Chubby Mommy Posts

Have you heard about Michelle Duggar, the Arkansas woman who just gave birth to her eighteenth baby?

Eighteen kids. Holy crap!

As my son hops, twists, stomps and races around the house this morning thanks to a “snow day”, I’m sitting here realizing that I’ve got over two more weeks of this non-stop noise now that his Christmas vacation has started early. It’s only 11 o’clock in the morning, but I’m already wishing for a Valium and a cocktail to calm my frazzled nerves.

Then I read about Michelle Duggar’s brood and imagine that noise, chaos and incessant demand for attention multiplied eighteen times. Talk about nerve-wrecking! Then again, perhaps that kind of stress explains why a woman who’s popped out that many kids doesn’t have the hips and abs of a woman who’s popped out two entire baseball teams.

Of course, I can’t begin to imagine how they can afford it, and I’m not talking simply about feeding that many mouths. Can you imagine what she must have to spend on incontinence products?!

Every time I think I’ve whittled my obligations down to ensure I’ll have time to exercise daily, every time I get the motivation up to actually diet, every time I rid the house of all fattening foods and temptations, something comes up to screw with my efforts.

A couple of months ago it was family health problems that meant I was pulling double-parenting duty, a situation which left me with little time and even less interest in exercising. Then it was a busted knee.

Now? It’s a cold. Or the flu. Or maybe it’s the plague. Whatever the hell it is, it’s got me laboring for breath like a mesothelioma patient while my temperature roller coasters from barely 97 to well over 102. Repeatedly. All freaking day long.

And, of course, I can’t remember whether I’m supposed to starve a cold or feed a fever — just as my body apparently can’t decide which it has. Which is fine, since I don’t have the slightest interest in food, anyway. All that hand-to-mouth action wears me out.

So, basically, I’ve been living on Nyquil all weekend long with the occasional supplement of hot tea, hot water with lemon and hot toddys when the Nyquil alone isn’t enough to knock me out. (Yes, that does happen.)

One would at least think all of this feverish sweating, followed by all of the teeth-rattling shaking when the chills set in, would be good for burning calories.

But have I lost weight? Oh, no. No, I have not.

Somehow, my manicure miraculously survived housecleaning and cooking two separate Thanksgiving dinners. Frankly, I was rather surprised since I’m notorious for chipping a nail at inopportune moments… like 15 minutes after the salon’s closed for the weekend, or three minutes before I’m due at an event where I’d hoped to look pulled together.

My husband — for whom nail maintenance consists of a monthly chewing — just couldn’t understand my smug gloating. In his mind, the time and money I spend getting my nails done is just a waste. “Why do women bother?” he asked.

So I explained to him that at some point in ancient history — shortly before my mother-in-law was born, I believe — lacquered nails on a woman were a sign of her husband’s financial prowess. If a man was wealthy, his wife could afford to keep her nails painted and hire servants to do all of the menial labor. Then, at some point, men decided they looked hot so women of all income levels began painting their nails.

Ditto with suntans. Pale skin was, for centuries, what distinguished well-heeled women from their menial laboring counterparts whose daily drudgery exposed them to harmful rays and, thus, turned their skins tan. A woman so wan she practically glowed? Why, that was a sign that her husband was wealthy enough to keep his woman pampered. Then, as with the lacquered nails, men decided that tans were hot so women of all income levels began tanning.

Heck, I told him, a woman carrying excess weight was historically considered attractive and proof of her husband’s affluence, too. Consider the ample endowments of Ruben’s plus-sized painting subjects. Extra amplitude on a woman signified that her husband could food — lots of food — to keep her fed, and also servants to perform work so she could keep that extra padding packed on.

“So,” my husband said, “what your saying is that between your nail appointments, your fear of direct sunlight and your never-ending efforts to lose weight you’re actually retro?”

“Exactly, though I prefer to think of it as vintage,” I told him. “But, you know, I’m only doing this to make you look good.”

Talk about an ego-booster! Today I ran into an acquaintance whom I hadn’t seen for a couple of months. Like me, she’s been struggling to lose weight, although her efforts consist mostly of whining about it in between bites of Ben & Jerry’s.

First thing she said was how envious she is of my 16-pound weight loss.

Second thing? She wanted to know if I’m taking diet pills, just starving myself or did I stumble onto some great diet secret.

Truth is, I have. It’s called Sensa, and I’ve been using it since early October.

What’s the trick? That’s the great thing: there isn’t one. You simply sprinkle it on your food, and that’s it. The taste-enhancers in the product trigger olfactory and appetite satiation quickly, which means you feel full on less food. And that, my friends, means you eat fewer calories. You know, like they’ve been telling us dieters to do all this time.

Stuff works.

Big time.