Fifteen Pounds Heavier, Twenty Times Happier: A Struggle with Weight and Running

Fifteen Pounds Heavier

I have not lost any of the weight I gained when pregnant with Jonah, unless you can count the three pounds I lost when I birthed him.  (Twice.  I'll save that story for another day.  I'm still not ready to write about that life-altering experience.)  Fortunately, I have lost the five pounds I gained from taste testing all the cookies I baked at Christmas. (Ok, who am I kidding?  I didn't just taste test but ate dozens at a time.  Sugar cookies.  No bakes.  Chocolate krinkles.  Almond raspberry shortbreads.  Oh gosh, I'm making myself hungry.)  Although, I do love how people just assume the weight falls right off because I'm nursing.  It might have fallen off for other nursing moms, but that's just not how it's happening for me.  I can thank my wonderful thyroid for that (and those darn cookies, and chocolate, and my complete lack of self-control). 

After I had Alina, the weight came off relatively easy.  Then again, I was twenty-one and working a job that consisted of constant motion.  Losing the weight after Noah was more challenging.  It took longer to lose Noah's baby weight, even though I was trying so much harder.  I blame it on the fact that I was twenty-six, and he was baby number two.  I started running only two weeks after I had him (which, considering he fell out, was not really that big of a deal.  With Alina, I started after seven months), mainly due to the fact that I was coming off a 2:57 first marathon performance that had me believing that the trials might be in my distant future (what was I thinking?). I also signed up for and was determined to win my school's Biggest Loser competition. The competition turned out to be awesome and awful.  Since I am crazy competitive I, of course, had to win, so I signed up on http://www.mydailyplate.com/ to track my calories to ensure I would lose all twenty five pounds of baby weight in eight weeks.  Oh yes, it was joyful living on fish and broccoli every night, and those twelve hundred calories I consumed left me feeling totally satiated. Yeah, right!  I thought my husband was going to divorce me.  Especially after I fasted the final two days of the competition (it was head to head). I subsisted on coffee for two entire days. I was a total witch, and I was ready to eat him. It has now been almost five months since Jonah's birth, and as I said, I have lost nothing.  Zero. Zilch. Nada. Zip.  Why is this?  Oddly, I think it is because I am quite simply, happy.

Twenty Times Happier
That is not to say that I was not happy before.  My definition of happiness has just changed.  I will not say that it has evolved, although to an extent I think it has.  I am no longer focused solely on the goal of losing weight and getting back into shape as quickly as possible. After Noah, I was so focused on losing weight that I did not fully enjoy being a mother.  My happiness was determined by how much I weighed and how fast I could run (oddly, this has been the major theme of my life starting in adolescence).

I have been running competitively since I was twelve.  As a seventh grader I ran on the varsity indoor and outdoor track teams and competed at two state meets (in indoor on a relay and in outdoor in the 800m).  The success I experienced early on (too early in my estimation) created in me a desire to always be the best runner that I could possibly be. In the beginning this just meant I needed to run.  I was pretty successful doing that - just running; however, as I grew older, it changed from not only just needing to run but also needing to watch my weight.   I can remember overhearing a conversation two coaches were having about me after I ran a 1500 in indoor track my sophomore year.  I thought I had a pretty good race, as I was coming off a knee injury that occurred during the cross country season.  Apparently, it was less than stellar in these two coaches' minds.  Anyway, I was bent over trying to catch my breath, and idiot coach #1 asked idiot coach #2 right in front of me (FYI - these idiots are still coaching):  "What happened to Hollie?  That was slow!"  Idiot coach #2 replied: "I don't know.  She looks heavier."  Idiot coach number one responded:  "She better lose that weight if she expects to make it to states."

Not good to hear when you are an impressionable teenage girl.  Later on during the meet, I went over and discussed what I had overheard to my coach (looking for some positive reinforcement that I indeed was not heavy, overweight, slow, etc).  The response I received: one pound of weight equals three seconds slower in a mile. Great! Totally not what I wanted to hear. This has been embedded in my mind ever since.  Lucky me! 

So, now basically what it boils down to: when I run, I stress about weight. Running and weight go hand in hand.  They're BFF's.  Where one goes the other is quick to follow.  They are soul mates.   So why did I base my happiness on these two love birds?  I wish I knew the answer. I have never been super thin, nor will I ever be super thin.  The joke between Andy and me was that when I stepped on the line, by looking at me, no one expected me to win.  I was the big girl (in comparison to so many other runners) on the line who was hopefully going to kick some serious skinny butt.   I expended so much time and energy thinking about my weight and being upset with my running performances (a truly obscene amount of time).  If I ran fast, I imagined how much faster I could run if only I was a few pounds lighter. 

Free At Last

Now, though, I finally feel free.  (Imagine clouds parting, sun shining down, birds chirping - that kind of free.)  I can thank little J for that; his birth and subsequent stay in the hospital truly transformed me.  I cannot explain how; I cannot explain why.  All I know is that I went from being this hard-core cynic of myself to being happy.  Don't get me wrong.  Of course, I still want to lose the baby weight.  But for once, it doesn't have to be right now.  I don't have to deprive myself of the things I love.  Anyone that knows me knows I love cooking and baking (and eating, too).  I am as passionate about those as I am about running (not a great predicament when you're trying to lose weight to run fast). I also know that I will eventually start running again (when the sun is out and it's not freezing).  Will I race?  I don't see that happening anytime soon.  I miss running.  I do not miss weighing myself every morning to see if I have lost a pound because I have a race coming up and that one pound means I will be three seconds faster per mile.  What I do know is that when I do start running again, I'm leaving the watch at home.  And, I'm throwing the scale in the trash.   

Red, WHAT? Oh, Wait, Red Truck!

Anyone that has ever met Noah, knows he has a love affair with trucks.  Small trucks, big trucks, white trucks, garbage trucks.  When he hears a truck outside, he runs to the window to hopefully catch a glimpse.  And when Daudey (his red-truck owning Grandpa) walks in our house, he automatically asks with such a hopeful earnestness only little kids possess, "F--k?  Red f--k?"  Oh, yes, for our little Noey, cannot yet pronounce the word truck. 

While I find this hysterical at times, mortifying at others, I remembered a funny story (to someone other than me) regarding Alina, as Noah rushed to the couch this morning to see if he could spot the big garbage f--k (sorry had to do it) while it picked up the trash. 

A couple years ago, when Alina was four, we were walking to Wilson's Farm just singing our hearts out. At the time, she really loved singing the banana, nana, fo fana song, so that's what we doing (the whole way there).  Two blocks away and Alina decides she wants to sing the song using duck.  Duck duck bo buck, banana nana fo (yep here it comes again) f--k, me mi mo muck, duu-uuck.  Andy, like the grown up he is, immediately starts cracking up, hysterically, which of course Alina just loves.  Me - not so much.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I was shooting daggers at him, hoping he would trip and sprain an ankle as punishment for encouraging her use of the f-word.  Meanwhile, we have made it to Wilson's Farms, and Alina's singing the song all over, using duck yet again.  Of course, it would just so happen as the doors open, Alina's singing her little heart out, "Fo-f-------ck! Me Mi Mo Muck.  Duu-uuck."  The customers in line are staring at us.  The cashiers are staring at us.  Alina's starting round number three of the duck song, and Andy's laughing harder than I have ever heard him laugh.  Me-I'm dying inside. 

Sookie, Sookie, Sookie

Ok, I'm currently obsessed with another book series.  When will I learn?  I find a good series, and I literally have to drag myself away from the book.  After the first book, I have to go out and purchase/loan/steal (ok,  I don't go that far) the subsequent book to ensure when I finish the first, I can read the next, and then the next, and so on.  My poor family.  It's so pathetic. Even Andy can notice (and he's your typical guy - doesn't notice anything) when I'm into a series.  Probably because he finds me hiding in the closet trying to catch a few extra minutes of reading. Harry Potter, the Twilight Saga, the Vampire Diaries,  the City of Bones, and the list could go on and on (but it won't because I'm dying to go read).  It's an addiction - I can't stop reading until the series is over. Well, that's kind of a lie. I have three kids, so I actually do have to stop reading (and I'm obviously not reading right now). My current obsession is the Sookie Stackhouse books (made into the True Blood series on TV).  And for everyone who's a fan of True Blood, the books are way better. The TV show reminds me of a glorified porn, not like I am expert there (just because I don't have time for those either anymore . . . just kidding), the books thankfully do not.  I'm currently on book seven, but you better believe I made sure I have eight, nine, and ten, which required me actually leaving the house, which if you know me at all, you know that's no easy task.  I guess I could say that I don't know what it is about these books, but that's not a true statement at all.  It's not just these books.  I guess it'd be more accurate to say I don't know what it is about me.

A Man and a Van

I never thought I'd be attracted to a van driving man, much less one who wore a shirt proclaiming to be The Minivan Man.  Better grab those kids and hide. 

I mean, come on, let's face it: men and vans don't exactly mesh, unless the guy's in his late thirties with three kids (preferably his) in tote.  Even then it's only okay if he had to borrow it from his wife because his car broke-down, was in the shop, had a flat tire, etc.  You get the point. 

So, imagine my distress when I finally saw what Andy (my husband by choice) drove.  No, it wasn't a car; it wasn't an SUV; it was (you guessed it) a van.  A red van.  Oh, the pain, the humiliation.  How was I going to explain this to my family?  To my sister? 

I hoped.  I prayed.  I asked the man above for help.  Please, oh, please, let him purchase something new.  Please, oh, please.  And then the phone call came.

"Hey, I'm going to be late coming over to your house.  I'm getting rid of the van and getting something new." 

Thank you, thank you, thank you!  I was so excited.  Maybe I could do this after all.  Maybe my sister would never find out Andy ever owned a van. Just maybe everything would be okay.  You see, I knew not only would I, but also Andy would be picked on.  Mercilessly.  Without reprise.  But everything was going to be just fine now.  No one would ever have to know.  

Then, I glimpsed him driving up the road.  Yep, you guessed it again, in a minivan. 

It must have truly been love.  But, hey, at least he owned a car (been there done that), right?

You Can Do It, Yes You Can

Four Reasons Why It IS Okay to Be a Turtleneck Wearer Like Me (this is for all you anti-turtleneck wearing haters out there . . . yeah, Kristen, I'm talking to YOU)

1. Warmth. I am constantly cold (used to be constantly hot . . . what happened there?). My thermostat is broken or set to frozen (not sure which). Those turtlenecks I wear help me stay a little bit warmer when it's chilly outside (I guess I should say inside because we all know I don't leave my house).

2. Can you say giraffe neck?  I can! I have an absurdly long neck. The pasty thing stands out (or up?) way too much. Those turtlenecks boost my self-esteem by minimizing that enormous thing! 

3. Accessorize (even my sister, the Queen of accessories, can agree to this). You can use a scarf or a long, dramatic necklace (just not both at the same time) to give that turtleneck a little flavor, so you don't end up looking like your mom. (Not you, Mom! I'd love to look like you. Just ask Kristen.)

4. You like them! Or in my case, you love them deep down in your soul.  Be true to who you are (even if that's a fashionless mom of three kids who dresses like she's forty instead of in her late twenties); if you like wearing 'em, sport 'em all ready.

Can't argue with that list. (Well, Kristen, you probably can.)

I Have a Confession

So, I have a confession to make, I really, honestly, truly love . . . (are you ready for it?) . . . turtlenecks.  Yes, that's right.  I've said it.  I'm twenty-eight years old and I love turtlenecks.  You see - I don't just like them, but I can't wait until the winter so it's okay for me to wear them again.  I think my sister will argue with me that it is never okay to wear a turtleneck, but I'm obsessed.  I have black ones (yes as in multiple black turtlenecks), white ones (again emphasis on the plural), a hot pink one, a pale pink one, a dark gray one, a light gray one, a cream one, a brown one, a purple one, a forest green one,  and the only reason I don't have any other colors is because I don't like any other colors on me.  Are you surprised that a girl (woman?) who wears turtlenecks would actually care about how colors look on her?  Well, I do.  I don't just love those turtlenecks because they keep me so much warmer during these cold days.  I love them because they make my giraffe neck so much less noticeable.  See - not only practical but fashionable!?! 

Yep, that's right.  Me in one of my turtlenecks.

A Six Years Old's View on Healthy versus Unhealthy

We're at the dinner table enjoying what I'd consider a nice dinner.  For once, Noah's not screaming, and Jonah's not crying, and to top it off, Alina actually likes what I cooked (veggie quesadillas and a sweet potato/apple concoction).  If that didn't make feel like I was in the Twilight Zone, the conversation that ensued sure did. 

Alina (she's six):  Mom, I really think the lunches at school are unhealthy.  Their quesadillas only have chicken and cheese, not veggies, and they come with rice.  Don't ya think that's wrong?  I think I should tell them they should give us veggies.  It's like they're making lunch for themselves, not kids.  Don't they know we're still growing and need to eat healthy?  (dead serious look on her face)

Me:  Hmm, are you sure there aren't any vegetables?

Alina:  Mom, aren't you listening?  What did I just tell you?  There aren't any veggies.  (Big sigh)  I think I should bring my lunch a few days.  Let's go three days buy, two days bring:  Monday, Wednesday, Friday I'll buy.  They have lasagna rolls on Friday and they're healthy.

Me:  Oh, they are?  Ok.  Well, I think it'd be a good idea for you to bring your lunch a few days a week.

Alina:  Yes!  (huge smile on her face)  I know what I'm gonna put in my lunch - a sandwich, but not peanut butter because I don't like peanut butter, then fruit snacks, chips, and a cookie. 

Me:  Lina, what are you going to bring for your veggies?

Alina: Mom, why do I need to bring veggies in my lunch?

Me:  (Staring at her in amazement seriously doing everything in my power not to laugh)

Alina:  Mom!  What is that crazy look on your face for?

She is too much!  I was seriously about to fall off my chair.  I couldn't even open my mouth because I was going to burst out laughing.  She goes from seeming like she's 60 back to being 6.  I love it!

Stopping By Boobs

Back to the Boobs

Okay, okay, okay. I know I'm still talking about my boobs. I can't help it. When you spend hours of your day breastfeeding, it's really hard not to constantly think about them. Since yesterday's hub on my hubpage, I can't stop thinking about the first stanza of Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening poem: Whose woods these are I think I know / His house is in the village though; / He will not see me stopping here / To watch his woods fill up with snow. The only problem is that I keep thinking (okay really repeating over and over and over in my head) Whose boobs these are I think I know. I even came up with a little ditty (not about Jack and Diane - who are apparently getting divorced :( ) hoping that it would cure me of my little problem. It's like when you get a really bad song stuck in your head and can't get it out. Pathetic - I know! Anyway, here it is:
Whose boobs these are I think I know (not mine)
He was birthed four months ago
I will see him stopping here
To watch my boobs fill up with milk.
The good news is that I don't have the poem stuck in my head anymore. Unfortunately, now I'm singing Two American kids growing up in the Heartland. Did I mention sleep deprivation? I'll save that for another post.

These Aren't My Breasts

I wrote the following post originally on my hubpage.  I took it off the hubpage, as it is more appropriate here. 

Whose Breasts Are These?!?

These aren’t my breasts. I can’t help thinking they haven’t been for quite some time. They belong to my newborn son (and before that to my husband). They don’t even look like my breasts anymore. They crack and bleed. They ache and leak. No amount of Lansinoh HPA Lanolin can make them mine again. Why wasn’t I warned? Whoever said that nursing was pleasant and enjoyable surely did not have the same problems as me. Don’t get me wrong: I love that I am providing the nourishment my son needs. But come on – really? Sure, it’s great that my not even A’s are now a full B, but moms let’s be honest. Nursing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Welcome to My Blog! I Hope You Dance, Too :)

I figured my first blog should explain why I decided to title my blog I Hope You Dance.  I am not a dancer, unless you can count dancing at the bar when I've had a few too many drinks or goofing around with my kids to Barney (again when I've had a few too many drinks).  Just kidding about that last comment. 

Basically, I chose that as my title because of my mom.  She just happens to be the best mom a girl could ask for.  Mushy, right?  Now that I've lost all the possible male readers I might have had (maybe if I tell them I'm going to write about my boobs (just not in this post) they will keep reading? Because I am going to talk about my boobs, even though the only reason I have any is a benefit of nursing, which means they will disappear when I stop :(.  Man, you go through the pain of nursing, you should at least be able to keep the boobs. Just saying). 

Ok, ok, so back to my mom (not my mom's boobs, just my mom.) So my mom absolutely loves the lyrics of the song and the meaning behind them.  She told us awhile ago (when the song first came out) that whenever we hear it, she wants us to think of her, or she would think of us or something along those lines.  Anyway, the point is that she doesn't want her kids to just sit the song out, but she wants us to dance.  She wants us to go after the things we want in life, to enjoy life regardless.  After what I went through this last year, I have a whole new appreciation for the song and for what she meant.  I decided just recently that I was going to really live my life (emphasis on my), which means letting go of the fear inducing, panic attack causing, external expectations.  I am focusing on what is truly important: loving, living, laughing.  Welcome to my blog.  I hope you enjoy :) 

Did you notice I did end up talking about boobs?