I'll Have What She's Having...

As I was hyperventilating through the last 2 minutes of my half hour elliptical workout this morning, I found myself reflecting on a conversation I recently had with a friend of mine.  I was telling her how good she looked, and asked her if she had lost weight. She informed me that she wasn't aware of any weight loss, for she did not own a scale and as long as she was comfortable in her jeans, then she was happy.  I was aghast.

Happy without knowing how much you weigh? Is that even possible?

To make matters worse, she continued on to say that she was so comfortable in her own skin, that she just didn't fret about her weight.  All I want to know is...

Where in God's creation can I get some of THAT?

Did I say too much?

Since I will never change into a meek woman, maybe I should invest in some duct tape.


Because I'm the Mom, that's why.

Eight years ago when we made the decision to adopt a little girl from China, we attended all the classes, read the suggested books, and spoke with the experienced adoptive parents about what to expect. One topic I paid special attention to: comments from others. "Why didn't you adopt from America?"..."Does she speak English?"..."Do you know her real parents?"..."Oh look, you had a natural baby after you adopted."..."Oh what a lucky girl that you adopted her!"...and the list goes on.
I have encountered these type questions here and there, and I handled the person's ignorance or maybe just plain stupidity, and then raged in my head alone afterwards. Now, however, Lady O is right there with me and at seven years old, understands the questions which angers me more. She is no longer shielded from the ignorance, unfortunately.
At this stage of the game I consider America quite diverse and growing evermore in it's vicissitude. Because of this I am still somewhat caught off guard by comments from peers about our family makeup. Today's question came from her classmate whilst we were dining in the school cafeteria...
Boy: "Who is that??"
Lady O: "My Mom."
Boy: "You said you were adopted, right?"
Lady O: "Yes."
Boy: "What's your REEAL Mom's name?"
Lady O: "I don't know."
Me: "I"M her REAL Mom."
Boy: "But she said she's adopted."
Me smiling: "She sure is, and I. am. her. REAL. Mom."
Boy: Blank stare

I then privately explained to Lady O why *I* am her real Mom, but like we talked about before, she has a 'birth-mom' in China.
He is a child, and so I am forced to stay calm and answer his questions with the hopes of educating him, because I understand children are curious and still learning about the world. And well, it is sort of frowned upon for an adult to throw-down with a second grader. (Damnit.) What I'd like to know is 'where is his Mother?!'
Anyway, maybe it is I who am in the wrong..maybe I am in an adoption bubble and expect too much from the general public. I always try to be considerate of others and their various situations, and teach my children to do the same, but I expect the same in return.


Expect The Unexpected

Some of the most productive and therapeutic relationships are forged simply through the use of words and images.  It makes one apprehensive about the impact of a physical manifestation of any sort for fear of compromising the rigid bond that has formed over a period of years. In the end, we are taught that letting things happen naturally and in their own time is often the wisest choice, as forcing time and space may only lead to heartache or dashed expectations. Here's to serendipity; separated but not disunited.

Boobies and the Bulge

Vanity is inevitable - especially for a woman who has had children. Oh sure, you can play the whole feministic "I am a goddess" card for a while, but eventually, you will curse whatever sags, protrudes or jiggles. In the end a struggle will ensue, but even that will wane to a compromise. The ultimate question: What's most important to me?

I cannot generalize here, because women are obviously not all built the same. Additionally, there are also those who have the guts and the funds to nip, tuck, enhance and reduce. I'm not gonna lie, I do occasionally have a speck of envy for the surgically altered. I'm not assuming that engaging in such practices would really put down the demonic vain monster that lays in wait, but hey, that's why it's called dreaming.

So, the matter at hand - the packing on of pounds. Double digits? Yes. So many that I'm doomed? No. More often than not, I can catch myself before I spin completely out of control, which is the present case. What's disheartening is how I spent a lengthy amount of time dropping a decent amount of weight, swearing I'd never go back, then watching as the numbers crept back upward...such is the life of a yo-yo dieter.

The cherry on my chunky cake is that I recently turned 40, and while being monumentally thin (for my personal existence, anyway) was pretty damn cool for a minute, I quickly began mourning the loss of my rack and ass. There was simply not enough left of the very things that attracted my husband's attention so many years ago (personal insecurity, he really had no qualms), but my clothes fit. so. well.


Did I put the weight back on purpose? Of course not. However, now that it's there, I've decided that the curves are good. The bad thing is that spread around the middle...it was absent one day, there the next...I swear. Okay, I don't swear, and it was longer than a day. What to do?

Ignore it. Cover it up. Wear extra layers. Enjoy the cleavage.

Guess what? None of that works.

As in many times past, I've landed right back at square frickin' one. I hate this place - the spot where I have to start disciplining myself...again. Water instead of diet soda, less coffee, more exercise, meager portions, minimal sugar and starch, blah, blah, blah...the plight of the vain housewife is not for the faint of heart. Today, I choose health and comfort in my clothing. Tomorrow? We'll see.

Pandora's Box

"Quiet People Have The Loudest Minds" ~Stephen Hawking

It's Saturday morning and the house is quiet.  Part of the family has gone adventuring and the remaining are still savoring their weekend slumber. As usual, I am up, having packed food for the men and sending them off into the frigid darkness before pouring myself a cup of coffee and allowing the night's fog to part within my thoughts.

My. Thoughts.

It has been openly discussed that we are not safe when we are alone with our minds for too long, and yet I've found myself secluded in the early hours with a tornado brewing inside my head.

What will the coming days bring with the household growing by two members, the surgery drawing closer, the business that needs to be conducted within all of the upheaval, the clash of personalities and invasion of space...the cluttered existence?  Inevitably, the tar of wonder bubbles down into a sticky pool of heft leaving the core concern:

What about me?

We are all human, after all ~ selfishness exists in some capacity, somewhere in the reaches of our being. You can give until it hurts, and you can even get along the way, but they are not always balanced.

I will face it as I always have, I suppose...with an open heart and strong back...a little worse for the wear after a number of years, but still tough.  Despite small breakdowns like this one, I know that my purpose is solid and my presence needed ~ now to pluck the unstable pieces of my cognition from the storm, force them back into the box and lock it down until next time.