One thing I haven't talk about a lot on here is weight. Weight gain, weight loss...yawn. Part of me just doesn't care, and the other part is that I've been at my pre-pregnancy weight for almost two months. And I didn't do a damn thing to get there.

Trust me, I'm not one of those people who loses weight easily. And being at my pre-pregnancy weight doesn't mean I'm necessarily skinny, either. It just means that most of clothes fit again. So I'm not really stressing over it. I mean, I have a beautiful baby, a loving husband, and a healthy appetite for all things made with butter. No big deal, right? Life is good.

Well, my lovely friend Tiffany recently asked me to be in her wedding (::squeal!!!::) In Southern California. In July. And since I don't know many of the other bridesmaids, I can only surmise that they also look like the bride: tall, lean, blond, gorgeous. Kind of your epitome of what a gal from SoCal should look like. It's like 'Sweet Valley High' come to life.

In other words, it my worst nightmare, self-esteem/body image-wise.  Because let's just say those wouldn't be the adjectives that I would pick to describe myself. I'm more along the lines of 'fleshy, pale, jiggly, and moppish.' On my best days. I'm more than happy with the size and shape (or lack of) of my body from the comfort and security of my own home. After all, have you seen Scotty's little belly? I look like I have abs of steel compared to him!

But I will be forced to leave the comfort of my home and venture to California, land of the peckish eater.  And I'm not going to lie, I break out into a cold sweat whenever I think of the wedding party lined up at the altar. I fear it's going to be kind of like that game, "Which one of these is not like the other?" for wedding guests, with all of them accurately pointing at the chubby redhead pouring out of her bridesmaid dress among a sea of toned, tanned, non-lactating blonds.

(not to mention, I also fear the mostly-Republican wedding party will also sniff out my liberal tendencies, but that's a whole 'nother post.)

Anyways, I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by ordering my bridesmaid dress several sizes too big. After all, this allowed me several options: 1.) continue with my love of cupcakes and just suck it up and be the fat bridesmaid, yet also still be comfortable in the dress 2.) lose some weight and have the dress taken in, or 3.) do a mixture of 1 and 2, but not have the stress of "I MUST FIT IN THIS DRESS!" looming in the back of my mind in the days leading up the wedding.

My dress arrived last Monday and at first glance, it looked like it fit really well. It's a very flattering navy chiffon number with a sweetheart neckline (strapless) and tons and tons of beautiful, flowing fabric. Two other bridesmaids are pregnant and will be about one month post-partum by the time the wedding rolls around, so Tiffany wanted to get something universally flattering for everyone. ("That's really thoughtful of you," I told her, in between bites of cake. Nom, nom, nom.) I wasn't able to zip up the dress (thank you, carpal tunnel from pumping for 6+ months) but it seemed to fit generously. Score!

So last night, I received an email from the Bride herself asking how the dress fit. I sent a reply but then realized, I should probably zip this sucker up just to be extra sure. So, I shimmied out of my pjs, donned the strapless bra again (seems looser! I must be getting skinnier!), and once again reached for my lovely navy dress. I walked downstairs and asked Brian to please zip me up.

And...this is when my life became a scene out of 'The Hurt Locker.' 

For those of you who haven't seen the movie, it's about an Army ranger who defuses roadside bombs in Iraq. It was phenomenal - tense, gritty, emotional - but also probably the most intense two hour and 14 minutes of my life since labor. This movie is not for the faint of heart. In fact, I would strongly recommend against this movie if you have heart disease or any kind of stress-related condition. It's one of those, "Okay, who is going to die now?" and "Are they going to defuse the bomb or get blown up?" kind of movies. And of course, since it's well done, you really start to love the characters right before each of them meets their demise. War is hell, folks. War is hell.

So when I walked downstairs, resplendent in my chiffon number, I did not expect Brian to start grunting as he zipped me up. Hmph, this dress isn't nearly as big as I thought...then the yelling started. "I can't do it! It's not budging!" he hollered. "Try harder! Let me put my arms up!" I yelled back. Grunt, huff, puff, grunt. "It's not working!" "Do it!" "I need more light!" "Stop moving!" "Don't breathe!"  "I said, stop breathing!"

Uh, whoops. Looks like this dress isn't nearly as um, generous, as previously believed. Yikes.

Brian finally got the little clasp hooked and I stood, unmoving and afraid, as we both stared at each other. "I need to see it in the upstairs mirror," I whispered to him, fearful that my talking would break the dress. "I need to see the length." I'm fairly certain my voice wavered, just like Guy Pearce right before he donned the big green bomb suit.  "Go quickly," Brian advised solemnly. "I don't know how much time you have left."

I swear, I think we might have embraced if it were not for the fear we both felt in that moment.  Any additional movement and we were just asking for this dress to blow.

Gathering my courage, I went racing upstairs and made it up three stairs right before the hem felled me.

I went down. Hard.

And with...the dress exploded. Right off of my back.

Brian heard the noise and came running. "I guess I'm going to have to get this fixed, huh?" I asked him, my mangled body laying in a heap at the foot of the stairs.  I showing him the clasp that was now in my hand and not on the dress anymore where it should be. "And...I think it's about time I put the cupcakes down." Brian nodded quietly.

The little silver clasp is still sitting on my dresser. I don't think I'll put it under my bed, the way Jeremy Renner does with all of the denotators he collects, but I'm going to keep it.  After all, It is a good reminder that salad is good, high fructose corn syrup is bad. Very, very bad.

::boom!::

I have about 4 minutes until little Scotty-bear wakes up and am wracking my brain for some kind of interesting, pithy topic to blog on...but my mind is blank. Either I am extremely sleep-deprived (check) or just really dull today.

Things are just hunky around here. Had my 6-week post-partum check-up with George this morning and all went well. I really like him a lot better now that I'm not pregnant. I'm not sure if it was CatheterGate that brought us together, but he seems a little more friendly now. I appreciate a kind bedside manner, so this is boding well for this future.

The fibroid that started this all ("the fibroid that launched a thousand ships...") is back in the news. I'll be going in for an ultrasound to see the little stinker in all his glory in probably a month or so. The good news is that I don't need to make any immediate decisions re: surgery until we have more info, and even then, I can wait for a convenient time. Life is good when you feel like you're not running a million miles an hour.

Scotty is developing a schedule and is doing awesome. Speaking of awesome, we had a quick weight-check at Dr. Awesome's office today and he is 12lbs, 5oz. He is a little beefcake and we love it. He's doing great on the breast milk, so fingers are crossed. I had a lemonade last night which I have been fretting over for almost 24 hours now, but we'll see how he does. I've given up my dreams of a Pumpkin Spice Latte in 2009 - hell, Starbucks will be there in '10, right? I say this jokingly. In the months before Brian and I got married, I went on this crazy (though highly effective) diet. Every Monday, my intern (shout-out to Mariana!) and I would stop at Starbucks and every Monday, I would talk about how I wanted a 'sunshine cupcake' (white frosting, white cake, with yellow sprinkles - so beautiful, yet so simple) but would wait until after the wedding. This went on for months, me talking about damn sunshine cupcakes. Well, the week of our wedding, I kid you not, among all of the other horrors that were going on (if you don't know the story, don't ask), the factory that made the sunshine cupcakes burned to the ground. Mariana alerted me via email, but I was so numb from everything else it barely registered. She saved the day, though, and came to our after-wedding brunch with a whole box of sunshine cupcakes that she had personally made herself. Greatest gift, ever. Thanks, Mariana. You were always my favorite intern.

Okay, I don't know why I'm talking about sunshine cupcakes. Probably because I'm  hungry. Seriously, though, I was thinking about why I will occasionally pick writing this blog over sleep (much to my mother and Brian's horror), and it hit me - I really like to write (duh) and writing makes me feel good. I get lost in my thoughts and typing and time will go by and I don't even notice it.  There is this whole movement out there called Positive Psychology, and it defines the five tenants of happiness. (I'll tell you about the other four later). One of the tenants is that truly happy people find "flow" - i.e. some activity that creates/causes their brain waves to even out and just "flow,' creating a sense of overall well-being.  For some people, they find their flow in painting or playing a musical instrument or running (um, no) or playing golf.  But for me, I really feel like writing is my flow. When I was writing my (now defunct) book last summer, I swear, hours would go by and I would never glance at the clock since I was so heavily absorbed in what I was writing. I would start at 8am and be surprised when the clock said 2pm. It was great, even though the book never got off the ground. Thank goodness I have Brian or else I would be a very happy though very hungry writer.

So, as long as I have a computer, I'll likely keep writing. It really is a great medium. Not to mention, it's fun to go back and read old entries. I forgot how much I hated pregnancy. Wow, like I really hated it. Thinking back now, I would KILL for some time on my couch with nothing else to other than watch 'The Bachelorette' and eat brownies. But alas, time moves forward. You live, you learn. I really have lived A LOT in the past six weeks and I certainly have learned a lot. Motherhood is NOTHING like I imaged it. I thought it would be me and this snuggly baby, happily cooing at me, breast-feeding like a champ, and me, cloth-diapering mom, calm and relaxed. Instead, I'm exhausted, unshowered, frantic about the next feeding, frantic about the baby sleeping too long, frantic about the baby not sleeping enough, and there hasn't been any boob action in weeks (and will likely stay that way.) Oh, and disposable diapers are my friend. So, whatever. If anything, I've learned to be flexible.

Okay, little pumpkin is stirring. I hope everyone else is doing well. Oh, and to my friends that have been calling -- I swear, I will return your call one of these days. All of these early morning appointments this week have just killed me. I have been sleeping in the afternoon along with Scotty, making it impossible to get to the phone. Sorry about that.

Peace out.