Because I'm a Pile of Lazy Fatness

The gym used to be my hiding place.  It was a refuge from my all consuming job.  It was the one part of my life that my boss respected.  He didn't care that I had a husband or a family, but if I told him I was going to the gym, he would not call me.  I used to spend two hours in the gym at a time.  One hour with weights, one hour on the elliptical.  Some days I only had time for one hour and I  would just hit the elliptical.  I would crank up the music in my headphones and run until I felt the stress melt out of my pores.  That runner's high you hear about?  Totally real.

I made fitness my hobby.  My superior, holier than thou, knowitall hobby.  Along with the gym devotion, I ate super clean.  Six meals a day, nothing processed, complex carbs, good fats, lean proteins.  I was a woman obsessed. I was in really good shape, probably the best shape of my adult life.  I had definition everywhere.  Even my abs (which will never be a six pack) were flat and hard.  My boobs were the smallest they ever could be without surgery.  To quote Frank, upon looking at a vacation picture of us that summer, I was "diesel". 

The gym part wasn't hard, but the eating clean was brutal.  I'm a fatgirl.  I love deep fried, covered in ranch dressing goodness. And pizza.  I prefer my chicken in finger form.  Dr. Drew could probably do some work with me on sugar addiction.  My favorite thing to do on a Sunday afternoon is a two hour brunch with mimosas.  My favorite thing to do after work is red wine and cheese and olives.   Most of my socializing with friends involves food and wine.  All of  which, after having a baby, ha-HA, but you get my point.

The day I found out I was pregnant was the last day I went to the gym.  In the beginning it was the absolute fatigue.  It hit me the hardest.  Trying to still work 80+ hours a week and being so tired, I just didn't have it in me to go to the gym.  Pregnancy became my get-out-of-diet free card.  The world became my very own all-I-could-eat-buffet.  All the things I never touched; pizza, ice cream, deep fried everything, macaroni and cheese, pudding(!). I ate it all and then took a nap.  It was awesome.  My sister warned me to take it easy because it's not that easy to bounce back after baby.  I filed that information right next to all the advice I ignored about breastfeeding.  

My marathon eating slowed a little as Bo grew because I just didn't have the room for him and the pound of pasta.  The diabetes diagnosis made me put down the Phillies Graham Slam (best ice cream flavor ever) and return to my breakfasts of oatmeal and egg whites.  But still, I did not exercise.  Being confined to the couch for 8 weeks made me totally inactive - which was the point I know, but something about being medically prohibited from moving in my brain equaled EAT. Also, I ate out of boredom. 

In all I gained only about 25lbs and lost some of it in delivering Bo and the subsequent nursing marathons.  I'm back to my pre-pregnancy weight, but not my pre-pregnancy body.  The number on the scale is irrelevant to me.  I'm short, top-heavy, and thick-waisted, all characteristics that have gotten more pronounced since being pregnant.  All of my old definition is gone.  I'm squishy and soft-bellied.  My stomach muscles are totally slack and if I don't pay close attention to my posture (and suck in), I still look a little pregnant.  All of my endurance is gone.  All of my strength is gone.

I hate it.  I hate how I feel about myself.  I hate how out of shape I am.  Yet I can't get it together to work out.  We have at treadmill in our basement.  I can't get it together to walk downstairs.  Every day it's the same routine:  nighttime Hopes set the alarm for 5am because I know that if I don't exercise before the day starts, it's not going to happen at all.  Nighttime Hope pep talks herself about how great the rest of the day will feel if I work out first thing.  She has big plans, that nighttime Hope.  Unfortunately, morning time Hope has no interest in starting her day at all, let alone starting it with exercise.  It's the oldest cliche there is.  Once you stop exercising, starting again is the hardest part. I have no excuses you haven't heard already: the baby needs something or there's something interesting on tv or I'm tired or it's too hot or it's too cold or blah blah blah, fat. I am really tired.  You know what would really help me get some energy back?  Exercise.  I'm in my own catch-22 over here.

I'm trying to get my mind right about getting back into shape, but it's not happening.  80-90% of weight management is diet.  You can run to the end of the Earth and do a million crunches but if you're following that up with a pound of fettucini and pint of Chunky Monkey, it won't matter.  I've got the eating part down pretty well.  I haven't gone back to eating clean because it's frankly a pain in the ass, but my weight has been stable for months now.  I just need to get myself moving.

Frank has lost 60 pounds since last year.  He gets up every morning at 5 to do P90X before work.  He runs every day.  He's running 5k races every weekend.  I'm so proud of him.  I don't know what to do to get myself going.  I really don't.  We've signed up for a 5k together at the end of October and if I finish in under 30 minutes I get to buy myself a fabulous new pair of boots and even that isn't getting me out of bed in the morning.  

I guess I'm trying to shame myself into exercising.  If I tell all of you - you know, all 4 of you - maybe I'll have some kind of accountability or something.  I don't know.  I have to do something.

(Still) Recovering

We went to Disney World for Christmas.  We left on Christmas Day and came back on New Year's Eve.

Oh shut up, I know it was bad idea.  I mean, I know it NOW.

We were warned not to go during that particular week.  All of our guide books* and websites** said DO NOT GO and gave tips only IF YOU MUST GO.  We blew them off though, because we are experts.  They don't mean us.  Those warnings are for amateurs.  We're seasoned veterans!  We go every year!  We have a plan! And fail safe routes!  Crowds don't bother us! We're used to it!

Dude.  Do not go during the week between Christmas and New Year.  It's not worth it.  Everything that makes Disney special and magical is lost during this week.  Lost to the endless throngs of rapacious people trying to get there first.  There were women, mothers with small children by the hand, kicking my stroller out of the way to get in front of me.  And we weren't even trying to ride anything!  Bo spent most of the time in the carrier strapped to Frank's chest because he didn't enjoy being surrounded by so many people that towered over him.

The poor employees, who are usually so happy and helpful that I secretly wonder if they're all robots, were visibly frazzled and stressed out, trying to direct the masses with - I'm not even kidding - the wands normally used for waving in airplanes.  In addition to the whole damn world being there to celebrate the holidays, there were at least three bowl games taking place in Orlando on New Year's day.  So of course people were like, "let's go early and go to the parks before the game".  There were mothereffing marching bands in the middle of the Ma-jerk Kingdom, as if foot traffic could have gotten more congested.  I swear the entire state of Louisiana was there.  Geaux Tigers.  Puke. I was even ready to punch my fellow Penn Staters because really, get the hell out of my way.

In short.  I don't care if your last name is Disney.  DO NOT GO the week between Christmas and New Year.

* if you ever plan a trip to Disney, this book is invaluable.  We buy the current edition every year.  It's full of genuinely helpful tips and info.  It has restaurant reviews, hotel reviews, ride recommendations for different age groups.  It's incredibly comprehensive.  It also has touring plans in the back that you can cut out and take with you.
** as valuable as the book, this website will tell you which parks to visit or avoid on particular days according to crowd levels.  He uses a red light, yellow light, green light system and following his advice always ensures a comfortable and fun day at the park. 

Stuffed

It was a super special Thanksgiving this year. All the babies were here! My big sister, who hadn't been home for Thanksgiving in 15 years, was here! With her husband and both of her kids! My brother and his wife and their baby were here from California! My baby sister and slightly wacky baby brother (plus girlfriend) were in from California too! (did I ever tell you that I hate California? I do. It steals my family.) All the babies are about the same age and it was the first time we had them all together.

All of us back together for a significant length of time can be tricky. We're SO HAPPY to see everyone and to be seen by everyone. We want to spend lots of time together. Normal family routines and obligations fall by the wayside. I want to hold their babies and they want to hold my baby and the spouses try desperately to keep up and participate and stay out of the way at the same time. I can't imagine what it must be like to be new to our family. Not that my inlaws are that new anymore. Even so, we're so clannish and exclusive. We have so many inside jokes that it's practically a different language. It can't be easy for Frank or my inlaws to sit at the same dining room table as everyone else and have absolutely no idea what's going on. It must be weird to see their wife/husband spoken to like a little brother or a big sister. Frank is an only child so I have no experience with it at all.

Family politics are sticky. There's a certain amount of regression to the roles we played as children; the boss, the knowitall, the brat, the wingnut, the mute, the loose cannon, the baby. Even though we're all adults now and our conversations are about real grownup stuff, eventually and inevitably, personalities clash and feelings get hurt. People feel slighted or left out or disrespected and we kind of all remember why we left home in the first place.

But not last Thursday. Last Thursday we all gathered at my mom's to eat and talk and take pictures. We tried to cram in memories and conversation and laughter in between cramming turkey and stuffing. We watched our kids sing and dance and create a new layer of memories in the story of our family. It was all over too soon. My big sister - my only older sibling - went back to Europe on Saturday. My my baby sister left Monday morning followed by my brother and his family on Tuesday. All too soon these people that my boy is just getting to know and recognize are gone. We're all back to the normal routines of the lives we've made for ourselves. It was nice to be 12 years old again for a while though.

Kitty

This cat. I think he's out of chances.

Kitty took a few swipes at Bo again recently, this time claws out. The boy was reaching blindly over the arm of the couch (from Frank's lap), just to see if he could do it. The cat pounced and swatted at Bo's hands and mercifully missed. He then jumped onto the couch where he tried to again scratch and claw at the baby. Frank locked him in the basement until Bo was safely in bed.

Something has to be done.

What can we do? None of our friends or family will adopt this cat. He's a psycho and they all know it. Even my sucker-for-anything-with-fur sister wants no part of this cat. I can't in good conscience offer him to strangers, knowing full well that he's unbalanced and will literally bite the hand that feeds him.

Bo is right on the cusp of crawling - we're talking days, if not hours - and while I can put covers in the electrical outlets and locks on my cabinets, I can't babyproof the cat. Or kitty-proof the baby. Anything on the floor to Kitty is fair game and I can't have him coming at Bo's face.

So what do we do? Be those people? Those people who abandon their pet when they have a baby? I'm not that girl. I'm the girl who gets all eye rolly and disdainful when I read the little descriptions on the cage at the shelter about why the animal was given up. Like, didn't you KNOW that was going to happen? Why didn't you PREPARE better? How can you just give your cat away? Why don't you try that book Or a clicker?

So now I direct all of these mean and judgey comments at myself. And I add new fun ones like, why am I so LAZY? How can I say I'm too TIRED to try the book now? Don't I LOVE my cat?

I'm horrified at the thought of taking this poor cat to a shelter. When he gets out of the house (he makes a break for it every time the door opens), he doesn't even leave the yard. We always find him waiting by the front or back door after 10 minutes of backyard adventure. I can't imagine how freaked out he'd be in a shelter somewhere, waiting for me to come back.

I don't know what to do. I mean, I know what has to be done, but I can't bring myself to do it.

It's Been a Long Time Coming

I don't really want to talk about it. I try my best not to think about it too much. There's no answer that doesn't suck and the whole thing makes my stomach hurt. So I avoid it as much as possible and just get on with my day. Until it rears up unexpectedly to slap me in the face and leave me holding back tears at my desk or behind the wheel or wherever I happen to be at that moment.

Most recently it was my dad. He was in my neighborhood and had some time between appointments. He called to see if I was home and could he stop by to see his grandson. When I told him I was at work and Bo was at his babysitter's, my dad's response was, "Oh, he has a babysitter now? I don't like that one bit. But you gotta do what you gotta do." To which I responded, "I don't like it either".

Thanks Dad. Because this is really a conversation I want to have out loud. Because I'm not already tortured every day that my baby boy is cared for by someone else as I sit at my stupid desk and order socks or remove salt from pretzel sticks. Because when I walk to the Fedex box and see babies crying and their nannies trying to console them I don't worry about my son and if he's crying and if his lady is consoling him. Because I don't want to scream with jealousy at the girls standing in the bakery discussing their latest playgroup gossip over their ridiculous strollers as I frantically fix myself a cup of coffee on my schlep to work. So thanks Dad, for bringing it to my attention in the middle of my awesome day.

My job has always sucked. My boss is a walking, talking cross between Michael Scott and Mr. Pitt. I do nothing remotely important or meaningful during my day and never have in the almost 5 years I've been here. The thing is, before Bo, I never cared. I was Jim Halpert to my boss's Michael Scott. Frank's own work schedule is always shifting so missing weekends was no big deal since he was usually at work too. The pay for putting up with the craziness made the 14 or 15 hour days (and 100+ hour weeks) totally worth it. There were also perks galore like shoes with red soles and a personal trainer. It was a good gig.

Now I'm working only part time. Fake. Part time by the standards of this job still means one 10+ hour day a week, really being firm about when I have to leave, and still leaving at least an hour later than planned. The upside is that it's not every day. The downside is no regular person would call the work schedule I'm keeping these days "part time". There aren't as many perks. There's a new girl keeping most of my old hours and now she gets all the extras.

I tell myself that I would go crazy staying home all day, every day with the boy - I tried to write as much in this space - but it wouldn't be true. The days I leave him with the sitter and go to work are so sad for me and I count the minutes until I can leave to get back to him. I'm having a terrible time trying to balance it all (like every other working mom out there I know). There are days where I feel pushed to the floor by the stress of trying to figure out a way to maintain everything.

We could most likely get by on Frank's salary but it would be hard. It would involve more sacrifice than we're willing to make. I don't want my husband working himself to death with overtime, missing his own time with our son so that I can stay home. And I like going to work. It feels good to put on nice clothes and leave the house. I like contributing to the family coffers. I also believe it's good for Bo to get the socialization of other people and other kids.

(I'm going in circles with this post. Can you tell I'm just trying to work my shit out by writing it down?)

It makes me angry and sad and bitter that I have to leave my son with someone else to do this. This nothing of a job. This glorified babysitting of a man old enough to be my son's grandfather; older than my own father by 7 years. This job that requires no specialized skills or abilities, only never ending patience and absolute devotion bordering on co-dependence.

I used to be a teacher. A really good teacher, I don't mind saying. I worked in a terrible school in an awful neighborhood on purpose. The conditions of the school were bad and the pay sucked. I made a difference every day just by showing up and I loved it.

So.

I had an interview a couple of weeks ago with my old school district. I'm going back in January.

It's a trade off to be sure. My work schedule will be five days a week instead of 3 or 4 (or 5, if I'm honest) but I'll be done every day by 4pm. Nobody will call me at home at 9pm because he can't figure out how to switch from cable to the dvd player (swear to God) or because he needs help in drafting a mean email to his ex-wife over how she mothers their children. My weekends will be my own. Bo will technically spend more time with the sitter but not really, since Frank's days off are during the week most of the time. It's going to be hard and thankless.

I can't wait.

Close Encounters of the Feline Kind

When I was little we had a crazy mutt of a dog. Some dog in the neighborhood had a litter (there were always litters of puppies and kittens in the neighborhood) and all it took to get my dad to agree to a dog was to put the tiny mewling thing on his chest as he sat in his recliner one night. Such a simple manipulation and the puppy was ours. My mom gave her the name Gypsy and it was a harbinger of the wild, incorrigible mutt she would turn out to be.

In hindsight, my parents probably had no business getting a dog at all. My mom was pregnant with baby number 6 or 7, I can't remember. Either way, it's pretty safe to assume that she and my dad were holding things together with both hands. The oldest of us was about 8 and the youngest was a toddler, Maybe about 14 months old.

Gypsy was a maniac. She ran all over the house, she chewed things, and she never stopped barking. I remember taking her for walks and she would drag me along behind her as she strained at the leash to go faster and farther. We could never let her off the leash because there was no guarantee she would ever come back. Now that I'm an adult (an adult who has seen many, many episodes of the Dog Whisperer), I realize that Gypsy needed way more exercise than she could get living in our little Southwest Philadelphia rowhouse. My mom didn't have the time or energy to devote to training Gypsy much past housebreaking and had to resort to simply letting her out in the backyard (we mercifully had a backyard) when the kids old enough to walk her were in school during the day.

And then one day, Gypsy was on a tear through the house and she ran right over the baby and scratched his face. He was fine (I'm pretty sure it was my brother) but I'm guessing that was when my mom reached her limit. One day I came home from school and it occurred to me that I hadn't seen Gypsy in a couple of days. I still remember my mom swallowing hard before telling me that she and my dad had sent Gypsy to live on a farm where she would have plenty of room to run and play.

Apparently people really give their kids that line, it's not just for television.


I should ask my mom what they really did with her.

********

We got Kitty a few months after we got married. He adopted us. Frank came home one night from work the bar and found him stretched out across the front step of our building. When Frank brought him upstairs, that cat immediately started purring and winding himself in and around my legs like he had known me for years. That was all he needed to do. He was our cat forever from that night, when he howled and scratched at the bedroom door until I let him in and he curled up on my pillow next to my head. We never could decide on a name for him and eventually he just started answering to Kitty.

We soon found out that this cat is um, psycho. He's incredibly needy, especially for a cat. He must always be in my face, on my lap, in my ear. He endlessly bashes his face into mine, which I know is a sign of deep affection but hi, so annoying. He licks the corners of my eyes and the tip of my nose when I'm sleeping. He does that kneading, pawing thing endlessly, especially when I'm sleeping. If he could find a way to crawl inside my face and live there, he would be the happiest cat ever.

Kitty also has aggression issues. He wants to be stroked and petted and scratched and then he doesn't. He makes his feelings clear by attacking the hand of whomever is showering him with love. He waits in corners and just on the other side of doorways to bat and scratch at the ankles of passersby. Our poor black lab outweighs Kitty by at least 50 lbs and even she avoids crossing the lunatic's path. We've gotten him toys for him to play with, thinking that the aggression is misplaced energy and boredom but no, just pure crazy. Even the vet - who is exclusively a cat vet - said he was the weirdest cat she'd ever met.

It's always been sort of a joke amongst our friends that our cat is the devil. Everyone knows to ignore him and they all try petting him at their own risk. We chalked every one of his quirks up to being lost on the streets for an unknown amount of time and gave him more love. He was just our misunderstood kitty that we loved no matter what.

Of course, we were quite worried how Kitty would react when the baby came. I didn't believe any of the old wives' tales/urban legends about the cat that smothered the baby, but Kitty's neediness comes with a side of extreme jealousy. I was worried about him climbing over the baby to get to my face. People say that cats instinctively stay away from babies and display gentleness with small children. While I'd never really seen Kitty interact with kids, I had no reason to think that he would suddenly find sanity upon the arrival of a smaller, weaker rival for my attention.

Clearly, I was right to be concerned



If he was allowed any closer to Bo's face, he would so be on it. Because that damn baby is in his spot.

Unfortunately, when we're not shooing Kitty away, we're ignoring him altogether. This has resulted in way more nighttime face diving since the baby is in bed and my arms/lap/face is free. As soon as Bo goes to bed for the night, Kitty climbs into my lap. As soon as I'm in bed for the night, Kitty is on my face or on my pillow, behind my head, both paws in my hair.

Things took a bad turn the other day when Bo - who is now all about grabbing at everything around him - took a few swipes at the cat. Kitty responded by batting Bo in the face. I was in the shower and I could hear the screaming through the closed bathroom door, shower running, radio on.

You may be surprised to learn that Kitty is still breathing.

There weren't any scratches. We don't think he used his claws. It was like a warning shot I guess.

So now what? We really don't know. It's unthinkable to me to take Kitty to the pound and essentially abandon him. There's a good chance he was abandoned once and that's how he ended up on our front step. On the other hand, I can't have a psycho cat attacking my baby.

************************

This all happened like 3 weeks ago, which is when I started this post. Apparently though I live in some kind of wormhole where time slips by without my knowledge.

Kitty is still with us, still desperate for attention and pushing the proximity envelope with Bo. Our solution for now is to not let Bo reach out for the cat and to do our best to keep the cat away from Bo. I'm sure we'll have to revisit once the boy is crawling.

Maybe I'll get the name of that farm from my mom.