I was going to write a post about trying to break off my relationship with Ben and Jerry since the weather has gotten warmer and the clothes are becoming shorter and smaller.  Then, I had to feed the baby. Then I had to feed the girls. Then I had to change the baby. Then I got on Pinterest. Then I got on Facebook. Then I had to feed the baby and the girls. Then I had to. . .well, you get the idea.  So, I decided to reach into the vault and let a former incarnation of myself do the talking.  Enjoy!

So you know you need to change your dietary intake when Weight Watchers uses your photo in their advertising.

And I will be the first to admit that I have horrible self-image issue and have wrangled with my weight for as long as I can remember. Let me back up for a second, though — this post is by no means a solicitation for compliments. I’m just trying to relate a story within its proper context. So let us continue.

Back in May, when it was unseasonably cool for a period of several days, I went to put on a pair of jeans. Shockingly, this same pair of jeans that I had worn just a few short weeks before had shrunk while waiting idly in the closet. I mean, really, imagine my surprise when I go to hoist those jokers over my hind parts and am met with considerably resistance! I couldn’t believe it. The combination of lack of use plus an as yet to be identified microorganism that nests in the fabric of individuals favorite articles of clothing, rendering them at least a size too small is the only explanation I have as to why these jeans didn’t fit.

I tried to suck in the gut, lay flat on the bed and fight my way into the jeans, but no haps. And after trying every trick in my book to get into those bad boys, I pulled out my last trick — I cried. Oh, how I cried. I cried so hard that DH came running upstairs thinking that I had slammed my hand in the closet door or lopped off my foot trying to shave that tricky space where your foot and leg connect. Imagine his surprise. Wife crying over jeans that don’t fit — sounds like Miller time to me.

Suffice it to say, DH very diplomatically and very chivalrously suggested several ways to make peace with the jeans and even get back into them. Hence the return to the double W. So, for the last 17 weeks, I have been increasing the fruit and veggies, reducing the junk, working out and have been met with some good results. It’s not rocket science, but it burns me every time because I just want to have the metabolism of a fruit fly, eat a Cinnabon or two and not feel like I could balance a tray on my bloomin‘ onion riding behind me.

17 weeks is a long time. DH has really been a trouper, going so far as to read labels, inquire about portion sizes and such when he’s in the kitchen. For the most part, I eat what I want, just less of it. I am a sucker for the 100 Calorie packs and our pantry is a Nabisco who’s-who of cookies and crackers. I make lunch for me and the girls everyday, our standard fare consisting of sandwiches, fruit, goldfish for them and some lo-cal chips for me, which brings me to the point of this whole diatribe.

I don’t ask for much. I just want to eat my own breakfast/lunch/dinner by myself. I know you moms out there know where I’m going with this. My own mother used to say, “If I had $#!t on a stick, you’d want to have some.” Oh, truer words were never spoken! I always was cajoling for a taste of this, or a bite of that. Not once did I think that roles would be reversed. Everyday, at almost every meal:

Breakfast for Mo and Co:

Buttered Toasted Oat Nut Bread (mmmmm, oat nut bread)

Yo-Baby Yogurt

sliced apple with Peanut butter

Breakfast for Me:

Buttered (spray butter) Toasted Nature’s Own White Wheat bread

Weight Watchers Yogurt

sliced apple, plain

Their bread is squ-oval, my bread is square. Evidently they are traditionalists because they want square toast. I cut theirs into a square. Nothing doing — they want mine.

Mo: Hey Co, want some of Mommy’s yogurt?

Co: Yes! Yes!

Waiiiiiit! How are you going to offer up my yogurt?!

Lunch is just a variation on a theme. Sandwiches for us all, goldfish for them, Light Ruffles for me. Guess what they want to have? This story wouldn’t have to be told had I not had to take them to task about it while we were out with friends at the pool. All the kids are water-logged and sun-screen slick, sitting at the picnic table while moms dole out juice pouches, quartered sandwiches, goldfish and sliced fruit. The kids are grubbing, and the moms start to take bites and nips of their food. I reach for my little bag of chips and Co’s voice floats on over, “Some? Some. Chips. Mommy?” And knowing the re-direction is a cardinal rule in parenting, I redirect the little dickens over to her goldfish. Nope. Again — “Some. Chips. Mommy?” and again, the redirect followed with a firm, “No, Co. You eat your lunch. These are Mommy’s.” Back and forth, we do this dance, my partner inevitably becoming Mo before it’s all said and done. Throughout it all, I don’t relent, a fact that does not go unobserved by my friend we are breaking bread with.

Since that episode, I know she’s humorously regaled at least two other people with how I denied my own children food I had reserved for myself. It’s not as though these chips were $20 a bag or the last bag on Earth. The bottom line was, I was hungry and I wanted to eat something that I knew wasn’t going to be detrimental to my eating plan on the double W. A few goldfish wouldn’t have killed me, but those who know me know that I like dinner and I love dessert. Why blow it at lunch on goldfish when there’s much better stuff to be had later?

At any rate, I have since shared the coveted chips with the girls at lunch at a later time. And after chomping down a fistful, my two sweeties said, “I don’t like these. Can I have goldfish?”

Of course.