Forgive me if this entry is poorly written. I literally have about two minutes to write and 36 different things going on in my head.
First, weight: same.
::yawn::
Diet, blah, blah, blah. Exercise, blah, blah, blah. I've been to the gym a few times and am trying to be careful about what I'm eating. However, this past weekend, I was at the grocery store near in the dairy aisle and stumbled upon my all-time favorite butter (sad, I know, that I have a "favorite" butter.) It's this fancy-schmansy European kind that I indulged in while living in Ireland, and this little foil-wrapped packet of goodness jumped into my cart without a second thought. I made a bee-line for the bread aisle and stuffed some whole wheat English muffins in the cart as well, and let's just say, breakfast this week has never been more delicious.
So...yeah. Not good on the weight front, but so yummy on the taste buds.
And I'm okay with the lack of forward progress. I did follow Jill's advice last week and spent five minutes in front of a mirror, admiring my good features (in this order: my hair, my teeth, my nose, my hands, and finally, my legs) and it was fun to think about things I like, not the things I want to change. During my mirror-gazing, I came to this realization: fat is a feeling, weight is a number. What I mean is you can feel "fat" at any weight - whether you are 190 lbs or look like Audrina Padridge (holy skinny cats!!). Likewise, you can feel great at any weight. But weight - the number - exists as an objective measurement to help you have a goal AND a healthy size. Does that make sense? Either way, I've had my "fat" days and my "skinny" days, despite the number on the scale not moving much. I'm glad I still have a goal and weight or else I would totally lose motivation.
And I will admit...it's hard to find the motivation these days. I'm going to be cut open in less than two weeks. (just this morning, I was at Dr. Awesome's office for Scotty's flu booster shot, and I told her about the surgery, since it overlaps with his 15-month vaccine schedule. Her response? "So they are going to cut you open?" Really, doc? Really? Did you have to say it like that? That should be banned right along with 'bleed out.' ) I alternate between wanting to do a million sit-ups, since I won't have ab-usage for quite some time, and not doing any, thinking to myself, 'What' the use?'
And I'm not going to lie, in the back of my mind, I am secretly hoping George does a little nip/tuck while he's down there.
At present, there is a more present issue than body image and weight loss: separation anxiety. Holy moly, we are hitting a peak here people. Scotty cannot handle it if I leave the room even for a few seconds. I started to notice this a few weeks ago, namely at Music Lessons. During different times, we would have to get up and walk in a circle. Since Scotty was Little Mr. Independent then, he would never be next to me when we would start to walk. But all it took was for me to be 3 additional feet away from him (by my own doing) and he would glance around the room, frantically, scanning for his Momb. When his eyes met mine, it was like pure relief flooded the little guy...and then fury. You could practically read his thoughts: "Oh! Momb! She didn't leave me! Oh thank goodness! Wait, don't EVER do that to me again!"
Pout, pout, scream.
And it's only gotten worse since then. I left him with a baby-sitter last week and he pitched an ever-loving fit when I exited. She called me about 30 minutes later and said, "I don't think he was sad...I think he was just pissed. He hid on the other side of the kitchen island for a good five minutes, just screaming."
Oh wow.
And then on Thursday night, at Paid Humiliation, I handed him off to the swim instructor (like we've done for the past three months) -- with me no less than 2 feet away from him in the water -- and he began bellowing and shrieking like someone poured hot oil on him. He clawed away from her and for a second, I really thought he was going to start swimming (and kicking) just to get to me. But he just made some huge splashes and got me all wet.
He even does this to Brian. I'll run upstairs for something and within seconds, he's at the gate, shaking it like a mini King Kong, screaming "MEHHHHHHH!"
Let me tell you: so much fun.
Yesterday was the worst. Not only did he turn purple in the face when I left for a few seconds while at a friend's house (I had to unload stuff from my car), but he also woke up at 12:30am screaming. All it took was about 10 minutes of gentle rocking to calm him down, but I can, again, hear his little thought process: "Momb, don't leave. No Momb, no!!! You are never coming back! No stay here! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
While this is all developmentally appropriate (SA peaks between the ages of 15-18 months), leaving for a solid 2.5 days isn't...yeah, the surgery (and time at the hospital) is really weighing on me. Two and a half days is like an eternity in toddler years. He really is going to think I've left and am never coming back. And then when I do return, I'm not going to be able to pick him up or bathe him or feed him, like our normal routine. I've been asking myself over and over again, "Should I be doing this?" and I keep coming up with...yes. So, we will just all have to bear the brunt of...the Bear.
Oh, and I've gotten a lot of questions re: the fibroid and the surgery. In order to address all of the them, be sure to tune in tomorrow for a very special post, one I am calling, 'Behind the Blog: The Untold Story of my Fibroid." Good stuff!
First, weight: same.
::yawn::
Diet, blah, blah, blah. Exercise, blah, blah, blah. I've been to the gym a few times and am trying to be careful about what I'm eating. However, this past weekend, I was at the grocery store near in the dairy aisle and stumbled upon my all-time favorite butter (sad, I know, that I have a "favorite" butter.) It's this fancy-schmansy European kind that I indulged in while living in Ireland, and this little foil-wrapped packet of goodness jumped into my cart without a second thought. I made a bee-line for the bread aisle and stuffed some whole wheat English muffins in the cart as well, and let's just say, breakfast this week has never been more delicious.
So...yeah. Not good on the weight front, but so yummy on the taste buds.
And I'm okay with the lack of forward progress. I did follow Jill's advice last week and spent five minutes in front of a mirror, admiring my good features (in this order: my hair, my teeth, my nose, my hands, and finally, my legs) and it was fun to think about things I like, not the things I want to change. During my mirror-gazing, I came to this realization: fat is a feeling, weight is a number. What I mean is you can feel "fat" at any weight - whether you are 190 lbs or look like Audrina Padridge (holy skinny cats!!). Likewise, you can feel great at any weight. But weight - the number - exists as an objective measurement to help you have a goal AND a healthy size. Does that make sense? Either way, I've had my "fat" days and my "skinny" days, despite the number on the scale not moving much. I'm glad I still have a goal and weight or else I would totally lose motivation.
And I will admit...it's hard to find the motivation these days. I'm going to be cut open in less than two weeks. (just this morning, I was at Dr. Awesome's office for Scotty's flu booster shot, and I told her about the surgery, since it overlaps with his 15-month vaccine schedule. Her response? "So they are going to cut you open?" Really, doc? Really? Did you have to say it like that? That should be banned right along with 'bleed out.' ) I alternate between wanting to do a million sit-ups, since I won't have ab-usage for quite some time, and not doing any, thinking to myself, 'What' the use?'
And I'm not going to lie, in the back of my mind, I am secretly hoping George does a little nip/tuck while he's down there.
At present, there is a more present issue than body image and weight loss: separation anxiety. Holy moly, we are hitting a peak here people. Scotty cannot handle it if I leave the room even for a few seconds. I started to notice this a few weeks ago, namely at Music Lessons. During different times, we would have to get up and walk in a circle. Since Scotty was Little Mr. Independent then, he would never be next to me when we would start to walk. But all it took was for me to be 3 additional feet away from him (by my own doing) and he would glance around the room, frantically, scanning for his Momb. When his eyes met mine, it was like pure relief flooded the little guy...and then fury. You could practically read his thoughts: "Oh! Momb! She didn't leave me! Oh thank goodness! Wait, don't EVER do that to me again!"
Pout, pout, scream.
And it's only gotten worse since then. I left him with a baby-sitter last week and he pitched an ever-loving fit when I exited. She called me about 30 minutes later and said, "I don't think he was sad...I think he was just pissed. He hid on the other side of the kitchen island for a good five minutes, just screaming."
Oh wow.
And then on Thursday night, at Paid Humiliation, I handed him off to the swim instructor (like we've done for the past three months) -- with me no less than 2 feet away from him in the water -- and he began bellowing and shrieking like someone poured hot oil on him. He clawed away from her and for a second, I really thought he was going to start swimming (and kicking) just to get to me. But he just made some huge splashes and got me all wet.
He even does this to Brian. I'll run upstairs for something and within seconds, he's at the gate, shaking it like a mini King Kong, screaming "MEHHHHHHH!"
Let me tell you: so much fun.
Yesterday was the worst. Not only did he turn purple in the face when I left for a few seconds while at a friend's house (I had to unload stuff from my car), but he also woke up at 12:30am screaming. All it took was about 10 minutes of gentle rocking to calm him down, but I can, again, hear his little thought process: "Momb, don't leave. No Momb, no!!! You are never coming back! No stay here! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
While this is all developmentally appropriate (SA peaks between the ages of 15-18 months), leaving for a solid 2.5 days isn't...yeah, the surgery (and time at the hospital) is really weighing on me. Two and a half days is like an eternity in toddler years. He really is going to think I've left and am never coming back. And then when I do return, I'm not going to be able to pick him up or bathe him or feed him, like our normal routine. I've been asking myself over and over again, "Should I be doing this?" and I keep coming up with...yes. So, we will just all have to bear the brunt of...the Bear.
Oh, and I've gotten a lot of questions re: the fibroid and the surgery. In order to address all of the them, be sure to tune in tomorrow for a very special post, one I am calling, 'Behind the Blog: The Untold Story of my Fibroid." Good stuff!
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