Fat Jeans Skinny Jeans. Jeans Jeans Jeans.

Word of advice: when you're at threat level- "kill yourself" about your own physical appearance, do not, DO. NOT. go shopping for jeans.  Nothing good can come of this.

::Sigh:: so, I bought some new jeans. Friday, after I wrote that post about how craptastic the diet was going, I finally went out and got me some new fat pants. It was horrible. They are not attractive.  I do not look attractive wearing them. But they can button over my bizarrely shaped body, and so I bought them. 

I chose to shop exclusively secondhand for this trip, because I'm not spending real freaking money on a pair of pants that's going to make me sad either way.  Which brings me to my mild frustration: My fat pants cost me 5 bucks. The Goodwill has raised their prices.  Their jeans used to cost like, $3.50, and all of a sudden they're 5 freaking bucks. I know it's still only five bucks, but I didn't want to spend more than I expected on depressing clothing. 

The worst part was that my brain had no idea what size I was. My brain was a size six. I saw the size 6 jeans hanging on the rack and thought, those should do.  Boy was I wrong. I tried on everything from 8 to 18 because I just didn't know.  I was having flashbacks to the ONE worse jeans buying experience I can remember, 7 months after my daughter was born when I was still about 190, but figured it was time to move out of maternity jeans and accept my figure as it was. That trip netted me 2 pairs of size 14 "mom" jeans that still cut in too much at the waist, jeans that I could almost never bring myself to actually wear. Maybe I should've kept them to celebrate how far I'd come.  Maybe I should've kept them because they'd probably fit me right now. But I didn't. I destroyed them immediately. 

I regret nothing. 

So, on to today, my new pants are a size 12 and originally from the Gap and they are still tight around the waist. But they button.  So they'll do. And I simply can't keep wearing yoga pants everywhere for the next month, can I?  No seriously, can I??  No, probably no. 

The trip though, had one unexpected and "yes I'm crazy, I don't care just leave me alone now" highlight. While Goodwilling, I found an exact pair of size 4 jeans that I'd been hunting for, back in the day of skinnier me. Of course I couldn't try them on, I probably couldn't have gotten them much higher than my knees had I tried, but they're the exact smaller version of my size 8 jeans that I FREAKING ADORE. Those jeans were built for my body, I'd swear to it. When I'd lost too much weight to wear them anymore, I went back to Kohls, multiple times, to see if I could find a 4 in them.  I never could. They didn't exists.  But at the goodwill, they DID exist and I was compelled to buy them.  This is my argument against free will. 

So yes, to sum up, I went on a mission shopping for fat jeans and instead I bought goal jeans. But for 5 bucks, a girl can dream, can't she??

Yes. Yes, I think she can. 

Soon

A couple days ago I was in the middle of a blog post about how sexy exercise and healthy eating makes you feel. But I didn't finish it. And today, is definitely not that day.

After 3 great days of exercise and, let's say, 2 1/2 great days of eating well, I officially weigh more than I have since my baby was born. I'm trying.  I'm failing. Fantastically, it seems. So instead of feeling like I'm 4 days into my healthier life, I feel like a big fat fatty who didn't even get to enjoy the journey.  Harrumph. 

This postpartum process has been a little bit wretched weight wise. A couple weeks after kid 3 was born, I got down to under 169, even with Thanksgiving and company and loads of holiday food. I was pretty optimistic. Today, I'm 9 pounds heavier than I was then. I've exercised 5 days since Jan 2 and I've made some real positive changes in my diet. And it seems that I'm gaining weight. 

Well that totally sucks. 

I don't really know what the deal is. I'm 30 now, does that really make a difference? Has my body quit after kid 3? Or is my body still hormonally jacked up from having a kid and missing out on too much sleep?  Heck if I know. All I can say is that I feel bloated and gross and stupid depressed about the lady in the mirror and this whole "breast feeding makes the weight just melt off" thing... Shut up. I have no idea what you're talking about. Just, shut up. 

Dang it's hard not to quit. It's hard not to throw your hands in the air and say "this ISN'T working, I guess I'm just going to live and die a fat chick" and just forget it all.

But I'm not gonna. 

Today is not the day I quit and cry into a giant bowl of ice cream and feelings.  Today is the day I crank it up.  This one goes to 11. Today I remind myself if the words my husband spoke to me 3 1/2 years ago. You'll feel better if you try.  You'll only be mad at yourself if you don't.  Diet. Exercise. And ask for help from the One who created you.

And once again, that's what I need to do.  Today is one of those days where I'll cry out in my weakness. Today I'll do what needs to be done when I don't freaking feel like it.  Today, I start again. Again. Again. Again. Today I pray.  And order 2 months worth of slim fast bars. And grasp at hope. And yeah, today I blog about how crappy I feel. 

But soon. 

Soon soon soon. Soon I'm going to dance. Soon I'm going to show off pictures of a skinnier me, and soon I'm going to run out of the bathroom naked to scream in excitement about a new milestone met.  Soon, I'm going to feel happy and healthy and light. Soon, I'm going to fit into my size 4 jeans, and I'm going to feel damn sexy doing it. 

Yes, today is a freaking kick in the emotional crotch, and I don't really want to think about how much work there is ahead do me.  But you only get tomorrow what you work for today. And soon, I'll remember exactly how good tomorrow feels. 

Soon.

It is 3:34am and my son is very lucky that he is cute.

These days, I've been enjoying a lot of middle of the night fun-tivities. These have primarily consisted of eating my weight in Christmasy junk food, watching innumerable hours worth of 80's  television, and entertaining a tiny human who hasn't yet learned that the night time is best for sleeping.

Unfortunately, it's time for a change.  And unfortunately, it's not the kind of change where I get to sleep a reasonable number of hours and rejoin the functioning human race.  Nope.  Basically, it's just time to cut out the fun stuff.

Eating is fun.  Don't judge me, I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who thinks so.  And when I'm frustrated that I'm forced into wakefulness at 2:45am, making a giant cup of hot chocolate, or working my way through a bottomless stack of Christmas cookies, well, it takes the edge off.  It helps me pretend that I'm not awake against my will, not on the verge of an exhaustion endured emotional breakdown.  I'm just awake.  Awake, and sneaking junk food I don't have to share with my family.

Tomorrow, no, crap, toDAY, is January 2nd.  TODAY is the day that we've been planning on for the past 9 months or so.  TODAY is the day that the new weight loss journey, the one I'd like to call the LAST weight loss journey, gets started.  And after 9 months of growing a human, followed by 5 weeks of holiday celebrations and middle of the night candy-gorging, it's going to be a doozy.

The first obstacle I've got to overcome in this new journey was presented early.  Like, less than 3 hours after midnight on day one kind of early.  Obstacle One: what the heck am I going to do in the middle of the  night that doesn't fulfill my daily calorie budget before my first official meal is consumed?!?  In other words, I need to figure out what the heck I'm going to do with myself at 3 am when I'm exhausted and hungry and probably feeling loads of sorry for myself.

Tonight, I prepared the morning's coffee, picked up the living room a bit, helped my son recover from a nasty case of the hiccups, and then found my way onto the internet.  Also, I'm watching one of my favorite romantic comedies from high school, and wow it's kind of terrible.  But since it's not the "forever on the thighs" kind of terrible, we still get to call it an official Good Life Choice.

Alright.  The kid has nodded off, so it's time for me to go enjoy my bed for another 2 (but hopefully 3 or 5 or 10) hours.  I've sure as heck got a big, self-discipline-y sort of day ahead of me!

Of course, it really might make more sense to start a diet on a Monday...

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!

It's the FINAL COUNTDOOOOOWN!!!

Today's blog brought to you from my bathtub, courtesy of the Blogger app for iPhone. Blogger and iPhone: helping you talk to the universe from the creepiest locations imaginable since 1973*. 

Now I'm not writing from the watery comfort of my tub for the expressed purpose of being creepy (though it is a fringe benefit) but because such a high percentage of my free time these days is spent right here. As of today, I am 39 weeks pregnant, and my everything hurts, all of the time. I have become one of those people who spends most conversations regaling those around me with tales of my long long list of physical maladies, and no one wants to be my friend anymore. So for now, I will continue to take advantage of my own little gravity free capsul and enjoy every pain free, warm, floaty moment I can. 

Rubber Ducky is masquerading as a Rubber Bunny and he says hello. 

39 weeks pregnant. Today. Officially in the "any day now" category. Any day now, I have to push a giant, breakdancing watermellon out of my mostest delicate bits. Again. And it's pretty freakin terrifying. 

This weekend, following a 3 hour long session of every 2-3 minute "just kiddin" contractions, it seems the baby has taken the advice of Captain Piccard and Engaged. This is the technical Star-Trekkian term for when the baby isn't quite ready to leave the party, but has grabbed his coat and headed for the door. In more experiential terms, it's the time when you are officially walking around with a bowling ball between your legs. It's super neat. 

I've been thinking about nesting a lot lately, and I've decided that it's a whole big bunch of bull-puckey. I have to assume it was invented by men who are trying to convince their wives, after all these months of waddling and complaining and napping that they "will feel a sudden burst of energy that will really make them WANT to scrub toilets and mop floors.We swear!" Nice try, devious men, but I'm on my 3rd go-round here, and I'm sure as heck not buying it. Yes, I'm trying to clean house and freeze a few dinners, because having a baby inevitably means having company, and I don't want to feel ashamed, but the only nesting I've ever actually WANTED to do involves burrowing into a giant pile of blankets and pillows and napping for a month. 

Although I will say, this morning I had a lot of fun raiding the grocery store and filling our cupboards with sugar-things and junk food and dinners that require no more preparation than a few taps on the microwave.  Because I'm a good mom. And I take care of those I love. 

You're welcome, America. 

So this is the end of my post. I finished the whole thing without dropping my phone in the tub, EVEN ONCE, so I'm calling it a win. Sorry if the phone autocorrected me into saying anything more inappropriate than I intended, like at the beginning where it tried to change the word creepiest to creamiest. And if you found this whole post offensive, I assure you, what I was really trying to say was stuff like... rainbows and kitties and fuzzy bitty bunny bumpers.  Dang Autocorrect. 

*ish. And you can't sue us for lying if we say 1973ish. Because grand seem of things, it's true, and YOU look like the dumb one. So ha.