I’m fat. There I said it.
I’ve been dreading saying it since I started blogging.
I see all of these other blog moms. They comment about food and eating everything, being so fat. I see them with envy. What I wouldn’t do to be their size, and call myself fat. Instead of just being fat.
My struggle is something I’m know many others face. I’m a fat mom. I try not to let it bother me, and most of the time it doesn’t, but once in a while a bit of self-consciousness will creep in, and I try to keep it at bay.
Being a fat mom doesn’t mean I’m any less of a mom. I haul my kids everywhere. I still take them to the park, and try to make healthy meals. I’m careful about the language I use around my three daughters in hopes to promote a positive self-image, while secretly crossing my fingers that they stay skinny like they are now for their own sakes.
With friends I’ve always been the funny fat friend. Which I don’t mind. I mean, I wouldn’t trade my sense of humor for a skinny body.
About the only time I’m bothered by it is when I get the look. The look from another wife and mother. The look that says “How did you get this husband?” or “You’re her, mom? But she’s so tiny.” I don’t see myself as inferior to them, but it bothers me that they see me as inferior just because of my weight. But that’s their problem, not mine.
Does it mean that I don’t take care of myself? I don’t think so. I still enjoy a good walk and a round of tennis. Broccoli is one of my favorite foods. However, I will gain two pounds at the mere sight of chocolate cake. It’s a struggle, but I try to keep the gains at bay. At this point in my motherhood journey I don’t have time to devote hours of my day to exercise and weight loss, but that’s not to say I never will.
So there you have it. I’m fat. I love my kids. I’m me. Now where are those Cadbury Eggs I was promised?