Losing weight and motherhood: u r doing it wrong

This morning I am a failure at everything.

First, I wake up and weigh myself (a feat which, in and of itself, was emotionally equivalent to completing the Bataan Death March-like trudge to a gynecologist or dentist appointment), only to find I weigh exactly what I did a week ago. Not even a smidgen of change. I literally kept hopping off and rebooting the digital scale, then hopping back on, hoping this was some sort of hilarious malfunction. As if the scale might suddenly morph into a fur-coated, Muppet-like version of itself, blink at me, and chuckle heartily with it's red felt mouth-like orifice, "Just kidding, Ms. Tracey! Actually, you've lost four pounds! Yay Ms. Tracey!!!" And then pink puffy clouds and rainbows and glitter would spray forth from its undercarriage, coating me in feel-good self-contentment and pride.

Needless to say, this did not happen.

So I'm trying to wrap my head around this, and because I indeed have been exercising regularly every day for at least half an hour a day, all I can come up with is that I am not counting calories properly. That my "guesstimates" are off significantly enough to foul up the works completely. For example, for the past week I've been eating a lot of Big Salads -- a trademark mash of baby spinach, falafel and hummus in a jumbo-sized bowl (OH MY FUCKING YUM)-- and putting these down as about 300 calories. The spinach is negligible -- half a bag is like 25 calories. I do tend to pile on the hummus though, which is supposedly 50 calories for two tablespoons. And the calorie count I've been recording for the falafel is my best guess based on what the box the falafel mix came in tells me. And I've been engaging in this kind of dubious math with just about everything I've been eating, except things like Luna bars and crack (Luna Bars: 180 calories each; crack: -2,000! Crack really gets your metabolism going, people!). To summarize: I SUCK.

To be honest, I'm genuinely beyond frustrated with myself at this point. I feel all self-sabotage-y, but it's as if there's some covert part of me doing this to myself, like the conscious part of me isn't totally aware of the shit I'm cramming into my mouth and is all "D'oh! What? HOW CAN THIS BE??". Because, seriously, why would I be doing this to myself? Do I crave delicious FAIL? Am I FAIL deficient, and thus compulsively trying to make for my dietary lack by heaping on extra hungry-man-sized helpings of FAIL? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?

So I stewed for a while in that dark place of self-hatred, but then slowly came to realized that this was just what FAIL TRACEY -- the defeatist, self-abusive side of me -- would want. That by continuing on that train of thought I'd never get off the big, dumb, circular looping track I'm obviously stuck on. I'd get all "fuck it, I might as well eat that whole pie!", gain more weight, and begin the cycle of failure anew, but in an even worse place. And, uhh, I say no thanks to that.

Then I thought about Weight Watchers, which I followed for a few months about a year ago and lost almost 10 pounds on. And though I kind of hate regimented weight loss programs, I'm beginning to think this might be what I need. Not want, NEED. Dieting for Dummies, basically. This food = X number of points. You have 20 points for the whole day. WORK IT OUT. U R DUMB, EAT LESS, KTHXBAI! Yeah, that sounds about my speed.

So I signed back up for WW this morning. For the online version, mind you -- let's not get all crazy with those cult-like meetings and shit. I prefer to sit alone in a room behind my computer and, like, type and brood in silence and stuff, thanks. I'm like Emily Dickinson on a diet (that Dr. Oz dude should make that his next book release: Emily Dickinson: On A Diet. I'm guessing there'd be a whole section on how sewing samplers can really be a great workout. How many calories does one burn per hour fretting and weeping? Writing poetry? Wringing delicate lace hankies?).

So that's that. We begin anew. Again. It kind of seems like we're always beginning anew, doesn't it?

And now, a word about judgmental fucks.

This morning was (I thought) a partial day of school for M. She had some kind of graduation rehearsal at 10am, followed by a much-looked-forward-to Fairy Tale Picnic, during which each preschooler dressed up as their favorite Fairy Tale character (or something vaguely like it that a parent can throw together in 10 minutes from their child's own wardrobe (M dressed as Mary of Mary Had A Little Lamb, and I have no idea what that character is supposed to look like, so I put pigtails in her hair and threw a cute dress on her, but most importantly made her clutch a SIGNIFYING STUFFED LAMB, which seemed all that really mattered anyway)). But apparently I'd misread or misheard or just missed entirely the fact that this was an "extra" event deemed not technically preschool, and so was something I was going to have to pay daycare costs for if I didn't stay and watch M throughout the proceedings.

Okay, and this is the part where my blood gets a little boil-y. All well and good on all the above, except I couldn't stay, and it felt dumb to pay a full half-day of daycare for 2 hours of what I'd thought was school. "This was supposed to be something the parents did with their child" M's teacher said to me in her best No really I'm not being condescending or judging you at all (PS: I'm SO TOTALLY condescending and judging you! HA!) sing-songy voice. And as I stood there sort of trying to figure out what to do, M's teacher just suddenly grabbed her hand and said huffily "Nevermind! I'll take her with me!" and trotted off with her into the classroom.

Here's the subtext of this whole thing: I'm a stay-at-home Mom, therefore I should've been staying with my daughter today. The end. And that I wouldn't stay (not couldn't stay -- because OMG, what the hell do I do all day anyway?) was a mark on my character, my parenting. That's genuinely what I felt was being transmitted to me underneath the entire interaction. That I'm a bad, bad Mommy.

But how do I explain my life? Not that I should have to, and not that under any circumstances judging another woman like that is appropriate. But seriously, my life is kind of weird. Yes, I'm a stay-at-home Mom. But I'm not. I work, I do real actual work. That includes the household work, the cleaning and maintenance and the laundry, the finances and appointments. But it also includes having writing deadlines 5 days a week for three different websites. It includes editing posts by other writers daily, managing a sizable number of paid authors, administering three sites and an online forum, and being the go-to person for all manner of issues related to them. It's WORK. It's A REAL LIVE JOB. And I'm trying to do all of those things -- sometimes ineptly, sometimes pretty darn well -- AND run a household and take care of a child, a husband, a hilarious pug, three cats and a handful of aquatic-type creatures. Oh and me? I guess? Sometimes, when I can get around to it?

Maybe I should write a letter.

Dear Preschool Teacher,

The reason you see me in the mornings -- and let's face it, often in the afternoons as well -- looking (and smelling!) like I'd just rolled right out of bed and thrown on the clothes I wore the day before isn't because I'm a lazy, slack-ass bon-bon eating soap-opera-watching stereotype of white middle-class privilege, but rather because I'M SERIOUSLY FUCKING OVERLOADED AND SHOWERING IS ABOUT 15th ON MY TO DO LIST, I MAY NOT EVEN GET TO 15 EVERYDAY, OK? BACK THE FUCK OFF.

Cordially,
M's Mom

Guessing that wouldn't go over too well, huh?