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.

Pregnant Lady vs. Pregnant Mom

Did anyone watch the season premier of The Office last night? Pam is pregnant again! (Not a spoiler--I read it weeks ago in Entertainment Weekly and it's been all over Hollywood because Jenna Fischer is pregnant in real life.) Last night's show was super emotional for her--and I could relate because I totally had a day like that yesterday. Crying at every stupid thing! Couldn't stop laughing. Pregnant ladies are hilarious to watch.

Being a pregnant lady is hard. Your stomach and ankles swell, you have to pee all the time, and your boobs inflate to proportions that don’t seem humanly possible. Losing control over your growing body is hard to accept and throwing in a plethora of hormones can make for a pretty interesting nine months.

Being a pregnant mom is even harder.

Though this is my third pregnancy, I feel like it’s my first time being a pregnant mom. When I was pregnant with Little Sister, (was it really ten years ago?) Big Sis lived with her mom, so it was only The Hubster and me…and our psychotic cat. When I was pregnant with Little Brother, the girls were 8 and 14…so while I was still a mom, they were pretty self sufficient. I could sneak off for a nap when I needed to, or go cry in my room without someone watching.

This time around is different. I’ve never had to protect my growing belly from the kicking feet of a toddler who won’t sleep. I’ve never been woken up from one of those crazy pregnancy dreams by someone pulling my hair, yelling, “Mom! Mom!” Little Brother still gets up at night two or three times a week. There are diapers to change, more laundry to do, and a baby to entertain and keep out of trouble

Although the exasperating fatigue of early pregnancy is finally slipping away, I’m tired. Some will say that it’s because I’m older now, but there are moms much older than I am who are doing this, too. More will smirk and make snide comments about birth control…yes, I know how babies are made, and though this one (or any of them, for that matter) wasn’t planned, I still feel blessed. After so many years of heartache when we were trying, it was a thrill to be surprised with one more when we weren’t.

And even though I’m exhausted, I’m not sure I could be more excited to be a Pregnant Mom. Well…maybe if I’d gotten more than four hours of sleep last night.

A Year Ago

Friday, December 4, 2009

I’m pregnant.

I can’t quite get the words through my head.

I’ve been feeling nauseous and dizzy. Getting weird headaches. I’ve been really, really hungry…and really, really tired. I’ve been PMSing for the last two weeks, just waiting for my monthly visitor to appear at any moment.

But I’m late. And what’s a sure-fire way to have a period? Take a pregnancy test.

The Hubster bought me those silly, digital pregnancy tests. I guess he thinks I’m too blonde to read the lines correctly. So, this morning, I took it. (Yes, that means I peed on it.) A tiny hour glass started flashing in the results window. I rolled my eyes and set it on the bathroom counter while it “worked.” I washed my hands, weighed myself, peeking from time at the stick on the counter, which was still flashing. No pink lines to catch my eye, I stared at the test until the result popped up.

Pregnant.

I picked it up and looked closer, thinking maybe it was possible to read it incorrectly. Pregnant? Me? No. Way. I compared it to the picture on the box. (Just in case I was reading it wrong. I suppose there’s a chance that could happen.) Pregnant.

Alone in the bathroom, I started laughing. I snapped a picture of the result with my phone and sent it to the Hubster. He called me seconds later.

“Hey, did you just send me a picture message?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“You can’t tell?” Damn.

“No, it’s kind of dark.” (And his phone sucks.)

“It’s a pregnancy test.”

Silence. Then… “What does it say?”

“Do you think I’d send you a picture of it if it said no?”

“Really?”

Yes, really. I’m pregnant. And excited. And terrified.

~~
Reading these words a year later still brings tears to my eyes. I remember exactly how I felt that day…laughing all alone in my bathroom at six in the morning—completely dumbstruck and absolutely ecstatic. For years, I agonized over pregnancy test after pregnancy test, praying for two pink lines, a plus sign, a positive. Month after month, I was disappointed, devastated, and depressed. Medication didn’t work. Trying didn’t work. Time didn’t work. Nothing worked. Nothing.

I gave up.

The miracle that broke my streak of negative pregnancy tests turns four months old today. One day, I’ll write my recollection of the morning he was born. I remember laughing alone in my bathroom. Horror I felt when I started bleeding around six weeks. Relief when the ultrasound tech showed us the tiny heartbeat. Excitement when she pointed out his boy parts a few weeks later. The thrill of that first kick and of sharing his movements with my family. The exhilaration I felt when I realized I was in labor for real following several hundred contractions that meant nothing. Laughing and crying all at once when they laid him on my chest.

Today, he smiles when he sees me. He laughs when I talk to him and make silly faces. He rolls over and beams at me in pride for his accomplishments. He continues to amaze me with every breath.

A year ago today, my life changed forever. In some ways, I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. But I also can’t remember life without him.

Impossible

Since he was born, I love watching Little Brother, wondering what he’s thinking. He’s such a little miracle and I often marvel at the tiny fingers, pink lips, and perfect dimples that grew inside of me for nine months or so. He is amazing and his big, blue eyes are so full of wonder that I can’t imagine what’s going on inside his sweet, bald head.

Tonight, I watched him while he nursed before bedtime, and it struck me what he might be thinking tomorrow. Because, tomorrow, I’m going back to work. And he’s still at the age where he thinks I’ve actually disappeared when I hide behind a blanket, so tomorrow, what will he think? That I’ve abandoned him completely? Where is my mommy and who is this lady holding me and why do I have to drink out of a bottle all day?

I KNOW it’s ridiculous. I know that he will be fine and we will both survive and I am being completely irrational. But I can’t help it. Familiar panic and anxiety well up inside of me and I can’t breathe and the tears burst from eyes before I can stop them. I get angry. I hate my husband and the fact that he doesn’t make enough money so that I don’t have to work. I hate my friends who are able to stay home with their children. I hate the women who work because they want something to do other than being a wife and a mother. I hate myself for starting my maternity leave two days before giving birth, stealing time away from the precious baby boy I’ve spent nearly every second with for the last 88 days. I hate my life.

I know that everything will be okay. Little Brother will be at a home daycare with a woman I know and I trust and I love. The Hubster and I will both be only a few miles away if we’re needed. I know that millions of women before me have endured and overcome this same obstacle. But tonight, I am still sad.

I am sad and angry and anxious, and I rocked Little Brother long after he had fallen asleep, dreading the moment I’d have to kiss him goodnight. I am avoiding my bedroom, avoiding sleep. Agonizing over waking up tomorrow morning and deserting my son, if only a few hours. Tonight is impossible.

(I’m sorry. I don’t really hate anyone—I am just feeling very, very sorry for myself tonight. I am SO grateful for the time I have been able to spend with him, and I know that many women aren’t able to do the same—I have been there, too. With Little Sister, I was on bed rest for 2 months, and I went back to work when she was 4 weeks and 6 days old. When that day rolled around this time, I sent up prayers and thanks that I got nearly two more months with Little Brother. I know I am lucky, but this is still so, so hard.)

Defnitions

inspiration
[in-spuh-rey-shuh n]
–noun
a thing or person that inspires

motivation
[moh-tuh-vey-shuh n]
–noun
something that motivates; inducement; incentive

teacher
[tee-cher]
–noun
a person who teaches or instructs, esp. as a profession; instructor

leader
[lee-der]
–noun
a person or thing that leads

friend[frend]
–noun
a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard




Turbo Jennie called me out tonight. (It was not the first time. It will not be the last. And I. Love. It.) The music was loud (it usually is) and there was something wrong with the microphone (also very normal) and I heard her say my name a couple of times…and at one point, she came over and pointed her finger in my face a la Jillian. I knew I must be doing something wrong, but couldn’t figure out what it was.

After class, I asked her what she was saying. Turns out, it was because I was going low impact. I had excuses…I usually do. My boobs are too big. My foot hurts. I’ll pee on the studio floor. But she just shook her head. “Those days are over!” she told me.

I thought about what she’d said for the rest of the evening. And damn it, if she isn’t right, AGAIN. I’ve gotten comfortable. I don’t jump too high. I don’t get too low. And why the hell not? It’s not that I CAN’T because I CAN. I’m doing what I’m used to. Doing what’s safe. But how can I grow? (Well, shrink?) How can I get better if I don’t try something new? If I don’t challenge myself?

So that’s exactly what I’m going to do—challenge myself. Jump higher. Get Lower. Work harder. Do MORE.

The "I've Only"s

I’ve got them. Not the Mondays. The “I’ve Only”s. And it gets worse…it seems I have passed them along to my kids.

Little Sister’s school has a fitness challenge going on where the kids run during recess and someone tallies their laps. Once they reach five miles, they get a little keychain charm in the shape of a foot. She was talking to Leader Pam about it today, and I overheard her telling her, “I’ve only run 2 miles.”

Big Sister is getting great grades in high school, which is a relief, because she struggled in middle school. At the beginning of the year, it because she’d “only” had a few assignments, but she’s keeping up with it and we are so proud of her. She’s a great artist, too, but “only” because she had a picture to guide her.

And me. Since giving birth ten and a half weeks ago, I’ve only lost 25 pounds. Since joining Weight Watchers again 9 weeks ago, I’ve only lost 8.6 pounds. I went back to the gym recently, but I’ve only been 6 times in the last three weeks.

Why? Why do we qualify our successes with that word? Why do we make them seem less important, less impressive than they should be? Leader Pam asked the question at my Weight Watchers meeting this morning—why can’t we celebrate our own successes?

For me, it’s because I’m not done yet. I have a hard time seeing the place I came from because I’m looking at how far I have to go. It’s hard to celebrate fitting into regular, not maternity clothes because I’ve still got boxes of clothes I can’t fit into. It’s hard to celebrate losing five or ten pounds because I’m nowhere near where I want to be.

It breaks my heart that my children have picked up on this and started qualifying their own achievements.

So, this week, I’m challenging myself to celebrate the small things and stop demeaning my success. I DID go back to Weight Watchers. I DID go back to the gym. I WILL continue to lose. And I will set a better example for my children while I’m working on it.

Written in the Stars

A few months ago, I signed up at some website to have my horoscope texted to me every day. (Thank goodness for unlimited texting, or Big Sister would text us out of house and home—she’d racked up over 300 texts before she’d even owned the phone for 24 hours!)

Most of the time, “my” horoscope is way off and it has absolutely nothing to do with me. (“We know you like to bottle up your feelings, Gemini…” What?!?) Every once in a while, though, it hits the nail on its head and tells me exactly what I need to hear. The week I went back to Turbo, my horoscope said that Venus was in retrograde in the fitness sector and it would turn my routine around. (Something like that.)

Yesterday, I received this message: “There’s nothing wrong with your goals of getting healthier and finally fitting into your skinny jeans. But the way you go about it can make all the difference in the world—be careful not to get too obsessed, Gemini. All good things take time, so check the scale weekly, not hourly.” Considering I read the text at 11:30 in the morning and I’d already been on the scale 4 times, I think it was definitely advice I needed. (Advice I’ve heard before. Advice I never listen to.)

This morning, I got this one: “You’ve counted calories all weekend. Tonight, ditch that Weight Watchers scale and head out for a feast with your friends. You won’t undo all the good work you’ve done if you remember that tonight is about friendship, not stuffing your face.” Turns out, I actually did have a social afternoon planned with friends. Weird, right? Since I weighed in this morning, I did over-indulge indulge OVER-indulge in some artichoke-spinach dip, but I also spent a lot of time visiting. I’m absolutely loving spending all my time with Little Brother, but it’s nice to talk to grown-ups, too.

This week’s challenge: Not checking the scale! I rely on that thing WEIGH (ha-ha!) too much and I’ll admit that I let it affect food decisions that I make. This week, I’m going to eat smart, track my points, and keep up with my activities. I am NOT going to step on the scale until my meeting next Sunday morning. (In fact, I stashed it in my bathroom cupboard, just in case I feel the need.) I hate weighing “blind,” but the scale is definitely something I need to conquer.

One Step at a Time

Where to begin?

I’ve been back at Weight Watchers for about a month now. Going back was easier than I thought it would be. Maybe too easy. I made the decision early on to give myself a day “off” on Sunday, the day of my meeting. I decided I would track the food I ate that day, but not the points. It was also my “cheat” day, where I would have a little something that I wouldn’t normally have during the week…bacon, ice cream, a soft pretzel…something like that.

So guess what happened? Sunday turned into Sunday and Monday. And then Tuesday. And by Wednesday or Thursday, I’d wasted half the week and I was terrified to step on the scale. Why? I don’t know. I don’t have any answers. No excuses.

Last week was a tough one. My sweet tooth was acting up and I’ve no experience being home alone with food. When I’m at work, I bring the food I can eat. I eat the food I bring, and I’m okay. When I’m at home, though…all the food is here. I can have anything I want. And when the baby’s crying, it’s easier to grab a pop-tart than make something healthy for breakfast. It’s easier to run to a drive-thru when I’m out than to worry about getting home and being able to make something for lunch before he wakes up. It’s easier. Not better.

I haven’t been working out, yet, either. I’ve taken a few walks and attempted a post-natal yoga video I found on instant Netflix, but nothing like the workouts I did before or even during my pregnancy. At my post partum visit last week, my doctor made it a point to tell me I was healing, not healed, and I should continue to take it easy. He said I could try maybe 2 or 3 classes a week when I’m ready, but warned me not to dive back into the schedule I had before.

But I’m not ready. Some of it is physical—the aches and pains of childbirth that I’m still dealing with, but a lot of it is mental. It’s been 5 months since I did Turbo. (I hadn’t realized it had been that long until just now. 5 months?!) I’m afraid to go back. I’m the Fat Lady again, staring into a studio full of strangers. Worried I won’t be able to keep up. Worried I’ll make a fool of myself. Worried I can’t do it.

I can, though. I know I can. I know I can get back to the place where I was. I know I can succeed.

So I’m going to take it one step at a time. I bought some little jawbreakers at the store the other day. I can have 3 of them for 1 point, and they will last a long time, so I won’t be snacking all day on sweets. That’s my food step this week. I’m also going to meet my fruit and vegetable recommendation every day. As a nursing mom, I should be getting 8 servings a day. Yesterday, I had 10 and today, I had 9. It sounds like two steps, doesn’t it? They’re important ones.

For my exercise step, I’m going to shoot first for some activity 4 times a week. Yesterday, I walked with Leader Pam. (Love her!) Today was harder. I planned a walk with Little Brother, but he fell asleep while I was changing clothes. I decided to do the yoga video, but put a load of laundry in first and he woke up before I got my yoga mat rolled out. He's been into cat naps, lately, although he did finally sleep for 3 hours. He was a little fussy for a while, though…walking around, carrying 13 pounds of baby counts as some activity, right? Because I do that all the time. Next week, I will think about returning to the gym. But for now…one step at a time.

We’ve been talking weight loss mantras in our meetings the last couple of weeks. I didn’t really have one in mind…the old stand-bys: ELMO—eat less more often, or “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.” But they weren’t really mine. A friend of a friend posted on Facebook: “Eat clean and workout dirty.” I kind of fell in love with that one and I’m going to use it, but I kind of just realized I’ve got one of my own.

One step at a time. It’s the way to go. Changing everything all at once is a recipe for disaster and failure. But I can change one thing. Can you?

Good luck to my friend, M, who starts her Weight Watchers journey as a path to get back in shape before adding to her family again. And good luck to Leader Pam, who is walking 50 miles this weekend (starting on Friday, the day she turns 50!) to raise money in support of The National MS Society. Remember, ladies…One step at a time.You both can do it. We all can.

Us Versus Them

At my Weight Watchers meeting this week, we discussed ways to incorporate activity into our daily lives. A topic that always comes up is gym alternatives.

Whether it’s an excuse people use to shy away or an honest fear, the gym can be an intimidating place. There are daunting machines, unclear etiquette, and the scariest pressure of all: Hot Bods. The Skinnies in Spandex stretching in front of the mirror and the Muscle Heads working it on the weight floor. THEY can be menacing and unapproachable to US, the average people, just looking to burn more calories than we take in.

A woman in my Sunday meeting told us how she stayed away from the gym because she was concerned about how she looked compared to THEM. The sub-Leader (Leader Pam was out pounding 5k of pavement!) asked her how she thought THEY got to look that way. The woman muttered, almost under her breath, “They were probably BORN that way.”

“But maybe they weren’t.” I hadn’t planned on saying anything. I didn’t know the woman and I was nursing Little Brother and I didn’t really want to draw attention to myself, but suddenly, everyone was looking at me. The sub-Leader asked me what I meant. I pointed out that you can’t know what someone has always looked like based on what they look like now. It’s not fair to assume that THEY don’t have to work just as hard as everyone else to look the way THEY do.

It’s an assumption many people make though. We see someone who’s slim and fit and we assume it’s always been easy for them. We figure they can eat whatever they want. We think they don’t need to exercise because…they were probably born that way.

Deep down, I know it’s not true. Last year, Turbo Jennie launched a “Before and After” campaign and challenged her followers (yes, it really is like a cult) to share pictures of the changes they’ve made with exercising and healthy living. She asked me to combine the photos for quick comparison, so I got first look at lots of them. She handed me photos at class one night and asked me to work my magic on them. I looked at them for a few minutes and then asked her who they were. When she told me, I was shocked. I had only known the girls in the picture for a few months, and to me, they were thin and strong and beautiful—and as far as I knew, they always had been. There was no way the round faces starting back from the photograph belonged to the women I knew. But they did.

Prior to my pregnancy, I was exercising 8 or more hours a week. It happened unexpectedly…I never considered myself a gym rat, but one class a week turned into three, and then six. I looked forward to each and every class, excited to see my friends, excited to sweat, excited to work out. I cried the day Turbo Jennie called me an athlete. That wasn’t me—I was the quiet one. The bookworm. The fat girl.

I am still one of US, but one day, I’ll be one of THEM. One day, someone I just met won’t believe how heavy I used to be and when I pull out a picture, they’ll be shocked and tell me they always just assumed I had it easy.

But I’ll know the truth.

Coming Home

Last Sunday, I stepped back into the world of Weight Watchers. It might seem a little early to jump back on the bandwagon—I have NOT made it back to the gym yet; I’ve still got some healing to do—it was a goal I’d set during my pregnancy. I was so sure Little Brother would be joining us sooner, rather than later, and darn it if the little stinker didn’t wait right up until his due date to make his debut. (We are both doing well and my family and I are completely in love with him.)

My son was 17 days old when I attended my first meeting since quitting in December. I packed on 40 pounds during my pregnancy, and it took me almost the entire time to cope with my weight gain, but I survived. I did NOT have a 40 pound baby, and the weight I lost by the time I left the hospital was only a fraction of the total I’d gained. I am breastfeeding and I know I need to continue to nourish my baby, but I have been anxious to shed the excess weight I’ve been carrying. (Because baby car seat/carriers are HEAVY! I don’t need even more pounds to lug around!) Weight Watchers offers an option for nursing mothers that allows me to lose weight safely without affecting my baby or my supply.

I was nervous about renewing the program I know so well. The last few weeks have been filled with hurried meals, eating out, and numerous trips to our local Culver’s. My first meeting topic was about not denying yourself foods you love, but rather, finding ways to incorporate them by choosing lighter versions, decreasing the frequency of indulgences, and making up for the extra calories with activity. It was a terrific meeting to attend because it reminded me that foods aren’t taboo or off limits, which is why this works for me.

My week went well. I had difficulty following all the “Good Health Guidelines,” but I made it a point to write down and calculate points for everything I ate—including one trip to Culver’s on Thursday, treats at Movie Night on Friday, and a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese on Saturday. I was stressed at times—especially when the baby was hungry at the same time I was—but I learned to ask for help when I needed it (which was often) and that it was okay to let him cry while I finish making my lunch so I could eat at the same time he did.

And I lost 4 pounds. It’s not a record—I think last time I joined WW, I lost 6 pounds the first week. Once, I lost 11 pounds!—but it’s okay with me. I’m not worried about losing the weight quickly…I just want to lose it. From time to time, I lament over the goal I set years ago…to be at a healthy weight by the time I turn 30. I was on track to be there ahead of schedule, but Little Brother set me back a little bit. (Worth EVERY. Single. Pound.) I’ve got 8 months to get there and about 80 pounds to lose. I could still make it, but I’m not going to let the stress get to me. I’m going to stay on plan, exercise as soon as I am up to it, and enjoy my family. I’m going to live my life.

But it feels so good to be back.

No.

Although quite familiar with the word, it’s not one I’m particularly fond of. Especially when it’s followed by the word exercise.

I’ve been more than a bit remiss in updating here…at first it was because I hadn’t yet shared the news of my pregnancy with everyone and I had a hard time blogging without working it into my story somehow. Instead of essentially lying with every word, I chose not to write. (Okay, that’s not true. I was writing, just not anything interesting enough to share.)

I’m now 25 weeks pregnant with a very naughty little boy. I had some bleeding right around 6 weeks, which turned out to be nothing. An ultrasound at 12 weeks took almost an hour because he wouldn’t get in the right position for measurements. (It literally took jumping jacks in the hallway to get him to move.) At 19 weeks, the ultrasound tech had a hard time getting a peek between his legs. He also frequently rolls away from the Doppler during my appointments, along with giving me heartburn and drop-kicking my bladder every time I get into bed.

That said, I love the little bugger and can’t wait to meet him this summer.

This past Friday, I started having contractions just before I left work. I hadn’t really been feeling well and, having gone through preterm labor twice with Little Sister, I knew what the cramps in my lower back and pelvic area meant. I’d had a contraction or two earlier in this pregnancy, usually during or after exercising, but they weren’t really painful or consistent enough to cause my any worry. Friday was different.

I got home and sat down for a little while, then took Little Sister shopping. A friend of mine pulled into the parking lot as I was getting out of my car and we shopped together in the store. I got home around seven laid down for a little bit. I called my doctor’s office and explained what was going on. With my history of preterm labor, they wanted me at the hospital right away.

The Hubster was out on a bike ride, so I called him about fifty-bajillion times. When he got home, we left for the hospital. Once there, they hooked me up to some monitors, did a check “down under,” and ran a bunch of tests looking for infection and a protein that indicates labor. They monitored my sporadic contractions for a little while and came back to do another cervical check. There was no change and all the tests came back negative, so they sent me home with instructions to follow up with my doctor early this week. She told me to take it easy over the weekend and joked, “Don’t take a jog around the block.”

“What about kickboxing?” I asked.

She laughed before she realized I was serious. “No!” she told me. “No exercise.”

I rested for the whole most of the weekend, and had contractions here and there, but nothing lasting as long as I dealt with on Friday. I called this morning and got an appointment with my doctor this afternoon.

The doctor checked me out and found no changes from what the doctor I saw at the hospital had documented. He reassured me that everything is fine with both me and the baby. He asked about my work schedule and told me if my contractions get worse or more painful, I may need to cut back on my hours. Getting up, he asked me if I had any more questions.

Knowing and dreading the answer, I asked my question. “What about exercise?”

“No.”

“Swimming?”

“No.”

“Yoga?”

“No.”

“Walking?”

“No. You’re done. No exercise.” He told me I’m doing too much…my body is stressed out and the contractions are its way of coping.

He patted my arm and laughed a little, telling me that he usually really has to sell exercise to pregnant women. It’s normal for him to have to beg them to get out and take a walk…not so normal to have one in his office, begging to be allowed to kick-box. “Take a break,” he said. “It will be okay.”

I nodded, the tears already stinging my eyes, my nose already turning red, and my face burning. I got dressed when he left the room and opened the door to leave. He stopped me in the hallway and reminded me to take it easy.

I will try.

I’m having a hard time with it, though. I tried to go back to last summer when the orthopaedic surgeon told me I couldn’t exercise with my sprained foot. Back then, though, I had options. I could swim, ride a bike, and lift weights as long as I was sitting down. Exercising with limitations seems welcome, now that I’m facing no exercise at all.

Of course, I want a happy, healthy baby born close to term. I want to be happy and healthy, too, though. I’ll listen to my doctor because I know it’s for the best, however, my anxiety is already through the roof. On the plus side, my social calendar just opened up, so if anyone is up for coffee or dinner, most of my evenings are available. On the other hand, though, I’ve made a lot of friends at the Y and I’m going to miss the time spent sweating there together. I’m already feeling a little shunned since announcing my pregnancy and hanging out at home, alone, while the Hubster takes the girls to the Y for the next three months or so…I’m already lonely.

So tonight....when I should be in Hip Hop, perfecting my krump, I’m making enchiladas for the family. Later, when I should be in PiYo, bending and stretching myself into positions no woman who is six months pregnant should even look at, let alone attempt, I’ll be hanging with my girlfriend, The Sex Toy Lady bemoaning yet another activity I’m not allowed to enjoy for a few more months.