Well boy howdy, do I suck at this whole blogging thing or what?
Before you go judging me I've been busy. Like, really busy. As in baking another baby busy.
5 weeks ago I gave birth to another boy, bringing the final count to 3 boys and 1 girl. I bet you're really wondering if my ass is covered in stretch marks and if I gained 80 pounds, right?
Sorry to burst your bubble, but this here lardass didn't gain a single pound! Now then, before you get jealous, let me tell you I have never thrown up that much in my life. I was miserable during the whole pregnancy and on a good day the only symptoms I had were incurable heartburn and feeling like my hooha was going to prolapse. And I broke my foot in the hospital after he was born.
My life is somewhat different since we've last spoken. My baby girl is now a straight-up diva, demanding Strawberry Shortcake, pink nail polish, pretty dresses and "bow-hairs." My oldest son has been diagnosed with OCD, my middle son with ADHD. I've still got 3 in diapers and I feel like I'm up to my elbows in excrement. And honestly, that's not an exaggeration.
Now I can't for the life of me remember if I wrote about my hypothyroidism or not, but in case I didn't, I was put on Synthroid in June of last year, the 29th to be exact. I had one AF a few days later, and then she never showed up again. At first I thought I was just having some wonky periods due to my thyroid, but then DH convinced me to POAS. Much to my surprise I was KU, so I didn't see a lot of weight loss like I thought I would after first going on the Synthroid. My hair grew back, my stomach quit hurting. It was all good, you know, except for the whole unexpected pregnancy thing.
So imagine my surprise when I weigh myself, two weeks postpartum, and I've lost 27 pounds. Without doing anything!
I hope you'll continue to follow me. I need to keep writing so I don't get discouraged. I'm now down 35 pounds, doing WW.
My boobies and fleshy fanny pack are in pitiful shape, so look forward to hearing from them!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Thursday, June 17, 2010
June 17, 2010
Well, this is my second week of being medicated (with actual prescription drugs rather than Mars bars and Folgers Bistro Blend). I feel like poo warmed over. Which is really nasty when you think about it.
I'm so sleepy I can't stand it yet when bedtime comes I'm wide awake watching DVR'd episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter and Billy the Exterminator.
In between bouts of vomiting from my temperamental gallbladder, that is.
My baby girl weaned herself this week so I made my husband take me to get new bras yesterday. I went down a whole cup size, but my boobs are so deflated these days that I don't really notice. From DDD to DD. I guess I know where the 5 pounds I lost went. Now instead of some milk filling in the voids of the fleshy pouches otherwise known as my boobs they're filled with air. Or nothing rather. They just hang there until I fold them up neatly and nestle them in my new bra.
Which brings up the next item. Yesterday I was trying on shorts at Lane Bryant (Hey! Let's put these fat lady clothes on the mannequins but pin them in the back so they look normal! We don't want the women shopping here to get a complex!) and I could have worn a 20 if it hadn't been for my stupid lower stomach.
Instead of just a little pooch or whatever I've got a full-blown fanny pack, made of flesh, permanently attached. When the hell did I become a marsupial? Forget Babyhawk, maybe I can just slice it on open and place my baby in the pouch. If it were 1992 and said fanny pack were, say, day glo orange or pink and I had a flew slap-bracelets on hand then maybe I'd be okay.
Until then I am contemplating:
A) cutting off the flab with my fancy Santoku knife and then giving myself an impromptu boob job by stuffing the flab inside my deflated boobs
B) performing liposuction on myself with vodka anesthetic and a ShopVac
C) contacting the creator of Spanx and asking her if there is any possibility of a permanent pair of Spanx that will adhere itself to your flesh, preferably in bodysuit form, and to please hurry up because I'm totally dying over here
D) becoming a full-time hermit
On the plus side, in case of national emergency I can most likely store water like a camel.
I'm so sleepy I can't stand it yet when bedtime comes I'm wide awake watching DVR'd episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter and Billy the Exterminator.
In between bouts of vomiting from my temperamental gallbladder, that is.
My baby girl weaned herself this week so I made my husband take me to get new bras yesterday. I went down a whole cup size, but my boobs are so deflated these days that I don't really notice. From DDD to DD. I guess I know where the 5 pounds I lost went. Now instead of some milk filling in the voids of the fleshy pouches otherwise known as my boobs they're filled with air. Or nothing rather. They just hang there until I fold them up neatly and nestle them in my new bra.
Which brings up the next item. Yesterday I was trying on shorts at Lane Bryant (Hey! Let's put these fat lady clothes on the mannequins but pin them in the back so they look normal! We don't want the women shopping here to get a complex!) and I could have worn a 20 if it hadn't been for my stupid lower stomach.
Instead of just a little pooch or whatever I've got a full-blown fanny pack, made of flesh, permanently attached. When the hell did I become a marsupial? Forget Babyhawk, maybe I can just slice it on open and place my baby in the pouch. If it were 1992 and said fanny pack were, say, day glo orange or pink and I had a flew slap-bracelets on hand then maybe I'd be okay.
Until then I am contemplating:
A) cutting off the flab with my fancy Santoku knife and then giving myself an impromptu boob job by stuffing the flab inside my deflated boobs
B) performing liposuction on myself with vodka anesthetic and a ShopVac
C) contacting the creator of Spanx and asking her if there is any possibility of a permanent pair of Spanx that will adhere itself to your flesh, preferably in bodysuit form, and to please hurry up because I'm totally dying over here
D) becoming a full-time hermit
On the plus side, in case of national emergency I can most likely store water like a camel.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
June 4, 2010
And the plot thickens.
I, the self-proclaimed fat mom, have an honest to goodness medical condition that prevents me from losing weight.
I have hypothyroidism!
God only knows how long it's been untreated. I read that it can cause pre-term labor, acne, your hair falls out, you can't sleep, and a sleugh of other issues.
I am so glad that someone actually believed me! I am not crazy!
Okay, maybe I am.
That's all I have time for now. I haz a tired. Goodnight!
I, the self-proclaimed fat mom, have an honest to goodness medical condition that prevents me from losing weight.
I have hypothyroidism!
God only knows how long it's been untreated. I read that it can cause pre-term labor, acne, your hair falls out, you can't sleep, and a sleugh of other issues.
I am so glad that someone actually believed me! I am not crazy!
Okay, maybe I am.
That's all I have time for now. I haz a tired. Goodnight!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010
A whole month since I've posted? Gah, wth have I been doing with my life?!
I've lost 6 pounds. So now I weigh in the 260's. Hooraaaaay.
I wish I could apply for The Biggest Loser, because they'd whip my ass so hard that I'd lose all of my weight in a couple of weeks. But I'd be the one falling off the treadmill, crying in every episode because "no one likes me" and "I can't do it." Jillian would take me outside where we'd sit on the steps and I would cry. She would tell me that I'm worth it and it's time to focus on me. We would hug, do an impromptu commercial for Wrigley's Sugar Free Gum and Brita water filters, then she would continue to beat my fat ass into oblivion.
I would get sent home for being below the yellow line most likely. I like to think that I'm a likeable person, but if you ask me how I'm doing I'm usually going to tell you all about the problems in my life. Which is also probably why most of the only friends I have are on the interwebz. But even they get tired of me.
I've been trying to lose myself in cake decorating. I'll think I'm doing an okay job until I use The Google to look up some ideas, because then Duff and all of those other superhuman cake decorators make my stuff look like poo. Sure, I put it on Facebook (at my son's request, because EVERYTHING goes on FB, right?) but I don't know if people truly like my cakes or if they feel obligated to say so.
I love seeing picture comments. Love it. But when it's a picture of myself and someone says how pretty I am it's hard to not come back and say "You LIAR!" Because, get real. I know that I am not pretty. If I were pretty I wouldn't have 8,000 chins. Maybe my face is alright but the rest of me is disgusting.
She of the saggy boobs and unibrow.
And since it's summer and nine million degrees out I'm resorting to wearing the dresses I wore last summer--when I was 6 months pregnant. I look the same though, so it doesn't even matter. For all you know, I could have a petrified fetus in there or something, making me look pregnant for the rest of my life.
I had a dream that I got some Shape-Ups shoes. I woke up and had sore calves. So I won't be getting those, although my son did ask his Gigi if I could buy new shoes.
Because "she's the regular boss. You're the boss when Daddy's not here. But when Daddy's here you're not the boss. And Gigi is the boss of everyone."
She said yes, I could get new shoes, and he said "See, Mom? She didn't get on to you!" Thanks, son.
While on the phone with Nana the other night, she asked my son a question. He said "Hm...let me step into my office and think on that one."
Really?
I'm going to go drown myself in buttercream.
I've lost 6 pounds. So now I weigh in the 260's. Hooraaaaay.
I wish I could apply for The Biggest Loser, because they'd whip my ass so hard that I'd lose all of my weight in a couple of weeks. But I'd be the one falling off the treadmill, crying in every episode because "no one likes me" and "I can't do it." Jillian would take me outside where we'd sit on the steps and I would cry. She would tell me that I'm worth it and it's time to focus on me. We would hug, do an impromptu commercial for Wrigley's Sugar Free Gum and Brita water filters, then she would continue to beat my fat ass into oblivion.
I would get sent home for being below the yellow line most likely. I like to think that I'm a likeable person, but if you ask me how I'm doing I'm usually going to tell you all about the problems in my life. Which is also probably why most of the only friends I have are on the interwebz. But even they get tired of me.
I've been trying to lose myself in cake decorating. I'll think I'm doing an okay job until I use The Google to look up some ideas, because then Duff and all of those other superhuman cake decorators make my stuff look like poo. Sure, I put it on Facebook (at my son's request, because EVERYTHING goes on FB, right?) but I don't know if people truly like my cakes or if they feel obligated to say so.
I love seeing picture comments. Love it. But when it's a picture of myself and someone says how pretty I am it's hard to not come back and say "You LIAR!" Because, get real. I know that I am not pretty. If I were pretty I wouldn't have 8,000 chins. Maybe my face is alright but the rest of me is disgusting.
She of the saggy boobs and unibrow.
And since it's summer and nine million degrees out I'm resorting to wearing the dresses I wore last summer--when I was 6 months pregnant. I look the same though, so it doesn't even matter. For all you know, I could have a petrified fetus in there or something, making me look pregnant for the rest of my life.
I had a dream that I got some Shape-Ups shoes. I woke up and had sore calves. So I won't be getting those, although my son did ask his Gigi if I could buy new shoes.
Because "she's the regular boss. You're the boss when Daddy's not here. But when Daddy's here you're not the boss. And Gigi is the boss of everyone."
She said yes, I could get new shoes, and he said "See, Mom? She didn't get on to you!" Thanks, son.
While on the phone with Nana the other night, she asked my son a question. He said "Hm...let me step into my office and think on that one."
Really?
I'm going to go drown myself in buttercream.
Monday, April 26, 2010
April 26, 2010
Well, here we are again!
So far, in the last week, I have GAINED 11 pounds. FML.
Weight Watchers my ass. What am I doing? Watching my weight go up? And then I get on the Wii Fit and I had set a weight loss goal, right? I gained 3 pounds and it was like "Whoa! What did you DO?!" It had several options to choose from, such as "I ate too much" or "Late night snacking." I chose the "I don't know" option.
FB was judging me with their lap band and cosmetics ads.
Next thing you know I'll be featured on POWM wearing a MuuMuu and a pair of hot pink Keds with my butt overlapping the sides of my all-terrain scooter. To your Rascalls!
I finally bought my first pair of shorts in I don't know how long. I can't wear them because I get the dreaded "triangle effect." You know, when you're walking and your shorts ride up your butt from your thighs rubbing together.
"Let me by, I'll let you by" they say, slapping together in the breeze.
I felt like I looked somewhat decent in them at first. Then I noticed you could see the loose skin hanging down to my already nasty looking thighs. Wtf am I supposed to do with that? I tried tucking and folding it in but there's really nowhere for it to go, unless maybe I use some duct tape (fixes everything!). I was excited because they go down to my knees, past the Bermuda Triangle, and I mean, come on! They're shorts! I don't have to wear jeans in the hot Texas sun anymore!
Yeah, forget that, because I look nasty as hell. I don't know what I'm going to do. I got a hair cut thinking I would feel better about myself if I did. Wrong! I still feel like poo.
And now, the part of the blog where my son says randomly funny things!
Him: Mom! Look, it's a big truck! What's it carrying?
Me: That's a beer truck. It carries nasty, nasty beer.
Him: Beard? Santa has a beard.
"My TV is magic because it never ever turns off. "
"It's an emergency! Call 911! We're missing America's Funniest Home Videos!"
And between my two sons:
Son #2: Get outta this car! Get your butt in that house right now!
Son #1: NO.
Son #2: Get out of that car! RIGHT NOW!
Son #1: Well. I will just call 911 and the police will come and get you. But they only come on Mondays.
So far, in the last week, I have GAINED 11 pounds. FML.
Weight Watchers my ass. What am I doing? Watching my weight go up? And then I get on the Wii Fit and I had set a weight loss goal, right? I gained 3 pounds and it was like "Whoa! What did you DO?!" It had several options to choose from, such as "I ate too much" or "Late night snacking." I chose the "I don't know" option.
FB was judging me with their lap band and cosmetics ads.
Next thing you know I'll be featured on POWM wearing a MuuMuu and a pair of hot pink Keds with my butt overlapping the sides of my all-terrain scooter. To your Rascalls!
I finally bought my first pair of shorts in I don't know how long. I can't wear them because I get the dreaded "triangle effect." You know, when you're walking and your shorts ride up your butt from your thighs rubbing together.
"Let me by, I'll let you by" they say, slapping together in the breeze.
I felt like I looked somewhat decent in them at first. Then I noticed you could see the loose skin hanging down to my already nasty looking thighs. Wtf am I supposed to do with that? I tried tucking and folding it in but there's really nowhere for it to go, unless maybe I use some duct tape (fixes everything!). I was excited because they go down to my knees, past the Bermuda Triangle, and I mean, come on! They're shorts! I don't have to wear jeans in the hot Texas sun anymore!
Yeah, forget that, because I look nasty as hell. I don't know what I'm going to do. I got a hair cut thinking I would feel better about myself if I did. Wrong! I still feel like poo.
And now, the part of the blog where my son says randomly funny things!
Him: Mom! Look, it's a big truck! What's it carrying?
Me: That's a beer truck. It carries nasty, nasty beer.
Him: Beard? Santa has a beard.
"My TV is magic because it never ever turns off. "
"It's an emergency! Call 911! We're missing America's Funniest Home Videos!"
And between my two sons:
Son #2: Get outta this car! Get your butt in that house right now!
Son #1: NO.
Son #2: Get out of that car! RIGHT NOW!
Son #1: Well. I will just call 911 and the police will come and get you. But they only come on Mondays.
Friday, April 16, 2010
April 16, 2010
Today, my friends, was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Today, after 6 months of grueling stomach aches and vomiting I decided to go see the doctor mentioned in my very first post. He of the morbid obesity and alcohol, that is.
I guess I should've expected what was coming to me, especially after stepping on the scale. I figured I had gained about 15 pounds.
Tell her what she's won!
16 pounds of ass-jiggling flab, that's what! Congratulations! Would you like fries with that?
FML.
So anyway, I was hoping that since my hair is falling out, I'm gaining weight for no reason (No, sorry, no Cheetos for me anymore), I feel like poo and I am violently ill several times a week that I could find a solution.
Apparently if I would just lose weight and quit being the big fat turd in the punch bowl I would never have health issues again. I don't even know what to say, really. I'm hurt, sad, frustrated.
Whoever said breastfeeding makes you lose weight is a LIAR!
On the other hand, at least a handful of people are on my side. Here's what my son has to say about the whole ordeal.
"Hello, Police? Mommy's doctor called her fat. You'd better come get him and take him to jail. He can only have bread and water."
"Hey, Mom? Maybe I can pretend I'm sick and you can take me to the doctor so I can tell him not to call you fat."
Forever Fat,
The Fat Mom
Today, after 6 months of grueling stomach aches and vomiting I decided to go see the doctor mentioned in my very first post. He of the morbid obesity and alcohol, that is.
I guess I should've expected what was coming to me, especially after stepping on the scale. I figured I had gained about 15 pounds.
Tell her what she's won!
16 pounds of ass-jiggling flab, that's what! Congratulations! Would you like fries with that?
FML.
So anyway, I was hoping that since my hair is falling out, I'm gaining weight for no reason (No, sorry, no Cheetos for me anymore), I feel like poo and I am violently ill several times a week that I could find a solution.
Apparently if I would just lose weight and quit being the big fat turd in the punch bowl I would never have health issues again. I don't even know what to say, really. I'm hurt, sad, frustrated.
Whoever said breastfeeding makes you lose weight is a LIAR!
On the other hand, at least a handful of people are on my side. Here's what my son has to say about the whole ordeal.
"Hello, Police? Mommy's doctor called her fat. You'd better come get him and take him to jail. He can only have bread and water."
"Hey, Mom? Maybe I can pretend I'm sick and you can take me to the doctor so I can tell him not to call you fat."
Forever Fat,
The Fat Mom
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Yesterday was egg hunting time at school. I had a vision of my boys running through the yard, picking up every egg in sight. Then we would have someone take a picture of our smiling faces and go through our haul once we got home. Then I would steal the skittles and hide them in my purse.
Or not.
The boys, upon hearing "go," immediately froze. Every egg I would show them another child would run by and swoop up. Every kid in the class had a bucket overflowing with candy, all except mine. They managed to pick up 3 of those nasty, gritty candy eggs that no one eats. All hell broke loose when my older son saw the Easter bunny. He screamed. He was in hysterics.
For one thing, I was afraid this would happen as he is already terrified of men with mustaches (see previous post). He took off running. Somehow in the mix his pants got unbuttoned, so as he was running his boxer briefs became exposed and he would NOT stop so I could fix them.
Pants on the ground, pants on the ground. Lookin' like a fool with your pants on the ground.
My younger son followed suit and started screaming as well.
I did manage to have a picture taken, me squatted down (which was no small feat), baby girl in the BabyHawk, boys on either side of me screaming and trying to run in the opposite direction.
Luckily it gave me a chance to wear my new Sperrys (Thanks, Mom!).
This morning I'm wearing a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, cropped sweats and the aforementioned new shoes. We're supposed to go to the country club this morning and watch my kid sing, but I'm just not sure whether the old gal can hang this morning.
Anyway, doody calls!
Or not.
The boys, upon hearing "go," immediately froze. Every egg I would show them another child would run by and swoop up. Every kid in the class had a bucket overflowing with candy, all except mine. They managed to pick up 3 of those nasty, gritty candy eggs that no one eats. All hell broke loose when my older son saw the Easter bunny. He screamed. He was in hysterics.
For one thing, I was afraid this would happen as he is already terrified of men with mustaches (see previous post). He took off running. Somehow in the mix his pants got unbuttoned, so as he was running his boxer briefs became exposed and he would NOT stop so I could fix them.
Pants on the ground, pants on the ground. Lookin' like a fool with your pants on the ground.
My younger son followed suit and started screaming as well.
I did manage to have a picture taken, me squatted down (which was no small feat), baby girl in the BabyHawk, boys on either side of me screaming and trying to run in the opposite direction.
Luckily it gave me a chance to wear my new Sperrys (Thanks, Mom!).
This morning I'm wearing a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, cropped sweats and the aforementioned new shoes. We're supposed to go to the country club this morning and watch my kid sing, but I'm just not sure whether the old gal can hang this morning.
Anyway, doody calls!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)