Weight loss – Mother in the House

Fitbit Failure…

Unfortunately Phil picked up on my very subtle hints regarding my desire for a Fitbit and as such I was the lucky recipient of one on my birthday. Alas, Phil had forgotten how target driven I can be. And had not considered how irritating that would be for him.

For those unfamiliar with a Fitbit it is like a watch which records your activity. You can then check on your phone how active you have been and see if you are meeting the suggested targets, like 30 mins of exercise 5 times a week, 250 steps an hour and 10 000 a day. When you hit such targets the Fitbit will flash and vibrate on your wrist and you feel an enormous sense of well being and pride.

So, in order to hit my 250 steps an hour I frequently jump up at 10 mins to the hour to pace on the spot or run a lap of the kitchen (I should point out the kitchen is not large it adds about 17 steps, max, and subsequently I get quite dizzy trying), I have been known to cycle rather than drive and there have been occasional evening constitutionals to get my step count up. So it appears to encourage some healthy changes. There have however been a few moments when I have questioned such a device…

1. Marching on the spot in the lounge while eating a packet of crisps.

2. Deciding to take a smaller portion of chocolates from the naughty cupboard, thinking that at least I will get some extra steps in when I return for my second helping.

3. The Girl having a tantrum on the walk home because I was walking too fast and I genuinely wanted to make her understand that I had targets to hit otherwise the tiny computer on my wrist won’t flash and vibrate to reward my success.

4. Realising that it had taken me over 2000 steps to put the kids to bed. This was confirmation of a tough evening and legitimised a large glass of wine.

5. Realising that when my alarm went off at 6am I had already managed 267 steps since midnight simply by attending to my snotty little darlings.

6. The one that has really made me question my commitment to such a device and wonder if in fact the Fitbit is the work of Satan. It flashing up on the screen to tell me……”The average Fitbit user wakes up 23 mins later than you on a week day and 1 hour 10 mins later than you on a weekend.”

1 hour and 10mins. Why? Why would I need to know this? I know I haven’t had a proper lie in for 4 and half years. I know I get woken up every morning by a not-so-small-anymore child, (who has seemingly spent the night sharpening her elbows and knees) clambering over me to get in to my bed. I know that any time after 5 am is fair game for The Boy to start hollering for his morning milk and stand in his cot shouting at me until I deliver him his cup of milk, and good god if I don’t get there quick enough I know he is going to throw his little self around that cot in a hungry rage. I know that even when the day starts with an S, I still get up and have a full of day of “work” ahead of me. I know that there is no option of rolling over and going back to sleep. I know that I am permanently sleep deprived. I know how much I would love to sleep for an extra 10 mins, never mind 70 mins!

So why, oh why, does my phone need to tell me how crappy my sleep is and how everybody else does it better? Damn you stupid Fitbit. You can take your statistics and shove them where the sun don’t shine. I’m done. I’m out.

Although I do quite like the party on my wrist when I do 10 000 steps…

An Eggcellent Achievement…

I did it. I only went and got Slimmer of the Week, dream achieved, goal accomplished.

This basically means that out of the people who weighed in today (and who stayed to group- which I do in order to take advantage of the free child care), I had lost the most weight.
Not only did I get rewarded with a round of applause, there was a sticker (yes, like my preschool child, I was rewarded with a sticker- it was shiny too) and a certificate of such a snazzy design it rivals The Girl’s “I got dressed myself today” certificate, to put on the fridge. However, beyond the celebration suitable for a 3 year old (but strangely acceptable) there is also “The Box”.

Each week you are asked to take something healthy to put in the box then the ‘slimmer of the week’ gets to take the contents of the box home. Now, I normally take a few bits of fruit, once when I had not been shopping and we were living out of cupboards I took a tin of tuna. You get the idea. It’s not a treat box- it’s a carry on getting skinny box. Or so I thought.

The contents of my winning box were somewhat questionable.

There were:

– Satsumas, and a few bits of fruit. I suspect these were from “The Consultant”.

– 6, yes 6 chocolate bars. Special skinny ones but still, not quite a piece of fruit.

– A Curly Wurly. Because that’s diet food right there.

– 2 packets of Super Noodles, now this diet is fairly forgiving but super noodles serve no purpose other than to replenish salt levels in a student with a mighty hangover.

– A tin of sardines. In fairness it’s in keeping with the diet, just not top of my desirables list.

– An egg. I assumed, wrongly, it would be hard boiled but no, a straight up raw egg. Just one. Not in its box, just loose amongst the calorie laden snacks.

I can’t help but think that now there are perhaps some undertones of hostility within the group. This box definitely didn’t say to me “well done and carry on getting skinny”.

This box said : “We hate you. We are bitter that you are getting skinny and we are trying to throw you off track by filling your house with anti slimming goods … and a raw egg”.

I think it’s the raw egg that got to me the most. But not to be defeated by the bullies, I nestled this lone egg in the bottom of The Boy’s foot muff on the pram, got it home in one piece, and had myself a well deserved egg bap.

You will never guess what I’m contributing to the box next week…

Fat Club: Weigh In Day

I’ve been to the bathroom, I’m thirsty, I’ve fed the baby, I’m wearing the same thing as last week, my pockets are empty (so is my wallet having paid for the pleasure) the baby is off my hip and I get on the scales.

5 lbs. I’m 5lbs lighter. I experience the sort of satisfaction previously achieved by reaching the required 50% in an anatomy test. That’s right I followed instructions, I got a sneak peak of the question and it’s true, the answers were all in the book.

I stay “to group” and in turn people’s weight change was announced. Those that “under achieved” had chance to discuss what went wrong. The culprits were many and varied; A Chinese take-away, an all inclusive holiday, a drunkenly consumed McDonald’s, an accidentally consumed large chocolate bar, and the covering all bases reply of “I just keep putting the wrong things in my mouth” at which point The Boy blows a massive raspberry and laughs hysterically. Obviously, I then lose it and sit shaking in silent laughter with tears rolling down my face. Fortunately a likeminded slimmer also finds this amusing and like the naughty kids on the back row we chuckle through the next few mins until suddenly it’s my turn. And then “Helen, 5lbs! Congratulations, tell us, what did you do?”

Well, having been off work for 6 months and previously being a “career woman” I treated it like a new assignment at work. Like any good Junior Doctor, I had sat through an induction, been given instructions by a “consultant” (albeit a slimming “consultant”…) and had dutifully followed them. I was provided with a protocol, I didn’t have to think for myself, I was given multiple choice scenarios and selected the one closest to what I thought would give me the desired outcome. And, I had meal planned. I had meal planned like a boss. I had meal planned like someone who used to work 60 hour weeks and was currently unemployed. I had meal planned like someone who should really go back to work – although I won’t admit this to myself and certainly won’t mention this to my better half.
But what actually came out of my deeply blushing face while the quiet round of applause continued was a mumble under my breath of “I just followed the plan the really…” and rapidly the focus of attention moved on to the next slimmer….
So I survived, and did so feeling pretty smug on the inside and being 5lb lighter on the outside. So with a spring in my step I strode home to get planning next weeks meals, but not before rewarding myself with a sweet treat…

Trick or Treat – Please!

Phil bought a pumpkin for “us” to carve (because it’s not like I have already carved one this year and have a to-do list as long as my arm or anything).

The Girl demanded a witch then lost interest so I have dutifully carved said witch and put it in our porch – to tempt trick or treaters to visit (in the hope they will clear out the sweet treat supply in our house and save me from myself).

Needless to say, living on a cul-de-sac of retirees it’s not really attracting a big crowd.

Fat club

So 7 months post baby, I’m breast feeding, and I’m gaining weight. One of my main motivations for breastfeeding was the additional calories I would get to consume for free (oh and of course all the bonding, antibodies blah blah blah… ) so feeling pretty cheated by Mother Nature and my sweet tooth, I decided to take myself to fat club before things get out of hand.

It turns out I have 18lbs to lose. So I get on board. I stay “to group” as this will definitely ensure I instantly shed a few pounds. I do instantly shed 18lb as The Boy is whisked away and passed around the room. He happily offers a ‘batwing’ work out by jumping around on the attendees knees, grinning at the round smiling faces and grabbing hair, glasses and double chins galore.

The first discussion is on how best to eat chips without gaining weight and I’m a convert. This is my type of diet and essentially provides an hours free child care where my hands are free to do such things as drink tea, pick food debris from my clothes and yes, of course, I take full advantage and achieve that moment of bliss much desired by parents of little ones the world over. I peed. Alone.

So I leave the meeting, psychologically prepped for a big week of slimming, I’ve got a book full of recipes, an app and a small portion of anxiety regarding mounting the scales next week.

However, I return home to half a pack of cherry bakewells and an open bottle of wine. Phil’s on call (again), the kids are finally in bed and I don’t have work in the morning….Diet day one; fail.