While all you Yanks are fattened up and sitting around the house (if you’re not out shopping) I’m sitting home, with this miserable cough and have my sidekick home today as well. Carter was really groggy and not himself yesterday at daycare or when he came home so he’s here today. We’re chillin’.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to stay home all day with a child. Even though it’s only 9am we’ve squabbled over the TV, breakfast and a diaper change, already.

I honestly have no idea what to do with a toddler all day. An infant was easy peasy - he was a bump on a log and fascinated by the sight of his own toes, but that doesn’t really cut it anymore. Now that he knows what his toes are and what they’re good for the allure is gone.

I don’t wanna deal with paint or Play-Doh and dammit, it’s cold outside.

Do I leave him in front of the television all day?

I could read to him, but he always just rips the book from my hands to look at the pictures and then throws it. Frankly, it pisses me off.

Take him to the mall? But we’re both sick and I don’t feel like getting dressed. Going out in public could cause a visit from Child Services. That’s out.

I don’t know how you Stay-at-home-parents do it. I really don’t. I know now that I can handle the first year, but when it comes to actually ENTERTAINING my child, I fall incredibly short. And I have a full year of him home when this new terror blessing arrives.

When we decided to have kids I don’t think the conversation ever included: But dude, what the hell are we going to do with him once he’s two and needs shit to do, cuz I suck at entertaining.

I just got dragged upstairs at the request of the toddler for a diaper change. I think he said something like: Bitch, change my ass.

But I’m not entirely sure.

Just wait until I’m old and you’re changin’ my ass kid.

What goes around, comes around.

I stepped away from the computer yesterday leaving open my blog. I never do that, but for some reason, yesterday I forgot to close it. I didn’t even think about it, and don’t really care if Mike should happen upon it while he’s at the computer because I don’t usually write anything that he doesn’t already know about.

When I arrived home yesterday after picking my car up from The Car Doctor (for my long d r i v e to Myrtle on Friday - Vacation in 5 days! *w00t*) I went downstairs to where my boys were playing (read: Carter occupied himself with the fireplace while Mike played XBox), we chatted a little until Mike paused his game and turned to me.

Mike: You have to stop being so hard on yourself.

Me: Wha?

Mike: Saying your fat and writing such harsh stuff about yourself. Is that how you really feel?

Me: You read my blog?

Mike: Not intentionally. You left it open and I started reading, not realizing who it was at first. Is that how you really feel? (referring to this post)

Me: Well, yeah. I do. I’m in a rut and I’m just not happy with myself.

Mike: There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re beautiful and not fat.

See why I love this man?

Me: I don’t want to have this conversation unless you want me to cry.

Conversation ended.

I felt almost guilty after. Like I don’t have the right to share how I feel about my body image. It’s one thing for others to say Oh! You’re not fat! You’re beautiful! Don’t be silly, you’re not fat at all! But it’s a whole other ball game when it comes to me and how I feel about my projected body image.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I made myself this way. College years, I was skinny (even though I thought I was fat then too) because I almost never ate a real meal but smoked and drank in lieu of food. I was killing myself slowly and (un)intentionally by not stopping for a meal. Some days I would forgo food all. day. long. Not healthy, I know.

Once I started eating balanced meals again they were actually far from balanced but more along the lines of gluttony. I would gorge myself with food as a way to cope with life. I hated my job, my relationship with Mike was falling apart, there were horrible things happening in the world which I took to heart and I began self mediating: with food.

I’ve always been an emotional eater; the difference is, in high school I was so active in sports and activities that it didn’t matter what I ate. When attending college, I abused my body daily with alcohol, cigarettes and not eating: I screwed my metabolism. So when I started eating regularly again, everything was stored. The weight came like a freight train staring me. Challenging me.

I never fought back.

To this day, I still haven’t fought back. Yet, I wallow in self pity and hatred for this body.

I have used the excuse of having a baby for far too long. He’s two. There’s no saying it’s because I had a child without the feeling of being scoffed at and the guilt of my words being a total cop-out for my laziness.

Instead, I have to shit or get off the pot. I have to own up to this mom-body, grab it by the flabby love handles and let it know who’s boss. I am the only one who can do something about this rut. I am the only one who can change it, because beating myself up on a daily hourly basis obviously hasn’t changed a damn thing. It is what it is, and it’s time to let it know, I’ve had it. Enough already!

Where to start, what to do first, I just don’t know. I don’t have a plan, I don’t have any ideas, so starting with curbing emotional eating and not eating after dinner is the first task.

It’s been a whirlwind of a week and it’s only Tuesday. *sigh*  So much on my plate and I just can’t figure out where to start. A friend’s wedding, a toddler’s 2nd birthday, work, more work, and CLEANING.

OMG, the cleaning.

I am so glad my computer cubby/office is part of my kitchen since this is the cleanest room in the house.  I don’t have to sit and stare at the disaster that is my living room, or the hurricane that’s demolished my bedroom. I can sit in my lovely kitchen and smell the awesomeness that is a bunt cake cooking. Mmmm.

Yup, I’m not much of a cook.  But Dude! I totally rock The Bundt Cake.

Please tell me you know what The Bundt Cake is? The cake with a hole in the middle? My Big Fat Greek Wedding? (Which I can’t find a damn clip of anywhere. Seriously, What the heck?)

Anyone, anyone?

Yeah, what I don’t rock? The whole ride-a-bike-for-fun thing.

Instead of sitting on my increasingly large ASS bum all the time, we decided to take up bike riding again. Really? How hard could it be. They say you never forget how and it can’t be that much work.

We got Mike a new bike and a trailer for Carter, some helmets.

[So we can be safe! Thanks Dora.]

What about my bike? Well. I have one. It’s sat dormant since my college days; Pre-Car Days as I tend to refer to them as. When I was HOT, had a figure and weighed about 25lbs (multiplied by 2) less then I do now. What could it really need after sitting around for a mere 7 years and been ridden NEVER since my precious first car arrived?

Poor piece of shit bike needed some good TLC.

Like steel wool, oil, a wrench and a good strong (hot!) man.

That bitch was good a new one he had his way with her.

Back to the biking.  *ahem*

Mike’s ready to get going but doesn’t understand that there’s a process to this Working Out thing we’re about to do.

First, strap the girls in. Dude, we don’t want this shit flying around while I’m hitting bumps leaned right over my handle bars, right? He disagreed. Thought it would be hot to have tatas popping out of my bra and peaking out the top of my shirt.

Nice.

Then, I had to make sure my shirt was long enough so that my ass crack wouldn’t be flashed. I’m not one of those hoochies in my g-string showing off my crack; I’m just not down like that.

THEN! my hair. I couldn’t wear it in a messy bun since I had to wear the damn So We Can Be Safe! Thanks Dora. helmet.  So I had to concock a lower messy bun.

I was spent by the time I got myself together and out the door.

We headed out with no real plan. I let Mike take the lead; since he’s a man and all, I wanted this to go well. I know my shit people.

With Mike in the lead, Carter in tow, I followed behind. Checking to see that the girls were still in place. Thank you Adidas sports bras!  By the time we made it out our road I was cursing this exercise idea. Seriously dude, I have taped Big Brother to watch and a fuckin’ bag of Cool Ranch (Doritos) calling my name.

I sucked it up and went along.

Should have turned back. Sorry Doritos, I should have listened to you!

After about oh FIVE! FUCKING! KILOMETERS! (1.25 miles, give of take) my ass was raw. Like my ass bone.  I could barely sit anymore.

I still had to make it home!

FIVE! MORE! FUCKING! KILOMETERS!

For the love of every Holy, Mike got tired and wanted to head home. Since you know, it’s hard work towing a toddler.

*nodding profusely*

So I was like, “Oh, if you’ve had enough, let’s go then.. we can come back out later.”

Meanwhile I was crying inside.

Tears of utter HAPPINESS!

My friggin’ ass hurt so bad from that damn seat I couldn’t even sit here (in my wood chair) and read your blogs.

I had to indulge in in Big Brother and Doritos.

Then! Smarty Pants Manchild decided we should go again! after dinner!

Whoooofuckin’hooooo!

I went.

My sore ass and  I sucked it up for the fan-damly and biked until I was numb. Down there.

You know what I mean. *wink, wink, nudge, nudge* There.

OUCH!

Exercise is so overrated.

If I could enjoy it like she does, I’d have no trouble with it.

I would have no qualms about feeling like just went a round with a rowdy frat boy if there was immediate payback.

I lost my grandfather to cancer 9 years ago this past June. My first close relative to pass away. My favourite. Gone. I haven’t been the same since he left. Our family hasn’t either; but that’s another story.

I never thought about cancer taking the life of a loved one. I never thought that it would happen to me. Cancer is something that only happens to old people. Wrong. Completely wrong.

In college a dear friend of mine had a lump in her breast. Cancer wasn’t even a consideration at first: she was only 21, she couldn’t have cancer. But it was. Sadly, I’ve lost touch with her over the years and don’t know what the outcome was. But I remember the tests, the constant bombardment of tests. She wasn’t scared though. She held her own through the whole thing.

This summer there was a scare in my family. My mom went through a barrage of tests after shadows were seen on her yearly mammogram. Ultrasounds, screenings, testing.. she did it all, and I had no idea until after she was given a clean bill of health. No cancer! The thought of what she’s gone through in the past couple months makes my chest tight, I can’t breath and I get a little shaky. My mommy! Breast cancer! Healthy! *deep breath*

There are others whom are not so fortunate. Some that are fighting at this moment. One in particular that is using this stage in her life to benefit others. Can you believe it!? She’s fighting this evil cancer monster, and yet thinking of others! Her plight is inflammatory breast cancer and WhyMommy is doing her best to get the word out!

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.

No lumps. I didn’t know that. Now that I think about it, there’s a lot I don’t know. Part of that is because I have been living in denial believing that this can’t or won’t happen to me. I don’t even do monthly checks. *hangs head* I can’t remember the last time I’ve actually done a proper exam on myself.

I’ve had reality scared into me.

For those of you, like me, living with the denial, nows the time to own up to it and protect yourself! Because it does happen; if not to us, to someone we love!

Smooshed a boobie lately? Are you a regular checker or are you like me and don’t give your boobies the attention they deserve?