Tag Archives: woe is me

State of the Weight Wednesday: Dear Diary

Welcome back to State of the Weight Wednesday! This week we’re adding a link-up to the bottom so if you’re following along on your own and want to add a link to your post, please do so that we can all offer support. We’re all in this together. Whatever this is for you.

State of the Weight Wednesday, Not Super Just Mom

This week I’m…whatever…to report absolutely no changes at all. Not in the number on the scale and not in measurements that I took last week and this week to compare.

To be honest, it’s kind of discouraging. And this has been the hardest week so far so I’m kind of struggling mentally with where I am and how the week went and seeing no change.

I started tracking my food, water, and exercise on the MyPlate app last Wednesday. I actually didn’t find that to be the hard part at all. Tracking, that is. It was pretty easy to just go in at each meal and find out how much I was putting into my body in order to know where I was for the day. It was also revealing.

I’ve got to do something about my coffee but I’m not ready to switch to drinking it black nor am I a fan of artificial sweeteners. Agave has more calories than sugar and I’m not sure about the flavor of honey in coffee. I don’t know what the answer is.

I didn’t stick to the daily recommended intake allowance on Saturday and Sunday since it was Mother’s Day, but I didn’t blow everything out of the water either. And if you subscribe to the notion that the entire week’s intake is more important than a single day, which I do, I really did a great job for my first week of tracking and being responsible about what I ate and I’m proud of that.

I measured portions with a scale or scoop when I was unsure instead of just eyeballing. I planned healthy meals with lean meats and lots of veggies. I ate more fruits instead of crackers or pretzels. Small changes that make differences.

Through the Livestrong community, I also discovered that I might be overestimating my activity level, so I changed that in my profile yesterday morning and lost some daily calories. That made me grumpy.

Dieting is making me grumpy. Sluggish. Short-fused. I don’t like it. I know that part of this is the adjustment process. That my body has to find its new “normal.” But guys, this? This is hard.

I’m not giving up even though I really want to drown my sorrows in a bowl of ice cream with a side of Pinot right now, but this is hard.

Exercise continues to plague me because I can’t be as consistent as I’d like to be. Inevitably, one of the kids has an issue and I’m called away. Last Wednesday Joshua got physical with another kid and I had to “escort him out” after only 12 minutes. Saturday was short because I didn’t know what time childcare closed and we walked in at 5:15 when they close at 6:00. Monday Emma pooped after 30 minutes. It’s always something.

The number of calories I’m burning each time I exercise is all over the place depending on what I consult. The machine says one thing and the app says another. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle, but I have no idea how to actually measure that and don’t know if I should even worry about it. I mean, is it important that I know how “productive” my workouts are?

I know I have to add weights into my routine. It’s just daunting to think about. Probably as daunting as anything I’ve done so far. Cardio on the elliptical is safe. I can zone out while watching Claire have a baby and Boone die after Jack gives him a blood transfusion with a sea urchin (RIP, BOONE!) and before I know it, 45 minutes is gone.

I can’t do that with the weights. I have to pay attention to what I’m doing but what it feels like is that everyone else is paying attention to me. I know that’s irrational and that no one is likely to even notice the fact that I’m there, but there’s something about that side of the gym that feels like a spotlight is shining on me going “LOOK! LOOK AT THIS GIRL WHO HAS NO IDEA WHAT SHE’S DOING! LOOK AT HER MUFFIN TOP AND FLABBY ARMS!”

Gah. Sorry to sound so discouraging right now. I know that I’m doing something good for us so that keeps me going but there are just some weeks on this journey that are going to be harder than others. And since this is about being real, I guess I’m okay with that. I hope you are too.

Weekly Goal: Continue to track food and plan healthy, filling meals and snacks so I’m not so freaking grumpy
Weight Goal: 10 pounds total. A pesky .5 pound to go.

Remember we’ve got a link-up now, so, uh, link up. (Share the badge if you want! It’s okay. I don’t mind!) :)

State of the Weight Wednesday, Not Super Just Mom

Emotional Minefields

Ever since Joshua was a baby, it’s been clear that he’s a deeply emotional kid, prone to outbursts of the epic variety at the slightest provocation. Or sometimes without being provoked at all.

I’m trying to get our days more organized and scheduled since his therapist recommended that as a way to help him out a little, but I’m kind of floundering a bit. I feel like I’m failing.

I can’t seem to come up with a schedule that meets the needs of all three of us. Someone is always getting the shaft and in a lot of ways that can’t be Emma right now. She’s the most demanding physically and requires the most redirection. But that means that Joshua isn’t getting the attention from me that he needs. I could use her nap time to give him that, but then I can’t shower and take care of myself. And probably 4 days a week, I don’t shower or take care of myself. At least not when he’s awake.

I’m almost a year into this and I’m still fighting the same battle. It’s beginning to feel never ending. That there will never be a moment where I feel I’ve hit my stride and I’m capable of balancing them both.

Compounding everything is the fact that he’s given up his nap. I can’t even really make him lay down and rest most days and he doesn’t understand why resting is good for him. And for me.

And if he does understand, he’s doing an amazing job of pretending he doesn’t.

Everything has gotten worse since he stopped napping. Way worse.

So much worse that from 2:00 p.m. on, we’re pretty much trapped at home because I’m navigating my way through an emotional minefield of rage and tears. His and sometimes mine.

If we do venture out of the house, say to the playground like yesterday, he screams at the other kids who come near him. He thinks they’ll try to touch his bubbles or his sister or they’re just too close and SCREAM!

Or he falls down more often than usual and it’s the end of the universe even if he’s not visibly injured. And when we’re at the playground, or even outside in the yard, I’m also chasing a now-mobile baby, usually in an opposite direction.

I feel like a neglectful parent because I can’t watch them both and Joshua practically requires someone to play with. But when he screams at the other kids who come near him, he’s not exactly making friends.

He’ll be great and I’ll think that today is the day we’ll have a great day and there will be compliance and no meltdowns. And then suddenly he’s not great at all.

He’ll fall to pieces because Emma looked at him. Or he bumped his leg on the table and it hurts like he’s been shot in the arm. Or I gave him the peanut butter sandwich he asked for but he really wants grilled cheese and not peanut butter. Or the dog, who has been laying on the rug asleep, has licked her chops and made a sound. And then he’s wailing about it.

There’s a lot of screaming and yelling and anger and sensory-seeking behavior, like spinning in circles. And touching me.

He must be touching me. A foot in my lap. Sharing a single cushion on the 108″ couch. In my lap. I’m his lovey.

I try to give him as much of that as I can stand because I know that he seeks touch to calm himself. But I reach my limit after being touched continuously for so long.

He has invisible issues that the people who see him melting down in public don’t know about. I feel like I should carry a sign that says “My kid has a sensory processing issue. Stop staring. Where are your manners?”

But I don’t have that sign. I just try to hide my exasperation (and often fail to do so) and get both of my children out of wherever it is we are. And if we’re at home, on the really bad days I just count down the minutes until Dan gets home to help.

He’s over-tired. Every day. I am over-tired. Every day. And the mood swings as a result of his over-tiredness and sensory issues are awful.

This is really hard, y’all.

I feel completely beaten up by the emotions of someone half my size and 2/15ths my age.

And no, I didn’t do come up with that fraction in my head. Who do you think I am?

Math is hard. So is motherhood.

Eternal Flame

I feel like I lament this at least 17 times a day, but being a mom is hard work. Like, super hard. Mostly because it’s the only job I know where there’s little in the way of training and a whole lot of making it up as you go along.

See also: fake it ’til you make it.

If I tell myself I know what I’m doing and I’m competent and making the right decisions often enough that will eventually be the truth, right?

Isn’t that how it works? Isn’t that how you create a self-fulfilling prophecy?

I’m stuck in this weird headspace right now where I’m questioning myself probably more than I should. My kids are alive and thriving and mostly happy, I think. That should be enough.

But I’ve never been one to rest on my laurels and think that I’ve reached the pinnacle of excellence. There’s always room for improvement.

There’s always room to be a little more this and a little less that. Whatever that is.

I feel like I both need and want to be better, but I constantly feel like life or the weather or the incessant whining of a kid who doesn’t yet understand logical thought just punches me in the gut until I crumple on the floor and scream “uncle” at the top of my lungs while the small creatures in my care dance around like little creatures who like to dance around.

Or that’s what I look like in my head when I’m the floating observer in the room. Probably it’s less dramatic than that.

Probably.

I’m tired of feeling like I’m spinning my wheels. Tired of feeling like I can’t manage to get anything done without first putting out someone else’s fire.

This is the life of a mother, yes?

Well, they’ll take your soul if you let them. Oh yeah, but don’t you let them.

The single hardest thing about leaving the work force and staying home, for me at least, has been the significant drop in adult interaction in my life since last June. And by significant drop I mean Dan is sometimes the only adult I see in an entire week, except dropping Joshua off at school.

No more idle chit chat over lunch about what was on TV last night, or politics, or the news, or being invited to go grab a drink after work even if there was a strong chance that I’d have to decline because, hi, two kids and one of them’s still on the boob.

Now I spend an inordinate amount of time talking about Wonder Pets, Angry Birds, Captain America and Mario Kart and what, exactly, Joshua would do if he encountered a special flower that let him throw fire balls and can I please look at Emma and make her say “brother” right now this very second and can I also get some more milk and a cereal bar and also sister is looking at me the world is ending because she is looking at me.

So I go to Twitter and say “OMG MY KID WON’T STOP TALKING AND I JUST NEED TO PEE.” And sometimes I get a few responses of “hang in there” but frequently I get nothing and then I’m all “oh, okay, so I’ll just stop my whining and keep on talking to myself inside my own head. Carry on then.”

I mean, I’m incredibly grateful for the many, many people who talk to me daily, like Alena, and Isha, and the women who also defected from a popular message board for women with babies on the brain.

But even if I do get to talk about those above things with people who live in my computer, it’s not always the same as a flesh-and-blood person sitting across from me having a conversation that makes my ears have to work to hear more than just the click click click click of my fingers on a keyboard.

Basically, my adult friends are Dan and two or three people who live here in the real three-dimensional world with me. And that’s it. And our lives are such that getting together regularly is really difficult. We’re all spread out, or they work during the day, or our kids have conflicting schedules.

I watch Joshua on the playground, and when he’s not growling at strange kids he’s got a gaggle of preschoolers following after him, playing chase, climbing structures, and asking to be his friend. (Yes. Growling. We’re working on it)

Imagine the shock on another mom’s face if, at the playground, the mall, wherever, I just walk up and say “Hi. I’m Miranda. Would you like to be my friend? Awesome. Now let’s go braid each other’s hair and gossip.”

If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be writing this. But it’s not that easy and so I am. Basically, I feel like I don’t know how to make friends.

Making friends used to come so easily to me. I used to be the girl who never met a stranger. And while I’ll talk to anyone about just about anything, I find that it’s increasingly harder to develop real friendships as I get older.

I know there are a few mom’s groups in the area because I’ve sniffed them out on the internet, but I’m scared to try them because what if they find out about this blog and read this and think I’m some kind of neurotic freak?  What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t like them?

What if I’m too fat? Or too loud? Or too control-freakish? What if I try to compensate for some of those things and I become some sort of shy introvert?

What if I’m being judged for my choice of whatever choice it is that I’ve made??

I feel like my tolerance for bullshit has lowered considerably as I’ve gotten older. Either that or I’ve gotten more efficient at weeding out those relationships that I know will not put into my life what they’re taking out of it. Or both.

What I want in a friend is someone who doesn’t think twice about the fact that I maybe haven’t showered in 2 days, perhaps have hair that hasn’t been washed in 4, and who doesn’t stop to wonder just what, exactly, the mystery stain on my faded yoga pants might actually be. (Peanut butter, cheese, or drool. Probably even bits of graham cracker, if you’re wondering. None of which came from me. Thanks, Emma.) (Also, hi J. I just described you. ::smooches::.)

If you meet the above criteria, applications are now being accepted.

Judgy Judgers need not apply. I won’t let you take my soul.

Are you there, Internet? It’s me.

I’m on day 4 of AT&T being a bag of screwballs with our home Internet connection with their official word being that our service should be restored tomorrow night following their “unplanned” outage.

Unhappy, thy name is Miranda. And that’s putting it mildly.

You’d think that not having Internet access at home would make me…productive? Zen?

I could scale Laundry Mountain without Sherpa Dan’s help. I could finish painting those salt dough ornaments. I could sort the toys and decide if a dining room-to-play room conversion is a good idea and then make it happen. I could clean out my car. I could exercise.

Or I could be all “ahhhh! My life is peaceful and full of bliss without the Internet mucking it up! Hiatus forever!”

But no. Neither of those is taking place. And let’s be real. That exercise thing is a shot in the dark under any circumstance at all. And so is that quitting the Internet thing.

Because I can’t quit you, Internet. I may have dropped NaBloPoMo like a dozen hot potatoes, but I can’t just quit.

For one, my COUPONS are here.

Do you know how crazeballs it is for me to grocery shop without a list and coupons? I ambled through the store with both kids buying things and thinking “oh, I totally have things to put with this!” not knowing if that’s even remotely true. But just in case I get to the point of cooking dinner and realize all I have is cubed steak, there are party pizzas to save me.

Most of all, my people are here.

You people keep me sane when Joshua won’t stop touching me and Emma is screamcrying to be picked up and then immediately wants to be put down and then picked up again. Wash, rinse, repeat at 3:00 a.m.

I’ve got posts I want to write and posts I have to write and people to chat with and pictures to share. And it’s all trapped in a computer like some giant case of information constipation.

This is annoying.

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Gratuitous blurry shot of Emma in her brother’s old jammies carrying a koozie in her mouth like a puppy. She’s got places to go, people.