"Style-Challenged Mum gets Rescued by Personal Stylist"

It's been really hot lately, hasn't it? The sticky, humid, icky type of hot that you get in exotic places like Queensland and Singapore. The type of heat that makes you want to go to the shops in a sarong. The type of heat that makes those of us carrying "a little bit extra" wish we'd had more self control when we visited Little and Friday for donuts (cos every donut is now being carried on our hips, weighing us down and make us sweat in the flippin' sweaty heat).

But this isn't a post about the heat. Or about losing weight, getting fit or making any kind of resolutions.

No. This is a post I'm writing because I am excited about a Christmas present I got that is gonna help me make the best of who I am, my body (as it is now) and my wardrobe. See, for Christmas I got a voucher for a style makeover with a personal stylist.

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

Cheer Up

Today I got sent a link to some photos taken of Miss Fab's cheerleading team at their competition last weekend, and as I clicked and saved them, I felt inspired.

I was inspired by the smiles, inspired by the teamwork, inspired by the sheer athleticism of these girls.

Miss Fab has been doing Cheer for nearly two years - and I wasn't always a fan.
The pageant-y makeup, the skimpy outfits, the glitter and bows - it all felt alien to me: un-Kiwi and overly-American.

There are plenty of misconceptions out there in the world about it as well. Many people are under the impression that it's like the Cheer teams on things like High School Musical and Glee: all pompoms and high ponies and backstabbing. But nothing could be further from the truth.

[ CONTINUE READING.......]

Groundhog Day (At the Emergency Room Again)

Another day goes by without me writing my Hunger Games Party post. Today was going to be the day, but gravity intervened - SOMEBODY needed to visit the A&E* to get their big toe x-rayed.
Any guesses as to WHO might have required medical attention this time? Anyone? Anyone???

OK, no prizes for guessing. It is - of course - Miss Fab. The girl who lives her life in a whirlwind, who regularly tangles with gravity; the girl who has her very own cast collection and a stack of ACC letters that could keep a bonfire burning for days.

Yeah I'm exaggerating, but only a little. There have in fact been THREE (count 'em) White Cross A&E visits in the past month. A week and a half on crutches with a pinched nerve in her ankle. An infected bug bite and now, the icing on a the cake: an actual broken bone.

But wait there's more. Along with the usual inconvenience of hours lost in waiting rooms and the chance to catch up on celebrity gossip in old doctor's office mags, this injury also comes with a helping of mummy guilt too.

Because this injury occurred yesterday, people.
The school called (yesterday), and said the Fab had injured her toe but "no need to come get her, she's fine."
Problem: she was not fine.
She was in fact hobbling around on a badly broken toe.
This morning, still unable to walk on it, she begged me to take her for yet-another-xray (and I resisted with all my might, thinking of my to-do list), so she turned to her daddy for backup. Daddy examined the (swollen) appendage and pronounced, "It looks bad. You need to take her."

He was right. I DID need to take her. But if he hadn't insisted, guess what? I probably WOULDN'T have taken her.

See, I have spent far too many hours of my life this year already in that gosh darned waiting room.
I have stood by as x-ray after x-ray turned out to be "just a sprain".

I cringe when I walk in that A&E door. I worry that somebody is going to flag the number of ACC injuries this ONE CHILD has against her name. More than fifteen in the last five years, FIVE of them just THIS YEAR.

I admit it, I was embarrassed and I was busy so I was reluctant. And I left a girl with a SEPARATED GROWTH PLATE in her toe to hobble around, undoctored, for 24 hours.

Like I said, a nice helping of mummy guilt with this injury!

Luckily my girl is very forgiving. She has happily put aside her crossness at my resistance as soon as she got the verdict: A broken toe.
A nice helping of I-told-you-so is all it took: "I can't believe I have a broken toe! And you didn't believe me! Well, you DID believe me, you just didn't want to go to A&E..."

There's a splint, some strapping, a borrowed moon boot and a return appointment to the fracture clinic next Thursday. Three weeks in the splint. But then the kicker: NO SPORT FOR 2-3 MONTHS.

There were real tears shed right then, as she realised what this means.

The Fab has just been selected for the Elite level Cheerleading team at our club. She was so excited at starting training with her new team ("I'm an ELITE cheerleader!") on Monday.
Then there's the fact she's meant to be starring in a solo dance in the finale of our church kids Christmas production.

"No Sport" means no Cheerleading, NO DANCING. No cartwheels, no biking, no swimming, no trampolining... all the things my whirlwind loves to do, because she just hates to sit still.

Poor girlie. What a suckie time of year for a broken toe.

Ahhhh so there you have it. Another day in the life of a whirlwind. Ouch.

Anybody else out there have a kid like mine???

MORE FAB ACCIDENT STORIES:
The Life and Times of Action Girl (a recap of all Miss fab's White cross adventures)

He Rode all the Way

Riding 180km on a bike, to raise money for an orphanage in Manila was the goal.
Saturday just gone was the appointed day.
My husband Rory was the man.

At 5am on Saturday morning, after two hours sleep, laying awake tossing and turning and worrying about Jim's weather predictions (rain... wind...) my poor hubby dragged his weary bones out of bed and and set off in the dark with a wonderful bunch of cycle nuts who were along for some moral support...

I can't tell you how relieved I was that he didn't have to bike all that way on his own. Especially after bugger-all sleep.

We'd made a plan that I was to meet him at just past the half way point, carrying supplies of food and water to the weary cyclists. (When the kids grumbled about spending most of their Saturday in the car, I said, "Think of the orphans and quit your whining!" and "Think of poor daddy riding all this way ON A BIKE! be glad you're in the car!")

The blokes on their bikes turned up about ten minutes after we made it to the meeting point, and I have to say I was a bit worried. Poor Rory looked like he was on his last gasp. I didn't know how he'd manage to make it the rest of the way.

A five minute sit-doon and some kai made all the difference. He looked a little perkier by the time I snapped the team's "half way" photo... (did I mention how grateful I was that Rory wasn't doing this on his own?)

Then it was back on their bikes and I drove ahead to Thames, snapping a few action shots while I was at it...

The rain was starting - just a light spit, but nothing to worry about. There was no sign of the downpour and gales that Jim had predicted. After ten minutes the drizzle let up... and that was it. No more rain fell while the guys were rising. Amazing. (meanwhile the rain never STOPPED in Auckland).

One more meetup in Thames, where a local Pastor met the lads with coffee and muffins and they topped up their water bottles. I was reassured to see Rory looking so much better, with only 55km to go (or so we thought).

Goodbye! we waved. Good luck! Ride carefully! Next time we saw them it would be all over. They were biking to Coromandel township, then catching the ferry back to Auckland. 180km up-hill-and-down-dale on a bike.

Only it wasn't 180km. It was 193km as you can see...

But in spite of no sleep, bad weather predictions and a massive puncture at the bottom of the final hill, my legendary hubby limped over the finish line, with that awesome bunch of mad cyclists out for a fun day's ride, all in a very worthy cause.

[They did it! At the other end waiting for the ferry home]

So far we have raised nearly $4000! I've been really humbled by the number of blog readers who have sponsored my hubby - THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH.

[Rory txting me to tell me he'd done it; photo snapped by our neighbour Andy, a total cycle nut]

In Rory's words, when he'd completed the ride: "Feeling pretty emotional after my biggest cycle ever, just under 200km - but hugely rewarding - touched by everyone's 'buy in'/generosity - pretty much $4k donated - awesome."

If you still want to donate, it's not too late - we've still got $1000 to go to reach our target before Rory leaves with the team to build the orphanage on November 3rd.

Donate to Rory's Orphanage Cycle Fundraiser

(Plus Rory is matching all donations dollar-for-dollar - so at the moment with $4000 raised, the orphanage will be getting $8000; if we reach our goal, the orphanage will get $10,000)

"Nigel Latta for Prime Minister!" (going sugar-free)

Nigel Latta rocks so much it's not funny. (Apologies to my non-New Zealand readers who haven't been able to experience the awesomeness of Nigel.) For those of you who don't know him, Nigel Latta is a down-to-earth New Zealand psychologist who has written brilliant, hilarious helpful books on parenting and fronted in-depth investigative TV shows on everything from NZ's criminal element to family violence to... sugar. He's not reactionary, he doesn't have an axe to grind, he understands humans and he just plain makes sense.

Hubby and I have been recording Nigel's latest (brilliant) series and watching it together. Last night's show rocked our world. It was all about how much sugar is in our food and the health effects and cost to the country of diabetes, tooth decay and obesity caused by the sweet stuff.
According to Nigel and the various health experts who shared their knowledge on the documentary, sugar is hidden in almost everything, because it's cheap.
The low-fat revolution made everyone want fat-reduced, but as Nigel's expert said, "When you take the fat out, stuff tastes like cardboard, so they had to add something. And what they added was SUGAR."
And sugar, apparently is way way worse than fat.
It's yummy, it's a treat, it's in all our favourites (chocolate, icecream, lollies) and it's addictive. (Our brain craves more and more of it).
Sugar has been added to tomato sauce, mayonnaise, yoghurt and baked beans. It's even hiding in Marmite!
Of course the worst culprit of them all is pretty obvious: Sugary drinks. Fizzy drinks. Coke. Cheaper than water, these fizzy drinks are easy to drink and cheap to buy. Kids love them, and they star at every birthday party (oops).
As a country we are fatter and unhealthier than ever before. 60% of New Zealand adults are obese and 30% of children! Eek!

[source]

Mr G has been niggling me about the amount of sugar in our kids' diet ever since a couple of our kids have been diagnosed on various spectrums (we have a crazy happy mix of aspergers, ADHD and dyslexia in our clown-house, something I have not blogged about because the kids don't want me to. I'm telling you this without naming names - and I'm on that list too).
Diet is something that can make a big difference, apparently. But I've been dragging my heels because the easy options are... easier. And I am not a fan of spending hours in the kitchen baking (you know that, right?)
I am not the mum who bakes her own bread (I have an abandoned breadmaker sitting neglected in my cupboard who will back me up on that). I pull out my favourite recipes for parties, I occasionally dabble in new recipes when entertaining, and I struggle to get excited about producing a nutritious meal every.single.night.
I follow lots of people on Instagram who are always baking and sharing their latest sugar-free, gluten-free, dairy-free efforts and I think, Wow, good on them, as the guilt taps me on the shoulder.
Being a self-confessed Lazy Mother is not a guilt-free state of mind. Shortcuts are not usually the best option for healthy living.

[source]

So when my hero NIGEL started shining the light on the hideousness of all that sugar in our diets, I started squirming a little.
Hubby was prodding me from the other couch: "Are you listening to this?" "Did you get that?"
Oh yeah, I did.

When the programme had finished and I sat reeling from the images of two-year-olds who had been bottle-fed Coke, having their teeth extracted under general anaesthetic ("Did you see that?" hubby said. "But our kids teeth are GOOD!" I replied)...
...after seeing Nigel himself fail a blood test when he considered himself a healthy eater who exercises regularly ("And you don't exercise," hubby reminded me "HMNFHHH!" I muttered.)
...after watching people who had gone sugar-free drop dozens of kilos and have loads more energy and still be able to eat delicious-but-healthy food, and seeing Nigel himself go sugar free and improve his blood results after three months...
...well I couldn't ignore it when Nigel said it, could I?

Hubby dragged me out to the kitchen and proceeded to quiz me on the contents of our pantry.
"How many teaspoons of sugar do you think is in this?" he asked, waving a yoghurt pottle.
"Um, three?"
"Four."

"How many teaspoons in this?" (Up'n'Go liquid breakfast drink)
"Four?"
"Five."

And so it went on.

Almost everything I thought was OK to put in the kids' lunch boxes (or give them for breakfast) is loaded with sugar.
The recommended healthy level of sugar is just seven teaspoons per day.
SEVEN! (and nine for adult males).

I'm in trouble here, people. Seriously big changes need to be made.
I'm going to have to research sugar-free recipes, natural sweetener alternatives and ditch the easy-option nasties.

I'd love to have your help, all you sugar-free health gurus, who make your own gluten-free bliss balls and homemade muesli bars. Sugar-free cookie recipes - do they exist?
Homemade yoghurt toppings (I'll be buying plain yoghurt from now on) - I need your recipes.

Please share your recipes with me and my readers! Leave a link to your healthy recipe blog posts on the linky or in a comment or email me (greatfun4kids@live.com). I will be eternally grateful.

An InLinkz Link-up

P.S. I sure wish Nigel was standing in the election. I'd vote Nigel Latta for prime minister anyday.


HELPFUL ARTICLES I FOUND WHILE CREATING THIS BLOG POST:
10 Tips for Packing healthy School Lunches (on BlogHer)
Children's Breakfast Cereal Sugar & Health Guide (on The Parents Jury)

Drama, concussion and an ambulance trip

I'll make this quick cos I have a raging headache (from the bump on my head) and I'm doing this on my phone while lying in bed, recovering from my very dramatic day yesterday.
Actually I can hardly remember any of the dramatic events, but what my husband told me is This: I got up to puke in the loo, he heard a thump and I was lying on the floor. He helped me up, I went back to the loo and there was another louder thump... this time he find me in the hallway unconscious. He thought I'd had a stroke. (I hadn't, but luckily he was there).

Apparently I was incoherent and didn't know what day it was; I kept asking him the same questions... I remember nothing.
He took me to a&e where they called an ambulance and off I went for a CT scan and some IV fluids.
The verdict is Giardia (from Fiji) which caused me to dehydrate and then I fainted, hit my head and got concussion. Ouch but my head hurts!
Luckily, thankfully my husband was there.

Luckily, thankfully it's nothing permanent or life threatening (though he was pretty freaked out at the time). 

LUCKILY, thankfully I didn't have to stay in hospital overnight.

Giardia is nasty (all but one of our kids have had the vomit bug this week) and even if you drink only bottled water, they might still get you with the salads. (The only kid to not puke is the one who doesn't eat salad).
Moral of the story? Don't eat salad in Fiji.

The PhoneCall Every Mother Dreads...

I was in the middle of painting my kitchen when the phone call came.
The windowsills had been sanded and primed; the first coat of faded vintage green was gracing two walls.
I was just rinsing the brushes, anticipating a sandwich break when the telephone interrupted my DIY.

"Hi.... Simone? It's Sue here from the Intermediate School. We need you to get here right away..."

My heart sank. Oh no. What's he done? Is he in trouble? My mind started racing as I braced myself for bad news... but I was on the completely wrong track.

"We've called an ambulance, there's been an accident. He is conscious but we're very worried about him. The paramedics are on their way... how fast can you get here?"

Worse. This was so much worse than being called to school for an altercation or some other disciplinary thing. They've called an ambulance. For my son.

I dropped everything. I got there as fast as I could.



It's every mother's worst nightmare. Serious injury to your child which could have repercussions for their future. Damage to the neck or spine. That's what they told me they were worried about when I got to the school.

A much bigger boy had tripped and landed on Dash's head/neck while playing soccer. Yes, soccer. Hardly the kind of sport you think might result in your kid being carted away in an ambulance. It's not like he plays rugby or ice hockey after all.
But then, who would have ever thought a kid could crack their wrist doing swimming either?
Not your usual.

So there I am in the sick bay, with anxious staff offering me cups of tea (for the shock) while the paramedics poke and prod my child who is conscious but hardly responsive. He doesn't reply to questions, his face is white as a sheet with two bright red spots on his cheeks. his eyes keep drifting closed and he is shaking.

I feel a bit removed, weirdly calm.
Maybe it's all the practise I've had up at A&E but somehow I'm not panicking.

Until I can't get hold of Mr G whose phone is switched off. And I remember that he told me he'd be out at a work thing all afternoon, incommunicado, home late.
It's nearly 2pm now, an hour til the other two kids finish school for the day.
This is when my amazing community rallies round. I call a friend, she says sure she can pick up Scrag and Fab, take them home. She has to go out at 5pm though, so I know I need a backup plan. Another friend says, sure she will take them from then until I can get hold of daddy. (She even goes and picks them up for me.) Relief and gratitude overwhelm me; now I don't have to worry about my other babies, I can just focus on the injured one.

My son is stretchered off into the ambulance, headed for Starship children's hospital.
As I drive across the city to the hospital in a state of freakishly calm not-quite-shock, I pray for my boy.
Let him be OK; let there be no permanent damage; let this freak accident not affect his future.
Every mother's wish for their child when they get the phone call they dread the most.

[Dash has been accepted into the Auckland Football Federation talent development Academy]

Hours later, after a CT scan, lots of txting, praying and a lemonade iceblock, Dash is looking more himself. He has come out of that awful shock, he is talking again. The weird pallor has gone and normal colour has returned to his cheeks.
He can't remember the accident, he doesn't remember getting to the sick bay (he was carried by his friends, they told me later.)
The doctor has good news: the scan is clear. No neck or spinal injury. Nothing permanent.

The conclusion: Concussion.

No sport or exercise for at least a week. No AFF Football Academy; no team training. Take things very slowly. Stay quiet.
And be very very thankful it wasn't a whole lot worse.


P.S. How ridiculous is it that this time last week my post was about Miss Fab and her injury-proneness and cast collection??? Does this happen to anybody else?

The Life and Times of *Action Girl*

When we walk into our local White Cross accident and emergency clinic, the doctor sees us coming and says, "Hello Abby, what are you in for this time?"
Yes, they know my daughter by name up there.
It's kind of a joke amongst us that that place is like a home from home for Miss Fab (a.k.a. "Action Girl"). A joke that isn't really that funny, cos it's so flippin annoying.

We know all the best and worst times to hit the clinic (first thing in the morning = good; after school on a Friday or anytime on a Saturday = BAAAAAAD).
We know never to go straight to Starship, always go to White Cross first (they give morphine before they xray if the break looks bad and they call ahead to the hospital so they have a bed ready and waiting).
We know better than to hope that a badly landed somersault doesn't require crutches or a splint; a trip to White Cross will be necessary. Best to get it over and done with or the guilt will be extortionate when you take her in four days later and she needs a cast after all.

This is what comes of having an Action Girl for a daughter. A girl who never sits still for a moment but who gobbles up life like it's a giant bowl of goody gumdrop icecream. A girl who espouses the principle that trees are for climbing and why walk when you can cartwheel?

Here she is the time-before-last, sporting a purple cast. That time it was a trampoline accident; she landed a backflip awkwardly, as you do. Photo circa six months ago.

Here's a collection of some of her earlier injuries and escapades, dating right back to when she was just 18 months old. Little Action Girl thought she could climb on top of the playhouse roof without incident, but gravity got the best of her; her little baby arm was snapped right through when she fell.
We spent two days in the hospital that time, her arm needing an operation to straighten the bones.
A month later she slipped on a shiny floor and ended up with a matching fluoro pink cast on her leg. Two casts, one baby girl. I was afraid to go out in public.

There have been so many ACC forms filled out for this girl, crutches borrowed and casts worn, that someone suggested we get her eyes tested...
But nope. There is no vision impairment - she's just an Action Girl in a big hurry.

This latest injury (green cast, this time) really takes the cake. Who would think swimming could land you in a cast, after all?
Action Girl was doing swimming sports at school. She came second in the heats for freestyle and backstroke, and got through to the semifinals.
At semi-final time, she came second in freestyle! Wahoo! Through to the finals!
Now for the backstroke... she's coming second again.... OUCH! She's slammed her wrist right into the concrete edge of the pool! Didn't see it coming.
Now she's crying, cradling her arm.
Poor girlie. Wrap her in a towel, cuddle her and dry her tears.
Ooh it's coming up with a lump and a bruise.
But she wants to swim in the final.
The gun goes off... Oh dear. She's sinking in the water, crying and cradling her poor injured arm.
Poor, brave Action Girl.
Off to White Cross we go.
"Hello Abby, what are you here for this time?" the friendly doctor says.

The X-rays are inconclusive. It could be a crack in the growth plate or simply a sprain. They give us a velcro splint and tell us to come back in a week. Time will tell.

The timing couldn't be worse. Action Girl has her free trial for Cheerleading coming up.
Even though she's in a splint we go along anyway.
Action Girl is jumping out of her skin to join in. This is so her. Cartwheeling, handstanding and stunting; the kids don't sit still for a moment. She is bursting to show them what she can do, aching to demonstrate her one-handed cartwheels. Even splinted-up she does what she can. She is Action Girl after all.

"Oh mum, I love this! I so want to do it! This is totally ME!" she enthuses after the class.  (I try to ignore the girls in hairbows and hotpants who are lining up at the door for the next class. Eek.)

Action Girl is desperate for her arm to be better, ASAP. She tries to go without the splint, but can't make it more than half a morning before the pain reduces her to tears.
Back to the clinic we go. Another day, another cast.

As you can see, Action Girl was not impressed with her new green cast. Cheerleading must be put off for another term, cartwheeling must wait, along with swimming, trampolining, climbing trees and all those other Action Girl faves.

Poor ole Action Girl. ♥

Do you have one of these in your family? A girl (or boy) who lives life at breakneck speed and lands you in the A&E clinic on a regular basis?

More Action Girl Posts

• Not like her Mama
• Anatomy of a Winner
• Stuff you Learn at a Skate Park
• Life goes on

Gravity Strikes Again

This morning I thought I'd be virtuous and walk Scrag to school. He's been begging me all week as it's just him and me, with Miss Fab off at camp and Dash leaving the house before the birds are up to catch his bus. Other days there had always been a reason not to, but today for once we were running early and I ran out of excuses.

Of course he insisted on taking his scooter. He got the MGP for Christmas and had been bursting to ride it to school. Just one problem: I hadn't got round to getting him a lock yet, which meant I was looking at lugging the jolly thing home on my shoulder.
(Have you picked one of those things up before? They are HEAVY.)

Scrag was not to be dissuaded, his heart was set on scooter-riding so I resigned myself to a bit of weights-and-cardio on the return journey.

See those pretty pink Chucks in the picture? I wasn't wearing those. They are a new addition to my shoe collection and I'm still getting used to them. Walking in them to school may have resulted in blisters so my Kiwi feet were slopping along in my comfy jandals* ... (*a.k.a. flipflops)

My footwear should have given me pause when the scooter got heavy on my shoulder on the way home and that gently sloping downward hill looked so inviting (since everyone knows you don't wear jandals on a scooter).

There I was on a quiet side street with that gentle slope calling to me and my shoulder aching.
I knew the MGP could take my weight so I threw caution and dignity to the wind and hopped on board...

Wheeeee! This was fun! I was grinning as I passed an old man crossing the road who stared in astonishment at the sight of this middleaged mama whizzing by on a scooter.

"Better to ride it than carry it!" I called out blithely as the scooter picked up speed...

Suddenly there loomed in front of me a bump in the pavement, an uneven join, a veritable mountain... could I take it?
My new-found inner daredevil skatergirl told me yes.
So I hit that bump at full speed, all 80kgs of me and gravity did the rest.

As I rolled spectacularly across the pavement, landing heavily on my hip and scraping my hands and bare jandal-wearing toes I was dimly aware of a car pulling out of the driveway right next to me... ouch, there goes my pride as well as the skin on my palms. I took care not to meet the driver's eye, or to look back and see if the old gent had seen my acrobatic tumble.

I picked myself up, slung the darned scooter over my shoulder and limped the rest of the way home, not even bothering to squeeze out a self-pitying tear. After all what did I expect? MGPs are not for MiddleAge Mamas.
And obviously Gravity is still out to get me. Darn you Gravity!

..............................

Some More of my Adventures with Gravity

• Darn You Gravity
• Falling Down Escalators
• Simone Jones: the Movie of My Life

Grateful for fat-pants & Other Stuff

I read the coolest article last night. Really, it rocked my world.
You know when you read something and it's like the writer has been inside your head and is expressing  thoughts you've had, but could never articulate?
This was one of those posts... and it got me thinking.

The story was called "When your Mother Says She's Fat" (by Kasey Edwards) and here are a just a few of the gems contained within...

"I understand what it's like to grow up in a society that tells women that their beauty matters most, and at the same time defines a standard of beauty that is perpetually out of our reach. I also know the pain of internalising these messages. We have become our own jailers and we inflict our own punishments for failing to measure up. No one is crueller to us than we are to ourselves..."

"The older we get, the more loved ones we lose to accidents and illness. Their passing is always tragic and far too soon. I sometimes think about what these friends - and the people who love them - wouldn't give for more time in a body that was healthy. A body that would allow them to live just a little longer. The size of that body's thighs or the lines on its face wouldn't matter. It would be alive and therefore it would be perfect..."

"Every moment we spend worrying about our physical ''flaws'' is a moment wasted, a precious slice of life that we will never get back. Let us honour and respect our bodies for what they do instead of despising them for how they appear. Focus on living healthy and active lives, let our weight fall where it may, and consign our body hatred in the past where it belongs..."

I needed to read that. At a time when I am wrestling with various aspects of my less-than-perfect self, when I almost have a panic-attack after putting on undies that are too tight, a little bit of real-life wisdom is much appreciated.

I haven't always struggled with my weight; I've been "averagely curvy" most of my life but since having Scrag the corners just keep getting roundier. The messages "out there" really do make you feel that YOUR WEIGHT=YOUR WORTH (and that the more you weigh, the less you're worth).

For many years now, I've tried to be careful about what I say about myself. I know that Little Girl eyes are watching me; Little Girl ears are listening to what I think about myself. I want my daughter to grow up loving and appreciating - being grateful for - the beautiful strong healthy body that she has.

I don't want any of my "issues" passed on to her. Which means that I have to accept myself the way I am and embrace the (curvier) skin I am in.

No fad diets, no always obsessing about calories. (This, I can do).

But I also need to model healthiness, aim for well-being  and look after myself. Respect and care for the body I live in. (This is harder for me).

Wherever I am at - whether I ever lose those extra kilos or not - I need to accept who I am, the shape I am, and love the skin I'm in. I need to make the best of what I've got and be grateful for the ability to walk, talk, see, hear, move and grow as a person.

So today here are a bunch of things I can be grateful for about myself and my body...

I am grateful for my eyes. They may not be able to see perfectly but I am not blind. I can see the world around me, I can watch my children grow, I can read books. (I am also grateful to live in the days when there are such things as glasses for people like me, who are severely shortsighted. Without glasses I'd be stuffed.)

I am grateful for my ears and being able to hear. I can hear music, I can hear my children's (raucous) laughter, I can hear questions that are asked of me and engage in conversation. Hearing is a gift.

I am grateful for my voice. I have things to say, ideas, thoughts. I am not mute. I can speak with my mouth, or through writing. Being able to share your voice is also a gift. Some people do not enjoy freedom of speech like I do. It is not something to be taken for granted.

I am grateful for My smile. My teeth are all my own (and are remarkably cavity-free). I can communicate love and approval through my smile. I can reflect my emotions on my face without a word being spoken. My children can see my smile from across a room and know that I am pleased with them. I can break down barriers with a smile, make a stressed-out til operator feel like a person or share joy with a grin. Imagine if my face was botox-rigid, or stroke-frozen. A smile is a gift.

I am grateful for my arms. Sculpted or stick-thin they are not. But they can wrap around a crying child, they can embrace a friend in need of a hug. My arms can hold children, parcels and lift burdens. Perhaps they cannot hold my own bodyweight for long, but my arms are strong enough and soft enough to give great cuddles.

I am grateful for my hands. With my hands I write, I type, I communicate with the world. With my hands I create, I cook, I care for my possessions and my loved ones. Through my hands I express myself and bring order and beauty into my world. I am thankful for my strong creative hands.

I am grateful for my feet, which take me places, and my legs which actually work. I may not win any sprint races, my thighs may not be suited to skinny-jeans but I can walk. I can stand. I can get myself where i need to go. Decorative my legs may not be, but useful they surely are.

I am grateful for my body. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day my body is hard at work keep me breathing, moving, living. My heart pumps without missing a beat, my lungs send oxygen to all my parts; my brain might be sluggish and stroppy at times, but still it is not impaired; Kidneys, spleen, intestines, heart - they all keep doing their jobs without fail, even while I'm sleeping. My clever body has created three human beings from scratch; carried them for nine months each. This might have taken a toll on my shape; the years might have taken their toll on my metabolism... but here I sit, a mother with arms that can hug, a heart that can love, a brain that can think. My body is amazing.

And finally, I am grateful for Fat Pants. The comfy undies and stretchy longs you put on when you just need to feel comfortable in your skin and in your clothes. When too-tight hold-me-in knickers and restrictive cinch-my-waist belts make you want to scream... those are the days we give thanks for Fat Pants. 

Days like today.

..................

If you want to join in with The Grateful Project, grab a notebook and pen and just start writing down something every morning that you are grateful for. To connect with others who are doing it you can use #thegratefulproject on Twitter and Instagram, or leave me a comment here on my blog. I've also started a Grateful Project Board on Pinterest.
See you all tomorrow.

(More Grateful Posts)