March 14 was Pi Day. And I didn't even have any.

I have been known to sometimes occasionally okay, ALL THE TIME go to the refrigerator drive-through to eat until whatever emotion I am currently feeling (and don't want to anymore) goes away.

Helpful? If I want to go up a pants size, sure.

Does this make my butt look big?

Fooooooood, glorious fooooooooooood... you've always been there for me. Never letting me down. Never really helping, but always trying your best to fill whatever cavernous void was begging to be filled. Never mind that the giant hole was imaginary, and my stomach (and pants) only stretch so much, I ate whatever was in my way to make me feel better. Not unlike someone who cuts or burns themselves, I ate until I hurt. I'm not sure why I'm using "ate". Ate is past tense. I've done this as recently as yesterday.

And every time I succumb to my urge to binge, I look in the mirror. Usually with tear-filled eyes. And I give myself Manning Face.

Disappointed Payton is disappointed.

Life is stressful. Period. Throw in some variables such as a husband, wife, a few kids, jobs, aging parents, saving for whatever, making ends meet, disabilities, school, social life (or lack thereof), and life can just be pretty damned overwhelming. Food has always been my comfort. I may sound like I'm joking, but food never talked about me behind my back. Food never made fun of me and made me feel like I didn't belong. Food never left me. We celebrate with food - your favorite meal on your birthday, cake, ice cream, ice cream cake, Thanksgiving, Christmas - FOOD.

Now all those years of cramming food , eating my emotions, trying to find solace in something I knew wouldn't satisfy me has caught up with me. And I'm tired of not just looking at the size of my clothes, I'm tired of feeling this way. But you know what else? I'm just tired! I commute. I'm a single mom. Shortpants doesn't sleep worth a crap. Also?

I hate working out.

Hate it with the heat of a thousand fiery suns.

I've tried to like it. I've tried the plans, the diets, the workouts, the shakes, starving, all sorts of other unhealthy shit, and I know that it's simple math - burn off more than you take in - but I. HATE. IT.

This is the face I make when I try to eat stuff that's good for me. NOT a selfie, in case you were wondering.

I hate thinking what people at the gym are wondering when I'm jiggling over on the treadmill, I hate assuming that people driving by me as I walk are making fun of me, etc. My brain says "Shut up, stupid, they're not thinking anything that has anything to do with you." My lack of self-worth says "THEY'RE POINTING AT YOU. THEY'RE LAUGHING AT YOU. CALLING YOU FATASS AND SLOB AND CHEESEBURGER."

I am not nice.

To myself.

To everyone else I encounter, I'm overly pleasant. (Unless you know me. And then you know. And those of you that have stuck by me through the years, you have my eternal devotion. But of course you already know that.)

Do you know who Kid President is? If you said no, please leave this blog and go Google his ridiculously adorable face. I'll wait. Listen to his YouTube clips. Really listen. Because this 9 year old is changing my life. KP reminds me that shit's not that bad. Being mean (even to myself) shouldn't be an option. He is smart, eloquent, and says sage things like:

LOOK AT THAT FACE. And that cupcake. Nom.

Pity party over. Am I going to the gym? YES! Probably not. Am I going to make better, meaningful choices? Yes. He nailed it. Life is tough, no matter what cards are in the hand you were dealt. I'm going to stop being mean to myself and make this life meaningful. To stop wishing days would hurry past and live in the moment. To dance about it. To stop letting the scale and my pants size define me. To trust in others to help me through whatever it is I have going on. To remind myself I am not an island, and I deserve to be content. Proud. Loved. Every moment spent sad, angry frustrated, depressed, etc. is a moment I could have been happy. And happy is what I want to be. I choose to be. And damn, that's powerful.

Where I remind myself I am not Julie Andrews.

I adore Julie Andrews. First off, she's absolutely gorgeous and a complete class act. I think she is just fantastic in whatever role she plays. And as such, I have aspired to be her at times. I'd love to spin in the warm spring sun, arms outstretched, singing "The hillllllllllllllllllllllls are aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive.... with the sound of muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiic!" Alas, I live in Kansas. Not that we don't have hills - WE DO, contrary to popular belief! - but it certainly isn't Switzerland. Nor am I a nanny of a musically-inclined group of siblings. Which is unfortunate, because I would love to be able to give that adorable curly-haired stud on Glee a run for his money.

Who doesn't want to frolic and sing? ADMIT IT. You know you want to.

Mary Poppins is one of my favorite movies. Julie Andrews is a BADASS in that movie! Holy crap - I wish my kid would respond to "the look" like she got the Banks' kids to do! She is FIERCE! And she has magical stuff! OMG! I want her carpet bag o'stuff! I want to snap and my house to clean itself! I WANT TO FLY AND NOT HAVE MY HAIR LOOK LIKE, WELL, LIKE IT DOES RIGHT NOW! I want a super cute young Dick Van Dyke to be all in love with me and stuff! I want to be able to put the maid in her place! I want a maid! I want a tea party on the ceiling! I want cartoon penguins to dance for me and be all flirty and stuff! I want songs written about me! I want every holiday with Kelly to be jolly! Wait. Maybe I hate her. I need to think about that for a minute.

Look at that bitch face. OMG. I only hope my "look" is a fraction of that awesomeness.

Irritated Mary is irritated. But Bert is adorbs, no?

I know I look like this. A LOT.

Teach me, Julie. TEACH ME.

Even though Audrey Hepburn is the face of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, Julie played Doolittle on Broadway. Had she been cast in the movie, there would have been no Mary Poppins, so see, kids? FAILURE IS OKAY. To thoroughly show my appreciation for Dame Andrews (you have to be a legit badass if the Queen of England says you are!), here is my rendition of "My Favorite Things" from My Fair Lady:

Not Exactly My Favorite Things

Sippy cups that I find under the car seat

With just enough milk to make a big, foul stink

Strawberry jelly on the curtains, you see

These are not exactly my favorite things.

Discovering all of the stuff in the heat vent

Counting all of the money I have spent

To replace all of the lost pacis you fling

These are not exactly my favorite things.

When you don't sleep

When I have to sweep

Up a giant mess

I start to remember more unfavorite things

And then I start to stress.

And then I look at your sparkling blue eyes

Your grin that can light up the darkest of night skies

The sounds that you make when you're content, you see

These are a few of my favorite things.

When you want to do nothing but snuggle

I don't worry about all the stuff that I juggle

All of my frustration and frowns go and take wing

Because you are my most favorite thing.

Guilt. Lots and lots of guilt.

I'm having a moment where I hate to even say out loud what I'm feeling. So I thought a much better idea would be to put it on the internet, where surely someone else has felt the same way, and then we can have a pity party of two rather than just one, because one is the loneliest number and all that crap.

I'm lying. I'm not having a moment, I'm having a week. Maybe three of them. But I guess after almost two years of just going and doing, I can be mad. Angry. Hurt. Enraged. Feel sorry for him and myself and us. 

Quinn:
On the left, the day we took him home!
On the right, a couple of months ago.

WHY? I did everything I could to ensure a healthy pregnancy. I did everything I could from the minute that beautiful nugget of goo and screams was pulled (and I mean pulled, my epidural was wearing off and I felt that shit) out from me and into the world to make sure that all his needs were met. I nursed as long as I could. I tried to keep my stress levels down.

AFTER TRYING MY BEST WE STILL GOT AUTISM. AND I'M FINALLY SAYING HOW ANGRY I AM ABOUT IT. Because of Autism, I can't find a sitter. Because of Autism, I'm afraid to move a mere 75 miles from my parents. Because of Autism, the school system can eat a dick. Because of Autism, I don't get to hear "I love you, Mama." Because of Autism, we are alone. Because of Autism, I feel like the world's most inept mother because I don't always know what my son needs, because I can't afford the proper schools or therapies or a completely sensory friendly home. Because of my job, he doesn't qualify for SSDI. Because of my job, I don't qualify for child care assistance. Because of Autism. Because of Autism. Because of Autism.

And then I feel like the world's biggest dickface.

I said we. But it's not we. He has Autism. He has the lifelong struggle of dealing with this disability that has no cure and no source. I don't parent him any differently than I would any other child. I say that, but do I know that? He is my only child. It's just he and I in this world. I am a 37 year old single mother of a child with challenges. His smile sends lightening bolts to my soul. He is perfectly unaware at age four of how hard life can and will be.

What, you don't watch TV like this?

Right now I fight his battles, and I will fight them until the day I have no fight left in me, meaning I will fight until my last breath is taken. When my anger takes hold of me, I feel like I have no fight. That I've hit the proverbial dead end of strength and will and determination. I am tired.

He rarely sleeps for more than four hours at a stretch. He prefers to wear only the softest of clothes that barely touch him due to tactile sensory issues. I can count on two hands the number of foods that he will eat due to oral sensory issues. His pacifer is the only thing that has soothed him in his life. I'm currently researching different home health stores for the best buy on pull ups since he is about to outgrow the biggest size that Pampers/Huggies/Whoever makes. I just purchased a swing with a three point harness, because swinging is his favorite thing in the whole world and a regular swing isn't safe for him, as he'll forget to hold on, completely enthralled by the wind stroking his skin.

Joy, personified.

I know that I use unsavory language in my posts. And if that is offensive, I apologize. It is certainly not my intent to offend. I just sometimes do not have a grip on more appropriate words that emphasize how intense my feelings are.

Regardless of every sleepless night, every meltdown, if I have to buy pull ups and pacifiers and iPads and we watch Sesame Street clips until my last breath - I won't regret a second of it. But alas, I am human, and I have feelings, and I can certainly be angry about life not turning out the way I thought it would. But what I cannot do, I won't do - is let the curtain of anger blind me from the absolute joy and exhilaration of raising a beautiful, sensitive, hilarious, energetic, loving, snuggly, ornery boy.

My hands are full, indeed - but so is my heart.

Love, Kelly and Quinn

E. P. T.

You thought I meant a pregnancy test, didn't you! No uterus, no babies. In this case, EPT stands for extensive pep talk. Sorry to confuse or disappoint. If I was pregnant it would be newsworthy. Like medical journal newsy. 

Anyway, on to the E. P. T.:

Hey, you. You've got the world by the tail and aren't paying attention. You have a roof over your head, clothes on your back, food in your belly, and supportive family and friends. You are fortunate. 

You have a son who loves you with every ounce of his complicated being, as evidenced by his inability to allow you to pee solo, sleep eight hours straight, or contemplate life without him. You are blessed. 

You have a job you've dreamed of having since you filled out your grad school application. You have the opportunity to be a giver of hope, provide new perspectives, and change lives. You are able.

You have a network of friends that spans the globe. You may not have seen many of these faces in many years, but the footprints they have left behind in your memories and heart remain fresh. These people have helped shape you into the person you are. You are embraced. 

You now put your head down every night beside someone who accepts who you are, inside and out. Who is willing and able to open his heart to you and your son. Who eases your fears and dries your tears and keeps you safe without demanding anything in return. Who you love beyond the sky, in ways you didn't know existed. You are loved. 

You are full of love and life and magic. You are capable and smart and inventive. You are snarky and vulnerable and a tornado and a calm breeze. You are your dreams, not your nightmares. You are strong and sincere and true. 

And you forget this. 

And it's hurtful. 

And unfair. 

And ridiculous. 

Stop forgetting. You are worth every word.