So, I’ve reached a point where I can no longer tell myself that the extra weight I’m carrying is because I just had a baby. I just had a baby 14 months ago. The excuse is no longer valid. And while I’m not entirely unhappy with how I look, I’m not thrilled with my body either. It’s a lot droopier since having two kids. (Want to know where my feet are? Ask my nipples, they’ll show you the way!) Kids are brutal to your body. Or mine were to my body, anyway. Plus, there are weight-related health issues in my immediate family, that reared their ugly heads during pregnancy and said, “Hehheh, just wait. Soon you’ll be ours, too!” I don’t want to let them win.
Plus, the other day M was outside playing with the girls, and I glanced up and saw him in the window and realized he looked like he was due in about 8 weeks, so I made the announcement: we’re going on Weight Watchers. We started it on Monday (yeah, Memorial Day? Barbeque? Perhaps not the best day to start a diet, but you know: you just gotta do it). Monday sucked. But the rest of the week is getting better every day. We already eat very healthfully–lots of fruits, veggies, whole grains, lean meats, fish–but we also had our little treats that we loved. And nearly every morning I’d go get breakfast at McDonald’s, because all the fat and protein kept me full until I got my lunch 5-6 hours later. So it’s hard to give up our treat habit, but not so hard to change our cooking habits, because they were pretty good already. It was the food we didn’t cook ourselves and ate that was the problem.
Oh. And I’m going through McDonald’s Ice Hazelnut crack coffee withdrawl.
Other than that: not much is happening. I’ve been working the last 7 days, all but 1 of them closing shifts, which means I’ve seen the girls precisely 3 hours in the last week. I’m picking them up early from daycare and we’re going to have some serious Mommy-Daughter time.
You know, I wasn’t prepared for needing my children like I do. I expected them to need me (hell, for the first few months of life, I was it for the chow wagon). But I have a drive and a need to be with my babies. To hear Linnea’s crazy stories, watch Boog dance, or to hear her point to the sky and say, “Bwoo!” (My baby knows two colors already. Blue and red. She’s a freaking genious).
Last night, Nea came into bed with us at some point. I really don’t know when. She came to my side, and crawled in. I woke up in a clausterphobic panic because I couldn’t get my feet free of the covers, and realized: I had an extra bed buddy. And we were all nestled together like spoons: M, me, and Nea. M had his arm across my body, his hand resting on Linnea’s side. I had both arms wrapped around her, my hand over M’s.
I think it’s really cool that that’s how our bodies orient to one another when we’re unconscious. Wanting to touch and hold and be close. I know it won’t always be that way. At some point, Linnea will stop coming to our bed (and that’s not a bad thing. Bittersweet. But not bad.), at some point she will tell us she hates us, or that she didn’t ask to be born, or any of the other things that rip a parent’s heart out and stomp it to pieces. At some point, she will give up her habit of prancing nekkid in the living room (well, hopefully she does) and at some point, her body will be much less familiar to me.
But for now, it still curls into mine in its sleep. For now, my body still curves around her protectively. And for now, M still reaches over to rest his hand on her–same as he’s been doing for nearly five years now. And if I had to sacrifice my body in order to have moments like this morning, I’d say: I got a hell of a deal.