I'm working on a book. It's supposed to be about my year's journey to lose the baby weight. Three years after having the kid.
And here I sit, a mere 9 days from Buttercup's third birthday and about 8 weeks from my self-imposed deadline, wondering when Karma is going to forgive me for Thinking Bad Thoughts about Moms who had Let Themselves Go before I became a mother myself and took a good, hard look in the mirror.
I haven't gotten on a scale in three weeks. Or seen the inside of the gym, for that matter. But as of last count, I was somewhere in the 10 pound loss area.
That's 10 pounds in 10 months.
Somehow, that thought just manages to depress the living hell out of me.
My goal is 30 pounds total to get me to my pre-pregnancy weight and so much is riding on crossing that finish line that I wonder how much different The End is going to be in Baby F(Ph)at than I expected. I'm supposed to get pregnant again when I have crossed Go and collected my $200. I'm supposed to start the next phase of my life.
The Husband is patiently waiting for me to put up or shut up or just say fuck it and forget it and let's get to making a baby and I'll just worry about it all after I pop the next kid out. And while I can normally talk myself up when suffering through a Fat Day such as today, it's getting harder and harder. Because every day gone is another opportunity missed.
My intentions are stellar. I want to be skinnier healthier for me, for my family. This takes work. I know that. So I wake up each morning with the intention of working out and eating right. And yet, somehow, each and every day seems to get away from me. There are bills to pay, laundry to do, dust bunnies to hunt down and kill because the Mother-in-Law is coming for a five day visit and in the world I have created in my head and the real one I occupy the house must be Spotless to ensure a pleasant visit for all parties involved. There's the grocery shopping, the Quality Time with the toddler, the Family Drama spanning 2,500 miles that somehow manipulates entire days that eventually end only to find I'm still bra-less, in my PJs, and rockin' my Mexi-fro.
There's changing my schedule around to adjust to The Husband's new day shift, which means that I have until 4:30 p.m. to get Everyone Else's shit taken care of so I can continue to take care of Everyone Else with that magical meal that will please everyone from the gluten-free to the acid-reflux to the just plain picky.
Then there's the dishes. The kitchen clean-up. The taking Buttercup upstairs to bathe, brush teeth, floss, and read four stories to because she knows how to count to eleven-teen and I can't convince her that two stories are more than they really are.
There's lunch to be made for The Husband because that's how I was raised and that's how he was raised and I'm home all day so I can't really complain and tell him I don't have time to make his lunch so I don't and I make it anyway even though I really don't have the time. I'm supposed to finish the nightly routine fast enough to get into bed with him at least every few nights so he can smile and fall asleep with my arms around him because there's only so many hours in a day and I'm obviously not handling things right if my work keeps me awake until 2 a.m. every night and Motherhood requires an 8 a.m. wake up call so I try to move faster, but the sun always wins the race.
There's that TV show I think I deserve to sit down and watch, just this one, because once Mom leaves for her six-month visit to Michigan to see the rest of the family, the TV will only be on when Nick Jr. comes to babysit so I can be like Other Moms and deal with the demands of family on my own. You know, like a big girl.
There's the fact that even when I was telling myself the dishes could wait and the laundry could wait longer so I could pack Buttercup up in the mini-van and head to the gym with the daycare and feel good for an hour which would make me feel good for longer, I still felt like I wasn't trying hard enough. There's also the Unspoken Argument that ignited when The Husband switched to days and decided to sign up at the gym with me so we could Spend Time Together, which left me dreading his arrival somewhere around 5:30 because dinner had to be cooked, the diaper bag packed, and bedtime pushed back for Buttercup until after we got home, ate, and I read eleven-teen story books which affected her mornings and somehow we stopped going together so I stopped going at all.
But at least my fingers look good. From all the writing I've been doing and all.
There's time spent on everyone else. And when it's all said and done, there's no time left for me. So I wonder what I'm doing wrong even though I try to do everything right for everyone else because really, that's what I'm supposed to do---what feels right because I'm a Wife and Mother---and I'll take care of myself when I have the time and...
It's 12:36 a.m. I'm sitting here working on my book, and have just unhooked the straps on the sports bra I've had on since I got dressed because I had good intentions. I didn't work out today. Hell, I didn't even eat right today.
I ran out of time. Then I ran out of reasons to bother trying.