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.

Per Annum

At this time of year many of us look back at the previous twelve months and take an inventory of our accomplishments and consider goals for the year ahead. I started this blog on December 29, 2009 and one year later I am sitting here trying to find something to say that will inspire my readers but I am at a loss. How can I offer a profound tid-bit about weight loss when all I can think about is the Cadbury Cream Egg I ate just an hour ago (Yes, it is December and the Cadbury's are already prominently displayed in my local Rite Aid--there is no hope for any of us). I can't really say that I've lost two dress sizes, or that I have competed in triathlon events, or even that I have had a great awakening and am now a work-out-every-day-exercise freak. One year later, most of my shirts are still XL, I still don't like exercising, and I'd still rather eat chocolate cake than carrot sticks.

The most important change this past year is much more subtle, but much more meaningful to me than numbers on the scale. When I really think about the best thing that has happened, it is this: I have learned to care about myself. Before last year, you would find me stuck on the couch wearing old, stained t-shirts feeling very sorry for myself. And while I still enjoy an evening relaxing in my most prized homeless attire, I've allowed myself, for the most part, to look and feel good. The most depressing, I-can't-do-it day is always a little bit better with washed hair, normal clothes, and a little makeup. It says "Although I am feeling terrible, I deserve to look awesome!” I've learned that when I do exercise regularly, I feel much better, and really I deserve to feel good. And although I still indulge in my favorite treats, I have learned that eating too much food is not the way to happiness (OK I LIED, those LINDOR chocolate truffles are a one-way ticket to bliss). But really, food isn't as big of an issue because I listen to my true needs. I am so happy and truly proud of how I've changed, and that is the best New Years gift of all.

Happy Munchies

I went to the doctor last week and I am proud to report that I have gained very little weight.  In fact I am currently the same weight as five months ago (and just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I am secure about the actual number on the scale, I'm still not telling you).  When I explain my minimal weight-gain, folks sometimes tilt their head and squint, looking in my eyes for some sign of an eating disorder followed by, "I don't know if that's healthy." Let me tell you how "unhealthy" or malnourished I've been: today's food: chicken and WHITE rice, sugary cereal with 2% milk, diet soda, padthai noodles, eggrolls, coconut chicken curry (lunch and dinner), gulps of apple juice, apples dipped in caramel, pumpkin bread, Izze pomegranate soda (the same soda many onlookers mistook for a wine cooler--doesn't look so good with the swollen belly).  So no, clearly I'm not dieting.  Perhaps I am jinxing myself by telling you this and next week I will pack on 20 pounds.  But for now, things are going well and I want to celebrate.  I think my sincere effort to change my habits before I become pregnant made all difference.  I've learned to focus on when I'm FULL, eat things that I want to eat within reason (to avoid the inevitable cheating binge), and gained strength from running and walking (oh yeah, and chasing around the three-year-old zoo monkey).  And really, don't worry that I'm not gaming weight---there are plenty of nutrients for the baby neatly packaged in the sagging bulges which surround my womb.  And I welcome the little thing (GIRL BY THE WAY) to munch on my ample storage.