Tag Archive | dieting

Hello, My Name is Fatso….

What? I’m fat, you say?

Oh, well thank you for that. Because I didn’t know it already.

No, I didn’t know it from the I-look-3-months-pregnant-even-though-I’m-not tummy pooch.

Or from my Jell-o thighs.

Or from the lovehandles just above my soft and round booty.

Or from the number on the scale. Which didn’t budge but by one-and-a-half pounds since last week. Even though I exercised until my legs couldn’t  hold me up any longer. Even though I starved myself and went to bed hungry last night.

No, I didn’t know I was fat.

Oh…but I did. I do. And now that’s all I’ve been telling myself all day long.  You’re fat. You’re a fatty. Your new name is Fatso! Oh, if there was a prize for negative self-talk, I would win it.

The truth: I know I’m not fat. I’m completely within my targeted weight range, based on my height. My BMI is healthy. I’m less than two pounds above my personal goal. *

But I feel fat. I feel unattractive and inadequate. I feel unworthy.  Those two pounds have all the power.

But I don’t care. But I do. But I’m trying not to.

There was a time in my life, when I cared much less — for example, after giving birth to my daughter, when I loved my body and felt it was a temple and oh-boy look at all the amazing things it can do! It can give life! And there was a time when I cared much more — after losing fifty pounds, after falling in love with my personal trainer, all through college, all through my engagement (not to the personal trainer, though), on my wedding day. Today, I am somewhere in between these two extremes. I care, but maybe not enough.

Today, I didn’t even count my calories. We went out of town and I just didn’t want to. But tomorrow and Tuesday, I will. I will starve and I will exercise, all in the name of making up for my “naughtiness” today. But then that’s el fin. The end. I’m done. I don’t want to be fat and I don’t want to feel fat, but I do want to be pregnant. I want to conceive. Soon. And I don’t know if restricting calories and overdoing the exercise can harm my fertility (beyond it’s already irreparable damage, that is), but I don’t want to find out. **

So on Wednesday, when I will officially be done with the progesterone and just waiting for CD1, I am choosing my fertility over my figure. There was once a time, not very long ago (maybe yesterday), when that wouldn’t have happened. But then I asked myself: Do you want a baby or do you want to weigh less? And the answer was obvious. So obvious, I wonder why I didn’t ask sooner. I want another baby and I want to create the family I long for, and I would even gain ten pounds for that. I can’t believe I just typed those words, but it’s true. I really would.

And who knows, maybe I will? Because when I’m not dieting, that slice of cheesecake seems a little less dangerous.

But I will hope that one day, it won’t even matter. Maybe I’ll even be okay with it.  Maybe I’ll love myself and my body, whatever I weigh.

Um…yeah, right. Maybe when pigs fly? Or there is a cure for infertility? Or miscarriage is just a figment of our overactive imaginations?


*  I know some of you are probably laughing. Because two pounds is nothing. But for me, it has always been everything. I hang all my self-worth on those last two pounds. And I don’t lose weight easily, but I seem to gain it just by breathing, so two pounds can be a mountain I may never be able to climb.

** For some compelling evidence that too much exercise can cause problems, see this article.

Hope vs. Stupid Reality

Hope, I have learned, doesn’t always get us very far.

I once hoped to be a marine biologist. A psychologist. A teacher. A nurse. A very successful author who was more like a rockstar (think: J.K. Rowling).

I hoped to take a leap of faith, to move to London, and to fall in love with a sexy foreigner.

I hoped be a young wife and a young mom of a large handful of babies.

I hoped I’d get pregnant quickly with my first child, that I’d be so fertile I could conceive with just a kiss, or at least that wishing on a shooting star and praying with all my might would be enough to create a baby.

I hoped that I would never know the pain of a miscarriage.

And I hoped that, if nothing else, when I weighed myself this morning, at least one thing would go my way and I’d have lost a couple pounds. Just a couple. I didn’t think that was too much to ask.


I’m a nursing school dropout and a stay-at-home mom who writes a somewhat pathetic and poorly written blog and can barely carve out two hours every Wednesday to work on The Novel That Maybe Will Be…One Day.

And while I have traveled to London several times, my all-American husband came into my life four months before the big move and I chose him over a hypothetical foreign romance. (Well, that’s one way that Stupid Reality didn’t totally screw with my life…I do love him so!)

And I married at age 24 (which did not feel so young to me at the time) and had my first baby at 27 (which felt really, really old after the struggle to get there) and will probably struggle for each baby thereafter, if there ever are any more babies.

And I am not fertile. I am infertile, though you will rarely hear me use that word. And no amount of prayers or wishes has changed that yet.

And I do know how much a miscarriage can hurt, how it can make your heart explode with the grief of it and all that is left is the shrapnel in an empty hole, and how you can’t know if another full heart can ever grow in its place.

And in the last two weeks, though I have worked out over an hour every day and spent the last few days living on a daily limit of 1000-1200 calories, when I weighed myself this morning in all my naked glory (because clothes might add a few ounces, you know!), I lost a measly half a pound. Yes, that’s right. All my hard work was for practically nothing. And so now, in just the next 8-12 days, I have three pounds to lose to reach my goal. It doesn’t sound like a lot and I’ve done it before, but can I do it again? Clearly, time and my body are not on my side.

So thank you, Stupid Reality, for really wrecking my life. Here’s hoping that some day Hope can be enough…

Dieting Relapse

I’m just going to say it: I was a chubby teenager. I was afraid to believe it then, but the pictures are proof. From the ages of 14-19, I was 30-40 pounds overweight. I blame it on puberty, denial, and a daily afternoon snack of a half-box of Cheese-Its while I watched TV in my bedroom. I hated my body and myself back then, and sometimes I still do, even though I now weigh almost 50 pounds less.

After my freshman year of college, I decided to lose the weight and I did, over the course of about a year. But it created a sort of monster in me. I began obsessing over my weight, food, calories, and exercise. A daily caloric intake of 1000 calories and three hours of exercise after classes was nothing for me. They got to know me very well at the gym! Gaining one pound on the scale was enough to make me collapse in tears, and to make me work even harder. My mom worried that I was overdoing it, and I definitely was. It consumed my life.

And for most of my adult years, that is how I have lived. Counting every calorie. Exercising too much. A slave to the number on the scale. I did manage to take a break from it all during my first pregnancy, but that does not mean I didn’t occasionally panic as I packed on the pounds. I did. A lot.

But when my daughter turned a year old, after I had dieted like a crazy woman to lose the baby weight, I knew it was time to stop. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t normal. And it wasn’t the example I wanted to set for my little Cupcake as she grows up. So I declared that I was “divorcing” dieting. I was done with it. My only focus was to be healthy. Eat well, exercise regularly, and hope everything evens out in the end.

But now I confess to you, after six months, I have suffered a dieting relapse. I can’t help myself. In my last pregnancy, the one that ended far too soon, I had already gained five pounds in the five weeks since I had conceived. That’s too much too fast, I know! But I don’t have any excuses because I don’t know what happened. I didn’t eat any differently for either pregnancy and yet I gained weight very early on for both. It strikes me as highly unfair that, for this pregnancy with my tiny Teddy Graham, I’m a couple hundred dollars broker (is that a word?) and five pounds heavier, and I don’t even have a baby to take home.

So now I feel desperate to lose this weight before we officially start trying again for another baby. I know that dieting while TTC can have its own effects on my fertility, so I have to do it now.  The urgency of the matter is getting to me. To be at my goal weight, I’ll need to lose 3-5 pounds in the span of 2-3 weeks. Even if I calorie restrict like crazy and hit the treadmill hard and frequently, I don’t know if I can do it. But I’ll try. This is not something I’m proud of. Crash-dieting is not the way I would recommend losing weight to anyone. But it’s the only way I know how to do it in such a short time. It’s the only way that has ever worked for me. And it’s the only control I have in my life right now.