Dr. Southern Mama: Musings & Mentions

I knew self-care had turned accidentally into self-sabotage when on a random Friday night, my husband turned to me and said, “Honey, would you mind at least putting on your nice sweatpants?” I laughed but knew exactly what had happened: my husband did not want to put pressure on me after a long day of work as a psychologist at the local children’s hospital to “dress up,” but he was also frustrated he had seen the same ratty pair of sweatpants for the (let’s not disclose exactly how long)… days in a row. I knew after that incident, and several related others, that I had to make a change: my self-care habit of wearing “comfy” clothes immediately after work had helped enable my late-night snacking as it prevented any waist-band discomfort from causing me to feel like a “busted can of biscuits.” (I’m Southern if you can’t tell). My reaching for yet another piece of pizza had been my way of coping with hard days working during COVID as a pediatric psychologist on an inpatient cardiac unit and in outpatient cardiology clinics. Instead of coping with my own emotions (something I’m pretty sure I said to my own patient yesterday), I was covering these emotions in cheese, which given that I lived in Wisconsin at the time, meant that at least I had access to some really good cheese. Now don’t get me wrong. I love a good pair of sweatpants. And when I say “good,” I don’t mean fashionable or trendy. I am referring to 10-year-old-stained former college sweatpants that have a frayed edge where a pocket once lived long ago when I had something other than forgotten dog poop bags and sticky kid detritus to fill them with. To summarize, let’s just say that my ratio of these types of sweats vs Lily Pulitzer dresses was and remains a solid 20 to 1. But these same sweatpants, in particular, my favorite fancy red sweatpants that were two sizes too big, had turned my self-care into self-sabotage. These sweatpants enabled me to enjoy eating too much junk food without the consequence of a tight waistband. In hearing my husband’s request for me to wear my “nice” sweatpants, the feminist side of me rebelled and said,” Who cares if you wear sweatpants ‘too much,’ while the psychologist side of me said, “Whoa, stimulus control. Get rid of those sweatpants!” And when I had those conflicting thoughts, I covered them with cheese. So began a two-year journey back to adopting healthier self-care habits. Now, like many other moms, it is hard to fit in self-care. There are two things that helped me make space: 1) a partnership with my husband where we prioritize time to exercise, and 2) remembering that I want my daughter to prioritize her own self-care when she is older. Like many other moms, I/we can push ourselves to change for our children in way that I/we can’t for ourselves. For me, it’s not worth putting down that second donut because of an upcoming bikini season, because hello, Spanx makes swimsuits… but most days, it is worth putting the second donut down when I see my daughter watching me. I can’t tell you know how many vegetables I’ve choked down when my daughter is watching… but I digress. In looking at my daughter, I found my motivation to change. I began by replacing one meal a day with a protein-topped salad (though someone was going to have to pry the ranch bottle out of my cold dead hands… I’m Southern, remember) and actually figuring out that I don’t mind eating brussels sprouts (with salt and olive oil). And when I started exercising consistently instead of ordering Door Dash for the (let’s not disclose exactly how many times) and instead began doing the types of exercise I used to enjoy, I noticed changes: my marriage improved, my daughter’s behavior improved, and my confidence improved. Was this due to the weight I lost? Not exactly. It was due to my feeling of being in control again and proud of my choices. It was amazing how much more patient I became with toddler temper tantrums about not wanting to wear gloves in subzero temperatures when I didn’t have last night’s pizza grease staining my pajamas pants. (You get cranky when you realize that there is a limit to the power of a Victoria’s Secret logo in being able to sex-ify a pair of pizza grease-stained pajamas. Now there’s an idea if Victoria’s Secret wants to add to the “every woman vibe” they are trying to associate with their brand…but I digress.) Now instead of hiding the pizza box of shame when taking out the trash, I proudly strut my plastic water bottles to the recycling (and no, I don’t have a Stanley cup in case you are wondering). And I righteously brag about the muscle strain making me waddle as I walk the dog as I brag to all those poor people on the sidewalk who were too kind (or too slow) to run away when I boasted about my 36-year-old Hoka-laden plantar fasciitis-prone athletic prowess. So, to all the moms out there who are struggling with self-care, remember your motivation. And when you slip up, enjoy that second donut. I mean, really enjoy that second donut. Then, tomorrow, grab that stupid veggie and look your child in the eye as you inwardly mutter, “the things I do for you, kid”. Because one thing I know about moms- whether biological, foster, or moms “in spirit,” we will do anything for those we love. So, buy that journal. Buy that yoga mat. Put on those ankle warmers and rock some Jane Fonda videos. Let that goat sit on your back during goat yoga- whatever works for you. And keep that awesome pair of sweatpants for special occasions…not the daily occasions. And for those seeing me at the mailbox in my infamous red sweatpants again, give me a high five and remind me about this post.