So, yesterday morning I stepped on the scale to see a 159 smiling back at me. It was a wonderful, joyous, yet short-lived moment. I didn't have time to revel in the ecstasy of there not being a 6 at the front of that number because I had to take my son to the doctor and then to the hospital, where he was treated for a nasty bout of croup.
In the stress of it all, I didn't eat breakfast, nor did I get lunch. In the back of my warped little head, this was a good thing and maybe I'd actually see an even lower number the next time I stepped on the scale. But once the situation with Ethan stabilized, I was overcome with that need. The need to stuff my face. Granted, I had limited choices at the hospital, but what I had, I took. A turkey sub, with the girl behind the counter's interpretation of "a tiny bit of mayonnaise" (read: mayo oozing out the sides like I had actually ordered a mayo sub), eleventy billion graham crackers and something that was supposed to pass for vanilla pudding. I even had a swig or two of chocolate milk out of a carton.
This morning, I was faced with my arch-nemisis, hospital french toast. During my pregnancy, I was hospitalized for 2 weeks in the second trimester with threatened pre-term labor. Hospital food is...well, hardly food, but for some reason the french toast rocked my world and I ordered it every.single.day, even writing it in when it wasn't on the menu itself (as a long-term patient, I knew they had it down there even if they weren't advertising it). Fourteen days of french toast--that's a lot of egg and milk soaked bread fried in butter, my friends. Man, did that taste good. So when it came this morning on my son's breakfast tray and he refused to eat it? I ate it. I cut off the crusts and offered every single bite of it to Ethan first, but I did eat it.
And when Husband brought me a grande chai tea latte? I drank it. And when Ethan wouldn't eat the muffin Husband brought for him? I ate half of it. Somewhere mid-way through that muffin the fog cleared and threw the rest of it away, like I was re-entering my body and realizing for the first time what I was doing.
I am the queen of emotional eating and it seemed no amount of "don't eat that, Fat Sarah!" in my head could counteract my hand from reaching for the food. It wasn't even good food. Most of it was utter crap. But I ate it anyway. Sigh.
On a side note, as I watched Biggest Loser last night I realized one of the women went from 168 to 160 this week. I had to laugh, as I lay there next to my son and digesting a mountain of crap food I didn't need to eat but did, that she lost in one week what I have spent an entire year trying to get rid of. Granted, if I were on the show and had the chance to work out that hard daily, with that type of rigorous nutritional plan, I'd be giving Nicole Ritchie a run for her money, but still....it was kind of a kick while I was down to see those specific numbers after having eaten my body-weight in junk.
I have no idea what I weigh today. I am focusing on the happiness of putting that hospital stay behind us and the fact that Ethan's on his way to a full recovery. I can step on the scale tomorrow and begin the marathon all over again if I have to.