Sit stay

Put on your jeans, they said. It'll keep you honest, they said.

Honestly, I need to be able to breathe when I sit down.

It's no mystery how this happened.

A few weeks ago I started eating a lot of bread. Like, a lot.

We all did.

I know many people are baking. We are not. We are supporting the local farmer's market bread stand. We have purchased a great deal of bread.

Seriously. I don't even want to tell you how much. We have been all, support the community!

Generally, in normal life day-to-day, I don't eat much bread or pasta or really any simple carbs except for like, chocolate or sugar injected directly into my veins.

But those would be balanced out with the amount of walking I did.

Now I eat bread and do a lot of bottom sitting.

Oh, and I train my dog. Every day.

We are all distance learning up close and personal. The kids, Wanda and I, all together and separately till death us do part.

Wanda failed the week two test, which was to walk next to me in a straight line for 15 steps and then sit on her butt of her own volition.

Wanda was like, I do not want to sit on my butt, thank you very much.

To which I was all, here, let me help you.

But by that point she should've been doing it with no help. Just, you know, me saying, "Sit!"

I tried Jedi mind tricks. One time we went for the sit and she looked like she was going to do a perfect sit. And then she continued until she was lying flat all comfortable on the warm pavement.

She is not a large dog but I am not a large human and I will tell you that when she doesn't want to get up it is not the easiest thing to get her up.

You have to submit videos a couple times a week and then one of the end of the week test so that Mark, the trainer, knows that you are ready to move on.

Wanda and I were stuck in week two for a few days into week three.

But now we've almost caught up, and she does some good sitting and staying. We even impressed people in the park the other day.

Today's our meeting for week four. We haven't yet done the week three test, which I hope to submit tonight.

One of the challenges, as I believe I mentioned, is getting a child to cooperate enough to video. And to focus on us rather than the adult humans clad head to toe in tie-dye performing skateboarding tricks.

When Mark said we needed to train around distractions, I cannot imagine he meant clowns on skateboards. My kids were certainly distracted.

So Wanda and I might actually do the exercise correctly but the video shows...the skateboarders, the very interesting crack in the sidewalk, and a close-up of my butt.

Honestly, I know, I do, that it's fucking tedious to stand there while I back up to five feet and then count to 50 Mississippi (which to spell I always have to do the M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I, but is fortunately not Massachusetts, which I find impossible to spell on my own).

But look at that good sit stay!

Anyway. I now have watched my butt walking away from the camera and bending over to do the two-handed presentation to get my dog to sit and honestly if I never watch a video of my butt again that would be just fine.

Oh! And as it turns out, when Nick does these videos for me, there is also a focus on my butt. But clearly this is a choice and not a height issue. I'm...flattered?

In sum:

I don't want to grow out of my real jeans. Not my spandex jeans that make me feel better.

So I am trying to rectify this.

More in-home workouts. Less bread and butter.

But honestly, who wants to eat salad when the world is going straight to hell?

Fifteen there's still time for you

Did I tell you about my 15-day no-wine experiement?

So, here's the story. I was complaining to my trainer about my previously-flat, post-baby-squishy stomach. And here let me say: It's not large. I know I'm not fat. I'm not trying to annoy anyone or even being all woe is me.

It's more that I used to have a great stomach and not have to work so terribly hard on it, and now I have to do a lot of ab work and it still likes to peek over my pants when I sit down. It would happily just sit in my lap if I let it.

My body has changed in many, many ways since having children. This is the way that annoys me most. Well, this and the boob flaps.

I know I am not alone in this. It's just post-baby body. Although I do know that not everyone's boobs go away.

Anyway.

One evening I texted a friend of mine - my co-yuppie neighbor - and said, "I don't know about you, but I particularly enjoy how my baby-acquired layer of tummy likes to ooze over the top of my pants when I sit."

To which she responded, "Almost as great as the distended nipples. Hard to pick, really."

Which, yah. Good point there. But as my nipples pretty much stay tucked in place, I don't dwell on them so much as the malleable stomach.

So there I was complaining, and he reached over, squoze the squish that I was whining about, and said, "Stop drinking alcohol. And don't eat carbs at night. No wine. No carbs."

And I was all, "I am old I have two children one of them wakes up and screams at night I am tired life is hard and then we drink."

"Fifteen days," was his response. "Just give me 15 days."

How can you say no when someone asks for two weeks of rather modest effort?

Fifteen days. How hard is that?

Nick said he'd do it with me. He thought it was a great idea. But it was Friday. He suggested we wait until after the weekend. I agreed.

Day One was Sunday. Sunday went very well. Off to a rousing start. One day down! Fourteen to go!

On Monday I told Kay about it. She was all, "With two kids. Good for you. Let me know how that works out."

Aaaand on Monday night I texted her:

So Day Two was not a success. Nor was Day Three. She checked in on me last night; Day Four had been terrific, and I was headed to bed.

What I'm trying to decide is this: Should I just start over?

Birth announcements, the battle of the cold pants, and various and sundry updates

Birth Announcements: 
I'm inordinately proud of myself for getting a birth announcement put together. I didn't manage it for Jordan, and though I had good intentions and a nice family photo, I never made the damn Christmas cards. So I was determined to make India cards.

I know for many people this is perhaps not a feat...but I come from a long line of no-card-sender-outers. And I did it!

Cold Pants:
It is 90+ degrees in DC right now. It is hot as balls. And my son insists on wearing his cold pants.

And if you haven't read the cold pants post, then let me tell you that by cold pants I do of course mean lined nylon track pants. The kind that do not breathe. There's nothing cold about them in this heat. And still, he will. not. wear. shorts.

Or even nice cool cotton pants. No no no. To the point of sobbing hysteria.

We still only have two acceptable pairs. Because the kind we bought on eBay weren't exaaaaaactly the same. Like a socialite spotting an excellent fake Hermes bag, he turned up his nose at the would-be cold pants.

Actually, he didn't turn up his nose. He kicked and screamed. We would not be donning those imposters!

He and Nick had a huge drama-trauma scene the other morning because both pairs of cold pants were dirty. Like, too dirty to just put on him and pretend they were clean. He finally deigned to wear a pair of brown sweatpants with an orange stripe up the side. Even though he has myriad more comfortable (as in, less sweltering) options.


Little Miss Piggle Wiggle:
At India's one-month checkup she'd gained almost three pounds! Apparently they want babies to gain an ounce a day. She thus wildly exceeded expectations.

I wasn't exaggerating when I said she eats all the time. She wakes up and she wants to eat!  Nownownow! And the girl has lungs on her! She is not to be ignored!

Places we have nursed so far: The Diner, Target display couch, display chaise longue at Costco, standing in a corner at a different Costco, 16th Street bus stop, consult room at endocrinologist, waiting room of GW's blood lab...

I really wish breasts weren't so sexualized in the US. I would like to be able to whip out my boob and nurse without having to squeeze it through random flaps in these confusing nursing shirts and staying all covered with a blanket.

Working Out
Or, uh, not.

Since India's birth, I've gone out walking a few times, but nothing more strenuous than that. There re many, many days where I just sit. All day long.

And here's what I find disturbing: it's appallingly easy for me to just not exercise.

There are moments where I think I'd like to go for a nice run...And then it's about time to nurse again, or it will be shortly, so I walk to the kitchen and pour a glass of water and make myself a nice cup of tea and pair it with a bowlful of M&Ms and/or Cheez-Its and settle into the big red chair.

And another day goes by. It's that easy. Usually I get all twitchy when I don't exercise for a few days. I'm not a great sitter-arounder. So I find it rather disturbing that it bothers me not one bit, except mentally.

What, I wonder, if I just never have the urge to work out again? Eventually, I'm going to have to stop wearing maternity clothes...

So if any of you have suggestions on how to smother the little voice in your head

I know I'm an ingrate in that you all said such nice things on my last super-angsty post...and I've not yet thanked any of you for it. Thank you. I'll comment back soon, I will.

I mean, not that you're on pins and needles. But I want to. I just...haven't.

It's been one of those crappo weeks that claws at your self-esteem from multiple angles. The kind of weeks were if one weren't pregnant, one might go home at night after work and open a bottle of wine and sit in the corner and swill the whole damn thing. And do it again the next night. Which I don't think I've actually done since I was single, now that I think about it.

It sounds pretty good to me, actually.

Anyway.

Tuesday started with a fight with Nick, and then turned into a day in which my abilities at work were called into question even though it was a misunderstanding and not something I hadn't actually been on top of and I just felt fucking miserable all day long. Even if I don't love my job every minute, I'm a first born rule follower. I get my stuff done. If people think I'm doing a bad job, I feel like shit.

Wednesday began at the midwives with MY WEIGHT. The nurse didn't even have me pee first!

You know how last time I didn't let them tell me how much I weighed? And it was just a big surprise at the end?

This time I thought I'd grown (personally, I mean) and that I could take it. But no matter how many times I tell myself YOU'RE PREGNANT, I still cannot take the numbers in stride.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

I've now hit the weight I was freshman year of college. When I spent most of the time sitting on my dorm room floor, crying, eating chocolate, and not being able to fit into any clothes but sweats.

Weight gain for me is inextricably linked with misery. And panic. And self-flagellation. I cannot handle the numbers. I should never know them.

I emailed Nick while waiting for the midwife to come in. "I'm a big fat cow. Here's proof: LARGE (for me) NUMBER."

And then I was all, "But I had my sneakers on. (It's true - the thought of relacing was just too much.) And I'm wearing a very heavy necklace. Oh, plus, I had rocks in my bra."

Here's what makes me so mad at myself about it. My midwives are totally happy with where I am. I'm doing the things I need to do for my own body and for a healthy baby. I'm eating well. I'm not eating crap. And I'm exercising.

I'm not going to cut down on my food intake, because that's just stupid and unhealthy in pregnancy. I'm so totally within the guidelines. Except by my panicked calculation, at this rate, I'm going to be heavier at the end than I was last time. When I was one week overdue.

Which is fine. It's still within reasonable range. Technically, It's all fine. Really.

And still, there's this little asshole Danger! Danger! Fix it! voice in my head telling me how fat I am.

I'm closing my eyes next time. I totally am.

Exercation 2011

It wasn't a goal, as such. It began with a scoop of deciding to give my body a break, covered in a sizable dollop of malaise.

It's so hot, after all. And it's summer. And it turns out I like to nap.

All this to say: I've been on exercise hiatus for the past month, and I have to admit that it is startlingly easy to...just not exercise.

I mean, I have an almost four-mile round-trip commute to work, and whenever I go anywhere I walk, so I actually do a decent amount of walking most days. But I haven't been doing much of anything beyond that, when typically I also lift weights, run, or do some kind of cardio.

And oddly, I haven't gained weight. Or rather, size. Because I do not weigh myself. But my clothes fit the same. My arms and derriere are getting a little, uh, softer than I like. But it's been fun while it lasted.

I'm not advocating sloth, but do you know how much more time you have to surf the Internet when you remove exercise from your life?

I had no idea.

In any case, my little exercation is coming to an end. But in the past month, I have read a number of books that I've really enjoyed. I've made a serious progress in clearing out my closet and dressers. I've napped every single weekend. I've almost caught up on email.

I'm not saying that you have to choose. I do. Lots of people seem to fit it all in. I am not among them.

Fitness and bathing suits and challenges and such

I recently ordered this bathing suit from Land's End.

Last summer at the pool - see above for me exclaiming how! much! fun! we are having! and Jordan not buying a bit of it - I just wore an old bikini with a T-shirt over it. But we'll be going on a couple beach/pool-filled trips this summer and I need a suit that actually fits.

We'll see how this one goes. Even if you're reasonably happy with your body, the swimsuit business tends to be traumatic. I am not inclined to cram myself into suits and examine my ass in three-way mirrors in the store. Nothankyou.

Swimsuitquest 2011, however, coincided with my high school friend Wendy's email about her Spring into Bathing Suit Season Challenge. Complete with prizes!

Wendy's a mother of two who works out when her kids are sleeping, and over the years has gotten hard-core into fitness programs you can do at home, such as P90X, and most recently TurboFire - so much so that she's become a coach and has started selling their products.

She now has a reunion coming up and is working her ass off. In the past three weeks, she's lost: 7 pounds, 2 inches in the waist, and 2 inches in the hips. Even if you're not interested in participating in the challenge, you might be interested in reading about her progress.

So as not to mislead you, I'm not participating, simply because right now I'm not at a place in life for super hardcore workouts and supplements. But if you're looking to shake up your fitness routine, you might want to check it out!

Happy Friday, all!

Nothing good ever comes of looking at your butt in the dressing room mirror

I don't know why this is a lesson I have had to learn over and over for years on end.

No pun. Ha.

I went to Target, lured by the back for a limited time! designer collaboration! dresses. I thought a nice spring dress would be a perfect little perk-me-up.

Spring! Hope!

Not surprisingly, there were a lot of wee sizes and a lot of large sizes, and not so much in the in-between.

I tried on four dresses in something resembling my size, give or take a squeeze or two, just so I could have some idea of sizing in case I wanted to order them online. Because I do not know what to do with sizes 5, 7 and so on.

The odd numbers, they confuse me.

Except for multiplication - the odds were easier, and particularly the nines. But not sevens. What's that terrible drinking game where you count and have to say "beep" instead of seven or any number divisible by seven? I always sucked at it in high school.

Um, not that we played drinking games in high school, Betty.

But for clothing.

I tried on this leopard print dress - too short! And I am short! This was too bad, because it was actually my size. And cute.

I then wiggled into this lacey tiered color dress, not expecting to like it, and I really did. I mean, not in the size I tried, which fit, but more snugly that I personally would wear, but one larger I think would fit nicely.

I have a wedding to go to end of May, and I dunno, could this be a possibility? Or is it too young/lacey/something else for me?

Next I tried this very fun but alas too big multicolored strappy dress. It could be lovely for summer, but I think even in my size, it doesn't necessarily flatter me.

The one I was really interested in was this green and blue colorblock shift, and I did manage to squeeze into the itty bitty size...but it was not pretty. What I can't tell is if the size that fits my hips and butt will be huge on top, which happens to me a lot.

The oochy-scooching the dress over my hips and butt, however, is what led to the ass-toward-mirror scrutinization. And I don't care if it's not a word. It's close enough.

I don't shop as much as I used to, and so I forgot what a bad idea it is to turn one's scantily-clad posterior towards those goddamn dressing room mirrors.

And I can never resist. It's just like the clips. If I'm in a dressing room, even if I'm just trying on tops, I always take off my pants. Because when else can you get that accurate a look at your butt?

And it's always traumatic.

I never look in them and think, wow, my butt looks awesome!

No. It's always, holy crap, does my ass really look like that? And I bet if I jump up and down a little...fuck, it totally jiggles. What if I stand on one leg and shake the other one...ugh, even worse.

And I walk out with lowered self-esteem. And my too-tight dresses to hand back to the clerk.

The totally need magic mirrors that make your butt look higher and firmer and maybe even a little tan. Maybe ones that give you a compliment or two.

You'd look in the mirror and a voice would say, "Nice ass!"

Or would that be creepy? I think I could like it.

Happy weekend, all!

Learning opportunities and counting down and eighties and yay!

Jordan is sound asleep and for the moment I'm all alone in the sunny quiet.

It's kind of perfect.

My in-laws just left. We had a very nice visit, with only a few dicey moments.

Like, the day McChrystal got fired - because you know, if you work for as huge an asshole he did, you shouldn't be expected to keep your mouth shut. Because everybody knows what an asshole our current president is.

Learning opportunity: You can choose to be stabby or you can act like you have to pee. And then you can go upstairs and check your email for 10-15 minutes. Nobody is going to ask you if you were constipated when you return.

There was a lot of wine. I started pouring pretty much the minute I got home. It just softened all the pointy edges. I didn't hesitate to keep it pouring.

Learning opportunity: Alcohol is a nice little product in almost every social situation. And the more of it the better in the stressful ones.

Nick leaves this evening for a quick overnight trip. While of course I'm going to miss him, I am so excited to eat dinner all by myself and not make any conversation. Seriously, I'm going to have pasta with maybe a little olive oil and salt and steamed broccoli and maybe read a magazine.

No butter. No cheese. No flour. No cream. No bacon. No ice cream.

None of those are bad on their own or even in some kind of remote moderation. But all together in the same meal, every meal, makes me twitch.

Learning opportunity (ahem, husband): When you can see your arteries hardening and your stomach expanding, it's time to detox.

Also, when you have a pending high school reunion, the last thing you want to be doing is gaining five pounds. No. You want to be as skinny as possible.

Because, you guys, my high school reunion is next weekend!

I've been emailing with two of my dear high school friends, one of whom I haven't seen in a kabillion years, who are coming to stay with us the end of next week. I am so excited!

In fact, now that I think about it, I might subject you to a number of potential reunion outfits - dresses, shoes, accessories, the works. It's not national security decisions, but rather, the kind of frivolity I completely love.

If you're up for it, of course.

Actually, even if you're not. Cause I'm Billy Jean and I'm mad as hell. I'm a woman with a story to tell...OK, I'm not really. I'm Chaka Khan, let me rock you...

Which also reminds me. I need to make 80s playlists! I might solicit your opinions on that as well.

Seriously, you all, I cannot fucking wait.

When you turn out to be your own problem

As I've talked about a number of times, I avoid getting on scales because it makes me a crazy, number-obsessed person.

So all the way along my pregnancy, I didn't find out what I weighed. And then in the hospital, when they were about to give me the epidural, they asked so that they could figure out the amount.

I had to ask the nurse to look at my chart. My weight from the week prior was a gain of 27 pounds. So let's say by that point it was 28 or 29. Not too terrible.

And I think, at this point, I've lost most of it. I mean, I must've been 10 pounds lighter immediately after the boy was born.

I am almost out of my maternity pants. And by this I mean that I can snausage myself into my regular jeans, and I do fairly regularly just to keep myself in check. But the maternity ones, oh, much more comf!

And the problem, it is as follows.

I might be approaching my old weight and size. But I'm not the same shape. I have a stomach - which I'd never had, not even in my heaviest of college days. And I'm squishier. The butt, well, I don't think I even feel like thinking about it.

A very dear friend sent me The Shred and some hand weights. How awesome a gift is this? And I want to use it and kick my own ass. I do.

But not quite as much as I want to eat the entire leftover Halloween bag of Reese's peanut butter cups. And take a nap.

Postpartum stomach: the effect of living backwards

You know how I posted weekly tummy pictures, getting pregnanter and pregnanter?

Watching your body back out of pregnancy is much more bizarre.

I haven't documented it with photos because truly, it's not a pretty picture.

So, I don't know what it was like immediately after Jordan popped out, since I didn't get out of bed for another day, but once I got up, I noticed how strange my stomach was.

I was used to it being up under my boobs. It was sort of like it just...fell.

It was back to maybe six months pregnant. But low and soft and droopy, like a deflating balloon. And it just progressed over the following weeks along those lines. To five months, four, three...And stayed somewhere around there.

Just a little low pooch. Soft, rather than firm.

On Sunday my mom took Jordan for the whole day as her anniversary present to us. In the morning Nick went for a run, which I can do, but I kind of hate how the motion jiggles my scar. Hell, I hate that I use the verb jiggle to describe the action of my stomach.

So I headed to the gym with the big red button in my office building.

Where I ran into my trainer. Who said as soon as I can work out hard, he is going to kick my non-pregnant ass.

All I could say is, dude, I cannot wait.

Birthday platforms, foot binding and tapeworm

So ever since deciding to postpone induction, I've gotten a little more zen about being pregnant for the rest of my life.

Or at least for a whole nother week.

Yesterday I picked up a totally-on-sale-cheap-and-cute! top and pair of capris at Target to wear on Thursday for my birthday. When I am certain to still be pregnant.

I am going to look cute, dammit, and I'm going to go out and celebrate. I'm going to wear the platform shoes above, which I miss like crazy. Even if this means Nick has to carry me.

And seriously. Where is my palanquin? Why am I not being carried around?

I'm sure you're starting to wonder where this is going and what will actually be the point in all this?

I'm sitting around getting pregnanter and pregnanter, and my already stretched tummy, the one that could touch Russia, is getting even more distended.

So I started thinking about foot binding. And how tight binding might actually be a good strategy with the belly for holding it all in.

But I imagine that you'd have to start earlier than now, and what if you warped your kid? Like, he came out with rib indents in his thigh? Or worse, his forehead?

Worrisome.

Which then led me to tapeworm.

And let me make one thing clear: Normally I don't think of the kid as a parasite.

Or anyway, not lately.

I haven't thought of him in that way regularly since he got big enough to seem like an actual human in there. Rather than some small, unimaginable being that just made me feel like complete crap all the time.

So supposedly, if you have a tapeworm - which I have never had, but desperately, fucked-up-ly, wanted in high school, because how skinny would you be? - you can entice it out with milk. Like, you sit in a warm milk bath, and it gets all curious, and comes on out and drowns in the milk.

Or maybe you hold a glass of milk in front of your mouth and catch it.

A significantly more horrifying exit, in my opinion.

Sooooo.

This then led me to wondering what one might use to entice a baby out. They come out sort of discombobulated and not used to eating with their mouths, right?

So the milk bath would be pointless.

But maybe some fun music, played right outside your hoo-ha? Or shaking a rattle down there? Or Barney songs? Teletubbies?

???

Pregnancy weight

I still don't know how much weight I've gained.

I don't want to know. I just want a tally at the end.

The nurses at the OB's office don't even blink when I close my eyes and ask them not to say the number out loud. We will do this again this afternoon. They are fine with it.

I know myself. I knew from the beginning that I'd obsess about numbers along the way.

Which is unhealthy in normal life, and really not what I wanted in pregnancy. I just decided that as long as they told me it was fine every time, I'd go with that.

Nick, Betty and I all think it's probably about 30 lbs. The OB said to gain 25-35, and so this is right about there. I'm OK with that.

But I know I wouldn't have been, month by month and now week by week, if I'd known the number. I'd have stressed about the stupid number. I'd have translated that into thinking about how to keep it on the low end of the OK spectrum. Or maybe a little lower.

This is me. This is how I am. Old habits die hard.

But this, this has been pretty liberating.

I haven't embraced the erroneous "You're eating for two! Eat whatever you want!"

Because the fact is, to gain the way they want you to, you only get 300 extra calories a day. This is not actually a whole lot.

That said, I have been more liberal with my diet in the last nine months than since I was 15 and started obsessing.

I have treats, even though I know I can't balance them out with insane amounts of really hard exercise. I've had more milkshakes in pregnancy than I have since I was a child. I don't have them daily or even weekly. But I do.

And hamburgers! And cheeseburgers! And Reubens! Do you know how good Reuben sandwiches are? They might be my new crack.

I don't have anything to compare it to, but So's Your Mom makes a really yummy one.

And eating these things (almost) without feeling guilty? What a novelty! What a delight!

Last week, when I was at the cardiologist (confirmation: normal) I asked the Physician's Assistant, who weighed me, not to tell me.

She gave me a look and was all, "Well, that's one way to do it."

And I was all, "Yup!"

But really, I felt like saying, "Listen, judgeypants, you and your raised eyebrows should maybe just fuck off. And is that a sharp implement on the counter? Because clearly have no idea how stabby pregnant women of an as-yet-to-be-determined amount of weight can be."

Grr.

Week 18 tummy

This one is a complete and utter ramble. I don't know how to corral it into cohesiveness.

But I have pictures!

Week 18, according to one website, the little dude is the size of a boneless chicken breast. According to another, he's a bell pepper.

The boneless chicken breast both amuses and grosses me out more.

This was the week that colleagues I am not super close to started saying, "Hey! You look pregnant!"

And I would think, "Yes, and I'm nurturing a boneless chicken breast!"

I kind of love that my belly is all obviously sticking out now. And as soon as I eat or drink anything, it sticks out more. Some moments, I look veryvery preg.

Betty has been out of town since mid-February, and when I see her this weekend, she will be shocked. I reported that my boobs had hit a C. She was astounded.

In my family, we have the big strong thighs with which our Viking ancestors marauded and conquered - and then in later years traversed the North Dakota prairie. The boobs, we have not so much of.

She called the other day from the dressing room of a consignment shop. She was trying on maternity clothes for me, but she had no idea what size. Her friend, in the background, suggested I measure my thighs.

"Sweetie, you want to measure your thighs?"

Um, no. No fucking way. No.

What kind of question is that?

I was at the OB on Tuesday, and I asked the nurse to just not tell me what my weight was. She wasn't at all surprised. I bet a lot of people do this.

It's not that I'm fighting it - by no stretch of the imagination; I just don't want to know.

In that same visit, the doctor said I can keep up with the running until I simply can't. I am wondering when the "simply can't" moment will hit.

And here's a tarted up picture. It's far from my favorite picture of myself, but I feel like it shows the preg pretty well.

I had to choose between a picture with a better face that also featured the hottie hot boots, and this one, which shows the pregnanty bits more.

This seemed more useful.

And the boots! I must note, I had to lean waaaaaay back in a chair and put my legs up on the desk for five or so minutes so that I could zip them over my calves at the end of the day.

This is another thing about pregnancy that's kind of weird. My size from tummy down changes dramatically from the time I get up in the morning to the time I nearly plod into bed at night.

My friend Wendy likened pregnancy to a science experiment, and I have to absolutely agree.

And thus ends my stream-of-consciousness preg update for the week.

Happy weekend to all! Even though the cocksucking cold is back!

Like it would ever occur to me

I'm extremely untidy. If you know me, you know this.

I don't leave dishes - dishes make me crazy. But there are always piles of stuff about. I'm a piler. And a stuff-leaver.

My father, who is both incredibly tidy and a control freak, used to tell me that if any man ever saw the state of my place before I'd cleaned up for company, he would never, ever marry me. This started young, and as a 6th grader, whether some man might or might not marry me was of little concern.

But this was raised continuously over the years, and added to my mental stockpile of possible reasons nobody would ever love me. But size of thighs was always higher on the list, and anyway, cleaning is boring, and so I would always opt for exercise over tidiness.

But despite my messy, messy ways, eventually someone great - a very tidy semi-control freak - decided he really wanted to marry me. Even with the knowledge that order would be a struggle.

And then, as you know, he knocked me up.

So I had the amniocentesis on Friday, and it wasn't so bad.

I mean, the idea of a long needle poking through my belly and into my uterus and sucking out two teaspoons of baby juice totally freaked me out. But the reality was that I didn't watch, that it felt kind of crampy and creepy, and then it was done.

They give you this sheet of instructions for 24-48 hours, including: staying off your feet, no heavy lifting or exercise, and no sex or sexual activity.

That last one I found kind of interesting, and of course in my mind wondered if that meant that if you were into S&M, or a dominatrix or something, could you not give non-strenuous spankings? Or apply nipple clamps or hurty underwear, or I don't know what-all, as long as you didn't exert yourself or get off in the process?

I kept this to myself. I really was kind of terrifiedly worked up. No ability to joke. Even though I was sure everything would be fine. Right?

But still. Big needle, belly poke. Scary.

It did all go well, and the actual needle-fluid-sucking part was very quick. And the office is so friendly.

So once it was done, they made sure I'd read the No Instructions. The doctor was very clear on no exertion and no exercise - not even walking - Friday or Saturday.

She said, "One woman felt fine, so she went home and vacuumed. And then she called us with terrible cramps. Vacuumed! So don't do anything - not even vacuuming!"

Nick leaned forward, "I can absolutely assure you that there is no chance on this earth that Lisa is in any danger of vacuuming."

Week 13 tummy

Let me just start out by saying that my goal with the stomach posts - which I plan to do weekly - is to have a record of progression.

That was taken this morning. I think you can still see the sleep-shirt creases in my skin.

In response to last week's post, I got a number of comments and emails about how small my stomach is. I got some eye rolling and snide comments from friends. I made a couple people feel fat.

I hate knowing that. I'd never try to do that to anyone.

I know my stomach isn't big yet. It's taking a longer than I anticipated, but it makes sense. My stomach is the last place I gain, ever. Well, except for my boobs.

My stomach isn't the main reason I don't fit into my pants. My pants don't fit because my thighs and ass have expanded at a quicker rate than the area of my body surrounding my uterus.

I get that we're all built differently, but that, that I hate.

Weight and body image are difficult issues for me, and I have a long history of hating my size and shape - my legs in particular. Anyone who has ever had a complicated relationship with food and body knows that it doesn't have to do with how big or small you actually are.

It's mainly, I think, about how you feel about who you are in your head. But there are so many layers to it.

I think I've almost figured out what's currently going on, though. I just need to take some time to articulate it.

So there we have it. A tummy-a-week. Because I'm interested, and because I'm comfortable enough with that.

You don't, however, see me posting up-close pics of my thighs. And you never will.

The limits of one's patience

Nick has been extraordinarily patient with me and the pregnant whining and the trying to figure out what I might like to eat for dinner when things like chicken gross me out.

Not to mention with all the weight gain anxiety.

I know it's obsessive behavior, and I still don't weigh myself, but I do an ass check almost daily. First naked and then in clothes, to make sure I'm not exaggerating about how much it's growing.

I poke the extra flesh and I'm all, "Look! Ugh. Would you look at this?"

And he's all sweet and complimentary. And he says, completely convincingly, that he likes the extra curves. But I find it all kind of traumatizing.

So I realized yesterday that even his patience has limits. You see, we are having dinner tomorrow night with several of Nick's colleagues and their spouses.

And I don't really want to go, even though I like them all very much. I was trying to get out of it.

"Do you really want me to go?"

"Sweetie, you'll have fun."

"My brain stops working after eight. And then I have to go to sleep."

"Lis, they like you. They all have kids. They know what you're dealing with."

"I might hate the food."

"There'll be something you can eat."

And then I realize, fuck, I'm going to have to dress up. On jeans-on-Friday day. And beyond the no jeans, I hate dressing up when I feel relentlessly ugly in everything. Which is now the case. And is in fact the biggest issue in my out-for-dinner reluctance.

"And! Nick! And! What am I going to wear? I have to look nice. What do you propose I squeeze my fat ass into?"

"Honey, you can still squeeze your fat ass into lots of things."

Limit hit.

And check his teeth while you're at it

This past weekend was spent in New Jersey with Nick's family for my non-shower shower. It was nice, genuinely nice.

So, everyone is on a diet for the wedding. Actually, months ago Nick's doctor - at the same time as she upped his dose of Lipitor - gave him a target weight, and the wedding has been the impetus. Well, the wedding and my nagging gentle and loving support.

Because does he know how furious I'll be with him if he has a heart attack and kicks it? He's much better off going down in a weird blimp accident. At least, as far as I'm concerned.

So the weight. They are all tall, big-boned people. They can carry a lot of weight. But there's a limit to everything.

Nick's father needs to lose at least 50 pounds in order to have a heart operation. They won't operate unless he loses it. Which, until lately, hadn't been happening. He doesn't exercise; he doesn't even walk around a whole lot. He's 75, has arthritis and other health problems, and has mobility issues, which don't help.

And he is a man who likes food. Especially if it's fried. With cheese. And hollandaise. And eggs. And butter. And not-fruit. And not-vegetables. With ice cream on top.

I see how hard things are for him. And I know it would all be easier if he'd just eat better. That would make a tremendous difference.

I genuinely like him. But I want to shake him. I want to say, "Stop it! Yes, your family has this terrible history of heart disease and yes, you will always struggle with weight - but you are in control of your health. And your weight is really working against you."

But I am in no position to do so. Nick's mom does, sort of. She doesn't say that, but she has him on a diet with her at the moment. She's in charge of everything they eat at home, and so all goes pretty well except when they're out and he can order whatever he wants.

In the last couple months, Nick has been losing weight and getting fitter - and feeling better. He has all the same food inclinations as his father. But he exercises, and he's been practicing self-restraint. And he's discovered that he actually likes a couple vegetables. It's all paying off.

And so over the weekend his family remarked on how good he's looking. I'm really proud of him, and I said so. Because not only losing weight, but changing lifelong food habits, is really really hard.

At some point his father and I were alone, and I remarked on how seriously Nick has been working.

Now, I enjoy his father, but sometimes, when we talk about Nick, it feels very much like I'm buying a horse. It's like he feels compelled to tell me pros and cons.

"I believe you'll find that Nick is very kind and generous."

"That's true. He's really great."

"He's a nice, good person."

"I know."

"The thing you need to know about him, though, is this. The men in our family are fine until age 45. And then they really start putting on weight."

He gestures toward his stomach.

"And they go bald."

I just sit there, really not knowing how to respond. As he's pointing to his thinning but nonbald head. "Oh?"

"But the big thing is that he's most likely going to need a triple or quadruple bypass down the road. That's something you should know."

Yikes.

"I hope not. You know, he's been exercising, and eating more fruit and vegetables. He's really trying to eat well."

What else to say beyond that?

"I'm glad to hear that. You keep up with that. But if you haven't seen it yet, you should be aware that he can be extremely stubborn."

"Well, he's met his match in that regard."

This clearly surprised his father. You could see it on his face.

I don't know if you have seen North Dakota Norwegian Viking Ancestry Stubborn in action? If not, you have no idea. It's like there wasn't much else for my forebears to do out there on the prairie but bale hay and practice stubborn.

Bald, you obviously can't help. But blaming your weight and health entirely on your genes? Resigning yourself to it? While helping yourself to corned beef hash and sausage?

Not with me, you don't.

More and less

Just so you know - this is an ugh-ful post.

If I could change something drastic about myself, it wouldn't actually be my weight or my size. It would be how I feel about these things.

It would be the ability to be impervious to numbers. To feel great about myself and how I look just because, and not because of anything external. It would be the ability to not be derailed by a scale or a piece of clothing.

I will never have small thighs or hips. However, my legs are strong from running, and I've got a lot of muscle. Not small, but solid. This is my pep talk. Can you tell?

And the kind men of 14th Street remind me regularly that I've got a lot of junk in the trunk for a white girl. I've determined that a lot of that is muscle as well. I analyze each of my parts regularly and thoroughly. I've gotten Nick to weigh in as well. No pun intended.

So generally, mostly, usuallly, or anyway often, I'm OK with this.

But I got weighed at the doctor this morning. And discovered I'm both heavier and shorter than I think I am. I have written about this very topic before.

It fucks me up like nobody's business.

OK, so I haven't been feeling skinny, but I haven't been feeling fat lately. In other words, I've been feeling normal-ish.

Except this past Saturday, when I discovered my jeans were shockingly tight. Which did make me feel fat and blobby. Especially compared to all the tiny perfect daddy's-credit-card/perfectly coiffed daddy-type-husband wifey shoppers at the charming little stores in Princeton.

Nothing will make you feel unattractive like that. Except maybe Paris. But at least there you know you're just in a different category. The not-Parisian one.

Ugh. Anyway.

But except for the bad jeans day - and they were slightly better on Sunday - I haven't noticed my clothes being particularly tight. I'm wearing my erection skirt, and it's fine, though to be fair it's A-line. But my very fitted blazer isn't any more fitted than usual.

Which means it's all in my butt and thighs. Which is where everything goes first on me.

And today I learned I'm shorter than I thought. I'm barely over 5'3" rather than the 5'3" and 1/4 I've been running around telling people! Ugh! Being this short, my size fluctuates easily. Water, PMS, a pound here and there. Everything, everything shows in my clothes. I could be big today and little tomorrow.

But this isn't water weight. And it's not PMS. It's not even heavy breakfast weight, because I couldn't eat before they took my blood. And they had me take off my boots (which yes, I'm still wearing, because it's been so fucking cold and who the hell knows how to dress for the season anymore?).

So it's just me. This is just the weight I am. I haven't been paying attention and now my normal-ish is more than I want it to be.

Ugh.

Skinny jeans

Have you ever had an article of clothing that you hung onto long past it actually fitting you? Because it was your yardstick in some way or another?

Your measure of size, or desirability, or something?

So Mark, who I wrote about yesterday, Mark and I went to high school together in India. We'd arrived in Delhi about the same time, and our families were next door neighbors for a year.

As I recall, he started out in 8th grade, but he was so incredibly bright that they moved him up a grade. And he'd already skipped a grade earlier. He's just one of those ridiculously smart people.

But this grade skipping made him young for our grade. And he was quite thin, as many high school boys are. This is germane to the rest of the story. In case you're wondering.

So anyway. At some point - I think it was the beginning of 12th grade - he gave me a pair of his old jeans.

Levi's were a big deal - you could only get them when you went back to the US in the summer. And these were washed soft and worn in to where they were so comfortable. They were perfect.

I kept them for years - way past being able to fit into them.

These Levi's, he'd grown out of them, and he passed them on to me. I'd spent the prior summer subsisting on watermelon, hard candy, and as little else as I could get away with eating (sugar, sugar, and more sugar - but no fat!), and so I was skinny. Healthy? No. But skinny. And determined to get skinnier.

So even with my girl hips and soccer player legs, these jeans fit. I am one of these people who will lose body fat, but still have hips, thighs, and a butt. It's just how I'm built. And the thinner I got, the looser these jeans got, the better I felt about myself.

This was a period of time in which I'd weigh myself twice a day. Which is part of why I don't weigh myself now. I'd work out three hours a day in the Indian sun.

All on an egg or cereal with one banana, a cup of minestrone soup (and I had to work out extra if I was unable to keep myself from eating the bread sticks), and as few vegetables as I could get away with eating for dinner.

No exaggeration.

Tired? I was tired all the time. I didn't really get that you need food for, um, energy.

And food? There were so few foods I was willing to eat. Two potato chips could ruin my day. God only knew what Chicken Biryani could do. And so I starved, and worked out like a maniac.

People think I'll know a lot about Indian food because we lived there for so long. But I don't. Because I didn't really eat.

This really only stopped when I went to college and lost my shit. I cried all the time. I probably ate a pound of chocolate a day. The Carolina student stores had the best chocolate peanuts I've ever had. And I have had a lot.

I was used to being so in control of my weight - if nothing else, my weight - and I just lost it entirely. I couldn't stop crying and I couldn't stop eating.

My freshman year I gained 30 pounds - a good chunk of it by Christmas. And 30 pounds on a 5'3" frame? Is not subtle.

And the thing was, I saw it happening. My clothes got a little tight. My fabulous skinny jeans very quickly stopped fitting. And I'd work at losing weight, and try them on periodically. And they got further and further away from being an option.

It was well into my junior year that I lost the weight. I went to Italy for the semester, got happier, started running all the time (even though Italians looked at me like I was feeble-minded), stopped eating a whole lot.

And the skinny jeans? Started fitting again. They fit through the summer, and somewhere into fall, as I recall. I'd try to squeeze into them that winter, but that was that.

It took me a long time to realize that it was only partly about the size. The truth is, they were such a measure of who I wanted to be. I'd have given anything, really anything, for years and years, to be back in high school where I felt safe, back in Delhi, surrounded by family, familiar places, and friends.

But size was definitely the major factor. I didn't keep my oversized neon green "Frankie Say Relax" sleeveless t-shirt and use that as some measure of my self-worth. (And what would that have said about me, anyway?)

For a number of years my weight would go up and down - fat in the winter, skinny in the summer. But I never got small enough for those jeans again.

Which is not unreasonable. I finally figured out you shouldn't strive to wear something you can only fit in if you eat three pieces of lettuce a day.

And then things come around full circle just like a food pyramid

I wrote a long long post and then realized this is actually a tale of two stories - one of a reconnection, and the other of a pair of jeans. And so today, reconnection.

In the random way of the world, Mark and I reconnected through our blogs. We knew each other from high school in India and had seen each other a few times over the years, but had not really kept in touch.

And the thing Mark doesn't know is that long after we lost touch, he defined my parameters for skinny. Via the casual handing down of a pair of old jeans.

I knew he was a lawyer in Texas, and if asked, he'd probably have been able to say that I lived in DC. But that was the extent of it.

And then one day I got an email from him, sent to all the members of our high school class for whom he had email addresses. He'd been maintaining a list, and there were people he was looking for. At the bottom was a link to his blog, Defending People.

I was interested in getting a glimpse into his life. Having known since 9th grade that he had a keen intellect, I knew his blog would be well written and his arguments would be compelling.

So I poked around it a bit, and then sent him a note, essentially say the following. That it was nice to see who he is as an adult, and that I was glad to be back in touch. And I sent him a link to LG, noting that it is a very different type of blog from his and those on his blogroll.

We've been in sporadic touch ever since. And then a month or so ago, he came to town last minute. I think he spent the bulk of his hours in DC at the jail. Visiting clients. Not in jail.

As we had two obligations on that Tuesday evening, we weren't able to catch up with him till near midnight at Local 16. We had a whirlwind introduction and beer, and that was that. Hi, nice to see you, meet Nick, bye! Until next time!

Then the other night, in response to my post mentioning Nick's and my divergent eating habits, he wrote and asked for Nick's address. He wanted to send him a wedding gift - a pro-butter-on-steak one.

He sent a book entitled Good Calories, Bad Calories. It looks really interesting, and I'm going to read it after Nick does. In a nutshell, the premise is that we should be looking at the kind of calories we ingest rather than the number. And refined carbs, because of their effect on our insulin, are the main cause of obesity, diabetes, high cholesterol, heart disease, and cancer.

The low-fat high-carb approach that we've been told is healthy for so long, according to him, is wrong.

He's suggesting eating a low refined carb diet - but it's not a diet book. And cutting out refined carbs, which are so low in nutrition, just makes a lot of sense. Which is what appeals to me about it.

Because honestly, my approach to life for so long has been to just never eat very much. I love, I mean love, refined carbs. Really good pasta? With just olive oil and salt? Heaven. Chocolate chip cookies or brownies? Up there with sex. M&Ms? Daily staple. Cheez-It's? Super guilty pleasure.

I could pretty much eat sugar cubes straight. In fact, I have. I love dipping them in espresso and sucking on them.

I know - probably sets your teeth on edge.

I have spent a lot of my life avoiding fat. And eating a lot of bread, bagels, pasta. I have spent years eating so much less than I'd ever like to. Because I couldn't and remain the same size.

I still love the carbs. And I think a carb-free diet is creepy. I've always been suspicious of Atkinsers. Life without carbs makes people angry.

So lately we are trying a different approach - more along the lines of eating some of everything, but trying not to eat a ton of high fat meats or refined carbs. It started with introducing Nick to vegetables. His mother is British, and his experience with vegetables growing up was very, very bad. And then once he left home, he never ate one again.

Until he met me. The queen of bowl of Brussels sprouts and popcorn for dinner.

We are slowly slowly introducing the vegetables. So far we've figured out that he likes raw broccoli and cauliflower and carrots. Not so much on the asparagus and not at all on the mushrooms.

Still, pretty all around positive.

Although I should add that this has thrown off his Time schedule a little.

But the fact is that he would much rather eat cheese, sausage, ribs, BBQ, steak. And butter. With maybe some sour cream on the side. And cheese on top. Which, considering where I'm coming from, makes me really twitchy.

I'm quite sure he'll never cheat on me or develop a coke habit, but I could easily envision coming home to him mainlining whipping cream.

But maybe I've been focusing on the wrong stuff? Maybe I shouldn't freak out quite as much about cheese and sausage? Which would make us both happy.

As Mark said in his note, "Go ahead and butter your steak."

And so, I'd like to thank him. Because not only is it a thoughtful present, but I think this book is going to be the catalyst for some very positive change.

Now, the thing that makes this an odd coincidence is that Mark - who, as I mentioned earlier, has no idea about this - was my measure of dieting success for years. In a personal fucked up body image way, not in a creepy way. I promise.

And that's tomorrow's story.