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Turning over a new leaf.

Enough is enough.

Since my wedding day, I have literally gained the amount of weight equal to the total weight of my now six-year-old son.   As in, his weight today.  Not the day he was born.

Gross.

So, I’m back in the saddle.

Two things need to happen, right?

Step One:  DIET

I signed back up for Weight Watchers.  See?

(Creamer in my coffee, thus far.)

Prior to my wedding I joined Weight Watchers (like 9 gazillion other women do once they get that ring on their finger and the countdown begins), and lost 35 lbs like it was nothing.  No problem at all.

Granted, I was 29.

Granted, my house was free of leftover chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and, usually, bottles of Pinot Grigio.   Oh, and it was also free of needy children.

And, I had a MAJOR goal (skinny bride!) and a FIRM deadline.

It was easy to get out after work and Rollerblade along the Charles.  It was easy to hop over to Boston Sports Club on my lunch break for a 30 minute run on the treadmill.  It was easy to take the stairs.  It was easy to grab a salad from the restaurant in my office building.

Today?  Yeah.  Not so much.

Step Two:   EXERCISE

So, I also organized a group of six women to get together every Wednesday morning at a personal training joint where we get our a** kicked for an hour in a class called Tread n Shed.   The very first class was two days ago, it was absolutely brutal and we all loved it.

I swear I think I burned 3,972 calories.  And, I only nearly passed out once!

And, I’m not even sore.  Except for when I try to get out of bed, out of a chair, walk up or down stairs, get into my car, pick up my kids or bend over.  The rest of the time I’m totally fine.

Oh, and when we’re not out-of-town, I think I’ll do the class on Saturday mornings, too.  That is, if I can walk by then.

I know.  I know I need to add more exercise into that plan.

But, it’s a start.

I have some blog friends out there in cyber world who have gone on a weight loss tear and, to hold themselves accountable, they posted a BEFORE picture of themselves in their workout clothes on Day One.

I took a picture.

Yeah, well, that’s not happening.

Suffice to say that this polar bear is roughly my size.  And, he’s a lot cuter.

And, perhaps, more coordinated on a treadmill.

You’re welcome.

________

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Mine’s Bigger Than Yours.

Little Brother started at a new pre-school yesterday.  He’s three (four in October) and has actually already been attending a different nursery school for the past two years.  Don’t judge me.  🙂   Anyway, yesterday was his first day at the school from which he will advance to Kindergarten.

Being a typical two-year pre-school, however, there were a number of kids attending who had never been to any sort of school before.   Where Little Brother will be four in just a month, others are barely three.   Where LB has attended “school” in the past, others have not yet been pushed from the safe nest called home or come out from under the hovering wings of Mommy.   It can be a scary time.  But, I was convinced, it wouldn’t be for my seasoned LB.

So, we’d talked about it.  A lot, I guess.

Easy peasy, I said.

You got this.

You’ve already been to school.  

You’re almost four.  

You’ll be bigger than a lot of the other kids.

You can show ’em how it’s done.  

No problem, big guy.

When we arrived at school yesterday, we were (typical) early so I brought LB to the fabulous little playground for a bit.   Other nervous parents had the same idea so there were a few other little kiddos racing around.  LB was happy to join them.  Mothers and Fathers orbited the areas in which our offspring played — keeping close, but not too close.  Giving them space but not wanting to let go too soon.

Little Brother joined another little boy in a castle play structure.  After just a moment or two, I hear Little Brother’s voice from inside.

I’m bigger than you, you know.

His new classmate wouldn’t hear of it.  He leans in towards LB’s face and proclaims…

No!  I’M BIGGER THAN YOU!

At which point, Little Brother took both hands and shoved the kid against the back of the castle.

Awesome.

The other little boy’s mother shrieked, leaping towards the castle, scolding LB at the top of her lungs (which he deserved, by the way).   Turns out LB’s victim was barely three years old.  Mommy was very (understatement) nervous about sending him to school so young.

LB really knows how to pick ’em.

We all worked it out but I realized that, in my attempt to boost his confidence about his new school, I had inadvertently created a little monster.

Because now, LB was darn sure he was BIG MAN ON CAMPUS.

And proud of it.

So, my usually sweet little man, was pretty ticked off when someone tried to tell him he wasn’t “all that”.

I retold the story to Husband last night.

He listened intently while I explained my misjudgment of the three-year old psyche.

Husband’s response…

So, was he?

Me:  Was he what?

The other kid.  Was he bigger?

Me:  Seriously?  You think that’s relevant?

Yeah!  Was the kid bigger than LB or not?

Me:  No.  He was smaller.

Good.

*sigh*

Three or thirty-three, it’s clear I will never understand the inner workings of a male mind.

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The hammer dropped on Big Brother a few weeks ago.

And by “the hammer”, I mean, “family dinner.”

Husband and I recently decided that enough was enough with the finicky “I only eat orange mac & cheese, hot dogs and chicken nuggets” attitude.  It was time for the kids to eat what we eat.  When we eat.

Sure, it meant a simultaneous change in our dinner patterns (earlier dinner time, slightly altered meals) but we were all for the health benefits of cutting short (or eliminating) the cocktail hour and not going to bed on a full stomach.

We knew Little Brother wouldn’t be an issue.  He always wants to be eating whatever the grown-ups are eating and regularly pleads to sit on his father’s lap for bites of our dinner hours after his is done.  The kid has been ordering steak tips, ribs or chicken wings from restaurant menus for well over a year now.   No problem there.

Big Brother, however?  We knew he’d put up a fight.

We made the move to all eating together about two weeks ago.  Twice Big Brother has willingly chosen to go straight to bed (at 6:30 pm) because he doesn’t want to even try what’s on his plate.  Twice we’ve had great success where BB actually tried something new and (hallelujah!) enjoyed it!  The rest of the days have been somewhere in between.  Let’s just say there have been more than a few tears shed and a whole lot of dramatic gagging.

It sucks.

Husband and I have done a decent job of trading off the Good Cop / Bad Cop role.  But Big Brother’s wise to us.  He’s taken to asking me what’s for dinner very early in the morning and then spends most of the day lobbying for something he likes.

Because he knows who the menu planner is.

So, when I choose something like jambalaya?  (I know.  Not cool, Mom.)   Big Brother knows who to blame.

And, conversely, when Dad announces that there will be no forced dinner together while we’re on vacation next week?

Let’s just say, he knows who to thank.

He may be going hungry, but the kid’s no fool.

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Husband wears contacts.

He takes them out when he gets home from work.

So, if no one’s used the toilet in our master bedroom, I’ll go in before bed and see this.

Which, I think, may as well look like this.

 

What are you  looking at, little man?

But, maybe that’s just me.

 

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The Paper Mama

This week’s Paper Mama Photo Challenge:  Eyes

My submission:

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The Dreaded Callback

Monday, August 8.

Possibly the day on which my life changed forever.

The day I got a callback on my annual mammogram.

They say they see something a little “off” in the scan of my right breast.   They want me to come back in for a re-scan where they can have a radiologist read it over with me.

So, I calmly scheduled the follow-up appointment, hung up the phone, put the kids down for some quiet time and allowed myself to completely….freak…out.

Prone to melodrama, even when it comes to a subcutaneous hemorrhage (that’s a bruise to normal people), I was pretty sure I was in deep, deep trouble.  My father’s mother was lost to breast cancer at age 49.  Having just turned 40 a few weeks ago, I’d be lying if I told you that fact hasn’t been with me for many years already.  The recent links to cancer genetically passed down by paternal lineage did nothing to calm my fears.

I called my Mommy (who I don’t ever refer to as “Mommy”, fyi, but in this case I was definitely calling “my Mommy”.)  Suffering her own difficult health issues lately, I considered not calling her at all.  The last thing she needed was unnecessary worry.  But, I knew she’d want me to tell her.  Want me to need her.  Want me to know that no matter what her own situation, she was (and always will be) my go-to when I needed a shoulder.  And, I did.  And, she was.

I also called two of my closest girlfriends, who were perfectly sympathetic and supportive all at once.  “Can I take  the kids?”  “Can I come with you?”  “Can I help?”  “Glass of wine?”    No, thanks.  No, thanks.   No, thanks.  YES, please!

And, of course, I told Husband.  Who read a few things online and told me I’d be fine.

On Aug 8, 2011, at 2:25 PM, Husband <husband@workemail.com> wrote:

Relax.  It will be over before you can say “overlapping breast tissue.”

Which made me laugh.

But then he came home and wouldn’t indulge my melodrama AT ALL.    “You’ll be fine.  Happens all the time.  No need to tell everybody, blah blah blah.”

Which totally pissed me off.

Partially because it’s so male and annoying to refuse to acknowledge something might be terrible until it actually is terrible.

Partially because he was the only person I could get mad at, when I wasn’t really mad at him at all.

Anyway, long over-dramatized story later…

I spent the next three days worrying.  And being an extra nice Mommy to my kids (you know, so they remember me fondly).  And, feeling up my right breast in the shower like a 12-year old boy who just got to 2nd base.

I had my scan at 7:30 am this morning.

Sweet friends texted best wishes.

Husband calmly waited in the lobby for the radiologist to call him in to chat about results.

And, then we got the word.

Well, lookee there.

“Overlapping breast tissue”

We hugged and kissed and went about our day today.

He hasn’t said “I told you so.”

Yet.

 

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Sometimes.

I’m sorry.

Not for the act, certainly.  I’d do it again tomorrow.

But for the result.

I didn’t cast the first stone.

But, I certainly cast the final one.

And, I miss them.

Sometimes.

 

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