The Words I Don't Say

I talk a lot.
I get nervous and uncomfortable and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I will tell a silly joke. A lame story. I'll talk about a TV show or a movie or a book. A song I happen to think about. I can't shut myself up.

I say stupid things because, for whatever reason, I need to keep talking. I need to fill the empty space.

There are those--some that matter, some that don't--that hate this quality. This quirk. This flaw. So often, I grimace at my own voice, willing it to quiet, rolling my eyes at this incessant need I seem to have for communication.

Maybe I'm trying to quiet the words I don't say.

I complain more lately.  I don't like it. Negativity is so "not me." But I hate lying even more and I'm not good at it. The words, "I'm fine" aren't so believable when my blue eyes are filled with fresh tears and my fair skin betrays red, angry blotches.

I'm easy to read. I can't hide my feelings so I know the words I don't say are plainly evident, even as I try to drown them out.

But I still wish that I could say them.

Reunited (And it feels so Good!)

Guess what I did tonight? (Yes, I'm writing, but that's not the answer I'm looking for...)

I've been having a rough day. (Or few days. Week. Month. Year. Life. You know. Well, you don't, because I haven't been writing, but you might know bits and pieces. Anyway.) When my eyes filled with tears for the hundredth time today (in the middle of Costco and for no good reason,) I wondered if maybe it was my time of the month. I had to check my calendar--I no longer have the plumbing, just the hormones, so it's harder to keep track of. I had a boyfriend in high school who used to track my period. When I'd get upset, he'd pat my hand and tell me sweetly, "It's okay. I know you're having your..." Want to guess what I thought of that at sixteen? That guy would be pretty handy to have around now, especially if he came prepared with wine and chocolate. Alas, I make due with a dot in my datebook. Not until next week. Hm.

Rather than feeling sorry for myself, I decided to try to change my mood. I mentioned to a friend tonight that I miss Turbo Kick so after the kids were in bed tonight, I dug out a Fan DVD that I ordered ages ago. I have 3 of them, but it's been so long, I can't remember which rounds I like or don't like. Round 36 sounded vaguely like one I remembered liking, so I went for it. (Note to future self: Yes, you like Round 36.)

The familiar warmup put a smile on my face almost immediately.  I was surprised how quickly everything came back to me. The punches and kicks, the form drilled into my head from hours and hours of Turbo Jennie yelling, "Keep your guard up! Hands by your face!" I even remembered the "twist" that took me weeks and weeks to even figure out what was going on when she called it out.

It was fun. Not, of course, as fun as clapping and hollering in a sweaty studio. Not as fun as facing off with Jennie. Or the time Sara Rrrrr got up in my business and I whispered,  "I think I just saw your IUD." But still fun.

And I feel amazing. I probably won't feel so great tomorrow since I can't settle down, so I'll be tired, and I'm sure my body will rebel at some point, but for now, I feel great. This picture doesn't do justice to how pink and sweaty I was, but my smile captured the exhilaration I was feeling pretty well. 

No more tears...for tonight,  anyway. 

A Whole lot of Whole30

I’ve been wanting to blog for a while, but I didn’t want to just pop back in and pretend I haven’t been missing for months. Doing it anyway, though, so I can share some awesome info.

Around three months ago, a friend of mine posted on Facebook that she was starting another Whole30 if anyone wanted to join in. I had never heard of it before, so I turned to Google and discovered this:

Nope. Uh-uh. No way. Not doing it.

But I kept reading.

Great for migraines. (I have those.)

Allergies. (I have those!)

Depression. (Yep, that, too!)

Change your relationship with food.

Change my relationship with food? I need that.

I told my friend that I wanted to try, but I was NOT prepared to join her the next day. I had just gone grocery shopping and had a fridge and pantry full of crap to eat, first. She recommended I read the book, “It Starts with Food.” Of course, I hopped on Amazon and bought it for my Kindle.

I wish I had read it years ago. It’s not a diet “rule” book. It doesn’t say, “Don’t eat this. Don’t eat that.” It gives the science behind how different foods affect the digestive system and the body. It made so much sense. Even if you’re not interested in trying the Whole30, I still highly recommend this book. The Whole9 and Whole30 websites and their Facebook pages are full of great resources and fantastic information and people who have survived it. Have a question about an ingredient? Google [ingredient] Whole30 and I can almost guarantee you’ll find the answer.

There are no cheat days during the Whole30. You have to follow ALL the rules, and for good reason. There is a great metaphor in the book--if you owned 10 cats and discovered you were allergic to them, you wouldn’t get rid of 9 cats and expect to be completely better--you’d have to get rid of all of them. You can’t cut out only some of the bad stuff and expect to be “cured.” It all has to go. At the end of 30 days, (or 60, or 90, or however many you want to do it for,) you can start reintroducing foods and examining how they affect your body. And if it’s worth it to you to keep eating it or not.

So, let’s get real.

Grocery shopping is HARD. It is very hard to find things with no added sugar. Sugar is in the most bizarre, random things, and masquerades under so many different aliases, it’s ridiculous. WHY is sugar in everything? It’s totally unnecessary! Soy is something else food companies sneak into the ingredient list. Even “natural” foods are guilty. (Looking at you, Applegate, with your extremely overpriced lunch meat.)

Going out to eat is HARD, too. I went twice and I was riddled with anxiety both times. (Both times, I managed to arrange eating at a salad bar, which made it a million times easier. If you have to eat out during the Whole30, go to a salad bar.) I also went on a roadtrip and to four potlucks. (One of which, I was only able to eat the salad I’d brought with me. If you go to a potluck during the Whole30, bring something you can eat. For a roadtrip, try to make sure your hotel has a fridge or buy a good cooler and eat lots of snacks and drink lots of water!)

Explaining it to people is NOT fun. No added sugar really means no sweeteners of any kind. No honey or maple syrup or molasses. Yes, I understand that all that stuff is natural, but I can’t eat it. No beans. I know they’re good fiber and protein. They can also be inflammatory. Yes, that dessert looks delicious, I’m sure it tastes really good, but I’m not eating sweets right now. My grandma tried to force-feed me a piece of toffee just last weekend. I told her I wasn’t throwing away 27 days of hard work for a piece of toffee. Yes, I realize I sound like an alcoholic.

We weren’t perfect. Around day 8, I discovered that the garlic salt I’d used in just about every meal had sugar AND soy in it. Towards the end of week 2, we sampled and purchased some fancy salts at Costco, only to get home and find we couldn’t eat ANY of them--the ingredients on the jar didn’t match the ingredients on the packaging. Boo! On day 15, I made my dad a drink and took a sip without even thinking about it. As soon as the whiskey was in my mouth, I realized what I’d done and spit it out--but I was shocked that it was such an unconscious thing for me to do. On day 31--yes, the day after we “finished,” I realized the tuna we’d been eating contained soy. Bah. For the most part, though, we made conscious efforts to eat real, whole food and avoid anything on the “do not eat” list.

We ate beautiful, delicious food like this:

Adapted from this recipe, but I nixed the sweet potatoes and added spinach. This was my favorite meal!

And this:

Carnitas with cilantro-lime cauliflower "rice," guacamole, and tomatoes

And this:

Burgers with veggies, coleslaw made with homemade olive oil mayo, roasted asparagus, and watermelon

And this:

Simply Balanced Garlic and Spinach chicken sausage with roasted spaghetti squash, spinach, onions, and mushrooms. Even the kids loved this!

We ate not-so-beautiful, but still delicious food, like this:

Adapted from this recipe, these "meatballs" were DELICIOUS. I yelled at J for eating the leftovers because I wanted to take them for lunch the next day. 

And this:

 Stirfry I threw together with chicken and spinach and other veggies. Tumeric gives everything that lovely yellow color.

And we ate beautiful food that was NOT delicious, like this:

This was absolutely the most disappointing meal we ate this past month. The turkey burger was dry and NOT good, the watermelon was funky, and the sweet potatoes and avocado were still too hard. The mushrooms and onions were good. Everyone else who tried this recipe loved it, so I’m sure I just did something wrong. Not sure if I’ll try again, though.

We ate new and different foods and discovered new favorites, and the kids did, too. Little Sister loves asparagus. Baby Sister loves mango. Little Brother...is three and alternates between eating anything and everything and eating nothing, almost on a daily (hourly?) basis. I rekindled my love of avocados. And HOW did I live for 33 years and no one told me I could put guacamole on fish? To die for. (Guac is my Frank's. I put that $*&% on everything!)

The Whole30 takes commitment. 90% of the time, the only clean room in my house was my kitchen because I was constantly cleaning it. Meal planning and prepping things ahead of time was essential for us. There is no ordering a pizza when you don’t have anything thawed for dinner. (No cereal or PB&J, either!)

How do we FEEL, though? Was it really worth it?

Yes. Yes. Yes! A hundred thousand times--YES!

I found this graphic during week one and braced myself.

But days 2-7 it never happened. I felt so good, I worried I was doing it wrong.

Part of the Whole30 is not weighing or measuring during the 30 days. It’s not a “diet.” It’s not about how much weight you lose--it really is about changing your relationship with food. That said, I absolutely couldn’t wait to get on the scale yesterday. I knew I’d been losing because I could see and feel changes and people have been making comments, but I wanted to know how much!

My Results:

I lost 17 lbs.

I lost 17 inches.

I haven’t had a migraine in over a month.

I did this with some friends and we all took "before" pictures in our underwear. Around day two or three, someone said we should take pictures with our clothes on, too, so we could actually share our results. I thought it was a great idea...but I never did it. I do have a clothed picture that was taken on my birthday a couple of days before we started, but I haven't taken an "after," yet.

J’s Results:

He lost 9 lbs.

He reports that he has more energy during his runs and bike rides.

Mentally, he feels more clear.

Overall, we FEEL great.

And did it change my relationship with food? I think so. In the beginning, I can’t even say how many times I started at a bag of popcorn or a box of cereal and wondered, “Did I just eat some of that? My breath doesn’t smell like popcorn, but did I just eat some?” Even just last weekend, I was pulling a chicken finger apart for Baby Sister and licked my fingers when I was done. WHAT? Why did I do that? I can’t imagine how much I used to eat without even a conscious thought. I even dreamed about eating “no” foods--not that I wanted them, but that I ate them by accident and was really upset about it. It was disturbing. (Happy to say most of those thoughts went away during the second week or so.)

Food is nourishment. Fuel for our bodies. That’s all we really need. For the first time in my life, I GET that.

One thing I will say--that I’m SURE is not the program’s intent--is that I am a little afraid of food now. I feel so good that I’m afraid to add foods back in that might be harmful to my body. Why on earth would I WANT to give myself a migraine? Or make myself sick? The problem is...if I don’t reintroduce things, I’ll never know what to avoid forever. And really, there’s no sense to NOT eat peanut butter if I don’t have any problem with it.

We’re doing it for another 30 days, making it a Whole60. We’re kind of on a roll, we’ve discovered some great recipes, and we really like eating this way. I thought I could never give up cheese or yogurt or tortillas...but, to be honest, I haven’t even missed them. I’m not saying I’ll never eat cheese again, but I’ll definitely eat it differently. I won’t sprinkle it in every dish...I’ll eat cheese. Good cheese. (Okay, I’ll stop thinking about cheese now. Now. ...now.)

I promise to check back in and update on how it’s going. I miss writing. Do you miss me?

Say Something

Say something, I’m giving up on you.

Turbo Jennie sent out the video to this song, sung by  A Great Big World with Christina Aguilera. I . watched it one time and I fell in love.

I’ll be the one, if you want me to.

I watched it over and over again, crying each time

Anywhere, I would have followed you

During their AMA performance, I whispered, “I love this song” even as tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t breathe.

Say something, I’m giving up on you.

I shared the video with a friend at work. “It’s missing a word,” she said. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Say something OR I’m giving up on you.’?”

And I am feeling so small

“No,” I told her. “There's desperation without it. ‘Say something. HURRY. Say it right now.’”

It was over my head

HURRY

I know nothing at all.

“There’s just something about it. It just calls to me,” I said. “I don’t know what it is.”

And I will stumble and fall

I felt stupid. I watched again alone that night.

I’m still learning to love

And I cried and I cried and I cried

Just starting to crawl.

The next morning, it hit me.

Say something, I’m giving up on you.

It’s me.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.

With everything going on in my life lately, I haven’t been taking very good care of myself.

Anywhere, I would’ve followed you.

Not eating well. Not sleeping well. Not doing anything for ME.

Say something, I’m giving up on you.

Maybe I’m giving up. On me.

And I will swallow pride

It was quite the “aha” moment.

You’re the one that I love

There were more tears, of course.

And I’m saying goodbye

But relief, too.

Say something, I’m giving up on you.

Maybe it is stupid.

And I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.

But I feel like my mind has been trying to tell me something.

And anywhere,  would’ve followed you.

And I’m just now understanding.

Oh, say something, I’m giving up on you.

Hurry.

Say something I’m giving up on you.

I’m finally listening.

Say something.

Trying

"I've been reading your blog."

The words were innocent, but the admission from my uncle shocked me.

I'm not really in hiding, but I was surprised to learn he took the time to read the things I'd written.

In that moment, I tried to remember the last thing I'd written about. "Oh," I think I said. Then, "OH."

I wish I could say that things have changed in the last 9 months or so, but they really haven't.

Okay, that's not true. Some things have changed. My grandpa died. Baby Sister turned one and started clapping and saying "mommy" and walking. My dad found a mass on his kidney, and while he hasn't necessarily been diagnosed with cancer, it's still terrifying. In October, our finances took a turn for the worse, but we climbed out of the rubble and things are better than they've been in a long time. Things are happening.

I'm still stressed...between work and school and the kids and the Hubster working two jobs, I feel like nothing ever gets done. My house is a disaster area and I'm trying to breathe through it and activate my tunnel vision until my classes end on Friday.

I'm BUSY.

I wish I could say that I've managed to eat healthy and keep up with exercise even though I had to cancel both Weight Watchers and our gym membership...but I don't really like to lie.

I am, however, trying. And that's the truth.

Day One

 

 After a month long absence, I finally went back to Weight Watchers. I didn't want to go and I had a million and one excuses, but I had promised people, including myself, that I would go. I don't really have the money to spend on it, especially if I'm not even making the effort to go. Pulling into the parking lot, I had to fight the urge to turn around and leave. Thank God my friend was there to walk inside with me.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I stepped on the scale, whispering that I didn't want to know the number, and could she please just hit the "reset" button for me and tell many how many points I get each day? I still can't bring myself look at the little sticker taunting me from the book inside my purse. After weighing in, I wanted to leave, but followed my friend to our usual spot. How can I just pretend that everything is normal? I wondered if everyone was staring at me. Do they know how close I am to losing to it? My hands shaking, I dug my fingernails into my skin, blinking away tears from time to time.

I left right after the meeting, not daring to talk to--or even look at--Leader Pam and barely acknowledging my friends. Deep breaths in the parking lot, and then I drove to Target for some fresh fruit and health(ier) groceries. Unfortunately...I started crying before I made it there and had to sit in my van for a few extra minutes. When the tears wouldn't stop, I just wore my sunglasses inside. Today was one of the miraculous days were I managed to not run into anyone (or everyone) I know while shopping.

Fast forward to tonight, and I'm prepared for tomorrow. Yes, it would be nice if I was going to get more than 6 hours of sleep, but the fact is, I'm not. I don't even know if I remember the last time I did. At least my breakfast and my lunch are made for tomorrow. The Hubster teaches tomorrow night, so dinner is (almost) ready, too. I've even got most of my tracking entered. I'm ready for Day One.

But...

I've made it through Day One before. Day One is actually pretty easy. It's Day Two...Day Ten...Day Seventeen...that are hard.

Chest Pain

There are not very many words that will get someone quicker medical care, besides “I can’t breathe,” or “My water just broke!”

I haven’t been feeling well, lately—and no, this won’t turn into another “I’m pregnant!” post…we’re done with those for sure! My tonsils are swollen. Not painful. Not red. Just swollen and making it difficult for me to swallow. I thought, at first, that it might be an allergic reaction, since, you know, I’m allergic to everything. But it didn’t go away.

On top of that, I’ve been having chest pain. A heaviness. The weight of the world crushing me, stealing air from my lungs.

I had an idea of what it might be, but scheduled an appointment, anyway.

Chest pain.

The words bring a controlled panic and an onslaught of tests. Oxygen level: Normal. Chest x-ray: Normal. EKG: Normal. A strep swab, WBC, and mono test for my swollen tonsils: All Normal.

I try to work up the courage to say the words, but she says them for me: “Could it be anxiety?”

My chest tightens more, my swollen throat closes, and tears burn my eyes as I nod, not trusting my voice. She asks what I could be anxious about and I whisper, “Everything.”

The family problems that are boiling over after simmering for 30 years.

The teenager I’ve helped raise for 13 years who suddenly tells me I have no place in her life.

The sick relative.

The husband who refuses to communicate.

The weight I can’t lose.

The time I don’t have.

The house that stays messy and the bank account that stays empty.

The schoolwork I have to excel at. Someone told me yesterday that a C is passing, but I can’t get a C. I have to get an A.

The sleepless nights, partially blamed on my baby, but the fact is that I toss and turn long after she has finally gone to bed.

I can’t breathe.  I am in a constant state of panic. Of waiting for the rug to come flying out from under me.  What’s next?

It’s too much, but it’s too hard to talk about. Even with friends I love, my first instinct is to pretend, “I’m fine.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

I’m a terrible liar.

Everything is not okay.

I am not fine.

Coming up for Air

I've been spiraling, I know. I am not going anywhere, not circling the drain. I am clawing my way up to a point where I can breathe again. (Although, there are times I get a few precious breaths and then immediately get sucked back down again...I really am trying.) I wanted to share some lightheartedness tonight.


A few days before Baby Sister was born, this video went viral. While I was in labor, we watched it several times, filling my delivery room with laughter and keeping my thoughts away from contractions. Our nurse stayed to watch the video with us and later came back to find out what it was called so that she could tell the other nurses about it. I laughed EVERY. TIME. I saw it.

My labor was induced. I didn't want it to be...I had a somewhat traumatizing induction with Little Sister, and was terrified of a repeat performance. But I'm a big girl now, and older, smarter, and wiser, I was able to control the situation and still get the birth that I wanted.

My doctor was doing rounds when we arrived at the hospital, the Hubster, my mother, my doula, and I. I was asked a million and three questions and finally admitted and allowed to roam the halls to wait for my doctor to make an appearance. Once he did, he broke my water and we wandered some more, hoping to avoid the dreaded Pitocin.
No such luck. With only three contractions on my own, I was hooked up to an IV. My wonderful nurses allowed me to continue to move and to labor how I wanted to as the contractions grew more intense. My birth team took turns rubbing my swollen feet, my back, and holding my hand while we looked at pictures of Little Sister and Little Brother when they were babies. We watched this video and arm wrestled and talked.
An exam revealed I was halfway there. Disappointed, because I thought I was surely much further along, I retreated to the bathroom to cry by myself for a little while.
And that's when things got crazy.
My mom was the one who finally dragged me back to bed so the nurse could monitor us again. Another exam showed I was progressing even further, and she went to tell the doctor I was close.
VERY close! The next contraction brought pressure and pushing. There was some chaos because there was no medical staff in my room, and when they returned--responding to my doula yelling in the hallway, there were two doctors because it was shift change. The Hubster caught her as she was born--wearing my robe backwards because there was no time to put on the gown they had brought him--and, just an hour after being told I was halfway there, I was holding my baby girl.

Oh, and she is beautiful. A head full of shocking dark hair when her older siblings were all bald as cue balls. Big, blue eyes. Pretty, red lips. It was love at first sight. For all of us.

And now, whenever I hear this song, no matter the artist, I smile, and I think of those hours in the hospital, waiting on our second miracle baby, and the joy I felt when first I saw her.

Regression

I’m struggling to write these words. My emotions are too raw and my heart is too hurt to form sentences correctly.

I am a child again.

I didn’t have a happy childhood. I had a nice house to live in and food to eat and…I guess you would say “things,” but I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t beaten physically, but I was abused. Verbally. Emotionally.

My parents divorced when I was very young. An infant. I grew up in what they call a blended family. Only ours was a mixture of oil and water and I was the oil. Shake it all you want, you can break down the oil into tiny beads, but it will never be accepted as part of the water.

“This is our son,” my stepfather would say. “And this is Julie’s daughter.”  The words still echo in my head all these years later. Of course he wouldn’t want to lay claim to me. I’m nothing.

I was fat. Am fat. I would play outside and he would tell me the neighbors called and reporting sightings of a beached whale. And I retreated. My mother served up boneless, skinless chicken breast next to their burgers and slapped my hand with her eyes, her voice, if I dared ask for more. “Do you really need that?”

No.

Thirty years later, I’m still causing problems. She tells me it’s not my fault, but it is. How could it not be? My words. My actions. The knowledge that so many lives would be easier if I had never been born blindsides me. This fight, this incident comes at a bad time. The onslaught of postpartum depression, surprising only because it hit me so early this time—this last time, isn’t helping.

I am a child again. Eating to fill a void that keeps expanding. Trying to ease the physical pain that feels unreal. Why does sadness hurt so much?

Wrong

I was wrong.  

I said that the number the scale showed me on Sunday was three pounds lower than the highest weight I’ve ever been.  

But I was wrong.  

I had to go digging around my past, trying to remember when it was I weighed that much. I have an issue with timelines. Was it yesterday? Ten years ago? I have no idea. I just know it happened.  

When I found the date, my lunch jumped from my stomach to my throat. My hands leapt from the keyboard as if it was scorching me. I think I actually pulled off my glasses and rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.  

I was wrong. SO wrong.

It was that moment when you’re out to eat and someone drops a tray of dishes. The whole restaurant falls silent for a moment until someone laughs quietly and someone else shouts the obligatory, “Job opening!” I heard the crash, but I’m stuck in that silent period, waiting for someone to start laughing.  

I don’t weigh three pounds less than the highest weight I’ve ever been.  I weigh two pounds more.  

Someone tell me to calm down. Tell me I’m being ridiculous to let this get to me.  Tell me it’s only two pounds.  Nothing to get worked up over. Remind me I’m already making better choices, I’m already on my way, and maybe those two pounds are already gone forever.

Someone, please start laughing.

Empty Space

I went back to Weight Watchers yesterday.

I had planned on going back the week before, but Friday rolled around with my first paycheck since Baby Sister was born and it was gone before I could blink. I wanted to go back. It’s possible I could have made it work, but I was scared. So I stayed home.

Things happened last week. Big things. Little things. The Hubster and I had an argument. I ran into a friend at the grocery store. We scheduled family pictures. I made a huge decision about my future. I shaved my legs. Things.

And while those things were happening, I realized how unhappy I am with myself. I tried to reason away another month of excuses why I shouldn’t go back to Weight Watchers, but in the end, I went.

It was bad. I told myself I wasn’t going to look at the scale right away, but habit drew my gaze to the numbers on the counter. Three pounds away from the highest weight I’ve EVER been, pregnant or not. I swallowed and told myself that it’s a good thing I didn’t wait until next week to come back. Who knows what that number might have done to me?

Taking deep breaths now, because I’ve already taken the most important step. It was a doozy.

I’m trying to be new. Trying to re-teach myself all the things I’ve forgotten in the last 11 months. Sure, I know how it works, but I don’t know how it works, or I would have been doing it by myself. And I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Didn’t.

When I logged into the online program, I discovered all of my saved foods and recipes. It’s nice to know that all of those things have been there, waiting for me to come back. For some reason this morning, I clicked on the Weight Tracker, expecting it to show my current weight and goal line. What I didn’t expect was this:

The angry progress of my weight loss after Little Brother was born. How I hated each of those hills before they shot down into valleys, creating empty space on an ugly graph. How I hate now the piercing incline that climbs steadily for almost a year.

I can’t see it. I can’t see the gentle, downward slope that passes one goal line, one milestone after another. Some of it, I’ve done before. But never this much. It’s SO. MUCH.

I feel lost and overwhelmed. Helpless. Hopeless. Failing before I’ve even begun.

Can't.

 The word echoes in my mind, not caring that I don't want to hear it.

What I wouldn’t give for a little empty space.

Just a Dream

“I thought I almost lost you.” The words were spoken quietly by Turbo Jennie. She could have been teasing, but she wasn’t. Tears sprung to my eyes.

“I guess you almost did,” I whispered. “I just thought it would be easier.”

Guilt washed over me. I felt sick. And then I woke up. Just a dream.

I haven’t really been thinking about giving up.  Just taking a break. I have a million and one excuses. And four kids. I’m not even back to work yet, and life is already so busy. I can’t even imagine what it will be like when the kids are back in school in the fall and I’m being pulled in every direction. There are nights I’d sell my soul for a shower and a glass of wine. Nights I’ve cried in relief upon seeing my bed.

I’m nursing Baby Sister and it’s going so well. With Little Brother, I had supply issues and I can’t help but wonder if dieting and exercising caused those problems. I rushed back to Weight Watchers when he was 17 days old and back to the gym when he was 7 weeks or so. Was it my fault he wasn’t getting enough to eat? Was I so concerned with myself that he might have suffered?

I waver between jumping back in, taking it easy, and taking a break. In the biggest of pictures, another year of nursing standing between me and my goal weight isn’t really that much time. I’m not sure I can go back and take it easy. Not sure I can watch my weight week after week without feeling discouraged that it’s not falling faster. I don’t mean I’ll spend the next year on my couch eating ice cream and brownies, but I’m not sure I can count calories (or Points) without making things worse for myself.   My goals seem so much further away now, as I’m reaching numbers I swore I’d never see again. It’s frustrating. It’s scary. It sucks.

I know me. I can see into my own future—I’ll spend the next 12 months riddled with anxiety that every drop I sweat during a workout will be the one that means I’ll be buying formula for Baby Sister, instead of breastfeeding like I wanted to*. I’ll spend every Sunday Morning in a Weight Watchers meeting, cheering for my friends’ losses and achievements, and crying in my car on the way home because I didn’t lose what I wanted to. In a year, I’ll maybe weigh a little less, but will it be worth the stress I’ll have caused myself?

Is it just another excuse? I know what I want, but I know what I don’t want, too. I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive, but I feel like, by making a decision either way, I’m giving up something.

So I won’t decide. I’ll do what I can. I’ll certainly TRY, but I’ll do it how I’m comfortable and in my own time. I will try really hard not to feel guilty. I will not feel guilty. I will NOT feel guilty.

*I’m absolutely not saying there’s anything wrong with formula. I have been lucky enough to be able to breastfeed my first two babies and I hope to continue to nurse Baby Sister for as long as I can. Not talking Time Magazine covers or anything, but at least a year. I don’t judge others for their personal decisions, and I would hope tonot be judged for mine.

More

After Little Sister was born, The Hubster and I talked about how many more babies we wanted to have. Big Sister wasn’t yet living with us, and I wanted to have two more kids. The Hubster felt we should stop at two. I kind of agreed with him…Yes, we should have two. Two MORE.

As the years passed with no pink lines, I eventually gave up hope of ANY more, let alone TWO. And then Little Brother came along, and I was so caught up in the little miracle we created, I never dreamed of tempting fate by trying for another.

But the good Lord remembered that four letter word I’d uttered so many years before. “More.”

A few days after Little Brother’s first birthday party, I knew. The thought woke me at four in the morning, and I sent the Hubster a text to pick up a test for me, but to be quiet about it because we still had family visiting. I was awake when he got home a little after six and thrust the plastic bag at me. I quickly ripped open the box and did my business. It was another digital test, so the answer was undeniable. Pregnant. Again. I handed it to him and collapsed on our bed as he asked me, “How did this happen?” Hilarious, right? When we know the answer, but we ask the question, anyway. I wondered what we were going to do, how we were going to make it, deep down remembering all the prayers I’d whispered for MORE.

Thank God He remembered when I’d almost forgotten.

Whereas my pregnancy with Little Brother was riddled with anxiety that something would happen and I would lose the miracle I’d waited so long for, this one was much more peaceful—in the beginning, anyway. I told my mom that I was trying not to feel cocky, but I felt like it wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t meant to be. I started showing early, and had to spill the beans to suspicious co-workers at nine weeks. My news wasn’t quite greeted with the joy I felt, which was heart-wrenching. One friend asked me, “Where are you going to PUT it?” I was overwhelmed with surprised silence on more than one occasion and spent lots of time wondering who had replaced my friends with the judgmental peers I found myself surrounded with.

The nine months I spent nourishing Baby Sister were laced with complications. A strong belief that I was carrying twins was quickly dispelled by an ultrasound. A terrifying episode of Decreased Fetal Movement landed me in Labor and Delivery at 27 weeks, where I showed early signs of pre-eclampsia. The rest of my pregnancy included doctor appointments two or three times a week, with a weekly ultrasound and non-stress test. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes (again,) gestational hypertension (again,) and ultimately induced at 39 weeks (again.) I experienced the ultimate high of childbirth with no pain medication (again) and my beautiful daughter was born on March 30th.

I knew all along that she would be my last baby. I wish I could have relished each movement and sensation a little longer. At the end, though, there was so much pain and anxiety that something would go wrong when we were so close...I just prayed to make it through each day to make her healthier and stronger. The first time I saw all of my children together, a little less than two hours after her birth, I knew my family was complete. Big Sister tried to play the stoic teenager, but couldn’t hide her excitement. Little Sister all but busted down the door to my hospital room to get inside and meet her new sibling. Even 21-month-old Little Brother had a huge smile and a cheerful “Hiiii!” for his Baby Sister.

In the years that followed Little Sister’s birth, two of my good friends had babies, got pregnant again, and had miscarriages. Each of them came to terms with their loss and felt they could be happy with just one child. I felt tremendous guilt because I never reached that point…I never felt like I could be happy with my family “as is.” Even after Little Brother was born, and I thought we were done—told people we were done, got rid of all our baby things again—I still never felt like our family was complete. I always wanted something More.

And now we have her. Welcome to the world, Baby Sister.