The Old Bod

I can fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans.

In fact, my legs are smaller than they were pre-Ella.

Me? Smaller legs? Now there's a phrase I'd never thought I'd say.

I should be jumping for joy. I should be singing a round of the "Hallelujah Chorus." I should be happy that my problem area has shrunk.

Except now, every time I slide those pre-pregnancy jeans over my thighs, I barely have time to celebrate. Because I quickly hit my waist-line and immediately fixate on my new problem area.

Ugh. My kangaroo pouch.

I am not a fan.

I'm at my pre-pregnancy weight. I'm back in my pre-pregnancy clothes. But I have this little remnant of a baby bump that is driving me certifiably insane.

Part of it is simply stretched out skin. Part of it is the unnerving fact that my hips spread so I could push my child out. Part of it is the fact that, once I put on my old jeans, I still struggle to button where it used to be easy, thus creating - oh, I can barely even say it - the dreaded mommy muffin top.

Slowly but surely, the rest of my muscles are returning. But my abdominals seem to be fighting a losing battle.

I kick my own butt now several times a week while Ella naps, plus my workouts with my clients, which is why my legs look OK, and my arms are getting their old weight-training tone back.

But my abs? You can barely see them peeking through.

Part of me - the trainer part of me - keeps telling me to give it time. That my hard-work will pay off, and that I'll get to where I want to be ab-wise soon enough.

Then, the drill instructor inside me also keeps yelling, "Stop whining! Work out more if you want your abs back!"

But the mommy part me has no earthly idea when I'd fit in more exercise, seeing as I literally run around doing everything from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed.

Frankly, I'm exhausted.

I work, work out, take care of Ella, take care of our home, cook, clean, do laundry, and try to maintain some sort of social circle for all of us - alone.

Yesterday, I had to finish my workout by completing push-ups while leaning over Ella and entertaining her so she wouldn't fuss. And during my rest intervals, I was hanging up wet, clean clothes that can't go in the dryer.

Sometimes, the mommy part of me wants to give up. It's almost more trouble than it's worth.

Worse yet, the mommy part of me wants to say, "By the time I actually see my abs, I'll probably be pregnant again, anyway. So what's the point?"

Obviously, I'm delusional, as I have a 3 month old, and I'm already thinking about Baby #2.

But that's a post for another day.

For now, I sit here, lamenting my mom gut.

Cursing the ever-loving fact that I'm not fighting the scale but am instead fighting a flabby patch of skin that makes my skinny jeans look fattening.

And desperately trying not to let the self-conscious little teenage girl inside me bleat our, "But it's not fair!"

***

So, for now, I will continue on and add this to the list of unfair questions I will one day ask God, along with "Why can only men stand up and pee?" and "Why make fried chicken and chocolate cake taste so good but be so bad?"

Because, truthfully, it's not fair.

But life's not fair, and all it takes is one look at my daughter to understand that she's undoubtedly worth every last saggy inch of it.

***

Happy (Workout) Wednesday, everyone!

Getting It

On Saturday morning, Ella woke up at 3:30 a.m.

I was really, really tired myself, and I groggily roused myself enough to right Ella, who was sleeping on my chest, and evaluate the situation.

She was rooting around, attempting to find a breast.

She was hungry.

So, without thinking much, I slipped her into the crook of my arm, laid on my right side, and latched her on.

She began nursing immediately, little hands resting on my breast, and big, baby eyes peering up at me.

I settled onto the pillows and let her eat and watched her through my own sleepy eyes.

I sighed and relaxed, enjoying her sweet little sighs and the feeling of little baby hands and fingers splayed across my chest.

Then, it hit me.

I was enjoying this. I was actually enjoying nursing.

I didn't mind waking up in the middle of the night. I didn't hear Ella cry and instantly react worriedly. My body didn't instinctively stiffen up right before she latched on, anticipating the pain that had accompanied nursing in weeks past.

I was settled and capable and just, well, there. Nursing. Parenting.

In that moment, at 3:30 in the morning, barely awake, it finally hit me.

I was getting it.

Or, rather, I'd got it.

Finally, things were coming easier.

On the way home from our weekend trip, the hubs and I talked about it more. He agreed that, over the last week, we'd finally settled in. I hadn't had panic-like attacks. I wasn't having tearful breakdowns. We'd both figured out how to manage Ella during her "witching hours," i.e., from about 5 p.m. to 9 p.m.

We'd finally started to establish a very basic routine. We were finally able to wash, dry, and fold a load of laundry in under a week. We were finally able to hit the grocery store and cook a basic meal.

For the first time in almost a month, I actually returned a phone call yesterday morning.

Life is sure different around here, but, somehow, we've managed to - finally! - get our act together.

Back at the beginning of July, after our second round of company left, I realized how low I really was. I was so unlike myself I was hard to recognize, and I was just learning and coping and caring for Ella; it was all I could wrap my head around.

I'd literally hear my phone ring, and I'd shake. I couldn't figure out how to juggle Ella and answer it.

I wasn't eating because I literally wasn't able to cope with a fussy baby who always wanted to nurse so I could make myself a sandwich. The hubs would come home, and I'd be shaking from low blood sugar.

When Ella would sleep, I'd sit in my living room and cry, looking at the dust. Looking at the dog hair on the carpet. Then, I'd go and take a fitful nap, too, because I was so tired, and coping with a lot of pain from the breast-feeding, which, thanks to Ella's ability to grow like a weed, was a constant battle.

If she ate 15 times a day, I'd cry and shake 15 times a day.

Then, I'd cry more. Because I'd feel guilty. I spent most of this month feeling like I let people down.

I turned down tons of local invitations to parties and mom groups, or simply never responded to them. I ignored voice-mails and e-mails and other queries about how we were doing. I never sent out birth announcements. I couldn't even think of writing thank-you notes for all the gifts and food and help we'd receive when Ella was born.

And so, I was mad and sad. All at myself. I hated that I couldn't function like I used to.

It was rough. Really rough.

Rougher than I realized at the time. Because now, now that I'm on the other side of it, I'm realizing how out of touch I was.

Now that my pain is mostly gone, now that Ella and I have established our own little rhythm, now that I can do more than just feed, change, and rock my baby in a day, I realize how crazy the first six weeks of Ella's life were. For me, at least.

And, now, I'm so glad we're where we are now.

Ella's cries don't instantly riddle me with guilt. I can feed her without anxiety. I've managed a few trips and errands just her and I without either one of us sweating profusely or breaking down. And little triggers - the phone ringing, the dryer dinging, the stove timer pinging - aren't setting me off anymore.

Thank God.

Thank God, we're getting it. I'm getting it.

I recognize myself again. I laugh again. I have a desire to work on projects I'd laid aside after Ella was born, and I now want to go places other than my living room and bed-room.

It took a while; it wasn't easy, but, finally, I feel happy and content and, well, like me.

Finally, I'm getting it.

***

I do owe a ton of people apologies.

Those of you who I haven't sent thank-you notes to. Those of you who called and never got a call back. Those of you whose e-mails I blatantly ignored, or, in my baby haze, never even saw.

Trust me, it wasn't intentional. I was in a bit of a fight-or-flight modus operandi, and I truly didn't mean to be cruel. I was just, simply, trying to survive.

Still, I hate that I hurt people I love, and that thought is the only thing that still brings tears to my eyes and anxiety to my heart.

I'm hoping to get back into the swing of things this week - writing notes, making calls, actually going through my out-of-control inbox.

Because, now that I'm getting it, it's the least I can do.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The Honest Truth About Post-Partum

I read the handouts on post-partum depression.

I'd been warned that everyone gets the "baby blues."

I'd been told time and again the hormonal down-surge that happens right after you have a baby is no joke; that, for many women, it's literally the weirdest, and maybe even the worst, time in their lives.

I got it.

Or, I thought I did.

And then I had a baby.

Nothing - and I do mean nothing - I'd read or been told could have prepared me for the last month of my life, complete with the extreme highs, and, even more so, the extreme lows.

It's a wonder more women don't talk about this. It's a wonder we don't warn each other more often, "Listen, lady, what you're about to experience? It's no joke. It's actually pretty horrible at times. And that's OK."

Maybe it's because we feel guilty. Maybe it's because we feel like we shouldn't be crying and filled with worry and despair while we're simultaneously holding this precious bundle of joy we so wanted. Maybe it's because no one tells us it's OK; that it's normal.

But the honest truth about post-partum is? It's hard. Real hard. Harder than anything I've ever done before.

Aside from the physical - the bleeding and recovery and the literal chest pains caused by breast-feeding a newborn constantly - there is something almost unexplainable about the emotional side of just having a baby.

You love that little babe with all your heart and soul. You can't stop staring at her sweet face. You wonder how your life will ever be the same again, and you're thrilled about it.

And then, she cries. For. No. Good. Reason.

And, because she's your baby, and because you've tried everything already, and because you're tired, and because you have no real control over your emotions, you cry, too. A lot.

I remember, at 2:30 a.m., bawling to my mom in Ella's first week of life while Ella refused to eat, sleep, or do anything but cry, wailing out myself, "I don't know what to do. Why is she so unhappy? What did I do wrong? Why doesn't my baby like me?"

This from a woman with a post-graduate degree and an extremely rational mindset.

Or, I was that woman before I had a baby.

After my mom left, and it was just me and the hubs, I also remember standing in the shower, letting the water beat down on me, hot as I could get it, while listening to Ella cry while my husband paced the house with her. Yet again.

She wanted to nurse. I knew she wanted to nurse. And nothing my husband could do would comfort her.

And, still, I just stood in that shower, crying myself. Feeling guilty because I knew, once I got out, it was going to be all about her. That I had to feed her and soothe her.

And? The truth is, I didn't want to.

I was tired and hungry and sore and my breasts looked like they'd been gnawed on by rapid dogs.

I didn't want to get out of that shower. Not even a little bit.

So I just stood there. And cried. And let the water run down my back. And I cried some more.

For the first few weeks of her life, it was more of the same.

We ventured out for dinner; Ella was angel the whole time. Then she screamed all the way home, and I cried right along with her, apologizing to her aloud for making her stay in that car-seat for 10 minutes and depriving her of comfort and food.

I had a fight with my husband on the way to run errands on a different day because I didn't want to go. Because I didn't want to leave the house, in case Ella got upset, and I had to comfort and nurse her in public. (This was at the time when my nursing pain had reached an all-time high, and I was literally grinding my teeth to get through every feeding.) I literally yelled at him then gave him the cold shoulder, mad as heck that he didn't understand. That he didn't get how much pain I was in and how traumatized I was being away from my safety zone should Ella need something.

I became irrationally mad or sad about everything: the fact that my husband didn't like the smell of the detergent I used on Ella's cloth diapers; the fact that my house was a mess, and no one seemed to feel the need to pick anything up; the fact that no one understood how much pain I was in and much pressure I felt, being the sole food-source and comforter of this little baby girl.

More than eight or nine times, I picked up the phone, ready to call my mom and beg her to come back. My first week, she was the only one who could calm me down, who I'd believe when she told me Ella was behaving as all newborns do and was as healthy as she could be.

She was the only one who could help me handle my unbelievable fears.

In fact, one of the worst parts about post-partum, for me, was the crippling worry.

I've taken care of a ton of babies in my time. I'm not easily intimidated or freaked out by them.

But nothing prepared me for the staggering pressure of having my own baby. Every noise she made, every breath she took, every sip she ate, every cry she let out - I analyzed and stressed about. What I'd see as perfectly normal in someone else's baby was terrifying in my own.

I didn't sleep for almost three days after she was born. I just watched her. Worried over her. Prayed over her. The responsibility of this little life? It was mind-boggling. And I loved her so much, in those first few days, that I knew I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to her on my watch.

And the thing is, with Ella, it's always "my watch."

I accidentally scratched her head while nursing her. She didn't even bat an eye. But I bawled.

She got a little gassy from some really garlic-y tomato sauce I ate. I cried with her and massaged her belly obsessively until she pooped.

She'd cry in her swing, her bouncy seat, my husband's arms? It was all I could not to rush to her and grab her away and try and fix the problem immediately.

I was a wreck, simply put.

I had no control over my fears; I had no control over my emotions. While Ella was growing and flourishing right in front of me, I was a basket case 90-percent of the time.

Until, finally, slowly, it started to get better.

***

It's pretty shocking, actually, how much easier it's been.

Not that I still don't have rough days. Not that I still don't worry.

But last week I'd say, slowly but surely, I began to notice improvement.

I wasn't so nervous. I wasn't so depressed. While a lot of my physical pain still exists (namely, my breasts) I'd learned to cope and began to notice ever-so-slight improvements there, as well.

My hormones, it seemed, had started to level off.

Just like that, I started to feel better; I started to feel in control again.

Not that I'm 100-percent adjusted. I still get upset if I don't get, say, my laundry done for the day. But I don't shed tears over it or lash out at someone because of it.

I've learned things can wait - and have to wait - when Ella needs me. But I've also learned that a few seconds of bawling won't hurt her, if, say, I'm using the restroom when she decides to lose her cool.

A month in, and I'm starting to feel like myself again.

***

Part of the "problem," if you will, is how I choose to parent.

Believing in a lot of "attachment parenting" leads me to hold her a lot; exclusively, on-demand breast-feed her; shun a pacifier until she's 6 weeks old; co-sleep with her; wear her, and allow her to dictate her schedule in these early stages.

It's very time-intensive. And it's not particularly forgiving on me.

Not that I'd do it any other way. But when a baby's pincer-like hands grab your amazingly sore, cut-up breast in the middle of the night while she snoozes on your chest, you can't do anything but cry.

Or when you can't eat lunch because the baby decides to cluster-feed from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., you sometimes get frustrated.

I know why women don't choose this method of infant-parenting. I have moments where, honesty, I don't blame them.

And, yet, it's working for us. For me. For Ella.

It's been the hardest thing to maintain, at times, but it's working.

Mostly thanks to the fact that I got lucky. I definitely had the "baby blues." But they didn't last forever.

It also could have been worse. I could have had full-blown post-partum depression.

Thankfully, now, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Most of the time, I can discern true issues from my post-partum, newborn-rearing haze. And I know that, honestly, the worst is mostly behind me.

Still, I wish we, as women, talked about it more. I wish we weren't riddled with guilt when it happens to us.

And I wish that, more than anything, there was some better way to prepare for it.

As a mother. And as a woman.

***

Any tips and experiences with the "baby blues" or post-partum issues? Share below! Let's rip the veil off something we all shouldn't be ashamed to experience.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Maybe Baby (Belly)

It's time to get real.

Really real.

Because I am one month post-partum, and I have a confession:

I really haven't exercised since I had my baby. Not even a little bit.

Yeah, sure, Ella and I have ventured out for a few walks with our jogging stroller. And thanks to the heat, after a few miles, both she and I are sweating profusely.

But I am by no means working out like I used to.

Heck, I'm not even working out like I did while I was pregnant. Even a little bit.

Now, simply because of my own negligence, I have no room to complain. Because when I look at myself in the mirror, and express irritation and sometimes disgust, I realize I have no one to blame but myself.

Still, I am dreading the fact that Ella and I have to go back to work in three weeks. My clients are going to wonder what happened to me.

OK, that might be an exaggeration.

After all, my legs and arms are the same size, albeit a bit less toned.

But my belly? Oh, my belly.

I look like I have a beer gut - something I've always managed to avoid, even in the infamous college years.

It's the last vestiges of my baby belly. It's not huge, but it's definitely flabby.

I've never had my tummy be my trouble zone, but now, I look like I've completely lost all of my abdominal muscles.

Which, in a way, I guess I did, as my abs split to let my little 7-pound baby girl grow for nine months straight.
She was totally worth it, but I can't help but be ticked that my running tights are now topped by a muffin top.

Still, I feel bad complaining. To be honest, I only gained 22 pounds during my pregnancy, and I can already fit in my pre-pregnancy pants. But I worked hard to achieve that.

Heck, I walked four miles, lifted weights, swam, and taught an hour of spinning the day before Ella was born. I attribute all that prior exercise to my quick recovery, as well as the fact that I felt almost no bodily pain anywhere during my first few days of post-partum recovery.

But, still, my belly. My flabby, post-baby belly.

Ick.

I hate it.

Worse yet, I know how to fix it. This is what I do for a living. And, yet, I have no time. You try doing crunches with a baby latched to your breast.

The fact is, I'm probably going to have to go back to work just to get back into shape. Which means I'm going to have to withstand the withering looks of clients who are sincerely wondering what happened to me, wondering how I could have let myself go, wondering why seven weeks wasn't enough time for me to get my booty - or, rather, my post-baby belly - back in shape.

Sigh. Oh, the guilt of a Trainer-Turned-Mommy.

All this to say that, for those of you out there lamenting the loss of your pre-baby body, trust me, you are not alone.

I'm "in the business," and I'm still in the same boat as you.

Here. See for yourselves.
Told you it wasn't pretty. But, right now, that's my reality.

Here's hoping that in a month's time, I can post a flatter, more toned tummy.

Still, I'm not making any promises. This may be a longer process than I originally thought.

Because right now, the closest I'm getting to crunches is staring longingly at my stability ball while I'm stuck in the rocker, nursing Ella every hour on the hour.

Suffice it to say, I will not be wearing a bikini this summer.

So, here's to reality.

Here's to a world where moms look like moms.

Here's to a world where our babies come first.

And here's to a world where, on a good day, I can squeeze in a few crunches between breast-feeding sessions.

RIP Flat Belly. I will remember you fondly.

***

I'm back to posting Workout Wednesday sporadically around here. So, as always, if you have any suggestions or posts you'd like to see, feel free to post them below.

Happy Exercising, everybody!