Bad Kitty

Lately there have been some things going on in my bed that are really hurting my feelings. No, it's not that Robert has been telling me that I look fat in my jammies. He wouldn't dare do that because it would reduce his chances of having sex from 1.2% to 0.002%. Also, if you remember, Robert's sleeping with Max in Max's room in an attempt to get him out of our bed. It's working, but it's also worked at getting Robert out of our bed.

So anyway. Let's get back to my hurt feelings. I've gotten used to snuggling Maeve's warm little body at night. I like to give her little kisses. And smell her sweet head.




But recently Maeve has been saying some pretty nasty things in her sleep.




Last night she rolled over, slapped me, and shouted, "No! Bad kitty!!!"

I figured she just had a bad dream. I mean I have bad dreams about my cats all the time. Usually they are meowing, scratching, or pissing.

So I snuggled back up to her, smelled her little head, and drifted back to sleep. For like 15 seconds.




She pushed me away again. I mean she really gave me a good shove. And said, "Nooo! Go. Bad candy!" She never opened her eyes. Did she think candy was trying to snuggle with her? I scooted over a bit, gave her a some space. I must have fallen back to sleep and found my way back over to her. But again, I found myself pummeled across the chest by Maeve's swinging arms and legs.




She yelled, "No Gamma!!" That's what she calls my mom.

At this point I've turned over and really hoped she just shuts the hell up so I can get some sleep. It's one thing snuggling with my two-year-old (almost). But with the cat, some candy, and my mom, the bed has become a bit crowded.



Maybe I'll start putting Max to bed instead. This cosleeping thing is a real bitch!

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I'll Blow Anywhere, Sweetheart

The other day, I finally realized that I'm a good mom.

Robert had brought home Mexican food for dinner, and we were all sitting at the kitchen table eating it. Well, to be more accurate, Maeve was standing up in her chair. She likes to stand up to eat. Not sure if that is a sign of her on-the-go personality or if she has figured out that food moves faster in an upright position thus decreasing the time it takes to expulse a poop. Either way, her habit of standing to eat really doesn't bother us.




On this particular night, I was helping Maeve eat some delicious pinto beans. Even by the time they got back to our house from the restaurant, they were hot. Too hot to eat. So, as any good mother would, I blew and blew and blew on Maeve's spoonful of beans. However, I couldn't be leisurely with this process either. My kids were hungry. Max said, "I want beans too, mommy." Maeve rebutted by banging her fork on the table. "No, Max!! Dem are my beans," Maeve shouted back in her pipsqueak voice. We all looked sternly at Max for demanding beans out of turn. But how can you discipline a pipsqueak voice? "Okay, guys! One at a time. Max, I'll give you a bite right after Maeve."

Meanwhile, in a far off land inside Robert's brain matter, he must have been dining alone without any sort of anxiety about taking turns with beans, because he managed to eat a good portion of his dinner while I was worrying about everyone else. Don't worry, I promptly roused him from his burrito haze.




So at this point, believing deep within my mommy soul that the beans were cooled down enough, I lunged the spoon in the direction of Maeve's mouth. She briefly clapped, as she so cutely does when she's about to get her way. She accepted the spoon into her mouth, took the beans, and I pulled out the spoon, already focused on preparing Max's bite. All was quiet for a moment. All I could hear was the sound of Robert chewing with his mouth open. Then, disaster struck. Maeve let out the most dreadful wail imaginable. It was like someone had just stuck piping hot beans into her sensitive little mouth. Well, in fact, that's exactly what had happened. You see, with beans, the top layer can be surprisingly cool to touch after blowing them off, leaving those mean, hot beans lingering underneath.




I took quick action. Instead of telling her to spit the beans out (that can get really messy), I simply leaned across the table and began to furiously blow into her open mouth. "See!! Mommy's blowing the beans off right now. It's okay," I said. The tears from her eyes began to retreat back into her sockets. Her little lip stopped doing that annoying quivering thing. And praise God, she swallowed those damn beans!

See, I'm a good mom. I blow off food when it's inside my kid's mouth.



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Cookie Monsters

Sometimes (like always), I go to the grocery store with the intention of getting just a few things (juice, bread, apples) and end up with a cart full of a shit load of other things (chocolate, goldfish, Oreos). I'm not a big fan of store bought cookies, but Oreos are an exception. They represent a sense of comfort, tradition, and simplicity. All will be well if I just eat an Oreo. And it has to be just like this:




So the other day, my kids were torturing me. Max has developed the habit of asking, "What's he doing?" or "What are you doing?" ALL day long. Maeve has become overly sensitive to Max's attention and screams when he enters her personal space (approximately a three foot diameter around her body). So I get a lot of headaches, and then I feel sorry for myself, and then I rummage through the pantry and find Oreos.




I envision sitting on the couch -- alone -- and taking my sweet time while eating my Oreos.

But it doesn't end up as I had hoped. Both of the kids were screaming for cookies. Why can't children ask in a soft, monotone voice: "Hey Mommy, I'd like an Oreo too please"? Instead they screech and carry on as if they were chickens during roundup time. As if I might run away to Idaho with the Oreos and never come back to give them one.

I know this might sound weird, but I always smell a freshly opened bag of Oreos. It's part of the routine, I suppose. The smell is kind of like mud and vanilla and salt.
We sat on the couch and I doled out cookies to the beggars.




No, actually they were all MY cookies. But of course I didn't say that (not this time anyway). Instead I said, "You need to ask nicely for a cookie or I will take them to another boy or girl who can ask nicely. Or even a squirrel who is having trouble finding acorns. Or a worm. Or an ant."

Max said, "I want to feed the squirrel. And worms and ants. And... Spiders too!"
Well that backfired big time. How good are those miniature people at finding loopholes in conversations that lead to fun stuff like earthworm hunting? Very good, I say. Especially Max.

I imagined us doing that for a moment, digging in the cold December earth, searching for an earthworm or an ant. Delivering to them a chocolate wonderland and creamy goodness.




But don't fret, we did not go to that extreme. I distracted them with a Tinkerbell movie. I had Oreos in my hands ready for them to ask for more. I decided to wait to eat my Oreo(s).

I watched the kids eating their Oreos and became quite disturbed. They weren't honoring any tradition. They were not treating the Oreo with the respect it deserves. Max was pretending that he was Cookie Monster (whom I dislike because of his impulsive need to destroy people's cookies).

Maeve has gotten her cookie apart but was now digging her finger into the vanilla filling as if it was a repulsive substance to put between two chocolate cookies.

I also started to notice crumbs, and lots of them. I don't deal well with crumbs. I don't mind somewhat larger items of food that have been dropped because I can easily pick them up. But crumbs require me getting the vacuum out.

How did my idea of sitting -- alone -- on the couch and eating an Oreo per my four step process turn into my kids fighting over who can hold the Oreo bag and subsequently pulverize the cookies?




Well I could answer that questions in many ways, but the bottom line is that ever since that quick moment in the shower four and a half years ago, I pretty much gave up my right to do anything alone anymore, including eating Oreos.

Or vacuuming.
Or peeing.
Or shitting.
Or showering.
Or cooking.

But that's okay. In the end it's all worth it. In the end it's all worth it. In the end it's all worth it. Yeah, I know I wrote that three times in a row. Just trying to convince myself.

How do you eat your Oreos? Even better, do you share your Oreos or are you a closet Oreo eater (there is no shame!!!!)?

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Working for Wings

Max has developed his very first crush. I can't blame him for his choice. This girl is special: smart, pretty, and very light on her feet. But unfortunately she happens to be a fictional character. Max loves Tinkerbell. He utters her name first thing in the morning while chugging his OJ and munching on bacon. He remembers her at night before he goes to bed. "After nap I want Tinkleboo." Apparently, that's her pet name because that's what he calls her. Maeve is still crushing on my boobs. If you ask her what she wants to do tomorrow, she will either respond with "nur nur" (nursing) or "goa oussite."




Tinkerbell is even now starting to enter Max's wardrobe. Max has completely blurred any stereotypical gender lines when he selected the jibbitz to decorate his crocs. On one shoe, Dora, Diego, and Boots are teaming up to help Max get through the day. On the other shoe he has a light up Buzz Lightyear. And, of course, Tinkerbell. I think it's quite the eclectic collection of preschool powerhouse cartoon characters. And let me just tell you Max gets LOTS of attention from the girls who live across the street. One of them said the other day, "He has Tinkerbell! I've never seen a boy shoe with Tinkerbell. That's cool!!"




I've come to the conclusion that my drawings of my little family could be considered cute, perhaps. My drawings of crocs and jibbitz can be described with words like "lame" and "juvenile". I mean Tinkerbell looks like a scarecrow and Buzz looks more like a clown than an action figure.

But oh well, you get my point. Max's crocs are perfectly reflective of his own hodgepodge personality.

So last night Max was standing on the couch while watching Tinkerbell on the TV. He likes to act out the movie as it unfolds. Impressively, he has memorized nearly all the lines of the 6-7 movies that he watches on a regular basis. AND he has memorized the characters' actions and facial expressions and moods. Max becomes one with the movie. He inhabits it.

Max looked at me for a moment and seemed a bit forlorn. He said, "I can't fly like Tinkleboo."




"Why not, Max?" I asked him.

"Because Max don't have wings." He stretched out his little arms as if to show me the proof.

"That's right, Max. Boys have arms. Boys don't have wings. But you can pretend to have wings!" I proceeded to flap around the living room like some kind of maimed pigeon posing as Tinkerbell. I didn't even have a bell to jingle so I just repeated "Look at me! Tinkle tinkle. I'm Tinkerbell!"




Max clearly considered this possibility for a moment but he had another idea in mind. "Mommy, you go to work and buy wings. Go get some money and buy wings for Max."

I stopped flying around the room with my imaginary wings and said, "Okay. I'll buy you some Tinkerbell wings."

Max seemed quite satisfied. He pointed his finger up towards the sky and said, "I'm flying way up there and then up up up AWAY!"

So if you happen to see Tinkerbell and Max flying around your neighborhood, please let me know. You could just send me a Facebook message or something.



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Just Another "Shitty" Day

Sometimes we go places. It usually involves an ordeal. And it takes a lot of preparation.

We pack sippy cups of juice for both kids, a bag of goldfish crackers, one of those applesauce squeeze thingies for Maeve (in an attempt to diversify her diet of chicken nuggets), a couple of lollipops for coercion purposes, and Max's stretchy lizard friend (so he can torture it instead of Maeve).

All of this gear gets thrown into my purse, which has taken the place of the diaper bag because it got thrown away after being overtaken by fuzzy black mold. Undoubtedly, this fungal outbreak precipitated from ignored apple juice spills and half-eaten nutrigrain bars and long forgotten Oreos. My purse has become the mecca for unusually grouped objects. At any given time, you can find money, tampons, sequined hair bows, snack foods, chewing gum, leaves/dirt, a water bottle, a calendar, pens, markers, broken crayons, matchbox cars, Motrin, a stethoscope, a can of diet Coke, lipstick, my phone, Maeve's toy phone, a diaper, underwear (for Max), bandaids, pacifiers, wipes, Kleenex, and usually about 7 hair ties. I probably have enough supplies to feed and entertain a dozen toddlers stranded in the Peruvian mountains for a week. And enough lollipops to convince them all to come down.




Getting the four of us clothed, fed, and out the door takes a surprisingly long time. First we have to sit on top of one child to brush her teeth, get her dressed, fix her hair, and put on her socks and shoes. Then we have to do the same thing with the next child. Usually while tending to one child, the other one draws on himself with indelible markers.

Robert and I usually get our clothes from the meticulously arranged dresser as seen below.



They are so conveniently warm and wrinkle-free if Robert remembers to hit the quick dry button. Even though, I'm pretty sure my go to wardrobe of yoga pants are wrinkle resistant.

By the time we get both kids into the car seats, we are all irritable and unpleasant. Particularly me. I usually inquire and complain about a variety of things, including but not limited to why it takes us two hours to get organized and out of the house, when and where did Max last go potty, how many bites did Maeve eat of her scrambled eggs, and why Robert doesn't help to put me in a better mood.

As if by act of divine intervention, there happens to be a Starbucks within minutes of my house. I am thankful for the heavenly combination of sugar and caffeine. Robert is thankful that I have to shut up in order to drink it.




By the time we get to our destination, I feel like it should already be nap time. But in an effort not to be perpetually gloomy and negative, I psych the kids up for an exciting adventure at the park. Instead of heading for all of the other families frolicking on the playground, we gravitate towards a trail into the woods. Robert and I have the philosophy that if you encourage your kids to run nonstop during the day, they will go to bed earlier and sleep through the night. We continue to aspire to this philosophy even though we have found it to be largely untrue. We end up staying out too late, missing the sacred window of nap time, and facing the wrath of overtired and cranky children. And then we try again tomorrow. I think this might be the definition of insanity.

Everything starts off fine. The birds are chirping. The sun is shining. No one has any boo boos. Then I think I see a creek off the beaten path. I encourage everyone to step off the nicely groomed trail so that we can walk on uneven terrain and throw rocks into a glorified drainage ditch. This decision might seem a bit foolhardy when you also take into consideration that I severely sprained my ankle 12 days ago.
Fairly soon into our trailblazing adventure, we encounter a small embankment. I pick up Maeve to help her onto surer footing when I start to lose my own. Unable to catch myself because of my weakened ankle, I slip and ungracefully roll down the hill. Instead of reaching out to catch me, Robert just stands there and laughs. Max is horrified. He points at me and says, "Mommy's falling down a mountain!"

Luckily, I am uninjured.




After recuperating myself and yelling at Robert for his insensitivity, we make our way to the creek. It's actually quite a nice creek and the kids periodically enjoy tossing rocks into the water. But the moment passes almost as quickly as it had begun. We are a fair distance from the van at this point. The kids are hungry, and wouldn't you know I left my purse in the van.

So we trudge back to the path. I am busy tending to Maeve when I hear Max shriek out. Immediately I assume the worst. I imagine that he's been bitten by a cottonmouth. I rush to his aid only to discover that he has procured a splinter. It is not nearly as bad as it sounds.




Finally we can see the light of civilization. I'm carrying Maeve. Max wants to walk. He's clutching his hand as if he's afraid the wind might dislodge the splinter and cause massive, fatal bleeding. Anxious to get to the van, Robert lifts him up to his shoulders. And then shit really hits the fan. Or more specifically, dog shit all over Robert's jacket, shoulders, and hair. I guess Max had stepped in a pile of doo doo.
And now is when I get to laugh my ass off.



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Sleep is NOT overrated

I have not slept through the night in over four years. That includes the three years and eight months of being a mother and prior to that thirty-nine weeks and one day of being pregnant. Not that anyone's counting.

Last night was particularly lacking in the area of sleep. And personal space. I'm not sure if you read my other cosleeping post, but I have this fantasy of one day being able to make snow angels in my bed. But Maeve prefers to pretend that she's a little chimp in the rain forests of Africa. She clings to me all night long as if she's afraid she'll get eaten. Robert currently sleeps with Max in Max's bed in a heroic effort to get him out of our bed.

So here's a rundown of last night:

10:30 pm. I'm up too late because of the election. I follow the results on my iPad. Maeve clings, apparently dreaming of predatory creatures.




12:00 am. I finally fall asleep.

12:16 am. I wake up. I hear a scratching noise. I've been having weird dreams lately, and for a second I think it might be a zombie version of my elderly next door neighbor clawing at the door. I tiptoe out of bed, prepared to stab her with the pen from my bedside table. I silently hope that the struggle doesn't wake up the kids. I swing open the door, pen poised in the air. But it's just our super annoying cat Stanley. He sprints past me, unimpressed by my weapon, and leaps onto my pillow.




I eventually fall back asleep. The purring and kneading noises from Stanley don't help.

2:35 am. Maeve starts wiggling around. She wants to nurse. I might also add that in the past three years and eight months, I've only had five months of breast independence. Max nursed for 16 months. Maeve is still going strong at 22 months. I find myself wedged between a ridiculously loud purring cat and a suckling toddler.




I don't remember when or how, but I fall back asleep.

2:53 am. I wake up to the sound of Maeve laughing hysterically. I force my eyes open against the weight of my enormously heavy eyelids. Maeve's sitting up in bed poking the cat. The cat responds by purring even louder, obviously thrilled with the attention. I respond by throwing the cat out of my room and slamming the door.

3:12 am. Maeve is still awake, asking for the kitty. And chicken. And paint. In that order. I give up trying to force her to nurse back to sleep. I drag my corpse of a body out of the bed, pick up Maeve, and go into Max's room. Of course Robert and Max are both sleeping peacefully. I have only a tiny bit of guilt as I shake Robert awake. "Here," I say. "Take her. She wants chicken. And Stanley. And paint." He mumbles some form of muffled agreement/animosity.




I climb back in bed. I close my eyes.

I wait. I feel sleepy. But I feel hungry even more.

I'm doing Weight Watchers. I only eat enough to keep my brain, heart, and kidneys working. Pretty much everything else is starving to death.

3:53 am. I'm still awake. And starving. All I can think about is the bag of Halloween candy in the coat closet downstairs. I'm not supposed to eat candy. It has like 1,324 points. I'm only allowed 29 points a day.

3:58 am. Weight Watchers can kiss my ass. I'm getting a candy bar. I sneak downstairs. I manage to evade Maeve and Robert. They are in the living room watching TV. And perhaps eating chicken. I open the closet door and rummage through the Halloween candy. It smells heavenly of chocolate, and chocolate, and more chocolate. And skittles too. I finally settle on a 3 Musketeers bar. It's a full-sized one, which I feel guilty about, but it also has 45% less fat, so then I feel less guilty. (My kids got several full-sized chocolate bars on Halloween because they looked so damn cute in their costumes. See the end of this post for pictures.)

I race back upstairs with my candy bar and hop into bed. I eat it in the dark, quiet, loneliness of my room. It's perfect.

Except for the fact that I am exhausted too.




At some point I fall back to sleep.

4:22 am. I wake up suddenly. Maeve has just run into the room, saying "nur nur!!!" That means she wants to nurse. I pull her into bed and give her the boob. I don't remember exactly what happens next. Nothing, not even chocolate, will make things better. I just want sleep.

5:10 am. "MWEOWWW!" I twitch to life. I hear a howling noise. It's Stanley again. He wants to go into the garage. That's where his litter box and food are. Despite having an intense desire to strangle him, I really don't want to wake up the kids. So I follow him down the stairs and let him out. I tell him that he's never coming inside ever again.




I crawl back up the stairs. I now wish the zombie old lady next door neighbor had killed me. It would be better than this living hell.

I get back in bed. My chimp immediately clings onto me. I fall asleep probably instantaneously.

6:50 am. BANG! The bedroom door slams against the wall. "Mommy!!!!" Max yells. "I want to snuggle." I feel like I have been kicked, gutted, and decapitated. I'm that tired. But it's time to snuggle. And then get up and get ready for school.



Max notices my despondency. "What is it, Mommy?" he asks.

"I'm tired, Max. Very, very tired," I say.

"It's okay, Mommy. You can take a nap yater," he says, stroking my sullen, sunken, somber face.

You bet your ass I'll take a nap, I think.

But I write this post instead.


Halloween pictures:






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It's Getting a Little Warm in Here

A few days ago, Max was acting particularly dreadful. He pushed Maeve after she confiscated a car out of his meticulously placed car line. I tried to use my positive discipline techniques. I said, "Hands are for hugging, buddy!" He murmured back to me, "Well it's my car..." I ignored him.




A few minutes later, Maeve tried to sneak away another car. Max took my words a bit too literally.




"That's my car!" he yelled as he hugged the life out of Maeve. The only sound she made came from the air being squeezed out of her lungs.

That's when I lost it.




I yelled at him, "Never hug anyone again!!" Then I put him in timeout. And I was very loud and monster-like.

Fast forward to the next morning. I reached over to snuggle with Max and noticed his body was quite warm. There was not doubt he had a fever. I immediately thought back to my mothering failure from the day before. I should have been more compassionate, I thought. His throat was probably sore. His head was probably throbbing. And I told him never to hug anyone again. I lay in bed for a few minutes, clutching Max's warm body, feeling very tormented as a mother.




Being the nurse that I am, I believe in getting the most accurate temperature reading. So until our kids can hold a thermometer in their mouths, it goes in their rectums. For this reason, our children have a good deal of trepidation when they see the thermometer come out of the bathroom cabinet.




In fact, they run away from me holding their bottoms and shrieking, "Nooooo!"

I finally got Max on the changing table and have calmed him down when I realized that I don't have any Vaseline. I scurried back to the bathroom to look for some. I looked in all of the drawers and cabinets. We were out. I wasn't sure what to do.

Then I saw it. Nestled back in one of the cabinets, dusty from lack of use. A small bottle of Astroglide. And not just any Astroglide, WARMING Astroglide.

I was faced with a dilemma. I needed to take Max's temperature. But if I did, I would have to use my personal lubricant with warming sensation for added pleasure.

So I decided to compromise. I just used a little.




Max was very upset, not necessarily because of the warming Astroglide, but because of the thermometer in his butt.

Maeve generously offered him a toy car.

I gave him a hug.

And bought some Vaseline the next day.

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Reality Bites

I work part-time as a nurse. I pretty much save lives every day, so it's a pretty gratifying job. I also consider myself a full-time mommy, which is also a gratifying job. Especially if you like delayed gratification. As in "30 years from now I finally see that I was a good mommy" kind of delayed gratification.

When I'm at work, I usually get home at about 6 pm. I'm usually hungry and tired. I'm excited to see Robert and the kids. While I'm driving home, I envision a certain scene awaiting me. It includes clean floors, clean children, clean clothes in my drawers, and food on the table waiting for me to eat it. It looks kind of like this:




I'm pretty sure that this is an example of an unrealistic expectation. Even as I'm thinking it, I know that it's an unlikely picture. But when I get home, things are far worse than I could have ever imagined. I say to Robert, "What did you even do all day?" Things really look like this:




On the days I don't work, I stay at home and Robert goes to work. Secretly, I think about how great of a mother and housewife I'm going to be. Okay, so maybe I say it out loud too. "Robert, when I'm at home, I create a fun and educational environment for the kids and also clean up the house! Can't you do that too??"




He normally doesn't respond. He's learned to block me out, because I really can be a nagging bitch sometimes.

So, the next morning, I wake up full of ambition and motivation. Well, after I've had my coffee anyway. Before I've had my coffee, things look like this:




Max starts asking for juice. Maeve says, "Come. Pway." They have already somehow made a mess of the living room in the fifteen minutes that I've been lying on the couch hoping that someone would magically appear with a Starbucks latte.
So I get up. I get them dressed. I get myself dressed. They look cute and refreshed. Ready to go. I look frumpy and tired. I load them into the van and drive to Starbucks. Yes, I really do. I have major goals for the day, and the first one is to get myself a Starbucks latte. We drive home. The kids are screaming for coffee too. And coke, chicken, balloons, and daddy. I turn on music so I can pretend I don't hear them.
When we get home, I make them bacon and eggs. The fact that I will touch raw bacon for my children means that I really, really love them. I create a lot of dishes. The kids drop little morsels of bacon and eggs throughout the living room. I hope the cat eats it.




They are so fast and unrelenting with their destruction that I can't keep up! As soon as I pick up their play doh, they are throwing cars out of their car bin. Then they want snacks. Goldfish are soon flying around the living room, threatening to permanently blind someone with a tail fin. I manage to fold a load of laundry, but as I start another load, I leave the precious piles unattended. And when I poke my head around the corner, this is what I see:




After lunch, I lie down with them for nap. I've been busting my butt all day -- I think I deserve to rest a bit. We get up a couple of hours later, go downstairs, eat more snacks, drag out more toys. I never get back to the laundry so it's still scattered all over the floor. I begin to get anxious. Robert should be home in an hour and it does not look like the perfect mother and housewife lives here. So I start vacuuming. Max thinks that vacuuming is a fun game so he pours out some cereal for me to suck up. Maeve finishes her applesauce. By squeezing it all over the floor. It's amazing how many things you find when you are cleaning. Like cat vomit. And a piece of toast from perhaps 3 months ago.




I'm exhausted and it doesn't look like I've done anything all day long. And I haven't thought about dinner. Do they even need dinner if they've been eating all day long? Just as I collapse on the couch to retreat into my dark, twisty place, I hear the door open. I brace myself for a comment such as, "The only thing I smell cooking for dinner is a poop in Maeve's diaper."

But he surprises me.



At least one of us is grounded in reality.

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At Least I'm Koot

I have come to the realization that 90% of my clothes date back to the premommyhood era, a time where food was never fried and the only reason for not going to the gym was because I was too sore from the day before.




I drew this little diagram to show what mealtimes look like before (freshly prepared healthy food, sitting down, napkins) and after (whatever is edible in the fridge, loitering around TV, sleeves or my t-shirt) kids.

Every morning, I face the same dilemma (except when I work and then I can wear scrubs, thank God): what should I wear? Things used to be so easy. Now, sometimes I cry.




I used to wear really cute clothes that showed off my toned, tanned legs. Now I hide the shapeless, pale appendages in black yoga pants. And then I eat some chocolate to make myself feel better.




Once in a while, I set my mind to getting back my girlish figure. I post a hot, skinny profile picture of myself on Facebook. I write a workout schedule in my calendar. I throw away all junk food from the pantry (except for chocolate).

Then, for a few days I exercise religiously. Sometimes it lasts for a few weeks even. I feel rejuvenated. I'm a nicer wife. A more patient mother. My legs feel sore. I study them for signs of blossoming muscle definition.

Then, one morning, I get an idea. I've been working out every day and surviving on air, grapes, and goldfish crackers. Surely I'll be able to fit into my old clothes! I dig around in my closet. I try on one pair of jeans. I can't get them over my hips. I kick them off impatiently. They must have shrunk in the dryer, I convince myself. I try on another pair of jeans. I get those all the way on, but after I button them, I can't breathe because all of my fat is pushing against my lungs. I kick those off too. I try on yet another pair. They are easier to button. I smile. Congratulate myself. I imagine all the compliments that I'm going to get from my family and friends. Then, I turn around to model in front of the mirror. I think I actually let out a frantic "eeeeee" sound. My legs look like link sausages in the jeans. Not shapely and toned. Tubular.




So, I make the most obvious decision. I sit down and eat chocolate.

Just when I think things really, really suck, my kids distract me and I forget about my skinny jeans and my sausage-like legs. I get pulled into a happy little world of play doh snakes and water balloons and walks around the neighborhood. Kids are good like that. They don't give you a lot of spare time to feel sorry for yourself.

And when I get a spare moment to start fretting about my wardrobe, I give up and put on my yoga pants.

Maeve watches me. I imagine that she might be grossed out. Disappointed in me. Or maybe she's just hoping I'll give her some chocolate.

But I'm wrong. She smiles at me and says, "Awwwww, mommy! You so koot!"



And I give her some chocolate anyway.
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