Month: April 2016

Didn’t I Just Do That? A Memoir

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It could be said that writing this blog has actually been a little too fun for me. I really love it. But a book? For now it’s a joke. For now…

 

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The Ten Stages of Accepting Your Post-Baby Body

Having a baby is hard. Getting rid of the evidence (the baby weight, not the baby) is even harder. Two months into it, and I’ve officially arrived at the 10th stage. Hit me up if you want to raid the clearance racks at Old Navy for some seasonal muumuus.

Stage 1: I’m Hot Shit

You’ve just had the baby, and depending on how long your labor was, gone from bloated whale to (relatively) svelte mermaid over the course of a few hours. You’re only a few days into your postpartum journey, but you are digging your new NOT pregnant body, and riding the hormonal high (or swimming through sleep deprivation induced delusions) of how skinny you are…comparatively.

hot shit

This is my ‘I’m hot shit’ face.

Stage 2: I’m A Walking Talking Milk Machine Who Will Be In Skinny Jeans In No Time

Weight is pouring off of you. You’re a couple of weeks in, and you feel like every day you lose five pounds. You’re eating more than you’ve ever eaten, but you need it because you’re feeding a baby every 2 hours around the clock.

Stage 3: Sayonara, Maternity Jeans, Hello Pre-Pregnancy…Wait, What The Fuck?

Weight loss is slower, but you’re pretty sure your pre-pregnancy pants will fit. Until you try them on, that is. Then it becomes painfully obvious (literally painful, if you try to button anything) you still have quite a ways to go before your can rock your pre-preggo pantalones once again. But no matter, you just had the baby a few weeks ago. You laugh at yourself for being so silly as you slide back into your maternity jeans, relishing the comfort of the nylon expandable waist, while you finish the box of girl scout cookies.

Stage 4: Your 6 Week Post-natal Check-Up, AKA The First Time You Get Weighed And Fall Into A Deep Depression

You’re feeling good. You can’t wait to get to the doctor’s office and jump on that scale just so your nurse can say, “Damn, girl! You look amazing! I can’t believe you are back to your pre-pregnancy weight, minus five pounds.” But instead you’re blindsided with the news that you have only lost eight pounds, seven of which are accounted for by the baby. This explains why your clothes don’t fit, but is confusing because isn’t the weight supposed to be melting off? When does that start? Should you be wearing more clothes so you are hotter so the weight melts off? What do people actually mean when they say the weight will melt right off? Like, off your body? Not just melt down your torso into your thighs, right?

Stage 5: Damn You Baby Weight, I Will Squeeze You Into Submission

The weight isn’t going anywhere in a hurry, so you decide you will break its will to stay by hurting it. You pack up your maternity clothes, scornfully glaring at their elastic waists, and squeeze your body into your pre-pregnancy clothes. It doesn’t feel good, and if you’re being honest, it doesn’t look that good, but fuck it. Muffin top (or mountain top if you’re like me) be damned, you’re doing this thing.

muffin top

At least my muffin top makes me smell like a bakery.

Stage 6: OH MY GOD I CAN’T WEAR CLOTHES ANYMORE

This can happen anywhere from 3 minutes after stage 5 concludes, to anytime you are under pressure, hot, annoyed, moving, breathing or otherwise being alive. Clothes will be removed with haste, but the impressions stamped into your soft flesh from the seams, buttons and zippers will remain as a reminder that your clothes don’t fit. You will lounge around in your skivvies, pondering your options, and dreading doing anything that will require you to get re-dressed.

Stage 7: Two words: Yoga. Pants.

Bless whoever invented yoga pants, for no matter how much you thought you’d never be yoga pants mom, here you are. And you know what? It feels so good.

Stage 8: Sayonara, Yoga Pants, Hello Pre-Pregnancy…Wait, WHAT THE FUCK?!

It’s been months. You had a salad for dinner last night. You’ve been working out, sort of. But more than all of these things, you’ve been sustaining a growing human with food your own body is producing FOR MONTHS, and your goddamn clothes still don’t fit. You hate your clothes, and seriously contemplate burning them in the alley next to the old mattress that someone spray painted a giant green weiner on.

Stage 9: Deep Muffin-Top Induced Depression

You are tired of wearing yoga pants. Your jeans make you feel like your legs are being eaten by anacondas. Your husband may or may not find you standing in front of your closet, tears in your eyes, as you do your own sad version of the Truffle Shuffle while trying to remove the super saucy tank top that is suffocating your mid-section. All seems lost. You face plant hard into rock bottom.

truffle shuffle

GET…THIS…OFF…OF…ME!

Stage 10: Time To Buy New Clothes

You wake up one day realizing this weight took 10 months to get on, and will maybe even take 10 months (or more) to come off. Angels sing as you come to terms with your new size, and subsequently cancel your appointment with the banker to take out a second mortgage to pay for lipo. You don your yoga pants, just once more, and proudly go pick up a few things in a size you’d never thought you’d wear. But damn, you look good. And more importantly, you, and your muffin top, are comfortable and happy.

Reasons I Haven’t Brushed My Teeth Today

I was going to brush my teeth, but then the baby started crying. Then toddler wanted pancakes. Then I made pancakes. Then she decided she didn’t want pancakes. Then she decided she wanted yogurt. Easy enough.

Now I will brush my teeth, I said.

I was going to brush my teeth, but the toddler climbed out of her highchair and spilled yogurt on the carpet. Then I cleaned it up. Then the baby started crying for his second breakfast. Then I fed him. Then I fed myself. Moving on.

Now I will brush my teeth, I said.

I was going to brush my teeth, but then I noticed the time – T-minus 20 minutes to story time! Then I got the toddler dressed. Then I buckled the screaming baby into his car seat. Then I threw on dirty jeans and ran out the door. Hurry hurry!

I will brush my teeth when I get back, I said.

I was going to brush my teeth after we got home, but then it was lunchtime for everyone. Then fed the toddler. Then I fed the baby. Then I fed myself. Then I changed all the diapers. Then I put the kids down for a nap. Phew.

Now I will brush my teeth, I said.

But then I remembered the two lonely cupcakes begging to join their cupcake brethren in my belly, so I ate a cupcake. Then, fearing the remaining cupcake would be sad about being alone, I ate the other one. Then the baby woke up. Then the toddler woke up. Damn.

Now I will brush my teeth, I said.

But then the toddler wanted to go to the park, and knowing I would need energy to push her stroller up the hill while carrying the baby in the pack I decided I needed some protein to balance out all that sugar. Then I ate a hardboiled egg. Then asked the toddler to put on her shoes 98,000 times. Oooohhhhh for God’s saaaaaaaaaake.

Now I will brush my teeth, I said.

But then I decided brushing my teeth while there were still bits of egg in them was gross, and I couldn’t find my water glass to rinse out my mouth. Then the toddler was hollering to go to the park. Then the baby was hollering because he is a baby. Then I left the house to walk to the park with two hollering children and stinky egg breath. Here we go.

I will brush my teeth when I get back, I said.

But then I had to cook dinner. Then I had to eat dinner. Then I had to bathe the toddler. Then I had to bathe the baby. Then I had to get the toddler down. Then I had to get the baby down. Holy shit it’s late.

Now I will brush my teeth, I said.

And I did. But there is no way in hell I’m going to floss.

 

floss


Image credits: Cover image, floss.

Dear Brain: Thanks, But You’re Not The Boss Of Us

Dear Brain,

Ovaries here! You will be happy to know we received your cease and desist notice. We must say, it felt good to be acknowledged by you, even if at times you came off a little snippy about our contributions, as well as notably edgy with your comparisons. Flesh raisins? Has it ever occurred to you, with your oblong shape and abundance of crevices and folds, that you look like a large gray testicle? Moving on.

After much thought we felt it only fair for us to share our side of the story, before we retreat into the abyss of the lower abdomen, and silently watch as our supply of genetic gold is quite literally flushed down the toilet.

First of all, let us ask you a question. What came first, the chicken or the egg? Being ovaries, we are biased to believe it was the egg, which leads us to think perhaps you have taken on the role of master of this ship without merit. Now, this isn’t to say you aren’t important or without talents. We applaud you and your fine ability to quote every line from Ace Ventura, Twister and Jurassic Park, though we are unsure if all the time you spent -or spend- watching these movies couldn’t have been spent on better subjects. Like math, or say, following a basic recipe.

But onto more serious matters.

Your strong feelings about not reproducing further are both hasty and ill-timed. It comes as no surprise you and the body felt that way while nearly 10 months pregnant. Being pregnant sucks! But banning babies while pregnant seems a bit like a conflict of interest, no?

Look, we are going to be honest with you: The Nose is a liar. Sure, sure, it claimed it wouldn’t participate in any baby sniffing, but we know we aren’t alone in noticing how at every opportunity The Nose is breathing in the sweet sweet smell of baby breath. The Ears report that each time this happens, something charming, yet inherently stupid, flies out of The Mouth about how the baby smells like cupcakes, sunshine, and love. We both know once Baby 2.0 no longer smells like a combination of deserts, weather, and emotions, The Nose will lead The Body on a wild goose chase to find other babies to sniff, turning The Body into some kind of out of control baby-huffing human Bloodhound. We feel it is pertinent to point out this might actually get the body arrested, which would affect all of us.

The Nose isn’t the only problem. The Hands and Arms have both made it clear that nothing makes them happier than holding both of the offspring, though enjoyment is particularly high with the newborn. Cradling little Baby 2.0, feeling the warmth of his tiny squishy body, while The Fingers trace the cowlick on his tiny perfect head – this is hard, nay, impossible to beat. The Eyes, as if you haven’t noticed, can barely look away from his big brown peepers, and have been quoted daily stating “Eye can’t even HANDLE how tiny he is!” And The Heart? Exploding. With. Love. It’s equal parts admirable and scary, as there are only so many heart palpitations someone should have before contacting a cardiologist.

But you’re not alone in your quest for a Baby-Free future. The Bellybutton is absolutely devastated about her new look. We’ve tried to raise her spirits by telling her she doesn’t really look like the butthole of the neighborhood feral cat, but then again, we’ve never been good at lying. Similarly, The Uterus is on your side, and wants absolutely nothing to do with housing another child ever again. But she’s always had a flare for the dramatic, so we don’t feel her vote should be counted until we can be certain she’s not making a decision based off emotions.

We know receiving this letter will upset you, but before you direct The Mouth to start stress-eating dry cereal while you wait on hold to find out if insurance will cover an oophorectomy, hear this: We don’t want another baby either. At least not right now, and maybe never. But if you could stop being such a dick about enforcing your will, at least while we all come to terms with this *probably* being our last baby, that would great.

In the words of your good pal, Ace Ventura, we will sign off this letter with a mighty Alllllrighty then! We hope we are on the same page.

Best,

The Ovaries

ovary 2

Now who’s ovary acting?


This post has been written in response to a post I wrote a few months ago, from my brain to my ovaries, requiring them to go into retirement. Be sure to check it out if you haven’t already! You can find it here.