Older Daughter’s Question

“Mommy?  Why are you so fat?”

“Because that’s the way I’m built.  We have a lot of large, strong women in our family. . . And I also dieted a lot when I was younger, and dieting can make you even bigger.”

“Did you like how I did at the recital tonight?”

“Yes.  You played really, really well!  I’m so proud of you!  Will you play for Grandma and Grandpa at Thanksgiving?”

“Sure.  And Daddy said I didn’t eat too much at the redemption.”

“Reception.  You don’t have a tummyache, right?  Then you did just fine.  You do know that the reason we told you to choose only two special things is because we didn’t want you to get overheated and excited and overfull–like the reunion?”

“I didn’t throw up this time.”

“Exactly.  Good job taking care of yourself.”

“Thanks, Mommy.  Can I have a lipbalm kit for my birthday, like I gave Holly for hers?”

“Let’s see how she likes it first.  If she thinks it’s really great, then we’ll put it on your list.”

“Okay.  Night, Mommy.”

“Good night, honey.”

Food Choices, Lying, and the Diabetes Question

I haven’t had a single sugary food item for two weeks. No cookies, no candy, no ice cream, no chocolate, no desserts.

This isn’t a matter of willpower or virtue or whatever, and I’m not saying this to get pats on the back or be added to the “Good Fattie” list.  And I’m not eating any less, just different foods.  No diets.  No self-flagellation.

It’s just the way I’ve been eating lately. Really.

I’ll understand if the people who started out with me on this blog are a little skeptical.  I’m a little skeptical.  Am I  just following what I want to eat, or am I actually restricting?  Is this HAES, or some kind of coping mechanism?

I mean, I’ve been trying to follow my body cues for a while now, but my past motives for dietary changes make this one suspect.

Dr. E suggested that I try not to overthink it—which is the kind of ridiculous, closing-the-barn-door-after-the-neurosis-has-escaped statement that makes me feel ever so sarcastic—but  if I get tense  or shaky thinking about, say, a bowl of ice cream, than I should mindfully eat some.  There’s a difference between not eating something you aren’t hungry for and not allowing yourself to eat something you are hungry for.

I haven’t felt tense about the stuff I’m passing up—at least not in a bingeing, deprivation backlash kind of way—but something odd has happened: I’m lying about it.

My MIL made apple brown betty one day last week.  I didn’t feel much like dessert and said I’d have some later.  Later went by, and she asked me how I liked it.  Instead of telling her I still hadn’t tried it, I told her it was delicious.

Instead of telling my husband that I didn’t want any ice cream, I told him that I’d had a lot of it after lunch.

I told my kids I didn’t like  Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups—and may God spare me for such a lie—but thank you for wanting to share.

I mean, I’m not even deliberately restricting—I’m not, am I?—and I was back to hiding what I’m eating, or not eating.  And I was justifying it by telling myself that I didn’t want anyone to think I was trying to lose weight, or be good, or healthy, or anything.   I didn’t want anyone making a big deal about it . . . so I was.  Secretly. Doing my  little patented, pathological food dance. . .

So, last night, my MIL asked me about my favorites out of the kids’ Halloween candy this year.  I said, truthfully, that I tried to leave their candy alone unless it was freely and spontaneously offered.  Then I added, again truthfully,  that I hadn’t been wanting to eat much sugar lately, that it didn’t feel right to me.

She blinked at me and said.  “Oh.  Your body is probably telling you something.  Maybe you should get checked for pre-diabetes.”

Thunk.  Huh?

Now, if there’s one thing the fatosphere has done for me, it’s to give me a thorough education on the myths and mysteries of diabetes.  I opened my mouth to deliver a few pointed facts when she asked, “Do you have any diabetes in the family?”

No.  No we don’t.  We have cancer.  And many delightful  psychological idiosyncrasies.

“Oh . . . Well then you probably don’t have it.  But you might want to get a checkup anyway.”

So part of me is thinking, wow, some people actually do know actual facts about diabetes.  And isn’t it interesting that she’s worried that I’m not eating a group of foods that many people classify as junk?

Another part is kicking me for once again defensively assuming that she thinks I’m unhealthy because I’m fat.  Which once again makes my fat my problem and not hers.

The rest is wondering how much sugar she thinks I actually consume, or consumed, on a daily basis, if she think it’s a major life change—with medical implications—that I’ve stopped.  Which is as counterproductive as any time one finds oneself worrying about what one looked like before.

So here I am, still preferring fruit to homemade snickerdoodles—which might be proof of a sort that I’m under the weather—and wondering why, when I could care less what this is does to my size or weight, that I’m making such a big deal about it.

And whether I should eat a Three Musketeers bar, just to make sure.

Sure of what, I don’t know.

Wednesday Fluff: Life, The Universe, and Everything

Watch this and tell me what you think:

Don’t know about you, but I feel far less alone than I did before . . .

Just a Regular Girl. . .

Saturday at the gym, two humongous guys were monopolizing the EZ barbell contraption I usually use for squats, because it keeps my back straight.  I kept my eye on them to see if they were going to move, but I probably didn’t have to–you could hear them all over the room, grunting in time with their reps:

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

That’s it, Dawg, that’s it, push it, push it!

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

It occurred to me later that this is exactly what it might sound like if a man ever gave birth.

I’ve been known to make some sounds of effort myself—usually variations on “ouch”—while I’m lifting, but there’s a certain type of lifter, in my experience usually a guy in a pair or group, who needs to broadcast their efforts.

But that’s not all.  One of them had a laugh exactly like Salacious Crumb—you know, the little rat-creature in Jabba’s lair—in the third  Star Wars movie: AH-HAH-HAH- hah-hah-ha-he-he-he-he. I kid you not—the exact pitch and everything.

It was the kind of laugh that made every single person in the room look over to see if he was laughing at them.  And as anyone who reads this blog should know by now, I’m not immune to that kind of thing, even when the laugh is a pleasant one.  So I gave them a wide berth and did the rest of my workout as far away as possible.
But I needed to do my squats.  So I ventured into their corner and decided that as they appeared to be staying for the day, I’d use the other EZ rack–the one I don’t like, because you have to keep the bar turned so  the spotting hooks don’t grab it on the way down–or worse, on the way up.*

So I was doing the math in my head—45 pound barbell, so I need 35 more, which is a ten plate, a five, and a 2.5 on each side—which I do slowly because math involves numbers.

And I heard one of the Grunting Twins say, “Dude, I’m lifting like a girl today.”

I glanced over and grinned because this is patently not true—most girls might not be benching 225, but on the whole we’re quieter.  His partner, the one with the laugh, saw me smiling and elbowed him.

“What?” said the Grunter.  “Oh.  She’s not a girl. She’s a regular.”

I snorted, chose my plates and caught Salacious Crumb’s eye.  We shrugged and giggled together—AH-HAH-HAH- hah-hah-ha-he-he-he-he—and I loaded the bar and did my squats.

The thing is, officially I’m offended.  Because girl equalled weak, here, which is wrong as a blanket statement, even when it comes to physical strength.  Because this guy didn’t think I was weak, so I was no longer a girl—granted, I left my girlhood a long way back, and perhaps my ability to attract random gym rats,** but not my solidarity, or being female. ***

I like being a  regular at the gym. It’s giving up my gender to become one that I don’t care for.

But considering the source, I doubt one could ever convince him that he’d put his foot in it.  Maybe I could have tried .  .  .

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

C’mon, Girl, you can convince that guy!  Keep pushing!  Keep pushing!

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

Hrrrrnnnnnggg!

AH-HAH-HAH- hah-hah-ha-he-he-he-he.

___

*I realize this isn’t a great description . . . picture yourself with a barbell across your shoulders (along the back of your neck).  Picture yourself bending at the knees, as if you were sitting on a chair, and rising up, one-two, one-two, on-two, nice and easy.  Now, picture yourself bending, moving your grip just a little and hearing a click, rising up–and jamming your shoulders up against an unmoving bar.  This is why I hate this machine.

**Can I get a Hallelujah for that, please? I don’t lift with my wedding ring on—that’s a good way to hurt myself and the ring—but so far no one appears to think I’m scoping.  It probably helps that I wear comfortable clothes, no makeup, and move around enough to sweat.

***The fact that my boobs occasionally get in the way should be a clue.

Clowning Around

After taking a day off from work, I not only seem to have kicked the last vestige of headache, but am now the proud creator of a clown costume—one that actually fits its intended two-year old, thank you very much.

Grace and I had already free-handed the pattern (based on one of Baby’s body suits) and cut out the pieces, so  it only took me about four hours, not including the final run to the fabric store to get buttons—buttons are Baby’s new love—and some velcro.*  In retrospect, I should have gone with the self-sticking velcro—and purchased a new seam ripper.  But you live and you learn.

And I loved every minute of it.  It’s been a long time since I was able to sit down at a sewing machine and make something without worrying about children underfoot or leaning in too close and grabbing thread or poking fingers under the–gaah!

Sorry, mommy nightmare.

But the kids were in school and day care, respectively, my husband was teaching an early class, and my MIL was volunteering at her church.  So I was able to sit down, plug in my sewing machine and the first dvd in my new Nero Wolfe collection,** and start filling bobbins. Two dvds later, I had a blue, full length, one-piece clown suit with a tummy ruffle, three oversized primary-colored buttons, elasticized wrists and ankles, and, for that all-important diapering convenience, velcroed inseams.

As long as no one examines the inside, it looks pretty good.  At one point,  I hit the wrong knob and knocked the fabric guide out of whack, but didn’t know it, so I ended up dragging  the fabric under the presser foot by force which put too much strain on the thread, which kept breaking.  I finally figured it out, but it’s a little . . . thready in there.  A little askew. Maybe verging on random.

In other words, perhaps just a little too homemade.

But Grace, who has truly amazing needlecraft skills, has this great story about a workshop instructor who stood up in front of the class and said (I’m paraphrasing), “No one has the right to look at the underside of your work.  If someone is looking at one of your pieces and turns it over to check the back without asking first, you have my permission to slap them.”

This is  not only a great comfort, but may be my new philosophy of motherhood.

I mean, I pack my kids’ lunches every weekday, check homework, help with piano, read to and with them, and play Barbies\school\computers\artists\secret agent fairies vs. the Giant Baby.***  And make Halloween costumes.  My kids play well with others, mostly, and neither seems to be a parenting-induced psychopath (knock on wood).

So what if their  rooms are a perpetual mess, there are toys everywhere,  I don’t make beds as often as the Manual of Perfect Motherhood dictates, breakfast is sometimes  peanut-buttered tortillas eaten on the way to wherever, and I let them watch Mythbusters^ with me.  That’s the underside.

As is the undeniable fact that the one-way pattern of that adorable clown costume is upside-down. Upside.  Freaking. Down.

But Baby loves  it.  I got a big hug and a kiss on the cheek when I lifted her onto the bathroom counter to see herself in the mirror and she didn’t want to take it off .  I’d go another six hours over a hot sewing machine for the grin on her face.

I’ll  put up an image once she’s all clowned-up for Halloween.

And I promise I won’t photoshop the seams . .  .

____

*Plus some interfacing and elastic for a clown hat that I’m not sure I’m going to make, because I’m not sure Baby will wear one.  And gum.

**The A&E series.  I admire  Timothy Hutton almost as much as I love Archie Goodwin. And Conrad Dunn is a great Saul Panzer, whom I also adore perhaps more than is strictly healthy.  I have many literary crushes . . . occupational hazard.

***The series of Giant Baby™ games was invented so Older Daughter would allow Baby to play with her before Baby could actually play much—the giant baby has been either the enemy, the petwalker, the nanny, the cook, or the demolitions expert.  It’s weird, but it works.

^Not every episode . . . but most of them.  Critical-thinking skills are very important, even if it involved duct-taping a car to a crane.

Pumpkin Sinuses and other Excuses

I have a couple of excuses for why I didn’t post all last week, though as only one person seemed to notice (Hi, Steve!) excuses may not be necessary. Still, I’ve worked hard on them, and it’s not like I have much else to post about, as you will see.

About two weeks ago, Baby came down sick with a mild case of one of this season’s ‘flus , which means she was only out for a week.  The  rest of the family succumbed as well, except for my MIL, who kept to her rooms. *

Everyone else managed to get well in time to travel to my MIL’s family reunion a couple states away . . . except for me.  I couldn’t get the time off, anyway, but instead of spending the Mommy-free time making Halloween costumes, I ended up doing frivolous things like sleeping, sneezing, prodding my swollen sinuses and coughing up interesting stuff.**

I lost the ability to spell, much less conceive of and type up a blog entry that was up to even my low standards.

So I still have most of one toddler clown costume left to do, and the credit for the little that is done goes to my friend Grace, who came over with dvds, white chocolate, and sympathy on the weekend and got roped into helping me cut out the pieces. They will get done by Friday, I swear on my last remaining alveoli.

And I will start posting relevant stuff again soon.  Some of it might even make sense and not refer to the ten pounds of solid goo packing my sinuses.

Meanwhile, here’s something a friend sent to me to make me feel better.  It worked really well until my giggles made me cough . . .

___

*This sound a little callous, but she has chronic repiratory problems, so we told her to be careful.  Since she and Baby are best friends, we all thought quarantine would be the better part of valor.

**Yes, I went to work before I was really recovered.  I took all precautions, including one whole bottle of hand sanitizer, two boxes of tissues,  and, at one point, a disposable filter mask.   I also warned everyone not to get too close, although I can’t imagine that anyone who saw me needed a verbal warning.

Feelings of Fatness

Baby has been sick all week–temps between 101-102, barking coughs, and a couple of  infected ears–and I no longer feel confident that I will be able to outrun whatever it is that she has.

We are now seriously understaffed at work until the end of the month and I’m pulling my second late shift of the week tonight.

It’s cold outside and the not-quite-rain is covering the roads with something that’s not-quite-ice but works the same way without warning.

My period is a little late and my extended PMS is putting the lives of others in danger.

So, naturally, when I looked in the bathroom mirror this morning, my reflection had expanded to fill the entire surface.  A good trick, considering said mirror runs the length of the counter and extends above my head for a good two feet.  But I wasn’t marveling at my new height—I was struggling against an ingrained habit.

See, somewhere along the way, I learned that the kind of stress listed above equals being fat.  Not overworked, worried, and hormonally imbalanced, but fat. Bloated Warthog Fat.

If my pants are a little snug, it’s not because I’m retaining the equivalent of Lake Titicaca, as I have done, when in good health, on a regular basis for twenty-six years.  It’s because I’m too fat.

If I’m yawning at work and forgetting what those wheeled  things we put books on are called—and I swear to you I’m drawing a blank right now—it’s  not because I’ve been at the beck and call of a cranky, aching Baby who needs her mother.  It’s because I’m tired from carrying around all this weight.

If I’m irritable and snappish and overwhelmed, I don’t need to pop a couple of Midol and re-prioritize my workload for a couple more weeks.  I need to concentrate on designing a  diet and exercise plan so I can lose some weight and improve my mood

I know this is complete cra—BOOKCARTS!  Oh, thank God—complete crap, but it’s been my coping mechanism for a long time.  It’s like a riff on that old joke:  When a normal person gets  flat tire, s/he fixes the tire.  When I get a flat tire, I worry about my weight.*

The thing is, when my brain panics and shoves the warthog image at me, I wouldn’t normally bother to call bullshit on this, to look at my reflection and say, “Yes, I’m fat.  That’s not the problem.  How will losing weight get me more sleep?  Lower my child’s fever?  Get my co-workers to stop taking vacations all at the same time?  Make my period start right this very minute now so I can get on with my life without the risk of going off like Krakatoa?  How will losing weight fix my actual problems?”

Because it won’t.  The only thing that losing weight will do is to take my mind off my problems for a certain time—until restrictive dieting and excessive exercise create even bigger problems.  Been there, done that,  have the t-shirt in a selection of sizes.

My feelings of fatness are rarely about the state of my actual body–my period is, true, but it’s a known phenomenon that’s going to happen whether I’m fat or not and it will pass.  And I suppose being tired is a contributing factor, since everything is tougher on four hours of constantly interrupted sleep.

But at bottom, so to speak, my feelings of fatness are actually about feeling helpless, out of control, and overwhelmed.

That’s what I need to fix.

And I’m going to start with a fifteen-minute power nap and a snack.

__

*There are  several possible second lines to this:  “When a junkie gets a flat tire, s/he calls a pusher.”  “When a gambler gets a flat tire, s/he calls a bookie.”  There’s a theme here, somewhere.

Monday Video Fluff . . . On Bagpipes

. . . because I mentioned to my friend Micki that I’d always wanted to learn the bagpipes* . . . and whenever you mention anything to Micki, you tend to find this kind of thing in your in-box:

There’s apparently a nine-minute version as well, but I didn’t want to try anyone’s patience–it’s mostly a rehash of the above.

And here’s another . . .

The Rogues remind me a little of the band that played at my wedding reception.  You haven’t lived until you’ve heard the Bunny Hop on the bagpipes . . .

And now that you’re fully awake–have a wonderful day!

___
*Which is actually true. I’m a recovered bassoonist, so odd, character-building instruments do not scare me.

Your Mommy is . . . ?

Due to the encouraging words of the people* who left kind comments on my recent foray into writing a picture book, sans pictures, I went ahead and submitted the story to an online critiquing site that specializes in children’s lit.

This wasn’t in hopes of getting it published someday—it was published when I posted it on this blog and over 400 people read it (so far), so that’s that—but because I wanted to learn from writers who are knowledgeable about writing for children.  Writing for a young audience takes different skills and mindsets than my usual oeuvre,** and while I read at least ten linear miles of books (spine width, not length, mind you) to my kids on a weekly basis, that doesn’t automatically translate into being able to write good ones.

I’ve already received feedback on the story, which was extremely helpful and much appreciated.***

But aside from the invaluable writing assistance, the various reactions to the title and the first line are the most interesting part of this venture.

No one who has commented on the story (so far) on this blog had any problems with the word “fat” being used as a simple descriptor.  The majority of my audience is from the fatosphere, so this acceptance isn’t surprising.

The critiquing site isn’t the fatosphere.  So, honestly, their reactions shouldn’t surprise me, either.  And I suppose on one level, they don’t.

While there are a few critiquers who didn’t mention it, most thought that the word “fat” was too harsh and negative for a children’s book.  A few people said that they would be repelled by the title, even though the story itself was a fine idea, and that publishers might not touch it.  One person thought the opening line was offensive and that if someone had called his mother fat, that would be the end to any possible friendship.

Their opinions are not invalid and I can’t and won’t ignore them—in fact, they are pretty much why I wrote the story in the first place.  The word “fat” is so dangerous, so explosive to people that they shy away from it, offer many substitutions in its place, react strongly against picking up a book with “fat” in the title.

So I have some choices here (and how many times have I used that phrase in this blog?).

I can use one of the many terms that mean fat without all most of the negative baggage that comes with that little three-letter word.  This might soften the message that fat is just a descriptor, but the size-acceptance message might still hold true.

I can use “fat” anyway and risk scaring off agents, publishers, and potential readers.  Because the association between “fat” and “unhealthy, lazy, stupid, ugly, unworthy, shameful, bad” has to be broken or more children will grow up ashamed about being “bad” or terrified that they will become “bad” and shamed.  It’s not that I believe my little picture book is going to save the world, but starting small is still a start.

The part of me that dislikes conflict is glad that I don’t have to make a decision for this particular story.  But what about future stories?

I don’t know.  Is a diluted message still a message?

But I do know that all this proves how much I’ve changed.

Three years ago, I wouldn’t have touched a book with fat in the title to save my life, much less read one to my kids.  And then I wrote one—and have to really think about why someone would do the same thing.

That’s progress.  Major progress for me, and maybe even minor progress on the cultural scale—because everything has to start somewhere.

Maybe even by calling someone’s mother a three-letter word?

___

*And thank you all so much for your comments and encouragement!

**Hey!  I gots an oeuvre!

***And that’s meant sincerely, not in the “I will keep your comments in mind” way that means that the writer will do her best to erase those hurtful, ignorant comments from her memory forever, even if she has to drown them in appletinis and tuxedos.

Your Mommy is Fat, Your Mommy is Thin

I’ve been noodling around with a picture book idea lately . . .

I know that if I ever did submit this to a publisher, I would have no control over the illustrations or how this is interpreted, but this is my blog, so I’m free to post my entire vision:*

It’s set at the beach.  Two girls (named here for your reading convenience) are there with their respective mommies to swim and have a picnic.  As the mothers begin unpacking relevant stuff, the kids watch each other from across the page. . .

Laura: Your Mommy is fat.

Robin:  Your Mommy is  thin.

Laura: Your Mommy is short.

Robin:  Your Mommy is tall.

Laura:  (helps put up a beach umbrella) My Mommy lifts me high on her shoulders

Robin:  (Getting a hug) My Mommy gives the best hugs.

Laura: (catching a ball that her mom tosses her) My Mommy plays basketball with me.

Robin: (Hula hooping with her mom) My Mommy taught me how to hula hoop.

Laura:  (bouncing the ball off her knee) We play soccer.

Robin: (as  her mom turns on a radio) We dance.

Laura:  My Mommy is wearing a gorgeous swimsuit.

Robin: My Mommy is, too.

Both:  My Mommy taught me how to swim.

Laura:  My Mommy gives me healthy stuff to eat (aside in a small speech balloon as her mom hands her lunch: “Turkey Roll ups–Yum!)

Robin:  So does mine (holds an apple while Mom spoons from a container of tofu salad: “We’re vegetarians!”)

Both: (arms spread) My Mommy is the Best Mommy in the Whole World.

(They grin at each other)

Both:  Want to play?

(The girls run off hand-in-hand to play in the surf as the mothers relax and start talking)

I don’t know if it’s art, or even good, but I think I like it . . .

__

*And since it is my vision, the incomparable Mo Willems is the illustrator.