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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