Yesterday marked four years since Clint and I met at the 99 Cent Store.  In my mind, Kelly Clarkson’s song, You Found Me will forever be the song that captures the essence of that meeting and Clint will forever make fun of me for that.  I sort of can’t blame him.

Anyway… we made a day of it in Ann Arbor, complete with Mongolian BBQ (YUM!), used books, and Starbucks.  There was also a U of M game that day and I have never in my life seen so many people wandering the streets in blue and yellow.  It was a little creepy.

Then we came home and I ended up running a 102 degree fever.  Not the best end to such a great day, but that still didn’t detract from the fact that I’m so glad he found me in the candy aisle four years ago.

I feel like this post should have some sort of disclaimer that this is from the perspective of someone who has been body and weight conscious for a long time and had (has?) some unrealistic expectations of both weight gain during pregnancy and loss afterward.  I don’t want it to sound as if I’m obliviously complaining about being so close to my original weight so soon after being pregnant.  This is just my experience and the thoughts (good or bad) that accompanied it.  I didn’t know going into this that you really could feel and look normal again (even though people told me you could) after having a baby.  To all the people who told me that, you were right.

There’s the disclaimer, for what it’s worth.

So at twelve weeks, I figure it’s time to address the whole post-baby weight loss.  I know, you were all wondering when I’d get around to that, right?  Especially since I feel like I was trying to figure how to get the pregnancy weight off before I even gained it (Oh wait, that’s because I was…).  I have to say that I don’t regret at all keeping close tabs on my weight and measurements, partly because I’m neurotic about that, but partly because I think what our bodies do for us and in spite of us during pregnancy is fascinating.  If I could go back a year and talk to my newly pregnant self I think I’d tell me to not stress out as much about how much I gained per week, that it would all even out eventually, and that someday soon my body would feel quite normal again.  Of course my pregnant self would have brushed me off and burst into tears, but it would be worth a try.

So all you pregnant women out there, don’t stress out, okay?  And don’t compare yourself to every other pregnant woman out there either.  If I had a quarter for all the times I googled “weight gain at X weeks” I’d be rich.  It didn’t help much either, because there was the whole range of weights that women were at and my body could care less about the info on google.  It would do what it wanted thankyouverymuch.  It didn’t matter how many stories I heard about how many pounds people gained (a friend of mine wasn’t able to run during her pregnancy and gained 16 pounds and lost it all in a week – how is that fair?) none of those stories were good for anything except anecdotal information.

Now I know that articles like this advocate the whole nine months on, nine months off, philosophy.  And for what it’s worth, my doctor told me at 6 weeks postpartum that breastfeeding keeps an additional 6-7 pounds on you, for about a year.  So in light of all of this helpful information I figured I would be back to normal in, I don’t know, maybe six weeks at the most.  Because I’m fairly rational like that.

A note to all the still pregnant women.  Let go of all of your post-baby weight loss fantasies now, it will be much easier in the long run.

I did not, and I spent nearly nine months gaining weight and wondering just how quickly my body would lose it.  I’m not kidding about fantasies either.  I spent the nine months when I could have visualized, when I would have been allowed to visualize, in great detail, the ice cream sundae I wanted to eat, thinking about if somehow I would gain weight while pregnant and then never lose it.  Kingdoms may rise and fall but God forbid I not lose the pregnancy pounds.  Isn’t funny when we realize how seriously we take things that just aren’t that serious at all?

I have to admit that it was somewhat disorienting finishing up my first 6 weeks postpartum and having to learn to live with myself not quite back to normal.  Six weeks seemed like such a long time I thought by the end I would be my old self and all things pregnancy related would have passed.

Or not.

Those pesky fantasies that I kept sequestered in the back of my mind were so well concealed that I didn’t really realize they were there I found myself very disappointed.  Who knew that in the back of my head I secretly hoped that I would give birth, immediately drop all 22 pounds of pregnancy weight, and then drop another 15 pounds while not exercising and eating at least 2500 calories a day.  Of course this all would happen in the first six weeks and I would say to people around me, “I had no idea it would all be this easy.”  Yeah, that is seriously what I hoped postpartum life would look like.

It was not like that at all.  In fact, I think I liked my two weeks postpartum self better that I liked the me at seven weeks.  I liked my stomach better.  I liked how quickly I was within just s few pounds of 129.  And then… nothing.  Not a thing.  I exercised and ate balanced diet and could not get closer than 3-5 pounds away.  Talk about frustrating, aggravating and discouraging.  I was sure I’d be one of those people who would drop all the weight but be unable to fit in my clothes.  Instead, I could fit into all my clothes within a week but couldn’t for the life of me get the last few pounds off.  I knew that was a possibility with breastfeeding that my body would hold onto a little bit of the weight, but it just seemed wrong on so many levels to eat less, run 10 miles, and not see any changes.  Oh, cruel universe.  My body’s seeming inability to lose the weight also coincided with our move to Michigan, which immediately made me think that just by moving to the state of delicious casseroles I would somehow never lose the weight.  All I had to do was think of a casserole topped with Ritz crackers and butter and those pounds would be permanently on my body.  I am so rational, aren’t I?

Well, my worries were unfounded.  I sort of stopped stressing out and kept eating well and at exactly eleven weeks postpartum found myself back at my pre-pregnancy weight, doing my first tempo workout (4 miles at a 7:45 pace) since I’d found out we were pregnant last November. I came home from that run finally feeling normal.  At twelve weeks I’m a few pounds below where I started and feeling like I can breathe a sigh of relief.  The pounds really do come off!  Maybe I’ll come back and read this next time around, just to remind myself.

(Pregnant ladies, please please please let go of all expectations right now….)

So there you have one person’s experience of the fun postpartum weight loss roller coaster ride.  Now the question is, as a runner, where to go next…

Yesterday Isaac turned twelve weeks old.  We were sitting on the couch, talking, after he toddled his way over to the scale so that we could discover that he weighs 15 pounds (15!?!).

I asked him if, after being out the womb for twelve weeks, he had anything he wanted to say to the world at large.

First, he wanted to let you all know that cottage cheese thighs are making a comeback and everyone will be sporting them soon, just in time for the Christmas season.

He also wanted to let you know that he really hates tummy time, but has a modified motto that he uses.  When the going gets tough, the tough shove their fist in their mouth as far as it will go and suck it for all it’s worth.

I am nothing if not a creature of habit, a tendency which spills unchecked into all sorts of areas of my life, including my choice of running shoes.  Now runners as a whole do tend to be sort of… perhaps superstitious might be the right word, when it comes to changing things up in their running gear or food and drink choices.  So when I found a pair of Asics (and they were cheap Asics at that) four years ago that felt good and worked for my feet I embraced the Prominent II and didn’t look back.

When we moved, I realized that particular shoe was only made for and sold at a particular store on the West Coast.  Instead of finding a new shoe I figured I would just wait until the shoe went on sale ($29.99 for a pair of running shoes?  Yes, please!), get someone to run (not literally) to the store, buy me a few pairs of shoes and send them to Michigan.  So I called the store weekly, waiting for a sale to happen.  When it finally did, I was told that it was a close out sale and they wouldn’t be getting any more.  I also discovered that there were no 8-1/2’s left in the state of California.  And believe me, I was desperate enough to check wherever I knew people.  When it comes to my running shoes I have no shame, even though the thought of calling someone and having a conversation that consisted of, You may not remember me, but I’m your second cousin three times removed and there’s a pair of my running shoes at a Big 5 near you that I desperately need.  You wouldn’t mind picking them up for me and sending them across the country, would you? wasn’t exactly high on my conversations-I-really-want-to-have list.  But alas, there really was nothing left.

At the same time, my poor shoes that I’d worn all through my pregnancy were just done.  I’d held out for a sale so long that the cushioning was gone and my feet were starting to hurt.  So off to the local sporting goods store I finally went, where I was stretched out of my comfort (and price) zone.  My last words to the clerk who helped were, You don’t happen to have these in red do you…?  No, unfortunately, he didn’t, though he assured me that he thought the shoe was “quite subtle” which leads me to think he was color blind because who describes orange (oh, excuse me… mandarin) and silver as subtle?

Meet the oh so subtle Cumulus 10.  I guess they aren’t so orange as to cause me to buy orange running gear to match, but there’s no getting around the fact that they are my least favorite color.

I really am very sad about the whole affair.  I miss my familiar shoes.  My first thought was that I should write a sonnet in honor of the shoes that are no more.  But I didn’t want to invest that much time and I couldn’t quite remember what the rhyme scheme was supposed to be.  Then I thought perhaps an Ode would be fitting, but I’m even fuzzier on what makes an ode an ode in the first place.  A limerick seemed to flippant for shoes that have served me so well.  In then end, I had to settle on a haiku, because let’s face it, it’s short.

So in memory of the Asics Prominent II’s that are no more…

Feet slap the pavement

My sole missing and mourning

Cheap wings for my feet.

Halloween was somewhat anticlimactic this year.  A few weeks ago, I had grand ideas of dressing in a bridesmaid’s dress with a crown and finding a little frog costume for Isaac and we could be the Frog Prince and the princess with the golden ball who finds him.  Which I think would have been cute except for the fact that it involved wearing a dress with spaghetti straps in freezing cold weather (and nothing says “princess” quite like turtleneck Under Armor under a big poofy dress) and the fact that Isaac got sick.  Plus I ended up doing a trunk with my cell group for Trunk or Treat at the church.  Apparently they had 5000 people last year, which is about double the size of the town we live in.  I guess the draw of that much candy all in one place really is that great.

So no dress up for Isaac, and as it was in the 30’s with gusts of very cold wind, I think that was a good choice.  Maybe next year it will be warmer.  I still got to dress up, however, but not as a princess.  Our trunk theme was the Nerdy Nerds.  And I think we were pretty cute in our nerdy apparel and four layers of long underwear.

Babies that is.  Rest assured that I bathe on a daily basis and plan on continuing to do so.

But babies?  Especially with little ones who can’t actually go anywhere, the dirtiest part of them sees a diaper wipe 8-10 times a day.  It’s not like they’re out rolling in the mud or finger painting with their mashed sweet potatoes, right?

I wish someone had told me when I was registering that baby bath stuff is sort of a waste of time and money.  I mean, someone out there is being paid big bucks to convince us all that our two month old baby needs towels and wash cloths and a baby bathrobe embroidered with matching ducks or frogs or platypus (Platypuses? Platypi?).  Maybe this is necessary for people who have an entire bathroom devoted to that particular theme that they use exclusively for their small child, but that’s not our life.  Sure a baby spa sounds like a good idea, but do you really think that your newborn is going to enjoy hanging out in his spa for hours or that you’ll have the energy at the end of the day to hang out with him, the whole time making sure he stays in an upright position?  Let’s face it, it’s the mom that wants the spa, not the two month old.

We are still trying to get the whole bathing routine down but eleven weeks in and we really haven’t gotten very far.  Baby books try to make the whole thing sound soothing.  Try a nice bedtime routine!  Bathe your baby.  Massage him with lotion while talking to him in a low voice in dim lighting.  Put his warm pajamas on him and sing him to sleep. Right.  It’s more like:

1.  Assemble all bathing accessories: 2 towels, a clean diaper, a washcloth, wipes.

2.  Procure baby.

3.  Undress baby.

4.  Realize that you need an extra towel now that baby has peed on towel number one.

5.  Go back and get a changing pad too, just in case.

6.  Fill up baby tub making sure the water isn’t too hot.

7.  Whip diaper off and set baby in tub before any spraying ensues.

8.  Wish for a third hand so that you could actually wash the baby rather than just keep him from slipping around.

9.  Decide that his top half can get washed the next time around.

10.  Decide that washing a baby’s hair is unimportant when he’s bald.

11.  Wonder when the “bath fun” stage with splashing and toys is supposed to start.

12.  For lack of anything else to do, pick up baby and quickly wrap in towel.

13.  Change towels after the shivering baby pees on the first towel.

14.  Diaper and clothe baby.

15.  Pass out from exhaustion.

I first tried bathing Isaac with both of us in the tub.  Then I tried showering with him.  Either way one of us or both of us ended up colder than we’d like to be.  As it’s moving on towards winter I am not really a fan of being cold and wet.  The other night we opted to bathe him in the large Tupperware that the hospital sent home with us.  It was his first bathtub and I figured he would still fit.

Which was kind of true.  Sort of. Maybe we should have invested in that baby spa after all!  At least I stayed warm, which was of course, the whole goal of this bathing project.

Bathtime was then extended because there is no use for a baby bathrobe (other than to be oohed and ahhed at during baby shower) but one feels obligated to use it and take pictures, if only to embarrass your child somewhere down the road.

Note the thrilled look on his face.

So mothers-to-be out there, take note.  What do you really need to bathe a baby?  Lots of large towels (duck embroidery not required), some washcloths, and a whole lot of patience.

 

A year ago today I was just going through life, working 8-5, taking Greek and Old Testament for fun, proof reading my husband’s philosophy papers, and getting ready to run the Fresno half marathon.  Little did I know that October 29th would soon become the first day of pregnancy.

I’m so glad it was.  I can’t imagine life without our little guy!

 

 

 

Apparently the autumn weather brings out the sap not only in the trees but also in my musical tastes.  I am not particularly a fan of country music and my ipod reflects that.  There is one lone country compilation that I listen to on rare occasions, songs from a country music phase from years ago.  I have found, however, that there is something about running down country roads with trees the color of pumpkin spice lining the fields (all those colors in the autumn palate that I have never been able to wear – they really do exist in nature!) and smoke in the air that makes me want to listen to country music.  Not the “my dog left me, my wife beats me, and my cat drank all the whiskey” country music but the kind that makes it seem like everything is right with the world and stories have happy endings.

Which I think is why I find myself listening over and over to Taylor Swift’s (the girl who has the hair I prayed for as a child) Love Story.  I don’t know why I like it, especially because, as someone who dabbled a bit in literature in college I cringe when people decide to use Romeo and Juliet in a song.  I cringe even more when they use it badly.  Taylor, Romeo wasn’t “throwing pebbles” he was killing Juliet’s cousin!  Big difference there!  Why are you using this as an illustration?  This play is not happy, they die.  DIE!  And what’s with the scarlet letter metaphor?  Let’s not get our American and European literature mixed up here.

But the cynical nit-picky part of me is over ruled by the fact that it’s catchy (every happy ending needs a good key change, right?), that I can picture the music video with all it’s dressing up and dancing (and I’m a sucker for dress up), and the fact that it also plays on that all too familiar experience that I’ve had of seeing someone and then letting my mind wander into a day dream.  It also reminds me fondly of those days back in kindergarten when I would write love letters to some boy whose name I no longer remember, telling him that “we can get married and we can be kings and queens.”  My kindergarten self had a deplorable lack of understanding when it came to the proper succession of the European monarchy, it seems.

I guess I will just laugh at the sappy and juvenile turn my musical tastes have taken and write it off as a side effect of the lovely autumn we’re having.  I’m sure winter will change that soon enough!

This whole season thing has me a little confused as I’m used to it being quasi-summer all the time.  Then we move to the Midwest and I am informed that Michigan has two seasons; winter and the Fourth of July.  Of course, since all the leaves are changing colors I know that’s not true, we do obviously get autumn around here.  Plus there is ladybug season, which is a sub-season of fall most notably characterized by the fact that suddenly every ladybug and her mother is plastered against your windows and screens, hello-ing, ringing the doorbell, and inviting their Aunt Mildred over without asking.  They slip inside, uninvited, holding amorous trysts on the crown molding and ladybug conventions in ceiling corners.  This was a new season for me, the one where all the bugs realize that they are going to die and try to move in with you.

So that brings us to four seasons, right there.

But then there’s a fifth season that suddenly means so much more to me now that I have an 11 week old baby.  That would be flu season.  And I’ve been told it lasts until March or April.

Oy.

Honestly, I’ve never paid much attention to the flu season myself.  I’ve never gotten the flu vaccine and always figured if I got sick it would be no big deal.  Why waste $20 to prevent something from happening when you have plenty of sick time stored up?  So no vaccine and no flu for me.  Ever.  But now we have an infant and that stupid H1N1 is all over the place, including across the street at SAU.  Not only that, the seasonal flu seems to be much more prevalent here than in California.  A few weeks ago one of the school districts canceled school because 600-700 kids were out.  Snow days I expected.  Flu days… not so much.

So today I went across the street to the university and got my first ever flu vaccination.  I’m continually amazed at the things I do now that I’d never even think of doing before, just because Isaac is here.

Even with Clint and I getting the vaccination I still feel at a loss when it comes to preventing Isaac from getting the flu.  Part of me feels like we now need to be homebound for the entire flu season, but surely that’s an overreaction, right?  What are you moms out there doing to keep your little ones from getting H1N1?  Any suggestions?

I love autumn.  Part of the reason is the seasonal baking and cooking that accompanies this time of year.  As a fan of all things pumpkin (pumpkin pasta with sausage which was almost as good as the pumpkin ravioli I made last year, pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, those little pumpkin shaped candies that have nothing to do with pumpkin and everything to do with an instant sugar rush…) autumn gives me an excuse to do lots of fun cooking and baking that I love.  In Michigan it’s even easier, since baking also warms the house a bit, whereas in southern California I’d have to turn on the AC and put on shorts first if I wanted to bake anything in October.

So anyway, before I digress too far, I love autumn baking!  Last week I finally got around to my annual autumn tradition of making Maple cookies.  Maple… another flavor I love.  I love it so much in fact, that I’ve been known to scalp maple glazed donuts just for the frosting, leaving the rest behind because really, what’s the point of fried dough?

But I was talking about maple cookies.  I found the recipe in a Better Homes and Garden Christmas cookbook many moons ago, before I went off to college, I think (and as I turn 30 in just over a month that really does feel like a long time ago).  The recipe was for Maple Yule Logs, but when my mom found me some maple shaped cookie cutters at Williams and Sonoma, the maple shaped maple cookie tradition was born.  Every autumn I would bake and package lots of the cookies and give them to just about everyone.  That was way back in the day when I had no husband and no baby and lived close to everyone I gave cookies to, however.  So this year, all of three people got cookies, and I’m okay with that.  However, here is the recipe if you’d like to bake your own!

In a large mixer bowl beat 3/4 cups butter until soft.  Add 3/4 cup brown sugar and 1 egg, 1-1/2 tsp maple flavoring and 1/2 tsp salt.  Add 2 cups flour.  Beat until well mixed.  Refrigerate for at least an hour.  Try not to eat the raw dough but know you’re in good company if you do.

Preheat oven to 375.  Cut out cookies and place on an ungreased cookie sheet.  Bake cookies 6-8 minutes.

For frosting, beat 1/4 cup butter until light and fluffy.  Add 3 cups of powdered sugar,2-3 tbsp milk, and 1 tsp maple flavoring and beat until smooth.  Frost cookies when cool.

Note: the frosting is about double what you need but the extra tastes very good on graham crackers.  Believe me, after 12 years of this, I should know!

Happy Autumn, from my house to yours!