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