Screw Skinny

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Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
That’s a damn lie.

Thin equals pretty.
Also a damn lie

Your weight is who you are.

One of the biggest damn lies I cant think of.

Little girls on a scale

Did anyone see this today?

Lada Gaga’s Stomach

Lady Gaga looking emaciated with her concave stomach and xylophone of ribs. Why is this beauty? And don’t tell me art because that’s crap and its dangerous.

The images being put out for us to see and gawk at and try to emulate are false. It is hard work to be a woman, what with all of the plucking and waxing and make up applying and hair to be done. It’s fun work to be a woman and I think it’s innate in us to want to look and feel beautiful. My daughters are 2 1/2 and 3 1/2 and the moment their nails are dry they are shoving them into their baby brothers face asking him ” Do you like my nails?” and ” aren’t they pretty?”

So I’m not bashing beautiful nor the desire to be and feel beautiful. I’m bashing the skinny is everything crap that we and our daughters are fed day in and day out from the likes of Lady Gaga to Brooke Burke ( yes she is stunning. But lets not pretend that after 5 kids that body put itself back together like that without a good team of doctors and lasers) to Kim Kardashian who won’t even be seen outside of her house until she has attained the unattainable postpartum body through in home personal training, night nurses and meal deliveries.

Weight matters when it is unhealthy. Your looks matter if you are unhappy with them. What doesn’t matter, or rather what shouldn’t matter, is perfection. Tracy Anderson, trainer to the stars and who’s DVDs I own and use from time to time and find to be a good hard workout, claims that she has found the method ” that makes perfection possible”. According to her method, that means two hours of working out a day on a 700 calorie a day limited foods diet. Now you can bet your bottom dollar you’re going to lose weight and few dress sizes on something like that.

But what are you really gaining with this type of “perfection”? Are all of your deep seeded insecurities gone? Is your marriage fixed? Are you all of the sudden happy with who you really are?

Because if the number on your scale or on the tag in your pants is what you base those things on your screwed. If your entire happiness or self worth is wrapped up in how much you weigh and how you look, best of luck to you, because you won’t ever be truly content, happy, or satisfied.

But, if you can come to grips with the shape of your hips and the freckles on your face you just might still come out on top. If you put your efforts into being a well read woman, a kind woman, an interesting woman, a strong,steady and wise woman you will be the winner, year after year after year. You will triumph over those doubts and insecurities, find success in the broken relationships and truly get to become exactly who you want to be regardless of your dress size or weight.

Go out and be beautiful! Try the new skin care line, play with makeup and hair colors. Enjoy fashion. Do your workouts for fun and health and because you like how it makes you look and feed. Always opt for the uncomfortable but fancy shoe and screw skinny, for the sole sake of being skinny, to its sticking post. Be healthy, if that means losing weight I love weight watchers and Paleo. If it means gaining a few pounds I prefer lemon drop martinis and chocolate.

And by all means, be careful what you say to yourself and about yourself in front of you daughters.

Girls on Stairs in summer

Because she might grow up to look just like you.

The Hero Daddy

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The Hero Daddy used to make me very angry. He would come home after a full days work at the office, and I a full days worth of in home war with two tiny toddlers.  I would be covered in peanut butter and jelly, a plethora of bodily fluids, and living in a sweat pants purgatory because nothing cute fit or because it  just wasn’t worth getting my one pair of jeans sticky.

And here he would come, Hero Daddy, swooping into the house in his clean clothes greeted by the sweet sound of tiny feet running and  little voices shouting “Daddy’s Home!”  When not two minutes ago those same tiny feet were trying to kick me in the face as I changed a diaper and the little voices were screeching things like “I don’t want to” and  “No Mommy” and just plain screaming.

Hero Daddy could all of the sudden make everything funny. All of the sudden when Hero Daddy tells you to eat your dinner its hysterical and a really fun game. When Mean Mommy asks you to its battle lines drawn. When Hero Daddy tells you its time to put on your pajamas its a laughable time filled with dancing while you jump into your jammies. When Mean Mommy tells you to put on your pajamas it really means its time to run away and throw your pjs into the dog kennel.

Hero Daddy

Mostly Hero Daddy made me angry because I wanted to be him. I wanted to be the one with whom the children laughed all evening long. I wanted to be the one to be able to solve tears with a joke and a playful threat of having to sleep in the chicken coop ( one of the children’s favorite). I didn’t want to feel like Mean Mommy all the time. The one who tells them to do everything and the one who seems to make them cry.

But then both girls finally started sleeping through the night, and it hit me, I’m not Mean Mommy I’m just Mommy. I am the one in the trenches every day with these little loves of mine and I am the one to enforce boundaries and do the disciplinary actions all day long. I am the one who tells them to eat every three minutes of every meal. I am the one who takes on the battle of what you can wear today and  how much TV you can watch and how far away you can run down the sidewalk and if you can eat those marshmallows you’ve just stolen out of the pantry.  But I’m also the one they call to in the middle of the night when they are sick or scared. I am the one they want to show their artwork to and the one whom they can ask to hang it on the fridge. I’m not Mean Mommy, I’m just Mommy and the more I realized that the more I loved Hero Daddy.

In truth, I have a Hero Daddy. My Mom was the everyday parent, the one I yelled at, fought with, laughed with, confided in and cried to. But my Hero Daddy was there every time I needed him to calm me down or make me laugh, teach me how to race a 400M or to sing harmony in a duet, take me out to ice cream before dinner and to make me feel like the most special little girl God ever created. And he still makes me feel like that.

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Every little girl deserves that. My little girls deserve that.

And Hero Daddy, with his clean clothes and loud dinosaur stomp as he chases them around throwing them into fits of hysterical laughter right before bedtime, does just that.  When he sneaks them cookies while I’m in the other room, makes jokes about stinky things and teases them out of a tear fest he really does make these two tiny girls feel like they hung the moon.

And as every child does, they deserve that feeling and will remember it for the rest of their lives.

Turns out, Mean Mommy and Hero Daddy make a pretty good team after all.

And it seems to be a pretty universal theme…

To quote Phil Dunphy from Modern Family “Let’s not play Good Cop/ Mom”

Repeat After Me

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Repeat after me:
I shall not judge my house, my kid’s summer activities or my crafting skills by Pinterest’s standards.
I shall not measure what I’ve accomplished today by the loads of unfolded laundry but by the assurance of deep love I’ve tickled into my kids
I shall say “yes” to blanket forts and see past the chaos to the memories we’re building.
I shall surprise my kids with trips to get ice cream when they’re already in their pajamas.
I shall not compare myself to other mothers, but find my identity in the God who trusted me with these kids in the first place.
I shall remember that a messy house at peace is better than an immaculate house tied up in knots.
I shall play music loudly and teach my kids the joy of wildly uncoordinated dance.
I shall say “sorry” when sorry is necessary.
I pray to that God I shall never be too proud, angry or stubborn to ask for my children’s forgiveness.
I shall love their father and make sure they know I love him.
I shall not be intimidated by the inside of my minivan – this season of chip bags, goldfish crackers and discarded socks too shall pass.
I shall not resent that last call for kisses and cups of water but remember instead that when I blink they’ll all be in college.
~ with love from one tired mother to another.

I’m not even sure I want it all

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One week from today my first born baby turns three. That means that next year she is in preschool and then in two years she is in kindergarten and our entire schedule changes. Its going so fast that its gotten me thinking…maybe I don’t really want it all after all.

As a woman who once found much of my identity from my work I have often sampled the punch that says “You can have it all” and  tasted the stronger punch that says “You should have it all” and toasted with the top tier spiked punch that says “You should want to have it all!”

The trouble is that when I feel like I don’t actually want it all I feel guilty, like I need to keep it a secret, or that I’m not enough of a modern woman or enough of a mother if I don’t want more right now.

I’ve been hearing a lot lately from women who have already raised their children that yes, they believe that you can have it all, just not at the same time. I think I’m finally feeling comfortable with that. My first baby will be three years old in one week and I’m finally buying into this idea that I don’t need to have it all right now, and I might not even want it.

Growing up all I ever really wanted to be was a mother. I mean, I had other dreams that I pursued and was succesful at like singing in the state choirs in high school and going to college on a theater scholarship then moving two weeks after graduation to live by myself in LA and be a working actor. ( I’ll talk more about that some other time) But in my heart of hearts, the dream I dreamt with each passing daydream was that of being a wife and a mother.

Now that its here, now that I have those cherished moments of your toddler hugging your leg or running to greet you with tiny fast feet and a big toothy grin, having memorable conversations with my 2 year old about heaven and why puppies have four feet but we have two, and begin so blessed with the honor of being someone’s mother, I feel like I’m supoosed to want more.

And I just don’t think I do.

There will be time to run that marathon and train for that second Tri when my children are in school for 8 hours a day. There will be time to be an influencer in the blogging community. There will be time to publish my line of childrens books that is floating around in my mind, but its not all right now.

Right now is my time to have these tiny children all to myself and to have our schedule be as free as a Jay Birds, except of course for our nap schedule.

I love to write and have taken my first tiny steps towards my dream of a writing career with my MomopolySarah blog and my first writing contract with Today’s Mamas, and that is going to be enough for me and my heart and my young family right now.

If that makes me less of a modern women than so be it. I am fine with that today. I mean, wasn’t the entire Women’s Lib movement about we women having the freedom to make any choice we want to make? So today, I choose to be the mom I’ve always dreamt of being and choose to continue to dream of being a marathon runner and a big time blogger down the road.

Let it be known that my parents are business owners and my mother worked every hour of every day and many holidays my whole life. So I have no qualms about working mothers, nor do I believe that one way it better than the other. For many of those years I was dreaming of being a mom I dreamt of being a working mom, but then I married and had the opportunity to be a stay at home mom and I am very grateful for that, since its suits me and our family so well.

One of the best parts about being a Mother is that we each get to be exactly the type of mother we want to be. So make your own choice today to be the mother you’ve always wanted to be. Be it a high powered CEO, a nurse that works nights, a teacher, a pastry chef that works early mornings, a Mother Runner who pushes three kids in a BOB stroller made for two, be it whatever it may, be the mother of your own dreams starting today.

Will this matter?

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Will this matter?

When its your time to say goodbye to your loved ones and to your life, will this matter? Is it worth the worry, the argument or the anxiety? Worth the harsh words or being unforgiving?   If it won’t matter in a year from now, it won’t matter ever.

Live, love , laugh and let  it go.

A Letter to My Daughter by Tina Fey

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 Today I am yoga sore, my bank account is shopped out, my belly is sore from laughing, and my heart is filled with joy and memories and inside jokes from our girls only, no kids, no husbands, no sleeping, all female family reunion.
I am also spending the day wading through all of the  “Mommy’s Home Meltdowns”. So while I recover and download photos here is one of my favoritse to from the incomparable Tina Fey. Follow the funny lady on twitter here https://twitter.com/TinaFey123
                                                  A Letter to my Daughter by Tina Fey
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered,
May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half
And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.
Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes
And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.
Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,
For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming
Magenta for one day —
And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever,
That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers
And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,
For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,
That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.
“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.
But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.