should i post this? i'm not sure.
His recipe for Chilean seabass was inspired by the film Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.
"Toby, is this what you meant when you said, Sam, you're completely in charge of this?"
"Yes, I meant that you're completely in charge of this in the sense that you're subordinate to me in every way."
One year ago: I have a bad run. Two years ago: I hate The Spanish Prisoner's pretentiousness. Three years ago: Steve Park makes a statement. Today's news question:
What two stock exchanges are going to merge? And what does this mean?
(Don't send me your answers. This is just a little way to expand your horizons. Honest.)
I'm fat.
It's gotten to be summer 'round here--hot, hot, hot--and I pulled out a pair of shorts to wear. A pair of shorts I've worn every summer (I don't buy clothes very often).
They didn't fit. I couldn't get them over my thighs.
I took out my "fat" shorts. I'd bought these shorts when we went to Canada three years ago, but I hadn't worn them too often after that, because I went on the liquid diet and they kept sliding down my hips.
I put them on yesterday, and they pinched a little in the waist.
I gained about 30 pounds when pregnant and apparently most of it went to my hips, butt, and thighs. I'd lost 10 at my last ob-gyn appointment; I'm afraid to weigh myself in case I haven't lost any more (or have even gained some) since then.
I haven't exercised very much since the baby arrived, and truth be told I didn't exercise particularly much while pregnant. But since I hadn't gained a tremendous amount of weight, I figured I was okay.
Talk about figuring wrong.
Clearly I have to start exercising again. Somehow. I called the local yoga studio and it turns out they have a Mommy and Me yoga class, so I might start taking Sophia to get baby-stretched. "Downward-facing dog, kiddo!"
I'd like to start running again, except it's going to be a little difficult these days--I used to run in the mornings, before it gets insanely hot. Except a little person I know tends to be hungry first thing in the mornings, and Darin really hates to be with a hungry, screaming baby when there's nothing he can do. (A garden-variety screaming baby he doesn't mind.) Maybe I could feed her and dash out the door.
If I'm going to do that, I have to get Darin to buy in--he tends to wake up in the morning, immediately go to the computer, and get lost in work. He can work with Sophia on his lap or over his shoulder, but that's getting more difficult by the day with the way she's growing.
I guess I'm going to have to figure something out.
I am also, of course, going to have to start eating less. Not too much less, since I'm breastfeeding. It's too easy to eat a lot (particularly junk) during the day, when I'm wandering around with Sophia, trying to get her to calm down or playing with her or just conking out with her in the late afternoon.
My joking refrain is "Where is the magic weight loss associated with breastfeeding, I ask you?" Except I'm not joking, of course, not really. I think I counted a little too much on everything I'd heard about breastfeeding immediately leading to the pounds melting away.
Darin and I have a running joke about Sophia's psychic powers: whenever we go out to eat, she kicks up a fuss and wants to nurse or needs her diaper changed as the food is on its way to the table. In fact, whenever she starts to squirm, we know we're about to be served.
Somehow, all the stuff that's funny when I'm with Darin is not so funny when I'm alone.
I made an appointment with a massage therapist today to deal with my incipient carpal tunnel problems. I had been looking forward to it ever since I made the appointment, last week.
Since I've been so bummed out about my weight, I decided to get a little exercise in pre-appointment (the massage clinic is two blocks from our house) -- first, I tanked Sophia up on her afternoon feeding. Then I loaded her into the stroller and we walked to the library, which is less than a mile away. I dropped off a book, picked up a new one. I peeked in on her several times through the blanket I'd thrown over her seat (since the sun was out in force), and she was either asleep or smiling. Cool.
We stopped at Ralph's so I could get a bottle of water. She was asleep. Cool.
We got to the massage place, I checked in, I went into the ladies' room to change.
PPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHLLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPPP.
In case you don't know what that is, that is the sound of a major Sophia poop.
Dammit. Dammit.
I changed her quickly and, since I had some time, I nursed her some. She seemed fairly calm (though awake).
The massage therapist called us in. Seemed like a nice guy. He enjoyed meeting Sophia -- he has four kids. He left me so I could take off the robe and get on the table.
I lay down on the table, got the sheet over me, and -- PPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHLLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPPP.
She immediately started crying.
He suggested I nurse her some, and he left us so I could do so. I didn't think that would do it, though -- poop makes her very cranky. So I took her back to the women's room, got the diaper bag, and changed her. Back in the therapist's room I nursed her some.
She cried. And cried.
He suggested putting her on the table with me.
She started screaming.
Eventually he said, "Why don't we do this another time," and I said yup, okay. I picked Sophia up, held her until she calmed down, and then put her back in the stroller to go back to the women's room.
Ten feet down the corridor: sound asleep. Of course. Now that Mommy's little day out was done with, cancelled, ixnayed, Sophia was perfectly docile and happy.
I fully expected I'd have to pay for the session but he voided it, which certainly made me feel positive about going back. (Yes, I know, that was the point.)
I walked home and handed Sophia to Darin (who was still working, but he can deal with a sleeping baby while he works). I didn't burst into tears, although I thought about it. I was so angry. I know that's not fair -- she's 10 weeks old, it's not like she planned to ruin my appointment, but she did it all the same.
All I could think was, When I didn't have a baby, I could do whatever the hell I wanted. I wasn't fat. I didn't have carpal tunnel. I could go running whenever I wanted. I wasn't tied to a little person who's completely dependent on me for everything.
All the resentment I've been feeling came pouring out of me -- followed immediately by guilt for being so angry at a 10-week-old who isn't trying to be a pain in the ass. My being upset is all about my interpretation of what's going on, not about her intent. (When she's a toddler, we'll talk about the whole manipulation thing. Not now.)
But all the rationalization in the world, all the realization that she's going to be like this for a very short period of time, remembering that my life was hardly a hotbed of structured accomplishment before Sophia arrived doesn't make it any easier for me to accept that I have to arrange my life around her now and for the foreseeable future and I hate that, I hate having to live my life at her whim. I'm caught between resenting being a full-time mommy horribly and being absolutely certain I don't want anyone else taking care of her (so getting in some childcare at this stage is Right Out).
I don't feel like this all the time. Most of the time I am exceedingly proud of having produced the world's most perfect baby. I look at her and I can't believe that my body made this little person and milk that comes out of my body is continuing to make her grow and thrive. Darin and I play with her in the evening and we laugh at most of the things that happen.
But then I have a difficult period like this afternoon and I wonder if I'm a terrible, horrible woman who's never going to get the hang of being a mother, because there are times when I wish I just didn't have to do this.
(I wrote the first half of this entry this morning. I wrote the second half this afternoon. It's strange how different sections in a day's entry seem to keep hitting on the same theme.)
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Copyright 2000 Diane Patterson
Send comments and questions to diane@nobody-knows-anything.com