It seems to me that trying to live without friends is like milking a bear to get cream for your morning coffee. It is a whole lot of trouble, and then not worth much after you get it. - Zora Neal Hurston
Ok, ok...the past few days I have been caught up in a frenzy about toddler feeding and nutrition. This morning was the crest of that wave.
My panic button was pressed.
The following sentence sent me into a spin of FIRST, wanting a donut; second, fearing for Nora; third, feeling anxious.
"Your child will grow up to feel about eating the way you do. If that gives you a little thrill of dismay and dread, you have work to do."
After leaving a frantic voicemail for Kathy, I had to step back and take a breath. A few of them.
First, no driving to a donut shop.
Second, Nora is going to be fine.
Third, my anxiety is not from this mountain of a mole hill. I feed Nora pretty well and she is a good eater...there's something else underneath at the root of all this.
Hmmmm...my stressors...
Part of it is that I am suddenly overwhelmed by the academic/professional void in my life since being out of work now for over a year. At first it was just awesome to NEVER have to go to work but t he initial euphoria of motherhood is no longer new. I have even caught myself looking longingly at my professional teacher slacks in the closet.
Calls and emails to pre-baby friends often (and understandably) go unanswered for a long time...I imagine that's because they are busy with their jobs. Applying their minds and time to something outside of the domestic sphere.
I used to be important (please don't tell me I'm important to Nora...I inherently get that). I mean that I used to be a highly-respected English teacher. Colleagues sought out my advice on curriculum, behavior issues, methodology. I was the mentor and coach to new teachers. I had a strong and passionate voice at staff meetings. Administrators praised my abilities. I was proud of being a teacher. Yes, I complained..but at the end of the day, I knew I was good at it. I used big words.
Parenting is different. Sure, on MOST days, I know that I have done a solid job parenting my daughter...but my brain still feels more and more gelatinous by the hours of grocery shopping, cleaning, dishes, laundry folding, dealing with cloth diapers, cooking meals, and the phenomenal hours of engagement and entertainment provided to Nora. Prior to motherhood, I did not particularly enjoy cooking and cleaning...and yet, there are now hours allocated each day to these tasks.
In addition to missing my profession, we are in the first week of escrow on a house. A gigantic step in the land of adult-financial-responsibility (more to come on this as the process moves along).
Daniel is also going to return to graduate school for the next 3-5 years to pursue his MBA...while we continue to move towards having a second baby.
A year ago, this entire list of items would have normally been discussed and vexed and mulled over with a beautiful group of friends. Friends that have busy lives...all of whom now work outside the home.
So, would I like some cheese with my whine? Yes, I would. A huge chunk of sharp, blue-veined, morbier, please...and a donut on the side.
Wait, isn't that how this post started? Coming full circle.
I ain't no therapist but looks to me like some "transference-to-food-of-anxiety-over-other-things".
Longing for genuine friendships and time to daily talk.
Missing my career of a decade.
Vexing about a potential 5 years of many nights/weekends of single-parenting of perhaps two (kind and veggie-filled) children.
Starting the process of buying a home in the midst of a major recession.
Huh, it's all making a lot more sense.
Because, truth be told, the advice from the book led to instant and amazing results. Not a single screaming fest since I gave up on my tricking and pleading and shenanigans at meal time.
Here's a photo spread that tells the following story from Lulu's perspective:
"Mom was stressed out about me eating vegetables, although, I really just wanted to eat them myself.
You see, I am devouring it when it's part of the tortilla casserole that her and Daddy eat.
I even got to drink from a cup by myself.
I didn't quite understand how to do it...but I was having fun.
Well, until it splashed on my face. I'll practice this more.
But my first "Independence Meal" ended well. I had lots of sauce in my hair and water on my clothes...but I'm a big girl.
Someone has clearly taken my "baby" Noodle and replaced her with a much more ambulatory, verbal, strong-willed, ravenous, and sleepy toddler.
The past few days have found us dancing to German folk music at an Oktoberfest and Nora toddling 8+ steps across the floor to deliver various toys or crumbs into our hands. It's fun...but has me often looking at her wondering "where is my baby?"
She is talking in her own special language. Certainly a mix of German and English that comes out in squeaks and bobbles and sign-language mish-mash. She has added "water, shoe, read" to her signs and also a fantastic verbal copy of Daniel's "putchyer, putchyer, putchyer, putchyer pants on." She now shouts "Putchyer! Putchyer!" anytime she's on her changing table and belts it out when putting on her shoes.
And although I do strongly resist the connotation wrapped up in pink-princess-glittery-overly-feminine clothing, I have put Nora in a dress on three occasions. She wore a baptismal dress, an Easter dress, and now this cocoa brown number. And admittedly, she was sweet in all of them.
With her orange cloth bootie peeking out from underneath, it was a colorful moment.
The feather cap of an ancient Bavarian boy also became an adorable exclamation point to our afternoon spent at the Phoenix Club's Oktoberfest.
We went with the lovely Carrie & Ed and their baby Ruby.
Along with Amy & Malta with their daughter Paloma.
A very authentic festival complete with real-live Germans selling bratwurst and beer, donning lederhosen and dirndles, and of course, large rings romping to the chicken dance. A truly horrifying dance that for some odd reason is repeated at every event pertaining to Germans.
There were, sadly, no Turkish foods, songs, or people (that I could obviously spot), to make me feel like I was at home with my peeps in Cologne...but that's a whole other post for another day.
I had to take some ridiculously cheesy photos.
We had a blast feeding Nora saurekraut and potato salad.
Sipping on giant beers while she danced under the German flag.
Playing with her amigas, Ruby and Paloma, on a picnic blanket...Lulu was the eldest child, the wise one (by one whole month!).
To see the complete set of Oktoberfest pictures, click here.
On the toddler-eating tip, I've been reading a great book given to me by my sister-in-law (who has her smarty-pants-enormous-brain doctorate in nutrition), Child of Mine: Feeding with Love and Good Sense by Ellyn Satter (also a giant well-used brain).
I was laughing yesterday as I underlined these key points below (having just shot the video of us wanting her to eat her broccoli mash the day before).
If a struggle emerges about eating, a toddler will get so involved with the struggle and so upset that it overwhelms her need to eat.
The diets of children of all ages suffer when parents go to extremes of being controlling on the one hand or failing to provide support and guidance on the other.
Children eat poorly when parents criticize, manage, or intrude on eating.
The more trouble parents take to make special food for a toddler, the more inclined the toddler is to reject the food.
Don't try to reason with her. She can't reason, it won't help her eating, and your efforts to persuade her will only teach her to use the issue as a bid for attention.
Children learn only if they get opportunities to learn.
Resist the impulse to entice, reward, play games, placate, and make special food.
She can use her fingers to feed herself, learn to use eating utensils, and drink from a cup.
She needs predictable feeding times, three meals and two snacks, and she needs help coming to the table rested and hungry but not famished.
Despite her erratic and sporadic hunger and appetite, she will get the calories she needs by averaging her eating out over several days.
So, hmmm...my giving her constant snacks when she begs, when she's fussing in the car, when she seems bored or irritated at a playdate, trying to force "green"' foods if she doesn't want them, worrying that she's eating too much fruit, not wanting her to get messy or spill food all over the floor and so feeding her most of the time...apparently all of that could use a few adjustments. Because frankly folks, I have some food issues. I eat WAY TOO much, too fast, and too often. I had asked Kathy for a book that would help me approach Nora's eating with some more thought than I give my own.
And I am amazed at just how often I contradict the above. How often Nora must have seen me eat a monstrous meal of unbalanced foods, eat out of the fridge/bag/box. How often she sees me eat when I'm upset, bored, happy...basically any emotion. I would like her not to turn to food for an emotional embrace. And as her primary food-provider, she is already taking some major cues from me. I carry her special snacks with me and dole them out all the time.
When did that happen, I wonder? This doling out of constant raisins, goldfish, mum-mums, crackers, cheerios, puffs? Most moms I know have these items on hand. And they aren't given at an official "snack-time" seated up at a table, but rather sprinkled around to keep a kid happy or quiet, help them calm down, stop crying, or allow a phone call or email to finish...or because the child is watching you snack and starts to beg for some (that's me!). I am doing all of these things...all the time.
But let me be clear...I am writing these words and NOT feeling guilt....because I am learning this gig as I move along. Always learning and adjusting to how I might serve Nora better.
Even if I stay against Nora having ingesting hormone-laced meat, insecticide-coated produce, salty foods, sugary sweets and drinking juice, if I've set the wheel in motion that she craves food whenever she feels any emotional high or low or boredom...(like her mama)...then I have still done her no favors.
So, I feel a renewed excitement about my approach to her eating. I am not proud of my relationship to food...but my daughter doesn't have to feel the same way. I am almost at the heaviest weight of my life (the same weight I was at 40 weeks preggers...this is painfully obvious in this photo from Sunday...wow, that's hard to look at!)
...but Noodle doesn't have to obsess about her weight the way I do.
Our days ahead will hold more opportunities for Nora to eat "regular" food, get messy, learn to pick it up, chew it up, and feel the textures. No wiping her mouth often, no feeding her on my hip without much thought given to sitting down.
She will not be forced to eat her veggies...but offered them regularly. No more gravy-train of snacks spilling out of the diaper bag. No more holding her at the kitchen counter and doling out snacks as I graze myself. I will stumble in my new path...but I am grateful for the information. This will not be a perfectly-straight path...it could never be. But I will try.
When you struggle daily with food, weight, body-image like I do, having a daughter and wanting a different experience for her, must be natural. But my habits are deeply entrenched...habits that I hope helping Nora not to acquire might help me to recognize more in myself. Oh, I'm sure there are books about how you are not to correct your own deep issues through your children - and maybe one day I'll read one of those, too...or Nora will hand it to me after seeking therapy!
I do want my heart to beat strongly into the future. And that will demand changes in my behavior. I always write this type of post here when I'm fed up. I send it out into the world to shake things up. I think these pictures of late, combined with my neighbor recently telling me that I always look frumpy and my grandma saying about Nora's birthday pictures, "Your face looks happy and the rest of you looks...well, your face is happy. Your cousin is losing weight and feeling really good about himself. Did you know that?" have struck a nerve. Yes, you don't need to tell me that these comments were mean. Spoken without malice...but still unkind.
At 6:00am this morning, my aging white sneakers were coated in red clay dust, my heart was beating fast, my hot face crimson and damp. I had just rounded the high school track after finishing six sets of stairs, 50 squats, and various arm/back exercises, when the rock-hard trainer asked me a question. A question that made me smile from ear to ear...as sweat dripped in my eyes and I caught my breath. The glorious words that fell from the sculpted-cardio maven's mouth were:
"Do you work out?"
Yes, a little.
"I can tell. You look strong and have good form."
Thanks.
And then she ordered me to climb the bleachers for another round of madness. My mind savored every morsel of our exchange. Chewing sweetly upon the question and the fact that this woman without any visible body fat could tell that I worked out. Her words quickened my pace and soon I was lying on my yoga mat, crunching towards a ripening pink-streaked sky (having come in 7th out of 16 women on the gauntlet). A faint smile still painted upon my beet-red face.
Today I started a new bootcamp (Groupon ROCKS, by the way)...new trainers to push me to a new level of exhaustion that I would not reach on my own volition. Sure there are shifting numbers upon the scale but, more importantly, the loose waists of the only pants and shorts (two of each, to be exact) that I've been able to squeeze into since having Noodle, now fit comfortably. No more buttons digging in and leaving their lasting impressions. Perhaps a few more items can soon be pulled from the dark and dusty closet...they have sat draped upon their hangers since the first trimester of my pregnancy. I miss some of their patterns and textures. The four items that I switch each day are tired.
I am proud. I am stronger...and I can tell.
*A HUGE shout out to Courtney, my best friend, who exchanges emails with me each day to keep us both inspired. And of course, Kathy, my sister-in-law and dear friend who ALWAYS answers every question I have about food, nutrition, diet, and life that I ask (with patience and no audible eye-rolling, since I've asked them all a million times). You both will be seeing less of me in just a few weeks! :)
In case today ends as most do as of late...with an exhausted fall into bed, I'll post this recent photo of Super Smiler Nugglet with her Grandma Lola and Auntie Barbara.
I am dragging my feet on starting solids. It is just so easy to go about our day nursing anywhere we'd like. Once the solids train pulls out of the station, there's no going back. Around the same time each day, or twice a day, a full hour needs to be set aside to feed. Starting with a nursing session...then the food prep, the slow and joyous eating conversation, the clean up. Sure it will take a lot less time down the line - but wrapping my mind around the first feeding just makes me tired. So it's breastmilk served a la carte again!
Thank goodness my sis-in-law Kathy is around to always calm my nerves about all things food-related. No, rice cereal will not make Nora diabetic. No, I don't have to be paranoid about introducing fruits before vegetables. No, I don't have to rush to start...up until she's a year old, Noodle gets all of her hammy thigh-goodness from my milk. I vex too often about the eventual hormone-stuffed meat and poultry that she'll eat, the salty snacks, the nonorganic milk and produce, the chemicals and preservatives in fast food, the sugary treats, decadent cookies and rivers of juice.
I know that I can control her eating 99% of the time for the first few years...but all of these items will drop into her diet by kind-hearted people who think she'll enjoy them. And enjoy them she will, as I did and still do. I just wish I could keep her in a bubble sometimes. A bubble that bounces joyously past all the unhealthy foods, eating habits, sweet tooth, sodium mounds, and greasy morsels that I adore--- and find myself struggling with since I was nine.
I've been a butterball since I was nine. My mind and heart ache to keep Nora from a similar experience. When I imagine her looking for a seat in the 4th grade...I want her not to hear the boys making "moo" sounds. When she sits, I'd like it to be without kids making creeking sounds. Can I keep her from the harpoon jokes, blubber comments, oinking noises, and cruel names? I hope to. I may not be like other moms in this regard...it isn't just a desire for Nora to be a healthy eater -- it is a passionate and fervent wish to protect her from the brutal school experiences that I had and the issues that I still have from being overweight.
*And on a side note, if I EVER find out that Nora is on the giving end of this cruel behavior, I'll wrangle her organic-eating neck! We will have many many conversations about making comments, about being kind to other kids, about how our family's "normal" is not everyone else's. Some families have two moms or dads or just one. Some children have an extra chromosome, different ways of learning, or ways of moving...and versus staring at them, we can just ask them about it. Some families practice other faiths that are equally beautiful. Some children have a mother and a birth-mom. So many variations on families and faith and morality for her to see.
My goodness, I feel the need to read yet another childhood development book right now! But maybe that makes it worse...all the reading. Or at least the baby-book reading...I'll end this post and read my novel...perfect in its fictional form.
This morning was rocky. I awoke at 4:50 and did some yoga. I put on my workout wear. I grabbed my banana. I was creeping towards the back door at 5:23am...and then a SCREAM pierced the silent house. A scream that could easily be heard from the nursery and echoed even louder from the monitor. I panicked. It was now or never for my 5:30am bootcamp. She just ate at 4:00am...umm...do I let Daniel stumble awake to heat up a bottle...I could solve her cries in an instant...
Within seconds I rushed into the nursery, foregoing the "shoes off" rule, scooped up a warm pile of sweet Noodle and settled in to nurse. And as I sat and rocked, I knew...there would be no early morning exercise.
I felt irritated. Not at her but at the timing. These three bootcamps before dawn are my only hours each week that I get away, no babies, no cooking, no cleaning, no nursing...just following someone else's lead. No talking. Only listening. The sound of my own breath, the quick beat of my heart.
Hours passed and I decided to take Nuggs to a bootcamp of a different sort -- "Mommy & Me." It turned out to serve me an awesome burn...sore legs and arms and abs. Just the way I like it. Instead of crisp morning air and freezing hands, I was in a t-shirt and Nora was frolicking on a picnic blanket watching me hold plank. Not better but different.
Today the scale told me the tale of a woman who has gained 18 lbs since giving birth. It isn't hard to figure out why. Eating too much. Exercise is not my problem. Plenty of it found around here. I go to bootcamp, I walk twice a day, I go to the gym, I have been leading other mommies on stair stepping/strolling beach workouts. It is simply too many calories in. I can't seem to wrap my head around following the diabetic diet now that I'm not pregnant. That was the healthiest I had EVER felt. At 40+ weeks pregnant I had glowing skin, energy, yoga strengthened my body and calmed my mind, and my diet had a steady pulse of carbs for energy but not for roller coaster dives and dips. Sweets had been eliminated...I barely even had a sweet tooth. I said no with conviction and without hesitation to cakes, sugar, cookies or piles of bready goodness. If I could only find myself once again saying no with ease. If I could only find myself not turning to food when I'm bored. If, If, If.
But as the hours passed, and I kept obsessing with this number on the scale...over these 18 lbs. since coming home from the hospital...I realized that the obsession doesn't change anything. The number stays or probably goes up when I fixate and keep mindlessly munching.
So, I chose to relish my burning legs and arms while eating a salad. I bundled up Nora and joined my new friends in the park for a picnic and singing adventure. And as the rainbow-hued parachute rose and fell above her grinning face, I knew that her joy, these adventures, and our time together deserve more than my fixation on a number.
(*She's tricking you here by not smiling...she really did enjoy it!)
There were 18 beautiful things at the end of my day -- besides those lbs-- Margie & Noah; Kathy & Shane; Beth & Bailey; Chan & Justin; Karen & James; Remy & Kelsey; Kari & Dean; Laurie & Jack; Sylvia & Nick. 9 great women and their 9 adorable babies.
Sometimes it just takes a rainbow parachute and Nora's smile to make me snap out of it.
Just as Noodle woke from her morning nap, the cheers from Tahrir Square in Egypt spilled from the radio. I know nothing of the political dynamics in this country; however, I couldn't help but be moved by the masses protesting with such passion these past few weeks. My eyes set upon a celebratory outfit...bedecked with gold stars...to commemorate a special day in the land of the pyramids. Certainly, the sands may shift in a direction that leaves little but this day about which to feel euphoric...but for now, this morning, my heart feels glee for a people whose voices were heard. The Egyptian woman's voice that crackled with emotion on NPR and the reporter who was greeted today with "You are my sister. Welcome to a Free Egypt" will resonate in my mind for a long time.
Nora usually slumbers only for another 45 minutes and there is much to do. I visited a house yesterday of another stay-at-home mom. It was immaculate. I fished, as I always do in the presence of such an orderly and spotless space, as to whether it was accomplished by the inhabitants or a housecleaner (did I mention - spotless?...like I could and would lick the floors if chocolate pudding was to fall). So, I was fishing...and to my shock it was this woman who kept her house so organized and shiny. I mean the white tile glistened. I didn't have a chance to do the ultimate check, fingering photo frames for dust and checking around the bolts on the toilet (a bizarre ritual by my grandmother to ascertain someone's cleaning prowess), but I was sitting on the rug in the living room and staring at a ginormous cat named Jack - who apparently does not ever lose even one hair from his shaggy mane.
Walking home, I told Nuggs that we would never have a home that clean. It just isn't in my blood. Dishes are tackled almost daily (or when there are no forks left). Mopping, sheet changing, toilet scrubbing, and dusting are accomplished by Camille. My hero. Our housecleaner extraordinaire. My heart actually skips a beat when her truck pulls to our curb...soon she approaches the door. A can of Dr. Pepper in one hand and a magical blue cleaning bucket in the other. I provide the wacky green products (although there really is nothing like bleach) and she invests all the sweat.
There is simply nothing, I mean NOTHING, like every other Friday. Camille Day.
And this Friday, as a bonus, I am feeling the giddy pride of having run intervals up and down the steepest hill I've ever seen (with a belly still in shock from the cupcakes, calamari, and clam chowder I ate the night before...yes, the diet part hasn't quite shifted). Certainly there are worse hills...but none that my two hazel eyes have blearily focused upon with running shoes and a running nose at 5:30am.
I wanted to shout to the entire glistening city of Long Beach below..."Did you just see that? I just ran. I did it."
But since the citizenry would not take kindly to boot campers yelling...and my fellow campers could contest my usage of the verb "run," I kept it inside. Gushing to my poor awake neighbors in their driveway, to my beloved neighbor from her bedroom window, and to my handsome husband who was giving Noo-Noo a bottle in the recliner.
And now you ten people. I ran up and down a hill. It was steep. I am proud. I'm a sucker for working out. Not sure if I ever want to sleep past 4:45 during the week again. Whether it's grassy parks, steep hills, beach stairs, or the whir of the gym. I practically bounce out of my shoes when I workout. Nora is bedazzled by my songs, my energy, my glee.
Eeeeeh gads-- she's here. The woman with the magic eraser = also glee.
So, this is now my life. Waking up in the dark of morning and performing this amazing full-body exercise a whopping 75 times (called a burpee) along a curb in a dew-laden park.
Disclaimer: My form did not look even CLOSE to the one below. A lot slower, less bounce, and only an ever-so-slight hop at the end.
A few hours later, I was licking my thumb and wiping away crusty boogers on Nora's face.
And I LOVE both aspects (not the boogers or burpees, in particular)...rather the natural growth in my motherhood as I overcome my previous extreme aversion to all nasal passage contents and the utter joy of my soaked grassy shoes and aching arms.
I pinch myself sometimes when people ask, "When are you returning to work?" and I respond, "I'll be home for quite a while." I am immensely grateful for this opportunity to be home with Noodle and that Daniel is willing to put in the daily freeway slog and cubicle time to finance this time.
Due to Nuggs not having daily access to daycare or pre-school (still not quite sure what the difference is), it has occurred to me that I want to learn a wide repertoire of silly songs, rhymes, activities, and animal sounds to sprinkle upon her day. I may never own a large rug that is crawling with letters and numbers or a giant parachute with bright bold stripes and handles...but I certainly can set up a musical area (which now consists of a red bell, bamboo sticks, and a wooden pecking chicken toy) and a reading area filled with books that show Nora the faces of a multi-cultural world.
And about that parachute...I've tried to match the excitement. I have a cloth world map that I billow atop Nora's face and as it falls I tell her which countries she's touching with different body parts ("Peru just fell on your nose. Why are you pinching Pakistan?")
When she naps for her hour (usually 3x per day), I first zoom around to accomplish a smidge of house-tidying and then with the remaining 30 minutes of her slumber, I delve into updating her baby book, or her milestone calendar, or staring into cyberspace at favorite blogs, facebook, or German newspapers. I am even tackling my first German novel (with dictionary on the side) since Berkeley in '99.
My new FAVORITE blog that absolutely cracks me up on a daily basis is this one. I could never (ever, ever, ever) imagine writing about sex and lube on this here blog...because all I can imagine is my mother-in-law sitting under the halo-crowned picture of Jesus and crucifix in her study. But Brittany, the author, manages to whip around these subjects with a humor that I adore. I'll have to continue reading her posts to see so many of my thoughts and experiences laid out into words. One of the funniest posts recently is this one.
And since I did just type the phrase "sex and lube" on this blog, I must make amends. Here's a video of Daniel and Nora in one of his famous pursuits of her belly laugh. Man, does this girl love her daddy.
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This morning my alarm jingled lightly at 4:50am. I dressed in a fog and crawled out to the blue yoga mat for a bit of stretching. A few minutes later, I bundled up in my warmest sweatshirt, grabbed a banana, and headed out to my first boot camp class at 5:30am. I was eager and anxious about the experience. Daniel was a sport and took some "before" pictures for me last night.
My body has not worked out vigorously since October of '09. A few months after that Nuglett began her cell division and I continued exercising only in the light form of swimming and pre-natal yoga. My heart had not pounded in 16 months. My clothes had not been soaked in sweat, my muscles sore, my lungs on fire for 16 months.
So, here I sit. A belly full of broccoli, spinach, and scrambled eggs. An enormous jug of water on the side. Noodle slumbers during her morning nap. And I know that the soreness I feel now from the burpees, kicking squats, jogging, crunches, leg lifts, roll downs, and push ups will only continue to grow. It's a good thing. To feel my body. To have pushed myself to the point where my next calm breath is my only focus. Where the steady pounding of my feet and the puffs of my breath are the only sounds I hear. Towards the end of the abs section, I looked up into the deep blue sky, a black tree canopy lacing the edge, clouds of smoke rising from my mouth, and felt genuinely happy.
If I want to sport Nora around town on walks, relish every dance during storytime, chase after her diapered bum with zeal, I need to be in better shape.
So, here's to the next 4 weeks. 3 boot camps minimum each week. A "Mommy & Me" stair workout and some free yoga in the park thrown in somewhere, too. Shapin' up to have more spring in my step.
The motto of this bootcamp is "Hello Sunshine, Goodbye Muffin Top." Emily will become both my hero and my enemy.
True, exercising has never been my nemesis. It's the eating component that continues my upward slide on the scale. Since Nora was born, I've gained 15 pounds. That's the opposite direction. I embraced whole-heartedly the notion that I could "eat more when breastfeeding." Right from the start, as each day that I stayed at home with Nuggs passed and the 12 hours ticked slowly by, and my previous "non-sleeping" girl and I hung out, I turned to food out of boredom and in exhaustion.
Old habits die hard. It was only the miracle-diagnosis of borderline gestational diabetes that kept my weight gain with Nora down to only 20 pounds. Now, I'm 5 lbs away from my weight when I gave birth to her. No bueno. That is simply not going to work. I am not carrying a 9 lb human and all of her accessory tubing, fluids, and sleeping bag anymore.
The number on the scale is not my obsession but the feeling of fitness is my goal. I felt better, WAY better, at 40 weeks pregnant than I do lately. I was a swimmer, a yogi, with a focused mind, and relaxed movements. Purposefully moving through my day with grace and patience. That's what I seek once again. Grace and patience in my body and mind that comes from overall fitness.
Now if I can just stop seeking sugar like a crackhead. That was the gift of gestational diabetes...the sugar monster was caged. Virtually no table/processed sugar or overload of carbs for 3+ months. It was a golden ticket to health. I had never felt better, my skin never clearer.
The trick is...can I folllow a diabetic diet (which is basically just a fantastic way to eat all the time) without a blossoming life within me? I hope so. I'll give it my best shot.
The "after photo" will be posted on March 7th, that's a promise. Same outfit...hopefully less of me inside of it.
*And just so you Nora-addicts are not left in a lurch today, the video below is of our Noo-Noo's as an official roller girl. She still gets a little stuck on whipping that hand out from underneath her chest...but she's rolling like crazy. Her zaniest rolls take place when she's placed in her crib. She whips back and forth...exhausting herself...and falls asleep. She is still a sleeping champ. There are cracks in the egg once in a while with a few tears...but very rarely. Yesterday was yet another day of 3 naps and a 12 hour sleep at night (with nursing thrown in)...all without a single tear.
Only twelve days ago there was no way to prepare for how my life, my home, my heart, and my time would change. Of course I knew that my sleeping routine would be affected and certainly my ability to flit about town running errands...but the depth of change and my (for now) easy acceptance of said changes have surprised me.
I did struggle on about day four because all of a sudden I wanted a calendar I had seen at the bookstore. For .10 seconds I thought, I'll just run over...and then reality struck. My thought changed to I'll go and get it in a few weeks when I can wrap my head around public nursing.
When experienced moms tell me, "Oh, you'll get the hang of it," I really want to believe them but for now I'm all thumbs. I have a shield for my "flat issue" that has to be adhered, one wrist with pregnancy-induced carpal-tunnel numbness in a wrist brace, arms that are trying to cradle or football or inverted triangle hold and all of this is taking place under the muslin blanket that I draped over both of our heads like an enormous circus tent. It must look like a lip-smacking octopus is caught under gauze. A mess truly to behold. That is the public nursing visual of Nora & me from our day three doctor's office adventure. So, needless to say, I DID NOT go to the bookstore...wise choice, no?
**After several interviews, we found the smiliest (and yes, medical-savviest) doctor for our Nuglett Princess. Dr. T is fabulous!
So it is with the myriad reformations of my life that I take great joy in announcing I have squeezed in "me time." Years ago my mother told me that one of her regrets from her blissful years of early motherhood is that she rarely, if ever, gave my father the opportunity to care for us on his own. She had experience and absolute confidence in her diapering, nurturing, swaddling, bathing, and feeding skills; thus, instead of watching him struggle and experience frustration, she simply kept performing the duties almost entirely alone. My dad became the occasional "babysitter" to his own children...and a sitter that was greatly relieved when his 15 min. were up. I was bound and determined to not repeat this same mistake. Sure, my mom had an in-home daycare when I was young. I babysat and took nanny positions all throughout high school and college. I have many close friends whose newborns I've cared for from day one...but I want Nora to feel as comforted in Daniel's arms as my own. I want to only trump him when it comes to nursing.
My first opportunity came two days ago. Noodle Girl had suckled like a rock star. She was solidly asleep (it turns out not-quite-so-solid) when I announced that I was going to go get a massage. Daniel's thick eyebrows arched ever-so-slightly but his mouth uttered a reassuring, "okay" and I was off. Within 15 minutes I was under the oily hands of Edmund and zoning out to flutes and fluttering music on a warm table. I even turned my cell phone completely off...not just vibrate but off. Results = Daniel is a super papa and I was super relaxed.
My second opportunity for "me time" came yesterday. My next-door angels - I mean- neighbors - texted that I was welcome to use their pool in light of the recent heat wave. So again I put Nugs into a milk-coma, said goodbye to my Mama (who has continued her path to sainthood by doing all things possible to make our lives easier), and walked ten feet to the pool. The sky you see in this picture blanketed my world as I floated and frolicked for an hour. Swimming laps, kicking madly, and smiling at how different the aqua experience was now sans baby. I can do laps so much faster! And then it was as simple as slipping back on my flip flops and walking ten feet back to my own porch to dry off.
Life, kind neighbors (including the other one who brought me unsolicited frozen yogurt on a 113 degree day), and motherhood are all pretty darn cool.
I am always telling my students to avoid cliches. I ask them to think beyond the overused to something more creative...yet, I sit here about to wax metaphorically about the birth of my child making me whole (yep, two were in that last sentence).
But this "making me whole again" captures in simplicity the entire journey for me from pregnancy to childbirth.
At nine I lost control of my body; I divorced my mental and physical realms long before my parents would divorce several years later. Certainly there are various familial details to that ninth year that helped to create a desire to divide these two within myself but in adulthood I was fully responsible for continuing the madness. But at that young age, I split into two enemy states - a mind that felt that the body betrayed...and a body that felt that the mind was weak...and at this point my flesh began to expand. I gained weight in small and mighty leaps over the years. Each year finding me just a bit more chubby, double-chinned, and self-conscious about it.
There are many people who have spoken heroically and passionately about loving their fleshy bodies. Relishing the generous portions and ample offerings of a large vessel to carry their souls to and fro. I was not one of these people. I was an elementary school girl who heard boys make loud creaking sounds whenever I sat in the school desks (even now, I tear up instantly)...the middle school girl, who during javelin lessons in PE class, had Eddie Laferney (yeah, I put his real punk-ass name on here) chase me with a javelin making wild boar sounds, the high school girl, who on walking home from school, had boys jammed into a car slow down to match my pace, roll down their windows, and make pig noises as they cruised slowly alongside for several blocks as I cried.
And I've tried diets, books, therapy, blah, blah, blahity, bloo-boo...but the fact remained that until recently there were still two firm encampments within me. A mind that believed that I had an ugly grotesque huge body and a body that flew a flag with a motto that I had a weak mind, no will power, no strength, no possibility of success in a physical scenario.
And then came pregnancy. From the moment that the plus sign materialized on that stick, the generals of these two armies started flying their respective white flags. I began to intertwine the mental and physical journey of pregnancy for the sake of the little one who would after 40 weeks and 4 days of nourishment within me, enter the world and become the daughter that I again sustain yet again through nursing today.
Peace was made. There was no need for an official treaty. It has been since that joyous "dip stick" day that I've made an almost instantaneous and fluid conversion to harboring two parts of myself in harmony. I sipped in pre-natal yoga classes and swam with all my might in water aerobics. I followed the gestational diabetes diet and didn't even blink an eye. I have forgiven my body for so long struggling to eat for nourishment's sake. I have forgiven my mind for so long struggling to push emotions out of the way for another quesadilla.
And it isn't without reserve that I pronounce I am whole again; I know that people with food issues can sometimes cycle back. Yet, in the present moment, a place that I try evermore to reside with more tranquility and acceptance, I am fully whole.
My body labored for 18 hours (oh, yeah, baby from 4:18am until 8:13pm) without a single medical intervention or drug and I pushed a baby out through focus, concentration, heavy breathing, and a fiercely dedicated mind. The armies marched under the same flag, trumpets blared, my daughter was born, and I am simply whole.
