Okay, I think I might be getting a complex here. Several times recently my four-year-old, A, has brought it to my attention that I'm fat. She's not even trying to be nice here. The other day she pointed out that my "doopa is bigger than Shannon's!" By the way..."doopa" is our polite word for "butt". Notice the irony? And granted, my doopa frankly is bigger than my friend, Shannon's. Trust me, I've noticed. Then another time recently my sweet little drop of love corrected me when I was picking out what to wear to my father-in-law's birthday party. I had gone through a couple options and stated out loud, "I'm think I'm too big for this," and A piped in, "You mean, fat!" Er yeah, that is what I meant to say. Why do four-year-old's have to be so brutally honest? I have noticed that when her seven-year-old sister, L, hears her say these things, she gives a little cringe. Apparently between four and seven years of age, you get that chip that says, "don't say fat".
So panic is starting to give that not-so-little nudge that momma needs to lose some weight. Not that it hadn't already occurred to me as bathing suit season is fast approaching. It's just that I have a problem with exercise. I pretty much hate it. Momma don't like the gym. I know I need to exercise, but prefer the outdoor kind. You know, where you're burning the calories, but don't really realize you're doing it. I get my exercise in. I take the stairs (escalator), park far (which has nothing to do with my claustrophobia issues), spend the summer in the pool with my girls (standing in the shallow end, with the occasional cannon ball), playing outside with my girls (watching them ride their scooters, band-aids in pocket, yelling "car!" as needed), camping (eating s'mores), and biking (for my birthday I want a Cherry Red cruiser with red fenders, a basket, a light and a bell that is very Mayberry, please). Oh, and I walk my dog too. Really. See, I exercise!
I wouldn't say I'm a small girl though. When I think of how not small I am, it reminds me of when I had lunch with my husband's college roommate, about ten years ago. One of the first things he said when he saw me was, "You're looking healthy." As opposed to the last time he saw me when I was apparently knocking on death's door (I believe it was my wedding day). The problem is that I love to eat...more than I love to exercise. The balance is way off. I do love the cheeseburger and fries, the pizza and I'm pretty sure there is going to be homemade chocolate cake in Heaven. I love spicy and fresh and the crock pot is my friend. One of my favorite meals is my step mom's corned beef and cabbage. I could faint just thinking about it. I am constantly looking for new recipes. Some of my favorite people are Paula Dean (I love how she is always licking her fingers and has food all over her face--we should all eat this way!) and Rachael Ray. I love to try new things too. I pretty much love anything someone else makes me too. Simona, my girlfriend from Lebanon, was very good about feeding me wonderful meals she put together from scratch with only whole food ingredients, some her momma would send her all the way from Lebanon. I can't even pronounce most of what she made (well, I can say, "Hummus"), but it was delicious. I try to eat healthy too. Less meat, more veggies and grains, yada, yada, yada. But it has to taste good. Oh Lordy, it has to be flavorful. My husband's grandma eats like a bird and has told me time and again that food does nothing for her, that she "never got excited about food". I am totally the opposite. I look forward to it. Countdown to it. Celebrate it. Which brings me back to my doopa.
Yeah, it's bigger than Shannon's. We all know that. But it's mine. It's been with me forever. I like it. My hubby likes it. And even if my four-year-old has issues with it, momma's gonna keep it. At least until I get my Cherry Red cruiser with red fenders, a basket, a light and a bell that is very Mayberry, or try on bathing suits. Whichever comes first.
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