party pooper

I planned, prepared for, and hosted my first real party yesterday. Yea, my first. At 37. I mean, I planned my wedding, but I paid other people to execute the plan on the day of, so it wasn’t all me. And this time it wasn’t all me either, but it mostly was. And, I guess I’m writing about it because I find myself, a day later, wondering if it was good enough. Was it impressive? Well done? Unique? Valued? Really seen and really noticed. My personal insecurities projected onto the event I put on.  

I’m a little uncomfortable with how uncomfortable I am with not knowing what others thought about the production/product. I don’t like being so insecure so late in life. AND, there’s a part of me that is impressed by myself. I picked out, ordered and arranged flowers for goodness’ sake! And the “brand” consistency throughout was pretty spot on. But, I felt and feel lackluster. It’s a theme in these recent days and months of mine. My daughter outshines me easily (and I want her to - she’s so so precious and worthy). My hair has thinned and fallen out. My face only ages. My body is too soft. I look at my camera roll and there’s no evidence that I exist (except for the occasional selfie with Amber). I feel like I don’t matter. I excel at nothing anyone notices and, well, that’s a first for me. And I don’t know how to shake off that uneasy, hurt feeling.

37 weeks

Well, nothing about this is enjoyable.  

I feel disgusting. My thighs are - not kidding - double their normal size. I’ve got a double chin developing. I’ve gained 50 pounds. 5-0. These boobs I paid for? No longer sexy. My ankles and feet and hands are swollen. The extra weight has turned into plantar fasciitis pain in BOTH feet. The belly (and she who dwells/moves within) has turned into very regular and painfully acute back pain - especially while sitting or laying down. The influx of hormones equates to sweat-soaked tossing and turning throughout the night, EVERY night. There’s the bruised ribs, from her stretching ... and the pain in my pelvic area EVERY time I stand up. And the itchy, stretching skin? Yea, that just started. And sometimes when I walk? Feels like I just tore my hip out of joint. 

I can’t paint my toenails. Or bend down. Or help do ANYTHING. 

In my discomfort, I’m grouchy and on edge. I legitimately have a new-found compassion and understanding for chronic pain patients. I will never judge your opioid addiction or grouchiness again. Not being able to be and or do what is desired, when it’s desired and how it’s desired is its own kind of hell.

Hell. 

Now, I know I’m supposed to preface or back-end this complaint with commentary on how it will all be worth it - that the temporary struggle pales in comparison to the joy having a child will bring - but I don’t do platitudes. I also don’t speak from inexperience.

So, all I can say is that I hope I like her. I truly hope I have some astonishing measure of magical connection/attachment to this being I helped create. Right now, I’m just marveling (with slight disgust and an ounce of disdain) at my audacity in thinking I had any right or wisdom enough to embark on plotting for parenthood. Foolish human.

I hope she comes soon. I hope she doesn’t. I’m scared of when she does. I’m eager to find out how it plays out. I want a known in all this unknown. I don’t want things to change. I don’t want to be pregnant anymore. I’m worried about what life looks like when we’re permanently three instead of two. I’m a bigger dichotomy then I’ve ever been and it’s driving me a little bit crazy. The hormones are not helping. 

Relaxin sucks. Ironically. 

And that’s all I’ve got for this Mother’s Day morning. Thanks for letting me be real. 

Love. 

i'm an addict

No, seriously. Sugar is my drug of choice. I'm a snob with my vice — I tend toward the chocolate, baked goods, and bready carb iterations that feature quality ingredients (none of the corn syrup nonsense) — but it's a vice, nonetheless. And like any addiction would, it's got a powerful hold on me. I'm a willing slave.

But things have to change. My thighs have moved into unacceptable spaces with unacceptable textures. I'm officially disgusted with myself. I dread the idea of getting into any one of the twenty-plus bathing suits I own and adore. And, as a result, I've started to hyperfocus on the cause of my distress. Unfortunately, I can't do much about the need to exercise right now — a recent heel injury has me laid up for the time being, but I CAN do something about the food ... and, more purposefully, my relationship with food.

I've known for sometime now that I grew up associating food with celebration, reward and freedom (instead of fuel, nutrition and function). More recently, however, I've noticed a tie to boredom. It's hard to admit, but sometimes I'm pretty sure I'm eating just to feel alive and satisfied and excited. It's like a high. And, while it makes all the chemical and psychological sense in the world, I hate admitting that I'm just another unhealthy 30-something American, using food to numb, escape and soothe.

It's astonishing, because this is a dramatic pendulum swing away from the perfectionistic, overtrained, marathon runner I used to be. Maybe you have to land at the other extreme to do the work of finding balance. If so, I'm there. Pregnant, "crippled," and totally there. Not able to ignore it anymore. 

So, I emailed a dietician today. I'm seeing my therapist on Thursday to start talking about the gaps I'm trying to fill with food. So, toward balance I head ... one carrot stick at a time.