A Lifetime of Counting

I wrote this in November.  It's not new, just newly published.

I am so, so sick of salads.
I have been eating salads since I was around 7.
I don't mean that I occasionally ate salads, I mean I actually ate salads almost daily since I was 7.
My Mom tells me about a time some family had gone out for breakfast, and I tried to order a salad.
For breakfast.
Salad.
Eff.

All through high school.
Chopping lettuce.

University?
Lettuce.

I know that loads of people eat salad a lot.
But I feel like I can safely say that I've been eating them for around 10 years longer than the average person.

Sometimes I feel cheated because I have always struggled with extra poundage, and yet, I've never, ever been able to indulge.  Eat whatever I want.
During high school, I remember the hoards ordering plates of fries and gravy day after day.

Instead, I ate rice cake peanut butter sandwiches.
Chicken broth and melba toast.
Vegetarian pizza pops.
Because, at least there were a few reconstituted veggies in there, right?!?!

Even then I knew that those pizza nuggets were deep fried, and not a good choice.

Before counting calories, or macros, or weight watchers points was a "thing", I bought books from the store and memorized calorie counts of common foods.
(I was constantly pointing out to my friends how many calories their food choices had - sorry guys!)

Many people I talk to about weight issues will say that when they got out of high school/turned 30,40,50.../got married/insert major life event, is when keeping weight off became difficult.

I can empathize, however I've been going to weight watchers since I was 7.
Grade two.

So when I chat with you, and at 35 you're finally having to watch what you eat, I kinda' wanna punch pinch you.
If you've gone most of your life not having to pay attention to what you eat?
I envy you more than you can know.
There are far worse burdens to carry, however carefully watching my intake has been mine for my entire life.

The whole thing.

I've been a bit too relaxed with my eating habits lately, and a few pounds have found their way onto my body.  I'm aware.  I'm uncomfortable.  And I know I need to tighten up my diet and put more colorful food into my mouth.

Of course, today has been a good, solid Monday, but I'm going to finish off the box of girl guide cookies we bought today.

Don't worry.  I shared.
That's a lie.
I ate all the vanilla ones by myself.
They were delicious.
Never miss a Monday though, right?

Me & Him

I tend to only post sporadically about my husband because I mean for my blog to be about my own personal journey, but today I want to share a little about him.

Marriage isn't always peachy.
Social media shows us all the beauty in peoples lives, but you won't find the pictures or posts about everyone's struggles.
That, we all keep to ourselves.
Sometimes, there is nothing more than a name change and some pictures of a past life seem to disappear and the slate is wiped clean.
That's the beauty of social media.
It is whatever we want it to be.

But I've found, that there is something endearing about the ugly bits of marriage.
The parts that we keep out of the limelight, and to ourselves.
We hash it out, and learn a little, and still decide that being together is the best choice.
And in some cases, it's not.

And no matter the outcome, we're stronger because of it.

My husband is, what I might call, an old-fashioned man.
A "man's man", if you will.

He's not too in touch with his feelings, but he knows when it's important to reach down deep and figure things out.
Sometimes, because I've said, "figure your sh*t out."
He is, very, very clever.
He is the rock, where I am allowed to be soft and emotional.
We fight, and sometimes say mean things to each other.
Reeeeeally mean things.
We are far, far from a perfect couple, but we choose to remain on the same team because, truthfully, it's generally a super cool team to be on.
And every day, I'm glad he's stuck with me.

I was having a bit of anxiety over my oldest kid starting grade two this past year.
I know it's not a big deal, really, and I'm not upset because she's growing up so fast, (she is, for the record), it's that in a short time she will be bringing homework home and I'm nervous for the day I won't be able to help her with math because it was never a strong subject for me.
I cannot begin to tell you how much I love the fact that my husband will take great pleasure in re-figuring out how to do the math with her, as well as the other two, when the time comes.
I just said pleasure, as in, he is probably already excited for this.
My partner is going to fill in the gaps.
We will figure things out, together.

Even on the days I tell him I want to break up, because I'm hormonal and he forgot to stop at Costco, so now I have to go tomorrow, with three kids because he has a business lunch at a fancy restaurant with some big wigs, and it's just not fair.
Even then, I choose him.

There are days when he is not my favourite person.
Many days.
We have three little kids, and we have to coordinate schedules and try to make sure everyone is doing enough of the things they want to do, so there's minimal complaining when we have to do the things they're not so fond of doing.
With five lives being lead, under one roof, and of the five lives, only two of which are by grownups, that leaves a lot of chores to do, and a lot of parenting.
We're tired.
All the time.  Like, we don't even talk about how tired we are, because it's just simply assumed that neither one of us got three or four straight hours of sleep, in the past six years, and we're OK with it now.
We created this life together, and that's simply one of the unfortunate consequences.
The rest of the consequences are so, so awesome.

We make sure to take time for each other, and try to reconnect on a regular basis so that we're simply not tag-teaming the kids while we go do our own things.
We ask for help so we can go on dates.
We went on three dates over one weekend, simply because we had sitters and we need to take advantage sometimes!
Those three dates were "banked" for the weeks that will go by with no dates!

My guy is incredible, and loves his family fiercely and all those years ago, when I met him, I could never have dreamed that he'd be the man he is today, and that we would be leading this wild and crazy life together.
I could never have imagined that after a decade, I still sometimes stop him mid-sentence to lay some sugar on him.
When I met him, I distinctly remember thinking, "Yea, this one could be fun for a little while!"
I wasn't interested in marriage or kids.  And neither was he.
And yet, here we are, ten years later, and we are pretty darn great together.

How a Mom is Born

This is a bit of a different post, for me.
I usually chat about my day to day life, but this is something that's near and dear to my heart.
If I ever win the lottery, I will immediately apply to Midwife school and then I will offer it for free.
I wish that everyone who wanted a midwife, could have one.

I've had three babies.
Three different birth experiences.

Bringing a baby into the world really doesn't take very long.
It is rather a daunting task while you are pregnant with the child you will eventually birth, but in reality, it's a small, small portion of time.

And yet, any group of women who have had babies, will almost always get around to sharing their birth stories.
It's our rite of passage.
Our common denominator.

If you have children, then you (or someone), gave birth to them.

How is it, though, that those hours, or, sometimes minutes, and (bless you) in some cases, days, can shape a woman so distinctly?

I mourn the birth I never got to have with my first.
I think that's OK.
I wish it had been different, and I had've been  stronger, or more resilient.
I wish I hadn't eaten so many peanut butter cups for breakfast, and had pre-eclampsia.
I learned from the experience, but the truth is that in some ways, I feel like I failed her before I ever laid eyes on her.

The birth of my second and third babies were entirely different experiences from my first.
I'm a midwifery advocate and I wish it was more available, but I would like to think that I don't push midwifery care on anyone who isn't interested.

If I told you that my second two births were much more calm, even serene, and connected me to my husband in a way I can't put into words, would I be strung up for ostracizing hospital births?
How about if I had a hospital birth myself and could actually compare births from a personal point of view?

Epidurals?
Fantastic!
Once I got mine in the hospital, I was sailin'!

Natural birth with no drugs whatsoever?
Life changing.
I have run marathons and lifted gigantic amounts of weights (at least, for me), and I've never felt more powerful than when I had those babies.

Everyone has a different birth story to tell, and no one is better, or worse, than any other.
They are personal, and so sometimes won't be shared.
We are allowed to have negative feelings about our experiences, but the fact is, that the end result is the children who now live in our homes, and more importantly, hearts.

If you're a woman and are interested in the strength of your body,  then I strongly encourage you to seek out a midwife early on in your pregnancy.
If you're a woman and you're not too fond of pain and would just like to get the drugs,  have a baby and get home, I would also encourage you to seek out a midwife.
If you could give a flying hoot who takes care of you during your pregnancy, and you'll take any and all drugs, then good on you too!  All we have to do, is help these babes evacuate the premises, in a safe way for Momma and baby.

There is hoards of research to try and help you make an informed choice, but it's important that expecting or soon to be expecting Moms know that you are free to choose a caregiver for your pregnancy, and mostly, I encourage you to do that.
Select a caregiver.

Fries, no gravy. And diet coke, please.

I've just set the kids down with their dinner.
A double package of MrNoodles split into three bowls, and one snack plate with cucumber, cheese and veggie straws.
Y'know, for the vitamins.
I use to give them each a snack plate, but I got tired of throwing away two entire plates of food, and one that was nibbled on.
Now I just throw away one plate of food, and put three, empty noodle bowls into the dishwasher.

My own eating is pretty darn healthy.  Lots of veggies and lean meats, fruits, cheese, smoothies.
I'd like to say that my good habits will eventually fall onto my kids, but the fact that I scraped a plate with tiny pepper pieces that had previously been in meatballs, from the other adult individual, who I will not name, who also lives at this house, says that I'm not entirely confident in this.

I have a long way to go in my wellness endeavors.
I've come a long way, but just yesterday I had an overwhelming desire to eat some raw cookie dough.  Not even a choice binge for me, but the desire was there, nonetheless.

I "built" a cookie into the following day, which was really satisfying not only to look forward to, but to devour, post workout.

I also still, preeeeetty much all the time have the desire to abandon all notions of health and wellness and eat pizza, and wings and beer...

And I still may.  Probably will, one night, truth be told, which is OK, just not so frequently as it's not a damn good treat.

I've been inspired to write a bit about the beginnings of my struggles with weight.  The actual beginning was when I was around five.

A relatively traumatic event happened to me, at the hands of a stranger, and I started gaining weight, unintentionally, for lack of a better word.
(Later in my life, during counselling sessions, I learned that this is a common response for young children.  We think that if we're "bigger", then the bad thing won't happen to us again.)

I wouldn't say that my struggle with my weight began until I was around 15 or 16, though, as I never remember being concerned too much.

During high school, I played almost every sport.  I also swam competitively until I was 15, outside of school, so fitness has truly been a part of life forever.
I didn't focus a lot on what I ate, but I do remember restricting and counting calories, but also binging.
I started drinking diet coke in high school, and I rarely, rarely had fries at the school cafeteria.
And never, with gravy.

I don't remember my friends every having anything to say about my size, but I do remember a particularly jaded boy I had broken up with, telling me I was fat.
At the time, I was probably a size 10, and fit.
But I still had a little belly.  I've never, ever had a flat belly.

That teeny, tiny moment in time had a profound effect on me, and is still a strong memory.

I also had a boy I was seeing in my early twenties, tell me that he didn't see my obesity as a problem.
I never spoke to him again after that, though I recall my cell phone "blowing up", and this was before that was a commonly used term.

My true struggles, difficult and grand, as they were, began after my grandpa died.
I piled on weight.  Fast.  Forty pounds in 6 months, and it only got worse, but I stopped getting on the scale.
My size 16 clothes, that fit like sausage casings, told me the truth.

Getting under 200lbs is still one of the greatest things to happen to me.  It felt like exploding a glass ceiling.  Like I could have easily stayed where I was, and probably had a different, but still content life, or I could start dreaming and reaching giant goals. 
I decided to try to reach my full potential.

It took a long time, and I still gain weight easily.
Creating healthy habits starts from childhood, but it's not "ingrained", I don't think.
Many people, are able to recognize that they grew up eating less than nutritional things, and correcting it.
I buy ichiban in bulk at Costco.  I also buy cucumbers, peppers, carrots, cheese, yogurt...
I'm trying not to feel badly about the junk they eat, because, after all, they're still kids, and should get to eat junk a little more often.

My advice to my teenaged self?
Eat the pizza pop.  Your metabolism is at it's prime, now, girl!
Also, you look just fine.

For My Mom.

Being a Mom can be very, very lonely.

Spend all day, not being alone, yet feel lonely.
This statement pretty much sums up parenting for me right now.
I'm so friggin' sick of hearing my name being called (x3), that sometimes I yell.
Just out of sheer frustration, and the fact that I'm lonely, and sad sometimes, and this Mom gig isn't anywhere near as glamorous as any of us thought it would be.
I'm not looking for pity, or someone to offer help.
We don't become Moms for the praise or accolades, (beleeeeeeeee me, there ain't none!)  And we can't expect help once we have our children either.
These babes were our doing.

I'm just tired.

Someone is always sick.
We haven't had a full nights sleep in over 6 years, and although we have a fair amount of help, both family and the dayhome, it seems we're always busy, and fizzling out at a rapid pace some days.

We do our best not to schedule activities for anyone during school days.  Friday evening and Saturday morning are busy, but in comparison to loads of other families, we're not a super "scheduled" family.

I am an introvert,  and I don't like to have a week full of appointments and engagements and play dates and kids activities.  I like to stay home.  I like to hang out with my own crew.

Sometimes I just need to vent, and unfortunately, little ears aren't very sympathetic to my plight, nor should they be subjected to my stresses, as they have their own tiny anxieties to deal with.

Having two children is difficult, but I've found the transition from two to three the most difficult.
Even when both my husband and I are home, with three, we are outnumbered.

When they're getting along, which is rare, it's kinda wonderful, in a magical, blockbuster movie kinda way.

This long, meandering blog was intended to be a note of gratitude to my Mom.
And it is.
If you read between the lines, of the stresses and perils of my Motherhood journey, you will see that I am the Mom I am, because of the one I had.
I think I am a good Mom.  I do the best I can, with the tools I have, in the moment.

We are who we are, because they were who they were.
Resonates.
Speaks to me in a way it never could before I had a family.

My Mom was young.  She was 10 years younger than I was when she had her first baby.
I don't remember thinking she was drowning.  I can't recall a time when she cried in front of us.  Not one of my memories is of her showing any sign of stress of anguish over parenting.

The thing is, though, that she was feeling all of the things I am writing about.

Parenting is so, so hard.
There are no breaks, it doesn't get easier, and there are no rules or guidelines for your children.
Almost everyday has a little bit of ugly, and lots of beauty.
I want to thank my Mom for doing it for us.
Thanks, Mom.
For going through the motions, when you left your 'A' game behind that day, and we didn't have a clue.
For having sh*t happen in your life and tucking it away for the day, because being a Mom can't wait.
For spending the time learning how to parent, when you didn't know how.
For sometimes going without, so we never knew anything was missing.
For making countless breakfasts, lunches, snacks on snacks on snacks...
For years of bathtime and dressings and hair brushings.
For dentist and doctor appointments, hair appointments, specialist appointments, and late night emergency visits.
For sometimes smiling and still being patient and kind, when you were so tired and worn out and wanted to cry.
For being the gentle, but assertive reassurance after a day of being bullied.

Thanks, Mom.
I get it now.

A Love Letter to Our House

How many places have you lived?
Now, how many of those places would you truly have considered home?

I've lived in a lot of different houses, apartments, duplexes.
I've only considered two different houses, my home.

This year, I have said goodbye to both homes.
The Fort McMurray fire ate up the house I considered home for more than 20 years. 
I am not deeply attached to my belongings, and I would venture to say the my Mom and Dad and my brother and his family were not so much bothered by the loss of their things as they were the loss of their home.  Their sanctuary.  Their collective soft place to land at the end of each day, together.

The home I live in now has been the place where I have become so many things.
A fiancé, a wife, a Mother.
Literally, my then boyfriend proposed to me on our deck.  Literally, we got married in front of our fireplace.
I felt my first contractions of my youngest children in this house.
They all took their first steps here.

We have endured so much in this house and I am grateful beyond measure for the memories we have made here.
I am a homebody and I am deeply, deeply attached to this house.

The bathtub has held bags and bags of ice to easy my aching body after a 30km run.  It has silenced false labor several times.  It has bathed my filthy children countless times.
Our bedroom has been the gathering place.  Where my family will pile into bed and watch movies together. 
We have marked up walls with ride-on toys, we have nicked up the floor just in the living we have done here. 

I have cried many, many tears in this house and will absolutely be shedding some tomorrow.

This house has seen us become a family of five.
This house has seen us become a family.

At the risk of seeming trivial, I write this post.
This year has had so much loss and heartbreak, and to be so hung up on the "loss" of this house seems melodramatic. 

I empathize so very much for all the homes lost to The Beast.
My heart aches still for the sudden and breathtaking destruction that was May 3.

I'm sure our new home will be more than enough to contain a lifetime's worth of memories, but in this moment and I am so sad to leave this place that has been a big part of my "growing up".

Temptation

I had plans for today.
Sleep all night, after my evening shift.
Get up, put biggle on the bus.
Pack middle and little into car and head to the gym for a workout.

I feel like life was just wringing her hands and shaking her head slowly while these plans marinated in my brain.

Instead, it went like this,

Return to hospital at 1140 for call back.
Think, OK, hopefully there's no more of that...

Get called back two more times during the night.

Sleep until 815.
Get up frantically to throw gym gear on and try to get there in time.

Realize the entire family is not in the house.

Call husband to find out that bus was broke down.
He had to drive biggle to school.
Husband meets at Tim Hortons for child swapping.

Head to the gym.

Receive call at 840 that biggle is throwing up in the school office.
Turn around.
Pick up biggle and head home to put everyone's jammies on and watch movies all friggin' day.

Life, some days, you're a huge bit*h.

My thought, as I was driving home from picking up my child,
who at this point has a lovely, barfy aroma about her, was,

Eff.  This.  Day.

As someone who eats for comfort, that roughly translates to, I'ma eat whatever the hell I want to today.

I've had many, many of these days over the past six months, and not surprisingly, found about 14 extra pounds through the process.

Recently, though, I've found some help, and I've been back to my normal, healthy, good-feeling self.
But today, I'd given myself permission to just, not even.

Except that I knew that if I went home and just made a big protein heavy breakfast, that I'd likely follow up with another, and another healthy choice.

I may eat a donut later today, but I'm already compensating for that.
And at the end of the day, I may not feel like it, which is how I know I'm back.
Donuts are life.  That will never change.

You see, temptation is like a wild animal.  She's untamed.  Always waiting for her chance to break free and, well, eff your day up.  If given the opportunity, she can wreak havoc for days, weeks, even months.  She's quite easy to appease, because her favorite thing is when you make a lousy food choice, and because of this, it can be difficult to cage her back up.

The bars and security detail on her cage?  They're made of satisfaction.

If you eat things you like, and you never have cravings, then those bars are iron clad.  That guard is a big, beefy meathead.
If you never think to yourself, "I can't have that", but, rather, "I'm choosing not to eat that", then the strength of the bars grows, as willpower.

Deprivation, however, weakens the armor that's holding that broad in place. 
That sneaky traitor will be pulling those bars apart faster than you can stuff those mini chocolate bars into your face, two at a time.

When you're "off the wagon", it can seem like you're never going to get there ever again.
You can even be at peace with that, like, "I can make this McDonalds's work for me.  Timbits every day is juuuuuuust fine."
I can justify almost any lousy choice.
I think most of us can.  I told you, temptation is a clever gal!

The truth is not in the pudding.
The truth will be found in your clothes.
Because they won't fit.