The Fat, Mean Mum

I woke up this morning and consciously decided to speak nicely to myself. You know, manifesting good things by thinking good things. Tapping into that kind and forgiving inner voice that I know is in there somewhere. Turning the volume of my Devil down and telling my Angel to speak up. Flipping the negative talk into positive language. Slapping the bitch in me to give the belle of the ball a second to stand up and curtsy… You get what I mean.

So I showered and let positivity rain down on me. Cleansing the negative thoughts away as well as showering to be all hygiene and shit – seems as though some people skipped that memo from The Universe. I let the water warm my body and my soul on the cold autumn morning but of course, I’m a mother so I’m doing the whole showering thing while parenting at the same time. I call it Shower-Parenting.

Shower-Parentingbetter known as yelling from the shower to a bunch of minors who know you’re not really going to get out of your nice warm shower to follow through with any of your threats so they continue to completely ignore you. Arseholes! Just wait til I’m outta here!

So I’m yelling and I’m showering and I’m washing negativity away. I know, I know I’ve totally got this shit sorted, huh? I’m just about done when my six-year-old son wanders into the bathroom because mothers, as we all know, never shower or shit in peace. He plonks himself on the toilet and begins his morning cleansing process. First, the passing of gas, then the smile and then me screeching “Are you doing a poo?!” To which he sleepily replies “Mm-hmm.” Affirmative confirmation. I try to stay in my positive state while the hot air and gases combine.

Eventually, I admit defeat with the hot stench being too much to bear. I drag myself out of the shower and begin the drying process. Continuing with the positivity I thank each body part as I go. I dry my legs and thank them for doing their job. Thank them for functioning properly. How lucky am I to have legs that work, I say to myself. I wipe my rounded tummy and my voluptuous hips and thank them for carrying five children into the world. I thank my gluteus maximus for all the jobs that it does which I don’t even know about. Then in between my positive self-talk and my six-year-olds stinking plops he sweetly says….

You’re fat Mum.”

It was matter of fact.

The truth.

A bomb.

Slightly harsh.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Three words from a child who doesn’t have a filter but he doesn’t need one because he’s just calling a spade a spade.

I felt the need to clarify, or maybe for further punishment, his judgement so I asked, “What makes you say that?” While thinking, praying, it must have been the way I bent over? Maybe the angle I was standing at? It definitely wasn’t my outfit – well actually thinking about it now I guess it was because there’s nothing more honest than a birthday suit.

He looks me up and down confused by my confusion and reaffirms, “‘Cause you are. You’re just fat Mum.

Bam! Right next to my reflux pain I feel something … Oh, yep that would be my heart shattering into tiny pieces. 

I’m fat. 

My kid thinks I’m fat. 

He’s being honest not mean. He’s using a word I hate to hear as a description of how he sees my physical body. It’s a word he knows and understands that he can relate in describing me. Yes, I know I’ve put on weight and yes, I confidently tell everyone that I have while really hoping people don’t actually notice that it’s there and all the while praying to the Universe, God, the Weightloss Fairies that it will just disappear overnight. But it won’t because it’s not bloating or fluid retention or ‘just a good shit’ it is actual fat caused by over-eating.

Clever clothes may hide my rolls, I can paint my face pretty and I can do positive affirmations the fuck to death but underneath it all the Pope is still Catholic and I am still fat. It is what it is. I get to either be ok with it or do something about it. But first of all I’ll cry. That’ll help. Foetal position, on the floor and cry.

861363

Really?! Aww hell no! You ain’t gonna to let a little three letter word bring you to your knees?! Bitch really?!

While temporarily in the foetal position, memories from only a few days before of my teenager informing me that I’m known as the ‘mean mum’ to his mates came to mind. So with these flashbacks rolling and from the comfort of the floor I define myself as the fat, mean mum. Damn girl! You used to be the hot, fun mum. What the fuck happened to you?!

Seriously! What the fuck happened to me, my body, my care factor?! And more importantly, what am I going to do about it? I took myself off the rollercoaster – or so I’ve said. The cycle of diet-eat-starve-eat-diet-eat-starve-eat … Oh, fuck it you know what I mean. I’m out of that cycle, aren’t I? I’m happy with who I am? So why did those 3 little letters bring me to my knees?

In all honesty and with a little bit of dignity remaining I can say that I actually didn’t curl up in the foetal position. I just said that for the benefit of my internal breakdown. I didn’t even cry. Almost, but I didn’t. Why? Because of two things.

1) Fat doesn’t define me. I know that. I am not less of a person, mother, friend, stylist, lover, life-giver just because I carry 10kg more than I should and,

2) I do not want to teach my son that the word ‘fat’ is another f-word that he can’t say. You have fat and sometimes too much of it but you are not defined by fat and no this isn’t an excuse to be carrying extra fat either – maybe I will pull my finger out, maybe I won’t. It just doesn’t define the person I am – unless I let it.

b8e9d3875bd6239dafe0db0c08165db7I did give my six-year-old some life advice though about using that f -word because let’s be realistic, he is going to be somebody’s husband one day and I’d like my son to live beyond their first year of marriage. Honesty here can take a back seat. I really tried to make sure he didn’t feel bad about saying it but unfortunately either my face gave it away or he can read me well energetically because for the rest of the morning he was all like, “Hey Mum can you help me put the toothpaste on my brush because you’re so strong.” And “Can you help me put my shoes on because you’re so clever.” So he may see me as fat but he also sees me as strong and clever. I’m happy to take that on.

One love

DRK xxx

So You Quit Parenting?

Some days you don’t think you should have the honour of being called a ‘mother’.

Some days it all just feels too hard.

Some days you whine like a bitch and cry like a baby. You cry more than your own baby.

Some days it takes every ounce of energy not to say ‘fuck off’ to your children for every second, every look, every breath that they take, especially for when you’re hiding out in the toilet.

Some days you hate the role of “mother”. It’s unpaid and unappreciated and you’d rather bury yourself in your ten-foot high dirty washing pile even though you’re scared of germs and goobies. And by germs and goobies you mean stinking-arse-crack-and-sweaty-ball-jock goobies. Bonus, at least, you know they’d never look for you there.

Some days when they say, for the hundredth time prior to 9am, that they’re hungry you just want to grab them by those shitty jocks, lift them so high in the air it’s no longer a wedgie they’re wearing but dental floss for their back molars. Here’s hoping they can taste their own ball sweat.

Some days your patience is as thin as the air we breathe but not as thin as the air that’s coming out of their little lungs coz that air is heavy and loud and you hate that whole breathing sound thing they do some days!

Some days you’d just love some fucking silence!

Some days you just want to unleash the wrath of brain cell killing by giving them their iPads and 24 hours of screen time and high-fat, artery-hardening junk food for breakfast, lunch and dinner and a padded cell (actually, that’s for you) just so you don’t have to hear them or see them or talk to them for one whole glorious day.

Some days you feel so wild at the lack of gratitude your kids have that there’s a little ball inside your belly that wants to explode and bounce shit-fuck-shit off every single wall but you don’t because of the guilt and mess. But mainly the mess. But that doesn’t matter anyway because your clean-two-minutes-ago home is, thanks to them, now-a-fucken-pig-sty.

Some days you can only manage to eat popcorn for lunch because there’s nothing left to eat and there’s no way you are dumb enough to tackle the supermarket with this fucked up attitude and those demons kids.

Some days you let that popcorn get the better of you and you beat yourself up because you only started your new weight loss diet two hours ago.

36717f689e870ef4c10299ae5bf01d0f

Some days you want to throw a two-day-old-shitty-nappy with your fiery resignation letter tucked inside at the bosses face, defiantly stick your middle finger out and scream “Fuck you, I QUIT!”

Except there is no boss.

The only boss here is you.

And that wasn’t a two-day old shitty nappy if you’re honest – it was three.

So now you have three-day-old-shit in your eye.

And possibly some in your mouth.

Some days you can blame PMS for your behaviour.

Somedays you can’t.

Some days you’re not a nice Mummy, hell you’d lucky to be classed as a nice person some days.

Some days it’s ok too.

One Love

DRK xxx

oh-mother-mother-mother-quotes.jpeg?w=580

original_not-easy-being-mother

 

Losing a Sh!t Load of Weight

I recently blogged about “passengers in the bus” or #voicesinmyhead that I have slowly but surely started to drown out. I got tired of hearing their daily hourly fat, ugly taunts and I finally got the courage up to just drive that bus, #myself, toward my destination warning those demons (or as I affectionately call them, fucktards) along the way that if they didn’t shut up they would be booted out at #itsnotmeitsdefinitelyyou and #hellwasbacktherefucktards. Surprisingly my firm tone of voice, my confidence in my decisions and my ability to ignore them most of all has actually started working. They have been relatively quieter lately and I can see my journey ahead, my headspace is becoming a lot more peaceful. A lot happier. A hell of a lot more satisfied with me, as I am, right now!

With those demons sitting a little quieter on the bus things have obviously changed for me. The major thing is my scales no longer dictate my day. They don’t tell me to be happy or sad. That I am a good or unworthy person and they certainly don’t say if I am a success or a failure in this world. I’ve also been given the freedom of food. I can now eat what I want, when I want and however much of it I want to eat without feeling guilty. Without beating myself up and claiming to the world what an awful person I must be. The emotionally painful connection I have with food has almost completely ceased and so instead of eating and eating and eating to feed my demons, to satisfy their negative judgements on me and to starve myself of acceptance and love I now eat when I’m hungry.

In the mornings I wake up starving and my belly grumbles louder than my head ever did. So I eat. My favourite for the past month has been honey on toast. Ok, more so, it’s butter on toast with a small drizzle of honey…. Ok, ok it is actually just butter with a small serve of toast and an even smaller drizzle of honey! But I eat it lovingly and I enjoy it deeply and I don’t feel bad about it … at all! The other night my husband took me out for dinner. It was a surprise dinner. An early birthday present. I ate three courses. Yes, an entree, a main AND sweets – unheard of normally in my world! I didn’t finish every bite but I ordered and I ate each course til I felt satisfied. My demons didn’t say a word. This is a huge deal for me! I eat salad, I eat rice, I eat lean protein, I eat pasta. I eat a balanced diet and I am not stick thin or at the gym working my arse off and I am totally ok with it because there is so much more to me than what size I am. There is so much I have to give to this world and it has nothing to do with the number on the scales, a long awaited/yearned for flat stomach, a bullet repellant arse or a body that other women are secretly jealous of. My calling is much deeper than that. My health starts with my mind.

I weighed myself the other day, for the first time in ages, this is also a huge deal for me – I was a ‘three times a day’ weigher once upon a very short time ago!! With all this eating and enjoying I have been doing I was surprised to see I haven’t put on any weight, in fact I’ve lost a couple of Kay Gees. But I really, honestly, don’t care because the greatest loss I have made is the huge weight, crazy huge burden that I have been carrying on my shoulders. The pressure. The judgement. The harsh critic. The meanness. The constant battery of thy mirror self. I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to look like the women in the magazines. I don’t have to look like my neighbour, my best friend, my frenemy. I can just be. I choose to just be. I choose to eat to survive. Eat to enjoy. Eat to live. I chose to wear what makes me happy. Wear my size, proudly, confidently, whatever size that is and you never know from one brand to the next! I can wear whatever I damn well please including a bathing suit when the sun starts shining warmth again. I can smile with happiness. Smile with confidence. Smile because I know who I am and I don’t have to struggle to be someone I’m not. My head sits high on my shoulders. My happy, smiley head.

IMG_0520

I now know that chasing the better version of yourself doesn’t always have to mean being buff, being skinny, being thinner than what you are. That’s a sales tool that is used in the fitness and health industry – and that’s ok. For some. Not for all of us. Being the better version of yourself is being happy with who you are … Right Now! Because every day that you are living and breathing is a bloody successful day! Every day you get to learn something new about yourself and your body. It’s functions, capabilities, it’s fucken awesomeness! Every day you can choose happiness and acceptance over those fucktardish demons. Body love, body acceptance, body embracing is a choice, every day, all day. This is the best version of yourself. Body hating, body judging, body shaming should be left on the bus, sitting quietly, in time out until they learn the value of love and acceptance.

 11256969_845061898898782_263730374_n-2

Now give your body a hug! It works hard to take you through each day – especially if you treat it as badly as I have treated mine over the last two decades! Speak kindly to yourself because you are listening!

One love

DRK xxx

The Diet Wagon

I am known for my honesty. Here especially. I tell it like it is and I own my shit. So here’s a dose of reality and shit-owning….

There was a wagon fall…. Last night…

In fact I started to lean precariously over the edge of that said wagon by mid afternoon yesterday. I’m not sure what the trigger was, not sure that it even matters but what I do know is it started with the desire for chips – hot salty chips – my greatest weakness.

And I came close. So close in fact just a mere 25m to the driveway in fulfilling that desire only to back out at the last minute – I was proud. Real proud. I think I even high-fived myself …. Yep, seriously I did!

But then ….

THEN my mouth fell into a pile of Smarties. There’s no other explanation as to how they got there. Worst of all I don’t even like Smarties.

And then it was caught chewing on the leftover sausage roll that was covered in sauce. I’m partial to savoury pastries but I don’t even like sausage rolls.

And then. And then AND THEN……. I found a pile of salt & vinegar chips in my hand which were on a conveyor belt to my mouth. Again, I’m not even a fan of these!

Seriously?! Why?!

Now instead of fulfilling the actual craving I had yesterday I went and consumed 3 times the crap! 3 times the things I don’t love, that I hardly even like and certainly never crave.

Ok, so whats the damage? Well I’ve gained a little and I am actually feeling a little shocked seeing as I have been doing so well. I have also set myself back a few days which means I will not reach my goal of 68kg tomorrow. Which, of course, then snowballs and effects my goals for the following week, and the week after etc, etc.

I tried to talk to my husband about it but that was after I had almost bitten his head off when he cocked his head to the side and asked, while I was eating a minuscule piece of pepperoni, how my diet was going? Really dangerous territory! In fact if I wasn’t so concerned about additional calories his head would have been seriously fucked up!

10553545_440917769396391_4946594825099486869_n1

Anyway my conversation with him about stuffing up yesterday went a little like this:

“So, I was craving hot chips … And then … And then I didn’t do it…” **insert*unregognisable blubbering** “I just drove on past… And then I slipped over … And then there was these smarties in my mouth ….” **insert**laughing-slash-crying-slash-blubbering-slash-indecipherable** He just sat there bewildered. No idea what the hell I was talking about and he just couldn’t get his head around the smarties comment. He totally didn’t get it. Fair enough I suppose and hey I think it’s almost THAT time of the month  though I’m not going to tell him that!

As a result of my fall yesterday my wagons parked up today. I am neither off it nor on it. I am confused by it and angry with it. Slightly disappointed in it and working on the courage to get back on it. I haven’t given up. I’ve eaten well today – bar that slice of pepperoni – I’ve been for a walk and then I went for a jog (or a faster walk by other definitions) and I plan on having a small protein and salad meal for dinner.

This wasn’t an epic fail but it was still a try hard fail. I’m not looking forward to the ‘numbers’ tomorrow and yes I know I should just not weigh myself – but I know I will. It’s a force greater than me sometimes – the pull to know if I am getting closer to or further from my ‘ideal weight’.

Hope your wagon journeys are safe and on a flat surface – leave the bumpy shit to me! I’ll be back!

One love,

DRK xxx

falling-off-the-wagon

Day 12 – It’s Happening …. Clickedy, Click

Have you ever read articles on weight loss where people say something along the lines of “it just clicked” – cut to the amazing before and after shots???

Well I have … heaps and heaps and heaps and it annoys the crapola out of me! It’s so frustrating when you’re a dietaholic, like me, and you hear that there was this miraculous ‘click’ for other people who have struggled with their weight too yet for some reason you haven’t heard it, felt it, seen it or touched it for yourself. And I’ve waited, trust me, I have waited AND waited for this clicking shit to happen.

I wonder when they say it do they mean that it was a definitive click that just materialised out of thin air and then they were cured? Or was it a series of clicks because these before and after photos are deceiving to a visual person like me. To me it looks as though one day they woke up overweight, then something clicked and the next morning they were slim! That. Does. My. Fucking. Head. In!!!!

BUT ……

Of course there is a but ….. Isn’t there always?!

I’ve notice changes in the last 12 days. Changes other than the 4.5kg loss (yes I’m bragging). Nice little changes that may be ever so subtle clicks. Like the rarely-there cravings for chocolate and my ability to talk the odd one out of eventuating. Or the teeny little slip-up that stays a teeny little slip-up and doesn’t turn into a guilt induced oh-well-I-fucked-it binge. I am drinking lots of water – in fact, I am craving it. I am finding the word ‘no’ rolls off my tongue easier and I don’t feel completely deprived when I say it.

It’s kinda awesome. It kinda feels like the beginning of something bigger for me and maybe my problem all along was that I was ‘waiting’ for the click when I should have gone out and activated the fucker myself!

Have you heard the click? Are you one of those who has an awesome ‘before’ & ‘after’?

I want to have awesome ‘b&a’ photos – just for me 🙂

One love

DRK xxx

 

 

Don’t Miss Me While I’m Gone

I am going on a mini-getaway! I am flying the coop and I am leaving the children in charge of the husband … I’ve told him just to roll with the punches. I will probably come home and find him tied to a tree, house trashed and the kids running wild and free! But thats ok coz I am getting away! I am having a break and I am going with friends who are also NOT bringing their children.

So, what are you going to do without me for a few days? Probably nothing different then you normally do. I wonder if you’ll even notice that I’ve gone BUT I thought I’d still come and say goodbye. I haven’t even packed my bags – hell I don’t even care if I come home in the same outfit I left in!

Now a little warning: if you see distress smoke or SOS signals from Australia it’ll just be my husband reaching out for help … Don’t help him, seriously, he will survive! Hope the kids run amok 🙂

a-making-your-husband-do-something-for-the-kids-funny-quotes

See you Sunday Superwomen!

One love

DRK xx

Lets Get Real

Ok Superwomen I’ve been hearing lots of stories about mean girls lately and I’m not talking teenage girls, I’m talking big knicker ladies!! I’ve heard that these women are cementing themselves on pedestals and talking down to their fellow ladies …. This. Is. Not. On!

These women are new to the ‘mean girl’ world which makes them dangerous because their egos are massive! They think that they’re something pretty darn special and not in a good way because they’re under the impression that their ‘something’ is more special than the other Superwomen around them. BUT let me say this ladies – by being mean to other Superwomen you become less of a something – instantly! You weren’t born with nor have you developed an additional ‘awesome’ gene. You haven’t been given extra birth rights that makes sure your shit doesn’t stink coz, let’s be honest, it does – just same as the Queens or the Superwoman you just had a dig at.

It’s so cliche but it really is true, that beauty radiates from within. Believing you are ugly though, is when you make a decision that your appearance means more then your values, that your looks mean more then the goodness and love you offer to the world. It means that you judge yourself based on the judgements of other people and their ideals of what beauty is. It means you judge others because to deem yourself ugly you have to judge another to be beautiful first….

3a44129f6cadb4dbef19ad5127edac53

What I do believe is that confidence is damn sexy but ego and vainness is neither sexy nor beautiful and ego’s that revolve around thinking you are better then everyone else is the ugliest trait I know. There is nothing sexy about an ugly, conceited, mean driven ego.

But now I’m going to be honest, most of my life I have considered myself ugly. Why? Because I compared myself to what is stereotyped as beautiful and I do not measure up. I am not thin, toned, tanned, photoshopped perfection. But once I peel back the pictures and pedestals, when I do connect with my inner self I see it … The ‘real’ beauty and not in aesthetic way. And if I had the choice of people remembering me as a kind, generous, loving soul or being a fake superficial mean girl then the decision is easy. I’d choose substance over narcism any day.

So here’s my advice – stop being mean and creating a world of comparisons and judgments because it is setting women back. While we are making these changes let’s raise our girls to be strong, kind and feminine. To shift the focus on looks and status and teach them to intelligently accept and love each other and especially themselves because while we waste time fighting amongst each other we stunt our growth in the big wide world.

02268784ec03219bb7e75482a3e6707b

Now go, pull up your big girl knickers, clip on that cape and when you find someone standing over you on their fake insecure little pedestal send them love and fly away, they wont fly after you – they can’t because their rose smelling shit has them weighted down.

One love
DRK xxx