Poot and Cubby

And I held fairies in my hands

April 28, 2009 by Andi

Dear Elliot,

One day when you are older, I will tell you about the day I rode the subway with tulips in my arms. I will tell you how people gave me sideways smiles thinking that someone had bought me flowers. But they couldn’t know what I really held in my hands – that I was carrying fairies to my four-year-old.

A few weeks ago you told me that a fairy lived inside every tulip. And that if you placed the flowers in your room and made a wish, the fairy would grant your wish while you slept.

So today, I brought you fairies, believing that you were incapable of coming up with an ungrantable wish – that anything you muttered before you said goodnight would be chocolate-related or something equally easy. Instead, you told me you were going to wish for wings.

In the morning, I will wake up holding my breath. I will hope that the absence of wings sprouting from your back won’t convince you that beside your bed stand ordinary tulips. I will tell you that the fairies are so magical, that they gave you the power to imagine your wings as if they were really there.

Then we will look into the center of a flower and if we squint hard enough, we will see one. Tiny and covered in glitter. Able to hear only the voices of children who might wish for wings or candy or decent splashing puddles. Her ears too small to hear the too-big wishes that someone older might have – to reverse the irreversible. Cure the incurable. Create the uncreateable.

I know the fairy won’t grant my wish – that you will always see a world of possibilities inside the smallest thing.

But in the moment, I’ll thank you for inviting me into that world. A world where only we can see that flowers are not really flowers and where little girls can grow wings in their sleep.

Love,

mama

Posted in she's crazy but she's mine, sometimes I'm a drama queen | 16 Comments »

In memory of Maddie

April 8, 2009 by Andi

I wasn’t sure if I was going to post about this, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Maddie today, so here I am.

One of my favorite things about the BlogHer conference last year was meeting and hanging out with Heather and Mike Spohr. These two are the best kind of people. Sweet, funny, and down-to-earth. Just amazing to be around, really. Since the conference, I’ve kept up with them and their daughter, Maddie, through their blogs and on Twitter.

When I got an email this morning that Maddie had passed away last night at the age of 17 months, I couldn’t believe it. I knew she’d been sick, but I thought it was the sort of sick that hospitals can fix. Not the sort of sick that was going to cause two wonderful parents to leave the hospital without their only child.

When I was dealing with the possibility of one of my nephews not surviving, I often thought of Maddie. Her story of survival against all odds gave me hope. It seems so wrong that after everything she and her parents went through that her bright light has suddenly been extinguished from the world.

Maddie’s life touched so many people. I hope that this, along with the outpouring of support will be of some comfort to Mike and Heather.

May they find strength in the love of friends and family. May Maddie live on forever in our hearts.

****************************************************

During times of tragedy, humankind continues to inspire me with its capacity for kindness and love. So many people are working to help this family that it makes me proud to be a part of this odd little blogging community.

Meghan has set up a memorial page for Maddie on her website with details about how you can help out if you wish. Amazingly, over $15,000 has already been raised for the March of Dimes in Maddie’s honor.

Constant updates about all of the efforts to help the Spohrs can be found by searching Twitter (in the search box, enter in #maddie).

Posted in beyond sad, blogging buddies, on the not-so-bright side | 5 Comments »

My boy

April 1, 2009 by Andi

Somewhere I have a list of all the things that Arlo has done that have taken years off my life along with all the things that confirm that he is a true boy. Of course, I’ve misplaced this list so, I’m going to have to work from memory.

Like many women who find out they’re having a boy, I wondered what it would be like. Would he really be as crazy as I imagined? Would I give him more leeway than his sister because “boys will be boys”? Would the fact that his father is a sensitive, intelligent member of the male species have any influence over his behavior?

The answer to these questions has surprised me. Because the one thing I never considered when thinking about them was that my son is not “a boy”. He is Arlo. He is just as different from any other boy as he is different from any girl. Yes, he is completely insane, but he’s also one of the most charming people I’ve ever known. He’s physically adventurous. A risk taker. Someone who has no fear. But he’s also gentle with people and animals. A master cuddler and a heart-warming giggler.

Every time I leave the house, Arlo waves at me from the kitchen window. He smiles and blows me kisses. This morning, as he left the house, it was me who waved to him from the kitchen. He walked backwards to the garage, so delighted that I was waving to him. He waved back, pointed at me, and blew kisses. His dad had to eventually carry him to the car to pull him away from the distraction I caused. I was surprised to find myself crying. Knowing that as he grows taller, one day I won’t see him standing on his tiptoes, waving out the window. He’ll probably be busy staring at other screens, oblivious to my comings and goings. He’ll forget how special I once was that I inspired such adoration.

If anyone asks me now what it’s like to have a boy, I sometimes tell them about how it’s never boring. How my son has found new and creative uses for objects and ways to injure himself. I can tell them about how I came out of the shower one day when he was 10 or 11 months old, and he was marinating himself in an entire bottle of red wine vinegar he’d spilled. How our local library has his handiwork on display in their staffroom – no one there had ever seen a DVD actually broken in half before.

How he constantly has bruises on his head.

Or how he will use everything as a stool – actual stools, upside-down Rubbermaid containers or empty cardboard boxes (with disastrous consequences), piles of shoes, a canister vacuum. How he not once, but twice, grabbed a large knife out of the kitchen sink – once, to his dad’s horror, placing the handle in his mouth, escaping without even a tiny cut. How he’s driven his ride-on toy truck off the porch stairs twice without getting a scratch, but almost broke his ankle jumping off the couch. How he managed to break a large glass display case in the most unbreakable of places – a yarn shop. How he was playing in his room a few weeks ago and ran out screaming with a mouthful of blood. And then, in the emergency room, was walking around laughing and charming his fellow injured toddlers. And was a brave boy when the doctors wrapped him up like a burrito and crazy-glued his bottom lip that his top teeth had almost bitten right through.

Sometimes I will tell those who ask what it’s like to have a boy those things, because that is what they expect to hear. That boys are one-sided, kamikaze tornadoes that roar through your life. Sometimes I want to keep the other moments to myself – those moments that are the opposite of off-handed remarks like “boys will be boys”. Those moments are mine. I keep them in my head, untouched by the harsh light of photographs, untranslated by the weakness of words. But sometimes, I choose to let people in. Especially if they are terrified of the boy growing inside their belly. I will tell them about the look in my son’s eyes when he sees me and holds his arms out, softly saying, “Mama”. How he and his sister have a tricky relationship that yes, involves him occasionally punching her in the head, but also involves them dancing, playing, hugging, and laughing.

Him softly stroking her hair to wake her up in the morning. Him looking for her with his hands up in the air asking, “Ah ah?” I will tell them about us dancing before bed, his head perfectly fitting along the side of my neck, while he pats me on the back. How he loves to dress up and act silly to make people laugh.

How everyone around him notices how easy-going and constantly happy he is.

I will tell the expectant mothers that one day they too may find themselves crying in their kitchen as they watch their son disappear from view, because they finally get what it is to be a mother of a boy.

Posted in Arlo, sometimes I'm a drama queen | 33 Comments »

Finally, some super-fantastic news!

February 25, 2009 by Andi

The twins are here! They were delivered by c-section this morning at 33 weeks, each weighing in at 3 pounds 9 ounces. Mason Remus (Baby A) and Carter Matthew (Baby B) are doing extremely well.

After being told during various points in the pregnancy that Carter would possibly die, that there was an 80% chance of severe brain-damage, and that they were not expecting his brain swelling to go down after his stroke, he defied all odds. He is a fighter, this one. Unlike his brother, he didn’t even need oxygen when he was born. Both of the boys are now breathing on their own. Carter’s brain swelling has gone down and he has made a miraculous recovery. Right now, the neurologist believes that if there is any remaining damage from his stroke, it will probably be minor and treatable with physiotherapy. We should know more in the next week when the boys undergo some more tests.

I can’t tell you how excited and relieved I am! I’m going to meet them in the NICU on Friday.

Again, thank you all for your amazing support during what was an incredibly stressful time and a ridiculous emotional rollercoaster for my family. I hope to have more good news soon.

Posted in the twins, yay! | 39 Comments »

Changing the subject

February 7, 2009 by Andi

First, I want to say a HUGE thank you to all of you for your supportive comments and e-mails in the past few weeks. Every time I think I might be done with blogging, I’m reminded of how much the people I know and experiences I’ve had because if it, have enriched my life in ways I’m unable to explain to non-bloggers. Sometimes my busy life keeps me from visiting you all, but please know how much I think of you. And how much the friendships that I’ve made with “strangers” around the world means so much to me. How much you make me feel less alone. Thank you.

***

On another note, I’m in serious need of a laugh. Because I’m such a good wife, I’m going to tell you about how I managed to mortify the husband in front of his co-workers. Twice in once day. I have mad skillz in the Husband Embarrassment Department.

Incident the First: I’m in the reception area of Jay’s office, talking to two of his co-workers. One of them is introducing me to the other. In case it wasn’t clear who I was from my name alone, I pipe up, “I’m Jay’s husband.” Of course, you can never shove those words back into your mouth. A discussion followed about how my husband’s secret was out, that he’d been dressing in drag all these years. That he was actually the wife. When I told Jay about it, he admitted that when you think about who actually wears the pants in the family… He’s a smart man, my wife.

Incident the Second: This one starts the same evening during an argument with a four-year-old over pizza. Jay offered to make dinner by dialing the pizza place, but as usual, we couldn’t decide on where to order from. Elliot puts in her two cents begging for “Three” (Pizza 73) because they have curly fries. Ever since she had pizza and curly fries with her “favoritest person in the world”, my aunt Sandy, she thinks it sacrilege to have pizza without fries. The problem is that Jay and I wanted Pizza Hut, which is alas, curly fry-less. In a flash of motherly brilliance and desperation, I broke the pizza deadlock by suggesting that I run out to the store and buy curly fries. I needed a few other things anyway, so it was no big deal.

I go to the grocery store. They have every item I need. Except the bloody curly fries. If I return to the house without the promised goods, the four-year-old will quite possibly eat me for dinner and she will hold her crushing disappointment over my head for years to come. This will not do.

I drive the three blocks to another grocery store. Who knew it was possible to have a panic attack in the frozen foods section? I’m madly scanning the fry-related offerings – chunky fries, spicy fries, crinkle fries, home cut fries, even onion rings – but there are no freaking curly fries.

Then I hear, “Hi neighbor.”

It’s one of Jason’s co-workers and his wife, who also happen to live right behind us. I explain my dilemma. He looks at me and laughs. “Andi, who’s the boss of you?” Without hesitation, I reply, “Elliot.”

The two of them are quite entertained that I’ve been running all over town on a great Curly Fry Mission. They are amused in the same way that most people expecting their first child would be amused – they’re thinking, “We’ll never be like this after our kid is born.”

Then he laughs, “Well, I guess you could get that giant, warehouse bag.”

I look to where he’s pointing and YES, YES, there is over 4 pounds of curly fries just waiting to make a home in my kid’s belly.

My neighbor looks at me. “Really? That’s huge! And it’s almost 10 dollars.”

Meh.

“I just saved your ass,” he says. Sadly, he has. Then he tells me that he is going to bug Jason mercilessly because our daughter “owns us.” I can’t deny it. And although the kiddo is far from a spoiled brat who gets everything she asks for, sometimes I love doing small things that make her happy.

Crisis and curly-fry-meltdown averted. Elliot tells us that this is “the best meal of my life.”

The next day, Jay repeated the quote to his giggling co-worker (who, let’s be clear, is a sweet, funny person and for for whom, I may have played up my anxiety just a tiny bit, to make him and his wife laugh – and of course, to embarrass my husband) and he agreed that my misadventure was worth it. I can’t wait to visit them after their baby is born so I can say, “She totally owns you.”

Posted in Brilliant Moves, she's crazy but she's mine | 8 Comments »

A disorganized, depressing update

January 27, 2009 by Andi

I’m numb.

I have no way of sorting the words while they are screaming inside my head – each one competing for what’s left of my attention. Each one empty and incompetent at describing the awfulness of what’s happening.

What they tell me re: Alec – Monday. Ultrasound. Not enough fluid. Anemic. Crisis. Have to deliver Tuesday. Tuesday. Possible brain bleed. But stabilizing. Anemia = false positive. Better off inside for now. No c-section today.

Re: Baldwin – Monday. MRI results. Definite stroke. 50% chance of negative affects. Likely gross motor deficits. Tuesday. Stroke worse than thought. 80% chance severe neurological damage. Unsure of affects. Blind? Deaf? Physical? Mental? Death? Medical Ethicist. Too late to terminate. Tough decisions. Prepare. Discuss. Quality of life. Choices. When to remove support after birth.

Monday. Voices wouldn’t stop whispering statistics. Endless unknowns. Hundreds of phrases that began with “he might.” Coupled with the noise of my children, I couldn’t be here. Jason (Thank you. You are the best person I know.) told me to leave. To be by myself. I am grateful for the darkness during the drive. It concealed the crazy woman screaming “My mind’s not right!” at the top of her lungs while she listened to The National’s “Abel” over and over again. And her blubbering during DeVotchka’s “How It Ends”. Clinging to the hope that she doesn’t know – how it ends. She takes short breaks from her scream-singing to curse fate – not fair… they don’t deserve… you can’t take… - and wipe her eyes so she can see the road.

I feel ashamed when I pass the hospital, but don’t go in. I tell myself she has enough support. I would make a crowd. The truth is, I can’t face her. I can’t have her see the reflection of my healthy children’s eyes staring back at her. I don’t want to make this about me, about my fear. She cannot see it.

Tuesday. Things worsen. I leave work. I sit in the hospital room staring at several members of my family. We say almost nothing. There is nothing to be said. There is no describing disbelief. Despair. I hug her. This woman I shared a bedroom with for 16 years. This person who shares my blood. Who holds tiny plans, dreams, possibilities, and hope in her swollen belly. This person I can’t help. Or comfort. The babies are still kicking. They are kicking. Still safe inside.

My children think I’ve gone crazy. I am hugging and kissing them more than is perhaps healthy. Certainly more than they are accustomed to. I cringe when I think this might make me appreciate them more. Be less likely to complain about trivial things. Because I don’t want to learn anything from this. I don’t want a lesson in cliches. I just need for all the horrible to end. For it to be okay.

The kids say something funny. I burst into tears. I watch a tender moment between them. I wonder if my sister will get to see these things. If she will bring home her boys. Her twins.

I am practicing my magical thinking. It is not helping. I am knitting two small sweaters. Alec’s was done for the baby shower. Baldwin’s had just been started. I wonder if I had only finished the sweater… I know. It’s ridiculous. There is no control. No reason. I couldn’t work on it after hearing he was sick. A week later, I continued knitting. Now, I can barely look at it. I want to be strong and optimistic. To put every ounce of hope and love I can muster into every single stitch. I want to believe that he will be big enough to wear it. I just don’t know if I can right now.

When I shared a bedroom with my sister, we had a ritual. We started saying, “Good night.” Later, we added things we had to say to each other before going to sleep. It was always said in the same order: “Good night. Sweet dreams. I love you. See you tomorrow.” Superstition dictated that if we didn’t say these things, we may not see each other in the morning. I know superstition will not help right now. Nothing will. All there is left to do is wait. And hold my breath. And wait.

Please rest. And heal, Baldwin. Be stronger than you are supposed to be.

Good night. Sweet dreams. I love you. See you tomorrow.

Posted in on the not-so-bright side, the twins | 47 Comments »

The twins

January 17, 2009 by Andi

My sister is 27 weeks pregnant with identical twin boys. I kept meaning to write a post about it, but she reads this blog and I was never sure how to properly capture how excited we all are about these babies, while trying not to burst her anticipation bubble. I think every mother has this conflict when someone you love is expecting – you are thrilled for them, but you are also concerned about the hell that they may or may not experience with a new baby. You know what I’m talking about – the steep learning curve and total life-changing force of becoming a parent, the sleep-deprivation, the difficulty of fitting in things like showers, the air thick with dirty diapers and spit-up. And my sister is going to experience this fun times two. But this week, everyone’s thoughts shifted to something more immediate. Something much more scary than Jen being tired.

Last Friday she called me because she couldn’t feel the babies move. Assuming that she was being paranoid like every first-time mother, I told her not to worry. That maybe they’d shifted to the back and she couldn’t feel them as much, but to go to the doctor in the morning if she was still concerned. On Saturday, hours before we held her a big baby shower, she went to the doctor and was relieved to hear both of their heartbeats. When she still hadn’t felt them move by Sunday morning, she was checked into the hospital. The doctors were now concerned about the heartbeats, but assured us that they were probably being overly cautious. They even let me take her home to gather some things so assumed that it couldn’t be that serious.

On Monday morning I got a tearful phone call from my mom. After an extensive ultrasound, the twins were diagnosed with severe Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome (TTTS). (I should mention here that after talking so much about them, we have tired of calling them “Baby A” and “Baby B”, so my sister-in-law has dubbed them “Alec” and “Baldwin”) Basically, Alec was giving his blood and amniotic fluid to Baldwin. Alec was pressed up against the uterine wall and couldn’t move because he had no more room left. He had lost weight and they couldn’t even see his bladder on the ultrasound. I assumed he was the one we were worried about, but actually Baldwin was in worse shape. He was about to go into heart failure – his poor little body couldn’t handle having to deal with all that extra fluid. The doctors told my sister that if she hadn’t gone in when she did, he would have died in two days. Monday evening, my sister and my mom flew to the other side of the country for her to have emergency fetoscopic laser ablation at the only hospital in the country that performs it. The surgery finds the interconnecting blood vessels and uses a laser to coagulate them, therefore stopping the transmission of fluid from Alec to Baldwin.

Jen had the procedure early on Tuesday, knowing that if it did not succeed she’d have to have her tiny babies in Toronto and hope for the best. Even if the procedure were successful, she was told that Alec had a 85% chance of survival, while Baldwin had a 55% chance. There was also the chance that since they were poking around in her uterus, that she might go into labor after the surgery. She was given steroids to help mature the babies lungs and drugs to keep her uterus from contracting.

The surgery was a success and the babies remain where they are supposed to be – healing in their mama’s tummy. Jen returned home Thursday evening and will be monitored by weekly ultrasounds. The doctors are more hopeful for the babies than many other cases they have seen with Stage 4 TTTS, because they developed it so late in the pregnancy (some time between 25 and 27 weeks) and because the surgery went well. There is a small chance that Baldwin will still have to undergo heart surgery when he is born, but our family is remaining optimistic. For now, we wait and hope. And hope.

I am so proud of my little sister for following her mothering instincts. I am proud of her for being so strong, even while everything looked bleak. She had the added difficulty of going through the first part of this crisis without her partner, as he was working overseas when it happened. I love him for rushing home (as soon as someone can rush when they are about 24 hours away) to be with my sister and the babies. I am so thankful for our health care system that everyone loves to complain about, but when there is a true emergency, things get done quickly.

I hope that Jen doesn’t mind me writing about this. I just believe in the power of positive thinking and I know that she has a strong support system here. But I’m wondering if I can ask something of you: Please join me in believing that wee Baldwin has a 100% chance of survival and a lifetime of good health. (Dare this heathen ask religious readers to pray? I don’t care what form the good vibes take, I just want them to be there.) Because more than anything now, I wish for my sister the luxury of complaining about sleep-deprivation and spit-up. I wish for her the chaos of raising two small, beautiful boys that are already so loved before anyone has even met them.

Posted in on the not-so-bright side, the twins | 46 Comments »

The bestest Christmas ever!

January 5, 2009 by Andi

Happy 2009! How were your holidays?

I had just over a week off during which I experienced intermittent bouts of insanity when I thought I could totally stay home full-time. Knit on the couch while Arlo has his nap? Not bothering to get dressed ‘til noon? It’s heaven, no? Of course, my sanity was restored remembering that I have inhabited this “heaven” twice before on maternity leave and that the novelty wears off. When I’m home only sometimes I appreciate it so much more. And there are the added bonuses of way less yelling and me not wanting to punch things by the end of the day.

Elliot was so excited about Christmas that she was up at 5:30 am, wondering how on Earth Santa knew that she liked High School Musical AND Ariel. Madness! Arlo was happy to indulge his destructive side – allowed to rip paper, you say? Christmas is pure magic! Once the excitement of gifts wore off they were back to their old selves – Elliot wanting to veg and watch TV (only sometimes while simultaneously playing with her new toys) and Arlo scaling the furniture and smashing glass ornaments onto the hardwood floors.

So, not only did I get the best gift ever of spending time with my healthy, happy and hysterical family, this was one of the first Christmases in a long while that I’ve exchanged presents with friends. This is because for several years I haven’t really had friends. I’ve always found it difficult to make them (I’m a bit picky, really) and I refuse to settle for place-keepers – people I might call friends, but who I have little connection with. Especially when these place-keepers might be other mothers who inspire enthusiastic eye-rolling just because, OH MY GOD, we both have kids so we must be like total soulmates! Meh, not so much.

Enter my new good friends, Teri and Jo. I met them at a Stitch and Bitch while very pregnant with Arlo. They saved my sanity many a time while I was floundering through life with a newborn and feeling lonely and sorry for myself. They keep me entertained with e-mails at work. They don’t let me knit and drink alone. On paper, it looks like we have a lot in common – two kids a piece, an unhealthy obsession with knitting, similar senses of humor, the ability to loathe the same things (and people), and just the tiniest hint of good-natured sassiness. While this all sounds like a perfect match, I’ve hoped for similar connections with like-minded people before and have been disappointed. I don’t know what it is about these two – maybe it’s because they are just real people. Or because they seem to get me. Or because for the life of me, I can’t point out a single thing about them that annoys me. Even though our insane schedules mean I don’t see them a lot, I can always count on them to brighten up my days.

A few weeks ago, we exchanged gifts. Jo, bless her, bought me delicious fortified Shiraz (which I’d have a picture of, but it was not long for this world) and a sweet photo keychain (which my procrastinating-self should find a photo for by 2015). And Teri’s gift was my favorite present in recent memory. She knit me a beautiful neckwarmer – and as an adult, no one has ever given me a knitted gift, so it was truly special. The great part about this neckwarmer was that it had a story. And anyone who knows me, knows I love a great story. Before I opened the bag, Teri said, “This is going to require some explanation.” Puzzled, I opened it up to find this:

She had put off blocking the neckwarmer and it was still wet when she went to wrap it. Understandably, she hung it from the metal grates of her gas fireplace. A few minutes later she noticed a disturbing smell. Who knew wool could burn so fast? I totally understand the cringe-worthiness of her split-decision (hello, you’re talking to the woman who cooked her own laptop in the oven). We both know that it takes a certain kind of friendship to set someone’s gift on fire and then give it to them anyway.

When I arrived home that night, I announced to Jay, “My friends kick ass.” And they do. I was one lucky mama in 2008 and I hope my lucky streak continues this year. And I hope that you have many great people to share your joys (and sometimes not-so-joys) in 2009.

Posted in Knitting, boring me, friends | 20 Comments »

I’m screwed, screwed, screwed

December 7, 2008 by Andi

Remember when I, Uber-Mom, did this literacy craft with Elliot?

Thanks, Kids Craft Weekly!

She found it the other day and wanted to finish it. I decided to start a new one, but with lowercase and capital letters. Who knew this was going to be a controversial decision?

Opinion poll – what is this letter: t? Oh, right. It’s not a matter of opinion, it’s a matter of fact. But did you know that when you’re four, everything is opinion? And that you can rewrite the very laws of the universe simply by insisting that something is true?

Elliot pointed to the letter “t” and insisted it was an “x”. When I told her it was a “t”, a colossal freak-out ensued, the likes of which I haven’t seen since the Great Chocolate Famine of ‘07. She actually said the words, “No! I’m right and you’re wrong.” When I tried to tell her that we can’t argue about some things and that I just wanted to have some fun, the tirade continued. Jason tried to step in at which point, Elliot informed us that she “knows everything there is to know!” Honestly, I don’t know why the local university is still refusing to give her the PhD she so rightly deserves. Oh, the injustice of it all!

This is why I refuse to pay for dance lessons, because she would tell the teacher that she knew how to do the dance. That her way is right.

I fear school. We’ve already explained to her that a teacher is there to teach her things and that she will have to listen. I know that she listens at daycare – maybe this is just her way of trying to drive us insane and she’ll be a totally different person in school? God, I hope so. I do love her spirited, strong-willed streak and I know it will serve her well, but I’m not going to pretend that she’s always easy to deal with. Do you think that I can put myself into a self-induced coma for the 5 years that she’s a teenager?

Did I mention that I’m screwed?

Posted in she's crazy but she's mine | 24 Comments »

Why I’ll never be fat again

November 25, 2008 by Andi

No. I haven’t invented some amazing new pill that gobbles up fat before it makes a home on my arse.

And no, I haven’t discovered some top-secret exercise that I can do while watching television and eating ice-cream. I haven’t even filled my basement with motorized thighmasters that open and close at the speed of light.

I’ve finally figured out the secret to conquering this fatty demon once and for all – I had to fix my brain.

It was the husband who helped turn the light bulb on in my dark, pastry-filled brain. He’s a useful person to have around. We were discussing how crazy it is that your brain can play tricks on you. Mainly, we were talking about crack addiction (for those of you who are new here, the husband is an addictions counsellor, not an addict…) Jay was explaining how addicts will not look past the consequences of getting high. How all they want is that 2 minute fix. In those 2 minutes, they experience something like having 100 orgasms all at once. Some of them will spend the next several days chasing successions of two-minute highs, only to crash at the end, exhausted and sick. With each 2 minutes, addicts can begin to lose pieces of their lives – family, friends, jobs, their homes, etc.

And although I know eating is often not as destructive as something like a crack addiction, there are similarities. Yes, I’ve never lost my house for need of a brilliant cheesecake fix, but for every impulse bite that I took, I lost small pieces of myself – my self-esteem, my happiness, my energy, my overall health. And for what? For a few seconds of ecstasy (and not even moan-out-loud, toe-curling-ecstasy) – it hardly seems worth it.

I was also quite skilled at sabotaging attempts to do things that were good for me. Let’s consider exercise, shall we? Right now, I only run 30 minutes, four times per week. I’m not very good at math, so correct me if I’m wrong, but if there are 168 hours in a week and I spend 2 hours of them running, that is only 1% of my week. Seriously? I spent all this effort trying to avoid something that although it can be challenging for 1%, it gives me lasting benefits for the other 99% of my week? That makes zero sense.

Yes, I still treat myself. Once a week, I drink and eat what I want (within reason). But “treat” by definition is an occasional thing – not like I was “treating” myself before – every day, all day. I think it’s worth it, if only to keep myself on this path that I know will make me happier in the long run, even if I do wake up the next morning with a food hangover. But I used to walk around in a constant food hangover – depressed, exhausted, apathetic, fuzzy-headed.

It’s cheesy, but true – you are what you eat. I ate shit. I felt like shit.

So often the things we think will make us happy, make us miserable. Why? Is it because we aren’t REALLY thinking about it? From this point on, I’m going to use my brain (she must be whipped back into shape!) and actually make everything I eat and everything I do, a conscious decision.

I laugh in the face of cakey muffins. I scoff at the sight of chips. I can decide to never be fat again. And so it will be done.

Edited to add: I just found out about a contest that Magpie Musing is running to win a Wii Fit and am hoping (cross your fingers, people!) to get my hands on it with this post. You can enter the contest here. Or don’t. Because it’s MINE!

Posted in Fat girl smack-down | 23 Comments »

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