Six-thirty in the morning. I'm dressed, my lunch is packed, I'm putting together a grab-n-go breakfast for myself before slipping back upstairs to get our not-a-morning person daughter out of bed and dressed, thus saving the Winemaker from a solid hour of nagging as he gets the kids ready for school after my departure.
As I cut the French bread, left by a guest from Saturday's party, the knife slips and nicks my finger.
Only, as I realize even before the pain hits (it might have been the way I had to yank the knife back OUT of my finger that clued me in), I didn't just nick it, or even slice it. I chopped. My finger. Not to the bone, but deep, and wide.
So my husband's day started with me standing next to our bed, hand wrapped in a towel, saying, "Get up! I hurt myself!" There are actually 3 of us that are not morning people, so the way he instantly lurched to his feet and got to work on my wound was truly impressive. We decided that I couldn't just slap a bandaid on it and head to work, so I called the school and arranged for a sub.
We got the kids up, and I had the rare treat of walking them to the bus stop. We went into emergency at the local hospital, and had the surreal experience of being treated by a good friend's ex-wife. She seemed so...professional. I got a tetanus shot, a numbing shot, and a measley four sutures. It all took just long enough that I missed the half day cutoff for the sub, and wound up free about five hours earlier than usual.
I'm going to back up and seemingly change topics here, but I've got a point I'm working towards. Trust me. (To which my mother invariably responded, "Last time you said that, we had twins.")
I've been binge eating lately. I've never had eating disorders, and although I've steadily gained weight as I've aged, it hasn't been to an alarming extent. I was pleased to drop 10 pounds during my first six months as a mom--they kept me so active, and I was modeling healthier eating habits. But the past few months, I've kind of gotten out of control. Most of it is secretive--I have a candy stash at work. I stop on my way home at the grocery store and plow through a bag of cookies in the car. Late night scarfing of chocolate chips. I can see the weight gain. My kids have both asked if I'm having a baby. Clothes are getting tight.
Today was different. I still had sweets (because, duh, I'm still me), but without compulsively overdoing it. There were a few times I could have snuck something, but it just didn't sound that great.
Here's my theory. I was being taken care of a lot today. When I called my work to find out about coming in, they told me they'd hired an all day sub, so I should just relax. My husband was solicitous about carrying things, making dinner, doing the dishes. The kids were gentle with me (if morbidly excited to see the actual stitches when we changed the bandages tonight). There were times when I didn't really have anything to do. May I repeat that? There were times when I didn't really have anything to do. I sat in the sun, skimming Karyn Purvis's book and watching the neighborhood kids play soccer.
I let other people take care of me, take care of "my" resonsibilities.
And I didn't feel an urge to be a sugar whore glutton.
Hmm. I'm going to mull that over for awhile. I think it's time I find a way to take care of myself that doesn't involve gorging my way to a bigger me or slicing off digits to get a break.
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