Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

"I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm a stay-at-home-mom," I announce. Did my voice just waver? I think it totally just wavered.

I was introducing myself to the newest YMCA board members, and as everyone was giving their name and occupation (lawyer, financial advisor), I wracked my brain for the correct job title. Butt wiper? Netflix extraordinaire? "Hi, I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm really good at spraying whip cream directly in my mouth from the can!"

I spend a good portion of my week defending myself to, well, myself. "I have the hardest job out there," I tell my husband. "You could never do what I do." I've always had the utmost respect for stay-at-home mamas, just as I have the utmost respect for women who work outside the home, yet when it comes to my own chosen lot in life, I feel unfulfilled and forgotten. I try and pride myself in raising my daughters to be kind, intelligent, Christian human beings, so why do my cheeks redden when it comes time to announce my career choice? All of a sudden, I get a bad case of inferiority.

My YMCA/WSOY  fitness and nutrition challenge ended a few weeks ago, and though I had every intention of blogging weekly about it, time got away from me (hello, hardest job in the world over here!!!)  For the first time since moving back from Europe, I started to feel good in my own body again.  I've dropped two pant sizes and gained part of an ab. I broke-up with the Cheesy Gordita Crunch. I tried a piece of kale. I can now lift a Kettlebell without thinking of kettle corn, kettle chips, or Ketel One vodka.  I even find myself humming as I restart the laundry for the third time.

So there I was, moving along so swimmingly (still in a one-piece, of course), when my voice went and wavered.  I went home that day and looked in the mirror and I saw thirty-three looking back at me---a whole lot of sun damage, frown lines, and an empty resume. I've been out of college for twelve years, yet my degree is still inside a dusty cardboard box alongside my fossilized baby teeth and participation trophies. I was going to write a book by now, but instead I'm browsing Amazon for sloth coffee mugs . I was supposed to be a columnist, but I spend my mornings reading the words of other writers. At the very least, I was going to keep up with this pitiful blog. Instead, I'm writing a couple paragraphs every few months and examining my face in a magnified mirror. So what did my reasonable self go and do with all these feelings? Take a walk? Submit a story? Hug my children?

Botox, baby. Yup, said I'd never do it, yet here I am: the Real Housewives of Long Creek. It's almost laughable, though I'm having trouble moving my face muscles at the moment. I won't eat canned vegetables for fear of botulism, but a doctor can inject it straight into my forehead?  Shut up and take my money!!!!

Well it's been two weeks: my wrinkles are diminished, but my inadequacies are not---funny how that happens. You can tell me that I'm working on all the wrong things, but I already know this. I'm lazy and vain, but I still have a fairly decent IQ (according to those online quizzes).  Instead of my frown lines, I should be smoothing out my diminished relationship with God and strengthening my marriage, but I always tend to go for the quick fixes. Just like how I know that exercising with the amazing  and encouraging Angela will leave me feeling healthy and renewed, I still habitually reach for the cream-filled donut instead. We humans are a puzzling breed.

My voice didn't waver at that YMCA meeting because of my job title.  I'm raising strong, bright little girls, and I should announce that like I'm a badass CEO. My voice wavers because I seek out things that don't bring me lasting joy. I'm doing my damnedest to fill myself up with emptiness, Casey's donuts, and Botulism Toxin Type A.

I may not receive a paycheck or an annual bonus, but I'm still contributing. My job may not require a bra or a briefcase, but I have the privilege of shaping little lives. I need to accept that there will always be a stigma attached to the stay-at-home-mom, and the best I can do is refuse to let myself do the attaching.

Day One Recap

I'm thinking about signing up for childbirth again---it's got to be easier than this YMCA challenge. Everything hurts: my thighs, my toes, that area where they say my abs should be, my arms....my hair.

And the worst part of all of this? I still look the same. Yup, day one in the books and I'm not even supermodel status yet. The disappointment is real, folks. Our first workout started with a fifteen minute "warm-up" that was easily the highest my heart rate has been since the Britney Spears' concert I attended in 2015.

We did butt kicks (literally and figuratively) up and down the court. There was time on the track; sprints on the bike. We wrapped TRX bands around our feet and did some crazy acrobatic stuff. It was like Cirque De Soleil up in that gym. We did lunges upon lunges upon lunges. I'm fairly certain the Willis Tower has less flights of stairs than the ones we ran. Up and down, up and down. I took a few breaks in the corner when I saw the camera come around. No way was I going to let them catch my backside lumbering up those steps like Chewbacca. Nope, not today WSOY.

So here's my predicament: day two of the challenge begins in three hours, which would be great...if I could move. I'm walking with my knees locked as to avoid using my thighs. Sitting is the hardest, which ironically is usually my favorite position. We're required to drink 64 ounces of water a day per our nutrition requirements. Seriously? I howl every time I bend my knees to sit down and pee. That much fluid will be the end of me! I thought about adding extra salt to my food to dehydrate myself a bit, but that would put me over the ridiculously low sodium limit. 

I stopped at the gas station on the way to take Amelia to school yesterday. I opened my car door and my favorite chapstick fell out onto the ground. I painfully realized that in order to retrieve it, I would have to bend over. I stared at it for a moment and considered leaving it where it lie.  I stood there outside of Circle K pondering life and I asked myself, "Is it genuinely your favorite? Are chapped lips really that terrible?"

I solved my problem fairly quickly upon returning home while also hitting a new rock bottom. I dug through Greta's toy box until I discovered one of these:

Judge me if you will, but ain't no shame in my robot claw game. 

Macros and Cheese

I fell asleep on the toilet last night. There I am, mid-pee at 2:30 in the morning, and BANG, I smack my head against the toilet paper holder. My whimpering is drowned out by Greta's babbling, which is also not quite loud enough to wake my hibernating husband. I contemplate throwing a shoe at his head, but decide it would take too much energy. It's off to the rocking chair I go. Heigh-ho.

I'm kind of in a bad place---not so much geographically, though I would prefer to be in Hawaii at the current moment (very mild flu activity). Greta Louise Hopkins does not sleep. No, seriously---like hashtag EVER. She keeps hours consistent with Las Vegas. It's actually quite incredible.

We've seen doctors. We've been to specialists. We've done the blood work and read the stupid books. We've done the cry-it-out method more times than I can count, yet it still results in Greta screaming, me crying, the dog barking, and Matt snoring.

I somewhat expected Greta to be a difficult baby early on. In addition to sleep, she hated baby food from the very first bite. From six months of age until her first birthday, all she would consume was a very limited diet of formula, squash, and oatmeal (kind of like me in college, I guess, except it was more like beer, Cheetoh's, and Tostino Pizza Rolls.)

Here I am with a 17 month old toddler and she's drinking formula like a newborn. Every other Tuesday, we drive to Springfield to visit a pediatric feeding clinic where we basically spend an expensive hour watching Greta throw crackers at the wall. We're literally paying someone to make her eat, whereas for $13.99 a month to Weight Watchers, I'm literally paying someone to make me stop.

You see I've lost the initial baby weight, yet I still have 27 pounds before I reach what I weighed back  in Switzerland. I'm on this vicious cycle--- I go back and forth on the Keto diet, and then I go back and forth to McDonald's drive thru.  So when Matt Whitehead asked me to join this Spring's YMCA/WSOY  ten week challenge, I hesitated, thought about it over Taco Bell, and then decided I had nothing to lose except those 27 pounds. It slipped my mind as I agreed to this fitness challenge that all of our workouts are videotaped and then broadcast online. I awoke to this realization in a cold sweat (one of the first sweats I've broken in a while). Not only do I have more of a radio body going on right now, but my coordination rivals that of a newborn fawn.

Part of this program includes a nutritional plan and logging our nutrition into an online application. We're to keep track of our "macros", which I just recently discovered was not short for macaroni. In addition, no fast food for ten weeks, and my sodium intake is seriously restricted. If you've ever shared a meal with me, you know that salt giveth me life.

So here goes nothing. Day one of my transformation. I spent my last day of freedom yesterday enjoying the heck out of some fast food and table salt. Warning: you may see a video of me later today in unflattering yoga pants gasping for air. Just please be kind and remember the camera adds ten pounds.