It’s 7:55 a.m. I’ve made breakfast, changed the toddler’s diaper and clothes, consumed one cup of coffee, made and packed lunches, and am waiting for the outcome of one of two classic getting-to-school-scenarios: 1) everything moves according to plan; 2) nothing moves according to plan.

I stand by the front door, open it, glance at my watch. “It’s time to leave!” I announce hopefully, trying not to betray the mounting tension, doubt and anxiety the last five minutes at home often produces on school days.

The third grader arrives. She has spent the last fifteen minutes wrapping her forearm in toilet paper, held together like a cast with scotch tape, because she “hurt it falling out of bed.” The voice inside my head, disbelieving, scornfully asks, “What IS it with you?” I would never have gotten away with this kind of plea for attention.

And then the first-grader: she appears, this time, with hair and teeth unbrushed, socks and shoes not even found, her breakfast half-eaten, some still on her face. “Mommy, I brought this especially for you,” she says in a tender, meaningful voice, as if to say, I Love You With All My Heart and there is NOTHING else that matters, especially school.

“How S-w-e-e-t,” I manage to get out while I glance at my watch and evil-eye the plastic sparkle ring that she’s offering me perched atop a bed pillow. Time ticks, toddler begins to run amok. The internal voice again, louder, “I asked you to brush your hair and get your shoes four times already and you never listen and now it’s time to leave and we’ll probably be LATE.” Thanks, I say. It’s time for school. Time to GET IN THE CAR, I say. Do you UNDERSTAND?

Then the toddler comes in the house and throws a handful of dirt from the potted plant on the Persian runner, like an offering of the worst kind, straight at my feet. I begin to assume the look of a crazed and rabid dog.

Recently, I put an old, paint-peeling Adirondack chair on our front porch. It is my official time-out spot. I go there almost every morning to remember how to breathe.

Breathe, write, breathe, write….

by Lauren Cargill

Labels: Adirondack chair, breathe, Coffee, diapers, front porch, Lauren Cargill, Persian Rug, Scotch Tape, toilet paper, unbrushed teeth, write

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I was sitting in a café with another woman having coffee when she told me she had something she wanted to share.

“I used to weigh twenty-five pounds more than I do now.  And I’ve kept it off ever since,” she said with a self-satisfied nod.

“R-e-a-l-l-y?” I said. “That’s, that’s great!”

Another time, in this same café, a younger woman who I was having coffee with said, “I lost twenty-five pounds on Weight Watchers. I’ve kept it off ever since.”

“R-e-a-l-l-y?” I replied. “That’s, that’s great!”

If one more woman shares her weight-loss success story with me ever again I’m going to tell her to, well, I’m afraid what I’m going to tell her.

I get the sharing. I appreciate the encouragement. But it’s not like I don’t know that I’m fat. I used the F word. Let me say it few more times; fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat.

FFFFFFFFF-----------AAAAAAAAAAAAA------------TTTTTTTTT!

I’m a big mama.

When my daughter lays on me she says there is more to love. She has also said hurtful things about my weight, which have led to long talks about accepting people for who they are, not what they look like.

My son has never said anything negative about my weight and has told me that it doesn’t matter. He has been heavy himself and is now thin. He claims that he doesn’t feel better or worse about himself. He feels the same.

I came by my weight gain honestly. First by having a baby when I was older. Then I lost the weight. Gained some back. Lost some more. I exercised like crazy. I took long, intense walks.

Then I was diagnosed with cancer, insanely volunteered for a clinical medical trial that nearly drove me insane. During the course of it I gained 40 pounds. One might think one of the doctors -- I’m being kind here, they were not doctors, they were researchers and I was not a patient, I was a research subject -- might have said something? No, they just gave me more medication to apply to my now larger body.

My blood pressure steadily increased over the 18-month long study. Twice, nurses jumped back at the high numbers. I said it was just nervous. Who wouldn’t be afraid when the outside of the building says, Advanced Cancer Care. Just that word.

The researchers never said anything about my high blood pressure, either. Gotta get results!

The study finally ended. Today I take a variety of medications. Some can cause weight gain. Last year I finally had long-put off foot surgery. I stupidly thought I would be up and about in a month. I slowly learned that it takes about a year to fully heal. But the original problem has led to other troubles. I sometimes fall. I fell two weeks ago outside the mall. Last week my ankle caved and l landed on my desk, papers flying, pain going wah-wah.

My husband pines for my former, thin self. He gently suggests that maybe, perhaps, um, if I just lost a little weight, my foot problems would disappear. My surgeon and physical therapists disagree. It would help, they say, but it’s not the cause.

The other day my nephew, Alex, in Chicago, asked how I was doing. Then he abruptly said, “Have you lost weight?” I was crushed. My sister asked when I was coming to visit. “Not for a while,” I said. I used the cold as an excuse.

That’s my last pretext. It IS time to lose weight. Today I began eating healthy. It’s not a diet. I won’t ever diet again. I tried Jenny Craig and actually gained weight on it. Can you imagine? And I didn’t even cheat! Basically I paid hundreds of dollars to get fatter (that word again!).

I’ve been a vegetarian, though an irresponsible one, for more than twenty-five years. I know how to eat well. I realize that Cheetos and Dreyer’s Slow Churned Rich & Creamy Cookie Dough ice cream do not count as vegetables. But, oh, are they ever delicious!

My exercise simply can no longer be at the same intensity as it once was. I can’t walk up or down hills. I’ll have to find flat areas. I will have to start at the gym with an exercise bicycle and see what else I can use. I tire easily. I know I will watch longingly as I see others exercising hard, while I do my “soft” routines.

My hope is that by eating healthy, not going near the scale, and exercising and walking as I can, I will be able to drop a few sizes.

Minorities and certain religions experience the greatest prejudice. I might also argue that it is the overweight that suffer, as well. They are ignored, made fun of, and pre-judged. As a formerly thin person, I can attest to this – because I am guilty of those things, too.

A few months from now, just as my son said about himself, I will still be the same person. Only I will be smaller. When people see me they won’t do so with fear. Afraid that if I gained weight, so might they. For some, nothing is more frightening. I’ve already experienced greater horrors.

For me, losing weight will mean meeting a simple goal: I want to be able to tuck.

By Dawn Yun

Labels: big mama, By Dawn Yun, Coffee, diet, exercise, heavy, Jenny Craig, overweight, Weight Watchers

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As a sensitive person, I didn’t do caffeine. 

The few times I drank coffee my rate of speech doubled, and I couldn’t sleep until a few days later.  

(Maybe a slight exaggeration, but you get the point here.)

But now that Starbucks is in my local Safeway, I find myself indulging in a tall, one-pump chai latte. 

They normally have three pumps.

The other day, sitting at the computer after drinking one, I shared in astonishment with my husband, “I really get inspired when I drink caffeine!” 

He gave me his best “no, duh” look.

My husband often suffers the brunt of my health-conscious rants.  No high fructose corn syrup, no food coloring, no soybean oil, and the list goes on.  I’ve been on the anti-caffeine bandwagon since I met him.  As a Swede, he began drinking coffee shortly after being weaned from his pacifier.  Upon my ever-so-subtle suggestions, he eventually went off caffeine, surviving the withdrawal headaches for a weekend before they cleared. 

But children-induced sleep deprivation changed that. 

He’s back on.

And, apparently, so am I.

I’m finding it best not to be too “anti” anything these days.  Any judgment or rigidity on my part seems to find me eventually eating my words. 

Or in this case, drinking a latte.

By Kristy Lund

Labels: Coffee, Kristy Lund, Latte, Starbucks

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