I’ve reached a point where I’ve just got to lose weight. For me obviously, but now for my kids. It’s breaking my heart.
My oldest is okay. She’s tiny, an actual size zero, but there are still struggles. For several years, I’ve watched her for signs of an eating disorder, but I finally came to the stunning realization that she simply has a different relationship with food than I do. It matters, sure, but she isn’t compelled to eat. Amazing. I wonder what that’s like. I’ll never know that. Ever.
I must be the only mother in America that encourages her daughter to wear less clothing. I had to coerce her into a bikini this season. She’s a 17-year-old size zero. Dear lord. It’s not that I want her to pay for college on the pole or anything, but I do want her to enjoy her amazing body at its peak. I worry that watching me struggle with food affects her body image. Does she see what others see?
My younger kids are now being asked why their mom is fat. I want to die. Their peers aren’t being cruel, they’re just curious. But it’s a little embarrassing for the third grader and I’m the reason. I’m hurting my kids. Because I won’t make good choices about food.
Typing this is making me cry.
So I’m making a concerted effort. Again.
I hate that again. It sucks ass. I have a pretty dress that was a screaming bargain, ordered for my brother’s wedding at the end of September. It’s perfect. I love it. And I think it’s going to have to stay in my closet because I didn’t lose enough weight to get into it. What the hell, self? Was the extra ice cream bar worth it? How about that cheeseburger? Nope. Not even a little.
It’s probably time to seek some help and figure out why I’m not making better choices.