“Step on the scale, Mom,” he said.

My thighs are killing me. So is my ass. And also the sole of my foot because I stepped on a stray game board-game piece, but that’s a different story.

You see, I knew I’d slipped up. The regular exercise routine I had last winter and early spring had been knocked off course by a lingering chest cold and I never really did catch my stride again after that. It was hard to find a regular time to go out for a run over the summer and this school year isn’t much better. And, on top of not exercising, I’d fallen into the habit of enjoying one or two drinks and snacking in front of the TV in the evenings.

I’d put on weight. I knew I had. I was just hoping it wasn’t that much. (My bathroom scale was hiding out in the basement so I could enjoy my trip to denial.) But then, on Thanksgiving weekend, I had a wake up call.

Now, I’m going to name numbers here because the story calls for it. Remember that what seems like a huge number for me, might be fairly healthy for somebody else. At 5′ 6″, I’m of average height, but I have a fairly slight bone structure. I was a healthy (albeit slim) 125 lbs when I got married. And when I do put on weight, there’s really nowhere for me to hide it. (This is one of the reasons people were always convinced my seven-pound babies were actually going to be ten-pound twins.)

So, when I started working out in earnest last winter, I weighed about 155 lbs. I was uncomfortable rubbing up against the top margin of the “normal” BMI range. More important, putting on my pants was starting to get uncomfortable. I don’t expect to ever weigh as much as I did when I got married at 23, but I thought I could probably aim to lose about 20 pounds. It might take a while but it was totally doable; not an insurmountable number at all.

I did lose some weight too.  I don’t know exactly how much, maybe about ten pounds or so. Seven, at the very least. It was a good start and I was pleased. I even Instagrammed a bikini pic of myself this summer. (A high-waisted, full-bottomed, carefully posed shot — suck, turn, filter — but a bikini shot nonetheless.) I was going to hit my mark, eventually. I just had to stop enjoying beer and nachos in front of the TV long enough to figure out my new routine.

And that was going to happen ANY MINUTE NOW.

I had just stuffed my face full of pumpkin pie and whipped cream when Colum called me into my parents’ living room. He’d somehow gotten out their bathroom scale and was carrying it around, weighing people.

“Step on the scale, Mom.”

“I … uh …”

The kids all looked at me expectantly. What could the problem be? This was fun!

“Okay, fine.”

“170! Just like Dad!”

I jumped off that scale like it had been set on fire. “That’s not right,” I mumbled. But I couldn’t actually bring myself to check if it was right.

Instead, I carried that number around in the pit of my stomach for days. 170. I had never weighed that much outside of pregnancy. But I knew I had put on some weight. And they say that it sneaks up on you. I mean, before Irene was born, I was 135. Then I was 155. What’s another 15 pounds? I guess it makes sense.

I started wearing my Fitbit again. I started tracking my diet and cutting back on calories. I even went in and adjusted my weight in my Fitbit app. (Something I hadn’t bothered to do when I was actually losing weight.) I changed it from 155 to 166. (Maybe the scale was a couple pounds off, after all. I’d wait a few days on this new diet plan before double checking.)

Then I saw a picture of myself in skinny jeans and an unstructured top and knew it was time to face reality. If binge watching The Mindy Project taught me anything, it’s that if she’s chubby, I’m  … that word that’s beyond chubby … Let’s say buxom.

I needed to do something and I needed to do it now. Then, in a flash, it came to me.

I don’t need to run to exercise. I know! How obvious is that? But I like to run. It was the cornerstone of my exercise routine and I’ve been trying to figure out how to make it happen again. I mean, sure, I’ve had ample chances to go out for a run here and there, but I need my exercise to happen at the same time, on the same days, or I don’t actually do it. It needs to be set to autopilot. And that’s simply not happening.

But you know what I can do? I can work out to a video or whatever right in my dining room. I can do that every night after the kids go to bed and I don’t need anybody else to make that happen.

So, last night, I rocked out a bunch of weighted squats and lunges, drank chamomile tea and figured out a diet plan that’s supposedly better than eating nothing all day and then carb loading in front of the TV at night. Then I went down to the basement and brought the scale up to my bedroom so I could weigh myself in the morning. (I’ve heard we all weigh a couple pounds less in the morning, so clearly.)

After getting Ed and the kids out of the house this morning, I went upstairs to get dressed and, gulp, weigh myself.

I knelt down and made sure the scale was set to zero. I turned it so it was facing in all directions and still pointing at zero. Okay. Ready.

I stepped on the scale, took a deep breath, exhaled and looked down.

150.

150!

What?

Our floors are slightly sloped so I turned the scale to face all different directions. I carried it into the bathroom in case the hardwood was making a difference. The highest number I got was 152.

Which, okay, I still want to lose about 20 pounds so I’m happy that I’m motivated now, but phew! And I’m trying really hard not celebrate with cheesecake.