The Reader's Digest version bullet point list goes something like this:
Week One: Second child's first birthday - fun celebration chez Puckett. Crappy ass party at my parents house where I discover I rank lower than the dog (LITERALLY - more on that later) Parent/Teacher conference where I start to cry because...
Week Two: Ultrasound on three year old to look for pancreatic tumors. None found. Thank Jeebus. One year old has uncontrollable vomiting episode. One year old has bronchialitis. I get a pap smear because the last one came back bad.
Week Three: One year old to hospital for chest x-ray - no pneumonia AGAIN thank Jeebus, next day three year old to hospital for stitches next to his eye - 10 hours of waiting for less than 30 minutes of service. Thankfully I only had one tube of Ritz with me to power down - I'm pretty sure the stress could have driven me to chew through the drywall. One year old gets put on albuterol (yeah that's a steroid) breathing treatments for suspicion of early onset asthma. Riding a fat sow is easier than trying to get a one year old to inhale cool steroidal mist. Full on toilet reverse action. Colossal Meltdown.
Week Four: Supposed 'friend' outs some deeply personal information about me at a random party (the last in a long list of crap she's put me through) bu-bye friend. Prescription numero dos of mood stabilizer on board - which was good because then we come to the ACTUAL shitstorm. Every Puckett man Small, Medium AND Large comes down with uncontrollable vomit/diarrhea virus, for FOUR DAYS.
Last Hurrah Half Week: Three year old has multiple blood draws to try and determine why his pancreatic enzyme lipase is through the roof - no explanation. It is determined that three year old has astigmatism in both eyes but they can't give him corrective lenses until he is old enough to tell them which lens makes him see better.
Annnnd scene.
But I'm back in black, finally under the two bill mark - though of course I hit 197, then the next week promptly went back to 200 and now I'm back down to 195. The swing back up came after the two trips to the hospital week - talk about kicking a gal while she's down - and it was the first week I'd gained weight since joining WW, and it really threw me for a loop. It's such a slippery slope for me. I felt like if I gained, I failed and maybe I should just hang it up. Screw this weight loss thing. Seriously. Over a measly 2.4 pounds. But that's where I was. And the whole next week (that would have been Vomitgate if you're keeping track) I pinned my hopes on losing weight and knew if I hadn't I was a complete and utter worthless failure.
Even making good dietary decisions came at a price. Remember that comment about being lower than the dog?
The story you are about to read is true. Wish it could have been an actor in my place, but alas, no.
The setting: My parents house.
The time: Not important.
The characters: My Momster and Yours Truly.
Me: Hey Mom, can I have a banana? (the fact that I know I have to ask for a banana in my parents house is a whole other chapter in my great American novel right there)
Mom: Welllll...how many are there? (My parents live in a 3000 sq. ft house and they don't pay a mortgage - one banana isn't exactly sending them to the government cheese line)
Me: I dunno - looks like five.
Mom: Wellll, let's see...
Me: Nevermind, just forget it.
Mom: Well your father has a nightly ritual where he shares a banana with the (wait for it) DOG. And we don't go to the grocery again until Saturday, so I guess it's ok.
Me: Gee thanks, it's good to know where I rank.
And I sometimes wonder why I have occasional bouts of low self esteem.
Despite all that, I have learned a few things over the last month that have come in kinda handy in the self-worth department.
For instance, I can leave food on my plate and not die. I've done it three times now and have yet to keel over like Wallace Shaun in The Princess Bride. A regular at my WW meetings can buy a bag of Lindor truffles and only eat two a day. This is a skill she ACQUIRED. She was formerly of the Wholebaginonesitting tribe, which means escape from that clan is POSSIBLE. Hell, I have NEVER left food on my plate unless I was severely ill. I mean something has to taste pretty fucking awful for me not to eat it, so when I managed to eat only half my caprese panini this weekend, I fully expected the clouds to part and the hand of God to reach down and give me an atta girl pat on the back.
And the other thing I learned? That one day at a time shit really does work. Ben and I usually hang out on Sunday nights and talk about the upcoming week and what's happening and I would start to think about every last little thing that I had to accomplish and before the night was over I'd be counting the pills in the Xanax bottle. I would start thinking of the epic laundry list of tasks and then think "I have to do ALL of that AND lose weight?" No fucking way. And then I'd muddle through it all rather ungracefully and would keep a death grip on my weight loss like a flag I had to plant atop Mount Skinny. I just sucked the ever loving fun out of everything. So yesterday I decided I'd just stick to making it through Monday without considering anything else coming down the pike, and wouldn't you know it, like one of those annoying motivational seascape posters at work, I had a great day.
All hail today!
wow. that's a lot on your (half-full!) plate, bets. i'm sorry to hear life has been throwing warm monkey poo your way this whole month...but i'm so proud to hear that you've escaped the clutches of comfort eating during this especially trying time. that's impressive, and if i was around, my hand WOULD descend from the clouds and pat you on the back. keep up the amazing work!
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