A pound is a pound...

An old high school classmate (a guy that I used to like until today) posted on his facebook wall that he lost 6 lbs...SIX WHOLE POUNDS! I was overcome with envy. I have been going to the gym four days a week for the past two and half months. My reward? I gained 3 lbs…THREE WHOLE POUNDS!!!! This has not pushed me “over the edge” on the scale, but it leaves me teetering on the brink. My trainer told me that it’s because muscle weighs more than fat. No Mr. Dumbass, a pound of muscle and a pound of fat weigh EXACTLY a pound, and now I have three extra ones. I hate that SOB too. I especially hate him on Saturday mornings when he is killing me with ab exercises. My conclusion on the whole “ab exercise thing”? I need a tummy tuck, topped off with a little lipo. That should do the trick.

Why is it that we, as women, are so wrapped up on that magic number on the scale? Every woman’s magic number is different, but when any particular woman reaches “her” magic number, suddenly every other woman’s “magic” number is adjusted. We look at each other, size each other up – “Is my ass bigger than hers?” “My magic number is bigger than her magic number…does that mean I’m fat???” I don’t know about you, but I can drive myself batshit crazy pondering “the magic number”. And when I go OVER my magic number? It’s not pretty, let’s just leave it at that.

I look at my friends and I wish I could be as accepting of myself. To me, they are all beautiful, with their own styles, their own individualities. I appreciate them for exactly who they are, and can find beauty that is unique to each of them, no matter what their shape or size. I am not so kind when it comes to critiquing myself. I've tried to overcome this personality flaw, but it is my mountain to climb. I wish the mountain wasn't so high. Most of the time, it just leaves me exhausted.

For me, my magic number is my happy place--I can still eat, my clothes fit perfectly and I do not look like I’m pregnant at that weight. I've weighed more, much much more, and was miserable. I’ve weighed less, and was thrilled with my accomplishment, but as a magic number, it simply wasn’t realistic. A girl can only eat so much lettuce and drink so much seltzer water before she wants to gnaw her own arm off to fight off starvation.

For some reason, the male population only adds to the magic number angst. They, no matter what their age, simply cut out soda and drop ten pounds. It’s not fair, if for no other reason than the fact that they’re not all that wrapped up in their magic number to begin with, at least for the most part. They are not tormented by their need to be a certain weight. They are not plagued with “do I eat that piece of chocolate and exercise for an hour to burn it off?” syndrome. They simply eat the chocolate and that’s that. I eat the chocolate then punish myself for being weak. Sometimes I swear that I can see the piece of chocolate residing right there on my hip, clear as day, mocking me.

I will continue going to the gym, despite my three pound gain, because it is GOOD for me. I can see that I have made progress, I feel stronger, and I could be imagining it, but I seem to look better in my clothes. I will continue to watch what I eat during the week, give myself a bit more freedom on the weekends, and I will try to reinforce in my head that I’m “slightly beyond 29, so it’s all good.” Above all, I will remember that life is short. If I’m gone tomorrow, no one will ever notice those three pounds. Hopefully they will simply see someone who loved with all her heart and did her best. That’s really all any of us can ever hope for, on any given day.

To my old friend Thom, whom I still adore…congratulations on your six pound loss, now shut the hell up.

They should be babies for five years and teenagers for a year…

Instead of the other way around.

I can remember every moment of the day my daughter was born. That day is deliciously etched into my memory. Then...I blinked. I flinched. My ADD kicked in and I was momentarily distracted. When I turned around, she was on the verge of being a teenager, and the world’s most naturally talented drama queen. I want those first years back, but they’re gone except in my mind's eye and in the million photos of her childhood, stored on a hard drive. Thank God for digital photography. Tricia’s life is well documented. National Geographic could not have done a finer job.

I’ve never been a doting mom, a fact my daughter will attest to without any hesitation. I was the mom who would brush off her little girl’s knee and wipe away tears after a spill at the playground, saying “There’s no blood, I think you’ll live.” It wasn’t always what my daughter wanted to hear, but today she is pretty tough kiddo who has learned that in life, just like on the jungle gym, falling down and getting hurt is part of the experience. It’s ok to feel bad, but it’s more important to pick yourself up and continue on your merry way.

The one thing most people will tell you about my parenting skills is that I am a tough mom. I don’t see it, but I’ve been told that enough times to think that it is at least a possibility, not that I care. Am I strict? You betcha (in my best Minnesota accent.) But what else can you do as a parent? There is so much "stuff" out there-really scary stuff-that can not just hurt your child, but take his or her life, and in an absolute instant. I am constantly trying to educate Tricia about such things, and help her to understand that while someday she will be an adult, and she will make her own choices, those choices will have consequences. There will be responsibility, and even more importantly, accountability. You can’t screw up and blame it on the rest of the world because, ultimately, you have to own the decisions that you make for yourself. And while it’s true that life can offer second and even third chances, other choices we make affect us forever. You don’t always get a do-over. She knows that while she will certainly make mistakes, the important thing is that she learns from those mistakes and moves in a positive direction. Our experiences make us who we are, even the bad ones. What you take away from those experiences will hopefully make you stronger, and that is the true lesson in all of it.

Watching another human being suffer is a very difficult thing, at least for those of us who are compassionate and caring individuals. Watching your child suffer is gutwrenching, often in ways that cannot even be put into words. I am fortunate in that my daughter is young and her experiences and mistakes are still pretty mild on the crap scale of life. I am also aware that, more than likely, this will not always be the case. I am constantly trying to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. We do not know what cards will be dealt to us as a parent, until they are on the table.

Being a parent is, by far, the hardest and most rewarding job I have ever had. Yes, some days it is frustrating, and some days it is heartbreaking, but every day it is so very rewarding. I see a lot of myself in Tricia – that can be a good and a bad thing. But what really counts is that I give her all the ammunition she needs to make solid responsible decisions for herself. It would be lovely if we could keep our kids under our wing forever, but it’s just not realistic. Better to make sure they are sufficiently armed to protect themselves, since we never really know how long we will be around to do the protecting.

Sorry for the seriousness today, it’s been a tough week, but one that has reminded me of how lucky I am to be Patricia’s mom.

Now go hug your kids.