Guilt is a 4-Letter Word (Plus One Additional Letter)

There have been a lot of blog entries floating around lately that have dealt with the uber-pressure we moms (consciously or unconsciously) put on each other. Women have raged against the Elf on the Shelf and his buddies the Magic Elves and the mischief that they must make around the holidays. “What did you elf do last night?” is the oft-most discussed topic on the playground and Heaven forbid your kid doesn’t have a unique and hilarious tale to tell. 

I’ve recently seen one mom denounce the “minor” holidays and plead for her fellow women in arms to put down their crafty Pinterest weapons and call a truce. Love notes left in lunch boxes every day of February leading up to V-Day -- and then gifts? I thought Valentines Day was for lovers -- why are we now expected to romance our own kids? Don’t we do that every day by simply allowing them to live in our houses and give them food and clothing? Gifts for Saint Patrick’s Day? What’s to give besides maybe a snake? And now a leprechaun is supposed to visit every night, leaving green pee in the toilet and scattering clovers all over the house? What if you’re not even Irish? Most kids probably think St. Patrick’s Day has something to do with Sponge Bob’s friend. 

Then there are the moms who spout clean-eating and boast proudly of how their kids never even walk down an aisle in the grocery store containing foods tainted with the deadly Blue No.1 and look at you askance if you dare pass your kid a Berry Blue Blast Go-Gurt in their presence. 

I, myself, have written about the infuriating habit moms have of comparing their kids to others academically. No, I don’t care at what “level” your child reads, I’ve still seen him dig into his nose and pop the gooey treasure he found there into his mouth just like the rest of them. 

So, what’s my point? Am I now going to give you a “We’re All In This Together One For All Women Unite” load of hooey? Am I going to suggest that instead of tearing each other down while wearing a smile, a string of pearls and holding a homemade Paleo-approved apple pie we look for ways to encourage each other to simply do what we do best -- love our children? Should I get all sappy and say that being a mother is not defined by the creativity of your child’s Valentine’s Day cards (which, you know you put together yourself while he was off playing his DS), but by the number of times you stop and give him a hug just because you are overwhelmed by the joy that is his presence? 

Or maybe I should simply stop speaking in questions and come to my long-rambling point?

Being a mom is hard. But, guess what -- it’s always been hard. Get over it.

You think this pressure is unique only to us moms of the twenty-first century? You think we’re the only generation to have to hold down full-time jobs while being the family chef/maid/chauffeur/first-aid administrator and disciplinarian? Well, we’re not. 

You think the mothers who lived in little houses on the prairies didn’t feel pressure? You try cooking without a proper stove, washing clothes without a washing machine, sewing all your family’s clothes by hand, while snatching your baby out of the jaws of a marauding coyote while pushing the other child out of the way of stampeding buffalo while dodging the flying arrows being flung at you by angry Injuns. (Okay, so maybe that last one seems a bit non-PC, but you know it happened.) 

Look at the very first mom, Eve, for the love of all that is sibling rivalry. How many times have you broken up a fight between your sons? If it didn’t end in one of them slaying the other, than you’re already one step ahead of our infamous first matriarch.

The pressures of being a mom haven’t changed -- only the manifestations of those pressures. I am forever confounded by the way we moms accept (nay, embrace) this notion of “Mom Guilt” as an integral part of the job. Why do we walk around with the back of our hand to our forehead, sighing heavily and continuously ticking off the exaggeratedly long list of chores we must perform on an hourly basis? We sit around at Book Clubs and benches on the playground and reaffirm to each other that our lives as moms are nothing but guilt-filled, exhausting, thankless routines of woe. 

Is that really how you want to describe the greatest job you’ve ever been blessed to have?

You know what makes me feel guilty? Nothing. Not a darn thing. Maybe it’s a gift or maybe it’s early sign of sociopathic behavior, but I simply don’t buy into the Great Mom Guilt Extravaganza. If my kid pouts and tells me that other kids have leprechauns visit them, I say “bully for the other kids.” If my kid doesn’t have their sandwich cut up into shapes appropriate for whatever bogus holiday is around the corner like the kid sitting next to them, I could care less. And if my kid tries to manipulate me into buying, going, making, doing whatever it is that every other kid has, goes to, owns or does, by saying they will simply die if they don’t get to buy, go, make or do like the other kid’s moms let them buy, go make or do, then I hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck. 

No one can make you feel guilty about anything. You do that to yourself. Remorse, sure; regret for something your conscious tells you that you’ve done wrong, go for it. But, guilt is a different and ugly animal. And I don’t like animals enough to keep that one around. Congratulate the mom who can whip up a Creek Indian tee-pee out of the scraps she has in her sewing drawer, but don’t give your lack of tee-pee building skills (or the fact that you don’t even own a sewing drawer) a second thought. Compliment the mom who hand-makes extravagant birthday party favors, but don’t for one minute beat yourself up because you threw a bunch of stuff from the dollar store into a plastic baggie and tied it with a twist tie. 

So you don’t create elaborate birthday cupcakes using fondant and homemade sprinkles. Maybe instead you find yourself in the thankless (yet vital) job of corralling ten rambunctious little leaguers during dugout duty. So you don’t obsessively explore the internet looking for educational crafts to construct with your children that will stimulate their minds and help improve their fine motor skills. Maybe instead you remember that your daughter loves pancakes baked in the shape of Mickey Mouse and lovingly pour those three circles of batter into the skillet on a Saturday morning.

There are a million different ways throughout the year that you demonstrate to your child that he is unique, that he is special and that he is loved. No one -- not even the mom with the idea that has been re-pinned the most -- knows better than you do how to accomplish that. 

I personally like the Christmas elves and have fun moving them about and engaging them in mischievous activities. But, if you don’t -- then don’t. It is highly unlikely that your child will end up firing a riffle from a clock tower screaming, “My Elf on the Shelf never moved!” 

So give yourself a break. Don’t rail against the moms who, in your opinion, raise the bar and over-achieve in the Martha Stewart game. I guarantee there is something that you do that other moms envy and be content that your kids are getting the best -- because it comes from you...their mom. And in the end, you know that if you gave your kid the choice between you or any other craft-making, cupcake-baking, original lullaby-singing, costume-sewing, creatively-themed-birthday-party-throwing mom on this planet, they would choose you. 

And that is enough.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go put the finishing touches on the Pinterest-inspired, kick-ass art room/playroom I have designed for my children -- complete with chevron-patterned bean-bag lounger, hanging hammock chair from Ikea and project table stocked with all the crafty goodness Hobby Lobby has to offer. And when your kids come home and ask you why they don’t have a kick-ass art room/playroom like my kids have and try and manipulate you into feeling bad because all you have to offer is a pack of dollar store Rose Arts and a stack of scrap paper you brought home from the office -- hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck.

And then, when they decide that they have a pretty awesome mom already, do whatever it is that you do that makes them smile and feel like they are their mother’s favorite person in the whole world. Because that’s all they really need. 

The Bird

Last night, L and I were sitting at the dinner table enjoying a quiet meal with just the two of us. We were chatting about school and life and the riots in Egypt, when she said, “Hey, Mom, this means you don’t love God.”

My eyebrows shot up as I watched her try and form her fingers into whatever formation it was that meant a person doesn’t love God. After a brief moment of uncertainty, she finally achieved the look she was going for and held up her hand proudly. Basically, she was flipping me off.

I stifled a grin and asked, “Who showed you that?”

“Alex did. But, Kaitlynn told me that it meant you don’t love God.”

I carefully folded my napkin and laid it beside my plate, trying to decide how best to respond to this. I said, “Well, it doesn’t mean that you don’t love God. However, it is not a nice thing to do. It’s a gesture that people use when they are angry at someone and they want to show how angry they are. But, it is rude and you shouldn’t do it. Maybe Kaitlynn meant that when you love God, you want to be kind and do good, and holding up your finger like that isn’t being good.”

“Oh.”

“You know, L, in some cultures -- do you know what a culture is?”

Head shake.

“It’s a group of people --“

“Stop talking. I don’t want to know anymore.”

“Um...okay.”

And that was that. At least for a while.

Later, L and Z were playing together, which always ends in fighting together. I interrupted a barrage of “you’re a poopie-head, no, I’m not, you are, no, you are, no, you are” and tried to figure out who was truly the poopie-head. I decided it was L and told her to stop fighting with her brother and be nice.

The poopie-head looked up at me and said, “Oh, yeah? Well, then I’m going to do this to you!”

And she flipped me off.

So help me, all I could do was laugh. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I laughed until I had to bend over and grab the back of the couch for support. L was cracking up, too, and Z joined in though he had no idea why.

When I recovered somewhat I told L that, while I laughed, she really, really didn’t need to do that anymore.

She said, “You mean don’t do it at anyone else’s house?”

I responded very quickly, “No, please, no, don’t ever -- EVER -- do that at someone else’s house. Or school. Or church. Please. I beg of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

This morning, as we were clearing the breakfast dishes, L showed her father her new gesture.

“L,” I warned, “we talked about that, didn’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied.

“And what did we decide about that?” I asked.

“We decided that when I do that, you laugh.”

Touche, poopie-head.

Hot Stuff

'Tis the season to have hot flashes, fa-la-la-la-la, La-open-a-freakin'-window!

JAO will be wearing a t-shirt, a button-down and his suit jacket and still put on his long, wool coat and gloves. Meanwhile, I am driving the kids to school in a tank top and bare feet. I suffer through the drive in the stifling heat because their little hormonal systems have yet to undergo the assault mine has, and then as soon as they jump out of the car, I roll down the window and stick my arm out into the wind trying to direct more of the cold air onto my overheated torso.

I really miss wearing turtlenecks and cute sweaters. Okay, so I wouldn’t wear a cute sweater now anyway because my extra body bulk would only look even more bulky, but still. I have figured out that scarves are the way to go. I can wrap one around my neck when I am a bit chilly and still be able to easily yank it from my steaming body when I start to over-heat.

I know everyone is complaining right now about how cold it is her in the South. And I agree that if it is going to be this cold, we should at least have some snow. But, there is nothing as refreshing to a hot-flasher as strolling out to the mail box in shorts and a t-shirt when it is 25 degrees outside.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I could wear a camisole, a sweater and a scarf and be quite comfortable. Now, just thinking about that makes me want to open the freezer and sit inside.

Worried that I might have developed some exotic ailment that affects only the body’s ability to regulate its temperature -- like some South American reptilian disease or something -- I had the doctor run a complete blood work analysis on me last year. Sadly, the lab said there was nothing exotic about me at all.

At first I attributed it to just one other way having children has wrecked my poor body. However, I do know women who suffer from this and have not birthed any kids. So, now I’ll just blame Eve. She’s the eternal fall-gal for any weird body thing that women must endure but from which men are unjustly exempt.

Too bad I can’t develop some magic, rapid weight-loss disease.

Wait...I think that’s called cancer.

Never mind. I’ll just stick with the hot flashes.

It's What All the Kids Are Doing

Well, it was bound to happen. Every time I drive my kids to school wearing my pajamas and no make-up, I think, “Gee, I hope I don’t miss carpool or else I’ll have to walk inside in my p.j.’s.” And, you know how some mornings you just wake up looking better than others? Well, this was not one of those mornings.

Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.

At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.

I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.

Tra-la-la.

Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.

I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.

They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”

What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?

So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”

Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”

Silence.

“Guys?”

The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.

“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”

Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”

I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.

(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)

Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.

L informed me, “We made up a new game.”

“What is it called?”

Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”

L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”

Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”

“There are no rules.”

“Well, how do you know who wins?”

“We’re all winners, Mom.”

“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”

He protested, “But it’s my turn!”

“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”

And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.

The Sign Says "No Soliciting"

Yeah, yeah, it’s been forever since I last blogged, so I don’t blame you if you hate me and never want to read another word I’ve written. But, just in case you do, I have to share my latest encounter with the bizarre.

My doorbell rang and I wasn’t expecting anybody. In this day and age, with cell phones, texts, email, Facebook, etc., it is rare that someone will simply show-up on your doorstep unless they want to sell you something or kill you. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t ticked anybody off badly enough to warrant a killing, I assumed the rather normal-looking man was a solicitor. (Though, it should be pointed out, that there is a nice, little wooden sign posted at the entrance to the neighborhood that says, “No Soliciting.” Unless, of course, you are soliciting cookies or candy. Then I’ll let you get away with it.)

I opened the door and the man looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you remember me? Have you lived here for more than six years or so? Because I have cleaned this house before. So, if you have lived here for more than six years, then you’ve met me before.”

“Um...what?”

He then pointed to my next-door neighbor’s house and asked, “Didn’t that lady have cancer? Or she has cancer or something?”

“Uh...not that I am aware of.”

To further prove that he had, indeed, cleaned my house before, he then pointed to a house down the street and said, “And that guy had a big boat, didn’t he? Were you living here when he parked his big boat on the right-hand side of the house?”

“Er...I have never seen a boat there.” Then thinking perhaps the poor man was either lost or loony, I asked, “Are you sure you are in the right neighborhood?”

He laughed at that, but then proceeded to tell me that he was an exterior house cleaner and could pressure wash my entire house, from the gutter to the ground, and make it look like new. He started pointing out the black, moldy stuff on the door jamb and other areas where foreign matter was growing on my stucco. Quite frankly, I had never even noticed any of that. So then I got all paranoid thinking that everyone who has come to my home has shuddered inwardly at the unsightly fungus as they crossed over my threshold. And just what is that stuff, anyway?

But he ripped my attention back to him by saying, “Just so you don’t think I’m bull-shitting you, here are the names of your neighbors whose houses I’m doing.”

Excuse me?! Did he just use profanity while trying to sell me his services? I don’t appreciate that kind of language! What the hell?!

Okay, fine, so maybe I do, but not from some stranger who randomly shows up on my doorstep and starts taking walks down memory lane through my neighborhood.

He whipped out his iPad and touched the screen to wake it up. It came to life and there was a webpage with a video on it. It wasn’t playing, it was just the screen capture with that faint triangle on it that lets you know it is a video and you should play it. Creepy Solicitor pointed to the video and asked, “Oh, have you seen this?”

I was not sure what it was a video of, and even more not sure of what it might have to do with his convincing me he wasn’t a bull-shitter. He continued without waiting for a response from me, however, by saying, “The Russians blew up a pirate ship -- with the pirates still on it! They captured the boat, chained the pirates to the deck and blew the shit up!”

Inside my head, I was screaming, “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?! Am I being punked or something?”

Outwardly, I said, “Um...what?”

He said, “Yeah, you’ll never hear about stuff like that on the news, but it happens. Today everyone is so politically correct, you know? Everyone is always looking at us and blaming us for doing things, but the Russians, they do that kind of thing all the time!”

Ah, to be so free from world public opinion like the Russians. Wouldn’t that be swell?

He went back to his iPad, closed the deadly-Russian-pirate-killing video, and pulled up another screen. He then turned it so I could read it better. It was a list of about five or six people who were supposedly hiring Creepy Solicitor to clean their homes -- complete with names, addresses, telephone numbers and how much money they were being charged.

He asked, “Do you know any of these people?”

I didn’t, but then, again, my next-door neighbor is apparently dying of cancer and I had no idea about that either.

“See that house over that way -- you gotta lean over -- see it? The one with the grey chimney? I’m cleaning her house today. What’s her name? Karen? Carol? Something like that.”

“I don’t know her either.” Boy, I really need to get out and meet my neighbors.

Creepy Solicitor went back into his sales pitch and talked about cleaning the windows and how everything would look like new. Then he started telling me about how he could clean the driveway, walkway and the back deck. He appeared to be winding down his spiel, for which I was grateful.

But then he upped the creep factor on me again by saying, “If I remember correctly, you have a really huge back deck, right? Do you mind if I walk back there and take a look to make sure it’s what I remember?”

“Well, um, there are dogs back there.” I realized I wasn't being very articulate, but this guy was throwing me off my game with his whack-a-dooness.

“That’s okay, I’ll just look over the fence. I’ll be right back.”

As I stood alone in my doorway, I began to think it wasn’t so wise to allow some stranger to wander around my backyard. But, then again, he was no stranger -- he knew more people in my neighborhood than I did. Plus, he had handed me a really nice, laminated doorhanger with his company name and number on it. If he was a rapist, he sure did spend a lot of money on his printed props.

He returned from his recon mission and announced that, yep, the back deck was just like he remembered and he could clean the deck, around the pool, the driveway, the walkway and the sidewalk in front of the house all for the low-low price of $175. The house and windows would be $275. And, here’s the best part, he could do it as early as tomorrow. Oh, hosanna!

I really hated to turn him down right then and there, especially since he had been so enthusiastic in his pitch. Oh, and warned me about the free-wheeling Russians who so brazenly practice their own sense of vigilante justice. But, I really wasn’t in the mood to spend nearly 400 of my Christmas-shopping dollars on cleaning the outside of my house -- which I hardly ever see anyway.

So, I used the standard “I’m just a girl and I don’t make decisions about money and I’ll have to check with my big, strong husband who has a much better handle on such confusing things.” Yeah, I can be really anti-feminist movement when it suits me.

I told him we would discuss it and give him a call if we decided we were in need of his services. He then thanked me and went on his way.

He’s probably just up the street right now asking that person if they know the lady with the huge back deck and warning them about the Russians.

See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?

Little L Moments

L has started kindergarten, which means I am now old enough to have a child in school. Okay, fine, so I was old enough for that a decade ago, but that’s not the point. I have been making fun of all the moms I know who boo-hooed over their kid’s first day of school and mocked their sentimentality over something so silly. And to answer your next question, no, I did not cry on L’s first day of school. JAO, however...

But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.

Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.

With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.

I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.

Blood!

Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.

Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.

I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.

Needless to say, I never got that nap.

Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)

In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.

When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.

Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!

Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.

(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)

Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”

She got no arguments from me.

But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.

Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.

Paying for a Summer of Sin

Hey, Jenny, it’s me, Regina.

Yeah, it has been a while.

I’m fine. Well, sorta.

My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.

My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?

Not that much, huh?

It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.

Oh.

Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.

Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?

That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?

You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?

No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?

Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.

Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.

Yes. That was my humor.

Bye.

And here we go again.

Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.

I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.

I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!

Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.

I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.

Yes. That was my humor again.

Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.