Name that blog

Yesterday, I reached in my back pocket and pulled out a British coin.  That’s because I hadn’t worn those trousers since we lived in London.  Which is my way of saying I am fitting into clothes that I last wore before I got pregnant with Lilah.  Either the breastfeeding is starting to pay off or the flu I had two weeks ago had some side benefits.

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I am going to start a book review blog.  It’s going to be super cool because I will be writing about books in much the same way I write about everything else.  So, it might be just a little irreverent or edgy and certainly won’t be anything you’d find in the NY Times (sad to say, because I’d love to be found in the NY Times).  But, I need a name for this blog.  So, please, tell me what to call my book review blog.  Think of a kickin’ title, because I suck at titles (except for the article I wrote about Dreiser’s anxiety about the theater, which I titled “Performance Anxiety” — that was a good title.)

Challenge week nine: No gnews is good gnews

I weigh exactly what I did nine weeks ago, which is pretty much what I weighed before having the baby, minus the, you know, baby.  But, my husband has lost ten pounds.  How about the rest of you?

In other news, I am going to have to mark everything in my Reader as “read” because I have been so busy with the Hat Book.  Please let me know if you have posted something important and have a post I should read.

Back tomorrow with a real post!

Challenge week eight: New Math

            I’m sure you’re wondering what I weigh this fine morning.  I’m wondering that, myself.

            Last night, Lilah slept for more than eleven straight hours, for which we are considering sponsoring a tri-state parade in her honor.  Shortly after hour ten, I staggered into the bathroom, engorged with my gluttony of sleep.  I weighed myself as breastmilk sprayed all over the bathroom.  Then I rushed out to assemble the hand pump.

            J got ready for the gym while all three of the children remained asleep, even though the sun was shining.  “I’m up 1.7 pounds from where I started,” I told him.  “That’s almost 3 pounds from last week.  Of course, I’m about to pump some of it off.”

            “Well, you have to weigh yourself after you’ve pumped,” was his rejoinder.  (I think the English language needs a verb for a reply made in the tone of voice that implies “duh.”  “Snipped” implies something nasty and “scoffed” is more derogatory than this mock-insulting reply really was.)  So, I pumped six ounces and weighed myself again, only to find I was an entire pound lighter. 

            Now, I know I was an English major in college, but I am not so bad at math.  Last I checked, there are 16 ounces in a pound.  Anyone know how pumping six ounces made me lose an entire pound?

            It also begs the question of my actual weight, since I was carting a couple of feedings around in my boobs this morning.  Do I subtract for the additional eight ounces of milk?  And how much do I subtract? 

            I think maybe we should just say I had two good workouts at the Y and call it a week.

Challenge week seven: the good, the bad, and the dumpy

            The good thing about joining the Y is that I got to work out one day this week.  Unfortunately, Lilah only made it 20 minutes before summoning me back to the childcare room, where she followed in her brothers’ footsteps by nursing around an unhooked jog bra.  I did my best not to drip sweat on her and wondered, as I had for the other two children, whether she noticed that her meal was a bit saltier than usual.  After she finished, I gave her back to the childminders and dashed back to the locker room for a shower, whereupon I discovered the bad thing about joining the Y.

            Three-quarter length mirrors.

            We do not have a full-length mirror at home, so I had heretofore been spared a view of what my midsection has become.  Also, I am usually accessorizing with a baby worn right over my belly.  Standing there, naked, in the YMCA locker room, I came face-to-face with reality: I am not longer a hottie.  Shit, right now I don’t even qualify as a lukewarmie.

            I’m damned lucky that I am married, because there is no way I’d let some stranger see me from just below my breasts to just above my knees.  If my husband were ever to leave me, I’d need to only date men who are into ankles.  Because those are looking fine.

             On the bright side, I’m down a pound.

Challenge week 6: Same as it ever was

            Well, the running thing was a bust, but that doesn’t let me off the hook for exercising.  The shame of it is that I love to run and like to swim and enjoy walking but find all other exercise unpleasant at best.  I thought about joining J’s gym, but it is unbelievably expensive, probably sue to the fantastic pool and state-of-the-art equipment, not to mention 972 channels on TV.

            The boys go to the gym for private swim lessons, which cost more than we spend on produce and diapers in a week.  We’ve been wanting to end those lessons, but first we wanted to get Zachary through some of his, shall we say, “hesitation” about putting his face in the water.  We have come to realize that we could spend the next eight years doing private lessons without him becoming suddenly amenable to dunking his head, and by that point we’d have spent his college savings and lost the house to foreclosure.  Benjamin, meanwhile, leaps into the water and swims straight through to the instructor, so we’re thinking he is probably ready for a group class.

            Unfortunately, finding a group class is not all that easy. Around here, people seem to have pools, and they have private instructors who come and teach their kids in the aforementioned pools.  See above comment about the cost of private lessons.  So, I was grateful when our teenaged babysitter mentioned that she had taken lessons at the YMCA as a kid.

            And, would you believe it, that Y is pretty fucking nice.  The tour featured state-of-the-art equipment, squash courts, and a good pool.  Benjamin, of course, protested vociferously when we left the pool area.  “Please take me swimming class!  Please take me swimming class!” he screamed as we left for the rest of the tour. 

            We periodically check that child to see if he has gills.

            The best part is that our family membership includes a childcare room.  So, if there were, hypothetically, a stay-at-home mom with bad knees who needed a workout and wanted someone to watch the baby for an hour while the boys are at school, she could leave the aforementioned baby fast asleep in her bucket seat with the childcare peeps and go work out.  And, when that baby gets to be six months old, she can enter the mommy-and-me swim class, perhaps thereby avoiding the wet-face-phobia of her eldest brother.

            So, this week I’ll start working out at our fancy schmantzy Y.  J will transfer his workouts there in a few months, when he feels he is in enough of a routine to give up the 972 channels.  Benjamin isn’t old enough for the group lessons, which start at 3, but we’ll try to beg his way in.  And Zachary?  We’re going to start him in the swimming lessons next session.  Unfortunately, he needs a swim cap, and we fear he’s going to hate that feeling.  Can anyone recommend a swim cap that a four-year-old won’t reject?  Really – I could use some suggestions here.

            So, I still haven’t lost a pound, but we’ve found a way for me to get in shape and save a crapload of money at the same time.

            Do you think the baby will need a swim cap?  Because thus far she has no hair.

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Sorry I haven’t been around your blogs much lately.  I was revising the book.  I’ll be around soon.

Challenge week 5: My husband is losing weight

            Because our children have much in common, Sara recommended I read The Challenging Child.  All too often, we can end up focusing on Zachary’s demanding or complicated behavior without honoring it as a part of the beautiful child who will spend an hour focused on a single activity or who asks the baby if her v@gina is OK after Benjamin hits her in that vicinity with a toy.  This book offers some concrete ways to positively parent five types of challenging kids, including Mr. Highly Sensitive over here.

            So, I tried to put Greenspan’s recommendations into practice the other evening.  You see, we have only to sets of red pajamas.  Benjamin got out of the bath first and claimed the red footed ones, which the boys refer to as the “baby jamas.”  Zachary decided he needed red pajamas, too; perhaps he was planning on auditioning for the stage version of Nabakov’s Pale Fire.  Tragically, the red footless pajamas (“adult jamas,” maybe?) were in the washing machine, which had not even hit the rinse cycle yet.

            Little Man would not be reasoned with.  He wanted red pjs.  He needed red pjs.  J was getting frustrated, so we did the tantrum-swap and he walked away when I tagged in. 

            “These have red on them,” I offered.

            “Not enough,” Zach replied.

            “How about pink ones?”

            “I want red pajamas.”

            “Would you like a red shirt?” I offered.

            “I want red pajamas,” he cried, desperately convinced that no other pajamas would do.  To recap: two pairs of red pjs – one on his brother, the other soaking wet and locked into our front-loading washer.  It was clear standing there offering substitutes would not work because there were no viable substitutes.  And Greenspan cautions against simply cutting off negotiations, explaining we need to set limits while honoring that he has real feelings attached to his behavior.  I needed to get down on his level and talk to him, to explain he could not have Ben’s pjs but to offer to change him later in the night or the next day or to give him first dibs the next night.

            I got down on my knees to talk with him.  “Ow!  Oh, my god.  OW!!”  It would appear my knees were not responding well to my running so soon after having a baby.  I was supposed to wait six months, but I just wanted so badly to be out there.  Bad idea, babe.  Really fucking bad idea.

            And so, I am not running anymore.  I am walking plenty, since Lilah has decided that she likes morning nap strapped to my chest.  At least she doesn’t care what color she has on.

            But, the walking appears to simply cancel out the ice cream, and I am exactly the same weight I was.

            And the next night, everyone insisted on blue pajamas.

Challenge week four: holding steady

I have started running again and it feels great.  Still, if I want to lose the baby weight, it might behoove me to throw away the fudge in my refrigerator.

That half-pound from last week?  It’s back. 

I want to repeat here that I am not dieting or trying to lose weight.  I know that eating enough to keep up my milk will slow the loss down, and as I said before, I’m cool with that.  In the long run, breastfeeding will help me get all the way down, just as it did with the last two.  I am blogging about it simply to give those who are dieting someone to compete against, since I know that sometimes helps.

So, where are you?

Challenge week two: the hospital-food diet

Are you participating in our challenge?

Lilah is breastfeeding and has absolutely no interest in a convenient little receptacle into which I could pour pumped milk for her to take from someone else.  Hence, where she goes, I go.

For the past 10 days, she goes nowhere.  For a week, we were in a hospital room together.  Now, we are home, but she needs to be on O2 when she sleeps. Predicting when a two-month-old will sleep is nigh on impossible, so we just stay home.  The only way I could get a walk in would be to wheel the tank along with us.  Not that I am particularly interested in taking her little lungs outside at all…

So, how much weight can a woman lose by hanging out in one room?  None, that’s how much.  I am exactly where I was two weeks ago.  How about you?  What have you lost?  And what can I find you doing?  Because you know where to find me.

Still waiting for the breastfeeing to melt those pounds away.

Sunday weigh-in: week one

I know, I know.  You are expecting a weigh-in this morning; alas, I cannot provide one.  You see, I am not in a position right now to weigh myself in the nude on my home scale, which is in itself a very, very long story.  I promise as soon as I get home to weigh in.  In the meantime, fess up, people.  How much weight did you lose or gain this week?  And what was your best workout of the week?

Stay tuned for posts about just why I am away from home right now…

Up for the challenge?

            I am starting to hate ice cream.  Ever since I realized the correlation between eating a bowl of ice cream with peanut butter on top (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it) at bedtime and my milk supply the next day, I have eaten it every night.  Sometimes I am not in the mood, but I eat it anyway because if I don’t, my milk supply will be trashed for two days.  Ice cream has now become an obligation.

            My bedroom at 3 AM is the site of a reverse manufacturing process where my breasts turn ice cream into milk.

            Needless to say, I am unlikely to lose the baby weight anytime soon.  I am 20 pounds up from my pre-pregnancy weight.  Before you pooh-pooh that, let me explain that I gained 30 pounds.  Since the baby was 7 pounds and you have to figure another couple for all the fluid, breastfeeding for the last two months has clearly not helped me lose anything.  I have resigned myself to the extra pounds right now, as feeding the baby is my top priority, and I went down to the local consignment shop to get myself jeans three sizes larger than I usually wear.

            In an interesting turn of events, my husband also wants to lose 20 pounds., although he does not have a convenient scapegoat for the gain.  He’s having a rough time sticking to a diet, so I have challenged him.  We are going to see who can lose the weight first: him dieting or me breastfeeding.  Over Thanksgiving, a cousin who also wants to lose weight joined the contest.

            Now, I’m opening it up to the larger public.  If you are struggling to stay on a diet, please feel free to join in.  If you only have ten pounds to lose, you can compete for the first ten.  If you have 30, stick with us for the first 20.  Weigh-ins are Sunday mornings before breakfast.  You do not need to tell your weight, just the weight change from week to week.  If we get any participants, I’ll post my weight change each week and you can leave yours in the comment section.  (You can also do it without telling the world your change, but please tell me if that is your plan so I know whether anyone is interested; if no one speaks up, I’ll not bother to post it.)

            December may seem an odd month to diet, but I submit that it makes a good deal of sense.  You don’t need to decide each cookie on an individual basis if you have sworn them all off.

            I want to also note that I only want people participating if you are doing this to feel healthier and more active.  If you are a swimsuit model trying to go from thin to emaciated, fuck off.  We don’t need your kind around here.  This is a friendly competition for people trying to support one another in a healthy lifestyle.

            So, anyone in?  After all, how hard can it be to lose more weight than the chick eating ice cream every night?