Only the Thin Shall Pass

It's swimsuit prep season.  If you aren't hitting the gym hard, you're not going to be ready for summer!

Did you hear me?  YOU WON'T BE READY!  You'll look less-than-perfect in a swimsuit!  LESS THAN PERFECT!  IN A SWIMSUIT!

What greater embarrassment could there be??

Well, my name is Bonnie. My body has grown four human beings, I have stretch marks that could double as a topographical map of the Grand Canyon, and I currently wear a size 12.  

I have a summer body.

Yep, you heard me.  A summer body.  A swimsuit-worthy, frolic-in-the-pool body.  Would the internet agree?  Of course not, but here's the thing:

I DON'T CARE.

In my day, I've seen too many beautiful women of all shapes and sizes sitting poolside in a full length cover-up because they think they are "too fat" to be seen in a swimsuit.  As if the only woman worthy of a swimsuit is one who could grace the cover of Sports Illustrated in her spare time.  As if a lack of bodily perfection cancels out the right to have fun. 

That. Is. Madness!

Ladies, you already have a summer body.  You already are swimsuit ready.  Because putting on a swimsuit is not some kind of test where the only passing grade is between size 0 and 2.  It's wearing a swimsuit.  That's it.  That's all.  And if anyone tries to make you feel bad about that (yourself included) they are wrong.  You hear me?  WRONG.

A swimsuit is not a medal that you only get to wear once you've dedicated the proper amount of time to burpees and weight training.  It's not a Certificate of Achievement you are granted once you've achieved the modern ideal for fitness.  It's clothing to wear in the pool.  The end. 

You are more than numbers on a scale.  You are more than inches around a waist.  You are more than the sum of your workouts and you are more than a reflection in a mirror.

You already have a summer body.

So get up and make a splash!

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

Last week we went to Disneyland!  And by "went" I mean "spent a significant amount of time sitting on benches" at Disneyland.

It was kind of a disaster.  But what's that they say?  It isn't a family vacation unless you come home with a laundry bag marked "biohazard"?

Seriously, the stomach flu is the worst!  And that's not even taking into consideration the horrible sore throat illness that left Leah sobbing for more medicine every hour for nights on end and hammered Matthew into a fevered and wheezing mess for three days, or the cold that required me to use half a box of Puffs and gave my baby a fountain-nose and a fever of 103.

Basically our trip to Disneyland was Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, complete with extended Hell sequence.  But, we learned a few things:

--  When your husband has a two-bucket stomach flu that is so bad it overwhelms the poor toilet (who did nothing to deserve this), don't fret.  If you saunter down to the front desk at 1 AM and ask for a plunger using the words "husband" and "violently ill", they won't ask any more questions.

-- If you are afflicted with the above-mentioned double decker flu, always take your barf bowl to the bathroom with you or you might end up vomiting into a towel, which you'll then have to wash out the best you can in the tub.  And then you'll have to leave the maids a really big tip.  And an Ebola suit for clean-up.

-- It turns out I can only handle one kid at a time if one of them is under the age of one and can't stop puking for five hours.  That means the kid whose bad sore throat doesn't involve expelling any bodily fluids has to sit next to me and wail about me not loving her as much as I love the baby.  Which brings me to some good news --

-- You can even get your baby to puke in a bowl by the 8th or 9th time it happens.  Sure, there will be some casualties of blankies and jammies along the way, but a not-quite-one-year-old heaving into a bowl is quite a feat, people.  *takes a bow*

-- Yelled prayers work.  By the third sleepless night of a whole bunch of sick children and a baby who wouldn't stop crying, I yell-prayed that we were all exhausted and MY BABY HAD TO SLEEP!  It totally worked!  Jonathan stopped crying instantly and slept for a couple hours.  Apparently my angry voice works better on God than it does on my children...

Thankfully Jonathan and David were the only ones to get smitten down by the Puking Illness of Doom, and even though I felt like I spent the next four days with my neck stretched out under the dangling blade of a guillotine, no one else barfed.  Except for that kid whose mother moved my stroller from its guardianship spot for the parade and let him puke right behind it.  (Normally I'm a pretty sympathetic person, but if you want to see my angry face, this situation will do it).

We did manage to have fun as well thanks to the makers of ibuprofen, immodium, and albuterol, a rented extra stroller, and the security of a full-body change of clothes for everyone and a ziploc bag in every pocket.  (If you think Snow White's Scary Adventure was frightening before, just wait until you have a kid say, "Mom, my stomach hurts!" while you're waiting in line...)

Peace out, Mr. Toad.  It's been real.