Fat Chick on a Mission

Whew!

Life has finally started (started, I said, not is) to find a rhythm, and I'm beginning to be able to navigate the ebb and flow of being a working mother again.

Work: doing good.

Finally mastering some aspects of my day, and beginning to build some confidence with our new S.F.A. curriculum. (gasping for breath here, like I ran 1/2 a block or something...). My boss and team leader keep popping into my work space while I'm inspiring and moulding young minds during said new curriculum delivery, and they are smiling and nodding their heads "yes." They're doing this--a lot. (They seem to think what they're seeing is exceptional or something--little do they know...). They want to video tape me doing my deed, and I resolutely refuse to have any sort of image recording device, of any kind, near me.

Uh, uh. No way, Jose.


The 'powers that be' (as I warmly refer to them) want to tape me to show what I do to others. Like I'm some sort of role model.

Eew. I don't think so. Don't put me on a pedestal; I'm afraid of heights.

For starters, the day they would tape me would be the day that Chicken Little's prophecy comes true, and it all comes crashing down. In my room. Loudly. Furthermore, it will also be the day that I model the most inappropriate, developmentally 'wrong' methodology (Murphy, is, after all a distant cousin of mine...or should be if he isn't). And, to put the icing on the cake: NOBODY is gonna wanna see my fat patootie on camera--very LEAST of all, ME!


So, that brings me to my mission: To stop being a 'Fat Chick'.

I am going to reshape my body.

Notice how I didn't say 'I want to' or 'I'm going to try to...' I AM going to get into shape. (Yes, yes, I do know round is a shape. But, let's face it, I've "been there, done that" for entirely too long).

Notice that I also didn't say (in a whiny voice), "I'm going to go on a diet." The word 'diet' is, to be cliche, just another four-letter word. I don't like to use profanity on my blog, so I won't.

I'm starting small. I'm being conscious of what, and more importantly when and how much I eat daily. And I'm making a fantastic effort toward a 30 minute walk (or other sustained activity) every day. So far: I'm doing a brilliant job of it.

I need to take better care of me. If I don't do it, nobody else will. I want to be in better health for many reasons, but the most prominent right now is so that I can finally quit feeling so much shame about how I look when I: see myself in the mirror, see myself in a current photograph, or, (God forbid) on video. I want to look at myself (in any format) and think to myself "I'm not a 'perfect size 6' but I'm good enough for me".

I think that is a reasonable request. One I intend to fulfill. One little step at a time (pun intended) and one day, and probably one minute (depending on the day) at a time.

I've been fat long enough.

It is time to try out the world in a new form, and shed the 'cocoon'.

Overheard at the Playground

Today a friend of mine and I took our kiddos to the playground to get some fresh air and burn off a little energy. While the kids were playing we heard my friend's 5 year-old son say:

(to kids he was running with)

"This is my girlfriend. I call her Peanut. But her name is ____."

This was just so stinkin' cute. I laughed so hard that tears came out of my eyes.

Like the old Visa commercials: Priceless.

...another day older and deeper in debt, St.Peter dontcha call me 'cause I can't go, I owe my soul to the company store

Second week back to work. It is only a 4 day week, and I'm only 3 days 'in'. I feel like this week is draaaaaaaging on and on and on...

Did you ever see the Tom Hanks movie Joe Versus The Volcano ? Today, after my super long day, I feel like he did-- complete with my own little 'brain cloud.' Ugh.

More to come later.

Yippee-ki-yay

Life with small children is never dull. In fact, life is always a surprise, and you never really know what type of surprise it is going to be.

Sometimes, the surprise is: Look at me! I learned how to take my diaper off and finger-paint with poop! (that is one unpleasant surprise I walked into after my 18 month old daughter woke up from nap...eugh, that was awful). Other times the surprises are like: Wow, I'm a big boy now! I learned how to climb up the ladder to the BIG slide at the park and I can now go up and slide down all by myself (yet another, more pleasant, surprise I had with my son...at the age of 13 months old (a mite scary, truth be told). He was so proud of himself).

Life is always interesting, especially with my little rugrats. Take for instance, the morning toddler rodeo. Toddler Rodeo? you say. Yes. Toddler Rodeo.

Every morning life gets extremely interesting anywhere between 6-6:45am (oh, joy, I just love early morning adventures...NOT). Chubbers wakes up with what my husband and I have come to call "monster pee-pee pants"--super soaked and fully filled wet diapers--and needs to be changed immediately (or there are...shall we say, nasty repercussions). Chubbers doesn't like to have his mega pee-pee pants changed. I don't know why he'd like to stay in them. If it were me, after a good 10+hours of marinating in my own urine, I think I'd like a fresh pair of diaper pants to, well, soil all over again. That is not the case with the boy. At least you can't say we don't get our money's worth out of the before-bed diaper.



The toddler rodeo begins with parent A or B walking into Chubber's room and saying good morning, giving him hugs, and gently telling him he has wet pants (we're trying to get that association with potty-wet pants for toileting...it may prove to be futile...) and needs to get his pee-pee diaper off. It is at this point in time that Chub defiantly (and definitely) shakes his head and protests "NO!!". Then he squirms to get down, or performs my all time favorite pose "the dead fish" (where he gets extremely heavy and limp, while simultaneously 'melting' out of my arms).

Once those tried-but-true tactics fail, he proceeds to allow us to lay him down to change him--but it is all a part of his carefully crafted master-plan of escape (too bad that the two-year-old don't realize that when you apply the same tactical strategies every morning, the unsuspecting victim (parent A or B) anticipates your moves...). He looks sweet and innocent laying there, until you start to remove the wet diaper. Then, a la salt water crocodiles from Australia, he begins performing death-rolls. It is amazing just how incredibly difficult it is to pull an angry-doesn't-want-a-diaper-change-toddler out of a death roll.



At this point in time whichever parent is changing him employs his or her own strategy to whip off the sodden (2lb. +) diaper and reposition the boy onto a clean diaper. I, personally, like the technique where I plead, pathetically, for the boy to be still followed up by getting him more or less spread-eagle and pinning his arms and legs with my legs so that I can complete my task.



Changing Chubbers in the morning is one of those tasks that I don't even attempt without at least one cup of coffee in my system. I just don't.



Now, the Rodeo wouldn't be all that awful, really, except for the fact that Chubbers has his own cheering section: The Peanut (heh, heh...like a 'Peanut Gallery'...). Peanut, likes to wander into his room as we're changing him and loves to watch her brother flip and flop around like some sort of game fish landed on 20# test line. She grins with glee while chorusing "I want to see the poop!" regardless of whether or not there is any fecal matter. I can already see visions of my sweet little girl on the playground in the future, being the one to instigate the chanting of "Fight...fight...fight" when Johnny and Isaac have a little tête à tête on the first grade playground. Lord, help me.



By the time that the monster pee-pee pants have made their way into the pee-pee bucket (the Diaper Champ) the elapsed time is approximately 10 minutes, parent A or B is thoroughly exhausted, and the boy toddles off to start his glorious, brand-new day.



Parenting; never a dull moment. Nope.

Le Pièce de Résistance

Okie-dokie. I made it. I am a card wielding member of the elite group of folks who've completed the 'Wilton Cake Decorating Course 1'.

Ain't I somethin' special? (she says while grinning her best Clampet smile)

Here's the cake I did for class 3 (two weeks ago):

This is my first 'attempt' at roses. Notice how they're a lovely shade of orange...and that they appear to have had, perhaps, a bad LSD trip.

What can I say? Roses are a heck of a lot harder to do than they look. Now, every time I go into Safeway (or some store with a bakery) and I cruise past the 'ready to go' birthday cakes that are loaded with roses, I have a whole new appreciation for just what a pain it is to do them (and at the point this picture was taken I could only do roses very badly).

See, I learned (besides technique) that to properly create roses out of sugar and hydrogenated fat (or, if you must, butter creme icing) you need two separate consistencies of icing: Stiff (for the foundation of the rose) and medium/stiff (for the petals). You also (clearly?) need two different icing tips, and as a result, two different bags of icing with their respective consistencies. Furthermore, you need to have a 'flower nail' to build your rose upon. If you're me, this is approximately 3 too many separate objects to manipulate at nearly the same time.

Creating roses, beautiful roses that is, is a true art form. I am utterly a novice.

This Wednesday I completed my final Course 1 class. Sadly, J., my friend whom I was taking the course with, couldn't make it due to a non-life threatening illness (she just felt like crud). I was bummed that she wasn't able to make it (and thus is not a certified Wilton Course 1 card carrying member...oh the division of the classes, will it never end?). But, I carried on and completed the last class, with J. in my mind, and I did my Girl-scout best in her place. Here is the artsy view of my pièce de résistance:

The cool thing about my cake is that while I was making it I really had no idea what direction I wanted to head as far as decorating it. I just started making roses and plopping them onto the cake. I was so thrilled that I was finally starting to get the rudimentary elements of forming the flowers down, I forgot to plan what they were going to ultimately 'do' on my cake. So, due to copyright laws I can't show you the picture of the Wilton cake in the course book, but trust me this one looks pretty dang similar (in the book the roses and sweet peas (on the base) are lavender whereas mine are sort of a pink-ish color). Unfortunately, when I took the photo I had the white balance on my camera set for 'incandescent' lighting, when I truly should have had it set for 'fluorescent' lighting, so the picture is a bit dark, but I think you can still get the main idea.

For your viewing approval (or not):

In the end, I'm glad I took the class. I had a great time, and felt a myriad of emotions that ran the gamut from frustrated and grossed out to a sense of accomplishment and renewal.

It is true what 'they' say (whomever they happen to be): when you run yourself ragged and have given everything you have away and you don't stop and spend some time renewing your own spirit, your reserves do run dry. After taking this class just for something fun for myself, I feel renewed, and I learned a few new skills.

I'm looking forward to being able to improve on what I've learned, and to use the skills to buoy the spirits of others. I need to get back into the habit of giving to others and this might just be one small way I can do that. Who wouldn't be pleasantly surprised (diets not withstanding) with an out-of-the-blue cake or confection?

Crazy Ebay Auction

This was just too funny not to post. It is an Ebay auction that you just have to check out.

Click HERE.

How I can so totally relate.

The End of an Era

Another milestone

This weekend I was out with my children for a leisurely Saturday morning shopping trip—yes, indeed I did say leisurely. (The secret is to buy them a bag of popcorn and a drink for $1.) I loaded my amply bribed children into the shiny, red, oversized shopping cart and began to amble through the aisles of merchandise. We maneuvered along the freshly polished, gleaming tiles, bypassing many tempting mommy-esque departments (namely, handbags, and the women’s clothing department) to attempt our first objective: buy the toddler a new pair of shoes.

Children’s shoe shopping, for me, is a real chore. I am super picky about the shoes that I allow my children to wear. Clothes, I buy new on-sale or second hand without any problem—I like to save money like anyone else. Shoes, on the other hand, are something else. You only get one set of feet and your feet are the foundation of your body. So, shoes need to be decent quality or I don’t buy them. In fact, I may buy myself cheap shoes from that nation-wide cheap-shoe retailer that advertises “BOGO” all the time, but for the kids, I generally wind up in a honest-to-goodness old-time shoe store, or a higher end shop like Nordstrom—they are the only places I find the quality I want for my kids. In other words, I will often get stabbed with paying $40-60 on one pair of shoes for my two-year-old, whereas I spend $15 (after hemming and hawing whether or not to waste the money) on shoes for myself.

This particular shopping trip I decided I’d give the inexpensive retailer a shot, to find Chubb-chub some shoes. I’d already struck-out at two other stores, so I figured what’s one more before heading to Nordies? I hit pay dirt, almost immediately. A decent pair of shoes that actually wound up being made by the Buster Brown Company. Chub was happy with the pictures and lights on the shoes, I was happy with the quality (and price!). We were doing well.

So, since the little girls’ and boys’ section was just ‘round the corner from shoes, I thought I’d peruse the selection and see if there were any good deals. There were.

This is where the story gets good.

I have shopped in the baby-toddler section, exclusively, since having children. My daughter has never fit into the ‘age/size’ that she should—ever. For instance, she was 2 years old and could still easily wear a size 12 months pair of shorts, with room to grow. She has never been, for example, 3 years old in a size 3T.

Things have been changing.

Peanut is still painfully skinny, but she is so tall now that I can’t squeeze her into ‘baby’ clothes so that they fit. Now, I have to find adjustable waist pants to fit her in the waist and length (usually means I wind up at Gap or if I’m lucky Old Navy—either way, more money than I want to spend). On this particular shopping trip I found one pair of pants, with adjustable waist on a clearance rack. Oh, happy, lucky day. So we continued on.

As the children happily munched on their ‘snack’ I wheeled us around the rest of the store. I was content meandering and ‘window shopping’ and they were pleased to be along for the ride (secretly, I think they were in some sort of preservative-induced trance from the movie theater-style popcorn they were eating—but, I’m not complaining!). As we cruised toward the registers we passed the ‘big girls’ section—elementary age girls’ sizes. I always look at what retailers try to pass off as ‘little girls’ clothes—more often with disgust than anything (Why are we trying to dress them like hootchies? Can someone please tell me?) As I am making my mental critique of what I think is darling and what I think is downright inappropriate I notice the sign says “Sizes 4-6x”. Size 4? If they have adjustable waist…I bet Peanut could wear it!

As it turned out, they had size 4 SLIM with Adjustable waist jeans on sale. I parked the cart next to the rack and slipped a pair of the pants over Peanut’s leotard (she had to wear her Gymnastics uniform to shop…). Hallelujah! They fit! And, they fit her really well. Most of the time the legs/seat are so baggy that she looks like…well…a bag lady. The SLIM jeans fit her perfectly. All we had to do was cinch in the wait a bit, and presto! My little girl is no longer shopping in the baby/toddler section.

My baby is no longer a baby. She really is becoming a big girl.

After the checker handed me our purchases and I was walking to the car, one child in each hand, it completely struck me: we’ve passed a brand-new milestone. Peanut is shopping in the big-girl section.

How quickly they grow up and these milestones sneak up on us. My baby really is becoming the ‘big girl’ we tell her she is.