New Blog New Beginning

Take a look at my new blog: laughingandlosingit.blogspot.com.  See you there!

Just Stink About It

I told myself Friday that I couldn’t shower until I exercised (thinking that would force me to exercise)—then I concluded Saturday, wincing at the stench from my armpits, if I held to this rule in a few weeks time I would be heavy and stinky-UGLY stinky. A stink so embarrassing, when I go out in public I’ll pretend like I don’t know me.  So instead of sabotaging my Jillian Michaels workout because I smelled, I showered, worked out, then showered again—it’s ok, no one has ever complained that I smell too good.  “Hey, Lady that fresh smell is really distracting, have some respect.”  Although the double-duty wash did feel pretty strange.  Showering twice as a kid growing up with sixteen other siblings in limited bathroom space—blasphemy.  As the youngest, I couldn’t beat my siblings at ANYTHING and was resigned to the fact, but knew, deep down, with pride, that at the end of the day no one else would have hair that could house a birds nest, tan lines that were actually dirt lines, and a smell like a walking fart. I owned my dirtiness as a kid; I tweaked it and honed it as if it were my craft.  So I’m making exercise a priority even above the childhood need to be good at something, even if that something is stinkiness.  Today is the third day of completing Jillian’s “30 Day Shred” DVD—all twenty minutes, and I smell...alright.

It's Breast We Move On

Thanks everyone for all of the kind, very non-judgmental advice about breastfeeding. I love your comments and hope you will continue to leave them!! I’ve had to figure out what’s best for me and my family and have decided it’s breast we move on.

I began weaning my baby last week and am officially done breast feeding. I fear that my last post on the topic led people to believe that I wanted to quit breast feeding simply because I felt it was making me fat. Being fat doesn’t stop me from doing much, including break dancing and running around nude, so why should it stop me from breast feeding? There were some more pressing issues like not having enough milk (I felt like I was feeding all day every day and baby still wasn’t happy), and most important: my brain chemistry. At the very beginning of each feeding, both pumping and nursing, I would get this sick, horrible, sad, sinking feeling in my stomach and it would last up to five minutes. I thought there was something wrong with me, like maybe I had intimacy issues. I asked the all-knowing Google for some answers by typing “Sadness while breastfeeding” and came up with this: I suffer from something called Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex (D-MER). It is an involuntary phenomenon that causes an unusual drop in dopamine during let-down and is characterized by extreme negative feelings similar to depression.

I still have bouts of guilt about stopping—I am known to beat myself up over these things but I must say I have felt an immense lift in my mood ever since I began weaning. And my husband and older daughter have noticed too. My little Ally is behaving better because she senses a new calm about me, and my husband is happy to see that I am happy. Cause when Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy, right? I have to give myself some credit though—I went this far—almost 11 weeks. I simply gave up with my first daughter after three weeks. I’ll probably just get better and better, breastfeed longer and longer with each child. So by the time I have number 17, I’ll just drive to the kindergarten and lift up my shirt at snack time.

Mama Says

The Wise Words of Mother may have come to you as lecture during stubborn teenage years, or may have been screamed into your face during a riotous childhood tantrum. But it usually takes that one moment of clarity, many years later, for you to remember what Mom had to say. It pops into your brain suddenly, and you know after all these years, with absolute certainty, and complete humility, “Wow, Mom was right!” It’s like a bit of clear sky breaking through the clouds, or the electricity suddenly switched on after an outage, or discovering the elastic pant.

I was moping around the other day while attacking a terrible pile of dishes when my mom whispered to me from the past. I was lamenting in my head: Dishes are the worst thing ever, if only I had a dishwasher, I hate cooking without a dishwasher, I’m so tired all the time, this is such a drag…On and on, when PLINK, The words of my mom hit me like a fat raindrop on the forehead—“You should do ten things everyday that you don’t like to do, it will make you a stronger person.” I dip my hand in the gooey water to retrieve another plate and chuckle as I recall my childhood reaction to this advice: What a stupid thing to say, who would want to waste time doing something they don’t like to do? I wiped the plate and realized that by doing the dishes, although not particularly fun at the time, I was keeping things clean, clean things bring peace, peace brings happiness and strength. Thomas Edison didn’t invent the light bulb with a single, fun day of pure genius; he spent thousands of hours trying thousands of things, until after many moments of doing things he did not want to do he had his, well, light bulb moment.

I don’t like to exercise and truly I don’t know if I ever will, but I know if I do, I will be a stronger, happier person. So tonight I’m going to start my “Strength Training” with a nice, swift, power-walk. And maybe after many days of doing many things I do not like to do, I too can have my light bulb moment by listening to what Mama says.

Tired

Getting Out with Two

I’m pushing a bright pink $29 stroller (yes, from Wal Mart) riddled with black scuffs, wearing my too-long hair in a falling, sweaty, half-ponytail, my toddler (Ally) is wearing a knock-off Disney princess baseball cap, mismatched clothes that look like hand-me-downs from a dumpster, and a grimace on her face that clearly states, “Must poop NOW!” My infant (Ashley) is squashed in the front-pack-baby-carrier and I don’t realize her head is flopping out and she’s rooting around like a distraught fish. The host at the marble-clad “Cheesecake Factory” gives me the required smile and whispers something to his co-worker. I didn’t hear what he said but I imagine it was something like, “I thought bag ladies weren’t allowed on this street.” When I ask for a table the waitress next to him looks especially uneasy but takes me to a booth.

You’ll be proud to know that I ordered a green salad instead of greasy fries with my greasy hamburger. I bounce up and down in the booth trying to sooth the baby while I stuff the juicy burger in my mouth, and use the other hand to block Ally from pouring the entire bottle of ketchup on her lunch. “That’s too much!” I say. My daughter replies, “But I LOVE ketchup!” I make some sort of grunt, look down at the hamburger, sauce, and lettuce bits that fell from my mouth onto baby’s head during Ketchup Rescue, double-grunt. “How are you doing?” Asks the waitress apprehensively. “Good,” I say. “Bad, I’m doing bad! How does anyone have more than two kids and remain sane!!?” Ally then pours salt and pepper into her drink, and I smile sheepishly at my server who looks at me like she heard that last part I screamed in my head. It's not pretty, but we're getting out of the house, and I'm figuring out in my own, ungraceful way, how to mother two children.

So what's the breast option?

I am getting very conflicting messages about nursing. Quite a few people have told me it will help me lose weight, and quite a few people have told me it will make me hang on to my baby weight, maybe even gain a few extra pounds. I am beginning to believe the latter. I have seriously never been this hungry in my entire life, and when I try to limit my food intake to normal levels, it seriously affects my brain chemistry (i.e. I lash out like a starving mother moose, or like someone getting her period while taking “Annuel”—if you haven’t seen that SNL sketch, go check it out RIGHT NOW!)

So what’s the big deal, quit nursing, right? I was only able to nurse my first daughter for three weeks, and I feel terrible guilt about it. I have been determined to “Do better” this time around. No one wants to feel like they are giving their child second-best—and frankly that’s what I feel I am doing if I give my baby only formula. It might just be my crazy hormones talking, and maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. So I am opening up the floor for a very hot-button topic for many mothers—What do you think about breastfeeding, and what do you think is the Breast option??

She Shoots, She Scores

I’ve been getting some really great exercise, basketball actually.  It’s my new favorite sport—because I excel at making the 3-pointers and I can play while walking, standing, or my preference, sitting on the couch.  It’s easy, really.  Just grab a few things lying around the house: a garbage can with a wide, circular mouth, a newborn that poops 8-15 times a day, and a collection of soiled diapers ready for throwing.  The fresh ones are great fun because you must be careful not to let any of the goodies fly in mid-air.  The old, hardened ones are good too—they have the bulk and sturdiness to create that nice arc on the way to the basket…swish. Counting the diaper-throwing in one hand and the remote-clicking in the other, I could easily be burning 5-10 calories an hour. 

Musings from a Superstore

Writing is easier when scratched on a spiral notebook. It reminds me of writing in a journal where I am uninhibited, and typing sometimes feels like a stuffy essay for a teacher who doesn’t get me. I consider myself an artistic person, but the blank canvas of the computer screen leaves me feeling empty and unmotivated. You of course are reading the typed version of this entry but know that it started from my new, spiral Five Star. Why you should care? It’s like knowing your salad came from the garden out back—it took effort, its…Organic.

My particular spiral pad was on clearance at Wal-Mart. It cost only $1.15 down from $3.50. I know there are strong feelings out there about Wal-Mart, and I don’t like to get political, but I think the place is great. It provides some of the most entertaining people watching on Planet Earth. Where else can you find a bearded lady with three boobs driving an electric cart? (Just kidding, but you can imagine, right?) As someone who didn’t practice regular grooming and hygiene habits until too late in life (I blame this on being the youngest of 17 children), and someone who happily wears hot pink pajamas in public, I really can’t judge my fellow Wal-Martiers—including the stinky grandpa with three teeth and Daisy Dukes. Wal-Mart is the perfect atmosphere to try daring, edgy fashion. Go ahead, wear your thumb-less, fishnet ballroom gloves, dust off that sequin, stirrup jumpsuit—it’s Wednesday at Wal-Mart!

You really can’t beat the shelf prices either—which is good and bad for me. Why not buy that pack of “Double-stuff Oreos?” They were just over a buck. I was stopped in my tracks by a generic brand of cereal called “Double-Berry Muffintops.” I took that as a sign from heaven to stay away from the bad food. So I parked myself in the checkout line—right behind ponytail Sasquatch, covered in tattoos, carrying a Chihuahua—to purchase just the spiral notebook and leave the Double-Stuffs for the lady down the other isle with eleven thumbs and a purple wig.

"SHUT UP I'M STARVING!"

The beginning of a journey starts with one step or however that saying goes.  For me the first step to baby-number-two-weight-loss began with fast food.  Just an hour or so after giving birth, my mother and sister in-law asked what they could do to help me.  At first I thought of answering with the common lie, "Oh I'm fine."  But then I considered my stomach--growling in moster fashion--and the fact that the hospital where I delivered had a strickly vegitarian menu.  "Could you go get me some In N' Out?"  They chuckled then paused, looked at eachother and realized I was completely serious.  An hour later I was inhaling a double-double, french fries, a chocolate shake, and an extra large pink lemonade.  Food never tastes as good as right after childbirth--I was in heaven.  I have a picture of me looking utterly haggard stuffing a dripping hamburger in my face.  Its really disgusting, but considering how I felt in that moment, I will always treasure that snapshot.  (But sorry, you cant see it, yet).

I figured this after-birthing feast would be my last hurrah before hopping back on the weight-loss wagon. Then I started breastfeeding.  I devoured a dozen plates of food each day during the first two weeks after Ashley was born--no joking.  And my hunger was so intense that I felt I might lose my marbels without food.  To manage this hunger I tried a few things.  The first was to eat a pound of steamed brocoli to at least fill me up on something healthy.  But after eating that I would have a crazy craving for something sweet, scarf down a chocolate bar and 4 cookies.  I no longer eat twelve meals a day, lukily, but I still struggle with nearly CONSTANT hunger and cravings.  I cannot be trusted around anything sweet these days.  I feel like the drag-dressed Chris Farley on the classic SNL sketch where he lashes out at his friend questioning the french fries he chose during his lunch break from The GAP, "SHUT UP I'M STARVING!!"

Welcome Baby: The Birth of Ashley Marie

I tried to write at least a few times during this pregnancy--just to let readers know I'm still alive. But I felt a fraud doing daily posts because I was terrified of exercise during pregnancy. There really was no basis for this fear; in fact my doctor encouraged me to take up jogging or biking. I still couldn't shake the thought that exercise would hurt my baby--so no, I've had no regular exercise during the past nine months. But I only gained 20 pounds--a HUGE improvement from the 60+ pounds I gained with my first child. I think the minimal weight gain was due to intense nausea turning me off to food--especially sweets--and a feverish need to clean my house. So it is rather funny to me that the story of the birth of my second child starts, and ends, with exercise.

I woke up on Saturday March 5th around 7:30 in an especially sour mood. Just a few days earlier I learned from my doctor that my cervix was not ripe for a safe induction on Monday March 7th as we had planned. I faced one more week of waiting, not sleeping, and daily stretch marks (I’m serious--I got a new stretch mark around my belly button every day during the last week of my pregnancy--I started naming them). I stomped in the living room with a terrible bed-head nest of hair and proclaimed "I'm going running in the mountain--I want this baby OUT!!" You can imagine the surprise on my husband's face after my nine-month avoidance of any sort of exertion. "Ok, be safe," he said. I squeezed my monster boobs into the nearest sports bra, pulled on some ragged blue-flower PJ shorts, and my husband’s XL "Dr. Bicuspid" T-shirt. With water bottle in hand and cell phone stuffed snugly next to my right breast I zoomed out the door.

You can imagine how incredible I must have looked to passersby, some of whom actually slowed down in their cars to get a good look at the bouncing pregnant blob. “Is that Lady pregnant and RUNNING?” their eyes seemed to ask, I didn’t care—I had the determination and fury of a hormone-crazed cow ready to give birth! But let me explain something. I wasn’t really in a MOUNTAIN; they are big hills a few blocks from my house with an array of dirty, steep trails. I jogged for 90 minutes and peed four times in the wilderness. Baby was not ready but something definitely changed because the entire week following my Swollen-Belly-Jogathon I suffered MAJOR on and off contractions. I was pleased to learn the next Wednesday at my doctor’s appointment that my cervix had thinned and dilated to a nice 2.5. When Doctor said I could be induced on Monday March 14, I lay there on the slab thingy, half naked, spread eagle clapping and cheering. The nurse wasn’t sure how to respond to my outburst and smiled awkwardly. Fast forward a few days to Friday March 11.

I didn’t sleep at all the night previous and contractions were coming every five minutes. At 8:00 a.m. Friday morning I went to the Hospital. The Doctor on call checked me and I was still a 2.5 but contracting regularly. She said I could go home or walk around the hospital for two hours and come back to see if anything had changed; I had to be a 4 to stay at the hospital. I chose the second option and since our house is only two blocks from the hospital I snuck home. I told my daughter that we were going to run around together. She was surprised and delighted that her sedentary mom suddenly had the strength to play a hearty chasing game. I ran at home for about 30 minutes then ran back to the hospital for fear that some straggling nurse would catch me playing hooky. I ran every stair on the hospital grounds, and circled the building face red, sweaty, and heaving. Smiles and knowing glances were not embarrassing to me, rather encouraging. Like the people were saying, “Yeah lady, you go and get that baby out!!” Despite my gladiator effort, Doctor sent me home. I walked back in our house looking and smelling like a swollen carcass and my husband said, “No baby huh?” I smiled and replied, “No, but I got a wicked workout!” It was time for a shower.

The contractions remained for the next two days and I maybe slept 5 hours the whole weekend. I learned what a REAL contraction felt like late Sunday March 13. “What does it feel like?” My husband asked as I was rolling on the ground. “It feels like the most intense diarrhea pain, but you can’t push poop out to make it go away.” I tried taking a bath, walking, rocking, everything until the pain finally pushed me to tears around 12:00 a.m. Monday March 14th. I woke my husband, asked him for a blessing, and drove myself to the hospital hours earlier than my scheduled induction. (I didn’t want to wake our little girl so I had my husband stay home. And I personally don’t like any company when I am in terrible pain, weird I know). I felt really silly walking up to labor and delivery moaning and groaning, but I couldn’t HELP it!! I got all signed in and braced myself against the wall during the worst contractions. At 1:00 a.m. I found myself once again half naked clapping and cheering out loud: Dr. Said I was almost a 4 and could stay. Then I demanded my epidural.

With my first daughter, I was induced and hooked up to the epidural at the same time. I had no experience dealing with the pain of contractions “You have to keep breathing,” the nurse said. And, “Slow, deep breaths, this one’s almost over.” But my favorite person of the whole evening was Dr. Tsang, the anesthesiologist. He came to my rescue at 2:30 am. The epidural was administered without incident and the relief left me very chatty. I asked the Doctor if his name was Chinese, indeed it was, and then I offered my single Chinese phrase, “I am American.” He laughed a little but was surprised by my correct tones (My big brother John, fluent in mandarin, helped me perfect this phrase a few years back). Dr. Tsang was born in Hong Kong and moved to the U.S. as a child and spoke Cantonese, Chinese, English, and a little High School Spanish. I also got to know the nurse. Her name was Gina and I found out she had gone through natural labor twice—I admired her courage. “Sorry I was such a baby. Thanks for being so patient,” I said. She responded, “You actually did really well for someone who has never felt labor pain and for being here alone and all. Good Job.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back.

From 3:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. I got a little nap, they gave me some low-dose pitocin to help me along, and I dilated to a 6. My doctor came in and congratulated me. “Sometimes the body almost anticipates an induction and starts labor on its own, it’s really strange, and I’ve seen it happen a lot,” He said. He broke my water and assured me that it wouldn’t be very long before we had our baby. There is nothing dignified about childbirth—it is sticky, icky, and there are a bunch of people crowded around your crotch. But the most embarrassing part of the whole thing, for me, is the water breaking—I have NO control, and it gushes. It makes me almost want to apologize—as if I farted in a crowded elevator. Then I remind myself that these people have seen this hundreds of times and know that I didn’t mean to spew amniotic fluid at them. At 8:15 the nurse said I should call my husband. He came to the hospital from school around 8:40 and had to leave a patient with someone else—good thing: Ashley was born at 9:45.

“Call me if you start to feel lots of pressure,” the nurse said. She came back a few minutes later and said, “How do you feel?” --“Like I have to poop a bowling ball, but good.” Another awkward smile. At 9:12 I was dilated to a 9.5. I started to get panicky when I could feel my legs losing their numbness, and I pressed the epidural button several times. I felt immense pressure around 9:30, and indeed I was at a 10. I could feel the head descending…more clicks to the epidural button. At 9:36 they set up everything for delivery and my feverish attempts to numb my lower regions were in vain—the epidural ran out. So I did my final exercise of the pregnancy—PUSH! Baby’s head crowned , I felt it, and screamed. I stopped for a minute because it hurt so bad then decided now was good a time as any to get this baby out, and the sooner the better. Two more pushes, and another hearty yelp and my little girl plopped on my lap at 9:45 a.m. messy, chubby, and healthy: 8 pounds 2 ounces. I’ve never been good at anything athletic, but apparently I’m an awesome pusher. I squeezed that girl out in a matter of minutes and between contractions. “You were screaming, it was like a movie,” my husband later said. “I know, it hurt, I FELT it!” He nodded and said, “Wow you are a champion; you pushed her out so fast.” I sat there a minute wondering why my physical gift had to be pushing out a baby instead of something more interesting and useful like swimming or sprinting, then I looked down at my pink, chubby, perfect baby and was very proud to be a gold-medal baby pusher.