2014: Year of the Sexy Warthog.

On the cusp of this newest of years, I have decided to make a positive and exciting new resolution.  Positive and exciting because I'm not saying that I'll lose weight, or that I'll eat less, or that I'll be more organized or keep the house cleaner, even though all of these things are excellent things that I really should get around to doing.  Instead, I'm saying it's going to be a sexy year.  So I've dubbed it: The year of the Sexy Warthog.

According to the Chinese Zodiac, 2014 is the year of the Horse.  But according to the Chinese Zodiac, I am NOT a horse.  I am a Warthog.  And this is my year.  My sexy year.

Quick side note:  When someone, in an attempt to woo you in a bar, asks you for your sign,  and you proceed to tell them that you are a Warthog, they no longer proceed to woo you.  It seems the Chinese zodiacs have significantly less sexual appeal than the other kind of zodiacs.  

Side note to my side note:  All of this is a lie.  I'm pretty sure no one has ever tried to woo me by asking for my sign, and I spend zero time in bars, and I only pretty recently learned that I am a warthog.  I, in fact, have NO idea what would happen if you told someone in a bar that you were a warthog.  For all I know, they would totally dig it.  Maybe, give it a try sometime.  

So back to the point, 2014 is the year of the Sexy Warthog.  I will begin this year as a warthog who does not fit into her pants, and end it as a warthog who looks great in size 4 jeans, and who has really nice skin, and hair in only the places that you would want hair on a warthog.  In other words, I will get fit and toned.  I will dress myself in a way that is both mature and flattering.  And I'll put in the effort to make my skin nicer.  At age 30, recovering from kid 3, this feels like an admirable, but hopefully not unachievable goal.

Husband says he doesn't know what a sexy warthog would look like.  

I told him that pretty soon, he would know.  But in the mean time, here's a taste:

Grrrrrrrrrrrr

Well, that's all for 2013, folks.  Tonight, amidst all of the joyous revelry, spend some time reminiscing, and some time hoping and planning.  And if you find yourself being wooed at a bar, try out the warthog thing for me.  Let me know if it's any good. 

Body Feelings.

I have developed some very mixed feelings about my body. It's a phenomenon I've noticed in the first few months following each of the birth-givings.  I have a great number of feelings about my body that can best be described as "mixed". Or maybe... Vacillating. Clinically freaking bizarre and insane. Really, any of those will work. 

You see, Body and I have recently been through a lot together. We spent the last year making a whole person and then depositing him onto a table. And every part of that hurt. Like, bunches and bunches. But we survived it, Body and I, and we came through the other end, albeit much the worse for wear.    

I'm proud of Body because it survived. I'm proud of Body because it not only managed to produce a whole person, but said person is becoming quite the little chunk. All thanks to Body. You go, Body. 

The baby says he is sleepy, but would really like to stay up very very late, if it's all the same to me. It is not. 

But besides the whole "check out the amazing life-giving things Body can do", there are other reasons why I'm pleased as punch with my current state.

I can see my toes. 

I can touch my toes. 

I can sit on the couch with my feet beneath me and my knees pulled up against my torso. 

I can sit pretty much anyway that appeals to me. 

I can lie on my stomach. Praise the good Lord in heaven, I can lie on my stomach. 

When I hug my husband, it no longer feels like a weird shoulder hug, wherein my behind is shoved out half way to Nevada. 

I can breath. And, as it turns out, it's not even that hard. 

I no longer require a bottle of tums on my bedside table. 

And to top it off, I can even wear my wedding rings some days. 

This list is great. This list makes me feel strong and lithe and sexy and, well, human again. Of course, there's the other end of my swinging pendulum of feelings, and that side has its own, less encouraging list. 

I cannot fit in clothes. 

No really. I cannot fit in any clothes. 

My muffin top looks like it was never fully baked, so now it's starting to droop. 

Stretch marks have found new and exciting places to live. I think I may need skin replacement surgery. 

I started out this pregnancy just under 140. These days I'm stuck at around 170. That is a bigger number than I like and it makes me sad. 

Even though I don't always "see" the chubby chick version of myself in the mirror, I've seen some very convincing photographs to remind me that she is here. 

My back hurts. Kind of a lot. And I feel too heavy and out of shape to move properly. Harrumph. 

And I am sleepy. Always. 

So those are all my feelings. Each one is life-alteringly intense, I assure you.  And unfortunately, Brain is no help either. Because I can never quite decide: do I love and accept myself for who I am today, just relax and go with it? Or do I hate my body every day until I see some real changes?  Both opinions have their merits, but I can never quite decide which to choose. 

For the time being though, I'm doing my best to ignore all of it. Diet starts on January 2, when all the company and fatty food are gone, and enough time has passed to allow me to engage in some mild to moderate exercise. I hope. 

So for now, you'll have to pardon my sweatshirts and yoga pants. A thorough examination of my closest only served to remind me that I'd thrown out all of my jeans larger than size 8, and I am now too fat for my fat pants. Sigh. 

Have a wonderful last few days of 2013, folks, and remember: the diets start NEXT year. And what happens in 2013 totally doesn't count. G'night!

Do not be fooled by my greasy hair or my yoga pants. I am a freakin superhero.

Quick update: I have 3 kids now.  It happened in the super early morning on Sunday, November 24th, when I woke up with one of those classic "oh crap I think just peed on myself" moments.   Luckily, I was sane enough, even at 1 am, to conduct a science experiment on the matter (Develop a hypothesis.  Test the hypothesis. Like, go ACTUALLY pee, then note the basic differences in sensation.  Take thorough notes.) and felt suddenly quite certain that I had NOT peed myself, but had, instead, gotten my water all broken.  7 hours and a buncha stitches later, and boom.  It was done.  We got this:

Uh-dorable.  I know, right? His name is Harper Reid and he is precious to me.

Three kids is... interesting.  Three kids is a game changer.  When my second was born, I would've told anyone who asked that having 2 kids was somehow easier than having 1.  First off, you've been there done that.  You're an old pro.  Then, you have a 2 year old to hang out with if you're bored, and who is happy to do small chores like throwing away diapers and retrieving blankets from the other room.  It was nice.  It was relatively peaceful.

And now I have 3.  And I've forgotten what the definition of peaceful is.

I keep having the same image come to mind.  Basically, having 3 kids is like juggling.  Except I have no idea how to juggle, so having 3 kids is like tossing raw eggs into the air and then watching as they splat to the floor.  And also you haven't brushed your hair in almost a week.

The first evening I spent alone with my children (Real quick: when did it suddenly become so terrifying to be alone with my own children?  When did that become a marker in my life?) was the night before Thanksgiving.  I planned. I made lists.  I hustled.  I reheated my frozen enchiladas for dinner while I boiled yams to prep my side dish for the following day.  I prepped my pie crusts.  I fed the baby then put the older kids at the table for dinner, then pulled out pajamas and church clothes while I prepped their bath.  I smirked to myself that, as long as you're on top of it, having a larger family isn't so bad at all.

And then suddenly I turned around and my eldest was screaming because I had asked her to pick up her toys and she didn't want to pick up her toys. The middle child was screaming because I served him enchiladas when he REALLY wanted corn dogs.  The baby was screaming because he is a baby and babies want to be held constantly, and holding a baby constantly didn't fit into any of my to do lists.   And I wanted to be screaming because they were all screaming.  And also, I was about 3 days post- having pushed an 8lb 5oz human out my hoo-ha, and my everything was still very much in pain.  So there was also that.

With my face distorted in terror, with my eyes bulging out of my face, with my hands shaking helplessly at my sides, I stood there, frozen, and watched the eggs splat at my feet.  What.  The Bloody H. Did I get myself into.

Having said all that, I'd been dreading today.  I had a "Me and the 3 Kids Go to the Doctor" trip planned, wherein each of the older two would be receiving shots.  Screaming, flailing, bolting through the entire clinic... I just couldn't imagine a scenario wherein this would not be a painful, horrible, make you question the existence of true good in this world, kind of day.  Certainly, my biggest juggling feat to date.    And yeah... I'll be honest.  There was screaming.  From all of them (and to a lesser extent me), at different points.  Once, though, the two boys cried in unison, and then stopped at exactly the same moment.  It was FANTASTIC.  I'm thinking of sending them on tour.  Then my daughter cried (or more accurately, made very loud and embarrassing WAAAAAAAAHHHH noises) for a solid 10 minutes in anticipation of her shot, and then all the way to the car and most of the drive home. (PS: All she had done was a TB test and a finger-prick blood draw, get freaking OVER it child and stop acting like someone just tried to remove your spleen without using anesthetics.)  However I was eventually able to convince her to stop by suggesting that maybe, if the shot still hurt that bad, we should head back to the doctor's and have him take a look.  Suddenly, crying didn't seem so important I guess.

So long story shorter, we all survived the day.  I'm learning how to juggle.  And I'm also learning some cool new parenting techniques like scaring your children until they shut the heck up.  And that is why I am a superhero.  The end.

Oh yeah.  So here's a picture of us, first day home as a... "family".

Merry 5 days till Christmas!