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Archive for the ‘Work Out’ Category

It is 6:45 p.m., the night before my cousin’s wedding. We are getting ready to attend the rehearsal dinner at 7:30 p.m., and I already have tried on and rejected two outfit options for the night, for legitimate reasons. I look a polka-dot and/or flower-stitched stuffed sausage in either outfit. Dammit.

No kids, this is not a picture of me.

I am now desperately trying to squeeze on a full-body piece of shapewear, in an attempt to smooth out my insanely puffy midsection, which to my eyes now resembles my first trimester of pregnancy. At the same time, I am trying not to sink into a full-on hormonal meltdown.

The post-baby mommy body varies for woman to woman. For me, it has fluctuated. I have Eh, I Don’t Care days, or I’m Getting Better, Allllmost Fit Into Those Jeans days. Sometimes it’s Dammit, Shouldn’t of Had The Cake nights or Why I Am I Still So Fat mornings in front of the mirror. At any rate, I am like most post-baby moms: Way too hard on myself about shaping up my body.

My blog has often taken on the confessionary tone of a lock-and-key diary when it comes to my mommy body, and exercise, and those still-hanging-on baby pounds. And frankly, it’s exhausting. Some weeks are awesome, I have time on my hands to yoga, or curse at Bob Harper while doing a workout DVD. Some weeks I want to eat Oreos. Or consume nothing but ice tea and lettuce all day.

But darn it, I wish I could find some acceptance of my body.

The issue with squeezing into black Lycra before putting on a rehearsal dinner dress is that the act is so damn embarrassing. I want to look hot again. And get a few cat calls. Max is almost two. Isn’t it too late to use the baby excuse for being overweight?

So as I laid my head down Thursday night, I sent a little something into the Universe, so I at least could continue walking around with my head held higher, no matter what type of water retention tricks my body was planning for the next day.

That morning, while easing into my first cup of coffee, I saw this segment on GMA.

Turns out, there is a movement out there to help us learn to accept our mommy bodies. Although the piece does focus a bit on the celeb angle (I didn’t have a “celebrity body” before Max, I’m not aiming for one now), it does teach an important lesson: Kids became the priority. Life changes. Time is precious. Being healthy is more important than a beach body. And that’s okay.

To check out CT Working Moms and their goddess gallery that inspired this story, visit http://ctworkingmoms.com/goddess-gallery/

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It’s time for this mommy blog to turn once again to mommy and mommy issues. Yeah, I’m talking about skinny jeans. And my lack of yoga.

I in a quasi-anonymous fashion, I have admitted many embarrassing things on this blog. I am about to do it again. My son was born 20 months ago, my husband and I are talking about another baby, and I am yet to fit into any of my pre-pregnancy pants. That’s right, I’m hanging on to that last 10 pounds like an … ugh.

I write that, or think that thought, and my blood just begins to boil. Now, it’s not because I have yet to make any progress in the weight loss department. I no longer fit into my “fat” clothes; in fact, most of those clothes make me look like a clown in training. (Picture me, too big pants, a toddler and a diaper bag navigating a crowded Chik-Fil-A parking lot. I’m turning into Justin Bieber.)

So I’m falling outta my fat clothes, and yet my pre-baby clothes are still one, single, out-of-reach size away. I’m a solid 12. I own one item of clothing in this size:

These are my pants. My hole-almost-in-the-crotch pants. I discovered the hole about a month ago, while sitting crossed-legged in a library music class, with twenty other caregivers and children in the room. I have worn them and washed them to the point where they couldn’t handle it any more. They have exploded. (And yes, I have thought about wearing them around the house in emergencies. But, the irritated voices of Clinton Kelly and Stacy London then pop in my ear and stop me.)

Those same famous fashion voices would tell me, “Molly, buy pants that fit your body now.” I know, that seems logical. But … and this sounds whiny … I can’t. My whole tall-shopping-catalog-cost issue is just too much to contemplate it. Plus, I have an entire closet full of beautiful, already-paid-for size 10 clothes.

This entire scene just makes my O positive temp rise. Why can’t I be skinny?! (For that matter, why can’t cigarettes and chocolate chip cookies be good for you?) Really. Some of my mom friends, those naturally tiny, sizes fours (or twos or zeros) don’t even look like they carried a baby. Me getting skinny (in my proportion to a natural-size-four mom) requires either near-starvation or training for a triathlon. What mom has time for this?

On a pretty famous television show about losing weight, there was a theme of not letting excuses get in the way of weight loss. One of these, of course, was I don’t have time to work out. And although that is true, the follow-up was forgotten: I am just too damn tired to work out.

I did an aerobics workout DVD one night, gleefully finishing, showering and collapsing into bed. I thought, “I have found it! Work out at night. It’ll tire me out for sleep, not interrupt what I need to do during the day!” Yeah, that was like, a month ago. Turns out it was a freak accident that I was even awake enough at that hour to do more than roll off the couch.

And beyond the tired factor, between those regular, daily mom activities—participating in a mom’s group, work, husband and house—I don’t get where it is supposed to fit. Yes, when Max is sleeping I could work out. More than likely though, I am doing one of the aforementioned activities instead.

The truth is, I miss my active days, and that freedom to wake up, have some coffee and take off for a walk, or put on my yoga pants and breathe through my stress in a quiet, empty house.

So, besides complaining about it, I’m forcing myself to do something about it. If I want to have another baby, I need to lose the remnants of the last one. My new tactic is to start yoga again, and if I can get it in more than once a week, I’ll be happy. I write this with the qualifier of having done yoga today. Go me! Now I’m ready for a nap.

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weight: 221 (v. bad), alcohol units: 10, dessert intake: 24 (on holiday), calories: 4,000

No, the nod to Bridget Jones is not from a recent voyage to the UK. I just returned from a trip with my son Max, to my hometown of Cleveland, Ohio.

The joy of traveling alone with an infant is that people tend to be nicer; they hold open doors and hand you bags. The sky cab at Hopkins ran down two bays to help me with my suitcase.

The other joy of traveling is that people who haven’t seen me in many months say lovely things like, “You look great!” It is a fantastic confidence booster. It is less helpful in that although I may appear to look great, there are still 18 pounds to lose, and the constant ego-rubbing makes me do crazy things like eat potatoes, kielbasa and pierogi almost every day; not to mention the endless parade of cheesecake, coconut bars and god help me, chocolate Oreo balls. (I promise to post the recipe as soon as my Aunt sends it.)

I did manage a walk or two, and a few brief yoga sessions. None of this I believe was enough to counter balance the two large pre-Easter dinner celebrations and libations. A day after I returned to Florida, a doctor’s appointment showed the awful truth: I now am back to having 21 pounds to lose.

Here’s the problem: since I am crazy tall, if I gain weight, I have the ability to carry an extra 10 pounds or so without much fuss. This seems very forgiving… yet really, I have to work my ass off (literally) to keep myself in shape, but it seems, not many folks notice. So it leaves me wondering; should I even bother being stringent and precise with my calories and exercise? In the end, 200 pounds seems to be the visual equal of 218, um, 221 pounds.

Perhaps the lesson here is that I am the one that notices. I am the one who has to live with it. I am the one with a closet full of beautiful clothes that I can’t quite fit into. I’m the one with the desire to feel and look healthy.

So it’s back to yoga and walks with the stroller. No more potato binging. Or day dreaming of Oreo balls.

The pierogi, however, were totally worth it.

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