The Good: Alex is finally sleeping in his own bedroom, not in his swing, but in his bouncy seat placed in his (awesome) crib.

The Bad: He’s still up one to seven times per night, just for a little love and snacky-poo.

The Ugly: If anyone BUT me tries to help him back to sleep, he shrieks. And shrieks. And then shrieks some more. He’s got a little seperation anxiety goin’ on, methinks, and as flattering as that is (wow, THE BABY LIKES ME, HOLY CRAP!), it adds to my anxiety. And how do you keep a baby asleep when he’s so restless? I HAVE NO IDEA.

—————–

The Good: I had a doctor’s appointment last with with a new endocrinologist whom I liked very, very much. She listened to me, complimented my breastfeeding abilities, and genuinely appeared concerned about me. There is a lab located directly in the offices, so I do not have to go anywhere else for lab draws (this is a bigger feat than you might believe).

The Bad: Not only did I wait over an hour to be seen, but the doctor was/is currently out of town until the end of the week. This means that I will not be starting any treatment regime until then.

The Ugly: My babysitter cancelled literally as I was walking out the door, so I had to scramble to take Alex along. Somehow I don’t think “Baby’s First Trip To The Endocrinologist” will make it to the baby books. Now that I have all this time in between the doctor and the call back, I have effectively convinced myself that my labs will come back as absolutely normal. The only thing that’s saving my hope, is that my period has been MIA for over two months, so SOMETHING must be wrong with me, right?

————–

The Good: I have lost a total of 10.5 pounds while on Weight Watchers.

The Bad: I’m feeling generally discouraged at the speed at which the weight ISN’T coming off and horrified by how awful I really look.

The Ugly: I have nearly no clothes that fit me, aside from maternity clothes, and this includes a winter coat. For my own pride, I refuse to purchase anything in any sizes bigger than I was, so I’m a bit cold much of the time now. I also was so stressed out by it, that I didn’t weigh myself last week, despite having not strayed from The Plan. I need to suck it up and do so this week.

God, I hate Sundays.

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.

–Johnny Cash

It is with great pleasure to inform The Internet at large (as though anyone but me cares) that despite my wonky-assed thyroid (19.34, n: 0.34-5.6), I have officially lost 10 pounds. This puts me closer than I would have thought to my goal of 15-20 lbs down by Christmas and back at my pre-pregnancy weight by Alex’s first birthday (which is 28 pounds from where I stand today).

While I am cautiously optimistic, I don’t honestly expect that last goal to be met. I find it easier to be proven wrong later in the game if I have braced myself for it (this habit of mine drives The Daver insane). Doesn’t mean for a moment that I won’t do everything in my power to achieve it, but we all know what God does when he hears our plans: he laughs.

I want to do something for myself to commerate this goal being met, but I’m not sure what I should do. I’m going to get a cute haircut and sasstastic highlights (+ upkeep, which I suck at, but am promising The Internet that I will take care of it. I COULD NEVER LIE TO YOU, DEAR INTERNET.) when I hit my goal (that is, if I don’t shave it all off in frustration to thwart the yanking hands of my young son. Which would give me a striking resemblance to pinhead right now, which would effectively ensure I’d never get laid again.).

What should I do (besides what I really want to do, which is sleep for 14-18 hours. Because, hahahahaha. Yeah, RIGHT.)?

(I cannot go tanning, hate people touching my feet, dislike massages in general, and don’t want to go purchase fat clothes BECAUSE THIS WEIGHT IS COMING OFF WHETHER OR NOT IT WANTS TO.)

God, I’m really high maintenance.

So, I got off my (large) ass and made an appointment with and endocrinologist, which turns out to be a smarter move than I’d previously thought. I had my last labs sent to me to bring in (cue ominous music)…

Yikes. Holy yikes.

Looks like I’ll have to start checking my neck for goiters until I see my endo.

Today I finally broke down and did something I had vowed not to do again for a long while.

We were out shopping for something resembling a winter coat for the Wee One but what we ended up with was one for the Big One. See, I couldn’t remember what on Earth you are supposed to dress a baby in for the winter. Standard coats don’t work well because they ride up and look all uncomfortable, but the snowsuits are too damn hot for everyday use.

We found absolutely nothing, so we’re going to have to make do with some sweaters and blankets for a bit. I suppose I could throw him in his Halloween costume, but I have a feeling people might suspect me of being clinically insane if I show up to do my grocery shopping with a gigantic hotdog in tow. Oh yeah, a hotdog. Because someday he too will want to be Darth Vader for Halloween instead of a chicken (ahem, BEN.).

While we looked, Daver picked himself out a pair of jeans, which emboldened me to go alooking for something other than maternity gauchos or maternity yoga pants to wear. You see, a couple of months ago, I decided to go and purchase myself a pair of pants to wear that didn’t have an elastic waistband. The results were disasterous and completely humiliating, and I can assure you that if you did happen to see me weeping at the Gap that horrible day, no, I’m not insane. Just feeling discouraged.

I was only able to wear those pants a handful of times because each time I did so, I felt extremely discouraged and upset with myself. I didn’t WANT to be a fat pregnant lady and I didn’t WANT to be a fat postpartum lady, my body just likes to make damn certain that the baby is well padded and fed.

But winter is a-coming quickly around here (so glad I just bought that window A/C unit!) and the stretch pants are starting to unravel, so I sucked it up. I pulled out a pair of pants from the stack and shamefully marched my ass into the dressing room, fully expecting them not to fit.

Fit they did, and I could not be more thankful of that. My diet, after months of trying with other methods, is finally working.

To be clear, they are NOT the size that I was before I got pregnant, but hey, they’re only 2-3 sizes bigger. AND THEY DON’T HAVE AN ELASTIC WAISTBAND!

And now I feel like a million bucks.

Especially since that 0.5 lbs gain on the scale this week is neatly attributed to the fact that after 15 months, I once again have my period. Lucky, lucky me.

I happen to be one of those people who, when faced with periods of high stress, lack of sleep, or illness that tends to let themselves go with routine maintence. My children will always be well groomed, dressed in clean clothes, and well fed, but I find myself continually looking like I may actually be half dead. I’m so discouraged about my pregnancy weight gain that I find myself apologizing to complete strangers for it. Like they actually care one way or another (although I’m sure that my many nay-sayers are probably chuckling to themselves about it).

Today I realized that it had been ages since I have either plucked the ole’ caterpillers (which I am usually fastidious about, otherwise I look like Bert or Ernie), given myself a pedicure (I cannot handle small rude Asian women touching my feet and then complaining that I have not tipped them enough WHEN THEY WERE COMPLETELY RUDE TO ME. Ahem.), or taken a freaking shower. Gross. Most of this routineness can be attributed to a lack of sleep, a nasty sinus infection, the bloody heat, and a baby who has been in a terrible mood.

I took care of all of this today and I feel loads better about life in general, which reminds me that I need to be more vigilant about doing so on a more regular basis. I don’t have the time to consistantly make it to the gym (and am frequently thwarted by events outside of my own control), and a lengthy soak in the tub is sadly a thing of the past, oh and the tanning bed? That’s going to have to wait until I stop nursing, what with the burning of the nipples and all.

These are all things that I will get back in the habit of doing regularly when circumstances allow it. But with The Internet as my witness, I will start taking better care of myself with the things that I am able to do with my crazy schedule in the future.

(and I have chosen what I will do when I reach my prepregnancy weight. It involves a haircut and dye, because I am still under the misguided impression that my hair acts as somewhat of a weight-hiding mumu.)

OHMYGOD: on a totally unrelated note, the baby woke up from a nap as I was writing this, and I realized that I could hear water running. While trying to ascertain WHERE said water was coming from while going upstairs to get the baby, I found the culprit: the bathtub from which I had just showered AND ON MY HONOR TURNED OFF. It appears as though we have a ghost.

Last Thursday, Dear Internet, I told you that I was done whining about being fat and was going to start really DOING something about it. And, because I cannot tell a lie to you, darling Internet, I did. I joined Weight Watchers Online. I’d done a hacked up version of it before, after my wedding and I’d lost about 10 lbs (but I was obviously much thinner then). It’s a diet I can live with and (apparently) works for me.

Tuesday, I weighed myself and I’ve lost 2.5 pounds, which is a little over 10% of the upper end of what I’d wanted to lose before Christmas Eve. If that isn’t motivation, I’m not sure what is. This doesn’t mean that I won’t offer up a silent prayer before I get onto the scale each week, because I happen to be superstitious like that, but I am hoping that the numbers continue to go down in a reasonable manner, because I cannot do those low-carb diets (one word: anal leakage. Oh wait, that’s two words. My bad. Now I’m fat AND dumb!)

The kicker of all of this is, is that I’m actually eating MORE than I was before (although I am frankly AGHAST at the points values of some of the things I’d thought were pretty decent for you. Who knew that the huge tortilla that you get at Chipotle ITSELF has 7 points? Asinine, really, especially considering I don’t even really care for the tortilla part), which honestly goes against everything that I’d thought about dieting. Dieting = eating LESS, not MORE in my head, or at least it used to.

So I am not hungry, I don’t feel as though I have to subsist on boxed meals, and occasionally I have to force myself to finish my points for the day. (Ohmygod, did you know that creme brulee has about a million calories in it? I DIDN’T. That sucks, because it is BY FAR my favorite dessert. I loves me my creme brulee.)

Now I just need to secure some babysitting so my ass can get back to the gym and burn some more of those damn calories off (did you know, because I didn’t, but with breastfeeding, you need an additional 10 points per day!?! That’s awesome. I may never wean him.)

Week One of Operation Get Rid of My Fat Butt is done. Let’s hope that Week Two is as awesomely awesome.

# of lbs put on with second baby: stopped counting

# hours spent confused by simultaneously barfing and putting on weight: 1,000,000,000,003

# of times regretted eating McDonald’s sundaes: 987

# of reassurances to myself that I cannot eat whatever I want no matter what Daver can do: 48,000

# of regrets that I have married the person who loses 20 lbs after cutting out pop but continues to eat double quarter pounders with cheese: too many to count

# hours spent at gym since being cleared to work out again: 28

# hours spent grumpily hating women who look like twigs who swallowed a watermelon while pregnant: 756

# of White Hen clerks who ask when ‘œmy baby is due:’ 1

# of pants that currently fit: 1

# of times I’ve wanted to buy new pair of pants but have chickened out as I didn’t want to see my new! and improved! size: 8,000,000,000

approx, cost of future tummy tuck: $10,000

approx. cost of future boob job to fix boobs that currently look like an orange stuffed in a tube sock: $4,000

# of times thought of future plastic surgery has calmed me down: too numerous to count

# of feet of current excess skin: 4.6

It’s a good goddamn thing this baby loves me a lot.