I need a Mom-cation. I realize it's only been 5 weeks since D-Day with three kids but 5 weeks in my world is equal to 6 months in yours. Trust me, I did the math.
Let me share with you the happenings of this past Monday evening. I think you may sympathize a tad more once I explain.
Monday, February 1, 2010: The day started out quietly enough. Riley was at Grammy and Grandpop's house so it was just me and my girly girls hanging at home. The baby slept okay the night before and both chick-a-doos even slept a little later than usual that morning. It was a good start. Coffee in hand I charted out the days events because Natalie had a doctor's appointment at 1. I was anxious to get her there and see what she weighed now. Grandpop had stepped on the scale with her at home and swore she was 9 and a half pounds. This would mean she gained almost 2 pounds in 2 weeks! If I haven't mentioned it before, my kids start out normal enough but quickly start to grow as if I fed them steroids intravenously. I've been told I have the breast milk of champions. I've also found that sounds quite odd coming out of my mouth in social situations. Note to self, don't talk about the superior strength of your boob milk when in public. People really don't want to know. Seriously, they don't. Especially your husband's bachelor friends when we all meet up for drinks. So anyway, I plan out baths, showers, diaper bag contents, timing of dressing the baby to avoid as many spit-up stains as possible, etc. and make a quick call to Grandpop because he's going to watch the two older kiddos while I take the baby. Grandpop arrives with Riley in tow, Livy is napping, I'm off to the doctors office. Yadda yadda yadda for a bit... baby is doing great, gained 1 lb 2 oz. in 2 weeks (holy crap!) and gets her follow-up Hepatitis B shot. This, my friends, is where my day starts to go down hill - only I don't know it quite yet. It might sound cold-hearted but I've found that with each baby this whole shot business tends to get easier. Oh I'm sure it's no less painful for the baby but for me it's not nearly as tramatic seeing them get 2 shots in each thigh and scream their little heads off. It breaks my heart, of course, to see them in pain but I know it'll only last a second and it's all for a good cause. Cue shots in thigh, pick up baby to soothe her, she quickly stops crying and falls asleep in carrier before I'm even out the door. We're now heading home, one doctors appointment down - a dozen more to go, and that's just this year. More "yadda yadda yaddas" pertaining to a few in-between boring things and soon it's 3:30pm. Livy is up from her nap, but she's more cranky than usual. Actually, let me retract that. She's WAY more cranky than usual. She has several teeth ripping through her gums and she's not really all that thrilled about it. Who would be? It even looks painful, her gums all red and swollen with these tiny little white daggers poking through. The damn things are like razors... and I know this from experience because she tried to bite my pinky off over the weekend. She's an animal. Nose running, she wants nothing more than to be held. Of course, according to the great gods of Life of Three there will be obstacles to go along with this. The exact moment I pick Livy up to give her some lovin' the baby magically awakes and is screaming. She wants to be fed, I think. I try reasoning with Liv that Mommy has to feed the baby for a minute but will hold her as soon as I'm done. I promise. Yeah, right. All Livy hears is "Mommy blibbidy blah blah blah baby blibbidy blah blah" and begins to throw herself back in a temper tantrum and slams her head into my nose. GOD DAMN IT. That hurts. I think I just saw stars for a brief moment and check my nose for profuse bleeding. Nothing yet. I end up holding Livy with one arm, half her butt sitting on my right leg, the baby tangled in between us, legs completely squashed behind her sisters back and nursing from the left. My back is going into spasms from holding them both but I am determined to succeed in keeping these kids happy. Afterall, happy kids equals happy Mommy. Okay, so I just wanted them to both be quiet for a second. Can you blame me? Livy decides she's had enough, jumps down and runs to the pantry. "One-deese" ("Want one of these", roughly translated) she says from across the room and points at the pantry door. She figured out how to open it about a month ago and it's literally become her favorite place. For me, it's just torture. She NEVER knows what she wants from inside but she sure has a blast making me pick her up while she points at nothing in particular. We play the guessing game of "You want this? No. Okay. How about this? No... (sigh) How about THIS?" and we end the game where it usually ends each and every time. Fruit snacks. This is always the first "this" that I offer but I'm finding that Livy likes to mess with my head. She loves me, she's just ornery like that. I give her the pack of fruit snacks and make it back to where I'd left the baby in the swing moments before. At this point she is almost passing out from her angry cries. She was asleep a minute ago but something has gone and pissed her off. I'm not sure what. You'd think I'd be the Baby Whisperer or something by now, but I'm just as lost as the next guy. I pick her up, she's still crying. Unusual. Most times she just wants to be held. To feel that bodily warmth and firm grip to make her feel safe and secure again. Not this time. Nuh-uh, no way. She is downright mad. It is now about 4:30 and if I'd known how the events of the evening were going to go down from here I would have started running... It's times like these where I honestly have considered hiring a sitter. I don't want any of that business of a Mother's Helper. Screw that. The whole point would be so that I could get away! All this talk of having someone here to help me while we co-care for the kids is just silly nonsense. Get me out of here. Now. I realize, looking back, that at 4:30 that day I was just being a whiney baby. It was more like 8pm when I legitimately had every reason and then some to lose my ever-lovin' mind. And I did. Several times over. Baby screaming non-stop at this point, I realize that Riley is vying for my attention now and has discovered that screaming at the top of his lungs to mimic the baby's crying has caused Mommy to yell at him. This is attention... not good attention, but attention. Crazy kid reasoning. I tell him to quit, he yells louder. He is actually smiling while doing it now. I can't remember what I ended up screaming back at him at that moment, but whatever it was it was good enough to make him stop abruptly. As if a switch is flipped, he has forgotten about the baby and wants to color. Whatever makes you happy dude. I fish out the basket of crayons and markers and give him a stack of paper 2 inches thick. If I'm lucky he'll occupy himself with pictures until his Dad gets home. For good measure I toss down his toddler scissors and glue sticks on the table. Have at it kid. Channel Picasso and create me a masterpiece.
Time for dinner plans. I realize now that I should have ordered pizza. Sure, we may be on a budget and I may not have a job. To be honest I would have rather spent the last $20 to my name on a pie and been dirt poor the rest of my life than to go through the nightmare of dinner prep. Maybe even if I'd just thrown a Hamburger Helper on the stove. I could have been fine. Do I do this? Of course not. I thaw out chicken, pull out carrots, broccoli, and other assorted veggies. I pull out some teriyaki rice mixes, the sesame oil. A few garlic and ginger shakes later I am slicing chicken and heating up veggies with one hand all while nursing a very fussy baby with the other. It comes to me like a light bulb blinking on above my head. I think I've discovered Natalie's problem. The shots. Duh. None of my other kids had any problems with them. Not that I remember anyway. This time, however, if I even breathe near her leg she screams. Not wanting to eat anymore I do the only thing I can think of and strap her in the infant carrier on my chest. I'm getting more use of this thing IN the house than out. I might as well wear the thing as if it were my 5th limb at this point since it's pretty much turning out to be just that. Baby in the carrier, Livy has now attached herself to my left leg in a fitful scream because the right leg got her nowhere. Her nose is running down her face to her chin. It's completely raw from repeated wiping and she's got a low-grade fever now. Teething sucks and any idiotic doctor who tells you that teething does not bring on these symptoms is, well, a big idiot. I've chosen baby wipes as my weapon of choice for her nose now because the tissues with lotion don't seem to be helping and proceed to rip out another two sheets from the pack. She sees me coming and runs like a bat out of hell. I can't chase her so I don't. I'm sure she'll be back in a few minutes to scream some more at my leg anyway so I'll attack the nose then. Riley screams to me over the chaos to come look at his picture for the 5oth time. I've reduced myself to yelling back "Cool!" without even so much as a glimpse his way. I feel horrible about it at first but then I find myself yelling "Cool!" to him when he's not even asking me to look. I guess that means he's asked one too many times... or Mom's losing it. I manage to chop the chicken and veggies and throw them in a wok without burning myself or the dangling infant legs hanging off of me. Everything is cooking in one pot now so the hard part is over. The baby is still screaming but at a more muted tone now. I think she's losing her voice, poor thing. I just don't know what to do to stop her. I can't remember if 1 month olds can have Tylenol and it's too late to call the doctor. It is now 6:45. Where is Ryan? It's still not completely out of the norm that he's not home, traffic, after all, is a bitch. I text him. When I sent him a message earlier asking if he'd be home on time because my Mom needed me to make a run to IKEA with her, he sounded optimisitic in being home with time to spare. 7pm. He texts me back. He got an emergency page at the office. It'll only take a few minutes to finish up and then he's heading out of there. I contemplate putting Livy in her highchair for some dinner. The kids had a late lunch of soup but they have to be getting hungry by now. I know I'm starving but that's because I don't think I've eaten since breakfast. I sorta forgot, again. I end up lifting Olivia into the chair, holding her out in front of me by her armpits in an attempt to keep her from smashing the baby who is on my chest. I untangle her twisted pretzel legs from the foot holes in the chair, and voila! She's in. She hates it. She's so pissed she's trying to climb back out. I try to distract her with jello... apples... cereal... anything until I can throw together some kind of decent dinner item for her to munch on while the other stuff is simmering. 7:45 approaches. Dinner is done and growing cold on the stove. WHERE IS RYAN. Normally we text all day long. We are not great phone talkers. It's easier to text the main point of what you want to know or say and be done with it. Besides, ME have time to talk on the phone. Haha, you're frickin' hilarious. I pick up the phone and dial. He answers and by the tone of my voice, not to mention both girls hysterically screaming in the background, he knows I'm at my wits end. "WHERE are you?" I grunt. He's passing I-95 on his way to route 50. Will be home soon. I click my cell shut and start humming. I'm not sure if the humming is for the baby's benefit or mine. I re-think the humming, it's even scaring me not to mention what it's doing to the baby and so I turn on the first music station I can find. Country. Oh well, I like country sometimes and it's a lot more soothing than the adult rock channel. Maybe it'll calm these kids long enough until their father walks in the door. God I hope that's sooner than later. I'm now blasting "My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" and singing and dancing in the living room with Natalie over my shoulder. I don't know this song but it's so cliche of country music that I can pretty much figure it out. Ryan is finally home and a series of "Daddy!" triumphs can be heard from both Livy and Riley as they run to the front door. They are probably just as glad that someone else is here as I am. "Having fun?" he says as I sway back and forth for the 500th time. I don't nod, I don't answer, I just glare. He doesn't take it personal, he just smiles and picks up Livy and takes her into the kitchen and grabs a bowl of food. Oh sure, you're like a Banshee from Hell when it's just Mommy but now that Daddy the Saviour is here, all is right in the world again. Defeated and having finally quieted the baby down some, I plop down in the rocker, lean my head back and close my eyes. Strange, I don't think I took one breath in or out in the last 4 hours because suddenly I let out this huge sigh as if I'd been under water. I hear a buzzing noise... my cell going off. It's a text only this time it's from my Mom. "Natalie needs her Neenie" I desperately type to her. She's coming over. THANK THE LORD ALMIGHTY. What better way to cure a Mom in crisis than with another Mom. The baby wakes up, more screaming and I am now warming up a bottle. I try to stay away from the formula when I'm at home but my body just can't take anymore right now. I struggle with the bottle, the baby really doesn't like it when I try to give it to her. Meanwhile, Ryan a.k.a. Mr. I-Can-Handle-All-The-Stress-In-The-World himself is starting to crack. Livy is spewing out the first half of her motrin and refuses to let the medicine dropper within 10 feet of her. "I think I'm going crazy" I say to him in passing. "After 15 minutes of walking in the door I'm usually losing it too" he admits. Well, at least I can take comfort in the fact that it's not just me. At that moment there is a knock at the door. The kids literally go running as if their lives depended on it. "NEENIE!" they scream simultaneously. I never could figure out where their Neenie radar comes from. Happiness is pouring from their little bodies. You'd have thought Santa was making a surprise visit in February. The tables have turned. They are now both extremely happy kids bouncing around the house in excitement. Screaming, yes, but for a very different reason. They are practically rejoicing. My Mom takes the baby from my aching arms and has her fed and lulled to sleep in minutes. The kids, albeit a tad crazy, are no longer hanging from my sides and protesting about every little thing they can possibly ponder up. It figures, doesn't it? 5 hours of my trying to undo the madness in this house and all I get are some snotty tissues and sore legs from 30 minutes of constant swaying. Neenie, on the other hand, takes less than 3 minutes to turn those frowns upside down and the world is right again. You gotta love her. My rear end hits the couch for the first time in an eternity and I prop up a few pillows behind my head. It may not exactly be a Mom-cation I'm enjoying at the moment but let me tell ya, sitting by myself in a semi-laying down position with no children yanking on me sure is pretty damn comfy. Yeah, it'll do.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Love and marriage... and kids
Subject of the day: What happens to a marriage when little munchkins invade your life.
Most of us will go through this at some point in our lives. It doesn't last forever, but just long enough to make a real dent in the direction that you, as a couple, will go. It's like Survivor. It's hard, it's tough, grueling for sure. Some people will pull for you, others against you. You do your best not to let yourself get voted off and if you're still there in the end, the prize is amazing. Spending a lifetime with your best friend who has had the privilege of sharing in all of your life's memories. The ability to grow and nuture a family and then watch them follow in your footsteps.
I love my husband. I still have moments when I look at him and I get the excited flutters in my belly and my heart speeds up a beat. I think that's cool. To share your life with someone for almost 6 years and continue to get the "wows" every now and again is no easy feat. Especially when you've condensed what most people do in 10+ years of their life down to the mere 6 that we have. Yep, you know what I'm talking about... kids. Add to that the fact that both of us have moved at least twice, from separate dwellings to our first home and then again to our second. We've gone through crazy financial issues with the downturn of the economy, hired and fired (or lost) more Nannies than you could count (I'd like to think it was not because of us, we truly are nice people... maybe being too nice was the problem). We've unfortunately seen a few deaths in the family, TONS of births, a job change or two and several other misc. stressors that life has brought our way. Above all this, we managed to somehow squeeze in 3 kids who we may not have planned on at the time but couldn't do without. Despite all of this, we're still here. I would, however, like to bring to light a few things I've noticed along the way.
Let's talk about appearance for a second. Do you remember in the beginning when you and your loved one always looked your best? You couldn't even fathom not spending hours getting ready before you laid eyes on each other. Legs and armpits shaved. Hair perfectly styled. Make-up flawless. Enough perfume or cologne that even your neighbor down the street knew you were prepping for a hot date. Clothing impeccable, particularly after you'd tried on 20 different outfits and ended up wearing the first one you picked. Three hours from when you first started primping you are finally out the door with tic-tacs in hand. You are the shiz-nit. Dressed to impress you can barely contain your excitement. You look great, you smell great and you just know this inevitable attraction leading to a long-term never ending and eternally happy relationship will be - you guessed it - G.R.E.A.T.
Fast forward to now. Your lucky if you can get a brush through that matted birds nest on the top of your head, you reek of baby spit-up and that smudge of mascara running down the left side of your face was the only attempt you made yesterday to look half-human for the baby's doctors appointment. Why you've still got it on 24 hours later, I mean really, do you even have to ask? You've had the same pants on for 3 days now (which kinda spells out the whole shower situation, now doesn't it?) and have managed to peel away the crust spots of this morning's spilled eggs and your toddler's snotty nose from the knee section using only a finger nail. MacGyver style. And this is just you. Your husband is pretty much in the same boat only his facial hair has managed to completely cover any evidence of flesh below nose level. You have the same problem, only it's more or less your pits and legs that are struggling to breathe through all of that bush. Hell, if you had the time and patience you could probably even braid it. Hubby jokes about his socks taking on a life of their own and then immediately rips them off to show you and the entire world how proud he is of the stench he's managed to create. Sexy. I know.
It is at this point that I look at myself and then over to dear hubby and realize, we really truly honestly don't seem to care. Oh sure, we notice. How can you not? I wonder to myself if we'd seen each other like this in the beginning would we be sitting here together at this moment? I think it's a gradual process. We let one thing go at a time in a slow process of not caring anymore. Maybe that's what brings us to this point. The point where I can sleep on the couch for a week straight simply because it's easier to get up and feed the baby 17 times a night without the added burden of trying not to wake up my other half who has to work. He knows this has nothing to do with him. I'm not mad. We aren't getting over some crazy knock down drag out fight and one of us has been banished from the bed. We don't take it personally when we somehow finagle taking turns eating dinner while the other rushes around tending to the kids needs. We aren't angry or depressed when not one word is exchanged between us that doesn't pertain to diapers, bottles or poop in a single evening. It's just life. Well, life right now anyway. We make efforts. I leave him notes here and there when I can. He gives me a gentle pat on the back or a quick hug as we pass from room to room cleaning up messes or breaking up fights. At least we try and for that I'm grateful.
Gone are the days of holding in gas or belches and keeping the bathroom door closed at all times. Well, for him anyway. The concept of bringing toilet paper to each other in times of need doesn't even phase us. When he needs more soap from the store he never cringes when I bring him extra foo-foo smelling body wash because it was only $1.99. He just smells like a bouquet for a few weeks and congratulates me for getting such a bargain. The other day he thought he was getting a good deal on hair gel... in toothpaste tube form, no less - and he asks me how it smells. I gag and tell him he reminds me of my Gandpa. We laugh hysterically. It's funny because we are at a point where the fragrance of our hair doesn't have to impress. You haven't lived until you can find humor in these things and each other. Laughter, after all, seems to be what makes the world go 'round.
God bless those little kiddos. Only they could make it possible for their Father and I to look our worst and have breath so terribly funky that the slightest peck on the cheek would knock you out cold and still we see each other at our best. It might only be the inner beauty we're seeing at that moment, but it still counts. It counts the most, actually. I love my kids and my husband. I also love that my children love my husband and he loves them. Just when I think I'm going to lose it he jumps in and takes them for a horse-y back ride. When I almost crush the baby because I'm quickly slumping foward during that 2 a.m. feeding I feel his hand touch my back in an attempt to support me. Likewise, when I can tell he's run out of ideas on how to get the baby to quiet down, I grab her with a smile and say it's my turn to try - even if I'm exhausted. I think it's in those tiny gestures that we can come to terms with feeling like we haven't talked, let alone acknowledged, each other in days. We're speaking, just in our own language I suppose. Now if that doesn't make you go "Awwww!" I don't know what to tell ya. =)
Most of us will go through this at some point in our lives. It doesn't last forever, but just long enough to make a real dent in the direction that you, as a couple, will go. It's like Survivor. It's hard, it's tough, grueling for sure. Some people will pull for you, others against you. You do your best not to let yourself get voted off and if you're still there in the end, the prize is amazing. Spending a lifetime with your best friend who has had the privilege of sharing in all of your life's memories. The ability to grow and nuture a family and then watch them follow in your footsteps.
I love my husband. I still have moments when I look at him and I get the excited flutters in my belly and my heart speeds up a beat. I think that's cool. To share your life with someone for almost 6 years and continue to get the "wows" every now and again is no easy feat. Especially when you've condensed what most people do in 10+ years of their life down to the mere 6 that we have. Yep, you know what I'm talking about... kids. Add to that the fact that both of us have moved at least twice, from separate dwellings to our first home and then again to our second. We've gone through crazy financial issues with the downturn of the economy, hired and fired (or lost) more Nannies than you could count (I'd like to think it was not because of us, we truly are nice people... maybe being too nice was the problem). We've unfortunately seen a few deaths in the family, TONS of births, a job change or two and several other misc. stressors that life has brought our way. Above all this, we managed to somehow squeeze in 3 kids who we may not have planned on at the time but couldn't do without. Despite all of this, we're still here. I would, however, like to bring to light a few things I've noticed along the way.
Let's talk about appearance for a second. Do you remember in the beginning when you and your loved one always looked your best? You couldn't even fathom not spending hours getting ready before you laid eyes on each other. Legs and armpits shaved. Hair perfectly styled. Make-up flawless. Enough perfume or cologne that even your neighbor down the street knew you were prepping for a hot date. Clothing impeccable, particularly after you'd tried on 20 different outfits and ended up wearing the first one you picked. Three hours from when you first started primping you are finally out the door with tic-tacs in hand. You are the shiz-nit. Dressed to impress you can barely contain your excitement. You look great, you smell great and you just know this inevitable attraction leading to a long-term never ending and eternally happy relationship will be - you guessed it - G.R.E.A.T.
Fast forward to now. Your lucky if you can get a brush through that matted birds nest on the top of your head, you reek of baby spit-up and that smudge of mascara running down the left side of your face was the only attempt you made yesterday to look half-human for the baby's doctors appointment. Why you've still got it on 24 hours later, I mean really, do you even have to ask? You've had the same pants on for 3 days now (which kinda spells out the whole shower situation, now doesn't it?) and have managed to peel away the crust spots of this morning's spilled eggs and your toddler's snotty nose from the knee section using only a finger nail. MacGyver style. And this is just you. Your husband is pretty much in the same boat only his facial hair has managed to completely cover any evidence of flesh below nose level. You have the same problem, only it's more or less your pits and legs that are struggling to breathe through all of that bush. Hell, if you had the time and patience you could probably even braid it. Hubby jokes about his socks taking on a life of their own and then immediately rips them off to show you and the entire world how proud he is of the stench he's managed to create. Sexy. I know.
It is at this point that I look at myself and then over to dear hubby and realize, we really truly honestly don't seem to care. Oh sure, we notice. How can you not? I wonder to myself if we'd seen each other like this in the beginning would we be sitting here together at this moment? I think it's a gradual process. We let one thing go at a time in a slow process of not caring anymore. Maybe that's what brings us to this point. The point where I can sleep on the couch for a week straight simply because it's easier to get up and feed the baby 17 times a night without the added burden of trying not to wake up my other half who has to work. He knows this has nothing to do with him. I'm not mad. We aren't getting over some crazy knock down drag out fight and one of us has been banished from the bed. We don't take it personally when we somehow finagle taking turns eating dinner while the other rushes around tending to the kids needs. We aren't angry or depressed when not one word is exchanged between us that doesn't pertain to diapers, bottles or poop in a single evening. It's just life. Well, life right now anyway. We make efforts. I leave him notes here and there when I can. He gives me a gentle pat on the back or a quick hug as we pass from room to room cleaning up messes or breaking up fights. At least we try and for that I'm grateful.
Gone are the days of holding in gas or belches and keeping the bathroom door closed at all times. Well, for him anyway. The concept of bringing toilet paper to each other in times of need doesn't even phase us. When he needs more soap from the store he never cringes when I bring him extra foo-foo smelling body wash because it was only $1.99. He just smells like a bouquet for a few weeks and congratulates me for getting such a bargain. The other day he thought he was getting a good deal on hair gel... in toothpaste tube form, no less - and he asks me how it smells. I gag and tell him he reminds me of my Gandpa. We laugh hysterically. It's funny because we are at a point where the fragrance of our hair doesn't have to impress. You haven't lived until you can find humor in these things and each other. Laughter, after all, seems to be what makes the world go 'round.
God bless those little kiddos. Only they could make it possible for their Father and I to look our worst and have breath so terribly funky that the slightest peck on the cheek would knock you out cold and still we see each other at our best. It might only be the inner beauty we're seeing at that moment, but it still counts. It counts the most, actually. I love my kids and my husband. I also love that my children love my husband and he loves them. Just when I think I'm going to lose it he jumps in and takes them for a horse-y back ride. When I almost crush the baby because I'm quickly slumping foward during that 2 a.m. feeding I feel his hand touch my back in an attempt to support me. Likewise, when I can tell he's run out of ideas on how to get the baby to quiet down, I grab her with a smile and say it's my turn to try - even if I'm exhausted. I think it's in those tiny gestures that we can come to terms with feeling like we haven't talked, let alone acknowledged, each other in days. We're speaking, just in our own language I suppose. Now if that doesn't make you go "Awwww!" I don't know what to tell ya. =)
Monday, February 1, 2010
Where, oh where, has my body done gone?
I'm going to be brutually honest. Sure, it's only been a month since I brought our precious Natalie into the world... but I want my body back. Oh she can have my boobs, no prob. Thanks to her they are a full 2 sizes bigger and I'll admit that it's nice looking like a female in that area for a change. Not to mention that some experts claim nursing burns up to 600 calories a day. Score! Who needs exercise? Oh, right, me.
I would, however, like to exchange my still flabby gut, the brand new stretch marks on my sides and the extra million pounds that cause my thighs to touch when I walk... okay, and sit... and stand. Alright, alright! They are like two drum sticks battling it out for a cash prize or something.
Apparently all of this "baby" weight -as I like to call it, it just sounds more justified that way - is supposedly there as a back-up for your hardworking breastfeeding body. I'm not sure who came up with this, perhaps it was a group of moms hundreds of years ago who decided this is what they'd tell their husbands and friends when any weight related subject came up about their post-partum bodies. You can blame a lot of things on "post-partum". I'm moody because of post-partum. I'm fat because my body is going through the post-partum stage. The time I lost my mind for a brief moment watching that stupid Hallmark commercial and cried like a big blubbering idiot... Good ol' post-partum. Our bodies are in limbo. We are cleaning out all of the excess hormones, fluids, etc. that we no longer need to grow another precious human being. All I'm saying is that now that my precious being is here in the flesh, Give. Me. My. Body. BACK! If I could choose I'd take the body I had after Riley before dear sweet Olivia came along. You, my trusted Reader, probably have no idea which one that is but I remember very fondly. It was my 118 pound, fits in my skinny jeans leaving still another inch of wiggle room, can run a flight of stairs without exploding a lung body. Of course, at that time I only had one child and plenty of spare time for that little thing called EXERCISE. Back then I would have told you that you were crazy if you thought I had any spare time to work out. You'd be just plain insane to even suggest it! Somehow, though, I managed to squeeze it in on almost a daily basis. Wow, fast forward 4 years with 3 children in tow and the same comment and now I'd probably just laugh at you hysterically until I peed my pants. Nothing like taking down the stacks of my skinny clothes from their hiding place in the closet only to find that even my fat pants that I wore after having Olivia don't fit anymore! Oh the HORROR. Seriously. HORROR. I'm simply depressed at the thought of hanging those puppies up as an incentive to lose weight. Great, put the fat pants up so the even fatter fatso can attempt to get back to her pre-fat but still fat self. Self-loathing, I think they call it? On a side note, I really hope that no men are reading this because I'm pretty much spelling out the stereotype on how most women feel about their body image. You know, the one we all deny but secretly obsess over with every bite. Actually, who am I kidding. If any man starting reading this they've definitely stopped long before they got to this part. I can see the head shaking and eye rolling now. "Women" they'd say and completely shut their computers down in an effort to make it all go away. If they only knew what we go through... and usually, as always, it's for them.
I've been telling myself ever since the day I came home from the hospital that I would make every effort to eat right and stay as active as possible until I was given the go-ahead to head to the gym. No sugary snacks, cut out all the white and starchy foods. It's veggies, protein and fiber for me! Woohoo! Half a Valentine's Day cake from Giant and 2 quarts of chocolate milk later here I sit, on my ass, blogging to you. Don't worry. I don't blame you. I blame the never ending housework, the endless requests for snacks and juice, juggling the nap times and the laundry, my husband's crazy work schedule, the moon, the stars, and the Great Wall of China for my lack of doing something about it. No more, however. I have plans to join a gym this week, I'm breaking out my videos and hand weights. I am doing this. Grapefruit and baked chicken, here I come! I vow to be even more successful than the frickin' spokesperson for Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers combined. I will no longer wear my black stretchy pants that hubby despises. After all, the may be black but they certainly aren't slimming!
Our womenly bodies are like battlegrounds. Constantly fighting with ourselves to win over our cravings, our tendency to give in to temptations and the never ending excuses of why we can't exercise, why we can't justify taking a few minutes of time to ourselves to do something to make us happier, healthier people. Look, I'm not trying to be some motivational speaker on weight loss here. I'm really not. I'm just hoping that by being honest and telling you all of this that it might put a foot up my butt to get it in gear. For all I know you could be the re-incarnate of Olive Oyl herself with a loaded kitchen full of bean sprouts. I hate you, by the way. Me, on the other hand, will be clearing out the shelf of fruit snacks and cheese puffs in the pantry for my brown rice and Special K.
Somebody pass me the duct tape. Those size 4 jeans I've been hanging on to? Those bitches are going on the fridge and shortly thereafter my skinny little ass. You just wait and see.
I would, however, like to exchange my still flabby gut, the brand new stretch marks on my sides and the extra million pounds that cause my thighs to touch when I walk... okay, and sit... and stand. Alright, alright! They are like two drum sticks battling it out for a cash prize or something.
Apparently all of this "baby" weight -as I like to call it, it just sounds more justified that way - is supposedly there as a back-up for your hardworking breastfeeding body. I'm not sure who came up with this, perhaps it was a group of moms hundreds of years ago who decided this is what they'd tell their husbands and friends when any weight related subject came up about their post-partum bodies. You can blame a lot of things on "post-partum". I'm moody because of post-partum. I'm fat because my body is going through the post-partum stage. The time I lost my mind for a brief moment watching that stupid Hallmark commercial and cried like a big blubbering idiot... Good ol' post-partum. Our bodies are in limbo. We are cleaning out all of the excess hormones, fluids, etc. that we no longer need to grow another precious human being. All I'm saying is that now that my precious being is here in the flesh, Give. Me. My. Body. BACK! If I could choose I'd take the body I had after Riley before dear sweet Olivia came along. You, my trusted Reader, probably have no idea which one that is but I remember very fondly. It was my 118 pound, fits in my skinny jeans leaving still another inch of wiggle room, can run a flight of stairs without exploding a lung body. Of course, at that time I only had one child and plenty of spare time for that little thing called EXERCISE. Back then I would have told you that you were crazy if you thought I had any spare time to work out. You'd be just plain insane to even suggest it! Somehow, though, I managed to squeeze it in on almost a daily basis. Wow, fast forward 4 years with 3 children in tow and the same comment and now I'd probably just laugh at you hysterically until I peed my pants. Nothing like taking down the stacks of my skinny clothes from their hiding place in the closet only to find that even my fat pants that I wore after having Olivia don't fit anymore! Oh the HORROR. Seriously. HORROR. I'm simply depressed at the thought of hanging those puppies up as an incentive to lose weight. Great, put the fat pants up so the even fatter fatso can attempt to get back to her pre-fat but still fat self. Self-loathing, I think they call it? On a side note, I really hope that no men are reading this because I'm pretty much spelling out the stereotype on how most women feel about their body image. You know, the one we all deny but secretly obsess over with every bite. Actually, who am I kidding. If any man starting reading this they've definitely stopped long before they got to this part. I can see the head shaking and eye rolling now. "Women" they'd say and completely shut their computers down in an effort to make it all go away. If they only knew what we go through... and usually, as always, it's for them.
I've been telling myself ever since the day I came home from the hospital that I would make every effort to eat right and stay as active as possible until I was given the go-ahead to head to the gym. No sugary snacks, cut out all the white and starchy foods. It's veggies, protein and fiber for me! Woohoo! Half a Valentine's Day cake from Giant and 2 quarts of chocolate milk later here I sit, on my ass, blogging to you. Don't worry. I don't blame you. I blame the never ending housework, the endless requests for snacks and juice, juggling the nap times and the laundry, my husband's crazy work schedule, the moon, the stars, and the Great Wall of China for my lack of doing something about it. No more, however. I have plans to join a gym this week, I'm breaking out my videos and hand weights. I am doing this. Grapefruit and baked chicken, here I come! I vow to be even more successful than the frickin' spokesperson for Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers combined. I will no longer wear my black stretchy pants that hubby despises. After all, the may be black but they certainly aren't slimming!
Our womenly bodies are like battlegrounds. Constantly fighting with ourselves to win over our cravings, our tendency to give in to temptations and the never ending excuses of why we can't exercise, why we can't justify taking a few minutes of time to ourselves to do something to make us happier, healthier people. Look, I'm not trying to be some motivational speaker on weight loss here. I'm really not. I'm just hoping that by being honest and telling you all of this that it might put a foot up my butt to get it in gear. For all I know you could be the re-incarnate of Olive Oyl herself with a loaded kitchen full of bean sprouts. I hate you, by the way. Me, on the other hand, will be clearing out the shelf of fruit snacks and cheese puffs in the pantry for my brown rice and Special K.
Somebody pass me the duct tape. Those size 4 jeans I've been hanging on to? Those bitches are going on the fridge and shortly thereafter my skinny little ass. You just wait and see.
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