The most marvelous thing happened today!
I ran on the treadmill for 20 whole minutes!!! That's a 2 and 0, put together!! 20 minutes.
So, this whole 20 minutes may seem dreadfully insignificant to you, but this is a pretty big deal for me, I'm not gonna lie. Back in the day...like 4 years ago I was a running fool.
If I wasn't studying (which takes up a shitload of time in optometry school, by the way), I was most likely on the treadmill, or running on the lake front of downtown Chicago. (Which they make seem a LOT more glamorous/cool in movies then it really is in real life.)
Not once did I run into Oprah, or Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn (back when they were a couple). I felt severely ripped off. And still do, thank you very much.
Back then 20 minutes was nothing. It was like the warm up before I went out and ran 20 miles.
Seriously.
Now you're asking yourself. Is she really crazy enough to do that.
Yes. Would be the answer to that question.
In 2007 I got the brilliant idea to run the Chicago Marathon.
Awesome!
There are a few things I wish I would have thought about before registering for that race:
1. Training for it would require running in the dead, sweating balls heat of summer, for hours on end.
2. The lake shore path has some real shady parts. (Which I happened to live near.)
3 There are not enough bathrooms on the lake shore path. Nothing will make you shit your pants faster than training for a marathon. (I know you're learning TONS of things you didn't used to know through this awesome post.)
4. I would have to get up at 5:00 in the morning EVERY Saturday for 3 months, to run my ass off and try and beat the dead, ball sweating heat and get my weekly mileage in.
5. When I went back home to visit my parents in the summer, I would have to figure out where I could get in a "quick 15-miler".
My calves ballooned up to super-human size. All of these miles proudly put me in a position to earn the nickname "calf-zilla" from my husband.
Now, I know I'm making myself sound like a real athlete. Which is a very far stretch and not my intention at all.
My "run" looked more like a slow, lumbering grizzly bear suffering from a stroke. My miles were far from fast...quite slow actually. But I was out there. I was doing it.
And I was proud of myself.
So on October 7th, 2007 I was SO ready. I was SO pumped. I was going to destroy that marathon.
One arduous 11-minute mile at a time.
That particular October day it was going to be 95 degrees. And they weren't going to have enough water. And they weren't going to have enough Gatorade. And people were going to drop like flies.
If you aren't in the running community, you probably never heard about what a (ear-muffs) raging cluster-fuck the 2007 Chicago Marathon was.
My first clue was running through my first COMPLETELY EMPTY water station at the 3-mile mark.
Oh crap. This was not in the plan. This was not what they told me was going to happen.
Cut to me, frantically trying to figure out how I was going to get through the next 24.2 miles with no water or Gatorade.
The future looked bleak.
But never fear. The good people of Chicago came out en mass with their garden hoses. So armed with a discarded, empty water bottle (that I picked up off the ground). Yes, I was desperate.
I got some hydration and kept on chuggin' along.
Who got passed by more than a few grandpas?
Me.
Who got passed by a very tall man running in a testicle costume in 97 degree heat?
Me.
Who kept going?
Me.
Until I got to mile 18 and I was confronted by police officers with bull-horns.
"STOP running. STOP running. You must STOP and reroute to the finish line. The race is being called."
Ummm. Excuse me.
I've spent the last 3 months of my life getting ready for this. I've already schlepped 18 miles, like a jogging corpse through this city, and you're telling me I can't finish it.
I can't cross the finish line.
I can't triumphantly run across that line and wave my arms in victory, like I've visualized every day for the last 3 months.
The ONLY image that kept me going when I was riding the EL in Chicago at 5 am on a Saturday to get to the "not creepy" part of the path. An act that in itself I am shocked did not get me murdered and/or molested.
Are you kidding me!?
I sat on the curb and balled my eyes out for 5 minutes. Then I picked myself up and walked the rerouted path to the finish line. Where they directed me to cross it and collect my medal.
I summoned all the strength in my body, and I didn't hurl the medal at that poor volunteer who handed it to me. I just took it and laughed at him as he congratulated me.
Congratulations?
For what. I didn't finish the race. I don't even want this medal. Since it's taking every ounce of self control I have to not shove it down your throat right now, I will probably just throw it in the dumpster on my way home. Or leave it on the EL platform for a homeless man to pee on.
Why don't you save your congratulations for the geniouses that put on this race. Apparently, they are incapable of checking the weather channel like every other American. Apparently, they were the only ones that didn't know it was supposed to be 95 freaking degrees, and they may need extra water for the 40,000 people registered to participate in this event. Apparently they are the only ones that don't know what happens to people trying to run a marathon in a tropical heat-wave when you don't give them water.
Some of them die.
And then you have to call the race.
F*&^ing dream stealers.
Congratulations.
This experience left me with a sour taste in my mouth, and a wee-bit bitter.
Can you tell?
I always promised myself that I would do it again. I would finish what I started. I would cross that finish line someday and be able to pump my arms victoriously.
So, today I ran for 20 minutes.
I felt a little light-headed, and more than a little like vomiting.
But I did it. Like I said, it may not seem like much.
But to me. It's a start.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Thanks Friends.
I have to give a huge heartfelt thank you to all my mom-friends and dad-friends that gave me some much needed encouragement after that last post.
Sometimes you just can't prepare yourself for the emotions that come with parenthood.
I just tend to get very crazy/high-strung/psychotic when my sleep is unpredictable and not what I consider up to par.
FYI: Nothing banishes a good night's sleep faster than an infant. Keep that in mind folks.
Most people are like, duh! But surprisingly this did not factor into my thought process in our decision to start a family. And in case you are wondering...Yes, I am kind of selfish.
It was more like, "Babies are cute. I want a baby. Look at their little socks. I want a baby. It's so cute. I want a baby...Let's have a baby."
I encourage you to look beyond the cuteness trance that baby-clothes can induce and consider whether you are really down to never have a guaranteed night of sleep...ever again.
That's the thing about babies. They love to keep you on your toes.
"Ha ha, I'll show her. I'll sleep through the night at 3 months. Then I'll stop. Then I'll do it again and give her hope. Then I'll stop. Then I'll start waking up at 5:30 am. Then I'll sleep through the night.
Then I'll stop.
This unpredictability is enough to necessitate the building of a padded room onto our house.
Not for Henry...for me.
I'm really working on the whole 'just go with it' thing. Easy for some people. Not so much for this gal.
When I do get the pleasure of hearing silence from Henry's bedroom after our 4 A.M. snack, I am finding it increasingly difficult to fall back asleep. What can be keeping me awake when I could be sleeping at this ungodly, horrific hour, you ask!?
Oh nothing, I'm just visualizing myself winning 3 million dollars on a scratch-off ticket in the North Carolina Lottery.
Yes, I am serious.
Michael and I caught this TV show the other day about lottery winners, and ever since I have had lottery on the brain!
That very night I made Michael go out and buy us five Powerball tickets.
I just had this feeling.
And I was right! We did have some special picks. So special that we managed to get NOT ONE single number on any of our five tickets.
So I blamed Michael,
"We totally would have won if you would have bought ten tickets!"
"I was buying a Mt. Dew, Slim Jim's and five Powerball tickets...how much more White Trash would you have liked me to look?"
"Umm. Five tickets more. We could have 46 million dollars right now. I hope you can live with that."
I hope he can sleep at night. That jackpot was ours to lose.
I realized just how much of a lame adult I have become when I realized all of my fantasizing about winning the lottery didn't even include fancy houses, cars, diamonds or a life time supply of Oatmeal Creme Pies.
It just involves writing a few ENORMOUS checks to the bank. And being student loan and mortgage free.
Lame.
I'm even boring in my fantasies.
My lottery fantasies that is...
Holla!
So in this pointless mess of a post I just wanted to let you know that I am still here. Still loving Michael and Henry to pieces.
Even if it makes me go to pieces.
I'm back on the horse.
Gert's found her way back home. Well, she just sits in the sticky bottom of the recycling bin in the drive way. But at least I know where to find her.
Sometimes you just can't prepare yourself for the emotions that come with parenthood.
I just tend to get very crazy/high-strung/psychotic when my sleep is unpredictable and not what I consider up to par.
FYI: Nothing banishes a good night's sleep faster than an infant. Keep that in mind folks.
Most people are like, duh! But surprisingly this did not factor into my thought process in our decision to start a family. And in case you are wondering...Yes, I am kind of selfish.
It was more like, "Babies are cute. I want a baby. Look at their little socks. I want a baby. It's so cute. I want a baby...Let's have a baby."
I encourage you to look beyond the cuteness trance that baby-clothes can induce and consider whether you are really down to never have a guaranteed night of sleep...ever again.
That's the thing about babies. They love to keep you on your toes.
"Ha ha, I'll show her. I'll sleep through the night at 3 months. Then I'll stop. Then I'll do it again and give her hope. Then I'll stop. Then I'll start waking up at 5:30 am. Then I'll sleep through the night.
Then I'll stop.
This unpredictability is enough to necessitate the building of a padded room onto our house.
Not for Henry...for me.
I'm really working on the whole 'just go with it' thing. Easy for some people. Not so much for this gal.
When I do get the pleasure of hearing silence from Henry's bedroom after our 4 A.M. snack, I am finding it increasingly difficult to fall back asleep. What can be keeping me awake when I could be sleeping at this ungodly, horrific hour, you ask!?
Oh nothing, I'm just visualizing myself winning 3 million dollars on a scratch-off ticket in the North Carolina Lottery.
Yes, I am serious.
Michael and I caught this TV show the other day about lottery winners, and ever since I have had lottery on the brain!
That very night I made Michael go out and buy us five Powerball tickets.
I just had this feeling.
And I was right! We did have some special picks. So special that we managed to get NOT ONE single number on any of our five tickets.
So I blamed Michael,
"We totally would have won if you would have bought ten tickets!"
"I was buying a Mt. Dew, Slim Jim's and five Powerball tickets...how much more White Trash would you have liked me to look?"
"Umm. Five tickets more. We could have 46 million dollars right now. I hope you can live with that."
I hope he can sleep at night. That jackpot was ours to lose.
I realized just how much of a lame adult I have become when I realized all of my fantasizing about winning the lottery didn't even include fancy houses, cars, diamonds or a life time supply of Oatmeal Creme Pies.
It just involves writing a few ENORMOUS checks to the bank. And being student loan and mortgage free.
Lame.
I'm even boring in my fantasies.
My lottery fantasies that is...
Holla!
So in this pointless mess of a post I just wanted to let you know that I am still here. Still loving Michael and Henry to pieces.
Even if it makes me go to pieces.
I'm back on the horse.
Gert's found her way back home. Well, she just sits in the sticky bottom of the recycling bin in the drive way. But at least I know where to find her.
The men in my life.
Helping me raise Gert from the bottom of the sea.
One day at a time.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Gert!? Gerty!!? Where are YOU!
So. I'm not going to lie. I'm not going to sugar-coat things. It has been a rough couple of weeks in the Bu Household.
Mostly due to the fact that I am a raving lunatic/bitch that can not be satisfied. But I'm sure we've been over that about 100 times.
We started OTSASCB a few weeks ago.
And then through NO fault of my own and due mostly to that whore, mother nature...I gained four pounds.
Yes. Four. Pounds. I didn't capture that gem on camera because my toes are still snaggly and even I have to maintain some shred of dignity.
I know those four pounds were temporary and they would have gone away within a matter of days, but for some reason it began a self-esteem nose dive that plummeted so deep my SE (self-esteem. Lets call her Gerty. She feels like a Gerty) is now buried somewhere beneath the ocean bedrock. I have been in contact with numerous scientists about how we can forge an expedition to bring Gerty back from the inky black depths.
James Cameron made a new movie about the voyage. It's called Sanctum.
Anyway. When faced with the disappearance of Gerty, I mostly have one of two reactions:
A. I drown myself in massive amounts of salt and chocolate. Little Debbie is in cahoots with mother nature and they both can go straight to H-E-L-L as far as I'm concerned. (She does make a damn good Valentine's Day heart-shaped cake though).
B. I spend one hour looking for G-Dawg at the gym. When that doesn't work (which it never does) I resort to Plan A.
So roughly half of the last couple of weeks I have been sitting around. Staring at Henry. Feeling my chins getting fatter.
That is fun, let me tell you.
The other half of the time, that would be after the numbness of the chocolate binges wore off, I have been wrestling with the massive 16 headed, fire-breathing monster-dragon:
Mom Guilt.
I love Henry more than anything. But I don't know if I can spend everyday with him.
That thought makes me cry. And cry. And then cry some more.
Aren't I supposed to want to spend every waking moment with my precious baby.
Aren't his cries supposed to sound like wind chimes and kittens meowing to my bleeding eardrums.
Aren't I supposed to relish in all of this time we have together. Watching him grow and reach new milestones in his development.
Then someone tell me why I feel like I am about to go to the grocery store and buy a whole living lobster for the sole reason that I can place it in a pot of water and boil it to death and hear its innocent screams.
Somehow, I don't feel like that is the reaction I should be having to being a SAHM. (that's stay-at-home-mom) for all you who didn't spend three entire months on Babycenter.com and aren't down with the lingo.
Maybe I'm not cut out to be a SAHM...(cue the bone-rattling guilt and sobbing session that ensues while Henry naps.)
So between crying jags I try and problem solve.
Maybe I could go back to work full-time.
But then I would have to leave Henry somewhere or with someone else. I wouldn't get to play with him, and read to him, and make sure he gets his tummy time, and practices his sitting up and see him smile at me when he wakes up from a nap.
Even if that nap was only 15 minutes long.
Yes. We've been on a real winning streak with the naps lately.
(Cue another bone-rattling sobbing session.)
So what is a mother at her wit's end to do?
She doesn't want to leave her baby, but she is literally going stark-raving mad being with him all day, every day.
Until she has to go to work and take care of someone else.
The problem-solver in me is pretty persistent. So I got the name of a person who watches children in her home from one of the nursery ladies at the Y (someone who knows someone, friend of a friend type deal. No guarantees). Maybe I could drop Henry off one afternoon a week.
So I give this "lady" a call and Henny and I go visit her.
NEVER in a MILLION years. Not even if I had Ebola and the only other option was to leave Henry in the care of an intelligent band of gorillas. Would I leave Henry in this house. Under the care of this lady.
She was dirty. Her house was dirty. Her baby was dirty. They had a nippy little puppy.
She answered the door and I already wanted to get the Hell outta Dodge, but of course I didn't know what to say.
She goes on to regale me with tales of her child-watching experience (As I perch on the edge of her dirty couch and watch as her 13 month old nearly chokes on a cookie).
True Story.
So somehow I politely got out of the situation, got in my car, drove away, and when I was a safe distance from her home, I cried.
That's just how it's been folks. It ain't pretty.
I better go, I hear Henry starting to squirm.
He has been asleep for a record breaking 35 minutes.
The cherry on this sundae of awesomeness is that Michael never gets frustrated with anything. Never gets irked, never needs a little time to himself. Never flips out.
He's a better mom than me. He's more patient with Henry. He's just better.
Oooops. There goes Gerty again.
I'm going to post some fliers round the neighborhood. If you see her, could you tell her I desperately need her to visit sometime soon.
Mostly due to the fact that I am a raving lunatic/bitch that can not be satisfied. But I'm sure we've been over that about 100 times.
We started OTSASCB a few weeks ago.
And then through NO fault of my own and due mostly to that whore, mother nature...I gained four pounds.
Yes. Four. Pounds. I didn't capture that gem on camera because my toes are still snaggly and even I have to maintain some shred of dignity.
I know those four pounds were temporary and they would have gone away within a matter of days, but for some reason it began a self-esteem nose dive that plummeted so deep my SE (self-esteem. Lets call her Gerty. She feels like a Gerty) is now buried somewhere beneath the ocean bedrock. I have been in contact with numerous scientists about how we can forge an expedition to bring Gerty back from the inky black depths.
James Cameron made a new movie about the voyage. It's called Sanctum.
Anyway. When faced with the disappearance of Gerty, I mostly have one of two reactions:
A. I drown myself in massive amounts of salt and chocolate. Little Debbie is in cahoots with mother nature and they both can go straight to H-E-L-L as far as I'm concerned. (She does make a damn good Valentine's Day heart-shaped cake though).
B. I spend one hour looking for G-Dawg at the gym. When that doesn't work (which it never does) I resort to Plan A.
So roughly half of the last couple of weeks I have been sitting around. Staring at Henry. Feeling my chins getting fatter.
That is fun, let me tell you.
The other half of the time, that would be after the numbness of the chocolate binges wore off, I have been wrestling with the massive 16 headed, fire-breathing monster-dragon:
Mom Guilt.
I love Henry more than anything. But I don't know if I can spend everyday with him.
That thought makes me cry. And cry. And then cry some more.
Aren't I supposed to want to spend every waking moment with my precious baby.
Aren't his cries supposed to sound like wind chimes and kittens meowing to my bleeding eardrums.
Aren't I supposed to relish in all of this time we have together. Watching him grow and reach new milestones in his development.
Then someone tell me why I feel like I am about to go to the grocery store and buy a whole living lobster for the sole reason that I can place it in a pot of water and boil it to death and hear its innocent screams.
Somehow, I don't feel like that is the reaction I should be having to being a SAHM. (that's stay-at-home-mom) for all you who didn't spend three entire months on Babycenter.com and aren't down with the lingo.
Maybe I'm not cut out to be a SAHM...(cue the bone-rattling guilt and sobbing session that ensues while Henry naps.)
So between crying jags I try and problem solve.
Maybe I could go back to work full-time.
But then I would have to leave Henry somewhere or with someone else. I wouldn't get to play with him, and read to him, and make sure he gets his tummy time, and practices his sitting up and see him smile at me when he wakes up from a nap.
Even if that nap was only 15 minutes long.
Yes. We've been on a real winning streak with the naps lately.
(Cue another bone-rattling sobbing session.)
So what is a mother at her wit's end to do?
She doesn't want to leave her baby, but she is literally going stark-raving mad being with him all day, every day.
Until she has to go to work and take care of someone else.
The problem-solver in me is pretty persistent. So I got the name of a person who watches children in her home from one of the nursery ladies at the Y (someone who knows someone, friend of a friend type deal. No guarantees). Maybe I could drop Henry off one afternoon a week.
So I give this "lady" a call and Henny and I go visit her.
NEVER in a MILLION years. Not even if I had Ebola and the only other option was to leave Henry in the care of an intelligent band of gorillas. Would I leave Henry in this house. Under the care of this lady.
She was dirty. Her house was dirty. Her baby was dirty. They had a nippy little puppy.
She answered the door and I already wanted to get the Hell outta Dodge, but of course I didn't know what to say.
She goes on to regale me with tales of her child-watching experience (As I perch on the edge of her dirty couch and watch as her 13 month old nearly chokes on a cookie).
True Story.
So somehow I politely got out of the situation, got in my car, drove away, and when I was a safe distance from her home, I cried.
That's just how it's been folks. It ain't pretty.
I better go, I hear Henry starting to squirm.
He has been asleep for a record breaking 35 minutes.
The cherry on this sundae of awesomeness is that Michael never gets frustrated with anything. Never gets irked, never needs a little time to himself. Never flips out.
He's a better mom than me. He's more patient with Henry. He's just better.
Oooops. There goes Gerty again.
I'm going to post some fliers round the neighborhood. If you see her, could you tell her I desperately need her to visit sometime soon.
Have you seen this Self-Esteem?
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Worst Discovery in History
My hatred for the former owners of our home multiplied today. By a zillion.
They can't tile a bathroom correctly. They can't insulate a basement correctly.
But, it seems they can manage to pick out a bathroom mirror that disguises every possible flaw in one's face.
Sounds awesome, right!?
You put on your make-up, get yourself done up and think you're lookin' pretty good. Ready to strut the aisles of Target like a Milan runway.
You feel thousands of miles away from that girl that lives in her pajama pants, leans back and funnels chip crumbs into her mouth and picks her feet.
Until. (Oh yes, there is a BIG until...)
You decide to get out the hand mirror and stand by the window in said bathroom to make sure the new shade of foundation you just bought matches just right. (And you don't look like those hideous women with orange faces and white necks. I mean, are they blind?).
And there it is.
How long has it been there? How many people have seen it, and not said anything? What must people think of me!? Are people talking about me behind my back?
I had NO idea.
I HAVE A MUSTACHE.
When did this happen!!!?
What do I do? Can I pluck it!?
No, I hear my mother's voice echoing in my head..."When you pluck something it just grows back thicker and darker honey!"
Oh shit.
WHAT DO I DO!!????
Cue me, frantically calling the salon five minutes away.
"Hello...Salon Blah Blah Blah. How can I help you today!?"
"Umm. Do you do waxing? Like...(gulp) whisper...lip waxing?"
"Sorry sweety, I didn't hear you. What was that?"
"Lip waxing"
"Pardon? We must have a really bad connection."
"LIP WAXING. DID YOU HEAR THAT. I'M A HIDEOUS FREAK AND I NEED HELP. ARE YOU HAPPY! Do you have any openings this afternoon?"
"Can you be here by 3:45?"
"YES. Done. I will be there."
I am going to blame this on the crazy hormones of pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, stopping breastfeeding, periods and woman things.
And never speak of it again.
Until I have to go back in 2-3 weeks.
They can't tile a bathroom correctly. They can't insulate a basement correctly.
But, it seems they can manage to pick out a bathroom mirror that disguises every possible flaw in one's face.
Sounds awesome, right!?
You put on your make-up, get yourself done up and think you're lookin' pretty good. Ready to strut the aisles of Target like a Milan runway.
You feel thousands of miles away from that girl that lives in her pajama pants, leans back and funnels chip crumbs into her mouth and picks her feet.
Until. (Oh yes, there is a BIG until...)
You decide to get out the hand mirror and stand by the window in said bathroom to make sure the new shade of foundation you just bought matches just right. (And you don't look like those hideous women with orange faces and white necks. I mean, are they blind?).
And there it is.
How long has it been there? How many people have seen it, and not said anything? What must people think of me!? Are people talking about me behind my back?
I had NO idea.
HOLY sweet Mary mother of Pete, goodness gracious Guss.I HAVE A MUSTACHE.
When did this happen!!!?
What do I do? Can I pluck it!?
No, I hear my mother's voice echoing in my head..."When you pluck something it just grows back thicker and darker honey!"
Oh shit.
WHAT DO I DO!!????
Cue me, frantically calling the salon five minutes away.
"Hello...Salon Blah Blah Blah. How can I help you today!?"
"Umm. Do you do waxing? Like...(gulp) whisper...lip waxing?"
"Sorry sweety, I didn't hear you. What was that?"
"Lip waxing"
"Pardon? We must have a really bad connection."
"LIP WAXING. DID YOU HEAR THAT. I'M A HIDEOUS FREAK AND I NEED HELP. ARE YOU HAPPY! Do you have any openings this afternoon?"
"Can you be here by 3:45?"
"YES. Done. I will be there."
I am going to blame this on the crazy hormones of pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, stopping breastfeeding, periods and woman things.
And never speak of it again.
Until I have to go back in 2-3 weeks.
Henry Galore
Henry got wind of my plan to firm up his daytime routine.
So he laughed in my face and hasn't stopped since I wrote that post.
So we just went back to the 'go with the flow' method of parenting.
Ehh. Whatever.
In other news, I noticed Henny hasn't gotten much face time on the ol' blog as of late. So I thought I'd update you on what has happened thus far in this uber exciting fifth month of life.
My, how time flies!
So he laughed in my face and hasn't stopped since I wrote that post.
So we just went back to the 'go with the flow' method of parenting.
Ehh. Whatever.
In other news, I noticed Henny hasn't gotten much face time on the ol' blog as of late. So I thought I'd update you on what has happened thus far in this uber exciting fifth month of life.
My, how time flies!
Henry starting noticing the beasts. Now he watches them like a hawk, and likes to pet Fatty and pull out handfuls of his hair. Which I'm fine with because it saves me having to brush him to get out all the loose hair. Ha.
(You can see Fatty looking at him like, "Not this kid again.")
He loves hanging out in the jump-up
(So he doesn't look super pumped in this picture, but I promise he likes it.)
Henry enjoys private trombone concerts with Daddy.
(Babies R Us vomited all over this room.)
Henry keeps getting bigger. Big surprise.
Getting pretty good at sitting up with out toppling over.
I recognize that I am biased, but my kid is freaking cute.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
To Do List
I saw a hugely pregnant intern at work yesterday. She is due in 7 days.
Seriously.
I have serious respect for women that work up until their due dates. Not me. No way.
We talked about due dates and babies and fat pregnant face, and it brought me back to what I was doing one week before my due date.
Pretty up those toes. It will draw the eye from the cankle. The pretty toes also help you to retain some shred of dignity as your legs are flung three feet above your head, spread five feet apart, and your bits hang in the wind for everyone, including the janitor, to gawk at.
I promise it will feel like a dream to have your feet rubbed.
You can also add a mani to your spa day! I know it's tempting to get your regular...
But I find sticking to short and unpainted is the best way to go.
Less surface area for seedy poop to get stuck under, and you don't have to worry about chipped polish and the dreaded 'snaggle fingers'.
2. Get a massage.
Pre-natal massages are the best...
Don't go getting the wrong idea though. I know it will be tempting to ask the massage therapist to do everything in her power to get the ball rolling, but I must refer back to an earlier post of mine...
The goal here is to pamper yourself and take advantage of these last precious days you have to yourself.
The goal is not to induce labor.
Just trust me on this one.
3. Personal grooming.
Pluck your eyebrows, shave your legs (I know it seems like a circus-freak flexibility acrobatic act, but you will also be a lot less self-conscious if you don't resemble Chewy when you check into the hospital).
Take a 30 minute shower. Relax, enjoy. Shortly you will have to keep the curtain propped open so your baby can see you from the bouncy seat, and you will have to half-step out (dripping wet), every 3 minutes to pop the paci back in.
4. Stock up on the essentials.
Dog/cat food, toilet paper, diapers, wipes, etc.
I just found it really hard to get out the door in the beginning, even for quick errands. Make sure you have the pesky things you tend to run out of. Then you don't have to be stressed when you run out of something you absolutely need, and your first trips out can be on your own time.
The "essentials" includes ingredients for your Undie Sundae ...
You won't be forced to run to Walgreen's at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday night and politely explain to the store clerk that you are indeed not pregnant.
In fact you just had a baby...but somehow you still look pregnant.
Major buzz kill.
5. Take naps. Lots of naps. Uninterrupted, 4 hour long naps.
Period.
These are some things I did, and some things I sure wish I would have done.
You bought tickets for a pretty wild ride, so don't feel bad about pampering yourself before you get on, they strap you in and you can't turn back.
I promise you won't want to get off.
Most days.
Seriously.
I have serious respect for women that work up until their due dates. Not me. No way.
We talked about due dates and babies and fat pregnant face, and it brought me back to what I was doing one week before my due date.
I wasn't gonna let one minute of good eatin' time go to waste.
In all seriousness. I could not believe she was still schlepping around the hospital. It was always my plan to work up to the very last possible moment. Of course, Henry got wind of that plan and flipped the script, tried to shoot out early, and then I had to lay by the pool all summer.
Bummer.
Even if they would have let me work, I would have been completely useless.
I was dizzy. Ridden with constant acid reflux.
And no, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Michael.
The platters of buffalo wings had nothing to do with it.
Here are some things I recommend for the hugely pregnant...
1. Get a pedicure.
Pretty up those toes. It will draw the eye from the cankle. The pretty toes also help you to retain some shred of dignity as your legs are flung three feet above your head, spread five feet apart, and your bits hang in the wind for everyone, including the janitor, to gawk at.
I promise it will feel like a dream to have your feet rubbed.
You can also add a mani to your spa day! I know it's tempting to get your regular...
Less surface area for seedy poop to get stuck under, and you don't have to worry about chipped polish and the dreaded 'snaggle fingers'.
2. Get a massage.
Pre-natal massages are the best...
Don't go getting the wrong idea though. I know it will be tempting to ask the massage therapist to do everything in her power to get the ball rolling, but I must refer back to an earlier post of mine...
The goal here is to pamper yourself and take advantage of these last precious days you have to yourself.
The goal is not to induce labor.
Just trust me on this one.
3. Personal grooming.
Pluck your eyebrows, shave your legs (I know it seems like a circus-freak flexibility acrobatic act, but you will also be a lot less self-conscious if you don't resemble Chewy when you check into the hospital).
Take a 30 minute shower. Relax, enjoy. Shortly you will have to keep the curtain propped open so your baby can see you from the bouncy seat, and you will have to half-step out (dripping wet), every 3 minutes to pop the paci back in.
4. Stock up on the essentials.
Dog/cat food, toilet paper, diapers, wipes, etc.
I just found it really hard to get out the door in the beginning, even for quick errands. Make sure you have the pesky things you tend to run out of. Then you don't have to be stressed when you run out of something you absolutely need, and your first trips out can be on your own time.
The "essentials" includes ingredients for your Undie Sundae ...
Buy in bulk.
You won't be forced to run to Walgreen's at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday night and politely explain to the store clerk that you are indeed not pregnant.
In fact you just had a baby...but somehow you still look pregnant.
Major buzz kill.
5. Take naps. Lots of naps. Uninterrupted, 4 hour long naps.
Period.
These are some things I did, and some things I sure wish I would have done.
You bought tickets for a pretty wild ride, so don't feel bad about pampering yourself before you get on, they strap you in and you can't turn back.
I promise you won't want to get off.
Most days.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Schedules
Is your baby/toddler on a schedule?
If so, when did you start this schedule? How did you develop it?
Is it constantly evolving, or has your child stayed pretty consistent with the schedule? (by evolving, I mean, number of naps, feedings, etc.)
I am a lover of a schedule and I believe that kids do well with them.
I mean I really have no evidence or knowledge to back that up. I guess it's just something I heard somewhere and it made sense to me.
??
Henry has fallen into a fairly predictable pattern, so I'm kind of just trying to solidify what he already does naturally, but here it is...
(I don't stand around with a stop watch and whistle, but we try to stick to it if we can.)
If so, when did you start this schedule? How did you develop it?
Is it constantly evolving, or has your child stayed pretty consistent with the schedule? (by evolving, I mean, number of naps, feedings, etc.)
I am a lover of a schedule and I believe that kids do well with them.
I mean I really have no evidence or knowledge to back that up. I guess it's just something I heard somewhere and it made sense to me.
??
Henry has fallen into a fairly predictable pattern, so I'm kind of just trying to solidify what he already does naturally, but here it is...
(I don't stand around with a stop watch and whistle, but we try to stick to it if we can.)
Henry's Schedule
6:30 a.m.: Henry wakes up
7:00 – Henry has an 8 ounce bottle
7:00 – 7:30/8:00 – Playtime
7:30/8:00 – 9:30/10:00 – Nap time
9:30/10:00 – Henry has oatmeal cereal
10:00 – 12:00 – Playtime (tummy time, bath, errands, gym, etc.)
12:00 – 8 ounce bottle and baby food (If he can stay awake long enough. If he’s too tired move baby food to when he wakes up.)
12:15 – 3:00 – Nap time
3:00 – 4:00 – Playtime (baby food if he was too tired at noon)
4:00 – Henry has 8 ounce bottle
4:00 – 6:00 – playtime (May need a short cat nap or quiet time in swing about 5:15.)
6:00/6:30 – Henry has baby food
6:45/7:00 - Henry has 8 ounce bottle
7:00/7:15 p.m. - Bedtime
Moms out there. Does this sound about right?
Henry will be 6 months on Feb. 26th. Do you think he is eating enough or too much?
He is still waking up in the night about 2 or 3 a.m.
(Cut to me, banging my head against the wall.)
I think it is now a habit, and we are set to try and begin this sleep training biz on Tuesday night (I don't have to work the next day.) I am dreading/looking forward to this.
I feel like it is in his best interest. I just hope it doesn't make me jump out a window.
Or toss him out one.
Any advice is HIGHLY welcome!!!!
Thanks ladies and gents.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Workin' It OUT
What did you do this morning?
Me?
Well. I started off the morning with my daily bowl of Raisin Bran. MmmMmm, Good.
Nothing like keeping yourself regular.
Then, I hula-hooped with a room full of elderly women for 45 minutes.
No big deal.
It's called Hoopdio. And it is as amazing as it sounds.
Channel the little girl inside you as you hula-hoop yourself into a frenzy.
While jammin' to old school funk and modern Christian pop.
With old women.
It was epically awesome. What a great way to start the day.
They sold me with the description: Low impact cardio workout for all fitness levels.
Sign me up! It didn't sound intimidating. It didn't sound like I would drop dead before we'd even gotten out of the warm-up phase of the class.
AND, like a cherry on top of the sundae, the hoops are bedazzled and wrapped in prismatic, glittery mirror tape.
Umm. Sa-weet.
After that amazing experience I was on a hoopin' high and didn't want to call my workout quits. Henry was chillin' with his posse in the nursery, and I stumbled upon this beast...
That's right...
JUUUSSSTTTTIIIN BIIIIEEEEEBBBBBEEERRR (shake your arms and yell like Oprah and you really get the full effect.)
Me?
Well. I started off the morning with my daily bowl of Raisin Bran. MmmMmm, Good.
Nothing like keeping yourself regular.
Then, I hula-hooped with a room full of elderly women for 45 minutes.
No big deal.
It's called Hoopdio. And it is as amazing as it sounds.
Channel the little girl inside you as you hula-hoop yourself into a frenzy.
While jammin' to old school funk and modern Christian pop.
With old women.
It was epically awesome. What a great way to start the day.
They sold me with the description: Low impact cardio workout for all fitness levels.
Sign me up! It didn't sound intimidating. It didn't sound like I would drop dead before we'd even gotten out of the warm-up phase of the class.
AND, like a cherry on top of the sundae, the hoops are bedazzled and wrapped in prismatic, glittery mirror tape.
Umm. Sa-weet.
After that amazing experience I was on a hoopin' high and didn't want to call my workout quits. Henry was chillin' with his posse in the nursery, and I stumbled upon this beast...
It's like a step machine, elliptical and tread mill all in one.
You shorten or lengthen your stride and step so you can go from stepping to jogging to a full-on sprint.
All on one machine! Pretty awesome.
Hold on to your butts. I'm about to reveal an amazing cardio secret that I have discovered.
Wait for it....
That's right...
JUUUSSSTTTTIIIN BIIIIEEEEEBBBBBEEERRR (shake your arms and yell like Oprah and you really get the full effect.)
I know your laughing at me, but it works. I speak the truth.
The helmet-haired little twerp can hammer out a phat beat. Really pumps up your workout!!
That's really all I have for now. Keep your eyes peeled.
Hoopdio. DO IT. You know you want to.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Bad Momitude
As a parent I think it's pretty natural to question the job you're doing.
Am I good enough? Do I play with Henry enough? Does he know how much I love him? Am I doing everything I can for him?
Catch me on a good day and I'll tell you, Yes.
I think I am doing a pretty good job.
Catch me on a bad day and I'll just direct you downstairs to where I left Henry, "playing sandbox" in Fatty and Skinny's shitter.
Just kidding. I would never do that!
I would at least make him scoop it before I let him play in it...
I think I am doing a pretty good job with Henry.
Well, if I'm not at least he knows I love him from the frequency with which I slobber all over his face and nibble his toes.
Don't look at me like that. He likes it.
Sometimes when I have a bad momitude and I'm really questioning myself, I just think of how many stupid people there are in the world.
I mean, there are a LOT of stupid people. Many of these stupid people have spawned.
1. Britney Spears.
Three times.
Prince. Paris. Blanket.
Yep.
Can't you just feel your parenting confidence starting to soar.
6. Last, but SO not least...
Michael and I caught this gem on Wife Swap.
(With out fail, Wife Swap will revive your parenting confidence like an adrenaline shot to the heart.)
With a firm belief that the Mayans know their stuff, these 'Parents of the Year' believe the world will end in 2012. So it only made sense to relocate their entire family to a remote area of the Midwest.
(Grrreat. Just what the Midwest needs to help its image.)
You can find them out on the farm, training their children in survival skills and performing hazmat drills with the little ones. Because of course you've got to be able to get your suit on before the alien bugs can infiltrate your brain.
These children may not be able to spell rabbit, but rest assured they can skin one and grill it up for you!
When they take a break from woodland foraging lessons, you can find them in town...
Buying everything they need on credit, and No payment-No Interest 'till 2012 plans.
Man, they sure have outsmarted the system.
There are four children in that photo. The combined brain trust of Dawn and Grover (mom and dad) have managed to keep four children alive.
The mind boggles.
So when I'm feeling more 'Peg Bundy' than 'Carol Brady', I just think of these people.
I can't be that bad.
Am I good enough? Do I play with Henry enough? Does he know how much I love him? Am I doing everything I can for him?
Catch me on a good day and I'll tell you, Yes.
I think I am doing a pretty good job.
Catch me on a bad day and I'll just direct you downstairs to where I left Henry, "playing sandbox" in Fatty and Skinny's shitter.
Just kidding. I would never do that!
I would at least make him scoop it before I let him play in it...
I think I am doing a pretty good job with Henry.
Well, if I'm not at least he knows I love him from the frequency with which I slobber all over his face and nibble his toes.
Don't look at me like that. He likes it.
Sometimes when I have a bad momitude and I'm really questioning myself, I just think of how many stupid people there are in the world.
I mean, there are a LOT of stupid people. Many of these stupid people have spawned.
1. Britney Spears.
Not just once, but twice!
She has two children. Who are alive. Against all odds.
She goes barefoot in gas station bathrooms...
If that doesn't make you believe that kids must be resilient, I don't know what will.
2. Kate Gosselin.
There is a whole lotta crazy under those extensions. And she's kept 8 children alive.
Well...her nannies have.
3. Courtney Love.
I think the picture really says it all.
4. Dina Lohan
The depth of this mothering ineptitude is staggering.
I can't even make fun of her because it's just sad.
I think we all know how that one is going to play out.
5. Michael Jackson
Three times.
Prince. Paris. Blanket.
Yep.
Can't you just feel your parenting confidence starting to soar.
6. Last, but SO not least...
The Stewart Family.
Michael and I caught this gem on Wife Swap.
(With out fail, Wife Swap will revive your parenting confidence like an adrenaline shot to the heart.)
With a firm belief that the Mayans know their stuff, these 'Parents of the Year' believe the world will end in 2012. So it only made sense to relocate their entire family to a remote area of the Midwest.
(Grrreat. Just what the Midwest needs to help its image.)
You can find them out on the farm, training their children in survival skills and performing hazmat drills with the little ones. Because of course you've got to be able to get your suit on before the alien bugs can infiltrate your brain.
These children may not be able to spell rabbit, but rest assured they can skin one and grill it up for you!
When they take a break from woodland foraging lessons, you can find them in town...
Buying everything they need on credit, and No payment-No Interest 'till 2012 plans.
Man, they sure have outsmarted the system.
There are four children in that photo. The combined brain trust of Dawn and Grover (mom and dad) have managed to keep four children alive.
The mind boggles.
So when I'm feeling more 'Peg Bundy' than 'Carol Brady', I just think of these people.
I can't be that bad.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Pick a Diet, Any Diet.
I got a comment on my post from yesterday about weight loss.
"Are you on a diet?"
I can trace back the last 12 years of my life in diets. It's a gift.
In high school it was mostly about deprivation. Some people may have called it 'anorexia', but I find that term to be very harsh and a slight exaggeration. It always makes me picture Portia de Rossi circa 1999...
I called it 'being diligent'.
Anyhow, it involved a lot of pretzels.
In college I had an affair with Dr. Atkins.
Most people order pizza when they get home from the bars. I ate turkey and cheese slices with ranch dressing.
Ewwwwwww.
Ranch dressing only has 1 carb per serving.
Bettcha didn't know that.
But still. Gross!
Can you believe I didn't lose any weight!? I know, it's a shocker.
Towards the end of college...when I got fat-fat, I tried keeping food diaries, but we've been over how that works for me.
Not well.
I would always use up my calories by dinner time, so I would carry over my calories from dinner and subtract them from the next day. I know, I know. It's a twisted kind of logic.
So you can see how that would be a vicious cycle, and by the end of the week I would be taking calories from some meal I was going to eat 3 weeks in the future.
Also unsuccessful. Are you sensing a pattern!?
So then I actually made an audition video to get on The Biggest Loser (back when they had semi-normal people, and not just 700 pound couples), and I almost made it.
But the producers deemed me 'not fat enough'. Probably for the best. They would have eaten me alive. No pun intended.
They would have booted me in the first week.
So that left your average co-ed, not fat enough to be considered fat. But not thin enough to be considered hot on the average college campus.
What to do?
The answer had to be Slim Fast.
I would find my inner thin girl with two shakes a day and a sensible dinner.
Not.
What they don't tell you is that you can't decide you're still hungry after your shake and have a hot dog.
Another FAIL.
What's up next. Weight Watchers. I did that one too!
"Are you on a diet?"
I can trace back the last 12 years of my life in diets. It's a gift.
In high school it was mostly about deprivation. Some people may have called it 'anorexia', but I find that term to be very harsh and a slight exaggeration. It always makes me picture Portia de Rossi circa 1999...
Nasty.
I called it 'being diligent'.
Anyhow, it involved a lot of pretzels.
In college I had an affair with Dr. Atkins.
(Anyone else a little confused by their logo...this came from the official website!!??
Sweet. Sexy. Science. What?)
Most people order pizza when they get home from the bars. I ate turkey and cheese slices with ranch dressing.
Ewwwwwww.
Ranch dressing only has 1 carb per serving.
Bettcha didn't know that.
But still. Gross!
Can you believe I didn't lose any weight!? I know, it's a shocker.
Towards the end of college...when I got fat-fat, I tried keeping food diaries, but we've been over how that works for me.
Not well.
I would always use up my calories by dinner time, so I would carry over my calories from dinner and subtract them from the next day. I know, I know. It's a twisted kind of logic.
So you can see how that would be a vicious cycle, and by the end of the week I would be taking calories from some meal I was going to eat 3 weeks in the future.
Also unsuccessful. Are you sensing a pattern!?
So then I actually made an audition video to get on The Biggest Loser (back when they had semi-normal people, and not just 700 pound couples), and I almost made it.
But the producers deemed me 'not fat enough'. Probably for the best. They would have eaten me alive. No pun intended.
They would have booted me in the first week.
So that left your average co-ed, not fat enough to be considered fat. But not thin enough to be considered hot on the average college campus.
What to do?
The answer had to be Slim Fast.
I would find my inner thin girl with two shakes a day and a sensible dinner.
What they don't tell you is that you can't decide you're still hungry after your shake and have a hot dog.
Another FAIL.
What's up next. Weight Watchers. I did that one too!
That one actually worked! I adored going to the meetings. I know I'm weird. It was like AA for fat people.
I probably lost around 10 pounds. Which brought me into a healthy weight range for my height.
I still played around with the points though, and would end up borrowing points from the next day.
What is my deal!?
So that brings us to probably 2005/2006.
I hovered around 160 for a few years.
Then I fell in love with running and lost 10 pounds.
I guess that brings us to the last 3 years, which I've spent with Michael.
And I've been happy.
Add Henderson to the mix, and I've been really happy. (Despite all of my bitching and moaning).
I don't have to hide my bad food habits. I don't have to hide my bingey moments. I don't have to pretend to be something I'm not. Someone I'm not.
The number can move. Or it can stay where it is. I know two people who won't run away from me at the beach. No matter how fat my ass is. The idea of being around for them as long as I can is really my only motivation to move the number anyway.
So, no.
I'm not on a diet, I've already been on them all.
Damaged Goods
The bastard Cheese Its have me in a death grip.
I hear their quiet whispers all the way from up stairs.
Eat me. I am the most delicious snack cracker ever conceived by man.
Eat me.
Eat me, damn it.
So I do.
I am better though. I think. I didn't eat half the bag. Just maybe a quarter of the bag.
It's a start!
We made it to the Y again this morning!! Whoa, I know.
Close your mouth. It's not that shocking. Henry had fun playing and dwarfing every other infant in the room.
Then we had to go to WalMart. (groan)
Michael bought a bigger car seat for Henry. One that will last until he's a toddler and can be back-facing and then transition to forward-facing. The man-child is looking a wee bit cramped in his old one. So we thought we'd give it a go.
Michael gets extremely amped about things when he makes his mind up about them.
So when he decided to get this car seat and it wasn't at the WalMart in Winston he decided to drive 20 minutes to the next town over to get it from that WalMart.
Turns out they only had one of the particular kind he had picked out. Isn't that always the way?
The box looked like it had fallen off a semi-trailer, subsequently gotten run over by a few cars, caught in a stampede of wild boars and then massively wrapped in tape by the 15 year old stock boy.
He bought it anyway.
It was slightly damaged. He was fine with it.
I was NOT. I am not fine with it just on principle.
WalMart can kiss my fat ass.
So, I returned it. I was so ready to pitch a fit if they questioned me about it. I even talked to my mom on the way to get me fired up.
I'm like a prize fighter, and she is like my coach. She gives me pep talks before going into situations like this. I am so serious.
"Be firm, honey. Don't take no for an answer."
My mother and grandmother are legendary. They can get pretty much anything or return pretty much anything at any time.
What's that? You have a sweater that you got 2 years ago, and it has a hole in it...and you don't have a receipt.
Bam. Done.
They can return it for you. Cash in hand. No measly store credit here. And they can probably get something else thrown in just for their trouble.
Needless to say, I was ready and rarin'.
It was all for naught. They took it back, and I didn't even have to cry or demand to see a manager.
Not that I am the kind of person that does those things.
All the time.
Sometimes you just have to take a stand.
That's all I'm saying.
I guess I love that Michael bought that car seat. He looked past the crumply, broke-ass exterior and saw a nice, functional product. Slightly scratched and dinged, but full of promise.
Do I have to spell it out. I am that car seat.
But he bought me anyway.
I hear their quiet whispers all the way from up stairs.
Eat me. I am the most delicious snack cracker ever conceived by man.
Eat me.
Eat me, damn it.
So I do.
I am better though. I think. I didn't eat half the bag. Just maybe a quarter of the bag.
It's a start!
We made it to the Y again this morning!! Whoa, I know.
Close your mouth. It's not that shocking. Henry had fun playing and dwarfing every other infant in the room.
Then we had to go to WalMart. (groan)
Michael bought a bigger car seat for Henry. One that will last until he's a toddler and can be back-facing and then transition to forward-facing. The man-child is looking a wee bit cramped in his old one. So we thought we'd give it a go.
Michael gets extremely amped about things when he makes his mind up about them.
So when he decided to get this car seat and it wasn't at the WalMart in Winston he decided to drive 20 minutes to the next town over to get it from that WalMart.
Turns out they only had one of the particular kind he had picked out. Isn't that always the way?
The box looked like it had fallen off a semi-trailer, subsequently gotten run over by a few cars, caught in a stampede of wild boars and then massively wrapped in tape by the 15 year old stock boy.
He bought it anyway.
It was slightly damaged. He was fine with it.
I was NOT. I am not fine with it just on principle.
WalMart can kiss my fat ass.
So, I returned it. I was so ready to pitch a fit if they questioned me about it. I even talked to my mom on the way to get me fired up.
I'm like a prize fighter, and she is like my coach. She gives me pep talks before going into situations like this. I am so serious.
(I guess my mom would be the burly African American man in the photo?)
"Be firm, honey. Don't take no for an answer."
My mother and grandmother are legendary. They can get pretty much anything or return pretty much anything at any time.
What's that? You have a sweater that you got 2 years ago, and it has a hole in it...and you don't have a receipt.
Bam. Done.
They can return it for you. Cash in hand. No measly store credit here. And they can probably get something else thrown in just for their trouble.
Needless to say, I was ready and rarin'.
It was all for naught. They took it back, and I didn't even have to cry or demand to see a manager.
Not that I am the kind of person that does those things.
All the time.
Sometimes you just have to take a stand.
That's all I'm saying.
I guess I love that Michael bought that car seat. He looked past the crumply, broke-ass exterior and saw a nice, functional product. Slightly scratched and dinged, but full of promise.
Do I have to spell it out. I am that car seat.
But he bought me anyway.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Snaggle Toes
We made it to the YMCA this morning.
In the car on the way over I tried to rehearse what I was going to say if the nursery ladies asked why we hadn't been there in so long.
Specifically since sometime before Thanksgiving.
I spun some really elaborate tales, but to my dismay no one asked. They just took my baby and shooed me away.
The ugly truth is we've been holed up in Ft. Henry. Eating Cheese Its and watching bad TV.
I did my little jog/walk interval workout until I got bored. Which took 10 minutes. Then I went to the window to check on Henry. He was playing and charming some lady. As usual.
Darn, I can't use him as an excuse to leave.
So then I got on the Elliptical. Until I got bored. So that was like another 10 minutes.
Checked on Henry...still good. Sitting in a bouncer, trying to ward off a fellow inmate who was currently wiping all of her baby goo on him. I told myself it was fine. We were just building up his immune system.
So then I pretended to lift some weights for about 5 minutes.
Then I did some crunches on the balance ball.
That had to be at least 30 minutes, right?
So I went to the locker room and there it was.
The Scale.
Scales don't bother me. I just wish they were all calibrated the same so I could get some kind of consistent answer to the question, "How fat am I today?"
The scale at the doctor's office was always 4 pounds heavier than our scale at home. Not cool.
This is the same scale that very rudely informed me I had gained 11 pounds in one month when I was pregnant.
I am convinced that Satan took a vacation from Hell and somehow possessed that scale, and so I consider its readings invalid.
Just like I am convinced that the nurse operating the scale went to school somewhere in the Caribbean and was not properly trained in how to take an accurate weight. I know she was always in a hurry but she played it a little too fast and loose with the little nobby.
She would just haphazardly knock it up with her knuckle. Definitely not taking the time and concentration required to get the little floaty thing exactly in the middle. So I am convinced she was consistently 5 pounds off. Bitch.
I always had to bite my tongue,
"Hey, Hey, Hey, Nudgey. Let's slow down and focus on the task at hand. I know someone is like crowning or something in the other room, but this is important. Every pound you record in that little chart is one less whole pizza I can rationalize eating by myself."
So the scale at the gym was 3.5 pounds less than our scale at home. Sweet Jesus, how I wish it were true.
So I guess I'm going to use our scale at home as the official authority.
Shield your eyes, what I am about to do is for me. Not you.
Try to overlook the hideous, chipped polish snaggle toes.
I am getting a pedicure soon (which is a great segue into a post I want to do about 'Things to do before you go into labor').
We are going to Florida April 9th and I would love for that number to be 145.
Or at least for that number to be 145 on the scale at the Y. I would take that as well.
This is 'Operation Try not to Scare Away Small Children at the Beach.'
OTSASCB. It doesn't really roll off the tongue.
So now that you all know the number. You are officially my best friends and allowed to ridicule, harass and insult me into reaching my goal weight.
Between your hurled insults I would appreciate any weight loss tips or tricks you have. It's the least you can do...
I showed you the number.
In the car on the way over I tried to rehearse what I was going to say if the nursery ladies asked why we hadn't been there in so long.
Specifically since sometime before Thanksgiving.
I spun some really elaborate tales, but to my dismay no one asked. They just took my baby and shooed me away.
The ugly truth is we've been holed up in Ft. Henry. Eating Cheese Its and watching bad TV.
I did my little jog/walk interval workout until I got bored. Which took 10 minutes. Then I went to the window to check on Henry. He was playing and charming some lady. As usual.
Darn, I can't use him as an excuse to leave.
So then I got on the Elliptical. Until I got bored. So that was like another 10 minutes.
Checked on Henry...still good. Sitting in a bouncer, trying to ward off a fellow inmate who was currently wiping all of her baby goo on him. I told myself it was fine. We were just building up his immune system.
So then I pretended to lift some weights for about 5 minutes.
Then I did some crunches on the balance ball.
That had to be at least 30 minutes, right?
So I went to the locker room and there it was.
The Scale.
Scales don't bother me. I just wish they were all calibrated the same so I could get some kind of consistent answer to the question, "How fat am I today?"
The scale at the doctor's office was always 4 pounds heavier than our scale at home. Not cool.
This is the same scale that very rudely informed me I had gained 11 pounds in one month when I was pregnant.
I am convinced that Satan took a vacation from Hell and somehow possessed that scale, and so I consider its readings invalid.
Just like I am convinced that the nurse operating the scale went to school somewhere in the Caribbean and was not properly trained in how to take an accurate weight. I know she was always in a hurry but she played it a little too fast and loose with the little nobby.
She would just haphazardly knock it up with her knuckle. Definitely not taking the time and concentration required to get the little floaty thing exactly in the middle. So I am convinced she was consistently 5 pounds off. Bitch.
I always had to bite my tongue,
"Hey, Hey, Hey, Nudgey. Let's slow down and focus on the task at hand. I know someone is like crowning or something in the other room, but this is important. Every pound you record in that little chart is one less whole pizza I can rationalize eating by myself."
So the scale at the gym was 3.5 pounds less than our scale at home. Sweet Jesus, how I wish it were true.
So I guess I'm going to use our scale at home as the official authority.
Shield your eyes, what I am about to do is for me. Not you.
Try to overlook the hideous, chipped polish snaggle toes.
I am getting a pedicure soon (which is a great segue into a post I want to do about 'Things to do before you go into labor').
We are going to Florida April 9th and I would love for that number to be 145.
Or at least for that number to be 145 on the scale at the Y. I would take that as well.
This is 'Operation Try not to Scare Away Small Children at the Beach.'
OTSASCB. It doesn't really roll off the tongue.
So now that you all know the number. You are officially my best friends and allowed to ridicule, harass and insult me into reaching my goal weight.
Between your hurled insults I would appreciate any weight loss tips or tricks you have. It's the least you can do...
I showed you the number.
P.S. I debated on showing you the number, But then whenever I referred to OTSASCB I would always have to be really mysterious, and just talk in terms of general pounds up or down, and for some reason I find that annoying. I owe you more than that. Besides hiding the number from you doesn't make my ass look any less fat. So maybe by laying it all out on the line I can garner some support. Or pity. I will except either.
Hopefully, weekly updates will follow. Unless I gain and then I will be too ashamed to post it.
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