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Take On Too Much Disorder: Time to Relax

Take On Too Much Disorder: Time to Relax

One of my favorite pastimes is perusing WebMD for a new illness or disorder I didn’t know I had. Other than comparing each and every mole on my body to their cancerous photo gallery, my next favorite use of WebMD is trying to decipher what is wrong with my brain.

This week, I have concluded that while I show a lot of Bipolar or Generalized Anxiety Disorder tendencies, I truly am in a land of my own. I have Take On Too Much Disorder or TOTMD.

What are the symptoms of such a specific disease, you ask? Let me tell you.

  1. Never say no. Want to come to my Tupperware party? Of course! Join the PTA? Yep! Get another dog? I suppose I could handle that. Have more kids? Okay, I said “disorder” not “full-fledged insanity.”
  2. Do more than expected. I have this sick desire to constantly go above and beyond. School requires 10 hours of volunteering, you bet your ass I want to do 20. Plan to write three times a week. Better make that six and never sleep again. Want to start exercising? Better be ready for a marathon by spring or does it even count?
  3. Start endless “ideas.” This week, I learned about “Snackleboxes” which are tackleboxes to put healthy snacks in for the day that your kids can help themselves to. Well, I bought mine Bento boxes, filled one and it still has snacks in it from Wednesday. Our fridge has our family calendar on it from October, the one and only month I did a family calendar. Or the toybox I bought a year ago for my new minimalist lifestyle that is still in the box. Or the book club I joined because I was determined to read classic novels and I am one page into Jane Eyre and not sure I can go back…
  4. Spiral. I have been told I do too much every single month of my life. I constantly brush it off like I don’t know inevitably it all ends in my unshowered, eating Pillsbury dough dipped in Nutella and crying. There’s always a spiral.
  5.  Make rash decisions. For instance, I started getting nervous this week that I was bored in my weight loss routine and starting to gain weight. So, I decided to double down and bet $100 on DietBet that I could lose 4% of my body weight in four weeks. Obviously, completely necessary.

Let’s just say, the last couple of weeks have been a TOTMD spiral around here. Some of my spinning wheels cogged the machine and it all fell to shit. Mix that with a super bug that took out all four kids and I am barely alive.
So, I am going to continue to write because it soothes my crazies, but maybe, just maybe, I can ease the throttle around here for a hot second.

What crazy things do you do as a parent? Let me know in the comments!

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Getting Jiggly with It: Let’s Talk About My FUPA

Getting Jiggly with It: Let’s Talk About My FUPA

I know what you’re thinking, FINALLY she is hitting the hard issues like the Fair Use Protection Act. But, no, this is definitely not the FUPA my title is referring to. 


I can remember being 12 years old getting ready for my Christmas concert. My mom took our Christmas concert attire extremely seriously. As if Bill and Hilary themselves were going to be gracing Crivitz Elementary School. So, as I stood perched on a stool in my underwear as she creatively doused me in Aqua Net and lace. As she sprayed and teased, she made a comment that puzzled me.


“Oh, you have a little belly pooch just like me,” she said without a passing glance.


Huh? What’s that mean? I thought as I stored that memory away like a worry stone to refer back to for the next 18 years. Didn’t everyone have that little banana bread loaf below their belly buttons? What am I missing? I racked my brain as I stared at my doughy midsection.


Shockingly, I lived before I was lambasted with information from the good old internet on a daily basis. I had not known that my stomach was much to write home about. But, I considered my mother one of the most beautiful women in the world, so I figured it couldn’t be that bad.


Little did I know.


As years went on, my Fat Upper Pubic Area (aka FUPA) began to gain ground. Bikinis were a no go. Underwear needed to reach belly button level in an attempt to stifle the jiggling. Shirts needed to be long enough to cover it. It was a part of me that needed to be considered for nearly every item of clothing.


Now, as I mentioned before, I am currently on a weight loss journey. Sadly, I would kill for that doughy little belly I had in middle school now that I stare at my ravaged body. Three pregnancies, one of which was with two babies, depleted all the elasticity my poor body had left to give. I had a discussion yesterday with two of my friends currently at war with their FUPAs. We all damned them to hell. One cheering that I am finally shrinking my FUPA enough able to see my lady bits and others just trying to find shirts long enough to pretend they don’t exist.


My FUPA as a whole just really depresses me. It makes me sad that after working as hard as I have been to lose 90 pounds (with more to go) I still feel like I’m not good enough. That feeling looking in the mirror that your body is still an eyesore but just in a new way is a hard pill to swallow.


I’m so very grateful for the internet and being able to stand in solidarity with other women like myself. We can laugh about looking like melting women. I can see other women who are proud of how far they’ve come and it makes me feel empowered. It’s nothing new that being a woman in this world is not easy. Now, I’m not about to burst into tears over this giant First World Problem, but I am going to say thank you to the other women who don’t give a fuck when talking about their bodies. Sometimes shit jiggles. Sometimes jeans aren’t an option. Sometimes I eat my weight in nachos and then stare at my jiggly bits and get sad.


And that’s okay.


It’s okay because, while I might not spring back like I used to, I can feel the depression and anxiety I battle loosening it’s death grip around my psyche. I can feel that I might just be on this earth with my four kids a little bit longer. Sure, they might jiggle my “chicken wings” and laugh, but hell, at least I am here for them to laugh with. And I can see myself do things I never thought possible. I can run. I can complete an entire yoga class without sobbing. I can wear knee-high boots and I can stop hiding.


It’s all going to be okay.


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