I envy their confidence more than anything. And their abs. Let's be real. But basically I woke up and realized I'm 30 and still using food as a reward system for myself. And that's the last thing I want for my two, beautiful and perfect little girls. I don't want them learning poor self-esteem and bad health habits from me. The rest of the world is going to try its hardest to fuck their lives up when they're older, so they need me to be an advocate and an amazing teacher to them, so that's what I'm trying to do.

I went to my doctor on April 11th, 2015, weighing 284 pounds. That's the biggest I've ever been in my life. It's been almost two months and I've been dieting and exercising, though not as regularly as I should or would like. Routine is still something I struggle with and am working on. I just weighed myself this morning and in less than two months I've lost over 27 pounds. I still have about a hundred pounds to go before I hit my "goal weight" but I can honestly say that every workout I finish, every day I meet or barely exceed my calorie goal, I feel more powerful and more confident and more satisfied with life. And it's not even about the actual weight loss. It's about the control, the discipline and the active choice to be a better version of me. Even though I'm not perfect and still crave and sometimes eat ice cream and other "cheat" food, I am feeling happy. HAPPY. That's a huge fucking deal, people. I am completely blown away by how supportive everyone around me is and I cannot wait to see where I am a year from now. For the first time in my life I feel like I have goals that I actually can and WILL achieve.

Now please excuse me while I jump around my living room to the Rocky theme.

Propping the bottle

9 months since my last post? Lame. Add "blogging" to the list of things I can't keep up on.

I feel like all my posts are about Mom Guilt, and it's because the feeling is so intensely present in my every waking moment that it's pretty much all I can think about. I have to constantly get it off my chest and send it out into the universe in the hope that I will be relieved from some of it, though that never seems to be the result. My personality has always been such that I feel extreme guilt for things that couldn't possibly be my fault, so being in charge of two little people is hardly a recipe for success in that vein.

Being the mother of 2 has been a bumpy road, and I never seem to have enough time to finish anything. My house is dirty. The kids are usually in some state of undress. One or the other never gets quite enough attention because the sibling is being needy that day. I don't plan my meals out ahead of time because there is no possible way I can be that organized amid the sea of chaos that is my living room. The patience that I was always complimented on by employers and teachers seems to vanish most days, and there is at least one occasion every week that I throw a full-blown Mom tantrum. I have very few coping skills, and the ones I have largely center around eating delicious things, because THAT helps. I feel every day is a lesson where I don't quite grasp the final concept, but I do my best to get by. If Motherhood were a university course, I feel like I'm a B- student. Maybe a B. Maybe.

In all this experience, the conclusion I have come to is that sometimes you have to prop the bottle.

What I mean is that when you are too drained from everything else happening around you, sometimes it's okay to put on a movie and let your toddler plop down in front of the TV for an afternoon. It's okay to make whatever box of food is in your cabinet that night because you were too busy cleaning up a poop mural to get to the grocery store for fresh produce. It's okay to put the baby in her crib and literally prop her bottle up on a blanket and let her feed herself while you go and sit quietly and gather you thoughts (or empty your head of them, whatever works).

These things are all severely frowned upon by parenting books, crunchy mothers and most people who live a conscientious lifestyle that somehow seem to have it all together. But you know, the next biggest lesson I've learned is that everyone has their own shit going on, it just doesn't always manifest itself in the same form as mine. I try not to judge anyone else for how they deal with their problems, so hopefully nobody judges me for my methods, though I'm constantly paranoid they do. I need to learn to let that crap go. Such a waste of time.

My mantra these days is "do your best, get through it, it won't be like this forever". I'm hoping that I'm getting brownie points with the universe for not yelling at my kid, even if it means she watches more TV that day than is probably a good idea. And on the days that I DO yell... well, I try to make it up to her somehow.

I also hope that my experiences-- the good, the bad, the hilariously ugly, will help motivate another mother to stop being so down on herself.

As for me, I'm trying really hard to make changes, even if it will take until my kids are teenagers to implement them. For now I'm taking baby steps and handing out snuggles, sometimes fruit snacks, and yes, propping the bottle as needed.

Angry Mom

I yelled today.

In fact, I've been yelling a lot lately.

Clara, my sweet little girl, has been recently replaced by a whiny, disagreeable, generally unhappy monster. Every question is met with "NO!" She no longer stays in her room for nap time or bed time. She refuses to stop climbing into the refrigerator or pulling out the eggs and carrying them around the house. The only thing she wants to do is go to her grandma and grandpa's house, and then when she gets there she is crabby and difficult.

When venting to some acquaintances, they ask her age, and then smile knowingly when I say that she's almost two. "Ah, yeah, they're called 'the terrible twos' for a reason, meh heh heh."

Shut up, people.

Even if it were normal for a child to literally change their entire demeanor over night, I feel like there has to be something more going on. Is she sick? Is she teething? Is she going through a growth spurt? Is she in pain? Is she under-stimulated? Over-stimulated? Does she need to just run around for a few hours every day until she drops? I have no idea.

This is my first time here in motherhood, and I don't have any answers. Nobody else has any answers, at least none that make me feel any better. So I try my best to be patient. Sometimes it's really hard.

Supposedly Clara is almost ready to start potty training. I'm told this because she keeps taking her diaper off and then taking a dump on the floor. If this is an important milestone, it's one I'd rather skip. I have cleaned up more poop from this child in the last week than I ever had to with a puppy and however many cats we've had over the years.

Today she took a crap on the treadmill and somehow managed to get it on the (white) curtains and a pair of her dad's work pants. Then our kitten, who is a holy terror in her own right, decided it would be fun to trample through it and then track it on the carpet before gracing me with yet another set of scratches on my leg.

"Clara, do you need medicine?"
"NO!"
"Okay."
"WANT MEDICINE!"
"Okay, here's some medicine for you."
"NO!! NOOOOOOOO  MEDICIIIIIIIIIINE!!!"

It's been day after day of verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of my 23 month-old tyrant. And there's another little dictator on the way. And I just want to clean my house without having it be undone within minutes, and then take a nap. That's all. I feel like that isn't a completely unreasonable request, yet it will never, ever happen. At least not in the next 10 years.

After Clara refused the spoonful of medicine I poured her (she kicked it away and made me spill it all over my hand), I chucked the spoon into the sink and shouted "I AM SO SICK OF THIS KID!" and then proceeded to cry over the sink, while my husband calmly carried her away and then told me to leave the house for awhile. I immediately felt like the worst mother in the world, but you know, sometimes you reach a breaking point. I've hit mine for the day. I feel like I'm drowning.

Being a mom, especially a stay-at-home mom, can be really hard. Every time I talk with someone and I tell them what I do they say, "Oh, what's that like?" and I answer honestly.
"It's great, but really hard sometimes."
Then I get a look of judgment and disdain, followed by, "Well, you're really lucky to be able to do that. I sure wish I had been able to stay home with my kids."

Yeah, okay, I know I'm lucky, but you have to understand that it's not an easy thing to be home all day, every day, on call for 24 hours with a child who is often babbling things that are impossible to understand, has a penchant for destroying household possessions, and is only capable of showing appreciation with a half-hearted hug. Don't get me wrong--those hugs are amazing and make everything else worth it in that moment. But it's HARD. Some people were born to be home with their children and would want nothing else in the world. Other people need a break once in awhile. So I'm asking you people to hold back on their judgment when they see a mom struggling at the grocery store with a screaming child, or at the movie theater with a kid who is acting up, or basically anywhere. Because until you've been there, you will never ever understand how hard it is and how much they are probably just trying to make it through the day without melting down.

So for now I am just going to say that I am tired. Really, really tired.

And my house smells like poop.

Not my bag

I've been a little down on myself lately, and by "lately" I mean "the past 28 years".  I find myself constantly practicing negative self-talk, so I thought it was time for an old favorite: Good vs Bad.

There are a lot of things I'm good at.

I am an expert eater. I do it well, I do it often. I could be a professional. The day that I see a craigslist job posting for "glutton with a 'tude", I will be alllll over it.

Judging? Oh yeah. I'm awesome at that. Although I prefer to give people the benefit of the doubt, I have no problem determining the level of douche a person possesses within seconds of meeting/seeing/smelling/hearing about them.

Sitting around? If the radio spot I heard saying that every hour you sit on your ass takes 22 minutes off your life is actually true, I'm down at least 10 years at this point. Check.

I may not have been chosen for The Voice (still not bitter, still not bitter, still not bitter), but I can belt out a Disney song or two. I can also quote and impersonate a wide array of Disney characters with laughable accuracy. Seriously, I've made people pee from it. Oh! And on that note...

Peeing my pants. No adult can wet their pants like me, nor can they do so at more hilarious times in life so as to provide their friends with prime story-telling opportunities. Not even that old lady from Billy Madison.

I am pretty good at bullshitting people. I once convinced my friend that I had a job writing random facts for Snapple caps. He told other people about it. I was pretty proud.

Keeping a straight face.... that might be what I'm best at. In high school I had a trumpet player do "the fat man shimmy" directly into my face during a game to try and get me to smile, and I. Didn't. Budge. Girl can keep her cool. I can also convert this talent into the ability to deliver face-melting glares when people are annoying enough to deserve it. My bitch face is basically a legend.


I could go on and on (oh, I'm also super good at being modest!), but it's time that I shift to what I'm not good at, simply to keep this exercise balanced. And on that note...

Exercise. And balance. I suck at those things. I LIKE being still. I LIKE being able to breathe at a normal rate and I LIKE NOT sweating. I might be fat, but damn it, I'm comfortable.

Not yelling. This one is what really has made me feel like a piece of crap lately. I generally think I'm a pretty calm person, but my daughter is able to really bring out the beast in me. I can take a lot and then all of a sudden, she's throwing my new ball of yarn into the toilet where I just rinsed out her shitty diaper, and I turn into the Incredible Hulk. I might need meditation.

Cleaning. I'm not saying I could be on Hoarders, but a TV crew coming into my house might trigger a suicide attempt.

Saving money. No explanation necessary.

Saying "no." I feel I have gotten better at this over the years, but I still have a hard time turning down people asking for help or anything else, mostly because I go into a happy place where I am so excited that someone wants to rely on me that I forget I have limitations and I agree and then usually really regret it.

Focusing. See? I'm already bored.

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Maybe in a few years

There is a picture of me as a baby sitting on a sofa at my grandma's with a little tabby kitten. Her name was Kimbie. We had her until I was 18 and eventually had to have her put down (she had abscesses in her mouth and the vet thought they were cancerous). As long as I have been alive, we have always had at least one cat, but I remember always wishing we had a dog. When I would encounter a puppy or a big, drool-ridden dog at a friend's house, I would swoon. There was no doubt in my mind that I was a "dog person," whatever that means. Fast forward 20 years... I'm not a dog person.

We got Ruby from the shelter after deciding that having a dog was the best way to keep me feeling safe when my husband is working out of town. Seriously, I have these crazy paranoid fears that people are standing in front of my window and just staring in at me while I sleep/stalk people on Facebook. It's a little out of hand, but add spiders into that mix and I will have a full-on panic attack. Think I'm joking? One time I encountered a "silver fish" that was literally stalking me around the living room. It crawled across my leg, so I flicked it off and bolted across the living room, and that little shit FOLLOWED ME!  I hopped up on our pub chair, and called Eric... who was in Washington DC at the time. Yeah, believe me when I openly admit that I have issues. Anyway, a dog. Safety. Companionship. Giving Clara what I never had growing up. All that good stuff.

It didn't work out.

Ruby was the only dog in the shelter at the time that was approved to be placed with children of any age. She was super sweet, adorable, and would let Clara climb all over her and snuggle without any complaint.

She was also a puppy, which meant her energy level was through the roof. Which was okay, until I started going to school again. While I was gone we would leave Ruby inside and play with her as much as having a baby would allow. This is not as simple as it sounds. Have you ever tried to walk a dog and a baby in a stroller at the same time? How about putting the almost 30 pound baby in a sling and walking the dog that wants to run? What about the backyard, you say? Have you ever experienced the horror of your baby trying to pick up a piece of dog shit? Clean it up, you say? Have you ever experienced a baby who only takes one mediocre nap during the day, giving you about 2 hours to squeeze in cleaning, studying, making dinner, showering and playing with the dog? Perhaps some women can handle this, but I am not one of them.

Please make no mistake, I am aware that this is our fault. I'm aware that I didn't consider the pros and cons of owning a dog before rushing out and getting one. I thought I did, but I guess I didn't. Neither Eric or I had ever owned a dog, and we were not at all prepared. We were not prepared for a dog that needed more than 2 walks and numerous play sessions every day. Not prepared for what we would be losing to chewing. We actually made amends with the chewing, realizing it was mostly our fault for leaving things out. We were not prepared for a dog that, when excited, would launch herself at every person in her vicinity, hurling her entire body weight through the air and knocking that person senseless.  Especially not prepared for that person to be my 1 year-old baby. We were not prepared for how aggressive Ruby got when she was bored, not trying to hurt and only wanting to play, but being way too rough for our baby, our cats and me. My arms were chewed on numerous times in a less than delicate manor. The biggest problem, aside from the terror inflicted on our cats, is that I was yelling at her all the time. I'd get so frustrated and overwhelmed with life, and Ruby was the closest source, so I'd yell. About everything. Always. I realized that Clara spent a considerable amount of time hearing me yell about things that didn't even matter, and that is NOT how I want my child to remember me.

But then... there was night time. No matter how energetic she was, she would always lay next to me on the couch and lie under my feet, and when it was time for bed she would follow me to the room. She'd either lay down in her bed next to mine, curl up with a sigh and sleep, or she'd hop up and sleep against my legs. When I woke up she would stay in bed with me until I got up. Sometimes when she was particularly impatient, she'd lick my face and lie across my stomach until I got up.

If Clara was crying over the monitor and I didn't hear it right away, Ruby would stand over me and whine until I woke up and got her. She'd run into Clara's room, hop up against the crib and try to lick her face, which of course made Clara scream with delight.

Even though at the core of things, Ruby was a great dog, we just weren't the right family for her. At least not in this phase of our lives. She deserves to be with a family who has the time to play, to take her on hikes or who at least has a bigger backyard than our little shoe-box property. She needs kids who want to play with her and don't get frustrated when she smothers them with kisses and knocks them over with her enthusiasm. Make no mistake, I am going to feel like shit every time Clara wakes up and immediately points to the hall and says, "doggy!" I am going to feel like a hypocritical coward every time I feel unsafe at night or lonely in bed. But Ruby is with a family (who we know, if we ever want to visit) with a huge backyard, another dog and two little boys that are ready to run with her until she drops. And I know she will be much happier.

If you think I'm deplorable, please reserve judgment. This was a really difficult decision, and I already feel like a selfish jerk. If it's hurtful or harsh, please keep it to yourself. And about me being a dog person? Maybe we'll try again in a few years when Clara is older. Maybe. For now I'll settle for being the crazy cat lady.

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