Monday, November 12, 2012

A Brief History of Shattered Glass

I should write about the fact that Rayne started his new job today (hooray!), which left me once again a "single" mom (booooo).

Or about how Henry has determined biting is the very best and funniest way to get my attention. Not just during nursing. But also during standing. And sitting. He almost broke skin today with his two bottom teeth. And look! I finally have the photo of Chompers McGee's six teeth that eluded me the other day:


However, as this blog is, in reality, a way for me to vomit the contents of my toxic and altogether frightening brain landscape into the Interwebs for all to see, I'm going to write about my frustration with some recent weight-gain.

I really don't know how it happened. It was, perhaps almost surely, the 3 am pints of ice cream and frozen yogurt I have been consuming now that Henry has decided that sleeping through the night, which he did for several months, is beneath his dignity as an almost one-year-old.

DON'T TELL ME TO SLEEP TRAIN. I heard you! I heard you start to give me advice! I don't want advice! I want to complain about feeling fat!

Let me tell you a little story, in pictures.

Once upon a time, in my mid-twenties, I looked like this:
(Are you wondering why I copyrighted these drawings? Only because they are amazing. Duh.)

Then, for reasons that I will not discuss here (but maybe in a subsequent post) I became very, very sad. So in my late twenties, I looked like this:
After what seemed like an eternity -- both to me and to my friends and family -- I started feeling better, ran my first marathon and met Rayne. And I went back to looking like this:
Then Rayne and I moved in together, and a month later, I broke my foot. We sat on the couch and ate snacks and watched a lot of Sopranos and Battlestar Galactica. And The Wire (best show ever). We ordered in. I was used to eating like a runner, but I had stopped running. We got married. I took a job with a long, terrible commute and lots of hours. I was super tired and stressed. After six years of all that, I'd gone up three sizes, and I looked like this:
THEN, on top of all of that extra weight, I got pregnant. And I looked like this:

Not the girl

Photo credit: Nathan Rupert
After giving birth, I made it back to my most disgusting non-pregnant weight (see above). Now, eleven months to the day after Henry's birth, I am my most disgusting non-pregnant weight plus six pounds or so.

I scream in horror every time I look in the mirror; the glass shatters (in my mind).

This morning I happened upon a post at Bright Copper Kettles about "eating cleanly" and how it changes your life. The thing is, for me, it's not the knowledge of how to eat. I know how I should eat.

Nay, it's the will power. And the sweet tooth. And the need for instant gratification that pervades my psyche. And the husband who likes steak and pizza. (And who likes me the way I am, no matter how much I weigh, the bastard.) And the sleep deprivation. And the slower metabolism. And the stretched out abs. And the no time to exercise. Did I mention the complete lack of self-control when confronted with sweets?

Anyway, in response to my comment on her post (a shorter and, I hope, less crazy sounding version of the paragraph above) Rayna at Bright Copper Kettles promised to address my concerns. When she does, I'll be sure to link up to her response. Check it out.

[Update, 11/19/12: Here is Rayna's post!]