And I'm just getting started ...

This is me mad. Not really. That's me pretending to be mad, but I doubt that's really what my mad face looks like. But if you want to know what my real mad face looks like then you're going to have to ask my kids or my husband. I'm sure, though, it's much more furocious than this.

I started thinking the other days about my pet peeves. I'd thought for the longest time that there were only a few things that made me mad, and there are. Like child abuse, just for example, or child neglect. Now, those tick me off. We're talking blood boiling anger. Nope not gonna get picked for jury duty with my feelings.

But when I say pet peeves, I'm just talking about those little things that annoy me. I'll gripe about it for a few seconds, or grumble to myself, then the day goes on. Pet peeves? Yep. I've got several ...

Take the woman in JayC today scouring the aisles with her three-ring binder of coupons. The coupon craze is driving me crazy. People, coupons have been around for a long time. It's nothing new, but I guess if TLC says it's important, then by all means, jump on the bandwagon. After all, you can never have enough bottles of $1 Colace tablets, right?

Big trucks that blow out billows of black smoke. I'm no environmentalist by any means, but it seems a little on the senseless side. Most of these guys probably suffer from Little Man Syndrome, and the black billows that pollute my air are likely a replacement for other psychological issues. Regardless, save your money and buy a house or put it back for your kid's college education and save the rest of us some air to breathe.

Old people who drive 20 miles under the speed limit. All old people who drive slow should be sentenced to driving a Mustang Cobra with nitrous in the trunk so they have no choice but to go fast. I'm no crazy speeder, but there's nothing wrong with the speed limit.

Yard sales. Hate having them, rarely visit them. If you don't want it, then likely I don't want it either. If I do happen to want your stuff, then you might want to organize it neatly because I will never dig through piles of clothes on a table, hoping to find that cute little outfit for my son for 50 cents. Nope. Gonna drive on by ...

Facebook rants. Facebook many things, actually. If you knew how many of my Facebook friends are blocked from my newsfeed, you'd be surprised. Almost all of them. If you've annoyed me at any point in time, you're blocked. Sorry. Rants against your boyfriend's ex-wife who can't even see your FB posts, cursing and other nonsensical stuff doesn't need to be a part of my day.

And like I said, I'm just getting started ...

My constant struggle

It hit me right after high school. That's when I stopped my stints with cross country and track, went to college and gained the freshman 15, or maybe it was 20, or could've been 25. I wasn't counting. I had a meal plan, plenty of time to sleep and no desire to attend class. It was coming on fast.

And from that point on, I began the Weight Struggle.

I'd balloon up, get tired of being overweight, and shrink back down. I'd have a baby, gain 60 pounds, then work my tail off to get back down to a healthy size. It was a constant yo-yo that took control of my 20's and continued into my 30's.

Oh, and I have excuses. Plenty of them.

Bad DNA. My parents have both had their fair share of weight struggles.

Four Babies: Any woman who has four kids in 12 years will fight weight, right?

Loving Husband: He doesn't care if I'm as big as a house. And he likes to eat and never worries if he gains a pound or 10.

But the bottom line is that I wasn't exercising, and eating anything I wanted. I love food, good food, and hate healthy options. It was my own fault, plain and simple.

My weight hit home during the pregnancy of Baby No. 4. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. It was awful. Poking myself four times a day and eating apples and chicken for months to control it was miserable. I knew I didn't want to be diabetic. Not during a pregnancy; not ever.

And I was heading in that direction. I already have high blood pressure and take pills for that. I already had high cholesterol. I was a walking time bomb who was falling in line with my father, who suffers from all of the obesity-related diseases a person can muster.

I made up my mind quickly that I love my father, but didn't want to carry on his health problems. I needed to get healthy for me and for my family. It wasn't an option.

Three weeks after Emery was born, I drove to the high school track, where I started running. I did this for a few weeks until the weather interfered, then I joined the local gym. I've been at the gym religiously since the beginning of November 2010. I go three to six times a week, depending on my schedule. I can run 5 miles, and I'm as physically fit as I've ever been in my adult life. I started eating better. I cook with ground turkey, not beef. We eat a lot of chicken and vegetables. Fast-food trips include a salad, not a burger.

And so far, I've lost almost 50 pounds.

That's not enough. My goal is still about 20 pounds away, although that number is quite negotiable. If I lose another 10, I'll be happy as a lark, and if I lose another 25, I'll be thrilled beyond measure. I'm still considered overweight on the BMI scale, but not obese. And all measurements indicate I'm "healthy."

It's not easy, but after coming to the end of my rope, this is my only option.

But being overweight isn't easy either. It's not simple to see your son come home from school crying because kids at school were calling his mother fat. It's not fun to answer your toddler's question: "Are you having another baby, because your stomach looks like it?"

Weight is a struggle for many people. America is as fat as it has ever been, and nearly 30 percent of Hoosiers are obese. No amount of government intervention is going to change those numbers. It takes personal resolve. You have to want to do it, and you have to do it right.

A friend the other day asked how she could lose about 30 pounds quickly. I laughed to myself, and answered, "Diet and exercise." There is no magic pill, no simple solution.

And when my son turns a year old on Sept. 25, I can't wait to pose with him for pictures. It's amazing the difference one year can make.

Practice in letting go

“The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart.”

— Iris Murdoch, “The Red and the Green”

For a mother, it turns out to be nightmarish exercise in utter futility, only comparable to learning to tie one’s shoes.

Load up one very gangly little boy, knees already covered in scabs, bruises and scrapes, position him on this two-wheeled contraption and let go.

(It’s the letting go part that bothers us moms.)

Because as soon as mom lets go, the bike starts wobbling to and fro and she knows that those knees are going to be roughed up again.

He crashes, of course. Mom walks a few feet over to where he lays, picks the bike up off that little boy, and wheels it back to the starting line.

Little boy is loaded up once again, while mom grabs the back of the seat. She pushes off and yells, “Keep pedaling. Don’t stop!”

He stops when the bike lands on top of him.

They wheel it back up to the starting line again.

By this time, little boy is getting defeated. So mom keeps cheering him on.

“You can do this!”

So he climbs back on, gripping the handlebars as hard as he can. Still holding on to his seat, mom doesn’t want to let go. Not again. She pushes off, and he pedals, and he pedals some more.

“Use the brakes,” much older, wiser brother screams.

Brakes used, gravel flies and bike again lands on smiling, happy, exuberant little boy.

“I did it. I did it!”

Little boy wanted a shiny, new bicycle for his 8th birthday, so he and his mom headed to discount haven to see what they could find. Walking in the double sliding doors, the excitement was pouring out of his little body. New bike day is a big day — almost bigger than turning 8. Mom and her little boy made a bee line to the back of the store, where many shiny bikes hung in wait for little boy to pick out his favorite.

The first bike they pulled out of the cage was a sky blue Tony Hawk version. It was a full 20-inches, and had shiny black pegs that little boy knew one day would support his very brave little brother. The pedals looked super cool, and little boy was convinced this was the bike for him. No other would possibly do. He tried it on, and it fit — just barely. The seat would need to be lowered, but the sky blue Tony Hawk bike made little boy smile.

Mom loves to see little boy smile.

He patiently wheeled it through the store, rounding curves, as mom picked up toilet paper, diapers, soup, cookies and more. He held on tight to that bike, as people couldn’t help but comment, “Looks like someone’s getting a new bike.” Little boy’s grin only grew bigger with each passing comment.

The new bike was loaded up in the big truck and hauled home. The seat was lowered with a simple Allen wrench by experienced mom, and little boy began practicing his pursuit of ultimate boyhood — learning to ride a bike.

And as mom watched with awe, she realized that it’s always going to be the letting go part that’s the hardest.

It's me, only much better

It's not hard to see that I am in a better place than where I was, say four or five years ago. But to be honest, I don't notice it much anymore. It's just become my life. Well, it's me, only better.

I spent the first 12 years of my adult life with one man. And it's hard for me to remember now being happy during those 12 years with him. I don't say that as a jilted divorced woman with an axe to grind. Not in the least. No axes, here. No vendettas. He's who he is, and I am who I am. Those two people just stopped fitting together.

When that was over, life was hard, until I met the man I was truly meant to spend the rest of my life with. It wasn't hard for anyone to notice. Even my son, who was a mere 8 years old and who was having his own issues dealing with a divorce, remarked, "Mom, Henry makes you smile. You haven't smiled in a long time. You just cried." Pretty deep words coming from a kid, and I knew what he meant. I wasn't me until I met Henry.

Dear Friend reminded me of that tonight as we strolled through town. We chatted about the latest news, and I told her my ex was getting remarried. I told her, "It's no big deal. I've been better off for a long time now." She remarked, "Yes. You're totally different." She's said this to me before, and I know what she means. I value her opinion, and understand her truths. I know who I was then, and I know who I am now, and I know where the credit for that recovery goes. There is a man who makes me truly happy. Who makes me laugh, smile and enjoy my life again.

I don't think about it much anymore because it has become normal for me to be happy. That's a good thing. I've accepted my divorce and all that came with it, the good and the bad. I'm not happy I've been divorced. I mean, who is? But I've come so far ...

Really, I'm still me, but with Henry, I'm much better.