After a long, cross-country trip in an airplane seat so cramped that I couldn’t, simultaneously, have a drink on the tray table and complete a crossword puzzle, I arrived home late last night to some excited children. It was a welcome sight to my sore eyes.

My son was extra eager to see me. As he rifled through my backpack I asked, “Wait a minute. Are you happy because I’m home or because I brought you a new toy?”

He gave it some thought and replied, “Both…well, actually I’m happy about the toy because it’s new and you’re old.”

I laughed and jokingly said, “Oh, thanks a lot!”

And when he sensed that he might have offended me he said, “But, you’re not old like a grandma! You’re old like a shoe.”

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When I was in high school, I used to starve myself.  It wasn’t to the point that I had an eating disorder, but there were times I would go days where the only thing I would eat was a piece of cheese.  That was only if I was feeling light-headed.

Somewhere along the line, I started eating cheese because it tasted good and not because it kept me from passing out.  Then I had sick babies and started eating cheese because the very act of chewing took my mind off of the thought that my children might not survive.

Then I realized that there were all kinds of foods I liked that I had never let myself eat before.  Stuff like mayonnaise, peanut butter and beer.  Those foods + A decade of anxiety eating = My thighs.

During this period, I’ve lost and gained the same weight over and over.  Every spring, some comes off and every fall more comes back.

Not this year.  It’s not budging.

I started bootcamp at the end of January and have lost a whopping two pounds.  Though, admittedly, I haven’t stopped that beer thing.  However, if my jeans would fit based on increased flexibility and range of motion I would look fantastic.  Why doesn’t the scale notice that?  Huh?

I think part of it is because some of my meds have changed, but more of it is because I’m turning 40 in June.  My body is saying it has had enough of this torture.  I deserve every bit of pain the instructor is inflicting on me as punishment for treating my body like a trash can.  George Costanza’s trash can.

So I will continue to plug along, squeezing in three, one-hour workouts per week in the grand hopes that someday I will no longer have to squeeze into my pants.

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This afternoon, my husband was out on a 16 mile run…which I could totally do if you took the “6” away and let me stop frequently for puffs of my inhaler.  My daughter was napping because of yesterday’s festivities, which included an indoor swim party, softball practice and having a friend sleep over.  And, I was working on a spreadsheet.

My son was bored.  Really bored.  He kept asking, “What can I DOOOO?” with increasing urgency and when he burst into tears and said, “I’m so LONELY!” I decided he was truly attention starved and got off of my computer.

I motioned for him to sit on my lap and said, “Come here, buddy.  I know you want to play with your sister, but she’s really tired.  I’ll play with you.”

As he climbed on my leg the sobbing continued.  He removed his glasses and wiped his face, then he looked at me through his tears and said, “But, you’re so old!”

Age may be nothing but a number, but this kid’s sure got mine.

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My kids have embarrassed me a lot.  I know it’s supposed to be the other way around and it’s possible that I have skipped in the supermarket and walked down the aisle at Home Depot with my hand in my husband’s back pocket just to get my tween daughter all worked up.

But, I have never turned their faces red in church.

A couple of weeks ago, my son not only applauded after the priest finished his homily, but my daughter also leaned over and whispered loudly, “Mom, your roots are really dark.”

But, even they can’t trump what my husband did in church when he went rummaging through my purse looking for mints and instead pulled out a package of Beano.

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