I’m spent. I wish I were talking about money. I would enjoy all the new things I purchased, including some shiny things for my ears and strappy things for my feet. I would have spent hours at the outlets looking for bargains, sipping an overpriced pumpkin spice latte and texting photos of myself in a dressing room in a green dress asking my best friend if the bow makes me look fat. I would be exhausted.
Sadly the only true part of that is the exhausted bit. On top of Mister not sleeping well for the past week I feel like I live at the hospital. I worked 6 days last week, had one day off and now I’m on day 2 of a 10 day stretch. Who decided money was important? Oh, my landlord did.
The precious moments I’m not at work I’m trying to spend with Mister and The Captain and not on the computer. As you can tell (oh ye faithful few) my blog is suffering. As is my sex life. By the time I get home Mister is already asleep which is the only time The Captain and I get to ourselves. The best line in our house is “Hey, the baby’s asleep. You wanna?” But last night when I came home he was watching a documentary on the Waco, Texas disaster and I said I’d watch it with him just to spend time together. I got as far as “Wa…” and I was out cold on the couch. Apparently cult-like massacres don’t make efficient aphrodisiacs. Who knew?
Tomorrow, day 3/10, I anticipate heavy eye lids, dragging feet, constant caffeine intake and a lack of any resemblance of patience. Look out world, I’m here and I’m crabby! Now someone bring me a pumpkin spice latte.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
What Do You Do?
I’ve learned that there is a difference between liking your job and liking what you do. I’m happy in my career but I sometimes wonder what it would be like to do something else. Or more specifically, what makes people pursue the odd jobs that they do.
Picture yourself in a lounge in a little black dress and pearls sipping a glass of white wine and someone in a blue blazer with a cigar and Johnny Walker on the rocks says “What do you do?” This happens to me all the time. Don’t you want to respond with something that makes their eyes squint and the corner of their mouth curl up a little? You know by his shoes that he is an investment broker and a hundred people he talks to that night will respond with something equally as boring. What if you said “I buy shoes for Suri Cruise.”
What about the guy that changes the light bulbs on the New Years Eve ball? Did you know that when they build a new athletic stadium (and I assume any major public structure) that all the toilets need to be flushed multiple times before opening day to ensure they work properly and can handle high volume usage? Who does THAT job?
I’m not saying I want to change careers or do any of these things. But seriously, how do you get to be the guy that tests massage tables? I think I’d like that job.
Picture yourself in a lounge in a little black dress and pearls sipping a glass of white wine and someone in a blue blazer with a cigar and Johnny Walker on the rocks says “What do you do?” This happens to me all the time. Don’t you want to respond with something that makes their eyes squint and the corner of their mouth curl up a little? You know by his shoes that he is an investment broker and a hundred people he talks to that night will respond with something equally as boring. What if you said “I buy shoes for Suri Cruise.”
What about the guy that changes the light bulbs on the New Years Eve ball? Did you know that when they build a new athletic stadium (and I assume any major public structure) that all the toilets need to be flushed multiple times before opening day to ensure they work properly and can handle high volume usage? Who does THAT job?
I’m not saying I want to change careers or do any of these things. But seriously, how do you get to be the guy that tests massage tables? I think I’d like that job.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I Married My Best Friend
When it comes down to it, you really just want your best friend by your side. In my 28 years I’ve gotten this advice many times. “Marry your best friend.” Of course you marry the person you love, but love isn’t always as easy as it is when you’re dating or even newlyweds. Love that used to be romantic dinners and roses becomes eating leftovers you don’t like and picking up wet towels off the floor for the 8,257,496 time without complaining (it won’t do any good anyway).
A friend of mine recently got into a tiff with her significant other, whom we’ll call John. Without going into details, she.was.pissed. Then she said “But at the end of the day I only want to be pissed at John.” And that’s exactly it. No matter how bad things get, when it’s all said and done there’s just that one person who you still want to wake up next to regardless of what happened when you went to bed.
Some day when we’re old and crabby and all we do is complain about the weather and our orthopedic shoes you want someone who is still willing to listen to all your crabbiness, provided their hearing aid works. And that’s your best friend. I worked retail during college and I was helping an elderly woman once when out of the blue she said, “Someday, honey, you’ll be old like me and all you’ll have left is conversation. Marry your best friend so you always have someone to talk to.”
Looks fade. Hip replacements and the need for extra oxygen make sex a thing of the past. Even when our hearing goes and we can’t get out of bed anymore what you want is your best friend holding your hand. At some point without realizing it the love that used to be leftovers and wet towels is simple again. It’s a cup of coffee and a kiss on the forehead. And it’s exactly enough.
A friend of mine recently got into a tiff with her significant other, whom we’ll call John. Without going into details, she.was.pissed. Then she said “But at the end of the day I only want to be pissed at John.” And that’s exactly it. No matter how bad things get, when it’s all said and done there’s just that one person who you still want to wake up next to regardless of what happened when you went to bed.
Some day when we’re old and crabby and all we do is complain about the weather and our orthopedic shoes you want someone who is still willing to listen to all your crabbiness, provided their hearing aid works. And that’s your best friend. I worked retail during college and I was helping an elderly woman once when out of the blue she said, “Someday, honey, you’ll be old like me and all you’ll have left is conversation. Marry your best friend so you always have someone to talk to.”
Looks fade. Hip replacements and the need for extra oxygen make sex a thing of the past. Even when our hearing goes and we can’t get out of bed anymore what you want is your best friend holding your hand. At some point without realizing it the love that used to be leftovers and wet towels is simple again. It’s a cup of coffee and a kiss on the forehead. And it’s exactly enough.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Happy Birthday To Me! And My Stomach!
Yesterday was my birthday. I decided that calories don't count on your birthday so I went crazy. You would have thought I hadn't eaten in 3 weeks, I definitely binged. I had cereal with real milk for breakfast. I love almond milk but I miss the creamy goodness of real milk. I don't even remember what else I ate before work but I stopped at Starbucks and treated myself to a venti toffee nut white mocha with whip before my shift. I packed my lunch/dinner which included left over baked mac and cheese. I made it, I know how much butter is in it.... Then I went down to the cafeteria and got myself some raspberry crumb cake. You have to have cake on your birthday right? When I got home I went overboard on butter snap pretzels and then had some cookies and cream ice cream. Today, I feel sick.
Back to my black coffee and oatmeal.
Back to my black coffee and oatmeal.
Monday, August 16, 2010
It's Monday which is actually my Saturday. By the time you read this it will probably actually be Tuesday/Sunday because I'm posting this so late. It's almost 10:00pm and this is the first time I've had both arms free and the computer free at the same time. It feels good to sit.
Back to my original statement: It's Monday. Mondays are stressful days for me for one reason... I face the scale on Mondays. I was convinced that today I would hit a milestone, today's weigh in would be better than all the rest. I was so sure that after I stepped onto that cold silver platform I would be able to shout from the rooftops (er, basement bathroom) “I'VE LOST TEN POUNDS!” It's not a lot but it seems significant. Once you lose ten you feel like you've really accomplished something and you can keep going, the next 5 or 10 seem easy. I was ready for it, The Captain even mentioned the other day that I looked thinner. In hind sight he may have just wanted me to make him breakfast. But this was it, today was the day. I looked down...
Nine.
Seriously? Nine pounds? I know it's only a one pound difference but I feel like nine is just as bad as zero and ten is epic! I feel like a failure. I mourned by making baked macaroni and cheese with croissants for dinner. Because that'll help me lose weight....
Back to my original statement: It's Monday. Mondays are stressful days for me for one reason... I face the scale on Mondays. I was convinced that today I would hit a milestone, today's weigh in would be better than all the rest. I was so sure that after I stepped onto that cold silver platform I would be able to shout from the rooftops (er, basement bathroom) “I'VE LOST TEN POUNDS!” It's not a lot but it seems significant. Once you lose ten you feel like you've really accomplished something and you can keep going, the next 5 or 10 seem easy. I was ready for it, The Captain even mentioned the other day that I looked thinner. In hind sight he may have just wanted me to make him breakfast. But this was it, today was the day. I looked down...
Nine.
Seriously? Nine pounds? I know it's only a one pound difference but I feel like nine is just as bad as zero and ten is epic! I feel like a failure. I mourned by making baked macaroni and cheese with croissants for dinner. Because that'll help me lose weight....
Saturday, August 14, 2010
I Might Be Hungry
I love oatmeal. I eat it every single day for breakfast, literally. Every day. Sometimes when The Captain is gone I have it for dinner too. Part of it is because I also have a deeply rooted affection for carbohydrates but also because it’s warm and comforting. Something about tucking my sweat pant covered legs under me while snugged in the corner of the couch holding a hot bowl of oatmeal just makes my morning.
I suppose it’s healthy for me too. Oats are supposed to lower your cholesterol and be great for your heart. That is, of course, if I don’t add a cup of brown sugar. Actually, the Quaker instant low-sugar packets are my favorite. I can be completely satisfied with those 120 calories and a cup of coffee. Way better for me than a stack of blueberry pancakes, my first love.
I’m high maintenance about my blueberry pancakes. The berries have to be cooked in the batter, none of this goopy processed pie-filling-compote junk. No. Real blueberries cooked right inside buttermilk batter. If we go out to breakfast I always ask and if it’s “fruit on top” I don’t even bother. Egg white omelet it is. And hash browns. Did I mention I love carbohydrates? Did I also mention I’m on a diet?
I suppose it’s healthy for me too. Oats are supposed to lower your cholesterol and be great for your heart. That is, of course, if I don’t add a cup of brown sugar. Actually, the Quaker instant low-sugar packets are my favorite. I can be completely satisfied with those 120 calories and a cup of coffee. Way better for me than a stack of blueberry pancakes, my first love.
I’m high maintenance about my blueberry pancakes. The berries have to be cooked in the batter, none of this goopy processed pie-filling-compote junk. No. Real blueberries cooked right inside buttermilk batter. If we go out to breakfast I always ask and if it’s “fruit on top” I don’t even bother. Egg white omelet it is. And hash browns. Did I mention I love carbohydrates? Did I also mention I’m on a diet?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Have you ever heard of a baby teething at three months? My son must be in some kind of hurry to grow up. Ok, I don’t know for sure that he is teething but my Google-educated guess is that he is. Here’s why I think this:
*While he is not actually cutting any teeth his gums are white. At his two month check up the pediatrician said “look at all those teeth!”
*He is sleeping more than usual during the day and when he’s awake all he does is fuss
*He is more attached to his binky than ever
*People who come over swear I am the owner of a St Bernard based on the amount of drool all over my house
But really, isn’t it a bit early for all this? I’m also convinced that he will walk before he crawls. If you try to set him on your lap or on the couch in a sitting position he’ll have nothing of it. He locks his legs up and stands. Mister’s idea of tummy time is 1.8 seconds on his belly followed by screams that make my neighbors dog howl. My neighbor’s dog howling makes my dog bark. My dog barking makes the upstairs neighbor’s dog scratch and dig at the floor. The screaming, howling, barking and scratching makes The Captain turn up the volume on his first person shooter xbox game. It sounds like a whore house in Detroit in my living room.
I’m really in no hurry for Mister to grow up. I love that he snuggles with me and that when I kiss him instead of wiping it off he just giggles. He doesn’t know that there are bad people out there or that the world can be a mean place. He doesn’t worry about how much money is in his college fund and he could care less about what he’s wearing as long as his diaper is dry. He has no idea that someday his heart will be broken. Political issues mean nothing to him. The fact that he doesn’t understand the War On Terror is not naivety, it’s innocence.
All he knows is love and I’m determined to keep it that way as long as possible
*While he is not actually cutting any teeth his gums are white. At his two month check up the pediatrician said “look at all those teeth!”
*He is sleeping more than usual during the day and when he’s awake all he does is fuss
*He is more attached to his binky than ever
*People who come over swear I am the owner of a St Bernard based on the amount of drool all over my house
But really, isn’t it a bit early for all this? I’m also convinced that he will walk before he crawls. If you try to set him on your lap or on the couch in a sitting position he’ll have nothing of it. He locks his legs up and stands. Mister’s idea of tummy time is 1.8 seconds on his belly followed by screams that make my neighbors dog howl. My neighbor’s dog howling makes my dog bark. My dog barking makes the upstairs neighbor’s dog scratch and dig at the floor. The screaming, howling, barking and scratching makes The Captain turn up the volume on his first person shooter xbox game. It sounds like a whore house in Detroit in my living room.
I’m really in no hurry for Mister to grow up. I love that he snuggles with me and that when I kiss him instead of wiping it off he just giggles. He doesn’t know that there are bad people out there or that the world can be a mean place. He doesn’t worry about how much money is in his college fund and he could care less about what he’s wearing as long as his diaper is dry. He has no idea that someday his heart will be broken. Political issues mean nothing to him. The fact that he doesn’t understand the War On Terror is not naivety, it’s innocence.
All he knows is love and I’m determined to keep it that way as long as possible
Monday, August 9, 2010
Who's That Girl in the White Coat?
4:00am
Wake up!!! Today is my first day back to work. I’m excited to be back. I’m anxious too. I feel like a kid on the first day of school, I even bought a new lunch box. I set out my scrubs and ironed my lab coat last night. I really miss work and I feel blessed to be able to say that. I love what I do. More than that, I love my job. I work at a great place with fantastic people and we’re a little family. I’ve missed them.
6:15am
I’ve already realized that I’ve forgotten all my passwords and door codes and I had 270 emails in my inbox to sort through. So far there is only one patient for me to see and I’m so happy to be doing it that I don’t even mind that I have to haul my monstrous machine upstairs to do the exam at the bedside (he is unable to leave his room). Normally this is a huge inconvenience but today I am pleased to accommodate his needs. I bet that feeling won’t last…
10:30am
Still have only seen that one patient. At first I was thankful that my boss scheduled my first day back as a Sunday because they are historically slow. I thought that would make it an easy transition back to work but Good Lord I didn’t want it to be THIS slow.
1:30pm
My co-worker has arrived and I have to go home an hour early because I still have only seen one patient. Packin' it up
Overall I'll say it was a successful first day. Uneventful is sometimes the best you can ask for. I rewarded myself with ice cream after dinner. Don't worry it was a little individual serving of Skinny Cow. Hey, chocolate fudge chunk is chocolate fudge chunk.
Wake up!!! Today is my first day back to work. I’m excited to be back. I’m anxious too. I feel like a kid on the first day of school, I even bought a new lunch box. I set out my scrubs and ironed my lab coat last night. I really miss work and I feel blessed to be able to say that. I love what I do. More than that, I love my job. I work at a great place with fantastic people and we’re a little family. I’ve missed them.
6:15am
I’ve already realized that I’ve forgotten all my passwords and door codes and I had 270 emails in my inbox to sort through. So far there is only one patient for me to see and I’m so happy to be doing it that I don’t even mind that I have to haul my monstrous machine upstairs to do the exam at the bedside (he is unable to leave his room). Normally this is a huge inconvenience but today I am pleased to accommodate his needs. I bet that feeling won’t last…
10:30am
Still have only seen that one patient. At first I was thankful that my boss scheduled my first day back as a Sunday because they are historically slow. I thought that would make it an easy transition back to work but Good Lord I didn’t want it to be THIS slow.
1:30pm
My co-worker has arrived and I have to go home an hour early because I still have only seen one patient. Packin' it up
Overall I'll say it was a successful first day. Uneventful is sometimes the best you can ask for. I rewarded myself with ice cream after dinner. Don't worry it was a little individual serving of Skinny Cow. Hey, chocolate fudge chunk is chocolate fudge chunk.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Don't Judge Me
First Order of Business: Comments are now open to all. I was unaware that the default setting only allows blogger account holders to comment. My apologies if you tried unsuccessfully. I changed the settings so now anyone may leave me love notes.
Onward and forward to New Business: Just because I have a baby doesn't mean I'm breastfeeding.
When I was pregnant complete strangers would always ask me two questions: When are you due? What are you having? I didn't mind, I was excited. Now that I tote the cutest little accessory around people still ask me two questions: How old? Are you breastfeeding? I mind.
I'm sorry but asking a woman about her breasts and if she is using them to sustain life is a pretty personal thing to ask a total stranger in line at Panera. But really, I think that I hate when they ask because I hate saying no. Then I get “the look.” You know, that one that says 'I can't believe you'd deny your child of the most important nutrients and probiotics for a healthy immune system and start to life that you could possibly give him you're the worst mother in the world and a horrible selfish woman.' That look.
Now this whole thing with Gisele Bundchen saying that breastfeeding should be international law has sparked so much controversy. I nearly started crying when the news was on this morning and had to change the channel. I want to breastfeed, I do. I am fully aware of how important it is and all the benefits that come from it for baby and mother. I took a breastfeeding class, I had three different lactation consultants counsel me and coach Mister before we left the hospital and all systems were go.
At his first visit with the pediatrician he had lost more than 10% of his body weight and was dehydrated. I fed him and they weighed him again and he hadn't gained a single ounce which meant he was getting nothing. Absolutely nothing. This was devastating to me as a new mom. I was starving my baby. What kind of person starves their baby? What kind of mother doesn’t know that their baby isn't getting enough food? I cried and cried and sunk into a depression.
I was producing plenty of milk so the doctor said to breastfeed and then always offer a bottle of formula to supplement. He got used to the bottle and wouldn't latch on anymore so I started pumping and we just gave him bottles of breast milk. The Captain loved this because he could feed him too. This worked for a while until I just couldn't keep up with Mister. He was still taking formula after every feeding and eating every two hours. Every third feeding was just formula, then every other. I pumped and pumped and got less and less and Mister was eating more and more. By the time he was 4 weeks old I was completely dry and he was on 100% formula.
As much as I want to say that I'm ok knowing I tried and did the best I could and at least he got breast milk for 4 weeks, I'm not ok. I had an extremely hard time knowing that I couldn't provide for him and give him what he really needed to thrive. It kills me and makes me feel like a failure. The one semester I spent as a college freshman psychology major taught me that this anxiety is linked to more primitive times when the woman's roll in life was to procreate and take care of her children. It's what we were perfectly designed for. I couldn't take care of mine and therefore I have somehow failed not only him but the entire colony because without breast milk he won't grow up to be a warrior, er something.
It sounds ridiculous but I'm very sensitive about it and I hate telling people that I'm not breastfeeding. I hate the look, I hate the judgment, I hate that I'm having a harder time losing the weight (ok that one is selfish), and I hate that I couldn't do my job as his mother.
He's doing absolutely fine. He's gaining weight like it's cool and growing like a weed. He's developing at an accelerated rate and is loved more than any baby in the whole world. I will give him everything I possibly can, everything that I am capable of I will do for this little miracle. So don't judge me or my ability as a mother because I can't breastfeed. It's not easy to do and it's not easy to deal without doing.
Beyond the emotional trauma we both went through, what really sucks is that he's not being breastfed and my boobs are still saggy and ruined.
Onward and forward to New Business: Just because I have a baby doesn't mean I'm breastfeeding.
When I was pregnant complete strangers would always ask me two questions: When are you due? What are you having? I didn't mind, I was excited. Now that I tote the cutest little accessory around people still ask me two questions: How old? Are you breastfeeding? I mind.
I'm sorry but asking a woman about her breasts and if she is using them to sustain life is a pretty personal thing to ask a total stranger in line at Panera. But really, I think that I hate when they ask because I hate saying no. Then I get “the look.” You know, that one that says 'I can't believe you'd deny your child of the most important nutrients and probiotics for a healthy immune system and start to life that you could possibly give him you're the worst mother in the world and a horrible selfish woman.' That look.
Now this whole thing with Gisele Bundchen saying that breastfeeding should be international law has sparked so much controversy. I nearly started crying when the news was on this morning and had to change the channel. I want to breastfeed, I do. I am fully aware of how important it is and all the benefits that come from it for baby and mother. I took a breastfeeding class, I had three different lactation consultants counsel me and coach Mister before we left the hospital and all systems were go.
At his first visit with the pediatrician he had lost more than 10% of his body weight and was dehydrated. I fed him and they weighed him again and he hadn't gained a single ounce which meant he was getting nothing. Absolutely nothing. This was devastating to me as a new mom. I was starving my baby. What kind of person starves their baby? What kind of mother doesn’t know that their baby isn't getting enough food? I cried and cried and sunk into a depression.
I was producing plenty of milk so the doctor said to breastfeed and then always offer a bottle of formula to supplement. He got used to the bottle and wouldn't latch on anymore so I started pumping and we just gave him bottles of breast milk. The Captain loved this because he could feed him too. This worked for a while until I just couldn't keep up with Mister. He was still taking formula after every feeding and eating every two hours. Every third feeding was just formula, then every other. I pumped and pumped and got less and less and Mister was eating more and more. By the time he was 4 weeks old I was completely dry and he was on 100% formula.
As much as I want to say that I'm ok knowing I tried and did the best I could and at least he got breast milk for 4 weeks, I'm not ok. I had an extremely hard time knowing that I couldn't provide for him and give him what he really needed to thrive. It kills me and makes me feel like a failure. The one semester I spent as a college freshman psychology major taught me that this anxiety is linked to more primitive times when the woman's roll in life was to procreate and take care of her children. It's what we were perfectly designed for. I couldn't take care of mine and therefore I have somehow failed not only him but the entire colony because without breast milk he won't grow up to be a warrior, er something.
It sounds ridiculous but I'm very sensitive about it and I hate telling people that I'm not breastfeeding. I hate the look, I hate the judgment, I hate that I'm having a harder time losing the weight (ok that one is selfish), and I hate that I couldn't do my job as his mother.
He's doing absolutely fine. He's gaining weight like it's cool and growing like a weed. He's developing at an accelerated rate and is loved more than any baby in the whole world. I will give him everything I possibly can, everything that I am capable of I will do for this little miracle. So don't judge me or my ability as a mother because I can't breastfeed. It's not easy to do and it's not easy to deal without doing.
Beyond the emotional trauma we both went through, what really sucks is that he's not being breastfed and my boobs are still saggy and ruined.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Crosspost Much?
The Captain came home and said to me "Do you have anything nice to wear?" I suppose that sounds a little insensitive but I knew what he meant, especially since I've been living in cotton shorts and t-shirts for the past 2 months. Thinking there is a function I need to be at I say "I suppose I could find something," knowing full well I do not own anything that fits beyond my bathrobe. He says, "Good, I want to take you out."
Insert shocked face.
But here's my problem, I really don't have anything that fits. You think I'm kidding. I have sweats and The Captain's t-shirts and if I must leave the house I wear my maternity jeans and one of two tops that I recently bought just so I would have SOMETHING. The second I get home I put the sweats back on.
When I lost 40 pounds during the last deployment I got rid of all my "fat clothes" vowing to never be that size again. I had gained a few pounds back and was determined to get back to my old routine during this deployment and be better than ever. I hadn't counted on getting pregnant and I certainly hadn't counted on not being able to diet or exercise for 9 months and then 6 weeks after. I let go.
The day of my 6 week postpartum visit my doctor told me I had no restrictions and I hit the ground running. I went to the gym that afternoon. I went to the grocery store and started my diet. I was on fire. It lasted a week.
So now here I am feeling sorry for myself again, finding it very difficult to get to the gym on a regular basis with a new baby and nearly impossible to stick to a diet when my meals are determined by when Mister lets me eat. I went to my closet to see what in the world I could wear when my wonderful husband (who loves me and understands and doesn't care that I am a whale, but supports my efforts) takes me out. I know none of it fits but I decide to commit suicide and try some things on anyway. "It's a reference point," I tell myself. At least if I go into it expecting it to be the equivalent of stuffing an elephant into a Maserati maybe I won't cry.
I gained 35 pounds during my pregnancy, which is perfectly acceptable. I felt good about that until 10 weeks later I am only 13 pounds less than I was when I delivered. Mister was 7lbs, plus water, plus placenta... you get the idea. I haven't lost an ounce. Actually, I think I've gained weight since I had him. But here's my goal: I want to get back to my original goal weight that I had during the first deployment which means losing 36 more pounds. Since I've been allowed to diet and exercise (notice I said 'since I've been allowed' and not 'since I've been doing it') I've lost 4.
It's a start, I suppose. I just hope the next 4 don't take so long.
Insert shocked face.
But here's my problem, I really don't have anything that fits. You think I'm kidding. I have sweats and The Captain's t-shirts and if I must leave the house I wear my maternity jeans and one of two tops that I recently bought just so I would have SOMETHING. The second I get home I put the sweats back on.
When I lost 40 pounds during the last deployment I got rid of all my "fat clothes" vowing to never be that size again. I had gained a few pounds back and was determined to get back to my old routine during this deployment and be better than ever. I hadn't counted on getting pregnant and I certainly hadn't counted on not being able to diet or exercise for 9 months and then 6 weeks after. I let go.
The day of my 6 week postpartum visit my doctor told me I had no restrictions and I hit the ground running. I went to the gym that afternoon. I went to the grocery store and started my diet. I was on fire. It lasted a week.
So now here I am feeling sorry for myself again, finding it very difficult to get to the gym on a regular basis with a new baby and nearly impossible to stick to a diet when my meals are determined by when Mister lets me eat. I went to my closet to see what in the world I could wear when my wonderful husband (who loves me and understands and doesn't care that I am a whale, but supports my efforts) takes me out. I know none of it fits but I decide to commit suicide and try some things on anyway. "It's a reference point," I tell myself. At least if I go into it expecting it to be the equivalent of stuffing an elephant into a Maserati maybe I won't cry.
I gained 35 pounds during my pregnancy, which is perfectly acceptable. I felt good about that until 10 weeks later I am only 13 pounds less than I was when I delivered. Mister was 7lbs, plus water, plus placenta... you get the idea. I haven't lost an ounce. Actually, I think I've gained weight since I had him. But here's my goal: I want to get back to my original goal weight that I had during the first deployment which means losing 36 more pounds. Since I've been allowed to diet and exercise (notice I said 'since I've been allowed' and not 'since I've been doing it') I've lost 4.
It's a start, I suppose. I just hope the next 4 don't take so long.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Story of My Keurig
For those of you who don't know, the Keurig is the Lexus of coffee makers. My in-laws got my one for my birthday last year and I absolutely love it. As much as I abuse it on a daily basis now, I actually didn't use it much right away. When I got it we were in the process of packing for our next move and I didn't want to take it out of it's perfectly cushioned shipping box to put it in another box. So it sat on the floor with the other ready-to-load-in-the-truck boxes until moving day.
Unpacking is always a slow and (not-so) methodical process. The Keurig box made it to the kitchen and that's about as far as it got for a few weeks. I finally cleared the other boxes enough to have counter space for the Keurig and set it up. I think I used it twice before I found out I was pregnant and was forbidden from even thinking about caffeine. I tried making decaf but it's just not the same. Sigh, see you in nine months my friend.
Fast forward. Welcome to the world Mister and welcome back Keurig! Oh how I've missed you! I have absolutely overworked and abused my beloved gourmet coffee maker in the past 10 weeks. New mommies need -NEED- coffee. As much as I thought I was an addict before, this doesn't even compare.
Then. It happened. A disaster of epic proportions. My Keurig has died. The lights are off, the buttons don't work. I changed plugs, checked the circuits, hit the power button repeatedly (because maybe if I hit it one more time, this time something different will happen), opened and closed the lid, checked the connections, checked the water level. Flat line.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic. Because I save everything I still have my old coffee maker from before I was married. My old room mate and I brewed a lot of great pots with that trusty old gal. I brought it down from the top shelf, excited to see an old friend and ready for a cup of fresh ground beans when I realized... I have no filters. The Keurig doesn't use filters so I haven't purchased any in over a year. I tore my cupboards apart looking for anything that resembled a size 4 cone. Paper towel... nylons...I have nothing. Ok, panic!
So here I sit, waiting for The Captain to wake up and stay with Mister so I can go to The Coffee Bean. Wake up, wake up, wake up....
Unpacking is always a slow and (not-so) methodical process. The Keurig box made it to the kitchen and that's about as far as it got for a few weeks. I finally cleared the other boxes enough to have counter space for the Keurig and set it up. I think I used it twice before I found out I was pregnant and was forbidden from even thinking about caffeine. I tried making decaf but it's just not the same. Sigh, see you in nine months my friend.
Fast forward. Welcome to the world Mister and welcome back Keurig! Oh how I've missed you! I have absolutely overworked and abused my beloved gourmet coffee maker in the past 10 weeks. New mommies need -NEED- coffee. As much as I thought I was an addict before, this doesn't even compare.
Then. It happened. A disaster of epic proportions. My Keurig has died. The lights are off, the buttons don't work. I changed plugs, checked the circuits, hit the power button repeatedly (because maybe if I hit it one more time, this time something different will happen), opened and closed the lid, checked the connections, checked the water level. Flat line.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic. Because I save everything I still have my old coffee maker from before I was married. My old room mate and I brewed a lot of great pots with that trusty old gal. I brought it down from the top shelf, excited to see an old friend and ready for a cup of fresh ground beans when I realized... I have no filters. The Keurig doesn't use filters so I haven't purchased any in over a year. I tore my cupboards apart looking for anything that resembled a size 4 cone. Paper towel... nylons...I have nothing. Ok, panic!
So here I sit, waiting for The Captain to wake up and stay with Mister so I can go to The Coffee Bean. Wake up, wake up, wake up....
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