You know how they say you shouldn't fall in love/get married/give away your flower until you love yourself and/or find your wholeness in God? And then they say you shouldn't have kids until you've travelled the world, paid off all your debt and bought a house? And then, you know - as a parent - you've now got it all figured: the planning, the budgeting, the disciplining and the healthy eating?

Yeah, well, I've just fallen off the wagon.

Matt found me (and loved me) back when I was a mess - more of a mess than I am even now (if you can believe it). We grew up together, made idiot decisions together, fought and healed together, followed God together.

We are a super, massive, grace-chasing work in progress.

All this while having kids, then travelling the world, renting one house after another, full-time ministry plus several part-time jobs, learning to cook and then setting things on fire (meals/food/pots & pans), getting fat, getting skinny, planting a garden, moving away, becoming less healthy, then more healthy, then - hooray! - prepregnancy weight (only took nine years).

But these last couple of months have found me reverting to my old ways, going back to my old loves, indulging in some... gasp!... comfort food. Lattes, candy corn, late-night chips and queso, and more crying/worrying than walking/exercising.

Just like that, five pounds have reappeared, attaching themselves to my waist and making my slim bootcut jeans very upset.

Now, I'm not a total failure. I'm still within a couple pounds of my Weight Watchers goal weight (a lifetime member now, thankyouverymuch). But I feel it in my trousers and in my energy, see it in what I feed my children and how we spend our free time. And I'm down, and frusrated, and not really liking where I think this is going.

The thing is, it can be exhausting, making healthy choices. A lot of research goes into menu planning, a lot of time into grocery shopping, a lot of energy into cooking from scratch. And I'm not very good at it. Sometimes the kids don't eat it. I have a toddler asking me for mac & cheese daily (he wants the powdered, pricey boxed stuff; won't touch the homemade Pioneer Woman baked goodness that I slave over a literal hot stove for). I mean, what's a mom to do?

[it should be noted that said toddler is at this very moment dropping coins down the heating vent; i just wanted you to share in my pain for a bit]

Well, I know what I am to do. I've got to gird up my loins and go back to Weight Watchers. Weekly, not just monthly for my pat-on-the-back. I've got to start keeping track again, buying fresh fruit and veg again, using recipes again. I've got to make a date with a park a few times a week. I need to walk around this hilly neighbourhood, praying and singing and looking heavenward. And I've got to get my kids in on the act. I want them to see in me a woman of purpose and moderation and joy.

And even though it's just five pounds, those five pounds are taking up some valuable joy space. And I've only got so much of that to spare.