It's Better To Have Been Skinny And Then Fat Than Never To Have Been Skinny At All

Seriously.

I've thought about this a great deal as of late, this being "fat" thing. And let me just preface this by saying that no, I don't think I'm less valuable as a person because I'm overweight (or "obese" by half of one BMI point, as my Wii Balance Board tells me not-so-apologetically each morning); I don't hate me because I'm overweight, none of that. This is just about being the actual state of "fat". Bear with me.

As it says in my profile, I used to be skinny. Not that I ever was smart enough to have enjoyed being skinny; I constantly plagued myself with the idea that I was "fat", with my 28-inch waist and my 127 pounds on the scale. Meanwhile I was a SMOKING size 6-8, with a rack that could stop traffic, and a tight little butt that was attached to legs of which I should have been pretty darn proud. If Current Me could go back in time and share some facts with New Hotness Me, oh the things I would share with her. (First and foremost I would tell her and my friend Back-Then E to stop the joking about how "if I ever weigh 185 pounds I hope someone harpoons my huge whale ass". SO funny back then, as E can attest to...not so funny when it actually happened and there was no harpoon in sight.)

I am not skinny, frankly, anymore. Again, don't hate myself, don't loathe who I am, just don't enjoy being this overweight. Can I still fit on bus seats? Sure. Can I sit in a theatre seat without the armrests digging into my hips? No sweat. But that doesn't mean I'm at a healthy weight or that I feel comfortable with the body I currently have to show to the world.

And here's why. (This will sound like vanity, and frankly I don't really give a rat's ass.)

People who knew me back then know that I was thin and (mostly) pretty fit. People I meet now just see a pudgy girl.

I think I would rather face people who've known me since "the good old days", who may very well behind my back say "Damn, Cathy porked up, didn't she?", but who at least recognize that I wasn't always this way.

I want to wear a sign on my forehead...maybe even wear a sandwich board...whatever, something that does well to make sure that everyone knows I wasn't always the portly middle-aged mom they see before them.

I used to be 100% stretch mark-free. I used to wear string bikinis - and stop traffic at the lake. I used to have cleavage that was no joke, a body that loved fitted clothes and gave a nice silouhette in moonlight. There are folks out there who know that (some better than others - thank god my husband is one of them!) and who, when they think of me, possibly see the not-so-chubbo version of me.

I'm not even sure why I worry about the new folks in my life (who've never known me when my jean size only had one number in it), because nearly all of the friends I've gained since my "expansion" are some of the truest, most genuine, non-judgemental people on the planet. I do not have any delusions that any of them think less of me than they would if I was a size 8. So I know it's all in my head. It's intirely about me, and not at all about anyone else. My issue, my care, my concern. Check-aroonie-in-a-bananica.

But that doesn't make me like feeling like "The Fat Girl" any better.

I know I'll find a way to get there again. I haven't figured out a way, as of yet, to consistently do what I need to do, to combat my age, my damaged metabolism, and my love of all foods nasty. But I will. Don't you worry about that.

They're Growing Up...

...and I hate it.

And I love it.

Each new step, each new skill, accomplishment and milestone causes a joy to well up in me that catches me off guard each time. My heart is so full and my spirit is kept alive and renewed by who they are, by who they are becoming, and by the love we share in this family.

When I check on them at night, they are so peaceful in their slumber. Jackson's breath is often so soft that I touch my cheek to his to feel that breath brush my nose as he exhales, and he smiles in his sleep when I turn and kiss him on that same cheek. Samantha lays heavy in her pillow, growing so long and lean even as she lies there, my big girl...but even in her sleep, she still reaches out to take my hand or feel my face in those quiet moments in the early morning.

In those moments, I ache to pick them up, snuggle them tight and feel their breath on me as I go to sleep. Someday, sooner than I think, they'll be "too big" to snuggle me, too big to come crawl in my bed, and I'll ache for these times to return.

But they won't. Time marches on, doesn't it? Whether we want it to or not. They grow, and they go, and I know I'll still be able to feel his soft breath on my face and her hand reaching for mine, long after they are older than I am now, long after they put their own babies to bed, and long after they lay me to rest.

And it's as it should be. It's not as though I wish them a life of perpetual toddler-hood. There is a wonderful, bright world out there for them to conquer, to drink in and experience, and I want that for them, truly. But for that to happen, my babies, my sweet, sweet babies, have to grow up.

And they ARE growing up.

And I love it.

And I hate it.

Pardon My French...

...but WHAT in the merry-hairy flying FUCK is THIS?!?!?




Here it is three days ago (and it looked the same two days ago):



And now....




I am...I can't...what in the...

Seriously. I read that squash can get blossom end rot like tomatoes do, but that's usually darker and harder. This just looks like someone injected, like, oh, I don't know...liquid DEATH into the end of my lunch-to-come and is rotting it from the end.

I have an email in to Backyard Farmer. I hope they can help. I plucked that sucker out of there, hoping if it's a blight I can keep the whole plant from being worthless.

So that's the rotten news for the day around here.

Rotten. Get it? Yeah. I'm fucking hilarious, I know.