Up Your Mass

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This is a story about fate, love, perseverance, genetics… and sweet, sweet ironic bullshit.

A healthy weight and I have never been friends. When I’m super fat (and usually relatively mentally happy) the first words out of people’s mouths are… “What’s wrong?” Then consequently, at times where I’ve been freakishly thin (and mentally miserable) the first words out of people’s mouths are… yup, you guessed it, “What’s wrong?”

People are judgmental. They are cruel, they are selfish and they usually don’t even realize what they say. Especially when it comes to a 12-year-old girl, a 21-year-old college graduate, a 30-year-old mother of 1, or a 37-year-old mother of 3. So I don’t even wonder why I have negative body imagine. I know, straight up know, that’s it’s because the mirror I use every day is really the attitude of the people I surround myself with. I’m not one of those bitches who checks her makeup (I rarely put on makeup) or whips out a compact to see if she has stuff in her teeth. Now that I’m a bit older, I know what’s up, and surround myself with positive people, who make me feel good, more often than they make me feel bad. Obviously, this doesn’t include my children, whom I have no choice but to cater to their needs. That I can handle.  None of the wee ones has ever called me a “fat ass bitch”, but they’re still young. Give them time.

So here’s where the story get’s ironic.

My Hubby had some hardcore dental work a couple of months ago. I commend him for doing what needed to be done and it just makes him more of a hero in my eyes that he was in crazy pain dealing with our motley crew. And while his teeth are fabulous now, he had about 2 weeks of bad pain (which lead to eating less) afterward.

My husband has the metabolism of a hummingbird.  I’ve never known him (in 20 years) to weigh more than 160 pounds.  He’s actually worn the same pants size since we met, extremely opposite from how my weight has fluctuated at least 30 pounds from here to there.

That’s why when I finally noticed his weight loss I was shocked.  Like, over the top, holy shit, floored.  We were changing for an event we had to attend and I saw him shirtless… {OMG, he’s so thin… holocaust thin}.  Of course, the first thoughts in my head were that his heavy workload and too many kids was just too much for him. I felt so guilty that the man I want to spend my life with was burdened. Ugh, and I burdened him…. It was a very scary, guilty feeling.

When I asked him about it he laughed at my fears…

“Burdened? That’s a laugh.”

I guess I have a marvelous imagination.

He explained that the weight he lost after dental surgery hadn’t come back on easily… or at all.  What kind of bullshit is this?  The dentist could wire my jaw shut for a fucking month and I still wouldn’t lose weight and here is my Hubby trying to put weight back on? Oh hell no.

So, because I’m not about to be the fat person in this relationship and because I love my husband, I vowed to see this “weight gain thing” through… “I am going to fatten you up if it’s the last thing I do!”

Off I rushed to the local vitamin/nutrition store. As I wheel the baby in with his stroller I find a sales clerk…

What do you take when you’re trying to gain weight?

{She gives my body a once over and raises an eyebrow at me}

Not me, I’m not trying to gain weight… Jeez.

I explain to her the whole long story and she sells me a protein powder that’s call, get this, “Up Your Mass”.  The name alone had me in hysterics. Proving, once again, that I have the Benny Hill mentality of a 10-year-old boy.  I completely blame Mel Brooks for my sense of humor.

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Because ass jokes are always funny.

It’s been 2 weeks since Hubby started with the daily “Up Your Mass” shakes along with homemade lunch (in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Lunchbox) and the usual dinner.

He’s put on 2 pounds.

When the premixed protein powder makes contact with my skin I gain 2 pounds.

It’s just not fair.

I wonder how much it costs to have your jaw wired shut?

The Books

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This morning the baby and I had to go to our local Barnes and Noble (something I don’t do nearly often enough) to get a birthday gift for my nephew. As I walked into the large building I was transported back to my childhood summers. Spent with a weekly trip to the local library because I loved to read and my parents wanted to instill the love of reading in us. Each summer they threw down the gauntlet and issued us a challenge… read 10 books over the summer and write a report on each and they would reward us with a trip to Great Adventure.

In today’s society this might not seem like a huge deal. Summer vacations are the norm now, which can sometimes cheapen the actual monstrosity that planning and executing a vacation is to parents. But for me, in my childhood, summer was spent at the beach or camp and a vacation (especially to an amusement park) was a major deal. I’m thinking that along with the Minecraft book he wants, maybe I’ll also get my little brother’s son his first Harry Potter book for his birthday. A reading-right-of-passage for sure.

As I’m standing in this bookstore I could feel that feeling…  exactly the same way as when I was a kid. All of the stories that live inside these pages, all of them at my fingertips, the choices… it’s one of the most exciting adventures you could go on. The written word is indeed powerful and storytelling is an art. The fact that someone can paint a picture with their words and allow you to step into the world they created is the ultimate fantasy. I think we all need a bit of fantasy in our lives. It helps to keep up with all the mundane bullshit. We all have things we “have” to do… a small escape can be the difference between enjoying the ride or dreading the journey.

I love technology. I love the practicality it brings to my already cluttered life. But I will never love an e-reader the way I love holding an actual book in my hands. Just feeling the pages in my fingers and the weight of its spine… No Nook could ever replace an actual book to me.

This makes me think about the summer I was 12 years old and my Mother introduced me to the Thorn Birds. I was a confused tween who felt like every adult (especially my parents) had it in for me. Reading that book, knowing how much my Mother had enjoyed it too, felt like I had been indoctrinated into a secret society. One where we had something in common other than our DNA. It was a marvelous feeling that makes me always appreciate when my Mother points me in the direction of what she thinks is a good read. I must hand it to her, she has never given me a bad book. Wurhering Heights, Anne of Green Gables, Beach Music. Mama’s got skills that rival the New York Times Bestseller list.

While all the promise of the bookstore is laying right in front of me along with the joy when I realize I actually have time to browse, I am brought back to the real world from my amazing trip down memory lane by a 19-year-old kid with dyed, jet black hair, skinny jeans and boots on in the middle of Florida summer…

“Hello… {while shaking his head}”

Um, yeah Hi. {I smile, what does this kid want?}

“Could you move your stroller? {Then mutters under his breath} Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

Oh, I’m sorry, I must have been somewhere else…

As I move my stroller out of his way he reaches over to grab a skull and crossbones patterned case for his Nook and walks off saying to his friend… “I swear, these Moms act like they own the place. Let’s go get a latte.”

Back to reality.

I doubt he knows where to find the Harry Potter.

It’s All About Perspective

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I hate to be late.

Tardiness is my number 1 personal pet peeve and now that I have 3 kids, running late is kind of a given. So I usually have to talk myself off a mental cliff when it happens. But this afternoon was just curveball after curveball thwarting every attempt I made to be on time.

The older kids have to be picked up from camp at 3:45.

3:45, 3:45, 3:45… since this is such a difference from our normal school schedule I have 3:45 resonating in a sing-song voice in my head from noon on. I even set my phone alarm to remind me to leave the house at 3:30.

Well, at lunchtime I realized we were out of cold cuts and that would be unacceptable when I went to make lunches for tomorrow. I opted to leave the house early and stop at the grocery store on the way. Of course at around 2:50 the baby was ready to eat, so that was curveball numero Uno.

After a quick bottle (thankfully the baby just pounded 6 ounces, burped and we were off) I headed to the grocery store. Where I grew up in New York we had deli’s… lots and lots of deli’s, and those guys have lightning speed. They can make you an egg sandwich and cut you a pound of ham faster than you can walk into the place. It’s times like this I really miss the everywhere-ness of the NY deli.

As the baby and I approach the deli counter in the supermarket… I sigh. It’s packed. I pick #52 and they are on 49…. shit, I’m going to be late. As I’m checking the time on my phone and anxiously tapping my foot, a friendly old lady asks if she can ogle the baby. Of course she’s adorable and in love with his sweet little face. I can’t resist a conversation as she starts telling me she’s a mother of 7!! SEVEN! And I think I’m outnumbered!! {Headshake} By the time we’re done talking I look up and there are on number 53. Shit. Some evil, redheaded, moo moo wearing troll has stolen my beloved deli clerk. Now I’m going to be really late… and I’m super pissed.

Excuse me, I was 52

“Well, they’re on 53”

{No shit, exasperated sigh}

After I finally get my lunchmeat it’s now 3:46…. Fuck, I’m super late. Anxiety unfurls in my belly and I can feel my blood pressure spike. As I walk to the checkout line I remember a former shrink who told me that chronic lateness is the true sign of someone who is bored with their everyday life and needs to feel that adrenaline that comes with rushing. I don’t really know if that psychobabble bullshit is true or not but yes, my adrenaline has spiked. And I’m not a fan of that feeling.

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I get to the express lane and see that the whole freaking store has decided to join me there. Double shit, another curveball and my imagination is running wild that my children are sitting at camp, last to be picked up, with the anxious staff that is probably desperate to get outta there, cursing me under their breath for being late. Ugh, I hate that I’m sending out the vibe that only my time is valuable.

When I finally get to pick the boys up it’s 4:07.

I’m annoyed with myself, annoyed with the redheaded, moo moo wearing troll. Annoyed.

I apologize to the camp director (who doesn’t seem at all bothered by my lack of time manners) and explain the curious circumstances that made me late. He jokes that this could be fodder for my blog. “Yeah right”, I say… “There’s no blog here.”

On our drive home 9-year-old asks me what happened at the deli counter. I explain the whole story to him… The grey haired lady who loved his baby brother, the bitch troll who stole my spot in line (he knows how much I hate to be late)…

“Mom, she didn’t steal your spot, you missed your turn.”

{Lightbulb epiphany} Holy crap, you’re right, I did miss my turn.

“Happens to the best of us.”

Thank you little man. It’s all about perspective.

 

The Big Box Store Meets The Little House

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After many years of avoidance I finally re-upped my Costco membership. These kids eat A LOT! And we eat a lot.  And the baby hasn’t even started eating solids yet… so yes, I’m screwed.

Costco is the place where dreams are made and bank accounts are broken. As a new member, you don’t really know what is a one-time-only bargain price and what they stock on a daily basis. So every time I hit that bitch with a list, I buy the items on said list and then some extra shit that I think is a good deal.

While I’m shopping I’m usually thinking “this is a good price” or “oh man, I can’t swing that now, hope it’s here the next time”. And everything seems small when you’re at Costco… because the place is so fucking big. Most items (that aren’t big-ticket) are under $10. Then I get to the checkout line and I die when I see my total. Then I bring everything to the car and die again because I have 2 car seats, 3 kids, a stroller, a soccer bag, and my huge diaper bag already taking up necessary room … and I realize, if I can barely fit this shit into my car, where the hell am I going to put it in my house.

Which leads me to the real point of this blog… I don’t have a small house. Well, maybe it’s small for 5 people, but my house seems so much smaller because I’m terrible at organization, and I don’t like to get rid of things.

We built this house. We’ve lived here 11 years and we still have no freaking clue where to put shit. We definitely need to throw things away. Lot’s of things. But there is always that nagging feeling that you’ll need this obscure thing someday and you won’t have it and you’ll say, “Damn, I had that… now I have to go to Costco to get it.”

I don’t like that feeling.

I bought a Foodsaver at Costco today. You need a Foodsaver if you’re going to have a membership at Costco… unless you are trying to get really fat (which I’m not). But I have no clue how to use it… besides its awesome ability to vacuum suck a bottle of wine. Ironically, we drink wine pretty fast so I really don’t need to store it for long periods of time… but I digress.

So tomorrow the big kids start camp and I’m starting my new project. The Costco project.

Out with the old (please) and in with the new from the big box store.

Or just out with the old.

Hopefully I make the cut.

When Desperation Wins. Summer Mother and the Indoor Play Place

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Macklemore-1

Macklemore has nothing on my toddler. Except access to Slurpees.

Whelp, summer is officially upon us.

Which means if you’re anything like me, these little animals that we call children are home.

All day.

{sigh}

So after 2.6 million games of Candy Land, breaking out the Play-Doh, countless hours of Lego building, becoming an imaginary superhero, bike riding, baking, cooking, and laundry I have mentally and physically left the building. And sadly, we are only on the second day of summer break.

At this point, I am certifiably insane. You know how I know this? Because crazy people do desperate things. And in my desperation, I did something that I hate to do with all my mind and body. I packed up the family Truckster and took my kids to an Indoor Play Place.

The Indoor Play Place is the final resting stop for all frazzled parents everywhere. You can see the look of defeat on each and every one of our faces. We are screaming it behind our fake smiles “I GIVE UP!”

Because no one with the proper mental facilities would pay $12 for their kid to run around and jump in an indoor bounce house at a strip mall. No one in their right mind would allow their kid to play with a plastic toy that was just in a strange child’s mouth. But Summer Mother isn’t all there. She’s desperate. She’s trying to fill the time void until the next meal, the next nap, the next bedtime. Summer Mother isn’t practical – she’s a crazed lunatic. And where do the crazy parents hold the meetings for their 12 step program? The Indoor Play Place. That’s right.

This, my friends, is one step above the park and one step below maximum desperation – Chuck-E-Cheese. I’m not there yet.

But it’s only Tuesday.

My toddler entered the Indoor Play Place like a little version of Macklemore entering the club… one hand in his Superman underwear, mismatched ensemble he put together himself of a NY Jets Jersey (Johnathan Vilma, by the way, who hasn’t played for the Jets since 2007), a plaid vest and pajama pants with a paisley pattern – Yes, he rocks your Grandpa’s style – His other hand is reserved for the thumbs up sign he’s throwing at the little blond girl in the corner who has lifted her dress high above her head exposing her Frozen undies. I watch his eyes as they dart around the room, sizing the place up, undoubtedly looking for the most dangerous or disgusting thing to play on/with. He cracks a smile from ear to ear and runs off in the direction of the dress up corner. Before I can even form the word, “Wait…” he has placed a plastic Fireman’s hat on his little head. He’s dancing around singing a fire truck song, and I’m putting “buy RID Lice Shampoo” on my shopping list.

The Indoor Play Place isn’t for the faint of heart.

As I begrudgingly hand over my $12 to the establishment, I find a place without gum or Nutella stuck to it to sit down. This is the part of the Indoor Play Place that sucks for parents. The waiting. There are three loads of baby laundry on my bed that I have to fold today. Can’t do that here. I need to marinate a pork loin for dinner and buy a fresh salad but instead I am sitting in a vacuum. No sane person would do this.

I’m tending to the baby, making small talk with another mom who looks about 1 step away from institutionalization. She’s wearing two different sneakers. They aren’t even the same brand let alone the same style or color. I decide to keep this observation to myself. Nothing good can come of her knowing that right now.

My 3-year-old calls, “Hey Mom, watch this,” while he hangs from a rafter, clearly not part of the actual maze the Indoor Play Place has put together.

“That’s lovely honey,” I mutter, not wanting to battle it out here. There will be enough battles when I try to get him to leave.

He finally approaches me with those words no Mom wants to hear in a public place, “I have to go potty.”

I’m starting to think my toddler might actually be reviewing public toilets for Zagat or Yelp! Because he has sat on every public toilet in a 50-mile radius.

I then venture to the restroom with him where he proudly sits on the toilet and sings the ABC’s while his little legs dangle. The last time this happened was at a Golden Corral restaurant (don’t ask), and the whole family was sick for a week. Of course, the baby is now ripe and needs a diaper change too. I whip a gallon of hand sanitizer out of my purse and make the changing table fit to lay my changing mat on. I can’t help think about some of the college bars I frequented back in the day. Considering there aren’t any drunk 20 somethings here, this bathroom could give them a run for their money. I wipe some asses, and we leave that nasty place. A minute more and I might have puked.

After 2 hours I’m finally able to get him to leave without incident promising him the ultimate toddler treat, frozen yogurt.

Make mine a double. With a side of hand sanitizer.