Every night when Buttercup is falling asleep in my arms on the extendable toddler bed I bought just because it's long enough for me to sleep on with her, my brain goes off into Dreamland and I start thinking about my book, the size of my ass, and how it's all gonna play out in the long run. Will I finish it? Will it be what I expected it to be when/if I do? Will I be prancing around in a size 12 like I should be by now?
And what will the blurb on the back of my book say?
If I had my way, it would go something like this:
"This is not a fairy tale written by a paid celebrity about how the baby weight just melted off never to return. This isn't a how-to on the proper steps to take to get the scale to budge and the pre-baby jeans high enough on your waistline to button again sans the embarrassing muffin top. What this is is a real story about a real mom who has spent a little over a year actively trying to figure out her mind, her medical conditions, and how to bribe the scale so it would be her friend in order to finally lose the weight she should have before her toddler was tall enough to confuse as a kindergartner.
That mom would be me.
And in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably tell you that I swear. A lot. In fact, let's just make this easy. If you don't like the "F" word, I'd highly suggest putting this book back on the shelf. Now. It's not on every page, mind you, but it is there. And I really don't want to roll my eyes later at the Amazon reviews because you ignored the back, read the book anyway, and then got pissed I said the "F" word. (Because really, reading stupid reviews on Amazon should really replace baseball as the national past time. It's amusing and doesn't involve season tickets or steroids.)
Criticize my lack of will power. Or my talent for gaining weight by osmosis. You can even bitch about the fact that I could take Oprah down with my penchant for yo-yo's. But if you are still reading the back of this book, the "F" word is off limits.
I don't have all the answers. I might not even have some of the answers. But I do have my truth. And I'm perfectly willing to be the one person in the world you can relate to because all your skinny mom friends just don't get how you can't seem to put yourself at the top of your own priority list (you know, above the children, the husbands, or the laundry) long enough to take care of you and just lose the weight already.
Or maybe you're one of the lucky few to have an actual medical excuse for still looking five months pregnant and have decided it's easier to blame your thyroid or your ovaries than it is to realize you've let your body become its own excuse? 'Cuz I've got that one covered, too.
But that "F" Word? Seriously, people. If you open this book, you assume any and all responsibility for your actions. Agreed? Good.
Now let's get to relating...