So I’ve lost eight pounds since Mother’s Day and have shaved a minute off of my mile time since I last ran, more than a year ago.
I’m happy about the weight loss, of course, but at this point even eight pounds has little-to-no impact on me getting into many of my clothes. And I don’t think you can see a bit of difference. But I feel loads better. Since 2003, when I first started to lose weight in earnest, and subsequently learn how to truly live a healthier life, I haven’t been this dedicated to taking care of myself. I’m still only working out a maximum of four days a week, at 30-35 minute stretches, and I wear the Bodybugg religiously, AND I stay away from carbohydrates that don’t contribute taste or health to my life.
Other tricks: I am doing that obnoxious thing where I wash, cut and portion out all of our fruit, veggies and snacks. Part of it is my desire not to waste produce anymore, the other is that I can annihilate a bag of anything in a day. No joke. If it’s in a sealed bag, I will eat it, post haste. So, now it gets perfectly portioned out into bags and lasts longer. I feel only slightly ridiculous doing it, but it works and I don’t eat more than I need.
All of this feels very, oh, I don’t know, vain. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s a bad thing that I’m working hard at taking care of myself and getting back into shape. I really do see it through a different lens these days – I really do feel better, which seems to translate how I relate to my kid, without a doubt. So while I’m still a plump lady, I’m healthier, and it’s proving to be the motivation I need. For instance, now I can fit comfortably into a pair of yoga pants I bought for maternity leave that were painfully, woefully tight in May.
That’s right. Yoga pants didn’t fit me. That is where this whole pregnancy thing took my body. Busting outta yoga pants.
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I am not someone who paid attention to the Casey Anthony case. I knew enough of what happened and that seemed enough. I am not Nancy Grace’s target audience, of course, but I just don’t understand the draw of watching any of that tragedy unfold. Seriously – why would you watch it? If it’s to make ourselves feel better as parents well? “Not murdering your child” feels like an awfully low bar to me. And all of this righteous indignation, and anger about the jury, it all seems so misplaced and ignorant. People who want to make a difference would be better served to donate money and time to charities who help poor women in need, rather than swap status updates on Facebook or turn on porch lights or whatever stupid meme people are encouraging.
That said? I’m a mom, and I can’t hear about the death of any child and not feel an amount of gut wrenching I’ve never known before. I wasn’t an unfeeling monster before, and you don’t need to procreate to feel this way, but for me it feels visceral now.
At the gym this morning, it was announced there was a verdict reached in the case. In seconds my mind wandered to what life would be like without Abigail in it and it gutted me. When I think about the people I know who desperately want to be parents, who deserve it more than anyone, and then I think about the numbskulls who are given the honor and privilege and take it for granted. It’s hard not to want to punch something.
There are many things I’m probably already doing very wrong, but I’m present for my kid, and so is Scott. She might not like everything we do, but we’re present and always will be. When they say showing up is half the battle, I believe that they are right.
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AG has started hanging out on her own in her crib more. With being four months comes being much more contented on her own for longer spans. And while we let her play on her mat without interruption, and don’t appease her screaming when she’s, say, demanding a bottle and it’s not ready yet, we’ve only recently started putting her into her crib for any substantial length of time.
As a result? Yeah. She’s falling asleep on her own while she’s playing. Today she passed out around 7 a.m. and didn’t wake up until a little after 9 a.m. And that was on the heels of sleeping for 11 hours straight.
I am starting to feel a little guilty about all of the complaining I did about her colicky days, as awful as they were. Because now she’s The Greatest Sleeper in All the Land. It’s ridiculous. I mean, awesome, but also ridiculous. I am not complaining – people at work have said I look great, especially lately. I’ve told them all – it’s sleep. You start going back to getting seven, eight hours of sleep a night and your whole world changes. This means, of course, that I’m heading up to bed at 9:30 p.m. just to make sure I’m out by 10 p.m., but still.
WORTH IT.
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Tonight when I was feeding Abigail her bedtime bottle, and we were snuggled up on the glider, she was about a half-ounce into a seven-ounce bottle when she turned her head toward me, looked up an gave me the biggest, gummiest smile. I moved the bottle out of her mouth and she just kept on grinning.
And then? Then she proceeded to talk and coo and chat, on and on and on, as though she weren’t minutes from passing out and heading for bed.
It made my stomach leap, her smiling at me like that, clearly so happy to just be hanging out with me.
Eventually I had to call it, and settle her down for sleep. I’m a sucker, but I’m no dummy. Bedtime is bedtime, Toots.
Just the same? The fact that I get so many of those little moments peppered throughout my days is the biggest surprise of parenthood. It’s really just the best.
