Your Mom Goes to College

When I learned there was a Frank growing in my belly, I was partway through the spring '12 semester. I thought I'd be able to continue classes throughout my pregnancy. Boy, was I dead wrong. I can just imagine myself hauling ass across campus, stopping to puke every twenty feet (in the bushes, on the sidewalk, in parking spots, on some poor someone's shoes..), strategically seating myself near doors in labs and lectures, with my lovely gags echoing down main hallways. Fortunately, none of these things managed to occur (at school, anyway). After spending a few days in bed, I dragged my feet into my organic chemistry II class, only to learn that I missed a test. It was time to pull the plug.  

Since then, I've been out of school. I started out as a music major, switched over to art major, then took a 180 and dove headfirst into biology. When I started the trek through the sciences, I was headed toward veterinary medicine. I was educating myself in order to procure a career. Along the way, I found other things I liked more within biology and let go of becoming a veterinarian. I am too squeamish around blood anyway. After a few semesters of banging textbooks against my forehead hoping to just absorb the information, it started to click. I fell in love with ecology, and all things pertaining to biodiversity and evolution. Mountain Man and I found ourselves in a lot of the same classes (he was the chemistry to my biology). I have around four semesters of advanced electives and labs left, plus or minus a stray English class or so until I have a shiny degree under my belt. However, while away, I ended up with ample time for some soul searching. 

During said ample, soul-searching-time, I rediscovered some old loves that I let fall by the wayside. I decided it was time to be honest with myself. If I were to choose a major without the influence of what job I would have once I finished, I would be back in art, focusing on photography- hands down. (You can look at some old photography of mine here, keep in mind that I was a sceenie-weenie teenager at the time). In the meantime, I've been taking trillions of photos of baby Frank, but my card reader is broken and my camera's USB walked out on us, so the pictures are locked away in several compact flash cards until I get my hands on some replacements.

Earlier this week, Mountain Man and I took baby Frank with us back up to campus so I could re-enroll for the fall semester. For (hopefully) the final time, I will be changing my major back to art. I can easily complete the degree in around the same time as it will take to complete my former degree, but with a less strenuous workload (and hey, maybe I already have a biology minor). I can't see myself having fun or focusing (at all) in cell biology or organic chemistry labs while my baby is in daycare. Education is important, and always has been for me. I want to graduate.

The one thing I dread the most about going back to school, is taking Frank to daycare. I am also worried about my time management, or how high the dishes will pile up when I am back in class. Or how backed up the laundry will be. How much extra gas will it take to run all over town everyday? When, exactly, will I be able to study or do homework? Will I get enough sleep? Will Frank be sick all of the time from his little friends? What if Frank doesn't get into the daycare I want? Will he be happy? Can I trust his teachers? How much is daycare going to cost? What if we don't get the child care grant? 

Baby Frank and I have been in our own little world for the last (almost) five months, and I am not sure I will be ready to reinsert myself into society come August. As for now, we will be getting the most out of our exclusive time together until then. (We'll also be trying to figure out how to afford Adobe PS).

Bonus Frank picture :D

Week 3: Motivate Me

Can you believe it? We are three weeks into this thing already. My shoes showed up at my front door not two hours after posting Week 2. Hooray! They are squishy, and amazing, and I love them. Moving on. 

 

Yesterday, I started week three of the running program I've been following (see plan in Week 1's blog). Most of my runs are with baby Frank, but some of them I have done on my own. It is almost easier having Frank with me because I am more focused on him than I am the running (and by running, I am in fact referring to the lactic acid burning in my leg muscles, and the angry shouts coming from my lungs directed at yours truly). This probably means the running that I do sans Frank is more effective, but c'est la vie.  

Don't let me fool you. I feel awesome between runs, and especially awesome just after completing a run when I'm stretching on the living room floor. But during them, I am finding any and every excuse to quit. I'm almost back around by the house, maybe I should just pack it in. This is too hard. Holy. Crap. What was I thinking? Can I justify just turning back? Maybe Frank needs a diaper change. Maybe I have to pee?.... and so on. If I'm not trying to think up a reason to stop, I'm counting seconds and staring at my timer on my phone. Yesterday, I found myself start to go there again. I had seven minutes of running this time, instead of five (dispersed between varied lengths of walking) and I was really feeling it. There are infinitely many reasons why I want to do this (so maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration, but there are quite a few). So, during a particularly difficult interval, I started listing them off:

1. To get healthy.
2. To fit into my jeans. 
3. To look better in a swimsuit this summer.
4. To feel good about my body and myself.
5. To FINALLY participate in a color run.
6. ONE-DERLAND. 

With each minute on, I repeated these to myself (bikini body, step, bikini body, step, jeans, one-derland, step, bikini body, step, jeans, step, one-derland, jeans, step, etc). When I did this, as opposed to whining to myself and being a Debby-downer, I found the running minutes were over before I knew it. I also increased my distance to 1.2 miles from the .8 miles I was going last week (each lap I do around my street equates to .4 miles, so I added an entire third lap). Go figure.  


Last week, in addition to the running/walking, I added a new arm workout that I found on pinterest (where else?). I dug out a pair of 3lb dumbbells I knew we had hiding in the house and got to it. I very much enjoy this one. It's no walk in the park, but I'm not killing myself either. I can feel my muscles working with each rep, and certainly feel it after I complete the workout. Someday when I grow a money tree, I'll buy some heavier weights. Until then, I'll be using these babies. I've continued the ab workout that I also posted week one, but I am now on the hunt for another one to step it up a notch. 

So there you have it, my week's shenanigans. I will leave you with a final piece of motivation that I particularly fancy. Some runs are seemingly immaculate, shiny runs to be proud of-  the ones where you find some magic burst of spare energy and sprint the last thirty seconds, or shave minutes off of a previous time. Some are just sloppy, slow and distracted. That doesn't mean those runs were for naught. I can be proud of my bad runs too. 

Week 2: Getting Out

It is only the beginning of the second week of Operation One-derland, but I have managed to combat a few fears of mine (and send them packing). I have always been hesitant when it comes to roaming about my neighborhood alone. I generally feel more confident with my big scary Mountain Man, or with one of the dogs (namely Imogen. Monty's 10 pound self is not going to scare anybody away. Imogen isn't too scary either, but at least she's got a few pounds on him). While Mountain Man is at work, he simply cannot perform his duties as body guard. With baby Frank in tow, I can't drag Imogen with me out the door either (not that she makes a good jogging partner anyway, she has poor on-the-leash skills). 

Now, my neighborhood is full of middle class families and retirees. I see kids running the streets all the time. I mean, I really have little to be afraid of. Still, my brain conjures up tons of images of scary men in dark clothing taking me and baby down some dark alley only to never be heard from again (the neighborhood also completely lacks alleys). I guess the fact that I've been in the house for the better part of the last nine months is partly to blame for this irrationality.

Last Thursday, I pulled on my big-girl-britches, tied my running shoes, strapped Frank into the stroller, held my head up high, and ventured out. Needless to say, we made it back alive with not one scratch on either of us. Between then and now, Mountain Man has been home to tag along. This morning, we went out alone, for the second time, for the first day of "week two" of the running plan (jog one minute, walk three minutes, repeated 5 times). AKA, Mama busted out the jogging stroller. 

My running accessories.

This stroller originally belonged to my sister, and has been sitting in my house collecting dust. I am in love. With our other stroller, which I also love, whenever we ventured from the sidewalk into the street, poor Frank sat through a mini-earthquake. It is also difficult to keep the sun out of his little eyes, aside from turning in a different direction. The jogging stroller has an enormous sun shade, so I never had an issue with the sun in his face. It also glides so effortlessly over the road, like there isn't a bump around for miles. Our non-jogging stroller is perfect for smooth surfaces like sidewalks or trips to the store, so don't worry, we will not neglect it.

I've also had some reservations about running again. It is less than easy to get started. I remember from the last time. However, I made it through the first leg of jogging, and lived to tell the tale of how Frank and I showed the neighborhood just who exactly is the boss (I still suspiciously eye cars as they drive pass, but nonetheless we have moved forward). I also ordered a new pair of running shoes with the money I had originally set aside for a haircut (which, according to my online tracking, are now in town and should arrive soon). It's been a few years, so I'm due to replace my old pair. I feel great, and I am ultra pumped to go back out for round two of week two with my brand spankin' new nikes, and the jogging stroller.

Glamorous Indie Rock n' Roll

".. is what I want. It's in my soul, it's what I need."

I had plans. Big plans. Huge. I was going to be a famous musician. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Jenny Lewis. I played coffee shop gigs, wrote songs, and was the biggest choir nerd. I even started out as a Vocal Performance major my freshman year of college. Singing was my everything. 

My guitar has been collecting a bit of dust since I got pregnant and had baby Frank. I no longer perform for audiences. This all being said, I now know the purpose of my love for music. My most sacred of times with my sweet little boy are the moments I am rocking him, and singing him, to sleep. I can hardly get through a song without tears welling up in my eyes, because I stumble upon lyrics that touch my heart. Lyrics that I loved even before baby Frank, but did not fully understand until now. En route to the rocking chair, I am thinking about the tens of thousands of things I need to take care of during Frank's nap. When I watch those baby blues start to droop, I find myself wishing he would take longer to fall asleep. The laundry can wait. I'll shower later. I could sit there all day (although, Frank probably wouldn't be too happy about it).

My voice can get shaky and crack with emotion. I can go out of key, and make up words when I forget them. It doesn't have to be pretty. That's the thing. I am a perfectionist at heart, but I can fully let go when lulling him off to sleep. It is tender and vulnerable, and my absolute favorite part of my mommy duties. And of course, my sweet little Monty follows us, and snores on the corner of the bed.

There is so much cute in my house, I can hardly stand it.

I don't need to be famous, or selling records. All I need are those two little ears to whisper my favorite songs into (and you know, maybe Mountain Man and the fur babies too). 

Unconditional love.

Week 1: Beginning Beginner

I expected to burn tons of calories exclusively breastfeeding baby Frank for the first year of his life; and for the first several weeks, I was. I dropped 20 pounds by Thanksgiving and I was thrilled. But, we all know how that ended (see Battle of the Boobs). I slowly put 10 of that 20 back on by the time the breastfeeding extravaganza was over. 

Cutie-Patootie!

I knew there would be challenges to incorporating workouts in mine and Frank's routine (even more when I head back to school in the fall). Mountain Man works 10:00am-6:00pm Monday through Friday. We currently have one working car, so during this time I am at home with Frank. Most days, I get the dishes done, catch up on laundry, let the dogs out several times, feed the dogs, tend to the reptiles, feed myself, make dinner, work on the blogs, tend to my plants, along with all the things that go into caring for a 4-month old. (I KNOW. Frankie is already four months old. Wahhh!) However, there are a few times a day when baby is napping that I have some quality me-time. Along with paying attention to what I am putting in my body, I pinned several workouts that appealed to me for whatever reason, and have been trying them out during said me-time.

After having been pregnant, my abdominal muscle strength is at a big fat zero. So, I've been completing this ab workout I found on pinterest every other day. Let me tell ya, I certainly feel the burn, and feel stronger already. I've also been doing a beginner's arm workout. I was slightly concerned the first time I completed this one, because it was a piece-of-cake, and my arms were not sore at all. That is, until the next day. I'm still a little unsure of its effectiveness.

One of my goals that I mentioned previously is to run again. That being said, I found this running plan that I have just started. It has been great so far, but then again, it only involved walking this week.

This one was a bit trickier to schedule in. Mountain Man has been partaking in week 1 with me. I'm a bit nervous to take Frank out for a walk by myself yet. But, I can face this fear while testing out the jogging stroller at the same time. I'll fill you in on the experience when it happens. Besides, it's March and the weather is beautiful. We only have a limited amount of time before we will melt if we venture out.

So. MWF are Ab/Arm days. TTRS are running days. I'll be looking for workouts to switch up my MWFs as I go through the full 12 weeks of this running campaign. My calendar is so cheerful with all of its little heart stickers. I decided that instead of weighing myself weekly, or biweekly, I will be weighing in once a month. This way, I can't obsess over the scale, or throw in the towel when I don't see the results I want right away.

My motivation this week? I found some local baby swimming lessons that I will be signing Frankie up for in June. Swimsuit season is quickly approaching!

Stay tuned.

Here's the Skinny

Myself (left) and my favorite little sister.

Motherhood, so far, has been everything I dreamed it could be and more. Sure, it has come with its fair share of challenges and rough moments, but it has positively impacted just about every facet of my life. Except my waistline. I originally had zero intentions of blogging about my struggle with weight loss, but, as you can clearly see, I have changed my mind. The photo above is from May 2011, when I was at my smallest. I had just completed a couch-to-5k running class, and was about to run my first official 5k. Since then, it has been a slippery slope back to my starting weight. Which is where I sit now, unable to get rid of the last 20 of the 30 pounds I gained while carrying baby Frank. 

Up front, here are my ultimate goals:

1. Get back into my jeans. I have been wearing sweatpants and yoga pants for the past four months. It's hard to feel good about yourself in sweats (and I'm not about to go buy bigger jeans).
2. Not want to barf when I see myself in photos. (So that's a little dramatic. There are certainly qualities about myself that I dig, but I'm a "big, puffy version" of myself right now.)
3. Leave my lowest weight number in the dust. First, I'd like to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight. (My weight has gone up and down so many times, I might be suffering from whiplash.) I'd also like to finally make it back into one-derland (where I haven't been since middle school).
4. Get back to running the way I was before. I worked up to two miles with no breaks. 

Nobody faint, but here come the numbers. When I initially began seriously trying to lose weight, I was at 272lbs. By the time we visited the beach, I'd knocked about 50 pounds off of that number, and weighed in at 220. Right before I got pregnant, I'd gained back up to 254. It's time to get serious again. I've struggled with the number on the scale ever since I can remember, and I'm over it. 

I've been lightly working out over the past few weeks. But, we're going to say today, March 4, 2013, is my official start date. I've also been positively reinforcing myself with heart stickers. Everyday, when I finish my workout, I put a fancy little heart sticker on my calendar (a little extra incentive can't hurt, right?).

Like I said before, I never thought I'd be sharing this with you all, but I figured I could really hold myself accountable by blogging my progress (besides, it's not like the weight is not there if I don't tell anybody). I am ready to never see 272 again.

Our starting point.

A Frankie Story: Part Two

I have horrible veins. Getting blood drawn is one challenge that I never look forward to. I tend to get stabbed several times, in several places all over my arms, before whoever is trying to obtain a sample either forfeits and finds somebody else to give it a go, or defaults to the backs of my hands. I preface each occasion by letting the blood-drawer know that it's not going to be breezy, hoping they'll just use a hand and move on. Which is never the case. The pokes really aren't too terrible, that stupid blue tourniquet is the worst part. Given my track record, the idea of finally getting my first IV failed to excite me.

At 3:00AM we found ourselves in the delivery room. Mountain Man sat on the tiny hospital variety pull-out-couch he would be sleeping on. I sat in the bed with blood work coming out of my left arm, and two nurses attempting to put in an IV in my right arm (after unsuccessful attempts with my left arm.. what does it even mean to blow a vein, anyway?) 4:00AM, I started contracting on my own (good timing, Frank), and my night nurse, who was fantastic by the way, gave me a small dose of nubain to help me sleep after officially starting the induction (with cervidil). Sleep I did not. I don't know if it was the about-to-have-a-baby jitters, the fact that I had an eight pound baby hanging out in my insides, or just that I was laying in a terribly uncomfortable hospital bed hooked up to an IV keeping me awake. I dozed in and out of a pain medication induced haze.

By 7:00 Friday morning, I had given up on any real sleep. Kathy had arrived to break my water anyway (and told me I was at four centimeters). The last few weeks, I worried that my water would break and I wouldn't know it. I read stories about women leaking fluid over a period of time, and even knew someone who this had happened to. The flood that gushed out of me, however, could not possibly have been missed (I half expected to have to use my bed as a raft out of there). My new nurse (not nearly as fantastic the first) started the pitocin, and Kathy went back across the street to finish her appointments for the day. By 10:00AM, the contractions were really rolling, and I was getting uncomfortable. I still wanted to avoid the epidural, so I opted for one more round of nubain which ended up putting me to sleep. The plans I'd had to walk around to hurry my labor along went straight out the window. I woke up as the nubain was wearing off. The contractions were uncomfortable, but I could breath through them easily enough. 

My mom and sister showed up, and we sent Mountain Man away to feed himself. Upon him leaving the room, for the first time, all hell breaks loose. I remember standing up to pee, only to be met with a contraction that felt like it was ripping my spine apart. Happy-fun-time was officially over. The extreme far opposite of happy-fun-time, back-labor-time, had commenced. Epidural. I wanted it. I had to wait two hours for it. Two hours of Frank's (posterior) bowling ball of a head crushing my tail bone. By the time Mountain Man returned, I had become the screaming, hysterical woman I had trashed talked earlier. Just when I thought I was about to die, the anesthesiologist saved the day. I was back in bed feeling awesome (and not feeling my legs) in no time. I took another short nap in my newly acquired peace.
 
Right around 3:00PM, Kathy returned and I was complete. But I felt nothing, rendering my pushing completely useless. My best friend, the epidural, was turned off. One hour later, the medication had worn completely off, and the back labor had returned full force. I felt everything. Poor Mountain Man. I was incredibly loud. The most obnoxious sounds I'd ever made were coming out of me. I was sure the entire hospital could hear, and I could not have cared less. 

Mountain Man: You can do it! Don't stop! We can see his head! You can do it! Keep Pushing!
Me: STOP YELLING AT ME!
And then I threw up on him. I'm grateful, I swear.

I knew it had to have been some time, because Kathy had left and another midwife, Holly, had taken over. Several nurses who were in the middle of shift changes were there too, all assuring me how close I was. Except, Frank was stuck. I rolled side to side, pushed on my hands and knees, sitting up, lying down. A stream of liquid hit my face while rolling around. When I looked down and saw where my IV used to be, I realized it was saline. I remember saying out loud, "I'm bleeding. Just so y'all know." I produced other winners like the following:

1. "I'm too tired to do this right now. I'm done."
2. "Just give me a C-section!"
3. "Can we turn the epidural back on?
4. "I can't see anything. I don't have my glasses on." (when asked if I wanted to see baby come out)
   

Photo courtesy of my bfffffff, Meagan.

The on-call OB came in. The words 'forceps' and 'vacuum extraction' were thrown around. Something clicked, and it hit me that the harder I pushed, the less painful the contractions seemed. I closed my eyes, and went for it. I pretended each push was my last, and everybody kept saying how close we were. 

I thought, "yeah, sure. That's what you've been telling me the past three [expletive]ing hours. Dirty liars." 

At some point I glanced around the room. I had a new IV (must have been easier than the first one, because I didn't even notice). The five or so staff members assisting my delivery had turned into upwards of 20, which could have only meant one thing; it was about to get real serious up in here. On push number two of one particular contraction, out he came. Frank Eli, 19 & 3/4 inches long, born at 7:41PM. 

Next time around, it would be phenomenal if I could push for less than the three hours it took this time. It would also be great if baby #2 chose to not be posterior, so we could all avoid the back labor fiasco (I'll probably try to avoid ripping IVs out of my arm too). It was intense, and at times extremely painful. Nothing I had heard, or read, could have prepared me for that day. All in all, it was an experience I wouldn't trade for anything. 

The next few days were full of family visits, wonderful friend visits, tons of carbs (because I could finally eat them again), nursing, not sleeping, and packing up to go home. Sunday, just after lunch, we left the hospital. I sat in the backseat with the baby, and our little family made the surreal drive back to our little home. 

Mountain Man with baby Frank, our first night home.