Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Starting Over

Shame.  Embarrassment.  Indignity.  Humiliation.  Discomfiture.  Mortification.  These are powerful, consuming feelings, and ones I have been sitting in, drowning in, and dwelling on for a while.

What is sad is that I didn’t do something stupid or say something idiotic.  It’s simply because of my body and it’s audacity to exist in such a dreadful state.

Through the process of the unsuccessful fertility treatments that I recently went through, my body gained at least 50 extra pounds in the matter of just a few months.  We made the decision to stop the process, and have accepted the fact that we will only have one child.  But now, every time I look in the mirror, all I see is the extra weight – and am then reminded yet again of what a disappointment my body is, inside and out.

It is really a shame that the side-effects of fertility drugs aren’t extreme sexiness and longer legs, rather than getting fat and crazy.
I go to the grocery store and pray that I won’t run into anyone who knew anything of my previous extreme weight loss.  Or, more accurately, I pray that no one will even notice that I exist.  I am, once again, the fattest girl in the room – all the time.  I dread any activity that requires non-workout clothes.  And I often wear workout clothes on my days off from the gym, simply because I don’t want to have to sort through all of my too-small clothes to find one of the few things that actually fits.

My body hurts all of the time from carrying around this extra weight.  I’m not sleeping as soundly because I wake myself up snoring at least a dozen times through the night – also from carrying around the extra weight.

I am struggling at CrossFit.  Absolutely struggling.  My chubby stomach gets in the way of proper form when lifting anything from the ground.  Handstand pushups are now impossible, because I am no longer strong enough to press my body off the ground.  Burpees are a chore… actually, any body weight movement makes me want to cry.  Box jumps are the absolute worst.  I had worked my way up to comfortably using a 24” box for jumps, now I am doing 20” step-ups.  I had to increase the amount of band-assistance I need for doing pull-ups.  Running makes me feel a bit homicidal, or, at the very least, suicidal.  Partner and Team WODs (WOD = workout of the day) bring me to the brink of an anxiety attack.   I literally feel like I am wearing a 50 pound weighted vest during all of my WODs, all while watching all of the strong, thin bodies around me moving seemingly easily through all of the movements.  I feel like in the short span of just a few months, I have taken at least a year’s step backwards in my progress.  Although I am getting stronger in my lifts, I am slower in endurance, constantly gasping for air, and I simply feel like I am back to where I started.

I have also recently began teaching Yoga again, at the CrossFit gym I attend.  It is a whole new level of personal shame to feel while teaching such incredible athletes.  It’s particularly embarrassing when you find that a previously easy pose is now impossible to do, because your huge stomach is in the way.

I recently posted the following words on Facebook:

“"Comparison is the thief of joy." -Theodore Roosevelt
This is my favorite quote and I try to remember it every time I get discouraged (which is pretty often of late). Even comparing your current self with your previous self can steal your happy. Be glad in where you are, and who you are, at this very moment.

Friends I am trying to believe my own words for myself, but it is nearly impossible.  I guess the extra weight would be easier to accept if either I would have been able to get pregnant, or if it would fall off as rapidly as it poured on.  Unfortunately, I’m at a point right now that it seems like no matter how hard I work, no matter how clean I eat, the weight stays.

I know that it will take time.  I know that it will become easier as my hormones become more regulated.  But right now I am discouraged, and I often feel like giving up.  Being stagnant is just so much easier.

But, I liked feeling strong.  I liked being able to push my body to new limits.  I liked the feeling of confidence.  I enjoyed feeling sexy, instead of ashamed.  I enjoyed the summer where I didn’t avoid taking my son swimming because I felt confident in the positive changes I had made in my body.  I haven’t taken him swimming a single time this summer.  I enjoyed when Little K was able to have the example of a strong confident mom, seeing a woman who was comfortable in her skin, who didn’t put herself down constantly.  Now he is being raised by a woman who hides when she can, who hates her body, who treats compliments as if the words themselves were a putrid scent.

It is taking an extreme amount of courage to post the following pictures.  Because they are not at all progress pictures.  They are starting over pictures.  They were taken at least a month ago, at which point I was at 215 pounds.  I don’t keep a scale at my house so I don’t know where I am at today.  My inner-crazy tells me I’m heavier.  But my clothes say I have made zero progress.

So here I am, starting over.  And I invite you again on this journey with me.  Thank you for your continual support, and for always keeping me In Good Company.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014


I came up with this bright idea – probably after reading some blog that some expert wrote – that I was suddenly going to be this really progressive mom.  I decided upon taking the approach that if Little K, who is 4, is old enough to ask a question then he is old enough to hear the honest (yet age-appropriate) answer.  One of my friends told me later that this approach is a “slippery slope”.  She wasn’t kidding.

Little K must have some weird intuition, because immediately after I decided to start being so awesome, this conversation happened.

Little K:  Mom?  Do girls have wieners?
Me:  No, we’ve talked about this before.  Girls do not have wieners.
Little K:  But some girls do.
Me:  No.  No girls do.
Little K:  But yittle girls do.
Me:  No buddy.  No girls have wieners.
Little K:  But why?  Because God forgot to give them wieners?
Me:  No.  God built boys and girls differently so that mommies can have babies.
Little K:  But what do they have instead?
Me (suddenly remembering I read somewhere that I was supposed to call private parts by their real names for some reason or another):  Vaginas.  Girls have vaginas.
Little K:  BAGINAS?  What’s a BAGINA?
Me:  That’s what girls have instead of wieners (my maturity clearly only goes so far because I can’t bring myself to say the word penis – honestly I can hardly even type it).
Little K:  Why?
Me:  Because that’s where babies come out.
Little K:  How?
Me:  There’s a hole in it.
Little K(appalled that baginas are obviously broken): There’s a HOLE in it?!?!
Me:  Yes.  That’s how God made girls.
Little K:  Mom?
Me:  Yeah?
Little K:  I like purple.
Me:  Awesome.

I felt like I was rocking this parenting thing.  I answered his questions and he was satisfied with my answers.  Disillusionment guys.  Disillusionment.

A few days later, I was going to the bathroom – which, if you are a parent, you know this is not a solo activity.  I notice Little K is tilting his head and trying to look in the toilet.  As I try to turn away from him, I asked, “What are you doing?”  “Mom, what’s a bagina?” he asked.  “Out!  From now on Mommy gets to potty alone.”  “But where does potty come out if you don’t have a wiener?!”  I honestly had no clue how to answer this one, and certainly wasn’t in the mood to teach him any more anatomy vocabulary words.  So I went with what I thought was the best answer and told him that girls go potty out of their vaginas.  And then?  Then he started crying.  “NO MOM!  BABIES COME OUT OF BAGINAS!  NOT PEE!!”  I think I probably imperceptibly mumbled the words “f#&% he is way too smart” under my breath.

Next he told my mom, “Grandma you have a bagina.”  I hadn’t warned her of his new knowledge, and for a woman who taught my sister and me that our nether-regions were called potties, you can imagine that she was a bit caught off guard.

*Side note… I have a friend whose mom taught her growing up that her hoo-ha was called a twat.  And that twat is a completely acceptable, non-profane word.  So there’s that.*

Anyway, today, 
Little K and I were in the car and I walked right into another great mom moment.

Me:  Little K do you know that Mommy and Daddy prayed really hard for you?  You were our miracle blessing.Little K:  You prayed for me?
Me:  Yes.
Little K:  To get better when I was sick?
Me:  Well, yes.  But I mean for you to come to us as a baby.  We prayed and prayed and prayed for a baby to be in my tummy.
Little K:  How did I get in there?
Me (thinking “shit”):  Well, Daddy helped put you in there.
Little K:  He pushed me in there?  Because he’s so strong?
Me:  I guess, sort of.
Little K (pouting):  I’m not EVER going to have another baby.
Me:  Well, Mommy can’t have another baby.
Little K:  I have an idea!  I can push a baby in your tummy!
Me:  No!  No, that can’t happen.  Someday you will probably get married and you will have a baby with your wife.
Little K:  A fife?
Me:  A wife.  Someday you will probably marry a girl and she will be your wife.
Little K(with the enthusiasm of a disenchanted disgruntled husband): Every day I already spend all day wong with my wife.
Me:  Who’s your wife?
Little K:  Jesus.

Clearly I have no clue what I’m doing.  I’m pretty sure the experts don’t know what they are doing either.  I kind of think that we are all just doing the best we can.  My son has an insatiable curiosity.  I’m learning that giving him facts only fills him with more inquisitiveness.  Maybe I can start distracting him a sucker every time he asks an uncomfortable question.  It might cause cavities, but it might make parent-teacher conferences less awkward.

All I know for sure is that there are plenty of days that there is not nearly enough coffee in all of Columbia to successfully parent my curious preschooler.
Thank you for keeping me In Good Company.