Nearly every stay-at-home-mom I know has the same basic wish: a few minutes of quiet.  And while no one would say no to a trip to the spa, there’s something especially rare and desirable about time alone in your own house.  M is good about trying to take the kids out on the weekends, and that sometimes gives me an hour or two, I really have not had any extended amount of quiet time in my own home since the kids were born.

Enter this weekend.

My in-laws are around.  They were insistent that they take the kids for the weekend so M and I could do something fun.

I was weirdly uneasy about it.  Not sure exactly why, or if any reasons I could come up with were at all rational (worried about the driving, in particular).  But eventually we came up with a plan we agreed on: my in-laws would take the kids up to a friend’s lake house in New Hampshire for the weekend.  There was talk of them staying here while M and I went somewhere, but I’m all traveled out. I just wanted peace and quiet in my own house.

The packing up to go on Friday afternoon was a little rough.  Daniel was noticeably anxious, clinging to a stuffed turtle when he normally has almost zero attachment to such things.  Both kids wailed as I moved the carseats into their grandparents’ car.  “I want you to come with us” was the cry.  I gave hugs and reassured them, but mostly tried to keep moving and not look at them too much, so I wouldn’t start crying, too.  They calmed down once they were in the car and knew they were hitting the McDonald’s drive-thru once they got on the road.

I went inside and cried.  I tried to take a nap, but couldn’t.  I sat like a lump, aimless, clueless what to do with my freedom.  I cried a few more times, maybe because I don’t usually have the physical or emotional space to cry these days.  M got home early.  We went out for sushi.  Came home, passed out.

Saturday came.  I woke up on my own terms. I went to the gym without needing childcare. I stopped at Starbucks without ordering two chocolate milks.  I sewed and listened to NPR and let M sleep until noon.

We purged the playroom of outdated (or particularly annoying) toys.  We got two Bagsters, filled them both to the brim, and our garage went from “you can’t even walk in here” to “hey, I bet a car would actually fit in here!”  Exciting stuff, I know.  But the kind of thing we never seem to get around to doing when the kids are around.

We went out for sushi a second night in a row.  Hell yeah.

Reports from New Hampshire were nothing short of glowing.  Everyone slept well. Almost no tears (I mean, come on, they’re still three). Storyland. Swimming in the lake. Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes for breakfast.

Alright. I admit it. We should REALLY do this more often.

And now, it’s 4:15 on Sunday afternoon.  The kids are on their way home, and I’m glad.

A big thanks to Grandma and Papi.  We needed that.

No one can agree on who Rebecca looks like.  M swears she looks like me, but no one else quite sees it.  My mom says she looks like my sister-in-law. Ultimately, there’s no strong resemblance to any one person in looks.

But in personality, I think she’s an awful lot like me as a kid.

There’s the funny similarities, like the fact that all she wants to do in the water is float. Or that she can often be found spinning in a circle and singing to herself.  She seems to be like me from a parenting perspective, too - pretty easy, big into rules, kind of sensitive to perceived slights or sadness.

We’re at the beginning of our annual Midwestern pilgrimage right now. Hauling our stuff all over Illinois and Wisconsin to visit various family members. This weekend was the yearly family reunion for my dad’s side, and it was tons of fun as always.  A pool, lots of young kids, silly games, junk food at every turn. Good times. Unfortunately, M had to stay home since he really didn’t have enough vacation days to join us.

Yesterday, in the middle of the Reunion Insanity, Rebecca woke up from her nap crying hysterically.  I asked what was wrong, and she choked out, “I miss my daddy!” Oh, the heartbreaking wails.  Eventually she calmed down enough that we could call M and she could talk to him.  And that was when I heard the most striking echo of myself as a kid, through buckets of tears and loud sobs and a thick throat:

“I just want to go home.”

Oh, how many times I said that as a child.  I was an intense homebody. My mom would drop me off to play at a friend’s house, and the other mother would call an hour later, saying I was ready to be picked up.  The first week of first grade was constant tears.  My first time away at camp, age 10, was an epic disaster of daily letters, begging to come home.  Even my freshman year of college, I racked up enormous phone bills (OK, much of which was to my boyfriend at the time), and almost didn’t go back after Fall and Winter breaks. I transferred at the end of the year, and ended up going to school two miles from home.  The fact that I have now lived a full time zone away for more than 10 years is nothing short of a miracle, but I think even that is nearing its end.

So, when I heard Rebecca all but begging her Daddy to let her go home (again today), my heart broke. Not just because we’ll be here for almost two more weeks and I certainly want her to have a good time, but because I remembered so clearly what that felt like. That intense homesickness, that desperate need to be near the things and the people that I missed.

I feel badly that I’ve passed that trait on to my child.  It’s hard to feel that sad, and it took away from my ability to enjoy things like Girl Scout camp, and for sure kept me from making a real attempt to take advantage of my first year of college (even though transferring was ultimately the best decision and my second school was a perfect fit).

Thankfully, I know it gets better. I was able to go away to camp a few years later and I liked it. I traveled to Europe and had a great time. I moved to Boston and fell in love and started a family.

And, hey, I’m 31 years old and want to live closer to my mommy. So maybe that’s not all bad.

But in the meantime, I will try to be patient with her sadness and remember that feeling in the pit of my stomach, of just wishing I could be back home.  I will try to help her enjoy the times when we’re away, and not just count down the days until we go back.  And I’ll make sure she gets to talk to Daddy every single night.

So, my aunt J calls me up and says, “what are you doing next week?”  “Nothing,” says I.  “Come to Chicago!” says she.

A few days and a few thousand frequent flier miles later, we were on our way.  My aunt got it into her head that she wanted the whole family to be together for a few days, and knew my mom was missing the kiddos (and me, I guess, but I’m OK playing second-fiddle to my children).  Plus, the one sister (out of seven siblings) who does not live in Illinois was coming for a visit.  I even ended up on her flight, giving her quite the surprise as she hustled down the aisle of the plane.

From that point forward, the kids were in cousin-heaven.

And we shocked the hell out of my mom when she came to get her sister and niece and nephew at the airport.

The entire visit was a crowd. Four of my mom’s six siblings (plus my grandmother) live within a two-block radius of my mom’s house.  Needless to say, they congregate frequently and in large numbers.

We were all over the place.  Playground, out for breakfast, meeting cousins.  We took a trip downtown to Millennium Park and heard the Chicago Symphony play Vivaldi, marveled at the Bean, and splashed in the fountain.

We stayed out entirely too late every single night, but had a blast.

And then it was time to come home.

Had to wake the kids from nap to go to the airport.

Line of severe thunderstorms moving into the area.

Daniel complaining that he “doesn’t feel very good.”

Delayed by an hour before we got on the plane, then almost two more hours waiting on the tarmac before takeoff.  Over-tired kids. Daniel’s throat hurts, so he refuses to swallow and soaks his shirt with drool.  For as confident as I am about traveling solo with my kids, this flight was an absolute disaster.  We did not make many new friends, by any means.  Daniel finally dozed off on my lap as we landed (after 11pm), but woke up before we got off the plane and wailed all the way through the terminal, most of the time at baggage claim, and half of the drive home.  At least by then I had M to help, but I was on the verge of tears, myself.

I seem to have some kind of Chicago-to-Boston travel curse.  Nearly every time I have to fly back to Massachusetts, something highly unpleasant happens with my flight.  An insane percentage of delays and cancellations, including multiple trips that were extended by a full day due to flight problems.

I can explain part of it by the fact that, when I’m booking the flights, it always seems like a good idea to book a later flight so that we can have extra time to our visit. WRONG.  BAD IDEA.  As painful as it can be to get up at 5AM (or earlier) for a crack-of-dawn flight, I have to say that they nearly always go smoothly.  Too much backs up by the end of the day.

But, seriously, there’s still a curse at work.  Guess I’m not meant to leave Chicago, huh?

At any rate, our surprise trip was generally a blast.  The kids did incredibly well with all of the extra people and late bedtimes and general craziness.  There was some overwhelmed tantruming, but not as much as you might expect.  All in all, a success.  I only wish it didn’t end on such a sour note.

We surprised my mom yesterday.  She came to the airport expecting to pick up my aunt and two cousins, and got me and the kids as well.  It was great to shock her like that.

We’re having lots of fun with tons of family.  A dozen people in the kitchen for lunch.  18 for dinner. Up past bedtimes. Handling it well.

So far today, meeting cousin Charlie.  (Daniel was starting to melt down and not interested in the photo op.) Beautiful day, family thrilled to see the kids.  A little crazed, but sometimes you have to do crazy things.

It sounded like such a good idea.  A somewhat impromptu weekend getaway, just the four of us. M took a day off of work, we made reservations for a hotel in New Hampshire right near Story Land, a little-kid-friendly amusement park. Brilliant!  You know, in theory.

First, we couldn’t go until Saturday evening.  Between swimming class, a quilt guild meeting (shutup!), and a baby shower, followed by a quick visit to a friend, we didn’t hit the road for the 3-hour drive until after 6PM.  But we made liberal use of the in-car DVD player, and all was peaceful for an hour and a half, until we decided to stop for dinner.

And I realized I left my purse at our friend’s house.  With my wallet in it (blessedly, not my phone) and the travel potty. Hopefully no mid-road needs to go.  Ah well, we’ll survive.

Arrive at the hotel after 10, our room has a separate alcove for the kids with two twin-sized beds. Huzzah! Except Rebecca has an over-tired new-place meltdown and absolutely refuses to sleep in her bed. She will only sleep in Daddy’s bed.  Good thing there were two queen-sized beds, so I got to sleep in relative peace while M got kicked in the shins all night.

Wake up in the morning and look outside.  It’s raining.  Not misting. Not drizzling. POURING BUCKETS of rain and 60 degrees.  No matter, the hotel has a heated indoor pool.  That’s closed for renovations.

OMFG.

OK, OK. All is not lost. The sister resort down the road has an indoor water park, which they will give us complimentary passes to. Whew. We get in the car and head there, only to realize it’s 10:25 and the park doesn’t open until 11.

Drive around. See lots of super cool, fun activities that the kids would love. If, you know, it wasn’t pouring fricking rain.  Find a toy store. Why not? Shop owner says this is one of her best days in the shop, ever. Rain is great for business. Lovely.

Get to the water park. Despite not liking getting splashed or water in their faces, kids have a blast.

Late arrival the night before meant a late start to the morning, a late lunch, and a nap that didn’t start until after 2:30pm. At least this time Rebecca agreed to sleep in her own bed.

They didn’t wake up until 5PM.  We gloomily peered out at the continuing rain. M and I weakly tried to come up with a plan for dinner, and then exchanged pitiful looks. I don’t remember which one of us said it first.

“Maybe we should just leave.”

We had only planned to stay until the following morning or early afternoon, anyways. At this point, it seemed ridiculous to bother sleeping in strange beds another night.  We thought about it for a couple of minutes, and then started throwing our crap back into our suitcases. Cut and run.

The front desk people were not only friendly and understanding of our desire to leave early, but were even kind enough not to charge us for the second night (thank you, Fox Ridge Resort! We’ll be back, someday!)

Back in the car, more winding northern New Hampshire highways. Most of our weekend closely resembled this, except with a lot more water on the windshield.

On the up side, it started to break up, and my kids saw their very first real rainbow.

Stopped for yet another fast food meal, put in Mary Poppins for the last stretch on the road. Didn’t even bother with the headphones, and we all sang along.

Did I mention how my van reacted to all this driving?  Aww yeah, not one, but TWO warning lights.

Anyways, back home, safe and sound. Felt good about the decision to leave.  Woke up to a beautiful day at home.  A beautiful day with no milk or breakfast food in the house.  No worries, Daniel and I will just climb into Daddy’s car and head to the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru in our pajamas for some milk and bagels.  Got halfway there (and, mind you, there is no place in Massachusetts that is greater than half a mile from a Dunkin Donuts, so we hadn’t gone far), and M called my cell.  “I need you to turn around right now, work called, data center is down and I’m the closest. I have to go fix it.”

Nevermind that this was still his day off.  His boss forgot, and called him anyways. So he went to work.

And that was the straw that broke this camel’s spirit.

Honestly, I had maintained a relatively good sense of humor throughout this entire fiasco. It was still an adventure, something different, and we were together. Wohoo!

And then he had to get called in.  No big morning outing to the zoo or the Children’s Museum or something else fun that you might do when Daddy’s home on a weekday.  Just me & the kids, solo again.  The comedy of errors just plain stopped being funny.

Fine. We’ll go to the grocery store.

Except I still don’t have my purse. I used the last of my in-car cash stash to get breakfast.

Screw it. Back to the same playground we go to every freaking week.

M came back after a few hours, thankfully.  So, you know, I could drive the hour (each-way) to my friend’s house to go pick up my purse and hope to not get pulled over on the way.  At least I got to do it with no kids and the Glee soundtrack blaring the whole time.

This Griswold Family Vacation is now over, and let’s all be grateful for that.

All I said to my husband this morning was, “I would really like to get a break sometime today.”

It’s been a long couple of weeks.  As the morning person in our relationship, I have always been the one who gets up with the kids. I’m pretty much on-duty by myself from the time they wake up until dinner.  Thankfully, M usually gets home for dinner time and does the vast majority of bath and bed by himself.  I’m grateful for that.  But still, the days can be long and repetitive.  At least on the weekend I usually have some sharing of responsibility, so I look forward to it.

The last two weekends, unfortunately, have not been so restful.  M was taking a professional development course that met Friday night (so no relief when I’m burnt out at the end of Friday) and all-day for two Saturdays in a row.  Did I mention that the kids take a parent/child swim class on Saturday mornings? Doing that by myself was nerve-wracking, to say the least, though they did well.  Plus, last weekend, my in-laws were in town.  And while that meant some extra hands and eyes, I don’t have to tell any of you about houseguests not being exactly relaxing.  This weekend, solo swimming again, followed by a birthday party.  Fun activities, but I’m damn tired.

So I really wanted my husband to just take care of the kids this morning so I could climb back into bed, and generally be off-duty for a little while.

He’s a good guy, of course, so he got his lazy butt out of bed and went downstairs.  The next thing I know, Rebecca is running back upstairs to me.

“Mommy, mommy! We’re going to go see Dora!”

Lord only knows what he Googled to arrive at this choice, but he discovered that the Nickelodeon Live stage show was in Boston, today is the last day, and there was a show in an hour and a half with tickets available.

I helped get the kids dressed and stocked the man bag with a potty and some snacks, and off they went.

My house is quiet.

I think that guy is a keeper.

I can complain about him sometimes, of course. His inability to wake up at a normal hour of the morning, for instance, will drive me nuts until the day I die. Everybody has their “thing” that bugs the shit out of their partner.  And when it comes to outings, sometimes I hate it that he seems to have no sense of timing, as far as how long it takes to get somewhere, how that fits into our schedule, and how long a shower he can take before I go stark raving mad.

But sometimes, man.  Sometimes he goes big. He wants to do something special and fun that the kids will love.  He doesn’t have as much experience going out solo with the kids as I do, of course. And he’s a worst-case-scenario worrywart by nature. So driving downtown and going to a theater by himself with two not-quite-three-year-olds makes him a little nervous.  But damn if he didn’t see my need for some quiet time and turn it into something great.

I have made no secret of the fact that I have long-standing body image and weight issues.  I’m not going to re-hash them all, but suffice it to say that they’re pretty much as old as I am, and just as stubborn.  Like many moms, I am trying my very hardest not to pass those attitudes along to my children.  I am very careful to NEVER talk about restricting my food or “dieting” in any way in front of my kids.  They see me eat, I don’t make an issue of it one way or another. I let them eat when they’re hungry, I don’t make them clean their plates if they are done, I try to present healthy choices. I never, ever make disparaging comments about myself or my body in their presence. They see me exercise, which makes me happy, and I always talk about it in terms of being healthy and strong and working hard. Never a word about losing weight, getting smaller, or anything like that.

My mother-in-law has long struggled with her weight, too.  She talks about weight ALL THE TIME.  Especially with me, maybe because it’s some kind of common bond? It’s annoying, because even I get tired of talking about it. Yes, we struggle. We wish we didn’t. End of story.  Apparently not. When M and I were first dating and we’d go visit his parents, literally EVERY time we were there, she would talk about how M used to be so skinny. (And he was, almost alarmingly so, but whatever. It was 15 years ago. Get over it.)

Over the weekend, when my in-laws were visiting, my kids found a small framed picture of M and me, taken the night we got engaged. The kids like carrying it around.  What does my MIL say?  “Oh look, there’s Mommy and Daddy when they were young and thin!”

The somewhat insulting nature of that comment (and the fact that I was not “thin” then, either) completely aside, I was aghast that she would talk that way in front of my kids.  And I noticed it wasn’t the only time she talked about “getting fatter” or thinner in front of them, and other related topics of being fat or not.  Now that I’ve had some space to mentally digest it, I am even more appalled, and you can bet I’m going to call her on it the next time she does it.  You can’t always change people, and there are plenty of differences that you have to let slide.  But this isn’t one. I’m livid.

***

I got home late last night and should have gone straight to bed, but instead found myself watching Biggest Loser on the DVR. For any issues I may have with the silliness of reality shows, I love it and watch it religiously. I love to see these people work their asses off (literally and figuratively). I love watching their successes and their unbelievable progress.

Last night was the second-to-last episode [spoiler ahead, in case you haven't watched it yet]. The remaining four contestants were sent home for a month and told they’d be brought back for one last weigh-in and to run a marathon. Basically, it’s a test to see how they can apply the lessons learned with the trainers when they’re at home and on their own. One contestant, Daris, really struggled. Despite losing 150+ pounds in four months and becoming nothing short of an athlete, despite running a marathon in a scant four hours, he actually gained two pounds while at home (the others lost between 9 and 20 pounds in that same time). The food still haunted him.

I know there are people who watched that outcome and screamed at the TV. “You’ve come this far! You’ve lost so much weight! You’re so close to the end! There’s $250,000 at stake!  HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF?”

I didn’t ask that.  I already know the answer.  Watching what Daris did was like a punch in the gut.  It was me. I get it.

If you’ve never truly struggled with your weight, it’s hard to understand. I didn’t get fat because I don’t know that vegetables are good for me and cookies aren’t. I didn’t get fat because I don’t know what a portion size is supposed to be.  It’s not because I got a little carried away making all of the Pioneer Woman recipes.  For whatever long-standing reasons, I have a different relationship with food that much more closely resembles addiction than simply a “bad habit.”  Sometimes I’m in control of it, and sometimes I’m not.  But it’s fundamentally different than the person who simply put on a few pounds over the years, or is having a hard time with that last bit of baby weight.  It’s different.

I don’t say that as an excuse.  I am physically able to exercise, I am capable of monitoring my food intake and losing weight.  But just because I can sometimes get the demons under control doesn’t mean they ever, ever go away. I will never not have to deal with this.

And that’s why last night’s overly-dramatic reality show stuck with me. That struggle was so very real and so very familiar.  You can watch the “plea” of each contestant and cast your vote over at NBC if you’re so inclined. It might not be the most eloquent thing you’ve ever heard, but Daris’s breaks my heart each and every time, so I voted for him. It felt like I was voting for me.  His battle is far from over. The truth is that, for all of the contestants on that show, it will never be over. And neither will mine.

I’m not sure how it got started, but the kids have a new favorite game at dinnertime.

As much as we can, we have tried to make dinner a family affair on most nights.  Timing has been switched around so that we all eat around 6 or 6:30, and M usually manages to get home from work in time to sit with us (sometimes just barely!).  It’s a bonus for all of us, really. It’s fun to be together, the kids are working on table manners and waiting for people to be done, and it means M and I eat dinner before 9PM.  I’ve also tried to get away from making separate food for the kids, though some weeks are better than others, and there are definitely meals when they only eat fruit and yogurt. Ah well.

Anyways – the game.  It’s a simple one. All we do is ask the kids to try to repeat a word.  Except that M is usually in charge, and comes up with some of the trickiest words that he can. He’s got a pretty impressive vocabulary, plus a science major to pull on, so he can come up with some good ones.  It started out with fun words like “phenomenal” and “stupendous.”  Then he tries to get creative and starts in with “combustion,” “exothermic,” and “aquadynamic.”  Heck, he’ll throw in random names of chemical compounds from the organic chemistry days.

But the kids think it’s absolutely hilarious to try and repeat these crazy words Daddy comes up with (and, yes, Rebecca sometimes calls him Dad.  Where does she get this stuff?).  Daniel especially loves it, which is not too surprising as he’s always been more talkative than his sister.  They both give the word a try, and often come quite close to pronouncing it correctly.  M and I cheer, and they are thrilled.  Sometimes, of course, they bungle it horribly and switch syllables around.  When that happens, it usually makes the adults laugh hysterically, which only adds to the fun of the game.

Are they learning something from this?  I don’t know, maybe.  It reminds me of when I was a little kid, and my dad would “teach” me square- and cube-roots (yes, he used to be a math teacher). And then, in front of other family members, he’d “quiz” me on what the square root of 36 was.  Everyone got a kick out of it, myself included.  Did I really know what the “cube root of 27″ meant? Not really, and yet I also remember that when the concept was introduced in math class, it felt pretty familiar.

Often the word repeating is quite enough on its own.  Sometimes M will pause and explain what something means, and sometimes the kids will ask. But we don’t go into the game thinking we’re out to beef up the kids’ vocabulary by having them repeat random scientific terms. Maybe they’re getting good practice with different word sounds. Maybe they’ll actually remember a couple of the words.  Or maybe they’re just having fun at the dinner table with words.  And that, on its own, is just fine by me.

There are a million benefits, large and small, to living near your family.  But I never would have guessed that my marriage would be strained because we live too far from my mother.

This past weekend, my in-laws came to town for a visit.  And one of the best parts, aside from my kids’ absolute delight at being fawned over by their beloved grandparents, was that M and I got to go out for dinner.

It’s almost embarrassing how infrequently we go out on a date these days.  Think on the order of three times a year.  Yes, fellow mom-friends and I have talked about trading nights with each other’s kids.  Yes, I finally have a babysitter. I’m certainly hoping to improve on our current pace.  But the fact is that there is nothing quite so lovely as having a grandparent step up and offer to come over.  They adore the kids and want to spend more time with them.  They don’t charge $10 or $15 an hour.  They shoo you out of the house and happily feed the kids dinner and give them a bath.

We have tried to do at-home date nights. We got our Netflix subscription, and planned to at least make it a point to watch a movie together every Friday night.  But life still gets in the way.  Something else gets planned, or we forget, or neither of us is in the mood for a movie.  We get distracted by the computer, the laundry, the sewing machine.  And even if we do make it happen… the movie ends and we’re still at our house. Surrounded by our to-do lists or our quiet hobbies to which we’d like to escape.

We’ve definitely felt the strain over the last two and a half years.  Just so tired, so burned out. All I want at the end of the day is quiet, and sadly, that often means I’m not even in the mood to chat it up with my poor husband.  So much to do, so little time. I have a really hard time breaking out of household-CEO-mode.

But when we go out… there’s no grocery shopping, no forgotten ingredient for the meal I was going to make.  No toddlers to take to the potty. No fights to referee, no tub to fill.  No dirty dishes to clean.  Someone else makes whatever dish I choose, and refills my glass of wine upon request.  And beyond that, we get left alone.  We can catch up, chat, tell stories, remember old jokes. No distraction.  It feels like magic.

So, yes. I’ll make an effort to call on my new babysitter for some Friday and Saturday (or, hell, Wednesday) nights.  I’ll try to actually swap evenings with friends so we can all have a night out.  But there’s nothing like having that family nearby, practically begging us to go out again so they can have a night with the kids all to themselves (or, dare I dream, a sleepover at grandpa’s house?!).

And you wonder why I want to move to Chicago.

Staying at your parents’ house as an adult is a weird thing, isn’t it? Some things you see with fresh eyes, and other times you revert back to an awkward preteen.  I’ve noticed some habits working both for and against me this week.

On the positive side, it would seem that 4+ months of regular exercise is actually becoming an ingrained habit.  Oh sure, part of it is that I’m only about three pounds away from my first weight-related goal, and I don’t want to get completely sidetracked while I’m here.  But really, when have I ever brought an exercise DVD with me to (either of) my parents’ house(s)?  When have I ever used the treadmill they have in their basements?  That would be a big, fat never.

And yet, here I am.  I have done the Shred. I have progressed to Week 3 of the Couch-to-5K program (yes, I’m trying to run… more on that later).  I have exercised more days than not.  And I’m glad.

I’m particularly glad, because the flipside is that old eating habits die really hard.  I’ve been reasonably good with my eating these last few months (hence the 3-pounds-from-first-goal thing). But much of my success has come from controlling what foods I have access to. I haven’t purchased a pint of ice cream since the summer. I have baked shockingly few cookies (by my standards). I don’t keep crap in the house, so I can’t eat it.  I have a pretty limited menu, but it works for me.

And then I get here. Without even thinking, I walk into my dad’s kitchen and open the doors to the pantry to peruse the junk food. Cookies. Chips. All variety of things that I don’t ever buy, but find almost impossible to resist when they’re right there in my face. No control over what is served at big family dinners. Dad buys a dozen bagels (from my favorite bagel shop) for breakfast.  Ugh.

I’ve tried to keep some of my go-to items on hand, and have tried to stick to my 8PM rule.  But, clearly, four well-behaved months have not cured me of 30 years of bad eating habits.

But still, I will try to keep fighting the good fight, and not beat myself up too much for what happens here, away from home.  Just a few more days, and I’ll be back in my own space.  In the meantime, pass the cookies…