Since I wasn't able to weigh myself on Friday, I hopped on the scale this morning after Hubs and Kid left for the day. Not bad, not bad.
I drank a looooot of water in the hospital (I learned after my C-section that the more you pee, the more likely they are to send you home) and so far I've managed to keep it up at home. I'm averaging about two liters a day. Plus, thanks to my SUPER-FANTASTIC-AMAZING-THERE-ARE-NOT-ENOUGH-POSITIVE-ADJECTIVES-TO-DESCRIBE-HER mom, my fridge is full of salad, chicken, low-fat yogurt, fruit, and Lean Cuisines. As if that weren't enough, Hubs fulfilled my request for a big pile of pineapple and raspberries, so I've had that for breakfast. Mmmmm.
I'm having a little trouble with this whole inactivity thing, though. I mean, I'm not ready to go run the Boston Marathon, but sitting around all day with a book and/or my laptop, nodding off for a nap every few hours? Not as fun as it might sound. It might be easier if I were in pain, but (finally!) I'm not -- even without the painkillers. My incision is a little sore, mostly because it's healing around the staples, but I was in more pain on a daily basis before the operation than I am now. So my brain says, "Well, shit, you went to work and school and took care of the house and did all your usual things when we were in pain...now we have no pain and you're doing diddly squat! Get off your butt and clean something!"
It doesn't help that Smith is in full-on crazy fitness mode. He decided that he wanted to get back into "good shape" and thus has been working out like a madman, sneaking over here in the early morning to use our gym, using the gym at work, etc. Oh and apparently he's swimming, too? (There you go, ladies. Thought for the day: Smith in a Speedo.) I'm jealous! I want to swim! I want to run! I want to have biceps that don't fit through my shirtsleeves! Wait...what?
I'm trying to be patient. I keep telling myself to let my body heal, that my motivation will still be there when my body is finally ready. It's just a matter of time.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Poop: It IS That Simple!
If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you already know it's been quite an interesting few days for me. As I wrote in my last post, on Wednesday I saw my surgeon and had a bunch of fluid drained from my Lump of Doom, and ended up in a lot of pain, more pain than I'd had before he drained the silly thing. Well, I woke up Thursday morning feeling okay, despite the fact that the Vicodin prescribed by Doc Basil's office hadn't done squat for the pain. But I figured, get up, shower, go to work (where I always have fun) and you'll feel better. If the pain didn't go away, I was going to call and see if I could get a different prescription (nothing like a little drug-seeking behavior, eh?).
Anyhoo, I got to work and pretty much knew after an hour or so that something wasn't right. The pain was still there, I felt barfy and sweaty and just...wrong. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to get help from my doctor's office, to no avail. I got transferred between two offices and about four different people before one of the nurses/assistants told me, "If you're in that much pain you should just go to the ER," and HUNG UP ON ME. I called Hubs in tears and asked him to come get me; the pain was so bad I knew I couldn't drive. My awesome-sauce boss, who is like a combination super-mom and big sister and more all rolled into one, told me to get the hell out of there and take care of myself.
Hubs loaded me into the Jeep and I got back on the phone, finally reaching the office manager at Doc Basil's practice. Unlike pretty much everyone else I talked to, she actually sounded like she gave a crap. She conferred with another doctor and told me they thought I might be having an allergic reaction to the Vicodin, and that I could either come to the doctor's office the next day or go to the ER immediately. By the time she said that, we had already reached the hospital, so the decision was already made. I was in so much pain at that point, I really didn't care.
And oh, that pain. I like to think that I'm pretty tough, after a C-section and two abdominal surgeries, but this pain brought me to tears. It felt like someone was trying to push open the left side of my ribcage from the inside out, and someone else was stabbing me in the belly at the same time. I described it to Hubs as labor pains plus a gall bladder attack, just without the baby and the gall bladder.
We walked into the (nearly empty) ER and I explained to the receptionist what I thought was going on. The triage nurse checked me over and I was taken back almost immediately. Out of my work clothes and into the old familiar green hospital gown. Here we go again, I thought. Hubs was trying to keep my spirits up by making me laugh -- "Hey, hopefully they admit you so we don't have to pay the ER copay!" but by the time the ER doc came back to examine me, I was sobbing. I had started throwing up (and managed to pee all over myself in the process, lovely!) and I was just, for lack of a better or more descriptive term, DONE.
They started an IV (thank you, Paramedic Student, for being quick and managing to put the line in my hand without hurting me!) and gave me pain meds -- Dilaudid, otherwise known as HOLY SHIT THIS STUFF IS STRONG -- and had me sipping on a big bucket of ginger ale laced with CT contrast solution (not bad, it tasted like a Seven & Seven). My mom showed up so Hubs could go get Kid from school, and not long after he left they wheeled me off for a CT scan.
Within an hour I had my diagnosis: ANOTHER HERNIA, plus a bowel obstruction. Seems my intestines decided to bust through my abdominal wall yet again, and this time they wanted to play Twister. The bowel obstruction had caused a whole bunch of loveliness to back up into my stomach, making me nauseated and beyond uncomfortable.
(I have to pause here for a second to say that this speed of service is EXACTLY why people go to the ER instead of seeing a regular doctor. In a few hours, the ER had treated my pain, given me all the necessary tests, and identified the problem. So why does the same process take WEEKS when you see a regular doctor?! Our healthcare system is effed, people. EFFED. But that's another post for another day.)
Of course I still had my iPhone with me, so I texted Hubs and Smith to tell them the news. Smith, remembering our last conversation, was pretty triumphant:
Poopy system, indeed!
Hubs, on the other hand, was angry. Why was this happening again?! My mom was angry, too -- I was terrified for Doc Basil. I think if he had showed up at that point, my mom would have either punched him in the face or clawed his eyes out. Me? I just wanted it fixed. I didn't really care why it was happening, I just wanted it to stop.
Before Hubs could even make it back to the hospital, they were prepping me for surgery. At my mom's request, a different surgeon (we'll call him Doc Hamburger) was doing the procedure. He explained that, because my intestines had twisted, there was a chance that he might have to do a bowel resection -- meaning, if the intestinal tissue was damaged or dead, he'd have to cut it out. He wouldn't know until he got in there.
They started the now-familiar routine of pre-op procedures: blood draws, questions about religious preferences, discussion of anesthesia. The anesthesiologist told me that because I'd thrown up earlier, they'd have to put in an NG (naso-gastric) tube just in case. They planned to do it while I was knocked out, but it would have to stay in after the surgery. High out of my mind on Dilaudid, I really didn't think about it.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room (unlike my previous surgeries, I don't remember the recovery room AT ALL) with a tube in my nose. The NG tube. The horrible, uncomfortable, disgusting, NG tube. It was like a plastic loogie in the back of my throat, a loogie that gurgled and hissed and pumped the contents of my stomach out before my eyes. Every time the nurses asked me what I needed or wanted, I pointed at my nose and tried to look pitiful. Every time, they explained, as sweetly as possible, that it had to stay. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink. I could suck on ice chips, and that was it.
Friday morning, Doc Basil showed up to do rounds. Again, I pointed to my nose. He explained that it had to stay; they were trying to "rest my bowels" by preventing anything from my stomach from having to go through them. I was not happy about this. By this time I was starving, my throat hurt, and I was sick of seeing my own stomach contents pass through a tube in front of my face.
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Not a happy camper. Not at all. And why, yes, that IS my bile running through that tube! DELICIOUS!
Doc Basil explained that later in the day, they'd hook my NG tube to a "gravity bag" (basically a drain bag without a pump) and if less than a certain amount of stuff came out of my stomach within a four hour period, the tube could come out. I was ecstatic. He also told me that I could have Chloraseptic (for the raging sore throat I'd developed) and LifeSavers (I guess just to be nice). I was still really grumpy, hungry, and tired; it'd been nearly impossible to sleep the night before, between the NG tube, medication and IV changes, and constant checks of my vitals. I couldn't even get out of bed to pee. All I could do was lay there and try to rest. The morphine shots helped, but only knocked me out for about thirty minutes at a time. Oh, and do you want to hear something funny? Morphine makes me nod out like a junky. My head lolls over and I start drooling. I can only imagine what I looked like, drool pooling in the little well behind my clavicle.
So eventually they hooked up my gravity bag, and I was staring at the clock, waiting for that magical four-hour mark. My mom and Hubs took turns staying with me, comforting me, trying to calm me down (I had threatened to yank the tube out myself, I was so sick of it). Several of my friends offered to visit and I turned them down -- I didn't want anybody to see me like this!
As the magical hour of tube-removal approached, a nurse came back to my room and told me I had visitors. My mood had improved considerably by that point (yay drugs!) so I told the nurse to send them in. It was one of my best friends and her husband, and I was so happy to see them. They brought flowers, and a book, and Sudoku, and lip balm, and most importantly, smiles. Their visit got me through the last stretch, that never-ending hour before the NG tube was removed.
So the tube came out, and the relief I felt was beyond amazing. My throat was still hurting like crazy, but that awful, nagging loogie was gone! I could turn my head without pain! I would (hopefully) be able to sleep! And -- dare I say it -- I might be able to have BROTH in the morning! My spirits were lifted and I felt a million times better.
Saturday and Sunday passed like most of my other days in the hospital: rounds in the morning, reading through the day, hospital food, friends coming to visit, more reading, finally peeing alone (adios, catheter!), morphine injections, IV fluids, Heparin injections in my belly, ridiculous bedhead from plastic pillows...
.JPG)
They worked me up to solid foods by Saturday at dinner time. My mom and Hubs were there with me through all of it, bribing the nurses with coffee and hot chocolate from Starbucks, brownies from the Farmer's Market, sandwiches from Tropical Smoothie. More friends visited -- Smith's wife brought me tea on Saturday night, Smith came to hang out on Sunday -- more flowers came. I finished the first three books of Stephen King's Dark Tower series (how lucky was it that I had picked up a ton of books at Book Exchange on Wednesday?). I watched no TV. I did laps around the ward with my IV in tow. We agreed on Monday for my discharge date. The usual stuff.
Mom brought me home yesterday, after a quick pit-stop at Starbucks and a trip to the Target pharmacy. She made me lunch and stocked my fridge with groceries. She made sure I took a shower, and before she left told me that if I didn't stay upstairs, in bed, that I'd be in serious trouble. I took my pain meds and curled up for a nap. Being in my own bed was HEAVEN.
Last night was pretty normal. Hubs made tacos and I managed to get downstairs for dinner. Kid, who'd been with his grandma pretty much all weekend, was his usual sassy, chatty self. I missed him so much!
So that brings us to today...a fairly normal Tuesday, save for the fact that I'm in bed blogging instead of working. I'm on orders to rest and do as little as possible for the next two weeks. I'm thinking there will be a lot of writing, a lot of reading, and that's about it. Call, text, or come by -- I'm not going anywhere for a while.
Thanks to everyone who expressed their love, concern, and support. I received a ton of emails, Tweets, Facebook messages, and phonecalls over the weekend, and every single one of them helped me feel better. I love and appreciate all of you -- both my "IRL" friends and those I know only online. You guys are awesome!
Anyhoo, I got to work and pretty much knew after an hour or so that something wasn't right. The pain was still there, I felt barfy and sweaty and just...wrong. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to get help from my doctor's office, to no avail. I got transferred between two offices and about four different people before one of the nurses/assistants told me, "If you're in that much pain you should just go to the ER," and HUNG UP ON ME. I called Hubs in tears and asked him to come get me; the pain was so bad I knew I couldn't drive. My awesome-sauce boss, who is like a combination super-mom and big sister and more all rolled into one, told me to get the hell out of there and take care of myself.
Hubs loaded me into the Jeep and I got back on the phone, finally reaching the office manager at Doc Basil's practice. Unlike pretty much everyone else I talked to, she actually sounded like she gave a crap. She conferred with another doctor and told me they thought I might be having an allergic reaction to the Vicodin, and that I could either come to the doctor's office the next day or go to the ER immediately. By the time she said that, we had already reached the hospital, so the decision was already made. I was in so much pain at that point, I really didn't care.
And oh, that pain. I like to think that I'm pretty tough, after a C-section and two abdominal surgeries, but this pain brought me to tears. It felt like someone was trying to push open the left side of my ribcage from the inside out, and someone else was stabbing me in the belly at the same time. I described it to Hubs as labor pains plus a gall bladder attack, just without the baby and the gall bladder.
We walked into the (nearly empty) ER and I explained to the receptionist what I thought was going on. The triage nurse checked me over and I was taken back almost immediately. Out of my work clothes and into the old familiar green hospital gown. Here we go again, I thought. Hubs was trying to keep my spirits up by making me laugh -- "Hey, hopefully they admit you so we don't have to pay the ER copay!" but by the time the ER doc came back to examine me, I was sobbing. I had started throwing up (and managed to pee all over myself in the process, lovely!) and I was just, for lack of a better or more descriptive term, DONE.
They started an IV (thank you, Paramedic Student, for being quick and managing to put the line in my hand without hurting me!) and gave me pain meds -- Dilaudid, otherwise known as HOLY SHIT THIS STUFF IS STRONG -- and had me sipping on a big bucket of ginger ale laced with CT contrast solution (not bad, it tasted like a Seven & Seven). My mom showed up so Hubs could go get Kid from school, and not long after he left they wheeled me off for a CT scan.
Within an hour I had my diagnosis: ANOTHER HERNIA, plus a bowel obstruction. Seems my intestines decided to bust through my abdominal wall yet again, and this time they wanted to play Twister. The bowel obstruction had caused a whole bunch of loveliness to back up into my stomach, making me nauseated and beyond uncomfortable.
(I have to pause here for a second to say that this speed of service is EXACTLY why people go to the ER instead of seeing a regular doctor. In a few hours, the ER had treated my pain, given me all the necessary tests, and identified the problem. So why does the same process take WEEKS when you see a regular doctor?! Our healthcare system is effed, people. EFFED. But that's another post for another day.)
Of course I still had my iPhone with me, so I texted Hubs and Smith to tell them the news. Smith, remembering our last conversation, was pretty triumphant:
Poopy system, indeed!
Hubs, on the other hand, was angry. Why was this happening again?! My mom was angry, too -- I was terrified for Doc Basil. I think if he had showed up at that point, my mom would have either punched him in the face or clawed his eyes out. Me? I just wanted it fixed. I didn't really care why it was happening, I just wanted it to stop.
Before Hubs could even make it back to the hospital, they were prepping me for surgery. At my mom's request, a different surgeon (we'll call him Doc Hamburger) was doing the procedure. He explained that, because my intestines had twisted, there was a chance that he might have to do a bowel resection -- meaning, if the intestinal tissue was damaged or dead, he'd have to cut it out. He wouldn't know until he got in there.
They started the now-familiar routine of pre-op procedures: blood draws, questions about religious preferences, discussion of anesthesia. The anesthesiologist told me that because I'd thrown up earlier, they'd have to put in an NG (naso-gastric) tube just in case. They planned to do it while I was knocked out, but it would have to stay in after the surgery. High out of my mind on Dilaudid, I really didn't think about it.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room (unlike my previous surgeries, I don't remember the recovery room AT ALL) with a tube in my nose. The NG tube. The horrible, uncomfortable, disgusting, NG tube. It was like a plastic loogie in the back of my throat, a loogie that gurgled and hissed and pumped the contents of my stomach out before my eyes. Every time the nurses asked me what I needed or wanted, I pointed at my nose and tried to look pitiful. Every time, they explained, as sweetly as possible, that it had to stay. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink. I could suck on ice chips, and that was it.
Friday morning, Doc Basil showed up to do rounds. Again, I pointed to my nose. He explained that it had to stay; they were trying to "rest my bowels" by preventing anything from my stomach from having to go through them. I was not happy about this. By this time I was starving, my throat hurt, and I was sick of seeing my own stomach contents pass through a tube in front of my face.
.JPG)
Not a happy camper. Not at all. And why, yes, that IS my bile running through that tube! DELICIOUS!
Doc Basil explained that later in the day, they'd hook my NG tube to a "gravity bag" (basically a drain bag without a pump) and if less than a certain amount of stuff came out of my stomach within a four hour period, the tube could come out. I was ecstatic. He also told me that I could have Chloraseptic (for the raging sore throat I'd developed) and LifeSavers (I guess just to be nice). I was still really grumpy, hungry, and tired; it'd been nearly impossible to sleep the night before, between the NG tube, medication and IV changes, and constant checks of my vitals. I couldn't even get out of bed to pee. All I could do was lay there and try to rest. The morphine shots helped, but only knocked me out for about thirty minutes at a time. Oh, and do you want to hear something funny? Morphine makes me nod out like a junky. My head lolls over and I start drooling. I can only imagine what I looked like, drool pooling in the little well behind my clavicle.
So eventually they hooked up my gravity bag, and I was staring at the clock, waiting for that magical four-hour mark. My mom and Hubs took turns staying with me, comforting me, trying to calm me down (I had threatened to yank the tube out myself, I was so sick of it). Several of my friends offered to visit and I turned them down -- I didn't want anybody to see me like this!
As the magical hour of tube-removal approached, a nurse came back to my room and told me I had visitors. My mood had improved considerably by that point (yay drugs!) so I told the nurse to send them in. It was one of my best friends and her husband, and I was so happy to see them. They brought flowers, and a book, and Sudoku, and lip balm, and most importantly, smiles. Their visit got me through the last stretch, that never-ending hour before the NG tube was removed.
So the tube came out, and the relief I felt was beyond amazing. My throat was still hurting like crazy, but that awful, nagging loogie was gone! I could turn my head without pain! I would (hopefully) be able to sleep! And -- dare I say it -- I might be able to have BROTH in the morning! My spirits were lifted and I felt a million times better.
Saturday and Sunday passed like most of my other days in the hospital: rounds in the morning, reading through the day, hospital food, friends coming to visit, more reading, finally peeing alone (adios, catheter!), morphine injections, IV fluids, Heparin injections in my belly, ridiculous bedhead from plastic pillows...
.JPG)
They worked me up to solid foods by Saturday at dinner time. My mom and Hubs were there with me through all of it, bribing the nurses with coffee and hot chocolate from Starbucks, brownies from the Farmer's Market, sandwiches from Tropical Smoothie. More friends visited -- Smith's wife brought me tea on Saturday night, Smith came to hang out on Sunday -- more flowers came. I finished the first three books of Stephen King's Dark Tower series (how lucky was it that I had picked up a ton of books at Book Exchange on Wednesday?). I watched no TV. I did laps around the ward with my IV in tow. We agreed on Monday for my discharge date. The usual stuff.
Mom brought me home yesterday, after a quick pit-stop at Starbucks and a trip to the Target pharmacy. She made me lunch and stocked my fridge with groceries. She made sure I took a shower, and before she left told me that if I didn't stay upstairs, in bed, that I'd be in serious trouble. I took my pain meds and curled up for a nap. Being in my own bed was HEAVEN.
Last night was pretty normal. Hubs made tacos and I managed to get downstairs for dinner. Kid, who'd been with his grandma pretty much all weekend, was his usual sassy, chatty self. I missed him so much!
So that brings us to today...a fairly normal Tuesday, save for the fact that I'm in bed blogging instead of working. I'm on orders to rest and do as little as possible for the next two weeks. I'm thinking there will be a lot of writing, a lot of reading, and that's about it. Call, text, or come by -- I'm not going anywhere for a while.
Thanks to everyone who expressed their love, concern, and support. I received a ton of emails, Tweets, Facebook messages, and phonecalls over the weekend, and every single one of them helped me feel better. I love and appreciate all of you -- both my "IRL" friends and those I know only online. You guys are awesome!
Friday, February 26, 2010
216
Hooray for losing almost a full pound! Amazing what happens when you get out of bed.
I've had a really hard time the last two weeks. For some reason, when I take heavy-duty painkillers, and for a couple of weeks after I stop taking them, I have INSANE sugar cravings. I experienced this after my hernia repair surgery last year, but I don't think I was as aware of it at that time. What makes these cravings different than a regular sugar craving is that the usual fixes (fruit, protein, water, exercise) don't make them go away. The only thing that stops them is, well, sugar.
They hit suddenly, these cravings, and they send me into a near panic. Before I can blink, I'm rooting through my kitchen cabinets, desperately trying to find a cookie, or a piece of candy, or some long-forgotten stash of sugary goodness. Fortunately, I don't keep stuff like that in the house anymore. I think the only candy-like thing here is a bag of semisweet chocolate chips that I keep on hand for baking, and (so far) I've not touched those. UNfortunately, I have a wonderful, caring, obliging husband who, upon hearing me say that I'm DYING for something sweet, asks what I want and goes out to get it. Limeade from Sonic? Sure. Milkshake? Of course. A candy bar from the 7-11 down the street? Done. Before I know it, I've inhaled an extra thousand calories. I finally had to ask him to tell me no when I demand this stuff. I even agreed to write "I will not get mad at you when you tell me NO" on a piece of paper, a sort of Fattie Rage Protection Order. My poor hubs.
Anyway, I'm determined to get back on track again. I picked up a small notebook at Target last night, to replace the food journal that I lost (read: stopped using), and I'm writing down everything I eat -- like Smith asked me to MONTHS ago. I've been cleared by my surgeon to resume "light" exercise: walking and jogging are okay, heavy lifting and ab work are not. So, there's a run on the schedule today. And tomorrow. And the next day.
Oh! And a big shout out to my mom, who took me out last Saturday for coffee, a pedicure, groceries, and new running shoes. My mom is one of my biggest cheerleaders, and I'm beyond grateful for her. YAY MOM!
I've had a really hard time the last two weeks. For some reason, when I take heavy-duty painkillers, and for a couple of weeks after I stop taking them, I have INSANE sugar cravings. I experienced this after my hernia repair surgery last year, but I don't think I was as aware of it at that time. What makes these cravings different than a regular sugar craving is that the usual fixes (fruit, protein, water, exercise) don't make them go away. The only thing that stops them is, well, sugar.
They hit suddenly, these cravings, and they send me into a near panic. Before I can blink, I'm rooting through my kitchen cabinets, desperately trying to find a cookie, or a piece of candy, or some long-forgotten stash of sugary goodness. Fortunately, I don't keep stuff like that in the house anymore. I think the only candy-like thing here is a bag of semisweet chocolate chips that I keep on hand for baking, and (so far) I've not touched those. UNfortunately, I have a wonderful, caring, obliging husband who, upon hearing me say that I'm DYING for something sweet, asks what I want and goes out to get it. Limeade from Sonic? Sure. Milkshake? Of course. A candy bar from the 7-11 down the street? Done. Before I know it, I've inhaled an extra thousand calories. I finally had to ask him to tell me no when I demand this stuff. I even agreed to write "I will not get mad at you when you tell me NO" on a piece of paper, a sort of Fattie Rage Protection Order. My poor hubs.
Anyway, I'm determined to get back on track again. I picked up a small notebook at Target last night, to replace the food journal that I lost (read: stopped using), and I'm writing down everything I eat -- like Smith asked me to MONTHS ago. I've been cleared by my surgeon to resume "light" exercise: walking and jogging are okay, heavy lifting and ab work are not. So, there's a run on the schedule today. And tomorrow. And the next day.
Oh! And a big shout out to my mom, who took me out last Saturday for coffee, a pedicure, groceries, and new running shoes. My mom is one of my biggest cheerleaders, and I'm beyond grateful for her. YAY MOM!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Origin of the Species
Mom (Maybe the Original FvF?) and Me, 2006
My mom loves food, probably as much as I do. But she has one advantage: her other love is exercise. SERIOUS exercise. She's been a runner since the 70s, got into triathlons, weight lifting, the works. At almost 60 years old, she's in the kind of shape people wish they were in at 30.
She wasn't always a super-athlete. Go back to pictures from her pre-running days, and you'll find a voluptuous (and unbelievably tan!) woman, not fat, but certainly not lean. She told me herself that she's always loved to eat, but she figured out a long time ago that in order to eat a lot, she'd have to exercise a lot. That light bulb went on probably around 1979 and hasn't flickered once in 30 years. She shared that lesson with me many times, even working out with me as a teenager and encouraging me to exercise throughout my adult life.
My mom taught me a lot that shaped my relationship with food. She taught me how to cook, but more importantly, she taught me how to appreciate good food. Not snobby food (although I did have a few Molly Ringwald/Breakfast Club moments as I unpacked my lunch at school), but GOOD food. No canned vegetables, no Hamburger Helper, no convenience food whatsoever. Spaghetti O's? Heck no. Try homemade pasta with chunky sauce that takes a full day to cook.
Not all of her lessons were healthy ones, unfortunately. Without realizing what she was doing, Mom was so strict about junk food that it almost became an obsession for me. If my sister and I asked for soda, we got Fresca. We asked for "good" cereal, and we got Honey Nut Cheerios. We had to ask permission before getting food from the pantry or the fridge. If you told my mom, "I'm hungry!" you'd hear, "Have a glass of water."
She didn't know then what we know now -- that when you deprive kids of a certain type of food (like junk food) they'll overindulge when they finally have access to it. Whereas if you give them a free choice, they tend to sample moderately from the different groups.
I don't think she had anything but the best intentions for my sister and me; she never told me I was fat, never made fun of my weight, never picked on my eating habits. She was always one to make gentle suggestions, and I never felt like she was judging me when I didn't follow them.
Maybe she was just afraid that we would end up struggling with our weight like she felt she had as a teenager? Maybe she was just trying to save us some pain later in life? Who knows. I just know that I don't blame her for my obesity. I don't buy into the whole "blame your parents for everything that's wrong with you" mentality (especially now that I'm a parent myself, heh). I think parents do the best they can with what they have, making the most of whatever parenting skills they did (or didn't) learn from their own parents. How they raise you does have an impact on your life, obviously, but I don't like the word "blame." You learn from their example, either how to cope with life or how not to cope. But I digress...
All I'm doing here is trying to figure out when and why this whole weight dilemma began, and hopefully that knowledge will help me end it once and for all. I'm waiting patiently for my own light bulb moment, making sure that the socket is wired up and ready to go.
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