It's All Starbuck's Fault

Today I started a diet.

It's a very big deal because I don't diet.
When I was a child my Grandmother used to say, "You can eat as much as you want because you are so skinny." And I was....When I was 12!
Every decade packs on another size. When I go shopping I see so many cute clothes in gorgeous colors. Size 0 to 10. I never knew that I would be exploring the plus size clothing department. Yuck! It's not that I don't like myself...I do like ME. It's that I don't like looking at myself in family photos or my car reflection as I walk out of Starbuck's with a croissant.
I have confidence and I like to dress up. But, I notice that people do treat me differently. They're not mean, they just treat me like white trash. I'm in the way in isles. When I fling my purse over my shoulder, it usually hits a person or knocks something off of a shelf. I've perfected, "Oh, I'm so sorry I knocked your child over." It's depressing.
I remember, not too long ago, being able to breathe easily while tying my shoes. Now it's a struggle because my belly is in the way. How'd that get there?
I've always been athletic and in good shape no matter my size. But, my feet hurt now after standing all day. They go through a workout carrying me from place to place each day.
I find the pretty plus size clothes. They make some cute ones now. Even the big designers are in on it now. But, I want the casual, beautiful, colorful clothes that all of hip Los Angeles wears. Unfortunately, they haven't made those into plus sizes yet.
So...This diet....Is not going well.
I am trying to eat only one sweet thing a day.
With 5 kids, no sleep, and a tight budget, sugar is my energy bar. I eat to get through each day. Chocolate is a big part of that day.
One sweet a day will mean that I will be forced to eat fruits and veggies all day instead of chocolate or chai teas.
It's all Starbuck's fault. Before I went to Starbuck's, I was losing weight naturally. Now, I crave something from Starbuck's every day. There's a reason they don't post calories in coffee shops. One chai is equal to a meal!~ And I always want a meal after my chai.

Well...I'll try. We'll see how successful I am. I just wish I could eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, like my Grandmother said.

custody game

I used to be free. To go to the bathroom any time I wanted to. To read the newspaper. Or even to stare at a weed in the grass.
Slowly I've adjusted to living with a few children and the typical chaos. Fighting over a toy or a TV show.
There are days we all sit at the dinner table laughing while one of the kids tells a story. One child tells long detailed stories that meander, but are full of meaning and passion. One child immitates all of the kids so he feels like part of the group. Another, a boy, makes farting noises.
We are a family.
Our group of adults and children have been through some challenging situations. Each one if us has scars from our life before. Rejection from a parent, loss, abuse, and neglect. Each one of us has a lot of healing to do.
We support one another and listen to each other. I watched my children in action yesterday. One child has a fear of dogs and a dog was playfully running near her. Immediately the two oldest children jumped in to help. One kept the dog away while the other held her little sister. The step father was on the scene very quickly to pick up the scared child and bring her indoors.
I love my incredible family. We get along and care about each other even though we come from different parents and homes. We have forged a bond that cannot be broken.
There are people who want to break this bond. They make efforts weekly to do so. It only makes us hold on to each other tighter. Our link is strong.
Sometimes there are threats to take two of the children away. These people do not know us or see us. They want to hurt us.
I ask myself why someone would want to hurt us. Why go to so much trouble to create more pain.
There is no answer. It is out of our control.
Recently, I have had to share more custody with my ex. It has been very hard on our family and we are sad when two of the children are gone for such long periods.
The ex is entitled. The law gives him more custody whether it is good for the kids or not. The kids are not entitled. The mother is not entitled. This is a flaw in the system. I hope someday it will change.
There is nothing to be done. Just try to endure the sadness. It is not easy and some days feel like the end of the world. Even though I will see my kids again in a few days, a mother needs to care for her kids. It is primal and no court or law can eliminate that instinct.
We will have our fun bike rides and plays in the living room. But two children will only have half of that.
Yes, it gives me more time to run errands and take care of responsibilities. But, we are sad. And that does not fill time well.
We want our family back.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Daydream

Staring at the window display, her eyes glaze over. The new mannequins have come in and they have big pointy nipples on flat prepubescent breasts. Dressing the mannequins was her least favorite job, but it allowed her to be away from the customers for a moment.
She fluffs the blouse on the mannequin so the nipples aren't so obvious. "Why don't they wear bras?" She thinks. "I wear a bra."

What if the mannequins had droopy boobs like topless women in Africa? A baby on each breast. Those babies only want one thing from that breast. Milk. Non homogenized milk. Not even refridgerated. Like the sugary milk in boxes of vanilla milk Starbuck's sells to kids while they slurp loudly next to their rich, workaholic mothers on their cell phones. Chai Latte, non fat, no water in hand.
Is it hip and cool to walk around Africa without a shirt on? Do you think they talk about each other and gossip about their bodies while carrying large plastic containers of water from far off spickets in the bush? When the watering hole is dry and the cheetahs are thirsty, do they go raid the urban spickets and fire hydrants? And if the women are topless, are the firefighters in Africa topless? Or maybe the men are bottomless to even out all of the toplessness.
That would be nice.

Take Me to the River comes on through the muffled speakers and we are back in the window display with the nipple lady. She is not topless, is dressed in clothing that is not practical, and her boobs could never lactate. But everyone wants to be her. She is perfect.
Customers have arrived and are calling, "Miss... Miss..." while they talk on their cell phones, Starbuck's chai latte, non fat, no water, in hand.

Poopy Thoughts

I'm really tired of poop.
My kids name everything "poop".
Their stuffed animals, drawings, food, and anything else that can be named, will be named "poop".
We talk about poop at the end of the day, "How was baby's poop?"
During bedtime stories, "Do the three bears poop?"
"What about Pinnochio? How do puppets poop?"
Then we have the book, "Everyone Poops". A favorite of course.
Usually the toilet overflows because somewhere on it's journey to the sewer, there is a poop, stuck.
There is constant vacuuming and sweeping of various pets' poops.
The next door neighbor's dog loves to leave us a fresh poop.
The owl family not only throws up bones, but also poops from high above onto our cars below.
When I go to Las Vegas and look at the huge five thousand person hotels I think, "Where does all that poop go?"
They must have a secret poop river that runs out of the city and into some remote FLDS farming community.
Or do they store the poop and recycle it into electricity for all of those strobe lights?

What I really don't like is when someone tries to convince you to like something that is not likeable.
Or accept something that is unacceptable. Or talk you into something that is really awful.
No matter how they try to dress it up and make it smell good,
it's still poop.

The End

The parent game.

"Go to your room!"

The exhausted mother watches her daughter, so young and fragile, slowly climb the stairs. She is whimpering softly.
How many times does she have to tell her, the mother thinks to herself.
Guilt sets in. Did she really need to yell?

"Honey..." She says softly peeking into her daughter's warm bedroom. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."

"Well, you hurt my feelings Mom. I don't like it when you yell. You yell a lot Mom." The daughter says defiantly.

The mother is startled by this comment. She had just upped her anti depressants a few weeks ago and thought she had stopped yelling, temporarily. She starts to raise her voice, "I don't yell a lot! Maybe on occasion when I am in traffic and you want to hear your terrible, electronic, crap music while I'm listening to my new Kenny G album. It's my car and my music. I'll play whatever I want."

The young girl dives onto her bed and begins to whimper again. Then pops her head up and says, "You do yell a lot Mommy. When I go to friend's houses their mom's don't yell like you do." She is pursing her lips and and giving her mother an angry stare.

"Well," the mother retorts, "Maybe you should just go live with them since they are so nice and I am so mean. What happens when you don't listen to Gabriella's mom? What will Hellen do when she asks you to do something and you pretend not to hear? Trust me, she'll yell too."

The daughter with a determined snear on her face, leans forward and says, "You yell more than anyone I know. Even more than Mr. Peters."

"That's it!" The mother yells, "I can't listen to you criticize me any more. I don't YELL! You can sit here in your room and think about how you should respect your mother."

She closes the door and hears papers and clothes being thrown around her daughter's room.
The mother goes in the bathroom chanting a mantra her therapist had given her, "Breathe in peace, breathe out anger. Breathe in calm, breathe out tension. Breathe in fresh baked bread, breathe out okra." The mother looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and sees a sad and confused middle aged woman.

"Whaaa, haaa, whaaa, aaa...," the crying from her daughter's room grows louder increasing in volume with each breathe.

The mother takes two deep breaths and slowly walks calmly back to where the wailing is coming from. She cracks the door to see if it's safe to enter and says softly, "Honey..."

The petite girl groans, "ennnhhhh...," and puts her pillow over her head.

"Honey?" The mother asks softly tiptoeing closer to her daughter's girly four poster bed.

A muffled, "What?" seeps out from under the pillow.

"I'm sorry I got angry sweatheart." The mother says sitting softly next to the long thin shape under the blankets. "I have to remember that you are learning right now and that you are going to hurt my feelings sometimes. This is a difficult age for you."
"And me,"the voice says from the pillow.

There is a moment of silence.

Her daughter's small, thin hand comes out from under the pillow and grabs the mother's hand. She peeks out from under the safety of her pillow and wipes the tears from her eyes.

The mother gives her daughter a hug and says, "I love you sweetie. Even when I'm mad, I still love you."

The young girl look up into her mother's eyes and says, "I love you mom."
"Even when you are mean, I still love you."

The preteen girl hugs her mother and says, "But you still yell more than any of the other mom's."

"I have to remind myself that you are learning, Mom, and that you might hurt my feelings sometimes," the girl says only half seriously.

"Thank you sweetie," the exhausted mother exhales. "I'll go make dinner."