Being Kind To Meep

Meep is my inner 8 year old and is the name of a game I used to play (above). Notice the poopoo to the right. In the game, you have to tap those and then clean, feed, and love Meep

and let her rest

or she will cry.

My inner Meep also happens to be like Honey Boo Boo and has struggled with weight from before she was born, but mostly at age 8 and 49.

I decided that trying to survive the pain and inconvenience of pelvic floor dysfunction (pfd) AND be the right weight AND have the perfect tan AND travel in Europe AND attend a big graduation was like spinning plates. Only a talented circus performer could manage all that without a head explosion. With pfd, I am also my own baby. Half of my luggage when traveling is dedicated to diapers to hold the instant cold packs on my tailbone so that I can move around like most people and stand and walk and sit. Both the diapers and ice packs require so much space.

I have decided to be kind to Meep.

Each time I saw a photo of myself that jarred me, I would not growl in disgust or say something mean and self-depracating. I would look for something nice like my hat or my skin or my hair and appreciate that and realise that it’s only a moment in time. I will look back on the photos someday and be glad for the experience even if the photo isn’t perfect. I asked Mr. W. if he would please gently slap my hand if I’m mean to Meep to remind me not to be so hard on myself. I was in bed for 5 months for heaven’s sake.

That’s little Meep in those photos.

Meep is lovable and kind and going through absolute hell right now. She is surviving and that is enough for today.

She needs all the love she can get and I’m going to be one to give it to her.

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