confessions Archives - Page 11 of 13

A fat girl comes clean

September 3, 2014 by Jana 37 Comments

I’ve been going back and forth for awhile about sharing this but after reading some great posts on other blogs, it made me realize I stand to lose nothing by sharing and also, I’d be a bullshit blogger if I didn’t write about things like this. So here we go. And please bear with me as I wade through all of this. I’m going to try and make it as coherent as possible.

Confession: I am fat.

To look at me, you’d say I’m not but I see the number on the scale and I see the size tags on my clothes, and all of it tells me one conclusive fact.

I. Am. Fat.

It’s not like this is something new. I’ve been overweight as long as I can remember, save for a couple of years in my earlyish twenties where I was decidedly not fat (and when I was a kid but I have no recollection of those skinny years). That came after months of hard work and dieting and when I look at myself in the mirror (which, quite frankly, I only do if I absolutely have to), I can still see that almost thin girl trying to get through (if that reminds you of what John Bender says to Claire when he learns her name, that’s totally fine because that’s what went through my head as I wrote it) but in reality, it looks like the fat girl ate her. And her friend.

To say it’s depressing is an understatement.

The thing is, I know it’s my fault. I know how to put a fork down. I know how to close a bag of chips or not eat 14 brownies or have that second serving of whatever. Yet most times, I choose not to. I used to think I didn’t know why but I really do. I just wasn’t willing to admit it before now.

You see, being fat gives me an excuse to hide from all the things that make me nervous: new friends, new situations, being on stage (which I have to do in NOLA at the conference I’m going to), having people look at me. Staying fat means I don’t have to worry about trying to be a published writer or pursuing any other big dreams I have. It lets me hide from being successful; if I’m successful, people have to see me and then I open myself up to all sort of criticizing and condemning eyes.

The worst of which are my own.

Because if you’ve ever had a conversation with me, you know I’m my own worst critic. I’m also my own worst nemesis and if anyone ever said the things to me that I say to myself, we’d no longer be friends.

I’m that vicious.

You should know that I beat myself up about how I look pretty much daily. It’s as natural to me as breathing. It’s so ingrained in who I am that I genuinely don’t know how to stop. I’m pretty sure if I were thin again, I’d still do it. You see, once you have that version of “fat you”, no matter how much weight you lose, you still see yourself as fat. Even if you have all the empirical data to prove otherwise, what you see in the mirror doesn’t change because you can’t reconcile the new you with the fat you. Not without tons of hard work and maybe even a little therapy.

And the thing is, I know I’m not the only one. I know there are plenty of women out there (men, too), who do exactly what I do every single day. And like me, their self worth is completely contingent on what the scale says in the morning or how a certain shirt looks or if our pants can fit straight out of the dryer. Which is total bullshit because I know I’m a good person despite my weight. I care about people and animals and I recycle and I call my mother. I’m fun. I’m intelligent. I’m moderately talented. I practice good personal hygiene. Yet when I look in a mirror, I don’t see that. I don’t see all the good parts about me. And all the women like me ignore all the other good, amazing aspects about themselves, too.

We just see fat.

It needs to change.

Because feeling this crappy every single day, not because of comments from strangers or husbands or friends, but because of what we say to ourselves, well, that’s pretty much the worst feeling in the world.

So for all the fat girls out there who are unhappy and don’t know where or how to start feeling better, let me be your guinea pig. Let me work out all the kinks for you. Let me do something about it and share the experience with you so when you’re ready, you can learn from my mistakes. And let me be your support because honestly? I get it. Even if it seems like no one else understands or comprehends what you’re going through, please know that I do.

Because we’re the same.

But this journey is more than just losing weight. That’s actually the easy part. The hard part is changing my inner dialog. I need to stop berating myself daily. I need to acknowledge that who I am is not dictated by how I look. I need to stop being so hard on myself and start giving myself compliments (and accepting them from others), even if I have a bad day or week or even month. I need to accept that I am more than my weight. I need to believe am a good person despite the fact that maybe I’m not ideal on a chart.

And even if I never reach some arbitrary ideal weight, that’s okay. This whole thing is about me learning to be happy with me. It’s not for anyone else. It’s only for me.

And if that’s a little selfish, then so be it. I have to live with me for the rest of my life.

You might only have to look at me for a few minutes.

Linking up with Kathy and Liz

Save

Confession: I’m not supermom

August 27, 2014 by Jana 28 Comments

This post was supposed to go live on Monday but life got in the way. Better late than never, I suppose.

The last few weeks I’ve done some parenting confessions and this week is no exception. I didn’t think I had so much to confess as a parent but clearly I do so we’ll keep this train rolling until it falls off the tracks.

This week, I confess that I stopped trying to be supermom. As in, I don’t even try anymore. I turned in my cape and shield. And I’ve never been happier.

When my daughter was born, I had this notion in my head that I’d be the mom I’d been brainwashed to believe that I should be. I’d lose all the baby weight really quickly (ha! That’s a cruel ass joke. We’ll be diving into my weight issues in the next few weeks), I’d always look put together, my house would look Pinterest worthy (or whatever it was called in 2007, right after my daughter was born), I’d cook healthy meals, I’d be the classroom volunteer, and I’d be able to balance everything. My kid would always look supercute, I’d be organized, and I’d do all these fun crafts and projects and I’d look like the type of mom you read about on all those “I’m a perfect mom and you wish you were like me” blogs.

Which was insane of me to think. I am not that put together. If I got 2 of those done on any given day, I succeeded. But I had put so much pressure on myself to be the perfect mom that it led to some not so healthy behaviors, both physically and mentally. I’d beat myself up daily that the house was a disaster or I forgot to do laundry (again) or we had to get takeout (again) or I was a hot mess when I left the house. And we won’t even get into the mommy guilt about putting my daughter in daycare.

Actually, yes. We will.

>>>steps on soapbox<<< My daughter was a daycare kid. I had to work because the income I was earning far exceeded the cost of putting her in daycare. My family needed that money to, you know, eat and survive, and so I worked. I felt guilty for awhile, mostly as a result of people trying to make me feel like shit about it. Then I realized they didn’t live my life and if they weren’t willing to pay my mortgage and other bills, then they had no business spewing their opinions at me. Also, I LIKED WORKING. I liked earning my own paycheck and not relying on someone else and getting out of the house and engaging with other adults and using my working brain to be something other than someone’s mother. So I let that guilt go. And if you’re in that situation, you need to let it go, too. No one has any business telling you what is best for your family. If they try, politely tell them to shut the fuck up. >>>steps of soapbox<<<

I think letting the mommy guilt about daycare go was the first step in realizing I’ll never be supermom. I was never going to be the mom that devoted her entire life and existence to her kid. And I was actually okay with that. And becoming okay with that meant that I could come to terms with my other perceived shortcomings.

Accepting my shortcomings as a parent actually made me a better parent. Because now, instead of focusing my energy on the unimportant things, I could focus on the important ones. For instance, I stopped worrying about whether or not my daughter looked cute and trendy all the time. There were, and are, some days when as long as her clothes are clean and free from holes, I don’t care what she wears. So I confess my child will never be a fashionista or catalog model on my watch. But her clothes fit and are seasonally appropriate and I keep them in good enough condition to pass them on to others.

Here’s another mommy point to deduct–I have no interest in being part of the PTA. As in, I genuinely don’t care and will not join. It would just frustrate me and take time away from everything else that is exponentially better than joining the PTA. I don’t feel the need to be that involved with her school, and by opting out of that commitment, I have time to help with homework or volunteer when I feel like it instead of being obligated. I can enjoy her little concerts instead of working them and I can preserve my friendships by not harassing people for money.

I know it’s trendy to do so because clearly the more you share, the more you love your kid, but I do not overshare my kid’s life on social media. I know “good moms” post every little mundane detail about a kid’s life on Facebook or Instagram or whatever, and I do share the big stuff like losing a tooth or the first day of school or the training wheels coming off her bike, but the every day stuff? Nope. I don’t need to share every picture of her being cute or every snarky, crazy comment that comes out of her mouth. There are moments I like to keep for myself. Call me selfish, call me private, say I don’t love her enough to brag about her all the time. Doesn’t matter to me. Her life doesn’t need to play out on social media.

And we already know I’ve given up on having a perfectly clean house. My interior decorating skills are shit, my crafting skills are minimal at best, and I have really given up trying to look at all decent on a daily basis. I figure as long as I get a shower every day, I’ve won. When you take all of this into consideration, not a super mommy do I make.

I’m sure I do some things that people perceive as overachieving. I like to make cute food crafts for her on special occasions. I bake and decorate her birthday cake or cupcakes every year. I plan semi-elaborate birthday parties (her birthday is in December and I refuse to let it get lost in the shuffle of Christmas and Hanukkah). I have her places on time. I remember and stick to commitments (and please don’t give me this “oh, you only have one. It’s so much easier for you” nonsense. My parents had 3 of us and I learned this behavior from somewhere). I cook dinner most nights and I pack her lunch every day. But I don’t consider most of this overachieving. I consider it being a responsible adult.

We can discuss that if you’d like.

Here’s the thing. I know I’m a good mom. I don’t need to live a Pinterest ready or be an overachiever in order to prove it. And neither do you. We’re all just trying to do the best we can. So if you need to hang up your supermom cape, go ahead.

I’ll clear a space for you.

Linking up with Kathy and Liz

Save

12 things I don’t do as a parent

August 19, 2014 by Jana 46 Comments

This week’s confessions are inspired by this post from Babble and this post from Amber at Airing My Dirty Laundry.

I will most likely never win Mother of the Year.

Here’s a small sample of why.

I lose my temper, I feed my daughter Chick Fil A probably more than I should, I’ve been known to curse in front of her, and occasionally, I’ll tell her to talk to Siri when I want to stop answering her incessant and endless questions. I admit to looking forward to a few hours silence when she has cheer practice or school or a play date and I definitely will run errands in the evening and pretend it’s a vacation.

I’m not even remotely ashamed. In fact, I’ve written a whole post confessing that some things I do might make me a terrible parent.

Consider these confessions a balance to those. Or maybe not a balance but an accompaniment. Depends on how you want to look at it. I think there might even be an overlap or two.

That’s fine.

Let’s get to it. As a parent, I don’t:

Have a panic attack if she gets hurt. Cuts, bruises, scrapes and their ilk are all part of childhood. Not every injury is cause for a freak out session and if I’m panicking, how can I expect her to calm down? Right. I can’t. So I stay calm and put a band aid on it. She’ll heal.
Lose my shit if she stains her clothes or gets too dirty. Like getting hurt, it’s a part of childhood. Kids are messy, filthy little things and my child is no exception. Watching her eat certain foods is revolting, and it’s no wonder her clothes eat, too. I also don’t buy her such expensive clothes that if they get a stain, it’s worth getting angry. I just throw some Shout on it and move along.
Let her win. Losing is a part of life and she needs to learn to do that graciously, too. It’s all part of good sportsmanship, especially now that she’s older and needs to learn those lessons. Lest you think I am a heartless bitch of a mother rather than just a terrible one, there are plenty of times she legit kicks my ass. I am seriously overmatched in Birthday Party Monopoly.
Play Barbies. Or have tea parties or play dress up or create elaborate scavenger hunts or do a whole lot of playing in general. I’ll do crafts, play board games, take her places, and once, I let her give me a makeover. But I am not a get on the floor, play Barbies kind of mom. I did it once and it was terrible. I don’t care to do it again.
Watch everything she does. If I spent my days responding to all the “Mom, watch this!” shouts, I’d get even less done. Which is hard to imagine. But I can’t stop my life every time she wants to show me how she can spin in a circle or do a cartwheel. I know that shit. I’ve seen it eleventy billion times. I watch the important stuff. But sometimes I just have to say no to the little stuff.
Give her control of the radio in the car. Or the TV in the living room. We all live in this house. We all drive in the car. She is not the only one, and quite frankly, most of her taste in entertainment sucks a fat one. She has a few gems (seriously, iCarly is freaking funny) but for the most part, it’s all terrible. It’s hurts my ears, eyes, and soul to watch or listen to it. So I make her share. She needs to be more well rounded anyway.
Keep an immaculate house. I’ve confessed all my dirty housekeeping secrets before but it bears repeating. And while we’re at it, my house doesn’t look Pinterest worthy. Or even ready for company. But it’s comfortable and clean enough and I’d rather spend time and money on trips, days at the beach, and making memories than cleaning. Having a clean, perfect house is not a priority and quite frankly, it is too damn stressful. Plus I have a kid and pets and a husband and cleaning up after them is about as sensical as shredding cheese with a nail file.
Wait on her, hand and foot. Last time I checked, she wasn’t royalty and I wasn’t hired help. As such, she can clean up after herself, put her laundry away, get her own snacks and drinks, and do chores. Without being bribed.
Like all of her friends. Have you met some people’s kids? Yes? Then you know that some of them are huge assholes. I cringe when my child is friends with one of those kids, and I cringe even more when she hangs out with them. The thing is this, though. They’re not my friends. I don’t have to like them. And I will tolerate them. Until they do something I can’t tolerate. Then the gloves come off (not literally. I will simply forbid my kid from seeing whenever possible).
Live vicariously through her. This is her childhood, not mine. It is not my place to force her to make up for all my shortcomings or unfulfilled dreams and wishes. It would be wrong for me to do that, and would take away all of her independence and ability to make her own choices. She needs to figure out for herself what she likes and doesn’t like.
Think she’s perfect. I am the first one to admit that my child fucks up. She cops an attitude, she doesn’t listen, she makes mistakes, and things are sometimes her fault. She is not free from blame during fights with friends, she messes up in school, and she’s not always the superstar. Does she do the best she can? Most of the time. Is she amazing in her own way? Absolutely. But is she perfect? Nope.
Call her my BFF. Remember when Steph wrote about how she didn’t marry her best friend? Well, I didn’t give birth to mine. I am her mother and that trumps being her friend. It is a role that needs no other definition. Quite frankly, it creeps me out when a parent says her school aged child is her BFF. Really?! That can’t possibly be healthy. I love my daughter and would do anything for her. Except call her my best friend. Because in addition to the creepy dynamic, it puts way too much pressure on her. Which isn’t fair.

And now you know all my dirty parenting secrets.

My parenting style isn’t for everyone and it certainly isn’t trendy. But my kid knows that she’s loved, safe, and well cared for.

And it works for me.

So I’m clearly doing something right.

Linking up with Kathy and Liz

Confessions of a reluctant cheer mom

August 13, 2014 by Jana 34 Comments

Confession time. My daughter? Is a cheerleader.

Take a moment and let that sink in. Especially if you’ve been a longtime (or longish time) reader. Because you know that I’m not about pep and team spirit or even wearing skirts. Glitter I can handle. The rest, though? Not so much.

But approximately 2 years ago, when we were offering her choices for activities, she said no to all of them. Every. Last. One. And then, out of the blue, she says she wants to cheer. Naturally I was confused as fuck because really? Cheerleading? How on earth did that come up and more specifically, where did she get the idea? Certainly not from me. Or her father. I wanted to say no because what. The. Hell. How can I, of all people, raise a cheerleader. But I love my kid more than I love my stereotypes so I tried to be open minded and signed her up for the introductory classes at the Y and she loved it and showed an aptitude and now, here we are, parents of a competitive cheerleader.

It’s truly not something I ever thought I’d be. And throughout her first year, I didn’t warm up to it quickly. At all. There were some external reasons I won’t get into but some of it did come from me. But the more we got into it, the more I gave in. And now? You guessed it. I’m a cheer mom.

And I am learning things I never thought I’d learn. Like cheerleading vernacular. Yup. It’s its own thing. Herky and high V and liberty and basket toss and teddy bear and pike jump and all the other words that are now tossed around like a flyer at my house (see what I did there? Flyer? Cheer humor at its finest). While I’m still learning some of the vocabulary, I’m now mostly fluent in cheer. We can put that in the “never thought that’d happen” bucket.

You know what else I know now? How to do cheer hair, which, incidentally, is its own thing (I also know where to buy cheer hair. So if you ever need it, just ask). I was unaware of this and, now that I am, I have a clear understanding of how the hairspray industry stays afloat. Competitive cheerleaders. My daughter used more hairspray during her first season of competition cheer than I have in 37 years of life. And I lived through the 80s and early 90s. That’s a lot of hairspray, folks.

I can totally see my daughter saying this to someone one day.

As if that’s not enough, I now find myself encouraging her cheering. I look for cheer quotes and crafts on Pinterest. I buy her clothes with cheer stuff on them. I’ve talked to the other moms about buying specifically designed cheer mom t-shirts (and if we can’t get those, I plan to buy the sparkliest shirt I can find). I have opinions on the routines and I make her practice at home. I even find myself volunteering (okay, fine, I’m going to my first volunteer meeting tonight). When my daughter got kicked in the face by her flyer the other night at practice, I told her I was proud that she got her first injury (I have never admitted that I will win mother of the year). But the bottom line is that I’ve become immersed in cheer because I’d be a shitty parent if I didn’t. I love my kid and I support her, even if, deep down in place I don’t talk about at parties, I still don’t get it.

But despite the fact that I don’t get it, I need to say this: I now realize that cheerleaders truly are athletes who deserve respect rather than mockery. They train and condition their bodies and do shit that really shouldn’t be humanly possible. Even at a young age, they’re lifting their flyers, doing basket tosses, tumbling, jumping, spraining, bruising, and hurting themselves all for the sake of being the best. Cheerleading isn’t just bows, sparkly makeup, and silly chants at football games (and it’s certainly not the crap you see at NFL and NBA games. That shit is simply ridiculous). It’s physically demanding, hours of practice and, at times, emotionally draining, and what impresses me the most is that when those girls get hurt, they keep going. They are badasses to a degree that only gets associated with sports like hockey and football.

I will be the first to say the bitchiness is real. I’ve seen it but typically more from the parents than the cheerleaders (parents are bad sports. Some of the worst I’ve ever seen), which is nice. And there are definitely some stage moms (including me at times. Yeah, I admit it. But if I’m spending all this money, she better work hard). And it does get frustrating when people mock you for having a cheerleader. But to see the look on my daughter’s face, and the happiness she gets at practice, football games, and competitions makes the early morning hours, the seemingly endless competitions filled with painfully loud, nearly identical cheer mixes, the loss of any social life for 6 months, and the constantly having to fend off negative comments and stereotypes about cheerleaders worth it.

So there you have it. I confess that I’m a cheer mom. My 16 year old self would be shocked. But my 37 year old self is proud.

Linking up with Kathy for the first time in a few weeks.

Jana don’t give a sh!t

July 16, 2014 by Jana 33 Comments

Remember that viral video from a few years ago, Honey Badger Don’t Give a Shit? Today’s confessions is a complete ripoff of that and that’s why it’s title Jana Don’t Give a Shit. Because sometimes maybe I steal borrow great ideas. And I don’t give a shit.

Other things I don’t give a shit about:

Dancing with the Stars, The Bachelor/The Bachelorette, any Real Housewives, or any of the litany of reality TV shows. Except Teen Mom. Bring that train wreck on!
How much square footage your house is. Unless you’re living in one of those tiny houses or a mansion bigger than Delaware, it doesn’t matter to me.
What the rain near your house sounds like. Seriously. It’s rain. We all know what sound it makes when it hits a building or house or the ground. You don’t need to share videos of it.
Your cryptic Facebook status. Instead, post a sign that says “Pay attention to me!!!” At least I can appreciate your honesty while I’m not caring about you.
What any celebrities wear, ever.
Which celebrities are dating, which ones are procreating, and which ones are getting divorced.

How much you paid for things. Unless you’re getting a great deal and you can share said deal. Or it’s some amazing, creative money saving tip. Then I care. Lots.
Science fiction anything. Books, movies, Comic Con…all of it. And comic books are the worst because, let’s face it, they’re not really books. I don’t like lying. And calling something that’s not a book a book is straight up lying.
People breastfeeding in public. It’s just boobs and the kid needs to eat. Deal with it (and I was a formula mom so there’s no underlying agenda here).
What anyone thinks of my taste in books, clothes, music, home decor, TV shows, or movies. They’re not intended to make anyone else happy. They’re for me.
How tired you are. We’re all tired. Same goes for busy. Quit bitching.

Football. There is truly no way I could care less about it. Unless it’s hockey or basketball. Then I care less.

That’s pretty much the tip of the iceberg. Maybe it’s the first few layers. But I fear that if I keep going about shit I don’t care about then you’ll stop caring about this post and that would make me sad. So, let’s hear from you guys. What don’t you give a shit about?

Linking up with Kathy, as always.

A fat girl comes clean

Confession: I’m not supermom

12 things I don’t do as a parent

Confessions of a reluctant cheer mom

Jana don’t give a sh!t

Connect with Me

Subscribe to Jana Says