The Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

Archive for the ‘feeling fat’ Category

“Do You Want Fries with That?” by Christine Cacciatore.

My husband is one of the most wonderful people you’ll ever meet, truly.  Everyone loves him.  He’s friendly.  He’s handsome.  He’s loyal.  He’s thoughtful.  He’s a great husband, a great son, a great (read:  patient) father and now, a grandfather.  

He also is a name-maker-upper for us at home.  For instance, if I’m ironing a shirt, he’ll find me down in the basement.  “Hi, Iron-y!”  If I’m cleaning the bathroom, he stands behind me, “Hi, cleany!”  (All the time.  He does this all the time.)  If I get home from shopping, “Hey, shoppy!”  Cooking:  “Hey, cooky!”  I think you see the pattern. 

While silly and goofy, those names aren’t harmful in any way.  They don’t hurt my feelings.  Silly and goofy were two of my “husband” requirements, as a matter of fact.  He has those two qualities in spades, people.  In spades.    He just comes up with something on the fly.   

He’s really creative like that. 

The birth of “the list” list was created several years ago out of necessity.  We were newlyweds, and ever mindful of developing FWS (fat wife syndrome) I was standing in the kitchen having a low carb snack after work while I waited for the coffee to get done.  He came in the door from work, big, happy smile on his face, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Hi, porky!”  

No.  I am not kidding.

credit:  akarakingdoms
This isn’t me but it sure is cute.
I was eating low carbpork rinds, not twinkies.  And he saw me eating pork rinds, and in typical creative fashion, said that unfortunate word.  In quiet protest, I did not make dinner that night, and in addition (just in case he didn’t get the hint) maintained a stone cold, icy silence for the rest of the evening, which is my preferred method of communication when I am upset.  (Who’s with me?)   

The list” was born.  There have been remarkably few additions here and there, because ol’ what’s his name has learned his lesson.
 

Or has he? 

This morning I was getting ready for work, hurrying as usual, running around our bedroom slapping on deodorant and finding my shoes.  I grabbed my body spray (what I call smellgood) from Victoria’s Secret and was spritzing it on.  I always try to arch my back and shake my hair as I do this, like the VS models do, but even the dog doesn’t take me seriously.  My husband wandered in the bedroom to grab his gym bag, saw me spraying, and says cheerfully, “Hi, smelly!”   

He realized right away what he had said and looked like a rabbit with his back foot caught in a trap, trying to get away.  Fortunately, my steely gaze pinned him to the spot. 

LIST.” 

It must be time for a refresher course.

 

 

 

 
In the early part of August, 2012, I got an interesting phone call while at work.
Daughter:  Mom, if you had to hear some big news, would you want to hear it on the phone or in person?
Me:  (at work, busy, surprised and happy to hear from the child.  Yet somehow I know exactly what it is she’s about to tell me.  I’m cold all over and am able to astrally project to her location and smack her on the back of the head, hard.)
Daughter:  Are you there?
Me:  What.  WhatWhat is it?  Just tell me.  (Even I can hear the desperation in my voice)
Daughter:  Well, (tears start) I took three pregnancy tests and they all were positive. 
Me:  (I’m unable to speak.  I fumble for my insurance card and touch it several times for comfort.)
Daughter:  Mom??
Me:  I’m here.  And if three tests say you’re pregnant, then you’re pregnant
Although I’m still in shock, I make the appropriate it’ll be ok noises through frozen lips and hang up to call the insurance company.  Oh, God.  Although marriage has been talked about, they haven’t made it official, and now there will be a baby. 
Babies are a blessing.
The next few months fly by and I see her figure blossom from a lithe, lanky camisole & tight jean-wearing 20 year old to looking like she was shoplifting a big pumpkin. 
Feeling the baby kick was new and magical.  The baby squirmed and pummeled her bladder mercilessly.  Privately, I alternated between crying, being excited, and giving thanks that the baby was healthy. 
It is a girl.
I want to tell my daughter all the things that would change when the baby came.  Number one on the list that will change: 
1)  EVERY SINGLE THING YOU DO, EVERY DAY, ALL DAY LONG, FROM NOW ON, FOREVER. 
As you can see, it’s a short list.  As a new mother, running to the store, running anywhere, takes on a whole new dimension.  You can’t just hop in the car and go.  You have to orchestrate it just right, which means to say you leave once the other parent tags in.  You’re done sleeping.  You’re done thinking of things to do for the weekend because you already know it’s going to consist of diapers and formula. 
I also want to tell her that despite the lack of sleep, the endless feedings and diaper changes, the 200 pounds of equipment you need everywhere you go, there are also moments of absolute bliss and they far outweigh the bad stuff.  The sweaty, solid weight of your child against your collarbone.  Their unbelievably good baby smell.  The tiny, trusting hand resting on your chest as you rock.  The first smiles.  The first words.
I try to tell her giving birth is going to hurt but those of us who have given birth know it’s a pain unlike any other and therefore hard to describe.  I also don’t want to scare the living daylights out of her.  I needn’t worry.  She listens respectfully but tells me that the tattoo she has going down her side from boob to butt was really painful and if she can get through that, she can get through this.
I listen and laugh.  And later, privately, I cry.  She doesn’t know.
I’m so glad for her when she comes home after work on her birthday and there’s an engagement ring hanging off the Christmas tree.  They’re happy.  That’s a wonderful thing.  I help her paint the baby’s room, roam through Babies R Us, plan her baby shower, and fall a little more in love with this granddaughter I haven’t met yet with each ultrasound picture I see.
This latest picture looks exactly like my daughter.  Exactly.  Same cheekbones.  Same forehead.  Same nose, lips, chin, and hands.
Her due date comes and goes.  She’s so big that MY back and feet hurt to look at her.
at 2 weeks pregnant.  (Just kidding.  More like 29.)
I have been eating for two her entire pregnancy out of nervousness.  I don’t tell her all the bad things that can go wrong.  During pregnancy.  During delivery.   I find myself in tears now and then and pray for an easy pregnancy and safe birth. 
I’m scared in a way I haven’t been in a while.
Finally, her doctor has her admitted on a Sunday night to have her cervix dilated.  Twelve hours later, the dreaded pitocin drip is administered.
The word pitocin sends chills up my spine.  It’s not pretty.  I remember doing backbends in labor with the force of a pitocin contraction.
It’s not long before it kicks in, and I hear her low moans start up.  The daddy, me and my other daughter have all been in the hospital with her for almost a whole day.  I’m grimy and tired from spending the night in a chair.  She’s in more and more pain and I hunt down the anesthesiologist in the hallway, because he should have been in there half hour ago. 
My daughter’s in pain, I tell him.  I watch him like a hawk as he administers the epidural block.  He doesn’t want me to watch because he says I could faint.  I tell him I’ve had two spinals myself but he says it’s different when it’s your child.  He’s right but I watch anyway.  He cautions me that if I faint he’s going to administer New York CPR.  I’m not amused.  He says, do you know what that is?  I just kick you til you wake up.  It’s not funny but I appreciate the effort.  I only laugh at his feeble joke because she’s not in pain anymore.
We’re told it could be a few hours now, so my oldest daughter and I run home so I can shower and change clothes.  I take a hurried 2 minute shower and while dressing, I get the phone call that a certain someone is about to meet her grandmother and if I wanted to be there, I’d best get down there quick.  What happened to “it’s going to be a few hours now?”
We’re there in no time, stopping on the way to quickly buy three stamps and jam three state tax returns into the post office box so they’re not late.  It’s tax day.  Way to procrastinate.
They’re ushering visitors out of her room and into the hallway once we get there.  She is about to begin pushing and my other daughter and I each are in charge of a leg, as she won’t be able to move them very well because of the epidural.  We are given instructions to push her legs backward to help with each contraction.  Dad stands, wisely, at the head of the bed.
Everything happens quickly.  She is told to take a deep breath and hold it and puuuuuuuuuuussssshhhhh!!!!! 
Unfortunately we too hold our breath and push with her.  As embarrassing as it is, I believe I pee a little.  My oldest daughter, holding her breath and the other leg, almost faints. 
I’m amazed at how hard the obstetrician grasps the baby’s head and pulls with each contraction but before you know it; the little shoulders are slipping out.  The proud daddy cuts the cord with shaking hands.  I’m a snotty mess.  I have not only just witnessed the unbelievable miracle of birth but also the birth of my first grandchild.
The Alyssa bun, fresh out of the oven.
At 8 pounds 2 ounces of beautiful, little Alyssa Rose makes her way into the world.  I’m amazed at how roughly efficiently the doctor and nurses handle the baby.  They competently towel her little slippery body off, throw drops in her eyes, diaper her tiny butt, weigh her, wrap her in a blanket and give her a hat with a bow before handing her to her tired, happy mama.  I begin to take pictures with my phone and those waiting in the hall see pictures of her on Facebook before the child is even 10 minutes old. 
It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.  My tears are streaming, uncontrolled.  I feel honored that I got to watch the birth.
The new mother tells me later that I kissed her big toe repeatedly during Alyssa’s delivery.  She seems to think that is hysterical.  I seem to remember that it was the only safe place to kiss during delivery. I felt I needed to help her relieve her pain in some way and kissing a safe area, i.e. the big toe with the freckle on it, seemed to be the only way I could do it.  It made me feel better, in any case.
Time passes quickly.  The baby is now 6 weeks old.  Each time I see her, I fall a little more in love with her.  It’s funny, because I told my husband that after I met him; I was done falling in love and I meant it. 



How could you NOT love this little face?



But you can fall in love again.  I was wrong.  I didn’t know how a grandchild could make you feel.  How hard it hits you in the stomach when you lean in close and croon, “How’s Grandma’s girl?” and you’re rewarded with adorable crinkly eyes and a big gummy smile.  Ermehgerd.
Between then and now, I bet I’ve taken 1000 pictures or more.  My friends and family and coworkers can back me up on that.  I say I’m taking them for my family who lives south of Rockford, but it’s not true.  I just can’t believe how amazing and perfect she is and want everyone to see her.
 



say Cheese!!

I believe she is easily the most beautiful child ever birthed, and although I am certain I am not the first grandmother to think that, I am the only grandmother who’s actually right.

For those of you who are squeamish, please, for the love of God, look away now.  Don’t read any more.
For those of you who yearn to live vicariously through me…please, pull up a chair.  Let me tell you about my day.
At 45-almost-46, my baby factory has been shut down for quite some time, due to the fact that I had my tubes tied after I had my youngest daughter almost 20 years ago. 
I am now 240 months postpartum; I guess I should work on getting the baby weight off.  (#tryharder)
About 2 months ago, despite having my tubes tied, I exhibited every single symptom of pregnancy.  Sore boobs, lack of period, bloating, mood swings, nausea.  In short, I was really, really fun to be around.   When I say really, really fun to be around, I am lying through my teeth.
Just when the symptoms made me think I should go buy a pregnancy test, (despite the slim odds) or a priest for my exorcism, what should happen? 
Aunt Flo came to town.
And the flipping bitch didn’t want to leave.
I asked her nicely to leave.  When that didn’t work, I pouted.  I threw fits.  I threatened.  I drank.  I bribed. 
My family wisely hid the knives behind the furniture. 
I finally said Uncle.  I went to the doctor, explained everything, was examined, had blood drawn, levels tested, and a negative pregnancy test.  All tests normal.  (Praise God.)  So far, so good.  She then started me on something to help staunch the…well…you know.  Besides the referral to an actual gynecologist, I thought that was the end of that.
Except that I had to get an ultrasound today.  And not just any ultrasound, mind you. 
(*here’s where I would normally insert a picture.  However, I don’t have any pictures from the events of today that would be appropriate here.  After all, I don’t know you that well.)
The medical test from hell started when I had to drink 48 oz of water from 12:30 until 1:00 pm.  I’m quite the water drinker.  I drink water all day long.  However, drinking this much water in ½ hour was enough to make even me gag.
I parked the car at the hospital and despite having my legs crossed tightly the entire time was able to get to the ultrasound department.  It was approximately 7.5 miles from where I parked.  I was afraid I was going to be late.  The panicked staccato taps of my high heels on the tile floor took my mind off how badly I had to go to the bathroom.

Chris has a bad day

The first part of the test was uneventful.  I greatly enjoyed the warmth of the ultrasound gel on my lower belly.  It was very soothing.  The room was quiet and the light was dim and I would have fallen asleep except for the excruciating pressure on my straining bladder.
When the test was over, I was led to the bathroom and told to take my time.  I peed as if I hadn’t seen a toilet in a month.  The relief was immediate and immense.
The ultrasound tech was hiding in the hallway and sprang out at me when I exited in the bathroom. 
Her:  “Are you ready for the second part of your test?”
Me:  “Do you mean the part where I walk down the hall and find the exit?”
Her:  (chuckling expansively) “Silly you.  The second part, the internal exam.”
Me:  (smile fades, face pales.)  “No.  No, I’m not ready for that.”
Despite the elfin size, her iron grip lead me directly back into the room, where I am forced to “take off everything below the waist, but if you want to leave your shoes on you can.”
Leave my shoes on?  Really?  And take everything else off?  I have on black high heels, no pantyhose.  The thought of being nekked below the waist except for black high heels was a bit…pornographic to me.  The shoes came off with all the other below the waist things, and I was grateful that I had a cute pedicure.
Funny what you think of, grooming wise, when you’re having an internal ultrasound.  My feet were not the only thing I had groomed, and I was glad.
“You’ll feel a slight pressure.”  It was the only warning I got before the “wand” was “inserted” by Vlad the Impaler.
She apologized for the “pressure” over and over while applying said pressure and also for the fact that a couple of times I choked on it as it was coming up my throat.   
Finally she finished up and withdrew the entire 3 feet of wand.  I am thrown several dry washcloths to absorb all of the gel.  I feel like the guy in the shower in “The Crying Game.”
She escorted me down the hall.  I noticed that she kept looking to the right and left.  
Me:   “Did you lose something?”
Her:  “No.  I’m just looking for the right sized broomstick.  You’re not my only ultrasound today.”
***
Stay tuned.
*I went home and told my friend Lambrusco all about it. 




Despite being wracked with grief over the impending divorce of Katie Holmes from Tom Cruise, we were able to have a lovely Fourth of July*.  Busy?  Yes.  Fun?  Yes.  Family?  Some.  Beer?  Yes.  Oh, yes, please.
Not only did we have today off, about a week ago, after work, Joe and I packed, got our routine “drive” coffees and some candy, and then drove to his sister’s house in Wisconsin, arriving around 7:30 pm.



Yes, we actually stayed here.  It was gorgeous.



There, we met up with two of my husband’s sisters, Anita and Carla, and Joe’s mother Mary.  Also present:  Anita’s boyfriend Ron and Carla’s hubby John.  (Missing:  the last sister Lisa, her three kids, and all three of mine.)  Sadly, work schedules are extremely prohibitive sometimes.  L


Hey, turn around.  I’m taking a picture here.



But I digress.
We were there Thursday through Sunday afternoon.  A typical day consisted of getting up and having coffee, then taking a nice hour long walk looking at the pretty scenery.  It was also very hot.  It is beautiful, too, as you can see.  



Woops, wrong picture.  But still pretty darn cute.


That’s better. 

Did I mention it was hot?  By the time we got back, it was almost beer: thirty.  Time to get on the bathing suits and head down to the refreshing water after packing up a cooler and some reading material.  I was able to finish the book “The Litigators” by John Grisham (it was good), and Carla worked on the last book by Stieg Larsson, which I believe is “The Girl with the Tattoo Who Played with the Fiery Hornet’s Nest”.   She recommends it highly. 

We read.  We walked.  We ate.  We laughed.  We floated on our backs, on rafts, on noodles.  We hogged the cookies.  We drank one or two beers.  (cough *an hour* cough)  We played games of Sequence every night before the sun, fresh air, and liquid beverages caught up with us…then woke up to do it all again the next day.

We were on lake time.



A very serene Sunday except for the Loch Ness Monster sighting.

In short, it was an awesome (if somewhat abbreviated) vacation.  Good for the body, good for the soul. 

Not so great for the waistline.  Those vacation calories waited until I was asleep before slapping themselves all over my sunburned self. 
Stay tuned for the next article, tentatively entitled “The Girl Who Lost Weight by Running Away From a Hornet’s Nest.”
*interesting note.  Tom Cruise also starred in the movie “Born on the Fourth of July.” 

It’s scarier than Insidious, more terrifying than Paranormal Activity, and far, far worse than the Exorcist.
It’s…bathing suit season. 
It’s February, I know.  Why should anyone be thinking of bathing suit season?  And with Girl Scout Cookie season in full swing, no less.  What are we, masochists?
Knowing hot weather is on the horizon is bad enough, but knowing that you don’t have three months left to diet, you only have one…that will slap the taste of Thin Mints right out of your mouth.
Here’s another thing that will turn that cookie taste to sawdust—actually taking two or three suits in your size into a tiny, yet horrifyingly bright fitting room with an excessive (I feel) number of mirrors.  
Oh wait, you just THINK they’re your size.  After squeezing, pouring, and contorting your body into one of them, you stare into the mirror, out of breath, and think to yourself, did the cottage cheese miss my mouth and stick to my thighs?  Did I misread the size on the tag?
Perhaps if I had eaten more cottage cheese, I wouldn’t be so scared of being alone in the fitting room with spandex.
Today my oldest daughter and I went to Plato’s Closet knowing they had scads of beautiful sundresses…just perfect for the warm weather and sunny beaches of the Riviera Maya…at prices just perfect for the budget.
This is actually Puerta Vallarta, but you get the idea.
I carefully chose 9 different swirly sundresses, certain that they would be perfect.  I tried on each one of them and, as a kindness to you, my friends; I will spare you the sordid details…suffice to say that out of the 9, I bought one.  And even that one is iffy…I kept the receipt. 
Let’s not even talk about the bathing suits.  I need one more week of dieting and perhaps some sort of sedative before I will even think of trying on bathing suits.
Before I do, though, I will grab a fresh cup of coffee study the floor plans of different department stores and figure out who’s got the fitting rooms with the fewest mirrors and the dimmest lights.
And nothing goes better with a fresh cup of coffee than a shortbread cookie. 
Someone at my work (identity will remain a mystery) bought up an interesting point recently.  He came back to the office after a trip to Cost Cutters and said the entire time, all he could think about was how fat his chin looked.
How sad.  When you go get a haircut, you should be able to enjoy the feel of the hairdresser washing your hair, massaging your scalp, combing your hair out and the gentle tickle of her running your hair through her fingers as she lines up her next length of hair to trim. 
But is my coworker the only one who feels that way?  Unfortunately, no.   When most people get their hair cut, they’re forced to stare at the mirror for approximately 15 minutes, during which time you’ve got your hair plastered to your scalp.  Instead of enjoying the feeling, though, and relaxing, you’re sitting there self consciously watching yourself talk and laugh. (Does my mouth really move like that?  All the time?   Cripes, when I smile, I look like I don’t have eyes!  Oh My God, how many chins do I have?  That’s it, I’m never smiling again.)  Also, you’re watching the underarm jiggle of the Cost Cutter hairstylist.  But the whole time you’re staring into the mirror, you’re a little uncomfortable.  And mentally cutting down your calories for the next month to approximately 1000 a day.  Mmmm….yes, that IS relaxing. 
It wasn’t always that way, though.  It’s a learned behavior.  Think of it this way.  When a baby looks into the mirror, the baby doesn’t sit there and think, man, kid, you gotta lay off the strained bananas, YOU are getting CHUNKY.  How many bottles are you up to a day, anyway?
No.  The baby points at the mirror and says, look at the PRETTY BABY.   Complete acceptance there, not name calling.
My oldest just got his hair cut.  He also is growing what we normal people would call sideburns but what his homies would call “chin straps.”  Those “chin straps” were trimmed as well, and now he looks like a pretty clean cut dude.
My husband gets haircuts on a regular basis.  I don’t think his hair has ever been over ½” since I’ve known him.  I asked him jokingly once if he would like to grow his hair out like a hippie, and he told me that his hair doesn’t grow DOWN, it grows two ways…CURLY and UP.  Always.  Just higher, and higher, and higher.  So he would NEVER look like a hippie but more like the Bride of Frankenstein.  Or Marge Simpson.
Oh, Homie.


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  • Mary Fran Says: Thank you for contributing to Sweeps Week! We make a great team. Maybe we'll collaborate in our next lives? SISTERS! lol :)
  • Mary Fran Says: What's better than a Baby Shower aka Early Baby Birthday Party? Baby's FIRST Birthday Party! (Although it's hard to call them "baby" by one! They grow
  • Ann Jones: I'll have to check it out, thanks for the heads up!

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