Red Peppers, Chicken Breasts and Diet Coke

If you are what you eat, I'm red peppers, chicken breast and too much diet coke. I'm more tears then water. More hurt then healed. A little bit scared and a long way from giving my forgiveness.

I feel like nobody. The man you don't see riding the bus right next to you. The child on the playground who hides the whole time in the sandbox. The sister who is so quiet she demands no attention. The mother in law who doesn't intrude. The girl with nothing to say and no one to play with. You know her. Everyone has a nobody.

I am yours.

I am your smile when you need to feel noticed. I am your accomplice when you need to be included. I am your conscience when you need to be understood. I am your tears, when you need to inflict pain. I am your punching bag when you need to be heard.

I am your nobody.

Only when your gone and I breath. I breath free.

Red peppers, Chicken breasts and diet coke.

And when you come back, I feel like oil, margarine and butter.

I Exercised You Away

I finally got myself physical today. I worked out like never before. You know, the first workout of, where are we now? the year. I sweated you and your ugly comments away. I moved so far on my stationary machine that I only saw your outlined form lying in bed. I was so far that I could pretend you weren't real enough to hurt me.

I Exercised you away. I was working out for me. I felt so far, so free, so unlike the girl you have made me be. (a rhyme. a rhyme. I'll try again next time). I felt like myself when I pumped my legs. I felt like I was unattached to any errand or any plan I ever had for that day. And I just soared as I watched a repeat of Greys anatomy and my "calories burnt " moving across the screen. Even Sara Ramirez and her full figured popularity couldn't get in the way of my happiness.

That is until my five year old wandered into my moment of zen. I had to take off the blasting Grey's and work out with no outside distraction. Every second seemed to tick and all of a sudden I hated this workout. This pain. This idea I had to work out for a flipping hour. And my daughter asked just the wrong questions. Rhetoric's of Whys strung together to make me test my Patience and motherhood.

And I passed. With flying colors. I got off my machine and made a work out for us to do together. We used the toys as hurdles, the backyard park as a relay and her imaginative dance steps as a beat I had to follow. It wasn't the ideal "Me time" it wasn't as easy to pass time as watching Grey's is- but I accomplished a lot in not giving up or giving in.

And where are you? You are no where near me. It doesn't matter if I'm fat, or favoring solo workouts on a machine, or even making up an energetic dance with my daughter- I am no where near you.

And I am happy I can exercise you away. That there is something that I can do to run as fast as I can away from you. That even on a stationary bicycle, I can move.

Haven't written, Haven't slept, Have Eaten

Just so we are clear, I haven't done a lot of things lately. I have avoided this blog and all the reasons why I haven't attracted any readers yet. I have avoided sending out emails to my friends and almost-friends to call them into play here. I haven't slept much. I've tossed and turned as the most un festive of festivities is about to begin and I have wondered how I will feed the onslaught of people I am hosting for passover. (Even though most of my guests would be happy with matza and mayo combo).

I have slept so little and have watched other sleeping so little- that I have come to accept my windblown unkept look as my own signature style.

Oh, but I have eaten.
I've swallowed my pride whole and it tastes a lot like Starbucks pastries and full fat ice cream.

Unpacked and not ready to go

My sister makes me laugh. Her melodrama is so fun to watch.
The other day she had this whole routine about our brothers and how they attract responsibility. They race to into, instead of shrinking from it. Like sponges they suck it up.

"You want to move your whole house and all the contents in it? Well here we are!"
"You want me to get groceries from Costco, and carry them in to your house, up 2 flights of stairs- bagless? Sure"
"Watch your children after you have feed them licorice and Slurpee's? Of course"

Even though I have them racing to reach me a diet coke, the power they hold over me is greater. I am humbled by them and everything they do in their lives for others.

I watch them and feel so lucky to have front row seats.

Somewhere Far Far away

Your too damn far to feel touched by this madness. I open the door and the air is cool, I feel a chill and shiver and the neighbors don't know it yet- but, I'm sold. Not the house... that I'll reside in. I'll live the lie. I'm sold on notions and ideas and the realization that I have everything and nothing all at once. And your too damn far away to be close enough to care.

You can't understand my choices and the way they seem made to measure. "You chose?" you seem to be asking, "or somebody chose for you?" And I want to show you how they aren't choices at all. Just the same choice cloaked in different packaging's. And I don't get confused, I just get tired. And I let everyone else make my decisions for me.

I choose only how I will destroy myself. If it'll be in loaded carbs or refined sugars. If it will be death by oil or death by sweets.

And you, you are too damn far to see my pain.

Look At Me I'm Driving A Lexus

I park at Loblaws and I'm driving a Lexus. Status symbol for those who care- for me its the cheapest way to torture myself. I shop and then lug my bags to the car only to realize it doesn't fit in. So I end up removing my daughters booster seat and holding it under my arm while I wrestle with the horribly built back seats. I angle them up with my other hand. The one that dropped the shopping bags on the floor. And caused the tomato paste to roll away. Unbroken maybe, but angry just the same. Then I toss the booster seat back and pile the bags in. They have no where to go, so they end up falling between the seats and try to make it out the door. I hold the bags and then give the door a slam. Then I pick up the tomato paste and put it in my front seat cup holder. Lexus, maybe. For me the car is everything I don't need. To me the car is a symbol of how things might look good- but feel horrible inside.

I hate the car. I Hate how it can't fit my car seats and I hate how it makes me complain. How I end up repeating the same conclusion to the hubby daily, "It just doesn't work. It's too small!" And he seems to look through me, hating me for what he thinks is my spoiled nature. It's a car. Its a bloody expensive car. But to me it's the thing that makes me sweat. It can't fit the smallest of strollers and it can't fit any shopping bags. It seems to want to remain empty of purchases. As if it knows it costs too much to begin with and now it shouldn't dare cost me a penny more. I hate it.

I hate it when my daughter is without a booster seat, because it doesn't fit. And I hate it when I'm on all fours trying to put her seat belt on for her. And I hate it the most, when I'm driving into the school parking lot and I look like I bought myself a Lexus. That I dreamed of a labeled car when all I want is four wheels, eight seats for car seats and a trunk.

The other week, I tried to pull the stroller out and it got tangled in a web of seat belts and i ended up crying. I wasn't even emotional, just so deeply frustrated.

But then again. Some people drive bicycles.
And then again. I know if anyone but me drove my three kids to school and stopped for groceries. They would hate Lexus just as much as me.

I want a van. I want a van, so I can look out my windows at every Lexus I see and laugh and the absurdity of it all.

Only 90lbs To Go! Yay!

Before you raise your eyebrows at my title. I lost no weight yet. This blog, these past five days- nothing. But, I have realized that my goal weight is unrealistic, so I altered it by ten pounds. So now I "only" have to lose 90lbs. It feel so good to be going down finally. Only 90lbs to go. Yay!

Waxing Nostalgic

No one comments. No one really reads this blog. Unless if you count, my spell checking as a read through. But still, sometimes my brothers might wander on here for pity or familiar prose... so I cant expand on this topic. But, come the hell on- who need their waxing Lady's love.

She pours it on me. I wish she was that generous with the wax. She stops mid way through my legs, and I'm biting my lower lip, and she hugs me. When she releases me I can almost swear she has my hairs on her white coat. And I'm not hairy- so that's saying something about the fierceness of her bear hug.

She really loves me. I start to think about how creepy her affection is, but then I just bask in it. Someone, for no particular reason, thinks I'm loveable. And she knows me NOW. With loose skins and stretch marks and angry eyes. So, I take her love and her awkward hugs and keep them for when I feel like the world is full of hate and I'm surrounded by the 'only if" kinda love.

My waxing lady throws in the eyebrow wax for free. It's not that exciting. I think I have seven stray hairs there. All blond. She tells me in her accented way "No tell, I just say Bikini and leg." I'm shocked. She can't do that. She doesn't own the salon and besides I have to go pay at the front desk. She can't say bikini and leg and there I am with puffy red eyes.

I insist I can afford the 10 extra bucks and she seems deflated that I won't accept her kindness. One more hug and all seems to be forgiven. Maybe I'm just cuddly. She ends up escorting me to the mall entrance, where we part with- you guessed it- a hug.

I have a feeling I'm going to go back to the nice Asian lady who is quick, pain full and hug free. I know what to do with that. Free love is the thing that confuses me.

A lie is a nice place to live

I have come to the conclusion that if you can not lie to your friend, then she isn't a friend. Friends need honesty, sometimes brutal but they also need the naive shoulder to lean on. The one that feels like shoulder pads are back in and their cushioned, innocent remarks- appear sweet rather then contrived. And if you cant lie convincingly then you aren't trying hard enough.

Allow me to explain. I bumped into a "friend" the other day and she gave me such a slap of truth, I felt stung long after we parted. Here's the thing... I like being lied to by my friends. I have enough family telling me my truths as is.

This is a picture of me. I'll paint it for you. I usually end up leaving the house looking like I don't care. And I do. I care allot. I just cant try because trying breaks my spirit. So, I end up dressed from head to toe in black with something rushed flopped onto my head and no trace of make up. Not even residue from yesterday- because hey, I didn't wear makeup yesterday either.

When I bump into people I know, I feel ashamed. But, I can;t hide- so I say something like, "Oh I didn't think I would meet anyone. Look at me. I just ran out." Or the famous, "I don't usually look like this."

So, I bump into a friend on Friday and start off with a standard, "I didn't think I would see anyone."

Then she unleashes on me. Not with malice, but Icould feel her misplaced anger falling on my with intent. "You always say that and yet I never see you looking any other way." Then a pause, where she lets me fix my head covering and blink, "If you don't want to be seen the way you look, then don't dress like that."

Ah. The truth from a friend. Ouch! I actually think about not leaving the house, I think of telling her, but then who would I feel unworthy in front of. And G-d knows I need to feel unworthy.

So next time you see me. Would you mind? Just lie to me. I like it so much better.

Blogging Motherhood

I peeked at many a mommy blog today. There was the sad ones with tales of tired eyes and terrible two destruction. Mommy's with Lego's scattered where Ideas used to stir. They wrote of the kids wonder and sometimes even the simplest of moments. Tales of feeding, burping and bathing. Details kids take for granted that Mommy is watching. But, now also writing about.

Then there were the Moms that plastered photos of their kids for all to see. Smiling, shining kids unaware that mom blogs and uses their faces as candy. My kids cute! Come see what he did!

Moms blogging are all the rage right now and here I am trying to take a slice of the pie. But, I tried to surf through the motherhood genre, trying to see where I fit in. I read a few critics claiming how attention craved these moms are- but some aren't stay at home Mommy's like me and I doubt they need the attention as much as I do.

I'm a mommy- hear me whimper!

But the same truth unravels on every page, even if the child is nameless or faceless and just referred to as "the kid." We are using their innocence and imagination to captivate an audience. I'm not that worried though, because everyone wants to crawl back into a fetal position and observe the world through trusting eyes. But yet, I haven't introduced my children yet. I think its because I don't like to share them. Not their smiles, not their days and definitely not their stories.

I am the type of mom that has my kids by my side all day. That while they are at school- I look at the watch and count the hours till I can bring them back in to play.

Will I write about them? Maybe, but then I feel like I am invading their place. If I write of a moment we shared, I take away from there chance of remembering it without intrusion. One day, they will be unable to distinguish between the memory I created for them in my words and the one they actually held.

My daughters are lights. They are what makes me most proud of myself. That I had even a golden strand of hair, facial expression, or ounce of stubbornness to do with it all- will always amaze me.

I think I will write of them through my eyes and let them know that I am just observing from a distance. Honoured to have such a great view. And If I have learnt anything from my trip through Mommy Blogs, its that a blog with no comments is a blog that's not heard. So, I guess I can start to consider this my sounding room instead of my sounding board.

There once was a time when Mommy's didn't share what their kids experienced because we were a private family unit who didn't want the "neighbors" to know. Now the neighbors don't need to raise their windows to hear the sounds from next door. They need only to Google.

I will raise to the ranks of mommy blogging but until I get a comment or two I wont raise any ethical eyebrows.

Eaten words: 2500 calories

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I have eaten them.

Tonight my home looked so clean. Looked, and actually was. My Nanny had cleared out drawers and cupboards and as I peeked inside I came across heirlooms (OK fine I just thought they were lost forever, so excuse me for being melodramatic) of my past.

I found an album of the year I became a Mommy. I was not fat, but I remember I thought I was. I wish I had known I looked good then. Maybe if I had known, I would not have stuffed my face with fried foods. I think somewhere, on some remote island- there are other people like me who eat fried anything to deal with issues, but here I just feel weird.

The other day my brother came into my house and I was frying pastry dough right out of the package. He tried to convince me that's not what the product was intended for. Single standing consumption.

I think in those pictures I found I looked awesome for me. I just didn't know it. I remember feeling overweight and the more I picked myself apart the more food I needed to put myself back together again.

All those pictures of being 23 and fitting into images or even the camera lens and here I am now touching twenty nine and the only thing between the girl in those pictures and the girl I am now is 100 pounds.

The only thing is 100 pounds. 100 pounds.

Another brotherly nudge came today when I got asked why my entries aren't following my blogs title. Come on, Mommy's supposed to be on a diet.

Oh shut up, I'm getting there.

Weight Watchers wants me

I have been offered the welcome back offer. Come back! Come Back! We will deduct the regular sign up fee, we will waive the membership fee, pay your tax for you, stuff a wad of tissues in your mouth. Oh, the things we will do if you just come the hell back.

"Your still fat!" they presume. You couldn't have left us all at weight watchers and actually lost the weight yourself. I imagine when you turned your back on us, that alone cost you a few pounds.

But don't worry about the shame of it all. Come to think of it, the extra pounds you gained without us- will cost your more to lose. Welcome, welcome Back!

You see, weight watchers wants me.

Sure its a spammed email, but they know I'm still out there checking out e-diets and Kirstie Alleys new look. They know I'm not at JUICY buying sweats or snacking on carrots. They know. Just like I'm starting to know. I'm the "type" now.

Weight watchers wants me because I'm the type of client that's here for the long lonely haul.
They want me, and you know what- I get sucked back in with all the cheap thrills of believing in their diet. For today. Maybe for a week, Weight Watchers can have me.

Moving in pieces

I remember when I moved the last time. I always new the move was coming, so I never hung up pictures of even painted. The house had that rental feeling and when I packed things in boxes- It was as If I had never even occupied the home. There were no wholes on the walls where my pictures used to hang or the painted difference the painting might have left on my sun kissed walls. Instead I had my boxes packed and suitcases closed and the only thing that made me feel like I ever lived there- were the pictures I had taken of my daughter spending her second year in that house. Snapshots of how she aged in different places. The highchair she had propped against the kitchen wall, her toys and the way I had bought custom made gates to seal her into her room. I have pictures of her in her excersaucer smiling. Now, I don't have that excersaucer anymore or even the toy chest in the background- but i remember how that house was good to us. It was our home for a year and in my line up of memories it has its place.

I remember the movers for that move were horrible. I had a shelf I had hand built for the hubby and they had destroyed it. When it ended up in our new house, it was in so many pieces, that it was easiest to just toss it into the garbage. I didn't even have to break it. Now, that's a job well done.

I also remember having to move quickly at the end. At first, we packed leisurely. Neatly stacking our winter clothes, our holiday ornaments. Then a bit faster, with the "honey, don't forget to wrap the glass wares." Then frantic, "I think we forgot the toys. the toys. Wheres the box that's marked toy room?" To which I got the, "where we actually marking boxes." look.

And then there was the chaos. I remember walking back and forth between the moving truck. Just tossing unpacked items in. A candelabra and a bag full of candles. A toy car, some batteries in a toolbox. A shopping bag of laundry. Phones with the cords still attached.

When the moving truck arrived at our new home and made a pile of our odds and ends (and the broken shelf sticking out like a maimed trophy) I felt like I had pieces of myself scattered around. I wanted to put everything in its place, but yet- I didn't have a space for them yet.

Moving makes you toss out the things you kept for safekeeping. The things you believed would stay tucked in that drawer till your granddaughter took it out and asked "why?" Moving makes you remember. It makes you look at a room that's empty of furniture and photos and makes you conjure up a moment that the room once held.

I find myself looking at the almost empty rooms in my childhood home. The one that's being sold and cleared out for a new family. I have so many memories to hold onto. I tug at them and carry them with me. Holding each tightly. When I make it back to the house I live in now, I just drop them. They feel scalding hot with emotion. Memories of me playing baseball in the back. Sinking into the white couches. Hearing the voices of my siblings while I tried to fall asleep. The sound of the door unlocking. The way we wheeled into the kitchen with our feet in the fisher price bus- like rollerblading. But, more imaginative.

The house was good to us. It is hard to believe that I will not be making more memories there. Nor will my kids. I am not the one moving. That was done years ago on my wedding day. But, the house still has little tokens for me and my mothers saves them or discards them as she packs. I see my siblings packing with the same effort I had once extended. The peaceful pack and then the raging rush. I am choosing to close my eyes and reopen them only when the door is closed and we have all taken our memories out.

The last memory I will take with me is the backhanded way we locked the front door, racing to get to the driveway. I will see the silk flowers my father planted in what I hope was a joke and the eleven tulips.

I will tell myself that no matter what renovation or fancy upgrades our childhood home undergoes, if i ever go back and ask to enter- I will find it the same. The white stool at the foot of the kitchen. The kitchen table with our newspapers and books. I will be able to sit down and wait till someone gets me some salmon or eggs and I'll ask someone to pass the mayonnaise jar that's open on the counter.

the self helpers and their books

So she takes a little bit of the air I breath. So what? I cough and spew out unintelligible responses to her questions and I come up for air and she has it. So what?

Today she had a self help book she thought i would like. when i say "like" i mean "need." I always thought of self help books as literature one bought for themselves, not for others. But, there I was reading the back of the self help book- skim reading over diet, complex carbs and other words full of not-so-subtle hints.

...and she took my breath away. Not in the romantic sense- just in the "i feel like I'm about to cry. My eyes are stinging. I need to take a deep breath...." but there is none- so I just keep on talking.

I say something about how i would love to read the book and how I'm sure it'll be oh so helpful. When really I know everything about all the diets I break. When I eat a particular carb or protein I can even dictate which diet bible I'm crossing. I'm that good.

So I'm balancing my baby on my stomach and thinking about my girth. That's what we are all talking about anyway. I'm disgusting her and to be truthful- I make myself sick too. But, there's nothing like a self help book to make you attack yourself.

When she left and i could breath normally again- i wolfed down two salmon patties that tasted like canned salmon and breadcrumbs fried in fish oil. I didn't like the taste. So, to help it go down smoothly, i opened the fridge and found some flat coke from November to wash it down with. It wasn't cold enough to mask the fact that it was flat but it did the trick.

Then I gathered up my 3 kids (all better dressed then me) and managed to scrap what was left of my pride off the floor. In the elevator I looked at myself in the mirror. I mean, really looked. I was fat, but instead of noticing how under my excess skins was a beautiful face- i only saw my tired eyes.

I'm tired of my daily routine. Waking up too early on too little sleep. Not drinking coffee anymore. (remind me to restart that habit). I'm tired of people treating me the way the world treats overweight people. I'm tired of people assuming I'm pregnant. I'm tired of trying so hard to diet. I'm tired of failing.

I feel like if I unraveled myself I would find the garbage I ate six years ago stuffed in some forgotten place. I feel like everything I have ever binged on is still inside me. I'm tired of having a great enough memory to remember what food I ate and why. I'm so bloody tired.

In the elevator I can no longer see her judging me. Wanting more for me. Hating me just a little. Admit it! I only see whats left of me. Tired eyes and a bloated body.

I'm sitting here now and my day is behind me. Clocked in as another Day One. Once again, I ate so well all day long only to binge on everybody Else's supper and a box of cookies from my childhood. Crescent shaped cookies I used to scrap the chocolate off. Now, who has time for innocence or separation. I just swallowed them two at a time.

The house is quiet. I have put the girls to bed and the hubby is out. I find myself chugging diet coke and Tylenol. A fabulous nighttime pastime of mine. I think the sweetest thing about me is that I believe tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be the day I succeed. promises, promises.

I know one thing for certain- I am not the type of girl you give self help books to. Not when I was skinny, never when I am fat, and most certainly not when I think I am on a diet.

Afterward

So here's how it goes:
*You write your first blog entry and then review it.
*You feel that besides for coming off as more tired mommy then diet mommy- you have the education and spelling ability of a nine year old. And I'm sure, with this comment, I am upsetting some nine year old.
* You then are so NEW at the whole blogging idea, that you have no idea how to re-enter your own blog and spell check.
* you feel tired and realize that just like "Mommy's on a diet" isn't a good enough response to a five year olds question of "why cant we go to the park?" It can't be the only worthy reason for a blog.
*and then you feel free, because your husband just walked in- and for the first time in awhile, instead of standing to greet him you continue to type your "tehs" instead of your "thes" and find security in the fact that you no longer are erasing your words. Nor eating them.

I'm excited to get to dish out, instead of IN.

I promise I'll be better tommorow

Day one on a diet is never what it seems. Its either the first day of a new way of life or just another awful day strung together with all the other full fat days that got you here in the first place. Today's "day one" was brutal. It was the classic perfect day with the crazy late night binge. The one you eat in handfuls as you race from bedroom to bedroom tucking in the untucked kids and kissing foreheads that still feel wet from the last kiss.

Before I go off on a tangent of what exactly I had in my hand and how deep it reached into the dangerous darkness of my cupboards- I should paint you a picture of who I am. Not who I want to be. Who I want to be is who I was before I gained 100 pounds on tasteless food and other peoples opinions. Now I'm a mother of three, chained by my weight to the counter and usually happy all day with the kids till I get to be angry by myself. Anger feels a lot like oreo cookies eaten whole. And I don't mean with the cream, I mean with the packaging!

My husband is a late little one. He is late for everything. For bedtimes and Tuck ins and last kisses before bedtime. He is late to say the words I need to here and late to take back the words I wish he hadn't spoken. He is, and this I am certain, too late in making me his. I am my own. And in my solitude, I find the best companion to be my three little girls and my fridge full of food.

Oh, but I forgot- today is day one. Carrot muffin, egg whites, fat free yogurt type of day one. And all the hard work ends up spoiled and layered with full fat, high caloric waste. The type you pile on when you cant get your 3 kids under 5 to bed.

So now I'm downstairs on my computer listening to the screams of my daughter. Not that shes crying now. I just hear the echo my seven month old wails as she retires for the night- way past midnight. Her most-uncheerfull like routine- cant get out of my head. And the big girls- well they are sleeping.

My husband will come home and tick off a list of whys. Why the hell aren't you sleeping now if the girls are all in bed? why will you complain how tired you are if you wont just go to sleep? why are you on the computer?

Try this on for size. I need to have some ME time. Where I get to watch the clock tick and sit back and do something that is and always will be ONLY for me. Because, I did everything all day for everyone else. And if I want to surf the Internet for overly expensive tutus for the girls or buy them diesel clothes that cost more then my clothes- leave me the hell alone. I promise they wont look spoiled and I wont look less fat- but somehow if I dress them in the outfits I find online and the pricey logos I have come to love- I will feel like someone somewhere will see I am someone.

Not the someone who can dress a toddler, or the kind of mother who spends her spare time hunting for Internet designer deals- but the girl who looks kinda cute half tired at her computer desk. You might just recognize her under the layers of fresh fat that her newly married body hides under- shes smiling. She's always smiling. or at least smirking with the power to Google you, or hate you, or write about you under your nose. In prose. Or just by typing HATE over and over again and erasing it slowly. Perfectly. Till the only letter left from all those BOLDED, blackened Hate letters is the first H. And when you enter I tell you I'm writing... and you response, "OK so... then write."

I'll tell you this much- it would be a lot easier to write if I didn't have to erase it all.

And where are you now. Promises, Promises. Ahh, when we are stupid and single we think marriage will keep as occupied at least at night. Stupid 22 year old virgin. Here I am typing a blog out to maybe, just maybe, help me lose weight. As if having to respond to myself- might help me keep my fingers out of the cookie jar.

I promise tomorrow will be better. I promise. You might not know me- but my promises are for shit. They are loaded with hope and not much else and when they set float they usually soar like a balloon in a house. Right up until the ceiling stunts them.

Well, my girls are sleeping. Play dated out. ...and I, I have tomorrow to be promised to.

until then.

Mommy's on a diet