Fat Insanity

I will fully admit that most of my attempts at dieting have been half-hearted at best. Whether this is due to a love of chocolate or just to a lack of awareness of how bad my thighs look in a swimsuit, I'm not sure. I mean, I've seen myself in the mirror and it's not pretty. But I don't obsess about it. I just figure the pile of doughy stretchmarks that passes for my mid-section these days is what some might refer to as "taking one for the team."

And while I remain convinced that the camera adds forty pounds and not ten (because, really, that can't possibly be my double chin) this generally doesn't affect how I feel about myself. Certainly I might glance enviously at that cute embroidered skirt from Banana Republic and wish I could fit more than one leg into it again. But the skirt is, like, a size nothing, which happened long before my hips had ever heard of pregnancy. (The skirt dates back to my "skinny period" [ca. 1996-2003], which, incidentally, was the same time my metabolism had apparently entered into a pact with the devil that allowed a Snickers bar and a bag of potato chips to masquerade as a balanced meal that added as much fat to my thighs as if I had consumed a single carrot).

But, in spite of my loathing of all things diet, when it comes to losing weight the fact remains that I actually would like to be healthier. And, having had a taste of how difficult it is to navigate my normal responsibilities when carrying around a huge amount of extra weight (I spent the last two months of my pregnancy with the twins having to sit down every time I changed levels in my house), I can't imagine why in the world someone other than a size 0 would set a goal to gain more weight. Especially not someone who already weighs 600 lbs.

But, that is the heart's desire (well, maybe not the heart's desire; more like the stomach's) of a New Jersey woman whose goal is to reach 1000 lbs. in order to become the world's heaviest living woman.

I am not making this up.

Just reading about her makes me almost sure I will never want to eat fast food again. Besides being horrifically unhealthy (though she insists that she isn't unhealthy, sounding much like a toddler who declares himself to be "not tired!" as he screams himself into oblivion because a piece of lint is stuck to his shirt), it seems that if you were struggling with basic tasks like taking a shower and cooking you might reconsider the idea of adding 400 lbs. to your already elephantine girth.

But maybe it's just me. After all, her fiance declares her "full belly and generous hips" to be "very sexy." (Not sure how he can see the hips under the Jabba the Hut exterior, but that is beside the point).

And that does it. This story grossed me out enough that I think I'm ready to take the plunge.

Bring on the diet.

I'm So Glad When Daddy Comes Home

My Dad

I am supposed to be having quiet time but I asked my mom if I could write something on the computer for my dad. She said I could so I pulled out a pencil and almost wrote my name on the screen, but she caught me just in time and showed me how to use the keyboard to type. Of course I know how to do that already, I just really wanted to see what would happen if I wrote my name on the screen. I guess I'll have to find somewhere else to write my name. I think I saw a good spot on the wall. AND I found a Sharpie to do it with! I can't wait!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I wanted to write about my dad. He is so much fun! Every day I count down the hours until it's time for him to come home from work. Then I watch out the window for his car so I can be sure to meet him at the door when he comes in. Sometimes I run away from him as fast as I can, because when I do that he will chase me and try to tickle me and that is the best! I love to play chase with my dad. I wish he could stay home and play with me all day, but Mom says he has to go to work to take care of our family. I wish Mom would go to work instead. Dad is way more fun!

I have two babies at my house and I tell them all about the things that Dad likes. I know he likes the house to be clean so I tell Matthew to stop spitting up on the carpet, and I know Dad doesn't like it when I cry for no reason, so I tell the babies not to cry. The most important thing I tell them is that, if you cuddle with Dad, you can stay up past your bedtime! It is awesome! Sometimes he'll let you watch a movie, and sometimes he'll even let you eat popcorn or have a treat, too! All you have to do is sit with him! It works great!

I have the best dad in the whole world! Matthew and Leah are so lucky they came to our family because now they get to have the best dad, too.

Anyway, I have to get off the computer now because Mom wants to check the email. (She is always doing that). I told her not to read what I wrote, but you know how moms are... I'm sure she'll read it as soon as I turn my back. Dads are much cooler about stuff like that.

I love you, Dad! Happy Father's Day!

Love,

Michael

I'm Too Sexy for My Diaper

There are lots of things that go without saying: don't drive with sunshield in place, this product is hot when heated, never iron clothes while they are being worn, that sort of thing. We all know what certain products are for and how to use them without having to sit through a how-to demonstration, and, despite what many companies may think, there are lots of products that come with instructions we would all prefer to read quietly in our bathrooms and not be exposed to on our television. Especially, but not limited to, romantic enhancement products that come with four-hour-emergency warnings.

Naturally it follows that we do not need our sitcoms interrupted with detailed instructions for any product that handles bodily functions. We all know how tampons and pregnancy tests work; therefore, EPT, we do not need a commercial which tells us that your product is the "most advanced piece of technology [we] will ever pee on" complete with visual demonstration.

Thank you, but TMI.

So, I've been happy that, for the most part, commercials for diapers involved cute, chubby babies crawling around and giggling. We all know what diapers are for; the happy, contented baby is all we need to see. No discussion of bodily functions (or fluids) is necessary.

I guess Huggies missed my memo. For those who haven't seen their latest commercial, Huggies is touting a new "jeans diaper" with the slogan, "The coolest you'll look pooping your pants." Really.

It features a toddler turning heads as he walks down the street in his blue jean bottoms. The voiceover tells us that "my diaper is full... full of chic. when it's a number two I look like number one. I poo in blue."

Okay, I get it. I see why people think it's funny. But must we be so crass about everything? Maybe I'm reading too much into it (or maybe it's just the fact that I'm fresh off of reading Wendy Shalit's excellent book Girls Gone Mild) but the way the wind blew through the lunching models' hair as the catwalk music bounced the baby down the street - they aren't just trying to imply that the baby is cool; they are trying to imply that he is sexy! A toddler, for crying out loud!

That said, I think the reason this commercial bothers me is not so much that it is a diaper advertisement talking bluntly about poop (or trying to make a baby look sexy); what bothers me is what it represents: a lack of refinement that has threaded its way through our society so completely that we no longer know what is appropriate or what is actually funny.

I don't know about you, but it makes me want kick up my feet and watch an episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show. Or at least raise my pinkie as I drink my afternoon tea.

If I drank tea, that is.

Blessings in Disguise

I hate throwing up. I hate it more than pretty much everything except using nasal spray and going to the dentist. And making visiting teaching appointments.

I especially hate throwing up a few days after having major abdominal surgery. (Seriously, do not try this at home). So I never would have imagined that my poorly-timed puke attack four months ago would turn out to be a blessing. I generally prefer blessings that arrive in neat little packages - more specifically, blessings that involve chocolate or are accompanied by angelic choruses - and not ones that entail bonding with my toilet, so it was hard for me to see the silver lining for awhile. Especially because my glasses fell into the toilet while I was barfing... Did I mention it would be unwise to try this at home?

But, here I am four months later, still reaping the benefit of my post-delivery illness:

My babies will both take a bottle! (What was I saying about angelic choruses?)

This is definitely not something I would have hassled with if I had not been forced into a hospital bed to have IV fluids dripped into my arm while my days-old newborns were at home with their dad. (It's just too much trouble to coax a happily-nursing baby to drink from a bottle unless there is a real need for it, in my opinion. I don't mind having to make myself available for all the feedings).

But I can't tell you how nice it is that, because they will take a bottle, I could go somewhere if I wanted to. And I don't have to obsess about appointments running late or waking up sleeping babies from naps just so I can feed them before I go. It's such a stress reducer for me (and for David when he's home by himself with the babies).

And, it means we could actually hire a babysitter and go on a date! In theory anyway.

Ah, puke-related blessings. Who knew there were any?

Of course, now I'm worried about what frightening experiences will accompany my future blessings. Not that I wouldn't want them (at least in hindsight). It's just that my heightened awareness of how often blessings appear wearing uncomfortable and downright horrible disguises has made me a little jumpy.

Because, gratitude aside, I really hate throwing up.

Four Months