Who Needs Jillian Michaels?

I certainly don't need Jillian Michaels to help me shed my pesky winter pounds. I'm not planning on doing it on my own either. I have a secret weapon, right here at home. Actually two secret weapons, who are way tougher than Jillian.
They're my daughters, and they're such effective weight loss coaches, so draconian and merciless, that I'm thinking of renting them out as a team.

I've blogged before about Bella's special skill: shopping advisor. She comes into the fitting room and with the help of the fluorescent glare, she points out your every flaw and sprinkles her commentary with a little tween fashion advice. A few months ago, I felt the full blunt of her powers when we went bathing suit shopping. This last weekend, she "helped" me buy a pair of shorts with helpful comments like, "that color is way too wild for you Mom! It's definitely not you. And those shorts do NOT look good. You should cover more of your leg." With a shopping advisor like that, you'll save a lot of money and be motivated to hit the gym. I guarantee it.

My second coach is only 3 years old, but she's just as relentless as her big sister. Today she worked with me as I ran. She sat in the jogging stroller, eating a miniature cup of strawberry ice cream, as I pushed her up and down the hills of our neighborhood. In between noisy slurps and enthusiastic comments about how good her ice cream tasted, she gave me some motivational feedback. "Faster Mom! Faster! I want to feel the wind in my hair. Your feet are making music, it's nice, but I hear it slowing down. I like it fast Mom!"

And so I ran, ran so hard that sweat even poured out of the top of my hands, down my back, and off the tip of my nose. It was a painful run, with searing pain in my lungs, and sluggish legs that I had to pry off the pavement with every step. And even though I wanted to quit, wanted to turn the run into a leisurely walk, my coach did not let up. She anticipated my weakness, and let me know, at the top of her voice, that slowing down was not an option.

And then suddenly, she stopped. At that point, I had run through the pain, so I kept going, mostly out of fear that my tiny tyrant would berate me more. It wasn't until I reached the driveway, soaked clear through every item of clothing and breathing like a dragon, that I realized she was snoring.

I tiptoed around her, terrified that she would wake up and demand I do push ups.