I have the best of intentions when it comes to diet.
I want to be fit.
I want to wear cute sleeveless summer blouses.
And I know what is beneficial. Truth be told I love a spinach peach smoothie. As I gulp the icy delightfulness I picture my organs being saturated with vitamins, minerals, and “I am a good girl” vibes. I feel grand amounts of righteousness that prompt me to post “smoothie selfies” on Instagram.
Honestly, labeling foods good, bad, or “OMG you didn’t” is a habit I have had for as long as I can remember.
[Tweet “labeling foods good, bad, or “OMG you didn’t” is a habit I have had for as long as I can remember.”]
Moving past that food pyramid to “Everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial” mantra has been a breath of fresh air.
Yes, I can have that but is it going to bring me peace?
Will it make me feel good?
Will it make my arms jiggle?
Will I regret it next month when it’s time to shop for a sundress for that Spring picnic?
However, here is my greatest obstacle in the healthy eating quest…
My children make dieting so much harder than anyone can fathom, well unless you are a mom dieter… then you know exactly what I am talking about.
“Just eat healthier and the pounds will melt off.”
[Tweet ““Just eat healthier and the pounds will melt off.””]
Have you ever heard Jeff Gaffigan’s take on having a fourth child? He says, “People ask what it is like to have a fourth child and I tell them, ‘imagine you are drowning… and someone hands you a baby.’”
To diet with children is similar; “Imagine you are drowning and someone hands you a baby, and a dozen donuts, fruit chews, a Happy Meal, a Cosmo, some curly fries, and a gallon of Double Chunk Chocolate ice cream.”
Seriously, no wonder my jeans won’t zip.
Added to the smorgasbord of toddler approved cheese-food and tween pre-menstrual binge contraband, dieting in this household is like an extended game of whack-a-mole.
I spend more time slapping my own hand than I do wishing I was still on the elliptical and a size six.
Not to mention that the stress of living with the eaters of highly processed cheese flavored and chocolate covered goodies.
Yesterday the vandals, our 3 and 5-year-old-sons and the 17-month-old foster-love filled the toilet with two family size bags of sour cream and onion potato chips.
Y’all filled it.
It was full.
[Tweet “filled the toilet with two family size bags of sour-cream and onion potato chips.”]
Full to the rim, the children were soaked, the toilet was clogged, and no matter how I have scoured and refreshed the bathroom when you flush it doesn’t smell like a lilac field… it smells like the Super Bowl.
In the midst of that madness, I have a manbaby leaving for Marine boot camp, a lady-baby getting married – the same month my book launches, and another man baby who started a go-fund-me because his wallet was stolen… this was actually brilliant. The fund is now trending and he may not have to pay for college.
But then there is the tween. She’s a cross between Laura Ingles Wilder and Wednesday Adams.
Of the seven children, she’s the most Cheezit and wine binge inducing. She can play the piano by ear, makes A’s in Algebra, and reads and studies for fun. If she didn’t have my face we would think that there’d been a mix-up at the hospital. On the other hand, her brother called in the middle of the night, broken down on the side of the road. He pleaded with her to wake us to come help him and she flatly responded, “This sounds like your problem, not mine.”
And hung up.
Two nights later, the lady baby spent the night and the next morning at breakfast she said, “Geez Sophie, you punched me in the throat like 8 times in your sleep last night.” Without looking up from her Frosted Flakes Sophie responded, “I wasn’t asleep.”
Sometimes, when I am afraid she will kill us in our sleep I get up and eat Totino’s Pizza Rolls and guzzle Dr. Pepper.
You know how broken cookies don’t count? I have a theory, binge eating while contemplating how you will die between 2 am and 4 am shouldn’t count either. Like, that’s not breakfast? And it is way past dinner. It’s not a snack?
I think it is soul food.
Or your last meal on death row…
Joking aside, these are the types of things that seem to continually sabotage my diet. I have the best of intentions. But then mindless toddler television has me hypnotized by the lack of parental supervision afforded Maxx and Ruby, and before I know it I have eaten a box of Teddy Grahams and sucked down 4 apple juice boxes.
It’s humiliating to have to enter that into to my “Lose it” app.
It questions me, “Jami, are 45 years old? Or 4 years old going on 5?”
[Tweet “these are the types of things that seem to continually sabotage my diet.”]
And I am not trying to make excuses, but I don’t know how to make rational food choices when I have had no sleep since 1995 and carrot sticks don’t soothe the soul like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup…ssss.
Like sands through my bottom heavy hour glass, this is my life.
Chardonnay, dino-nuggets and wonder-bread bologna sandwich remnants are my nourishment.
Sweater season will be here before I know it. Sleeveless-ness may just have to wait.
The cheese-food jiggle is in the lead….
May your floors be sticky and your arms be toned and tan. Love, Jami
1 Corinthians 10:23 Everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial.
I thought today, a little half-way through the freedom challenge called for a little humor. Tomorrow I am on Purposeful Faith talking about temper tantrums. Let me know how you are doing in you freedom seeking! I love you each. Jj
And be sure and check out my sister’s and my Podcast! The Easy Wife!!!