Saturday, May 28, 2016

Body after baby take 3

You know what's annoying? Like really annoying. When someone comments, "You look great for having three kids."

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I only look good because I've had three kids, but if this was my body and I hadn't had three kids, then it would look like crap?

I've carried three babies in this body. Each one gave me stretch marks that I will take to my grave, and cellulite on my ass that will be there no matter how much I weigh.

And guess, what? I'm totally fine with that.

But bigger shocker, even if I hadn't had three babies, I'd still be totally fine with my body. Blasphemy, I know.

After H and B, I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight by they time they were each three months old. And I didn't do a damn thing to get there. Benefit of being 21 and 23 when I had them, I suppose.

By the time B was 4 months old though, PPD was kicking my ass. I took it into my own hands and went on a crazy strict diet that behooved both myself and B (who had some food issues). I started working out every single day and if I missed a day I was hard on myself. Like, what kind of person misses a workout when they're trying to better themselves? I was hardcore.

I got skinny. Really skinny. Skinnier than I was in high school.

And everyone told me how fabulous I looked. And at that time, there was no "for having kids" added to the end of the sentences. Nope. I was skinny and got compliments every where I went.

Know what sucks?

I was miserable.

Fucking miserable.

It was like people were saying, "hey, you might be a mental basket case right now, but that doesn't matter, you look good!" Like fitting into societies beauty ideals was more important than being healthy and happy.

Thank God that didn't last.

But it certainly made a lasting impression on me.

At my unhealthiest mentally, and even physically (I was half starved and breastfeeding two babies on demand), that's when people went out of their way to comment on my appearance.

Ya'll, that's messed up.

This go-round, I have not lost all the baby weight by month three. Not even close. I'm still hanging onto an extra 15-20 pounds (I haven't gotten on a scale, but I have bought bigger pants, ha).

I'm okay right here.

Right now.

I've got a baby to hold and love on and a restricted diet all ready to meet his needs. I hike with the kids and walk miles while they bike ride and we hula hoop in the yard and play tag and trek around the zoo. Sitting down is like a miracle.

But I'm not setting that baby down so that I can do "real" exercise. I'm going to blink anyway, and he'll be running around and I will have all the time in the world to worry about what the size label on my jeans say.

So right now it just doesn't matter.

And when it creeps into the back of my head, because it does; I'm a woman, I've been listening to this shit my whole life. I just remember that there are lots of women out there who would do anything to be lugging around an extra 15 pounds of baby weight.

Quite frankly, I'm one of them. I'll keep this weight forever if that's what the trade off is for sweet M. We fought hard, and struggled privately, and shed so many tears thinking we would never actually have another baby. So 15lbs is a mighty easy price to pay if you ask me.

And I'm happy. So freaking, over the moon happy right now. And I'm healthy, even if I'm not quite at the weight I'm typically most comfortable at. I can't argue.

It's fortunate that I'm not an individual who has ever cared what others think or say. At least I have that going for myself. 

Also, I look good.

Three kids or not, thank you very much.

Saturday, May 21, 2016

Mary stood

I'm not one to talk about religion very much, it's just such a personal thing.

But lately I've had Mary on my mind.

I picked up my Bible the other day; something I haven't admittedly done in years.

I've been exhausted and spent with sweet M's late afternoon/early evening wailing. I was prepared for this. All through my pregnancy I reminded myself that I only produce colicky babies. Although I hate that word. "Colicky." It makes me think that a baby is crying for no reason. And I think there is always a reason. Even if I don't know exactly what it is.

The story of Jesus' crucifixion is a powerful one. He allowed himself to be tortured, nailed to a cross, and murdered so that the souls of all people could be saved. Even if you're not religious, it's still a powerful story. This guy had the ability to stop what was happening to him by calling out to his Father, but he chose to endure it in hopes of saving people. In today's world, we'd call that a hero if nothing else. And that's still pretty cool.

But as I read this story, for the first time in my life as a mother, what really struck me and pulled deep at my heart strings was Mary.

Mary.

The mother of God.

A simple human.

But she was so strong. So mighty. So collected.

While many mothers would have screamed, begged, pleaded, been absolutely hysterical as their son sacrificed themselves for the good of others, Mary stood strong. Mary stood brave. Mary stood.

She watched it happen.

The baby that nourished from her breasts. The toddler whose sticky hands no doubt wrapped her legs in hugs. The gangly child who lost his milk teeth and smiled a toothless smile to her. Her heart, disconnected from her body.

That was her child.

And yet, Mary stood.

She was strong, and brave, and as composed as she could be. She knew that in those hours of agony, and during his hour of death, her child, Jesus, needed her to be strong. Needed her to be brave. Needed her to love him like no one else ever could.

So when I read this story, the gift Jesus gave to us is so blatant; the gift of cleansing our souls.

But when I read this story as a mother, the gift Mary gave her son is so beautiful. And a gift that only a mother would, and could, know to give.

For her child, Mary stood.

A colicky baby will never come close to the torture I'm sure Mary felt; not a fraction of it. Her pain is that of which I could never even begin to imagine. But goodness, if in her darkest hour with her child, in such unfathomable emotional pain, Mary could be the calm, loving, strong presence her child needed, what in the world can I not do for my children?

I mean, Mary stood.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Let it be

Today was one of those days. Yes, one of those. You know what I'm talking about.

Where you feel like you're deep in the trenches and desperately wondering if you'll make it out in one piece.

I have six laundry baskets of clean clothes sitting in various places in my house that I cannot seem to get put away.

I've re-washed H's sleeping bag three times because I don't have the energy to pull the clothes out of the dryer and put the sleeping bag in.

There are endless mountains of dishes in my sink and I cannot figure out where they are coming from because I feel like washing them is all I'm doing in my "free time." I put free time in quotes because when free times is washing dishes...is it really free time?

I've pretty much given up getting H's reading book done before summer. I guess that's the beauty of homeschooling; we can go off of "mom is frazzled" schedule.

I'm trying to remember if I brushed and flossed everyone's teeth today and lamenting that I probably won't find the time to work out or read more to the kids other than what we read while at Barnes and Noble. Mostly, I'm feeling like something has to give today, because all my marbles are rolling.

Sweet M is too cool for sleep. So while I walk around like a zombie, trying to coax him into a slumberland that sounds heavenly to me, he's all "naaaah, lady, not for me. Try again later!" So instead I examine the umpteenth rash that has sprouted on his face and likely means my all ready dwindling diet is going to lose something else. And let me tell you, my babies never get rashes and reflux and projectile vomit from foods like lettuce and beets. No, that would be too easy. It's from things like dairy and coffee and eggs. Foods I actually enjoying eating. So there is that.

So as I'm laying in bed at 3pm with M in my arms, too afraid to move or make a peep because he's finally asleep and H and B are playing so nicely...somewhere...I look down at that sweet face wondering what kind of crazy I got myself into and right there, right in my arms, is exactly what I need. A sweet, perfect baby wearing a onesie that reads, "there will be an answer, let it be." Lyrics from one of my favorite songs ever (and the onesie from one of my favorite people ever).

Let it be.

And I take in that sweet, perfect baby smell. And I listen to my lovely H and B in the room next door, chattering away and coming up with great schemes and ideas, and sweet M holds onto my finger for dear life, and it's okay.

Lord knows that more days than not I do not have my shit together. And throwing another monkey into this circus has just added to the beautiful crazy of it all.

But I also wouldn't change it for the world. One day the laundry will all be put away. I will be well-rested and very definitive that I flossed my teeth that day. I'll be able to eat anything I want and I won't have to worry about ensuring my kids get an education amidst all of our crazy days.

But that's because they'll be grown up. There won't be any babies to keep me awake all night or to watch, milk drunk, in my arms while they sleep. There won't be any sweet kids asking me to read them books or help them to find their pink tutu. I won't have hampers flowing with clothes for small people because they'll be grown and gone, and goodness, I know I will miss this. So much.

So for now, I'll just take it all, no matter how hectic and exhausting some days are. Because it is exactly what I want. What I need.

A deep breath.

Let it be.