Will Power

Meetings tonight. On the drive home after 9pm I was thinking to myself. Telling myself that if I was serious about losing the muffin top, I had better quit eating candy bars and chocolate muffins. I was resigned upon my arrival to eating an orange if anything at all. Thirty minutes later, Brian got some ice cream. Tempting, but I was strong. I don't need that. Then he sat down next to me and turned on the computer to watch a show we missed this week. Crunch. That soft, beatiful chocolate ice cream had crunchy things in it. I couldn't resist. "What is the crunchy stuff in that ice cream?" "Peanut butter cups," came the reply. All hope was lost. Now, I'm eating ice cream next to my sweetheart. I'll have oranges tomorrow.

On Mother's Day No Less!!!

Brian is struggling, clawing, fighting with all his might right now. You see, he really screwed up this morning. And on Mother's Day!!

He returned from his early morning Sunday meetings and offered to make me eggs for breakfast. It is my weakness. After 11 years of marriage, it still works to make me totally happy and satisfied. He is a good man. I know it, but he does love to give me a hard time about the number of eggs I keep in the house at any given moment. I get the Costco sized eggs that come with two 18 pack cartons. Sometimes I think we're running low (yes that's a relative term defined by my head, not the normal person). This time, we weren't actually low. So we had near 6 dozen eggs after I got a second pack on Tuesday. No worries. I quickly went to work eating them.

This morning Brian puts on his Texas flag apron and opens the fridge door to be greeted by 4 1/2 dozen eggs. He made me eggs yesterday too and finished off the first 18 pack. He threw a friendly barb my way about having a bit of excess in the fridge these days. In response, I begin singing in the loudest, most boisterous voice I can muster with evagerated hand motions the song from Beauty and the Beast where Gaston sings, "When I was a lad I ate four dozen eggs, Ev'ry morning just to help me get large. Now that I'm grown I eat five dozen eggs, so I'm roughly the size of a barge!" To this he just smiled.

Maddie smiled too. I asked her who sang that song. She couldn't quite remember, but once I said Gaston her face erupted into a smile and she knew. I asked if I was like Gaston, big as a barge because I eat so many eggs. With a big grin she said no, but not before Brian could interject.

"Maddie, if you ever have a question you might have to say yes too, just say 'Trick Question!' and don't answer it. Okay?"

So what does that mean? Yeah. He's in the dog house, but the omlet should be done in about two minutes and he'll likely be okay after that. However, please remember, you should never, ever, even hint at the general idea that your wife might possibly be in the approximate neighborhood of "the size of a barge." I'm just sayin'...that's kinda harsh.

Happy Mother's Day!!

Point of Reference

I am the sort of person that doesn't concern myself with the specific numerical values of different things. I just look at how close or far from a normal position something is. Like when I purchase ground beef in bulk then weigh portions on the kitchen scale to put in the freezer in little one pound ziploc bags for easy cooking later. I throw some beef in the bag and if the marker falls two tick marks from my chosen magic location we're good. This method of relative estimation carries over into weighing myself on the scale every couple of days. I don't really read the number directly to know that I weight 142 lbs or 167 lbs. I just look at how close or far it hits from the nearest multiple of ten and figure that I'm up a pound or down a pound from the day before relative to the nearest big thick multiple of ten line marked on the scale. I have been monitoring the gradual ten pound weight gain since the week of Thanksgiving. Ten pounds. That's kind of a lot in my book for six weeks. I sure had a nice month and a half though of eating everything sweet. The results are beginning to show. I have at least stopped the upward climb and plateaued two pounds below the magic black line. I hadn't checked the scale in three, maybe four days. I had tried to stop my indulgent ways and felt pretty good about what I had eaten in the last few days. I even had carrots instead of popcorn or ice cream last night while we watched a movie after the kids were in bed. Boy did I feel amazing when the little black dial on the scale hit the big black line yesterday morning! Wahoo!! I did it. Magic carrots! I lost the eight pounds! I rule the world!! Errr...wait...what did I weigh before? Oh yeah. The devil is in the details. I was up two pounds, not down eight. Grrrrr! Being over thirty sucks. No more eating whatever. What I do actually has consequences now. Welcome to my new reality.

I Think That Used to Be My Bicep

I went shopping with a fun (and classy I might add) girlfriend the other night. Cori is the best bargain shopper and can assemble a killer outfit with the simplest stuff. She has an eye for deals and never (almost) shops anywhere but the thrift store, buy you would NEVER know it to look at her. So we had some fun on Thursday night at Unique Thrift and I came away with three (or twenty) new outfits depending on how you mix and match them. Totally happy with that, and the most expensive thing was $3.75! I'd post pics of my cute duds, but I'm the picture taker in the family, so just imagine for me. Now the depressing part. I'm at my lowest weight since high school. I call it my happy weight. Then why do I not fit in a smaller pant size? I know. Because I've been pregnant three times and stretched and cut and all that jazz. But if I'm the same weight, why can't I wear the same size?? Ugh. I'm a science gal. I know the principles of physics. I believe in conservation of mass. If I weight the same, then while it's all there somewhere, there shouldn't be any extra. So what then, I ask, is the difference? I think what was my massive bicep and calf muscles can now be found located around my waist and backside. Maddie supports that theory. Wednesday night she was in trouble and totally wild, crazy in a tantrum. She was sent to her room and lost desert priviledges for the night. When she cooled off, I went up to snuggle with her and talk as we rocked in the rocking chair. (You know, after you correct them, show an extra measure of love or whatever that scripture is.) I was slouched a bit and she was all curled up on my lap, head nuzzled into my shoulder looking down at her lap. Right in the middle of our loving gentle talk, she sits straight up, points to my spare tire stomach and says with smile and genuine excitement, "Mommy, you're next baby is getting ready to come!" Maybe I should have explained my conservation of mass theory to her and told her it was just my bicep that had relocated itself. I settled with telling her, "A baby wasn't coming today." Seemed to satisfy her for now.

Motivation

We have been working on putting together a wedding video for my brother and his wife for their upcoming reception at the end of the month. (By "We" I mean Brian is doing the hard work. I just make the phone calls and relay information.) I came across this picture and I love it everytime I see it. I think it's a fantastic shot of my brother Jason and sister Kristie at the beach in Galveston. I want to look like Kristie some day. Considering she's always looked that good and I've always been me, it isn't likely. But my sister-in-law Juli has done some amazing things too. I know I can. The question just remains, do I have the will?