Goddammit. All the things.

You have no idea how many times I have mentally prepared myself to sit down at my dusty-assed laptop to write a blog post.

About things. So many things. All the things. ALL THINGS. But then, in my head, I can't justify spending time doing something so purely for myself with no tangible benefit without first accomplishing one of my many failed tasks around the house. So I start by tidying up, or loading and starting the dishwasher...

(which is a masterful skill if you ask me because I manage to fit EVERYFUCKINGPOSSIBLE dishwasher-safe dirty dish in there, if it's the last thing I do. And when I'm feeling particularly risque, I toss in one or two dangerously NOT dishwasher-safe items. I like to spice it up and play Russian Roulette with deadly melty plastic in the components of the machine. Will it melt? Will I ruin the 17-year old dishwasher and HAVE to get a new one? Will it all work out fine? Oooooh, who knows, I am SO living on the edge right now*. 

Usually this thought process is interrupted by Baby D requesting that I help wipe her bum.

But, as I was saying, I'm WILD, y'all).

So, at least if I have accomplished something, then I feel like it's not so bad to sit down and blog.

#nofilter bwhahahaha

Funny thing though, once I tidy the counter minimally and try to get the dishwasher started, my bird brain sees something shiny and then gets totally derailed. And not in the oh-hey-I'm-on-a-roll-Imma-keep-cleaning type of derailment. It's so much like an old forwarded email I read. I see one thing I really wanted to deal with so I pick that up, and walk to the location where I wanted to file/read/call/clean/complete it, and I remember that I need to do something more time-sensitive, like start laundry then while I know I'll be home long enough for the machine to run.

To the basement I will go, but realize I forgot those two items on the top floor I needed, so go get them, and then this process repeats itself until it's time to get Baby D from Preschool, or she needs me in some other form, and tasks are stopped because, well, crazy preschooler.

I manage to never fully complete ANY task, nor do I get started at the laptop. Nope. I get 893,274 things 10, or 20 or 50% completed. I create more mess in the process. I feel even more like a failure for being so discombobulated**, stressed at the mess, and worse off at the end of the day.

That blog post? I remember it as my drowsiness-inducing allergy medicine kicks in, while I am in bed, at a time later than it should be. And the idea dies for another day.

So far, this post has taken one preschool trip, one laundry round, two preschooler negotiations, an indoor dog shit, a urgent foam fill spill vacuuming, and one pee being painfully held in, just to get here.

Anyway, I'm sure that most people who used to come here once and a while and read have given up on me. And I wouldn't blame them. But I really miss writing. I miss brain-vomiting all over this here Blogger page. I need to write more and want to write more. Even if it is just for the sake of cleaning out a dusty corner in the ol' bird brain.

* I am not a completely reckless person. I still make sure that plastic shit is top rack. I'm not a madwoman. Geesh.
** That word is so much fun.


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The End of Nursing My Toddler?

A few nights ago, we'd had an okay day, but I was so grumpy. All the posts I've failed to finish on here have been about my health trials and tribulations since last June. Injury, illness, injury, illness, surgery gone wrong, more illness, then another illness. I was feeling the worst of last said illness.

This last illness is mastitis. Pretty sure it was from my new venture of trying to learn to run properly (as opposed to the clusterf*ck that was me trundling through a half-marathon in September without adequate training...) with my new sports bras. Those puppies squished the girls so much, my milk ducts on ole righty decided to reply with anger and pain. For those unaware, mastitis is basically a brutal boob infection.

The chemical content can change in breast milk during mastitis and the baby/toddler may not like the taste of the milk. While this was surely happening with Baby D, I also felt pretty sure she was approaching self-weaning from my milk. I decided 2 years ago that I would let her decide when to stop nursing, but I felt this sad dread that those moments of our lives would be over soon.

But I digress.

On antibiotic #2 for mastitis, I was so so bloody tired and run down.
Weak, with no patience.
That night I realized all I had done was criticize and basically be a bitch to Baby D all day. I crawled into her bed while she slept so beautifully... so peacefully. I looked at her angelic face and her tiny nostrils flaring, ever so gently, and realized that she doesn't deserve the wrath of my health woes. She didn't ask me to start running, or to lose weight or do anything other than be her mommy. But yet she gets the brunt of my bad mood and short temper when I am once again down and out.

I cried. Like a real little bitch. True sobbing, but the kind a mom does so no one can hear. Like holding a tornado inside of your body. I shook her pillow unintentionally. She roused slightly as I stroked her face and hair. I planted a kiss on her tiny forehead and thought about how she will master this world, that no one can or should keep her down (most of all, ME), that she is going to do incredible things in her lifetime, and I thought of how pure and wonderful and HAPPY she is. And that this would be the last night I put my 2 year old to bed. Maybe the last time my little toddler would nurse had already happened.

I felt sad and scared of the world, yet full of love.

As if sensing my upset, do you know what my fiery little snowflake did, as if on cue?
She dug her finger so far into her nostril that I'm certain she found gold.

AND IT WAS BRILLIANT.
It was what I needed. A reality check. A slap of BE HERE NOW, WOMAN!
And I giggled. Watching her pick her nose in her sleep was just utterly perfect.

It doesn't need to be all about my pre-disposition-to-all-things-depressed-and-extremely-anxious.

It was so cute and fitting.

She rallied up there for a while, then her hand fell back down on the pillow beside my face. Gawd I love her. I left her room with a smile.

I realized that she's going to keep close to me and keep me on my toes, no matter what comes our way. Not much I can do on the health front... I'm trying my best. I just have to remember to keep trying. And remember that she'll be 3, and her place in this world matters far less to her right now than boogers.

And it's kind of wonderful that way.

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1 Billion Rising: Rape Doesn't Work Like That

*Trigger Warning*

In a world where 1 in 3 women will be beaten or raped in their lifetime, a call to action is a must. I do realize that there are female rapists, but for the purpose of this blog I am addressing the male rapist/female victim scenario that is all too common).

I happened upon this short video yesterday and learned about the 1 Billion Rising movement.

Drawing attention to an important issue like that should be commended. However, I can't help but feel rage and disbelief that they could, would and did depict an attempted rape scene as they did.

As I began watching the video, I could feel my body tensing up at the violence on the screen. As both a survivor of assault and rape, I felt the nausea immediately when I saw the man's hand over the woman's mouth as he held her down (among the many other atrocities in the video).

It was sickening, and it happens all too frequently.

The video description reads:

Published on 20 Sep 2012

*Trigger Warning* A film by Eve Ensler and Tony Stroebel.
Please spread far and wide w/this tweet: Rise up on 2-14 to end Violence against Women in a global event!

If you want to watch the video, I've posted the link right here.

My anger stems from the uprising portion of the video. Yes, you read that right.
As women unite around the world, taking a stance against the abuse and assault, there is a projected sense of increased energy; power. STRENGTH.

This is awful. And incredibly misleading. (Source)

It appears that the woman who is being raped frees herself, only when she seems to feel the strength and energy to push harder and be stronger. I watched it again with my husband, to double check, and I thought that perhaps the male becomes unconscious or something, but not clearly defined. He felt it portrayed the same message that I did.

As a survivor, this is what the video tells ME:
- If you want to escape rape you must realize how strong you are and fight back with your power.

READ: Hey, you were raped, guess you didn't fight hard enough/be strong enough/realize you didn't have to be raped, dumbass.

Additionally, I'm pissed off because of the younger kids, teens, and many women who will watch this video, they will watch it once. It may or may not imprint on them, but if it does, what a message to send. What an atrocious message to send.

RAPE IS NOT a matter of strength on the victim's part.
RAPE IS NOT prevented by the victim.
RAPE IS NOT one woman, or many women, or all the women, or all the women in the world's responsibility to stop.

Yes, awareness of this epidemic is necessary. Yes... we, as a united world, men and women need to raise our collective voices to shout at the governing bodies that the sentences and consequences for rapists are not intense enough, that victims' voices need to be heard and respected during reporting, investigation, prosecution, and that society's general silencing of the frequency and seemingly acceptable occurrences are not. Mothers and Fathers need to teach their sons that raping is a disgusting, unacceptable and horrific violation of a woman and her body. Schools need to take it seriously. Every single occurrence. Every single child, girl, teen, woman, man.

BUT,
and I cannot add enough BOLD text or underlining to make this CRYSTAL FRIGGING CLEAR:

RAPE STOPS WITH THE RAPIST. 

I don't give a shit for any "yeah, but..." sentences. Don't imply I should rise above. Don't imply the onus is on me to be stronger. Fiercer. Louder.

If a woman (or man) says NO.... or STOP. Or is too compromised to consent (through intoxication or blackout) (yes, folks, that's also rape).

RAPE STOPS WITH THE RAPIST. 

END OF STORY.

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Ew

Do you ever just look at yourself in the mirror and think... EW.

?

Or Eeeeeeew. Gross.

?

Just curious.

Sidenote: It appears that 2016 is not my bitch. At all. Not at all. It would appear that so far, 2016 is leading me around on a leash. Check back soon. I'm sure that all this malbec, merlot, and upcoming surgery will SURELY improve my chances.

Peace out.

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Goddammit 2016...

So I post about 2016 being my bitch...

And now I've been on and off the toilet for the past many days. And was so weak yesterday I slept for most of the day, and missed a friend's baby shower.

I'm so weak, I get winded changing my toddler's diaper. Mind you, she's a mover and a shaker, but still.

2016 has already bitten me in the ass.

Jeez.


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Indecent Proposal: 2016, will you be my bitch?

I have a quadrillion drafts in Blogger that I've lost interest in and failed to publish.

I've been up and down. And more down. And kind of desperate. And not in any fun fashion kinda going down.

I've been hurt. Injured all but 2 weeks of the last half of 2015. I've crossed a half-marathon off of my bucket list (more to come on that, if I ever finish the post), but my soul has been aching. My constant pain and lack of mobility has put me in the dumps, and made me a worse parent.

However, it's 2016 up in here.

I feel mildly, as well and forever awkwardly, wiser this year, at least when it comes to my own likelihood of injury. All the naysayers said... and were... essentially... correct. But. It's done.

So, I'm putting this out there. And I know that typically, whenever I've had a modicum of confidence or assurance, it comes back to bite me in the ass. HARD. But I'm going to do this anyway.

2016, I'm coming for you.
You're gonna be my bitch.

It's happening.

2016 will be by bitch.


That is all.


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We Will Miss You Trevso_electric.

I'm not sure why this is hitting me so hard.

I never met Trevor Schlingheyde, and I didn't even know his last name until 4 days ago when I was trying to determine if the Instagram and Twitter comedian had really and truly passed away.

I can't find any solid answers beyond condolences from other celebrity comedians, and notes from his real life friends on his Instagram feed.

Who is Trevor? Trevso_electric?

I don't really know. I just always laughed at the shit this guy posted.

In a series of hilariously, painfully true posts, I realized that many North American girls can be summed up with the following hashtags:
#blessed
#MichaelKors
#Starbucks
#Latte
#literallydying
#uggs
#lulu

That's it. And it's pretty true. Some namastes, yoga and wine references, and it is a sad, beautiful and picture perfect synopsis of how a lot of us are operating.

I laughed at his shit. A lot.

And then I read that he died. And I still don't believe it.
He was a source of light laughter. He was silly and funny, and I always knew I would laugh whenever I could stop and scroll before bed. I looked forward to it.

And I just don't know what happened. And I can't tell him all of that. I never left a comment, never even thought about it. And I just feel sick that he's gone. I feel awful for his friends and family. His dogs. I'm quite certain he was a pitbull owner, and knew how sweet and wonderful those dogs are. A friend of the breed. I liked that. 

And there will be no more.

You were a gem, man. You will be missed.


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Why I Keep My Toddler On A Leash

I'm quite certain a lot of that title didn't need capitalization, but here we are and I'm out of white out.

I keep my toddler on a leash.
Yes, I'm one of THOSE parents. I see the looks you throw my way. I see the literal DISGUST aimed at me when you see and my Baby D wandering around the festival. Tied up no better than a dog, forgawdssake.

"Who DOES that?!?" You ask yourself. The answer?

ME. I keep my toddler ON A LEASH.

Before you throw up a little in your mouth from my lack of ability or desire to control my child otherwise, let's take a quick looky-loo into the life of Baby D and her Momma.

Exhibit A: My child is one sneaky, deaky, mischievous little thing. Wonderful, but sneaky and deaky. And mischievous. Don't forget that part. And curious. (Unrelated side note: spell check just made me realize I have been misspelling and mispronouncing mischievous all of my life).

Exhibit B: My child is small in stature, standing at approximately strangers' crotch height. This makes her hard to spot in a crowd, with her face in incredibly bad placement right now.

Exhibit C: My child is sofa king FAST. I can sense your eye roll. But I assure you that in a short distance sprint, she would kick your ass, and she would deliver your ass back to you in the can of whoop ass that she opened in order to destroy you in the sprint.

          Exhibit C-1: I learned as soon as she was mobile that wedge shoes, high heels, heeled boots and flip flops are never, ever an option. (For me! Yes I leash her, but I try not to dress her in high heels. Usually). I am both injury prone, and slower than her, even on my best days. A rubber soled shoe, ninja-like reaction times, and sprint training is the only way to go with Baby D.

          Exhibit C-2: I live on a hill. Baby D is smart enough to never have the desire to travel uphill. If she is given enough space to squeeze between me and the car door, she will unfailingly sprint the kilometre down the road to the park. Downhill = increase in speed = Mommy heart attack.

Why I keep my toddler on a leash: To guarantee we will see each other even after we've completed the daunting task of navigating IKEA. Visible here: a quick "I'm not moving" break.

Exhibit D: My child suffers from a hearing disorder called "THE TERRIBLE TWOS". This is a widespread phenomenon worldwide, and is compounded by Exhibit A. I may scream "Oh MY GOD, STOP! Cars! DANGER!!" and while she turns her head to display the curious gleam in her eye, she can often fall down, fall off the curb, or interpret that to mean "Hey Baby D! Run as fast as you can away from Mommy! Good job!". This can have serious, serious, even fatal consequences. People in British Columbia are terrible drivers to start with, with a penchant for hitting and badly wounding or killing pedestrians.

Exhibit E: My child is my friend and little monkey nut. I carry her when she wants carrying, but part of the disorder mentioned in Exhibit D parlays into her needing to "do it myselfs!". Which means no hand holding. And the S, D & M in Exhibit A.

Exhibit F: My child completely loses her shit when you try to strap her in a stroller.

So, if you take into account all of these exhibits, I can assure you I am not a lazy parent. I don't walk around with her leashed while I surf Instagram and only acknowledge her when she barks for a treat. You may think I look like a jackass. I don't care. If it means that I keep my daughter, my world, safe from cars and sickos in the world, then go ahead and judge.

It's worth it to know she is as safe as she can be beside me. And not in traffic. And not in the arms of some sick, opportunistic sonofabitch. She does get freedom everywhere it's safe. But a festival, a busy street, or anywhere else I deem to be an at-risk situation requires me to do my job as a parent: keep her safe and loved.

I rest my case.

Also: I'm tired.


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So... How Does One Resign From Parenting? #Fail

Two days ago was not a happy day. Nothing dramatically awful happened, no one was hurt or anything.

I just realized that I am not cut out to be a patient mother and that I really suck at the "terrible twos" with a child. For those of you who call this stage the "terrific twos" I have only two words for you: Fuck you.

There have been many mornings where I wake up and immediately begin the internal judging/berating/belittling inner voice to myself about how I should be doing so much more for my daughter. Or that I can't believe I'm late again for something. Or that I've plopped her in front of Paw Patrol or Toopy & Binoo or the Price is Right (if I am feeling especially selfish that morning and don't want to listen to that annoying talking rat any longer), in the hopes she will eat her sugar-laden Mini Wheats and put SOME TYPE OF FOOD in her little, running, crazy, fearless, adorable little body today.

But two days ago was just so bad. Nothing particular really happened. I just had little patience, high irritation, and low will to live. I made several depressive revelations in succession, and had no energy to deal with any of it.

A vague run down of where my life is at now:

• My house always ALWAYS smells vaguely of shit. Occasionally it's my own aroma being shared with the house, since my child is vehemently against me doing anything personal with the door closed. But usually it is a combo of festering poop diapers in her fancy odorless Diaper Genie pail (HA, odorless her ass!), the random droppings of my ancient blind Great Dane, or the random droppings from my child's butt in failed potty training attempts. No candle can burn all of that shit smell away.
• Dishes. So many fucking dishes. Spanning all the counter tops, and hiding on every other ledge in the house. Dishwasher not quite full enough to run right now with dishwasher safe items? Imma just plop all this highly meltable plastic kid shit in there and a few non-stick pans and fire that baby up!
• Laundry. Always. Then more laundry. My system includes forgetting clean stuff in the dryer for days, having to redo Hubby's stuff (I ALWAYS look like a bag lady, so what's a few more wrinkles to me?), and putting the clean clothes in a pile on the downstairs couch until inspiration strikes and I fold it. (Side note: possibly another 3-5 days until it is carried upstairs when one of us discovers we are totally out of something, like, say, pants).
• Insomnia. So tired I can fall asleep almost instantly, but dammit I cannot stay asleep despite all the sleeping medication in the world.
• No childcare breaks. I am at home with my daughter. I am perpetually battling injury/illness. Pain is exhausting and toddlers give zero fucks about your problems. She never stops. She sprints, she jumps into water, she tests me every 5 seconds, she fights 80% of diaper changes. I am so fucking tired ALWAYS (see above), and have family help for a few hours (often during nap time) maybe twice a month. My family lives provinces away, so when they come, I wanna hang out and visit and not sleep the time away. But I need breaks from my monkey.
• I am horribly impatient. Toddler games are cute for the first five or ten minutes. Then I don't want to play tea cups that spill all over, or pretend to eat mudpies. I have limited patience, and I feel shitty about it, but it's true. Nature walks are fun! If you're idea of fun includes repeatedly wiping gravel out of your child's mouth, standing still while they "fix" leaves with sticks, and don't mind moving 40 feet in about an hour. It's cute, but let's be honest: it's booooring day after day. Or maybe I'm just an asshole. Probably both.
  
• My child subsists on sugar alone, or sugar-laden wheat. I have begged her to finish her chocolate muffin or to at least eat her fries for our Mother's Day meal in the park (spoiler: she ate neither). She won't eat veggies, she rarely eats meat, she feeds mostly off of my desperate offering of every conceivable healthy food option in the house. That seems to satiate her; she has no need for food.

Oh, my Sweet, the world is your jellyfi- I mean... oyster.

I love my little monkey bum. She's so cute, and smart, and charming. I WANT to be a good parent for her, and give her all she needs to thrive. But it's tough not being able to leave and do anything for more than a few rushed hours to get back to relieve someone else. It's tough that she's such a handful that we don't trust many people to watch her, and worry when we leave her. It's tough that hubby and I can rarely do anything together outside of the house. It's tough that I want to keep breastfeeding her, and love the time, but that her latch seems to be getting worse and my boobies are sore all the time. It's sweet that she ALWAYS wants mommy, but tough to always be the one to soothe her despite how hard the Hubs has worked into her good books.

I know the days are long and the years are short. And there are more times when I feel so overjoyed with her. But I think the intense combo of everything above is just burning me out. Suck it up, buttercup. I know.

I just had to get it off my chest.


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Back To The Gym

So it's that time again.

It's been a looong, long time.

I used to go to Goodlife Fitness back in Ontario. Then I moved to BC, got myself all knocked up and herniated, and was told not to do exercises that engaged my ab muscles (read: everything I like to do).

Fast forward through a horrible, painful pregnancy, continuing knee and back pain, nausea, repeated illnesses and infections, chiropractic, massage therapy, acupuncture and physiotherapy.

Still have knee pain. And back pain. And nausea.

I actually have to plan to NOT eat at least 4 hours before I exercise, or else *FRAP-PLOP*: barf everywhere.

But, I am back at the gym in BC. I am a sad sack. I try to do low impact with intensity. I kind of look like a retarded owl with its feet stuck to the ground attempting to make grand gestures. Yup. That is definitely an accurate summary.

I got a fancy heartrate watch that shows me calories burned. It's a GREAT motivator, especially when I know I really want a half-sweet iced coffee after my workout.

I've been using the My Fitness Pal app, too, to track the garbage I throw into my body. Holy hell I eat a lot of hidden sugar. It's terrifying. But I'm going to try to exercise more and not deny myself everything. A Pepsi-less or yummy coffee-less life is a joyless life to me. So I may get there eventually, but I just want to be realistic for now. The app is really eye opening in terms of hidden sugars, protein, and how carb-heavy my diet has been... FOR YEARS.

MY My Fitness Pal. HA.

I may have modified that image a tad.

So far I've lost 13 pounds since January. The double chin is still there, ready to greet you hello on FaceTime, but it's a start.

What do you guys do for motivation out there?

Turns out putting Baby D in childminding at the gym leaves us rife with illness. So I am currently writing this with a cough, mouthful of lung butter and a fever. So, no gym this week, hopefully by the weekend.

Lung butter. A nasty, beautifully accurate phrase I learned from my Dad. Tell me it isn't perfect?!?!


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Why I Suck At The Spa

Wait now... not the best title for a post. I see what I did there.

No, I don't work at a spa. Nor do I suck like... well.. never mind.

What I meant to say is that I can never truly enjoy myself when at the spa, or getting some type of service done. PROFESSIONAL service. Jeez, mind on track people.

First things first - I am a whiny little bitch when it comes to massaging other people. And by that, I mean if the Hubs asks me to rub his shoulders or get the knot in his back. Like, it takes WORK, people. Then I feel all sore. I get all tense and tired and want a massage in return. In addition to just ALWAYS wanting a massage. SO, when I go somewhere for a massage and I know that is what the person does ALL DAY LONG, I just feel bad. I assume they are probably tired or sore or grossed out by so much skin. And I go in feeling like a selfish prick for wanting them to touch mah blubbers.

So, that's how we begin.

Then, there's the whole awkward silence thing. Remember this? Yeah, that made me anxious. I did, in fact, long for the next distraction.

So while I would wholly and completely enjoy some toddler-free, relaxing silence, I feel like it is socially awkward and rude to just be there, quiet. I don't know how the Hubs does it. He hates talking during things like massages and haircuts. I think he would die if he was subjected to the 3-hour ordeals I call hair appointments, where you're sectioned, foiled, bleached, washed, toned, washed again, conditioned, brushed, cut, dried and styled. A lot of talking has to happen during that. I think he would possibly combust.

So I end up asking questions and talking about stupid shit as a nicety. Feigning interest in things the provider says (sometimes it's interesting, but usually by about 15 minutes in, I just want the whole thing over with).

FUN.

At the half way point, I am inevitably concerned about the tip. No, not a penis, get your mind out of the gutter. About the whole "hey, whether or not this was a good service, you're gonna think I'm a cheap bastard if I don't tip you an appropriate amount" business. I weigh the cost of the service in my mind. If I like the person. If they seem genuine (you know, despite my lack of sincerity). I weigh the pros and cons of generosity vs. setting a precedent if I am going to return to them regularly. I try to remember if I have cash on me (I rarely do), and if this place gives the option to tip on the credit card machine.

I'm usually rigid with anxiety and a deep desire to just go home.

NOT.THE.POINT.OF.PAMPERING, dumbass.

Two weeks ago I had my first foot massage/reflexology appointment in over 10 years. I really wanted to just chill and read a book, but I felt rude. Instead, I was subjected to my provider's opinions on industry in Canada versus China, how Canada has it all wrong, how all jobs are going to the US, and how our childrens' futures are screwed. I was so f_cking stressed out afterwards... and he was getting angry, and he actually hurt my left foot.

Sweet.

And I tipped him too much. For reals. Then I had post-service-too-high-tip-regret.

I so long to be relaxed and not be responsible for anything for 45 minutes, an hour, whatever. And I just end up like a frozen body at the morgue, with more on my mind than when I first came through the door.

I had microdermabrasion done on my face in December. I thought I'd see what it was like. Cliff's notes: f_cking HORRIBLE. I could not wait for it to be over. And I stressed about what to leave for a tip when there was nothing enjoyable about the damn thing.

I need to get drunk first, then do these things so I can actually just calm the f_ck down.

Or be normal. There's that. I hear it's nice?

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Irrational Terrible Mom: Nutrients?

I'm going to write a few posts with the "Irrational, Terrible Mom" leader. More than a few times a day, I feel like I'm thoroughly ruining my daughter, so I figured I would run with that for my writing. I LITERALLY dusted off my laptop to do this. *stretches blog writing muscles* *pinches nerve* *curses*

I know I'm not terrible at parenting (shut up y'all, she is still alive and she seems pretty damn smart...), but there are so many areas where I could absolutely improve. So the combination of terrible and irrational seem to work well for this particular thought process of mine.


I took a sleeping pill (yay!) because I get to sleep downstairs tonight (yay!) and not worry about Baby D's cries. That means that I have a limited window of time in which to create this blog post in a coherent fashion, without having to do a walk of shame tomorrow morning for accidentally posting all of my deepest secrets on here while under the influence.

I was thinking today, as my one year old daughter was refusing to eat anything of substance, for yet another day, that I have totally failed when it comes to nutrition for her. She was sick a few months back, and we were desperate to get her to eat. She went from eating an impressive amount of food, to nothing at all for days. It was horrible. I live with perpetual, deep anxiety over her consumption of food ever since we used to have to do everything within our power to wake her every 3 hours and force feed her when she was premature.

So... when she was sick, I removed all my restrictions. We were begging her to eat coffee cake at one point. I threw juice, the nastiest of pre-packaged crackers... hell we even charmed her into eating chocolate at dinner. Short term gain for long term pain. SO MUCH SUGAR.

The child will only eat yogurt-covered raisins now. And I question just how much (read: probably none) ACTUAL yogurt is on those things.

I feel like I've failed her. All day long, as I offer her apples, yogurt, hummus, avocados, oatmeal, oranges, grapes (aka "pre-raisins"), I feel I can sense the Hubs twitching at his desk at work, disappointed in  my effectiveness to get her to eat something actually fresh and wholesome (though, don't get me wrong, that oatmeal is pre-sweetened and packaged, and the yogurt has a shit ton of sugar in it, too).

But this child is the fruit of my loins. Or the raisins of my loins. Ew, no, let's go back to "fruit of".

She likes her some sugah. Just like Momma. Hence why I am still tipping the scales at my 8-months-pregnant weight. Oh yeah. (I really hope you just pictured the Kool-aid Man with my face, crashing through a wall, or else that was all for naught).

Visual approximation of me.

The child knows what Coke is. I have never given it, but she has seen me drink a bottle of it twice. TWICE. Her Grandpa drinks Diet Coke, and has shared a can with her (WTH?!?), but was advised to never do that again. But the kid knows. She even asked for it the other day. A one year old asked for Coke, from the fridge.

She can talk. A lot. And she knows what she wants. She's very clear. So if she says no to me, I know she won't eat it. I try, in vain, and it gets thrown to the dogs from her high chair. (Please don't ever, ever look closely at the tile floor in my kitchen. Martha Stewart would probably convulse.) At a certain point, that's crazy making, so I if she says no, I don't bother trying.

She seems to eat SO MUCH better for the Hubs, especially if I am not around, or if I am lingering quietly on the outskirts of the activity. But the reality is that she is with me for most of our days, and most of her meals.

So, tonight, after her teddy bear excitedly ate some avocado, she finally put some in her mouth. As I distracted her by moving around the kitchen, singing her name and dancing like a tool (complete with a pinched nerve in my lower back) it felt like victory.

When we are out, friends' children eat cucumber. And bananas. And lovely, organic wonderful things, while my child will only eat craisins, raisins, or raisin-variants (she loves wine tasting).

So, my dear child, when you have Rickets, Scurvy, bone density issues, fatigue, anemia and long-term vision problems - please remember that your Daddy negotiated with you to eat chocolate at dinner, and begged you to eat coffee cake.

Mommy loves you
;)

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