Who knew what a powerful impact that super-blond kid with a lisp would continue to have on my life? I have not heard his lisp in almost 60 years. Yet six decades later, I relive, reminisce, grieve, smile and wonder what kind of life Larry would have had if he had been given the chance to grow up. How different all of our lives would have been but for that tragic Saturday morning in October. 

Larry, 4 in 1950…

Early on, we were best buds. I’m sure we must have fought at times, but for the life of me I cannot remember one time in our short life together when he was mean to me. I was his pain in the ass little sister, trying valiantly to keep up with him. He was four and a half years older than me and had the run of the small town by the time he was 10. Pigeon hunting, shooting rats at the dump with his B-B gun, swimming at the pit, playing marbles, baseball (he was a lefty), riding his Schwinn bike everywhere. I could do none of these things because I was too little. But he always found time to play with me. We played together a lot before we moved to the epicenter of our little town in 1955. He was younger then, there weren’t nearly as many boys his age and the neighborhood was sparse. 

Little Neese in my playhouse in 1954. Before Mom cut my pigtails off…

No, we weren’t the all American family. I don’t think we had much money, and our parents were not very close. There’s always been conflicting perspectives about our family life before (and after) we lost Larry. My sister has a whole different slant on our upbringing than I remember. Although I never remember Mom and Dad being very romantic around each other, Mona claims both mom and dad were mean to her. They were not mean to me. I remember us being a rather happy family, she does not. 

Larry, about 7…

Larry had the best personality in our family. He got the whole enchilada. I managed to snag about half a tacos worth. He was easy going, good natured and well liked. I was a spoiled brat and Mona had issues. But Larry turned out just right. He was close to both Mom and Dad during his short tenure on earth. There’s just not much in the negative department when talking about my big brother. I adored him. 

1951, Larry, me and Mona…

So how is it that after nearly 60 years, I still think about him everyday? I was not quite 8 when the world we knew turned sour. Hard for an already fragile family to hold it together when delivered such a devastating blow. Larry was hit by a car while riding to our grandparents on my bike, which he had borrowed (but promised to give me a dime for using it because it had the basket he needed). Larry was 12. He was killed instantly. Nothing can take away that pain. It’s eased up but has never gone away. I guess I don’t want it to at this juncture in my life. 

Larry, what a total doll, 1950…

Larry was born 72 years ago today. That doesn’t seem possible. Seems like yesterday, we were living on the west side of Rock Valley. Life was good, we enjoyed endless summer days in the play house dad had just finished building. What I wouldn’t give to just have a couple of those days back. Two days. Heck, I’d be happy with 2 hours. 

About a year before he died. Mona 14, Larry, 11, me 6…

Each passing day brings a family reunion closer. While I’m anxious to see him, I’m content with looking to the future til we meet again. There’s grandchildren in my life who I need to love/watch/enjoy/grow up. 

Larry 4-1/2 watching his newborn little sister, me, 1951…

Happy Birthday Larry. Love you to the moon and back…

Larry’s last school picture…

Sigh. I’m having some issues and thought maybe if I wrote about it, I’d be able to process it better. To be clear, I love working, get along well with my coworkers, and absolutely adore the babies. But there’s been a storm a-brewing. Change. Grrr. I hate it. But here are some reasons why I’m opposed to this particular change.

Only inappropriate 0 to 30 picture I could find. Just ignore the guns, must be from a video game. Don’t get me started…

First, I believe anyone can find a research study, thesis paper from some grad student, doctor or therapist. A new pilot program, or helpful book to solidify what you’re trying to push to achieve your agenda about almost anything. At first glance when I saw the topic heading, zero to 30, a name popped into my head. As I read the 3 page article I was convinced the face belonging to the name was the reason the article showed up in our infant room in the first place.

I am low man on the totem pole at work. No, probably even lower than that. I’m ok with that. When there are discussions about changes in procedures or policy, my opinions are not sought out or included. It’s not that I don’t have opinions, I do and they’re often strong. (Which could well be the reason I’m never there when this kind of shit comes up).

Shannon, age 30 months in 1973. See how big they are…

I’m a worker bee/drone, content with my job. My opinions don’t matter in dealing with how the daycare/school is run. I’m part time, which usually includes a day off during the week. Thus the 25 hours I spend there each week is of no importance. (Except to my babies). I believe they (the higher ups, not the babies) appreciate my work ethic (I’ve never called in sick, never been late, though I do take time off) and most can clearly see how devoted I am to the babies I care for. But as for policy and procedures or any changes that might occur, I am invisible. But not mute. Or unable to type out her frustrations.

So this research paper/study thingy strongly suggests an alternative to the way our daycare is run. The study believes once a baby is acclimated in our room, they should remain there until puberty. I jest. It’s just my sarcasm rearing it’s ugly head at my frustration. The study believes the baby should remain with the same set of caregivers for 30 months. Two and a half years. Very long years. So the kids are not traumatized by moving to another room with different caregivers. Oh please. I got some red flags here.

Joshua at 2-1/2. How adorable, but not what I signed up for at work…

1. No one is ever going to get rich working at a daycare. (People working at Dairy Queen make more than I do. Scooping ice cream. While I care, nurture and entertain our most important commodity/asset/gift from God on the planet. Think about that for a minute). Working here is either a stepping stone while you get a degree, a second vocation after you’ve retired from teaching, or a retired grandma like me who has hours to fill doing something worthwhile, like helping care for and raise incredible babies. Very few women aged 25 to 50 have sought to work here as their career. At least those I’ve seen in two and a half years. But I don’t get out much.

2. We have quite a turnover rate. Since our staff picture was taken in April probably 10 people have moved on. Our staff boasts maybe 30 plus. (Our infant room has been one of the exceptions however. Four of us have been together almost 2 years (me, the no-opinion-sought-after-worker-bee the longest) with one new lead teacher starting a few weeks ago).

Adam in 1981. Look at that gorgeous blond hair…

3. Our room is not conducive to adding/keeping toddlers. Toddlers sleep on cots, (Why, I do not know. My kids each stayed in their cribs until they were dry through the night, which was about 2-1/2. State licensing for daycare requires those under 3 to have their own crib OR cot. Love reading those rules, yes I do) we have 12 cribs. Toddlers eat at low tables, we have 4 low high chairs. Our kitchen area needs to be cordoned off because we have exposed cupboards. Scissors, glue, office supplies, changing station, waste paper, diaper pail, dishes, snacks are too easily accessible with only elephant print cloth and spring loaded curtain rods keeping curious crawlers, walkers at bay.

4. We already have the room divided into 2 sections because our tiny ones can’t be in the same area as our movers and shakers group. One group is too rambunctious, other group too fragile. And we’re still trying to remedy the discrepancy in the section for our non-mobile unit. It’s just too small for 5 babies, toys, rocker, plus a couple bouncy seats.

Ariana almost 2. My, my love those thighs, but not to carry around much these days…

5. If we keep kids past, say 15 months, we need a plethora of different sensory, climb on, ride on, chew on, push toys. We’re already crowded.

6. Potty training. The Ones room have their own kid sized bathroom. Aww. Each toddler is taken to the bathroom (getting used to the concept of sitting on the potty) everyday. We would have to go outside our room and use the school hallway bathroom which has regular sized fixtures. Or put in a new bathroom in our room. Ha.

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) at 2. My favorite hoopster…

7. If an individual is traumatized after they move to a different room-it’s usually THE PARENTS. We move our children slowly. A few hours a week for several weeks. Now the parents-they get used to seeing/chatting with the same gals. I truly believe it’s harder for them to get used to a new set of caregivers than the child we just moved. I recently ran into a mom and her little boy, almost 2, who moved to the Ones in January when he was 14 months. (None of us wanted him to move-a fabulous little guy. For the most part, we’re reluctant to give up any our babies to another room. We truly love them. But. We watch them grow increasingly bored with our toys and limits on what our room is able to offer. We are the infant room, geared towards INFANTS. The 15 month olds are toddlers and need a different set of stimulating toys/activities than we have). Anyway as we were talking, mom gushed how much he’s enjoying the “Ones” room, but how hard it was for her to get used to new gals and the move. Then again we are that good in infants.

8. Jovi. My own great granddaughter was in my room for a year. Was it traumatic when she made the move? Not very. The hardest part is in the morning when they’re dropped off. Especially for little ones who come in a bit later. I think there’s a definite advantage to the babies/kids who come early. Before it’s gets hectic. We read stories, sing, each one gets held as they adjust to the busy room. Same goes for the Ones room. With only 2 or 3 kids when Jovi arrives, she gets a lot of attention adjusting before the room has a dozen toddlers.

My pretty ballerina, Peyton at 2….

9. I don’t think there was enough time or discussion given to determine this change (even though I was not included) and the huge impact it might cause. I assumed it was food for thought and it would be 6 months in the making at least. Suddenly, bang a done deal. Now this part is touchy. The “Ones” got a baby. And the worker who came back from maternity leave. (Going back to the face that popped in my head as I was reading the research paper). Now part of their room is partitioned off because those busy, active, noisy toddlers can’t be with the tiny one. One baby. Who should be in our room. WTH.

Asinine. Our system of yearly classrooms, under ones, one year to two, two to three’s works fine. We’re the infant room. We have babies. We already have one room for infants, newborn to 12 or 15 months. When the ‘baby’ starts walking and acting like a toddler (just being honest here. If you’re a parent of a well adjusted toddler you know by now they start talking, running, climbing and helping. But they can also bite, pull hair, throw tantrums and scream bloody murder). Part of their learning process of independence, pushing boundaries, who the leaders and followers are. If this mom and baby are the major reason for the change in our daycare, why not just say, “hey, we’re making an exception in the room for a worker mom and her baby?” I’m ok with that. But don’t change everything just to accomodate one individual.

The youngest paleontologist, Graham in 2011 about 2…

Surprisingly, besides feeling we’re in over our heads sometimes and a bit overwhelmed when some of the bigger kids start fighting and screaming about a toy that will be dropped and forgotten in 30 seconds flat, if that, there have been some awesome moments. This week one of our darling 14 months old boy was standing near the kitchen, seeking asylum. Actually he was hinting about breakfast. I said, “are you hungry? What do we do before breakfast? We have to wash our hands, right? It just takes a minute.” He came in, walked right past the high chairs, stopped next to the sink, turned towards me and lifted up his arms for me to pick him up, and plop him on the counter to wash his hands. WHAT? I was flabbergasted. Guess I never worded it that way to him before. He understood and was following my directions. Wow. Incredible. To see if had been a fluke or not (he’s very bright, but all of our babies are) I repeated the same thing to the next 2 kids from The Breakfast Club. Both of them walked right up to the sink. The last of our group is not walking yet, but she clearly understood what I was saying.

I thought when I started working in the infant room, (which I had requested because of my hearing loss), I’m gonna love the littlest ones the most. The younger the better. But that hasn’t been the case. I’ve been more drawn to the 7-14 months old. Pretty much once they can sit up. The goofier I am (wearing hats, or a clean wash cloth on my head is somehow mesmerizing. Marching around the room, singing songs about the banners on the wall, or singing old commercial jingles while they eat, you’d think they’d lose their appetite, but none have. Every week they fall for the same, lame veiled threat I impose. “It’s dental hygiene week, we all have to brush our teeth this morning for 90 seconds. The clock is ticking.” No one has ever said, “hey, you said the same thing last week.” They appreciate my singing and are much too polite to inform me I’m unable to carry a tune. God bless them.

Jovi 18 months, just because. Our room could keep her another year…

I just don’t know if I’m up for the task. Or if I want to be. I was hired for the infant room. I’m deaf and see all kinds of issues trying to navigate through toddlers first soft words. I rarely understand any of the older sibs who tag along when bringing in their baby brother or sister in our room. Two year olds weigh a lot more than an infant. Especially a 2 year old in the throes of a meltdown. I’m old. I have Meniere’s Disease which affects the fluid in my inner ear, thus my balance. I’ve been through enough temper tantrums to fully appreciate not hearing, witnessing, or dealing with them very often anymore. Now let me put this on the back burner to simmer for a bit while I ponder. Thanks for letting me vent…

A few years after we moved to Michigan, I was given a gift from my good friend and neighbor. Diane has exquisite taste, and has always been someone who truly tries to find the ‘perfect’ gift for people in her life. No simple gift card and Happy Birthday wish in an email or posted on Facebook from her. She takes her time picking out the right card. Puts so much effort in all she does. From landscaping, to sewing, to decorating her house, there’s always a little extra pizazz with her.

My corn candy Longaberger basket. A gift from Diane…

The gift? A small, darling basket shaped like a Brach’s piece of corn candy. (By then she knew me well enough to know I was addicted to corn candy). The cloth lining of basket was patterned corn candy. So I’ve had this basket over 20 years. Normally I’d say, each fall when the stores put out stuff for Halloween, but stores no longer run a ‘real’ calendar year anymore. Swimsuits are out in January, gruesome winter coats will be hanging on circular racks while the temperatures are still hovering in the 90’s. (Yes, the world has gone mad). Rest assured, Brach’s (it must be Brach’s for corn candy and circus peanuts. I have high standards with the empty calories in my life) corn candy will be out with the back-to-school-specials in July.

Napkin Longaberger basket and basket of notepads of vital importance…

And just like that, I was hooked on Longaberger Baskets. Diane’s house was chuck full of carefully placed, crafty, seasonal Longaberger baskets. But all looking super casual, warm and inviting. How come I could never pull this off? She just has a knack for this kind of shit. I fill my corn candy basket with-duh-corn candy and slap it on an old ecru doily. Diane takes a 3 foot Longaberger wrought iron Santa, fills it with a baskets of assorted pine cones, another with Christmas decorations and the third graduated sized opening with handmade bows of every Christmas color and pattern ribbon known to mankind. Makes me tired to walk into her house. I can slap my Christmas tree up in a couple hours and call it good. It takes Diane a week to decorate her house. And boy does it show. But enough on my inadequacies and her super hero decorating abilities. Suffice it to say, Diane got me hooked on Annalee’s (hard to describe, they are wool felt animals and people who look very strange), Longaberger Baskets, Lennox, and canning in general. It’s her recipe I use for Bread & Butter Pickles.

This is an Annalee. Quirky, I have many for holidays. Family hates them…

Back to those stinking baskets. They were pricey things and I couldn’t buy one very often, but buy them I did. A picnic basket (I’ve never, ever used it as such), a covered basket that holds 2 pies because you just never know when I need to bring 2 pies somewhere. A recipe box (my favorite and crammed full), tiny baskets to hold ink pens, flat baskets to hold magazines. It just ever ends. I’d say I have at least 20. Sitting around on the floor, counter or on antiques. Some holding absolutely nothing and of no good use whatsoever.

Relegated to the basement. Each holds absolutely nothing…

During the height of my frenzied collecting, Shannon bought into the whole Longaberger pyramid scheme right along with me. By this time we were living in North Muskegon. Lo and behold, there were Longaberger dealers all over town. Oh for cripe’s sake. My dealer was Mary, a friendly, outgoing super saleswoman. A couple times a year Mary would host an open house with soups, dips, chips, recipes, retired baskets that you couldn’t get anywhere on the black market. Oh for the love of pete. Now the Longaberger family was no longer content with just baskets either. They saw dollar signs and fleshed out their business. Cha-Ching. Next on their agenda was a line of pottery dishes, linens, packaged foods and dips which just required a couple of additional ingredients. This was an enormous-growing-thriving-making-money-hand-over fist-business. And I was just doing my share. I am here to help capitalism. Sigh. It would take me a long time to finally stop the majority of gathering more shit that I had a place to put it. I’m much more conscious of the choices I make when buying something that I really don’t need now. Also a lot older and realize I don’t need more ‘stuff’ in my life, nor do I have the room. Or money, frankly.

Even worse, down with my canning equipment. Lacking counter space-seriously…

Must be about 15 years ago because Landon was on the scene but Peyton was not. I’m going to blame Shannon for this huge snafu in our lives since I’m doing the writing. I think we both regularly received Longaberger sale flyers and tidbit updates on the entire Longaberger family. One of these brochures offered a bus trip to Dresden, Ohio. Why might you wonder? To be enlightened by all things Longaberger. For an entire weekend. Be still my heart. Shannon asked if I’d be interested in going on the trip with her? It sounded like fun. Giddy we were, I tell you. Breakfast was served on the bus-in our own Longaberger basket. To keep forever. Two cozy nights in a nice hotel, a jaunt into the nearby town where all businesses were out to make money off the Longaberger name. None of the local businesses were allowed to sell baskets, but they all had knock-off liners, trims etc.

Three highlights of the weekend were LUNCH WITH TAMI. Yes, the real Tami (flesh and blood daughter of Dave) Longaberger. For an extra 25 bucks per plate, we could dine with Tami, utilizing all of the grandest Longaberger pottery dinnerware. Heck, who could say no to that? (Lambs to the slaughter). Another highlight was a Saturday night auction where if we had enough money, we could bid on certain baskets available NO WHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD. Lordy. The third was a trip to the actual factory. For a mere 25 bucks, we could pick out one of several basket patterns, make one ourselves (with help from a worker earning overtime for working on Saturday) and put our own spin on the color stain we chose, liner and trim package. It was more time consuming deciding these options than the time I spent picking out my new Jeep.

My favorite and often used recipe basket…

We filled out the pertinent information application, sent in our checks-and just like that we became part of a cult. (Similar to Jim Jones and his Kool-aid family). First our bus-mates. Deranged lot. For some of them, this was their 8th, 9th or 10th year in a ROW trucking down to Dresden for the weekend. Doing the same shit every time. Huh? Shannon and I were bored, befuddled, confused, and a little scared before we hit Ohio. We did so many eye rolls to each other during that miserable weekend, for the following two weeks only the whites of our eyes were visible.

Probably the scariest or spookiest moment of the weekend came as we were hopping off the bus at the factory to make our own basket. First a word about the factory. The building was designed in the likeness of the medium Market Basket. I. Kid. You. Not. Seven stories tall, 180,000 square feet building that looked exactly like a basket.

No I’m not kidding. This is the Longaberger factory…

Anyway we’re all shuffling along in a long line (I think there were 2 freaking bus loads of folks from West Michigan that weekend-and most chose to make their own personal basket to bring home-us included). We’re pretty far back in the line to the front door when suddenly the line just stops. This resembled a comedy sketch. One of the tour guides stopped the line, so every person got rear ended. Why? Because there were a set of shoe prints in the cement that required our undivided attention. These had been the feet (in the shoes) of Dave Longaberger. The founder of Longaberger Baskets. Bowed heads, a quick biography of the dude who started it all and a moment of silence. I believe I snickered. Shannon poked me, then she chuckled. We both bit our lips hard enough to draw blood. Between the 2 of us we were about one cackle from being hauled to jail. Blasphemy.

We tried. We really did. But neither of us ever bought into the sacredness of the whole Longaberger holiness thing. They’re just baskets. Yes, very nice, but pricey and not practical. We tried not to offend anyone who was ga-ga about what they were experiencing (Dave’s shoe prints in cement!) for the weekend, whether it was their first or 15th trip. But neither Shannon nor I were about to drink from that odd shaped basket pitcher of Kool aid that weekend or ever after. Out of the 100 or so in our group (we were not the only group tour that weekend either. There were several more groups which is probably why I never got to personally talk with Tami at my cozy lunch with her, which numbered about 250 people that day). An odd weekend to say the least, but something Shannon and I still talk and laugh about on occasion. Then we quickly look over our shoulders to make sure no one’s overhead us. It left an impression for sure. Most of the cult worshippers were just so serious. We noticed we were being scrutinized and judged on our lack of sincerity. By the time the bus was leaving for home on Sunday, we were virtually outcasts. Shunned. On the outside looking in. But not too close-cause most of them were some kind of crazy basket cases…

Yeah, I put my phone in this basket when I’m in the bedroom….

In all probability this will not resonate with any other human on earth because I am a strange duck. But I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern of my life for the last 20 years. I take that back. This tale really began in 1990. I’ve written about it before but never actually put two and two together until my most recent relapse. Sigh. Here goes.

A familiar warning sign I always fail to heed…

If you’ve not read my story titled, “May 5, 1990,” here’s a quick refresher. After a life long smoking addiction, Hubs and I stopped smoking. Cold turkey. Something we’d failed to accomplish several times before. But May 5, 1990 was the day we really did it. Suddenly everything smelled and tasted much better. There were some nasty side effects, insomnia, and the inability to be civil to one another for about 4 months. They both eventually faded and we were finally non-smokers. But once the cigarettes were gone, great tasting food pushed its way to the forefront of our lives. We lived to eat. Period. After a couple years of adding 40 pounds to my already sloppy frame, we moved across the state. I knew no one, Adam was in high school, so I got a job at McDonald’s. I worked hard, I really did. Who knew for all that hard work, I could not eat Mickey D’s everyday and maintain my already portly frame? Well shit.

Breakfast this weekend. One of my favorites. OK, I have too many faves…

There are women with large frames who look fantastic. But I don’t have a large frame and I don’t wear extra weight well. There’s just no other way to explain it. I’ve got a skinny neck (all chickeny skin now), not very much in the chest department and pretty good calves and ankles. But it’s the part above the knees and below the boobs where all my tubbiness is carried. Trust me, it’s very unattractive. I don’t feel good when I’m fat. I look even worse. And I really hate buying super size clothing. Detest it. But there I was wearing XX large tops with size 20 pants. Disgusting. Tipping the scales around 220. Hard to even write.

Yup, that’s me on “I’m gonna start my diet on Monday.”

A health issue in 1998 scared us into making some serious changes (I was 47) to our eating habits. Over the course of 8 months I lost about 75 pounds. Within 20 pounds of my high school weight and was halfway toned because I was doing some serious walking everyday. I felt fantastic. Energy level was in the stratosphere. There’s a strange phenomenon which occurs once you start a diet. While no one besides John noticed a difference in my appearance until I lost over 40 pounds, I could see and feel it. That’s when your willpower magically appears and grows substantially. I was losing about 2 pounds a week which is about the recommended amount to lose. But with every pound lost, my will power surged. Still, anyone who says going on a diet is the hardest/worst thing ever is a freaking nutcase. Dieting becomes easier with every ounce you lose as you’re doing it. But maintaining that weight loss is nigh onto impossible. Don’t let any fool tell you different. They lie. All big, fat liars. OK maybe not fat liars, but they lie. Like a rug.

About my heaviest, can’t find the really disgusting picture. Dang…

The first real test is when you’re done losing and want to maintain that weight. You gotta add some calories or you’re gonna continue to lose. But how many? I lost about 10 pounds trying to figure out the right holding pattern. You also want to get back on the merry-go-round called life. That means allowing yourself an ‘occasional’ dessert or slice of birthday cake. You know how hard occasional is? But then a family party and a couple of special lunches out with friends finds you have gained 3 pounds in a few days. Not to worry because your smaller, cute clothes you’ve been wearing for almost 2 years still fit and look ok.

For several years I was too thin. Why can’t I just stay between thin and fat?

There’s a fine line with body image and weight I struggle with. One of them is something I read in a newspaper article on dieting 20 years ago. A simple sentence I’ve never forgotten. “Nothing tastes as good as being thin.” (Honestly, they’ve never had McDonald’s fries, just out of the fryer, doused in Heinz? Exactly what planet are they from?) On the other hand is the FB meme which says, “life is too short. Eat the cake, take the vacation, spend your hard earned money.” Ok, I’ll skip the vacation, do my best to save money and not splurge on foolish stuff. BUT I WANT TO EAT MY CAKE WITHOUT GAINING WEIGHT! Is that too much to ask? In my case, I guess it is. Well shit.

It happens so subtlety you barely notice. We’re out eating, but instead of eating half my Reuben, I scarf a couple extra bites off the second half I was planning on taking home. Instead of eating a dozen French fries, then pushing the rest away, I leave a measly 6 on my plate. Instead of eating half of my meal, then stopping for ONE minute to see if I now feel satisfied, I continue to eat until I’m uncomfortably full. When I fall into this weird eating frenzy, (this isn’t like a Great White feeding frenzy. Mine usually last for months. Or years), I am slow to decipher what’s going on. But deep down in my head I’ve recognized all the tell-tale signs).

Packing on the pounds-again, 2014…

And this happens to me over and over. About 2 years after dieting and maintaining, the slow, steady pound climb upwards begins. Again. Since losing 75 pounds in ‘98, I believe this is yo-yo weight gain number 5. It’s similar to the cicadas, staying underground for a number of years, suddenly they resurface. My least favorite fat pounds start making a comeback. Those extra pounds want comfort too. They come right back to their old familiar stomping ground. My belly, hips and upper legs. The small roll above the waist of my capris turns into the size of an inner tube worn by a child before they jump into the pool. (Mine does not help me float, or look remotely cute). Face it, saddlebags should only be worn by horses, and a muffin top is something we enjoy eating, not wearing around our middle.

About a year after dropping 75 unwanted fat. But it keeps following me back home…

I show signs of panic after a weight gain equaling that of a one year old has taken residence on my widening frame. I’ve never gotten close to my original fatness before the diet of ‘98. So far I’ve managed to just yo-yo the last 30 pounds over and over. Fifty pounds of my original weight loss have been kept at bay. So far. But still, it’s disheartening. What happens to slowly change my eating habits over and over every few years? I don’t really change what I eat as how much I eat. My portion size changes. And I forget when to stop. When I feel uncomfortable because I’ve eaten too much, what happens to the trigger that stopped me for the previous 2 years? Why can’t I continue to be trigger happy?

Before the ugly 9 made their appearance…

My last diet was 2 years ago. Do you see a pattern? Yup, it’s just started. I’m up 9 pounds in about as many months. Clothes still fit, but they’re getting snug. Ugh. I desperately want to stop this weight gain from going to the next level (which would include buying new clothes-a size bigger) from a hefty newborn to the size of a one year old. I don’t know if it’s because something’s not right in the life of Neese, or I just love food. And really like to eat. A lot. I want to look decent and feel good about myself. That won’t be the case of this spiral continues. Maybe I need to explore what’s eating Neese instead of what Neese is eating. If only I knew of a good therapist…