Good Monday morning from deep in the trenches of new motherhood. I'm currently typing at a snail's pace in one-handed fashion. The good news is that the fingers on my right hand are looking pretty buff lately. Not Speedo buff, but definitely presentable in some finger swimming trunks. If only the rest of my body would follow suit.
While visiting the in-laws this weekend I bravely stepped upon the evil scale and decided to make peace with wherever the needle landed at two weeks postpartum. It's not going to be pretty, right? That's an established fact for anyone but the truly metabolically blessed.
Lo and behold, I am only six pounds above my pre-Spawnling weight. There is a God and she surely is a woman who has given birth and glared at the smiley-happy chicks in the Jenny Craig commercials, too. I don't know exactly how much weight I gained in the pregnancy, but a ballpark figure would be 25lbs. Well, 15 of that left my body in the form of screaming Maven spawn, his pod and the water (acid? sacrificial virgin blood?) contained within. Another few pounds in water weight and I'm now left with the remaining donuts, er, pounds that I put on.
This would be a joyous occasion if I had been at or very near my ideal weight prior to this pregnancy. I'd be jumping up and down in celebration, climbing into my size 8 jeans and drinking some spinach juice. However, to give you an idea of how far away I am from the mythical 'ideal weight' I present you with the following visual: Paint '133 to 153' on a large bristol board and put it inside the Space Shuttle. Watch as the Shuttle blasts off into the atmosphere and heads toward the International Space Station. Have an astronaut open the board up and stick it one of the station's windows. Make sure they call me and mockingly ask when I plan on getting to my ideal weight.
I'm about that close to my idea weight right now. So these magical six cookies, uh, pounds aren't quite as impressive as they used to be.
Now that I've said all that, I should also mention that I'm far beyond caring about how big I am. I used to cry over it, hate my body, refuse to wear a swimsuit in public and all the other things that typical North American women do when they don't look like Evangeline Lilly. About three years ago, I got very tired of attempting to attain the unattainable (definition of 'unattainable': having to spend most of my day at the gym and eating nothing but twigs and leaves most of the time). I started focusing on health and started power walking, then running. I added in strength training and yoga. Before I knew it, I had dropped a fair amount of weight - although nowhere near the 'ideal' - and felt amazing. My blood pressure and heartrate went down, my energy levels went up. Suddenly the only thing that mattered was my health.
Then I got knocked up again and rekindled my love affair with Wendy's. It was worth every damn minute, let me tell you.
And here I am, six pounds heavier and a cute little baby. I think it was worth it. Once I'm fully healed I'll be jumping back on Ye Olde Treddmille and buying a sexy jogging stroller in the Spring (yes, strollers can be sexy. Anything can be seen as sexy after three kids because one's standards drop dramatically). I'm bound to lose some weight, but more importantly I'm going to get my sweet muscles back. Then Typing Hand won't feel like he's the only one putting any effort in these days.
I'm going through pictures from this weekend and will post a few after I edit them and throw them up on Flickr. Ciao.