I've got cellulite in my cellulite

"When did I get so damn old?" I thought to myself just now when I looked in the mirror.

I think this a lot, actually. At least whenever I have the guts to look in the mirror. It's depressing, really. What used to be a small, flat stomach where the skin was mildly firm, now is a wider, rounder stomach where skin sort of "hangs" from when I was pregnant. Where I once had an adorable belly button ring is now just a small hole above some stretch marks that, as much lotion as I used during those 10 months, I couldn't prevent.

I look at my hair, hanging in no particular style on my shoulders and think about how I need SOMETHING done to it. I think about how it used to look good, or at least decent, and now it's just there, usually pulled up in a pony tail.

Then there's my face.

Ugh.

My pores have expanded to the size of potholes in Elgin Crossroads on that street between Subway and Big D's Burger House. I have acne on my forehead and chin that I can't resist the urge from picking at. I have splotches. I have red marks. I have those delightfully dark circles and bags under my eyes that would put Coach to shame. 

When and how and WHY did I let this happen to myself? Was it during those nights that Connor didn't want to sleep? Was it the days after when I was so tired that all I wanted to do was lay around? Was it during those last semesters of college when I was trying to work and be a mother and a student? Was it just last week when I looked at our bank account and automatically got a headache?

I look at my pictures on social media and try to figure out just when this devastation occurred. 

Listen to me whine. How terrible do I sound?

There is an Ebola epidemic in Africa, wars in the Middle East, the U.S. with it's own share of problems, and here I am complaining about the drab mess that has become my exterior. 

As terrible as that is, I can't help myself. 

Oh please. Don't give me that look of disappointment as you stare at your computer screen while the 10:00 news is on. 

Because, let's face it. When the news goes off and you go into your bathroom and look in the mirror, you will sigh too, whether it's voluntary or involuntary.

It's not like people don't tell me I'm pretty. My husband does (and he's really all that counts, right?). He tells me I'm beautiful and he loves me. But I wouldn't blame him at all if sometimes he wished I was still a size two, with semi-great boobs (as great as they can be naturally) and nice skin. 

Once upon a time, I had thought, "I won't want aging cream when I'm old. I will embrace my aging and be thankful that I have been able to live a long life. The wrinkles and laugh lines will just be part of my story, a part that people can see." 

I'm not even old yet. 

I am blessed that I carried a child for 10 months and that I have stretch marks to show where my son grew and developed inside me. I am blessed that my hair is messy because I don't have time to do anything to it since I'm running after this amazing little person who entered my life.

I know that.

No, there is no way that I would take back any of the wrinkles, breakouts, bad hair or big belly for him. He's totally worth it. 

But I'm selfish. 

...and maybe a little self absorbed.

Whatever.

One thing I promised myself and my husband before C was born, and I am trying to keep that promise, is that I would not criticize myself in front of my son. I don't want him to grow up with ideas that women aren't beautiful as themselves. I don't want him to grow up with the notion that a girl has to wear make-up to be pretty. I don't want him to grow up with the thought that a girl has to be a size two in order to be attractive. 

I want him to see women for who they are, for their personalities and sense of humor. I want him to see a girl and his breath be taken away by her kindness and morality. I want him to realize that what he's looking at is only a plus.

I could blame the media and society and a ton of other people for my poor self image. But what's the point in that? 

The only person I have to blame is myself. I am the one who looks in the mirror and can't see what my son sees when he looks at me. I can't see the Mommy, I can only see the "Mommy." I can't see what my husband sees when he looks at me, I can only see what he once saw. 

I can ask you to start trying to think of something positive about yourself when you look in the mirror, and tell you I'll do the same, but come on, neither of us is really going to do that. 

So what is the bright side to this post?

We can all be completely ugly and tired and stressed out and completely normal together. 

After all, that's how norms come about anyway, right?

What was I thinking?

Throughout my life I have made more than my share of questionable decisions.

And I really think becoming a parent was one of them.

Before you jump me, I'm not saying I regret my child. That's not it at all. If you read further, you'll understand.

Yesterday, C was playing with my full length mirror. I was in the bathroom putting makeup on and I heard the crash. I knew instantly what happened and all I could picture was my child in a "Carrie"-like scene with blood all over him and shattered glass everywhere. 

Thankfully there was no blood. But there was a lot of glass. A lot. 

And not for the first time, I thought, "Why did I do this?" 

I grabbed him out of his walker and checked him for blood. I didn't see him bleeding and I didn't see any glass protruding from his body, so I tried to calm him (and me) down. But the whole time, I thought, "Why did I do this? Why did I have a baby? I can't deal with this."

He didn't even get hurt!

When he fell off the couch a couple months ago and scared both my husband and I, I had the same thought. 

When I first began breastfeeding, I had the same thought.

Breastfeeding was demanding. I didn't get to sleep as much as I could have if we used formula (so I thought). If we used formula, he might stay full longer. If we used formula, he might sleep all night. What was I thinking trying to breastfeed?

To this day, those things above are all true. But as I've mentioned before, breastfeeding went beyond just how I chose to give my child nutrition. I needed it too. I needed the closeness.

I saw this quote on Pinterest (I think) that said something like, The first six weeks, you'll envy those who chose formula, but after six months, you'll be thankful you breastfeed.

That was totally paraphrased, but it basically just meant that if you keep on breastfeeding, if you keep trying, then it's worth it in the end.

Well that's true. 

So that makes me wonder if when I die, when I take my last breath, I'll think, "This was all worth it."

I say when I die, because I don't think I'll ever not worry about C. I don't think I'll ever not think, "Why did I do this to myself?" I'll never stop wondering what he's doing or why he's doing it. I just hope that no matter how old he gets, he'll still give me those sweet kisses and the warmest hug I've ever gotten in my life. I just hope that he'll still look at me with bright eyes full of love. I hope that he'll still smile whenever he sees me walk into a room. I hope that he will still love me just as much as he does in this very moment in time. 

And in that second, right before I close my eyes for good, I'll know why I did it.

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Just a typical Wednesday

The challenges I've faced since becoming a mother are endless, just in my eight and a half months experience.

For example, before I was a mother, I had never peed or pooped while holding another human being in my lap.

I've never had to lift 20 pounds with one arm.

And I've certainly never had to say, "Please get out from under the recliner."

But this morning was a doozy.

Last night we tried to get C to sleep in his crib so we could have some mommy/daddy time. After screaming for an hour and throwing up twice, C finally realized that we were still in the house and he was still going to sleep in his crib (so we thought). After about two hours of being in his crib, I finally just put him in the bed with us again. I mean he slept for two hours, waking up once each hour, so I gave him some credit and thought a little progress was better than no progress.

But this morning we woke up much earlier than we normally do, and it was because one of us was a little bit poopy. Thankfully, this time, it was not me. I got up to pee and while I was in the bathroom I hear this screaming. So of course I just thought he was mad that I left him in the bed by himself.

Oh no.

It was much worse than that.

I walk out of the bathroom and ask him what in the world was wrong with him, and I see two legs (and eight rolls) flailing in the air. What I didn't see what my son's torso or his face.

Fantastic.

I did what any caring mother would do. I stood there with my hand on my hip and asked my eight-month-old, "What are you doing?"

Apollo, the dog, was lying contently under the covers as well trying to ignore the noise that was interrupting his slumber. He still has not figured out why we won't take the thing back where we got it. He also has been exhibiting suicidal behavior so we have to watch him closely.

After getting my fill of entertainment for the morning, I pulled the covers off of my son's head and got the giant turd out of his diaper.

Needless to say he felt like a new man, ready to suck a tit and watch the Today show.

Our first trip to the library

Connor and I went to the library last week. It was during Handy Week, a week long music festival that most people in North Alabama look forward to because they get to stay wasted for a week straight, AND it's socially acceptable.

Anyway, so we walk into the library and I went straight to the computer to search for the book I wanted ("All Fall Down" by Jennifer Weiner). They didn't have the book, which is what began this journey.

I'm really picky when it comes to books, or choosing one. I like to look at ALL of my options before I make a decision. I mean one of the worst things in my opinion is picking out a book and the whole time I'm reading it, I'm wondering what other book I'm missing out on because I didn't take the time to look for it.

This weird obsession/compulsion leads me to look through each aisle, on every shelf, until I am absolutely positive I have what I want. Needless to say, that can take awhile.

I was holding C the whole time, and he was actually really good. He wasn't fussing, he was enjoying himself.

Really enjoying himself.

"BAH!"

"Bahbahbahbahbahbah"

"BAHBAH!"

"MAAAHHHHH"

These were just a few of the things he wanted to shout out while we were in the reading section of our local library.

Even if it wasn't Handy Week, the library is usually busy, especially in the summer.

So let's look at this situation:

1) Library (A/C, free, open to the public)
2) Summer (kids programs)
3) Handy Week (festivities, visitors, etc.)

And then there's Connor. Loving life. Yelling while the older man with dreads sits in a chair, in the reading section, and tries to take a nap.

I wanted to apologize but he would never look directly at us. I couldn't exactly blame him either.

Then there was the older man who was smiling and talking to C, a sweet gesture, and wasn't upset at all that C was jabbering louder than he ever has while the man was working on his computer.

I tried "shhh-ing" him, but that didn't work. Then I tried quietly saying, "Yes, ma-ma-ma-ma..." so at least people would think I was trying to teach him something rather than just let him scream like the terrible mother I'm sure I appeared to be.

None of it worked.

I went for a different approach.

"Connor, please stop screaming. We're going to get kicked out."

"BA-BA-BA-BA."

I wasn't sure if I should sit down and pop a tit in his mouth or just hurry up and find a book. Which is going to annoy the older people more?

Seeing tits? Screaming baby? Tits? Baby?

I went to the Youth section. I looked around, grabbed a book, and almost ran to check out.

We didn't get kicked out of the library. We actually went back.

And I enjoyed the book I hurriedly grabbed. It was a teen love story, which kind of sucked, but it had a happy ending, which I don't see enough of these days. So I didn't totally regret my decision...

...and even a teen love story is better than "50 Shades of Grey," am I right?

Why I chose to breastfeed

I've written a few times expressing the love for my son, and this is going to be another one.

Last night, I got into bed after my husband and C. Connor was laying there asleep, his little body halfway covered, his chest slowly moving up and down as his breathing evened out, and his face completely relaxed.

Seeing him so peaceful because he knows that he's safe completely takes my breath away. How did I do that? How did WE do that? I looked at him and thought of how perfect he is to me. I laid down beside him and thanked God for giving him to me. I begged Him to PLEASE keep my baby safe.

I've never loved like this until I saw Connor for the first time.

I have a dog. I love my dog. I've had him since I was 15, and his name is Apollo. I tell everyone that he's my first born, and most anyone who knows me knows that it's true. I treated him like a baby, he sleeps in the bed with us, he goes on trips with us, and when I was pregnant with Connor, I was terrified that I wouldn't love him as much as I did Apollo.

I was so wrong.

On November 15, 2013 at 4:38 p.m., I pushed as hard as I could and I saw everyone at the end of the table light up. The nurse laid my son down diagonally on my belly. I looked at him and my only thought was, this is him? He is mine?

He turned his head, wrinkled up his forehead and looked at me with eyes I've only ever seen in a mirror. I started to cry. I touched his arm, and looking back now I think I was scared to pick him up.

Then he started to cry. I have never laughed as hard as I could and cried as hard as I could at the exact same time until the moment I heard his sweet whine. That moment was completely majestic.

Sometimes when I'm breastfeeding, I feel that same burst of love. It feels like inside my body is the 4th of July, like my heart is exploding fireworks. There's no way to explain it. I look at him nursing and he looks up at me with those same mirroring eyes, and I almost can't take it.

I watch his free hand slide across the breast he isn't on. His hands are so soft, not yet callused from play.

I'll nurse him until he falls asleep, his eyes fighting so hard to stay open, but eventually closing. He relaxes and my nipple falls out of his mouth. Sometimes he will wake up immediately and ravage for it, like he'll never have it again. But sometimes he is in such a deep sleep that he just lays there beside it. He lays there beside my heart.

It was hard for me to encompass that I was a mother. It took awhile. I felt like I didn't know this little person who was thrown into my life, or I was thrown into him. I was terrified. What if I screwed up? What if I screwed HIM up? I didn't think I deserved to be the mother to this incredible little being. I thought he needed someone else to love him and raise him. I thought he needed anyone in the world except for me.

I would nurse him and think about how I couldn't do it. I couldn't be a parent. I cried when he cried. I felt like he would only cry when I had him and that he didn't want me.

That's why I kept breastfeeding. I didn't want to, but even more than that, I was terrified I had no other way to be close to him. I had never been around babies and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. So I nursed him. I held him and I let him eat, and I burped him, and we did it all over again.

Eventually, whenever someone else had him, he would watch me. His eyes would move wherever I moved. Relief flooded over me. Even though he only wanted me for milk, for nourishment, at least he wanted me.

Breastfeeding for me was about my son wanting me and loving me, and it turned into something completely wonderful. It turned into something I enjoy doing and I enjoy learning about.

I didn't breastfeed to be better than anyone else or to be more natural. I breastfed because I NEEDED the skin-to-skin. I NEEDED to have a way to bond with my child, because I don't think I would have been able to otherwise.

I workout!

Ya'll.

What I'm about to tell you is a sad story. It's a sad, sad story about a girl who might be a smidge bit out of shape and overconfident.

I started back to the gym this week since I'm no longer working during the day and we pay for it in our rent. I started the week off with a body pump class (these are all from the Les Mills program) and I loved it. The pace was just right, I lifted enough to feel something, but not to strain anything. Then I went to an RPM class which is like a spin class. I loved it. Josh went with me and although we worked hard and almost died, we completed the class and felt really good afterwards.

Then I took a day off.

So tonight I went to this class called "Body Attack." I was super excited about it because it was an aerobics class and aerobics looks fun on TV.

Well you know what?

Aerobics isn't fun.

Aerobics is deadly.

I got there about five minutes late but went in and watched until I thought I knew what to do.

I didn't.

Those women were movin'. They were moving their feet and arms and hands and legs in different directions all at the same time. They were moving right and I was moving up.

Let's not forget to mention that I am the most uncoordinated person I know.

Picture a room full of women moving in the same direction, doing the same moves, at the same pace. Then imagine me thrown into the mix just trying to keep up.

It was so bad that it wasn't even embarrassing. It was just funny. I laughed at myself most of the time I was in there because those women had to have thought that I was just there for sheer entertainment--that there was no way I was really trying to work-out.

But I was.

They started doing this "star" move where you throw a foot out and jump and make a star. I don't even really know how to explain it because I just stood there watching them. I knew if I tried to make myself into a star, I was going to burn out.

I thought I could do a jumping jack. I mean, I think I've done them before, so I should be able to do them again right?

Right...kind of.

I noticed every time I jumped, I would get a little bit warm...down there.

The more I jumped, the more it happened. And I thought, "Oh. My. Goodness. I am pissing."

And then came the planks. I wasn't too upset when I heard about the planks, because I can do those.

Except not.

You had to make a plank, then a quirky (?) which was like big steps, walking your way back up. Then you had to touch your hands on your hips, then touch the sky, all while your legs are still doing some other stuff way out in left field, then you come back down into a plank and do three push-ups. This is all done very fast, making 20 moves into one swift move.

"No says I."

I tried one time. It didn't work at all. I couldn't get up as fast as those other women (I'm pretty old for my age). While they were hopping around and reaching to the sky, I just stayed there on the floor. At first I tried to hold a plank position and just do the push-ups, but then I just tried to do the push-ups.

And then I just sat there on my knees and marveled at everyone else.

Finally instructor tells us to run. All right! I can do that! I can totally run!

So I'm a-runnin.' I'm running in place, I'm running forward, I'm running backwards, I'm trying to figure out which was is right and which way is left...but I'm running. Then I start popping my knees up and I have a good sweat going, my heart is pumping and I'm breathing heavy.

We started running in a circle, and I'm gettin' it. I'm running. But then all the women change positions OUT OF NOWHERE and I almost hit a girl in the face with my face.

I politely say, "Oh shit, I'm sorry." And turn the other way.

But through it all, I kept running.

I kept running until I ran my ass out of that door.