OMG Like So Boring

One of my favourite blogs... okay, that's actually factually inaccurate because it started as a FB feed, then delved into Tumblr and Instagram, THEN blogging... A Message With a Bottle put out a call over the weekend for contributors, as his life and site were getting way too busy. The guy also writes articles, has a couple books such as Thank You for Not Laughing, The New Dad Dictionary, and these two winners about being an asshole and getting away with it. 

I started following him - in the social media sense, not a literal stalking sense - when I had just had my daughter and a friend had posted some of his hilarious post-it notes on Facebook. It was kind of an epiphany, to me, that I had the same thoughts that others did when it came to the odd situations you find yourself in as a parent... not to mention a father. Where that seems a bit sexist on my part, which I freely admit it is, when you are the stay-at-home parent and your significant other goes off to work every day, you kind of fall back into sexist stereotypes. 

So Chris puts out the call for contributors, and I'm excited. I love writing, and I love being a sarcastic asshole about life. And parenting, I guess. So I skim his post and shoot off an email, being witty and carefree and all that jazz. 

Then I go back and read the original call for contributors. 

"We’re Looking For A Few Good — And We’ll Even Consider Average — Parents To Join MWAB

Leave a reply

Hey! It’s me, the guy who runs this place. Yeah, the post-it note guy.

Here’s the deal — this website is growing rapidly and it’s gone way beyond a one man operation. I can’t do this alone, and frankly, I don’t want to. So that’s where all of you come in. I’m looking for writers. Hell, you don’t even have to BE a writer. I’m looking for people to help create content.

So what’s content? Well it’s anything that moms and dads would give a crap about. Do you have an insane hobby people would want to read about? Is your regular job fascinating to strangers? Do you cook, build, destroy or do anything in the free hours not spent dragging kids from place to place that you want to share with others? Well, that’s content.

Even if you’ve already got a website, Tumblr or creative outlet for your passion, I still want to hear from you. Let’s work together! <– said like an annoying kid’s show character"

Shit. Did he just say a hobby or job that's fascinating that other people would want to read about? So I'm wracking my brain for what I do and I draw an enormous blank. I knit. I crochet. I cook. I bake. I parent. That's about all that I've got going on, and with pregnancy number 2 knocking me on my ass (why hello, 3 hours of sleep last night because of NO REASONS AT ALL) I barely squeak by on one of those options. I'll give you a hint: it's the only one that I have to do legally. 

I blatantly sucked up in my email, even made notice of it, with how I bought & read his Thank You for Not Laughing book. It was one of the first purchases I made on my Kindle, so that's saying something. I know that I said something along the lines of how I could offer a female perspective on parenting and going through the whole pregnancy and birth bullshit, but no one wants to read about that. There are already SO MANY OTHER sites that do that, like ScaryMommy, so why bog down this lighthearted site with posts about how much of a pain it is to be pregnant etc. 

All in all, even though Chris was nice enough in the response email stating that he got so many offers of contributions (I seriously don't know why he was surprised - we live in the digital age where outside is something to fear and the Internet is our best friend) so he'd reply  back with specifics later n the week, I don't think I'm interesting enough to offer something to an already incredible website. Does this depress me? Sure, at the root of it. But if anything it makes me want to find a better hobby than yarn crafts so that I can impress people. 

Or I can just say that I've literally stood elbow to elbow with the Mayor of Saskatoon (The Atch himself) as we attempt to correctly say names during a lot draw. 

Gestational Diabetes: A Love Story

So it's no secret that I'm not a skinny minny. And, well, if you didn't know that by now then you are either blind or are just really good at seeing the beauty inside of me or something like that.

There's a big misconception about being plus sized and pregnant, and that is the likelihood of gestational diabetes. The truth is, everyone is at risk for gestational diabetes when they're pregnant. Everyone. Because guess what? Gestational diabetes is caused by a fluctuation of hormones (oh gee, I think there's something about being pregnant that does that...) and how said fluctuation reacts with your body's ability to process sugar. Nowhere in there does it ever state that plus-sized women will definitely get GD.

Don't get me wrong, the chance is definitely higher when you're plus-sized, but that's not just for GD. That's for diabetes in general. The first thing that doctors say when you're in a higher risk bracket is to lose weight, and there's science behind that. It's not that the doctors don't want to deal with a larger person and the health issues; rather, they don't want YOU to have to deal with the health issues that come from being plus-sized.

Back to specifics though.

Yes, I'm plus-sized and have been for longer than I care to admit (okay, fuck, it's been 10 years). But I'm a lovely medical marvel. Aside from some lovely lactose intolerance and IBS (TMI? DON'T CARE), I'm healthy as a goddamn horse. No thyroid issues, no diabetes, my blood pressure has been great before, after, and during pregnancy, and I've somehow managed to maintain the flexibility and muscle tone from dancing all those years ago. It's just all covered in a substantial layer of skin, stretch marks, and fat.

Now I'm going to have to be a hypocrite. When pregnant with Olivia, I was diagnosed Glucose Intolerant. What does that mean you ask? It's the same thing as being intolerant of other things, like lactose. My body just couldn't process it right. Yes, it's a wimpy version of diabetes. But I'm about 900% sure I brought it on myself. I had squeaked by on a fail on the 1 hour glucose challenge where you don't fast but you aren't supposed to eat for 3 hours prior to the test. So I had to do that pesky 3 hour test where you fast for like 10 hours. I had to do that one at I think 30 weeks pregnant last time, so I woke up first thing in the morning and was pretty sure I was going to pass out if I didn't eat something. So I shoved a piece of bread in my mouth and hoped for the best.

Idiot. I'm an idiot. Carbs = sugar = fucking up the results. Le sigh.

Anyway, all it meant for me was that I tested my sugar levels at regular intervals: first thing in the morning, after meals at 1 hour and after meals at 2 hours. If my levels were a little high, I made a notation that I probably shouldn't eat that item again OR that I need to eat at more regular intervals. I didn't have to report it to anyone, but my doctor would ask for a summary at each of my pre-natal appointments just so that he could keep note of it himself. At 41 weeks and 3 days, I gained a total of 35 lbs, and Olivia was born at 7 lbs 10 oz and no sugar dependency. Which means, hallelujah, keeping track of shit worked.

This time around, I just asked my doctor if I could bump right up to the fasting test. That way if the results came back high or borderline again, I'd know and could just do the same thing I did last time. I did the test on the weekend and will see my doctor next week, so we'll see how that went then.

What brought on this post? I belong to a group of moms from all across Canada who are due in April 2015. The past two weeks have been nothing but "Oh no I have to take the GD test" and "My life is over I failed the 1 hour". And it's taking literally ALL of my willpower not to tell them all to shut the fuck up because it is NOT the end of the goddamn world. You just have to be a little more vigilant in what you eat and when, and make sure that you're not going crazy with the super carby or sugary foods - including those that contain naturally occurring sugars. If you're bad enough, yeah you'll need insulin but again... NOT THE END OF THE GODDAMN WORLD.

But you try using logic in a group of 100+ hormonal pregnant women. I dare you.

All I Want for Christmas is to Live in My Home

This year has been filled with ups and downs. Too many people close to me and/or close to people close to me have passed away. The newest one being my great-grandmother (although if we're being sticky on the relation it's my step-great-grandmother), who passed away on Friday morning. She lived to be a grand 100 years old, and after listening to some stories from my dad (again, step-dad if we're being picky) she led a full life. She had health issues as she got older, strokes dementia and the last drop in the bucket was a heart attack, but she was still wily and funny.

Friday afternoon, Tyler calls me at work on my cell phone, letting me know that our basement flooded. As we live in an entry-level bi-level townhouse, this means that all the bedrooms and our full bathroom and the storage area is in the basement. I kind of brushed off the damage because I had other things on my mind - work was busy as we sent co-workers home sick, Granny had passed, etc - but once I got home later I realized just how much damage was done. After speaking with different levels of people that are needed for this job, we were informed that all of our stuff would need to come out, they would rip out all of the carpeting and the subfloor, and more than likely rip out 2 feet of drywall out of every single wall.

Again, this didn't seem like THAT big of a deal. Until I realized that we wouldn't be able to stay in our bedrooms, that we would have to move everything upstairs, and that Olivia would basically be our clock as to when we go to bed.

This blows.

So last night Tyler moved our mattress upstairs as we had spent the previous night sleeping on couches and had the worst sleep ever.

Olivia insisted that we put up the Christmas tree, as Tyler had left the box upstairs and she kept going to it and saying "Christmas tree! OPEN" and would get mad when I would say no. Our box of decorations was unscathed, but I just can't seem to bring myself to deck the halls, as it were. So our tree is going to have to do.







We've got all of our clothes in bins that my parents emptied from my Gramma's house, and then we've got boxes of other stuff upstairs with our other belongings. Our hall closet now houses not only coats and shoes, but my wedding dress and my work clothes.





I fully realize that we got off lucky. We didn't have gushes of water or a tsunami. At most there was probably an inch or two that flowed through from the end unit (two doors down) through to the other end unit (the one on the other side of us). But the fact is that it still came through, and the water sat because our building manager didn't call the FirstonSite people for 2 days. Those guys were definitely pissed that the call came so late, because they should have been out here within an hour to get the water removed.

We don't know when construction will even start because the condo insurance apparently has to put out a call for offers/bids. And even then, the condo association will have to get involved to determine just how much money they're going to put into it. It could be fucking months until we're back to normal in our house.

I've been flip-flopping between finding the bright side and being totally bummed about everything. Bright side: new carpet, they'll paint our rooms (we were going to re-paint Olivia's old room for this new baby and paint the spare room to be Olivia's new room), and they threw out all of the garbage that we really should have thrown out years ago. But the bummed out side is that we will potentially be out of our house for weeks on end or we're going to be living in our upper level for weeks on end until things get started. It's fucking baloney.

So, Merry Christmas to everyone... but i'll be sitting in the Bah Humbug corner.

Sometimes, It's Just Too Much

What a weighted subject heading. It could seem maudlin, melodramatic, depressed, or literal. I mean it both literally and I guess figuratively.

The one gripe I have with pregnancy right now is my body's inability to do everything that I used to be able to with no problem. I could spend the day filing and actually doing my job or I could spend an hour putting up Christmas decorations without so much as an achy hip. Now? I have to lay on the couch for the rest of the evening because I hurt everywhere. I get the lovely round ligament pains with the occasional random twang elsewhere, and my back and hips ache like I'm a bedridden 100-year-old. It's absolute garbage. I was getting so much better at life pre-pregnancy, and then all of a sudden I turn a complete 180 and suck at everyday everything.

Woe is me, right?

The figurative 'Too Much' is just with the amount of emotional upheaval dealt to me this year. Wait, that sounds a little too contrite. What I mean is, the emotional upheaval indirectly dealt to me. The horrible thing about getting older is that you are going to be around death a lot more often. You always hope (or pray) that it's not your friends because you're just way too young to be dealt that card. But it just seems like lately, everyone I know has had someone close to them pass away. Me specifically, it was my Gramma and then my friend's 1-year-old son almost immediately after. That was just too much for me to deal with at that time. This year has also taken two of my husband's great-relatives within a week, a new friend's in-utero baby and potentially themselves (said new friend is currently in the hospital in the high risk wing because they don't know what is wrong with her), and just recently an old friend's fiance to the bitter battle of cancer. Why can't I just be a teenager again, where I wasn't directly affected by any of this?

Husband told me tonight that for every sad story I tell him, I have to follow it up with a funny one. And how bad is it that I couldn't think of any off the top of my head? My day was filled with crappy ones - starting with some a-hole parking in my reserved stall at work so I had to park in the overflow lot which is another 3 blocks away, then work being so boring I wanted to gouge my eyes out, and then 1 hour of Christmas decorating at work is apparently too much for my pregnant body, then finding out about friend's fiance and new friend's hospital stay. Oh wait, I guess the funny story was me backdoor bragging about how judgmental my family is. That counts, right?

I guess I'll round out this post with some pregnancy updates and then sign off:

- 21 weeks today
- I feel like an achy tired mess, and my toddler doesn't understand why I can't lift her up anymore
- Easter Bunny (as husband has decided it shall be named) was being a turkey during the ultrasound last week and we couldn't determine gender nor could we get a look at their face or heart. So I get to go back for another ultrasound. Yay, I guess?
- Somehow the cold is breaking through my increased internal temperature and I find myself cold more often. I don't know if this is a good thing yet.

Pregnancy - The Reality of It

You'll always hear different tales of pregnancy. Some women get the worst of it: nausea for all 9 months, acne, bloating, hair EVERYWHERE, etc. Others just seem to float through it, developing a beautiful basketball belly and just seem to look like a perfect pregnant lady.

Watch 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' and it'll give you a pretty accurate view point of the differences.

With me, my two pregnancies have been relatively similar. Nausea during the first trimester, but where last time I was able to laze around and sleep it off this time I had a toddler and a job to be held accountable to.

With my daughter, the only issues I had were my weight (which I'll get into in a minute) and that I was glucose intolerant. That means that I didn't have gestational diabetes, but I wasn't scot free either. I tested my blood sugar like 8 times a day, and kept a food diary. But by doing that, I guaranteed that my child (and subsequently myself) was healthy. She came out, 10 days overdue, at 7 lbs 10 oz which is a perfectly average sized baby.

My weight is a different story.

When I say I only gained 30 lbs when pregnant, some people get pissed off because they gained 60+. Be all pissed off, but then realize that I started pregnancy at a whopping just-shy-of 300 lbs. Morbidly obese according to everything. I was lucky that I mostly gained weight in my belly, and in my boobs, and just a bit in my face. I swelled up a bit in the hands and feet, but nothing crazy like some of my friends who couldn't fit their shoes.

When it came time to have my daughter, I was in labour for about 20  hours with 1 hour of active pushing before they called for a c-section. By this point I was like "JUST GET HER OUT I DON'T CARE HOW". Like, I heard the OB and OB resident whispering about a c-section and I was like "Did you say c-section? Where do I sign? Let's get started".

Once in the OR, the OB and OB resident were faced with a problem. Because I have that hideous permanent fanny pack that lots of larger women have, they couldn't figure out where the best placement for the incision was. If they went under the flap, they ran the risk of infection because I wouldn't be able to see it or clean it properly/keep it dry. If they went over, they ran the risk of it just not being a nice scar or healing clean away.  They chose to go on top, simply to minimize the risk of infection. I do not regret them their decision, because in the end it was the best decision.

I suffer a lot of insecurity about it now, though, almost 3 years later. Especially being pregnant again. Everything is wonky, the scar (as well as the 4 laproscopy scars from my gall bladder surgery) is so fucking obvious and just goddamn hideous. I can't hide it. If I wear leggings and not a long enough shirt, you can even see where it indents between my belly and my flap. My flap is uneven because the skin wasn't pulled up evenly when they stapled it together and that's a huge bone of self-consciousness for me.

I find myself disgusted at my own body, even more than I was before babies. And this time, it's something that I had no control of. Yes, okay, it could be argued that I had control of my body pre-babies and that I could have lost the weight and sorted it out so I wouldn't have to deal with this now... But that's hindsight. When you're lying on an operating table and you're just anxious to meet your child, you give no fucks about how they come out. You give no fucks after the baby is out because you had your child FINALLY and you are 100% absorbed with them and their needs.

It's only once you start to get over that birth that you realize that things are not going to be the same. Lots of smaller women have issues with their hips having permanently stretched, or they have some extra skin because they got so big with their child. We all have insecurities, and I fully acknowledge that mine are just added into that lump, but Christ... I feel disfigured.

Pregnancy is beautiful, and wonderful... until it's not.

Growing A(nother) Human

So... pregnancy. What a loaded word. It's both amazing in that it's something that I can do and be. But it fucking sucks.

When pregnant with my daughter, it was easy. I wasn't working, I wasn't actively looking for a job knowing that I'd be leaving it soon. So I was at home, lazing around, eating and watching TV. I did manage to get employed about half-way through, at a seasonal job that required me to sit on my butt and deal with the phone or computer stuff and then watch tv or play on the Internet for the other hours. So, my priorities were not many nor were they difficult.

This time? Oh God. I'm working part to 3/4 time, I've got a 2.5 year old to run around after, and it just seems like it's so much more difficult. I was nauseated this time around to the point that I actually need to take the prescription anti-nausea stuff. My clothes started not fitting a lot sooner. More foods, scents, movements set off my nausea. I have to drink 2.5 - 3L of water a day or I'm hosed. The list goes on.

But the biggest complaint I have this time around is the absolute horrid lack of plus size maternity clothing. I have one option, and that's Motherhood Maternity. And their selection is abysmal. I need professional-ish clothes this time around because I'm working in an office and dealing with the public (whereas last time I only dealt with inter-office people, and worked overnights and weekends). I desperately need some pants that aren't leggings, but I just can't find any. So I'm resigned to wearing leggings 4 days out of the week. I know that doesn't seem like a major complaint, but there are days that I want to wear a shorter shirt or a different sweater that I just can't wear while wearing leggings and I hate it.

When will retailers learn that plus size maternity is something they should have? Just because we're bigger doesn't mean that we should have less options. I fucking hate going onto the Motherhood site or into the store and seeing the racks upon racks (or pages upon pages) of adorable and wonderful maternity clothing, only to find the 3 racks of plus size clothing and only 3 items are in my size.

Obviously, the option is to make my own clothes or wear one of those belly bands with normal pants undone. But have you ever done that? It is hella uncomfortable. And I am so not a sewing clothes person YET.

Don't get me wrong, I love that I'm growing a second human (uh, maybe ask me again in a couple months if I still feel the same way). But Christ I wish that I could feel good about how I look while doing so.

My Origin Story

This blog has changed 'feels' many times. Food blog, random words blog, then there was the other blog that I have since deleted.

And I suck at updating all of them.

Today I'm posting about mental and emotional health, which ties into being healthy and being a better 'me', if I wanted to be so bold as to sound super lame and pretentious.

We're going to regress a little bit here, but I hope that it shows how far I've come.

When I was a kid, I bounced around schools a lot. Not because I was some sort of hellion, but because of life changes. I went to one school from Kindergarten to halfway through grade 2 because it was directly behind my house, and my mom had a day home with other kids that went to that school (and their younger siblings). Then she got a job out of the home, and so I went to a different school with my cousins.  My Gramma watched over my cousins, and she lived about 2 blocks away from us, so she would just take me with her.  I loved that school. All my fondest elementary school memories bounce back to that one, where all the kids knew my cousins already (note: my eldest cousin, the one whom I was in a class with because it was a 2/3 split, has cerebral palsy and requires constant care) and they freely accepted me into their social groups. It was great.  Then my dad got transferred to northern SK, and we moved up to Goodsoil, SK for grade 3. If you ask my mom how long we lived there, she can give it to you right down to the minute.  I don't really remember a lot about being up there, and it was my first experience living in a very small town. Of course, being a kid, you're a little more resilient and can take the change.

When we moved back to Saskatoon, I attended the elementary school closest to us. While yes, I did make some good friends, some of which I keep in touch with now, it was pure hell to go to school there.  Showing up in grade 4, after these kids have all been together for 4 years (or more, if they also went to preschool), and being behind in math because they forgot to teach us all of the times tables when I was in Goodsoil (or something), was just awful. Add to it that I was a chunky kid who was a total teachers pet and admittedly (now) a know-it-all... I was teased mercilessly. If they had insulted my intelligence, that would be one thing. But it was always, ALWAYS, about my weight. Always. I remember one kid, when we were in grade 6, made some disparaging remark about my weight and I pushed him into a desk and he ran into the chair. I was so terrified at what I did that I hid in my locker/cubby/whatever and cried. Now that I remember that, I think to myself and wonder why I was crying that I hurt him physically, when he should have apologized for hurting me emotionally? Granted, I know that lashing out physically is definitely not the way to respond, but I was 12. And some boy called me fat.

And that was essentially the beginning of it. The beginning of me trying NOT to lash out physically at all the douchebags calling me fat.  I'd like to say that the jokes ended as we got older, but they didn't. They carried through to high school and if you add the constant insults along with hormones and the yearning to be in a relationship, it makes a very volatile cocktail of emotion. I had to mentally tell myself not to get angry, to just keep it all in and calm down and just be nice.

Kids can be cruel. In my head, I thought that if I asked a boy out, even if he said no, it would be amicable and stay between us. Why did I ever think that? Boys would tell all their friends, and they would laugh at me. Literally laugh at me. The implication being why did I, the fat ugly girl, think that this boy, of relative attractiveness, would ever want to go out with me? Seeing all my thin pretty friends in relationships shoved this knife in a little deeper, and yeah. I was depressed. I was sad, I would cry, and I would contemplate a world without me in it.  I had a friend who called the Kids Help Line about me, and I just remember how mad I was about that because they called my house at 10 at night and my parents picked up. I remember ashamedly trying to cover up why they were calling, saying that my friends were playing a joke on me or something like that. I was ashamed that I was depressed, and I was even more depressed that I was ashamed of it. It was a vicious cycle of shame and depression.

Don't get me wrong, for the most part I covered it up well.  I was still dancing, I was in band, I was in choir and drama and did all of that stuff. I went out with my friends, but I still would crawl inside of myself and cry on a consistent basis.

The worst of this emotional pit came when I was 17, and I had (finally) had a couple boyfriends. I don't really count the boyfriends when I was 15 because, let's face it, those relationships don't really do anything other than hold hands and talk on the phone (or MSN messenger and ICQ, as it were in my day). The first 'real' relationship I had I'm glad I got out of in a hurry. Yes, he was the first guy I kissed. Yes, he was the first guy I did other things with - but I stuck to my guns and did NOT give  him my virginity. I knew that I would regret it, and he was really quite upset that I wouldn't just go freely. So that relationship ended.  The 'rebound' relationship, as it were, was with someone who did not take my No to mean NO.  I'm not going to come right out and say it, but I did not have a choice. Again, that relationship ended QUICKLY.

The next relationship was the doozy. My best friend and I used to go cruising around the main drag, and we'd talk with other people doing the same thing. One night we happened upon a car with two guys, both of which were funny and nice and we ended up hanging out with them. My friend and one of the guys hit it off, so instead of third and fourth wheeling it, the other guy in the car just took the keys to his friend's car and said let's go for a ride. So we left them and drove around the city for what seemed like hours. But it was GREAT. He was older than me (as were the other two guys, but that's neither here nor there), out of high school, funny, and just nice. He was really nice to me, which was a refreshing change of pace from the epic douchebags I had to go to school with every day. When we returned to his place, my friend and I got into her car, we exchanged hugs with the guys, and were on our way. We each started seeing the guys, and it was ... I don't know how to describe it. For the first couple weeks, we would hang out as a group. I think maybe that's just because we didn't know what to expect. Then the guy I was seeing and I would hang out on our own, and it was just so chill. There was no need to impress him because finally, FINALLY, someone cared more about what was going on with my personality than what was going on physically.  The catalyst to this relationship happened when the guy my friend was seeing decided to pull an epic dick move and try to force her into a sexual relationship. Their relationship ended, but mine was still going. I was going to school full-time, working part-time, and seeing this guy, and essentially ignoring my friends. When my friend commented on this, and I tried to explain to her that I didn't have time to do all of it, it wasn't that she gave me a literal ultimatum but I felt like there was an implied one.  And I chose her. She was my absolute best friend in the whole world, and who was I to shove that friendship aside for some guy. So I called the boyfriend and broke up with him, and I was devastated. Completely and unequivocally. And that was the night that I tried to kill myself.

I wish I could say that was the only time. It wasn't. But it was essentially the one and only time that I probably would have followed through, had I fallen deeper into the hole.  Instead, I got about half-way through and cried myself to sleep instead.  My mom came in the next morning to wake me up, asked what happened to my neck, and I broke down crying as I told her. I knew it wasn't something she had ever expected me to say, and she just stared at me shocked. I stayed home from school that day. I kind of wish that I had gone to talk with someone, professionally, at that point, but I don't think that either of us thought of that option. I ended up doing some permanent damage to my throat in that I opened up some sort of pathway of infection to my tonsils and I ended up getting sick, a LOT, and having to get the tonsils removed a couple years later.  But that's beside the point. I didn't attempt suicide for the attention, or to make someone notice me. I attempted because I hurt and I didn't want to hurt anymore.

There are other boyfriends and other sob stories, but that one was by far the one that hits the hardest, even still. He was the only guy (until I met my now-husband, that is) who didn't ever comment on my appearance or physique, aside from lovely compliments.

When I was 18, and my self-esteem was horribly low, I somehow made the connection that if I got guys to like me in "that way", then that means that I'm doing something right. I deliberately tied my self-worth to my desirability. Of course, this always ended badly. It ended with me feeling horrible about myself for putting that part of myself out in the open. It left me wondering why I even bother at all. Most of all, I lost myself. I would be who I thought everyone wanted me to be, and then I would get sad if no one even wanted that. I'd witness my friends, who were in relationships, get hit on and get free drinks and be the centre of attention, and then single me would be on the wayside, just trying to make a friend. I was a disaster, to put it succinctly. I moved out a couple times, only to have to move back home a couple months later because I quit my job or got fired or I just spent all my money on booze instead of rent and utilities. It wasn't until I was 20 that my mom put her foot down and made me go see a counselor. On one hand, I'm glad that she did because I mostly got my shit together after that. On the other hand, this counselor was SO BAD that I feel bad that my dad's EFAP paid for it. Seriously.  I moved out, for the final time, around the time that I started seeing this counselor.  I was also finally happy about my relationship status. I didn't care if I had a boyfriend or not, I cared about how happy I was. I was working a low-level job at a restaurant, but it was fun and I had responsibilities. I was good at it, and I was training new people within the first couple months of being there, which spoke well to me in that I was needed.  When it came to dating, the first dates I always dressed casually because I didn't want to be judged on my appearance. Sounds silly, but it's true. I'd wear my comfy jeans and a random t-shirt, wouldn't do my hair or makeup, just to see if the guy was worth it. I met a couple nice guys who I hung out with again, and I also met my husband. I could go into our story, but I'm not going to.

Fast forward to when my daughter was born, and holy god the hormones and emotions are all over the place. I remember one night, within the first couple weeks where she was alive, and I was standing in the shower bawling my eyes out because she was crying. My husband had to work late all that week - when I say late, I mean until 10 at night - and I was so gross and I needed a shower because I had a c-section and I HAD to keep that incision area clean. My daughter just wouldn't seem to settle down, and I knew deep down that I had to put her down and walk away or it might get ugly. So she's screaming and I'm sobbing and I had so many thoughts of 'Why did I do this?' and 'Does it ever get better?'. I didn't necessarily suffer from post-partum depression, but sweet christ can being a new mom be overwhelming. Over the months I developed this odd habit of rooting around my scalp for the random hairs that were super curly and a different texture (or colour - I've got random black hairs in my naturally blond head) and pulling them out. It was getting to the point where I'd be pulling out other hairs with them, or instead of them, and I knew that I needed to stop doing that. That it was a compulsion that could lead to worse things. I never told my husband about it, and in hindsight maybe I should have. Regardless, having a child brings everything to the surface. Hormones fuck with your emotions, and with your self-image. Instead of thinking "I just brought this beautiful baby into this world", I would think about how fat and gross I was. I lost a lot of myself in that year after she was born. I'm slowly starting to re-build it, but it is so fucking hard. It's hard to put it into words or to express it to other people, because they just don't get it. They don't understand why you're feeling blue because you ran out of your favourite soap. They can't comprehend why being fractionally late for something almost gives you a panic attack. It's like your hormones blank out for a bit, then come back full-force and you're just trying to keep up.

It's hard to be a woman in a society that thrives on the perceived notion of perfection.When you're plus sized like me, your shopping options are slim to none depending on where you live. I'm fortunate enough that there are, hmm, 3 stores in town that have clothes I can fit into enough to try on.  I'm fortunate enough that I can order online clothes that might fit - thank goodness for Old Navy's free return shipping. But every day, every fucking day, I wish that I didn't have to go through all of these troubles. That I could just walk into a store, any store, and be able to try things on and/or buy them. Yes, I am fully aware that my physique is my own doing. I'm not blaming genetics - although to be fair I have some relatives who are in the same boat that I am - but I'm not entirely blaming myself.  If our society weren't so fucking OBSESSED with self-image, there wouldn't be all of this bullshit. A store wouldn't charge an extra $20 for a shirt because it's got an X behind the number, it would just be a shirt that they make.

To close out this horribly long and drawn-out emotional post, I would like to say that I hope someday we can get past this obsession with perfection. That a woman, any woman, could look in the mirror without wondering what she can do to make herself perfect. Instead, she could see what she is and who she is and be intrinsically happy. But let's be honest, that's never going to happen. I'm a lot of talk and no action, and at some point I hope that it clicks in my brain that I can't just expect things to happen for me and that I need to do it for myself.

I need to be happy. I deserve to be happy. And so does everyone else.