You Are What You Eat...

<------------ Suck it, Sweeney.


Now, if that was true, I would be a giant pizza-flavored Goldfish cracker, sprinkled with cheese and covered in chocolate and peanut butter.

I used to be healthy. Seriously healthy. Like Jillian Michaels could've called me for diet and fitness advice kinda healthy. I ate my weight in fruits and vegetables, shunned sugar and carbs, went to the gym five days a week, and could out-plank anyone in yoga class.

Then, in January 2006, we happily discovered that I was expecting our first little bundle of noisy joy. Debunking those fat lady pregnancy myths, during those nine months I was, by far, the healthiest I have ever been. I ate right, dranks oceans of water, and was a fixture at Planet Fitness. A major component to my Richard Simmons lifestyle, was that my bff, J, was pregnant too, our due dates a week apart. We power walked after school, went to the gym at night, and did prenatal yoga classes on the weekends. At the risk of sounding like a world class beeotch, WE WERE AWESOME. Plus, it was summertime, so we had this amazing glow from the miracle of impending motherhood eight straight hours of lounging on a pool float or on the beach each day.

But, like all good things, my short stint as a tan, pregnant fitness model came to an end. In September 2006, I welcomed my baby girl into the world, and bid a sad farewell to the elliptical machines and free weights. My money continued to go to the gym for a few more years, but my sneakers found a cozy little niche in the back of my closet and developed a serious case of agoraphobia. Lack of motivation, energy, time...they all played a part in my downward spiral into a world of arm fat and a muffin top. The only semblance of a workout I get these days is hauling groceries and chasing my unruly enthusiastic children down the aisles at Target.

Now, although I know I'm not one Reese's Peanut Butter Cup away from being recruited for next season's Biggest Loser, I am not totally happy with myself, and the fact that even my bloomers feel tight. Who's to blame for this conundrum? It's obvious...MY KIDS.

Why don't I go to the gym? Because I have to play Barbie, cook dinner, clean up toys, wipe hineys, do bath time, read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" 17 times, bribe everyone into bed, do my Cinderella chores and then finally collapse from exhaustion on the couch at 10 pm with a bowl of ice cream and 2 hours of Bravo's finest programming.

Why don't I eat healthy? Because in a effort to be economical and non-wasteful, I find myself eating handfuls of Cheez-Its left in Bella's snack pack from school, sneaking spoonfuls of Mac and Cheese from the pot on the stove (you know you do it too!), and inhaling pizza crust and abandoned globs of cheese from my little skinnys' plates. My house is full of Oreos, Cheerios, Spaghetti-O's and every other sugar/fat/artificially flavored O's you can think of.

Alright...so I know I am being a teeny bit unfair, placing all of the blame on my innocent little angels. I guess I should take some responsibility. I guess Luca isn't force feeding me the Twizzlers that I found under his car seat (don't judge). I'm sure I could pack myself an apple and a bottle of water to bring to the park, instead of stealing sharing the kiddies' Pirate's Booty and Yoo-Hoo.

I'm thinking that the key to success and mommy-body acceptance is baby steps. Cutting out the junk, and starting to move and groove are good places to start. The fabulous thing about life is that everyday is a fresh start. Tomorrow, it's whole grain toast and egg whites for breakfast...but I think I'll start tonight by doing some lunges during commercial breaks on Jersey Shore. Again, don't judge.